Bloody Hell

Frankie looked down the road before him. It was soaked with rain, and soggy newspapers. Right at the end of the road stood a straight line of bobbies, riot shields at the ready.

So far, he'd distanced himself from the violence that had plagued the city, however, now he'd had enough of the excessive force used by Her Majesty's Police Force. He reached into his pocket and produced a small lighter. With it, he lit the oily rag that was stuck into the bottle and chucked it down the road towards the police. People scattered as the ignited liquid spread out before the policemen. 

One brave soul, standing around five foot nine, wearing a leather jacket and light jeans, kicked out at the riot shield closest to him. The policeman braced himself against the kick but still took a step back. He was shaken by the violence and pushed against the extended leg of the lad.

The boy felt a strong forearm wrap around his neck from behind. Then a hand lock around the wrist and tightened the grip. 'You little shit' a voice said 'think you're big and clever do you? I'll break your neck you little twat.'

Frankie saw this, annoyed, and ran over to the scuffle. He swung at the aggressors head, hitting him at the bad of the skull. Just hard enough for him to release his grip. He fell to one knee, holding the back of his head.

They pounced on him like lions. Punching and kicking at the policeman laying before them. Savages, at best. Once the dust had settled, the protestors disbanded, the officers helped their wounded comrade. Dragging him behind the line of shields.

What's All This, Then?

They came in swarms, Republicans and Loyalists, wearing balaclavas, stockings, and hoods to hide their identity. They threw bricks and bottles at the police, and each other, and lit fires mere metres away from residential houses.

'Fuck the Queen' on youth said, 'Hang the bastards.'

'Get outta here you rebel bastards.' A young loyalist said, throwing a brick.

The policeman closest to the group of youths swung his truncheon, cracking one of them on the back of the head. 'Get home lads, it's past curfew for you lot.' He said.

'Fuck the curfew,' a young rebel said 'you're just trying to keep us opressed, fuck you mister.' 

'I'll tell your ma, you little brat, get going.'

'My mam thinks your a tosser anyways.'

The loyalist youths mocked the young Rebels as they sauntered off down the road. One of the rebels, about 14, turned and threw a bottle at the policeman. It hit him and he turned around, sticking his fingers up, triumphant.

The crowd dispersed as quickly as it appeared, and that was that. All quiet on the North Eastern front once again.

News: Football Fans Clash

'Today, fans of football rivals Sunderland and Newcastle clashed in the street this afternoon. It was instigated by a one Scott 'Scotty' Johnson Senior. He threw a glass bottle at a group of Newcastle fans walking through the city centre. It struck a fan and all hell broke loose.'

'Boots and fists were flying everywhere as a sea of red and white scarves jumped in, battering the Newcastle fans. The fans fought back, however, and a well-known hooligan pulled a knife on Scotty Senior and slashed his Donkey Jacket open.'

'Police arrived on the scene in no time, carrying truncheons as per usual. This is when the fighting stopped between the fans. The violence was then focused on the policemen, with Newcastle and Sunderland fans fighting together against the men sent to quash the situation.'