[engl] if you went down the wrong alleyway, took a shortcut through the park or crossed the wrong open space after dark in the UK in the 1970s, you stood a fair chance of being accosted by someone with a big mouth, low morals and some gurning mates to impress, usually reeking of fags and cheap booze and always ready to put the boot in. And, before you could say, “sickening violence”, a short but chaotic scuffle would ensue and a winner eventually emerge, battle scarred and bruised. The boot boy was the worst kind of hooligan. There wasn’t anything you could do or say to appease him. You had the same chance as a fly caught up in a spider’s web. Zero. Your best bet was to run. His intent was always to give you, and vicariously the rest of the world, a good kicking. Thugs, long-haired louts, short-haired louts; the anti-hippy. Birds, booze, bovver and football on their criminal minds. So fasten your braces for a white knuckle-duster ride. 14 bovver rock bruisers for all of you peace-loving losers. Somebody’s going to get their head kicked in tonight... Put the boot in.