Green Street and Barking Road were in disarray. Nearby hospitals spent the night treating the injured, and the East London Derby had once again reignited violence after many years. The fallout was immense, and while it drew attention across the country, most of the impact was negative.
After the match, Harry Redknapp angrily pointed the finger at Millwall's so-called "hooligans," insisting it was their supporters who had descended on Upton Park to cause chaos.
But this was little more than the pot calling the kettle black. Neither set of fans could claim the moral high ground, and both had reputations that were darker than they cared to admit.
Back at Millwall, Aldridge faced a looming FA hearing. His slap on a West Ham supporter who had charged onto the pitch had been caught on camera. The circumstances were obvious to anyone watching, yet referee Peter Walton still showed him a red card. Aldridge chose to appeal.
Before the appeal, he agreed to a rare sit-down interview with the BBC, hoping to frame the narrative in his favour and build momentum behind his case.
Sitting casually in his office, facing the camera, Aldridge began:
"The whole incident was shown clearly on television. A West Ham fan broke through the security and ran onto the pitch. That was already a violation of stadium regulations. He then insulted my player both verbally and with gestures. It was obvious he came with intent. When he ran at me, I had no way of knowing what he planned to do. Maybe some people think he only wanted to shout in my face, maybe wag a finger at me—but I couldn't assume that. He might have tried to hurt me. He was already standing right in front of me and about to raise his hand. To me, that looked like the start of an attack. So yes, I acted first to protect myself."
"Protect yourself? By slapping him across the face?"
The BBC's female reporter raised an eyebrow, sceptical. There were many ways to intervene, but a slap was difficult to sell as mere self-defence.
Aldridge did not hesitate. "Yes. I believe that if the same thing happened in another setting, then what I did would be seen as legitimate self-defence. If someone runs at you in the street with hostile intent, do you wait until he stabs you with a knife before you react? Or do you kick him first to protect yourself? It's the same principle."
The reporter realised Aldridge was shifting the framing of the argument, but she let it pass and pressed on.
"I've heard Millwall are not only appealing your red card, but have also submitted materials to the FA accusing West Ham United of negligence in their stadium management. Is that true?"
Aldridge nodded. "Yes. Referee Walton explained to me that the red card was not for anything to do with play, but because of the pressure of the moment—the danger posed by the home fans. At that point, it looked like half the stand wanted to run onto the pitch. I don't blame Walton for trying to calm the situation. He's a good man. But let's be honest: West Ham's supporters have become a cancer on the Premier League. If they are allowed to intimidate referees and visiting teams like this every time, what happens to fair play? This is the direct result of West Ham United's management failing to control their own stadium."
The reporter quickly followed up. "In three and a half months, West Ham will come to The Den. As Millwall's head coach—and club's owner—can you guarantee that your fans won't behave the same way when it's your turn to host the derby?"
The question was pointed. The East London Derby was never one-sided in terms of atmosphere; both sets of fans had long struggled to contain their emotions.
Aldridge answered without hesitation. "My team will beat West Ham on the pitch. That's what football is about—winning with football. Of course, if any fans act irrationally and disrupt the match, Millwall will not defend them or their groups. They will be blacklisted, banned from The Den for at least three years. Nobody wants to see riots in football. And if something like that happened here, I would rather play in an empty stadium than tolerate fans bringing shame on the club."
The reporter was taken aback. She hadn't expected such a hard line. Raising her eyebrows, she changed the subject.
"Let's talk about Millwall's immediate future. In two weeks you have another derby, this time against Chelsea. And before Christmas, you face Newcastle United, currently top of the table."
Aldridge's expression turned faintly amused. "Chelsea? Honestly, I'm disappointed with Fleet Street's attitude. Yes, Chelsea have signed Ruud Gullit, the former European Footballer of the Year. But his arrival hasn't transformed them. Last season they finished 11th; this season they're 13th. Yet the London press fawns over him every week, as if dazzled by his name alone. It makes me sick. Gullit was one of the best in the world once, no doubt about it—but that was five years ago. He's thirty-three now, standing at the edge of retirement. When Chelsea come to The Den, we'll treat them like any other opponent and we'll beat them. And still, the papers will write glowing columns about Gullit because English football hasn't seen a player of his stature in too long. But make no mistake: those days are behind him."
The reporter's pulse quickened. She knew Aldridge's comments would make headlines. Countless outlets wanted exclusives with the young Millwall manager, but apart from mandatory press conferences, he rarely accepted. This BBC interview was already a coup. Now, not only had he condemned West Ham, he had also taken aim at Chelsea and even lashed out at Fleet Street itself. There was no hidden subtext, no diplomatic hedging. He had said plainly what many only whispered: that the British press had grown desperate to cling to the glamour of an ageing foreign star.
She leaned forward, clearly eager to stir the pot, and asked with a playful smile, "Last year Millwall met Newcastle twice in the cups and lost both times. You and Kevin Keegan didn't seem to be on the best of terms, did you?"
Aldridge instantly understood her intention and gave her exactly the kind of response she was hoping for.
"Keegan dismissed Millwall out of hand. He even said last season that we'd be relegated this year. Well, you can see how that's turned out. Millwall are thriving. If the Premier League relegated the top three instead of the bottom three, then perhaps we'd be in trouble. But reality doesn't quite work that way."
The reporter chuckled, delighted with his quip. "Mr. Hall, you do have a sharp sense of humour. Still, last season you said you hoped Newcastle United would win the league. That blessing seems to have worked. Newcastle are top of the table right now, and they've opened up quite a gap on the chasing pack. Even Liverpool, sitting fourth, look as though they've already withdrawn from the title race."
In the mid-1990s, any mention of Newcastle inevitably drew the conversation toward the title. Keegan's side, full of attacking flair, had become the darlings of the press.
Aldridge replied with a sly smile. "There are still more than twenty rounds left. We're not even halfway through the season. To say Liverpool have dropped out of the race already is far too hasty. Imagine Newcastle losing three or four matches in quick succession—the teams behind them would close the gap immediately. Nothing is settled as of now. In any case, I'm looking forward to seeing Keegan bring his Newcastle team to The Den. Then we'll finally meet in the Premier League and test ourselves properly, head to head. But let's be clear—that's just a league fixture. It has nothing to do with the title race. It's simply another ninety minutes of football."
...
Aldridge's interview aired the following day and drew widespread attention. Unsurprisingly, Millwall's two fiercest rivals, West Ham and Chelsea, were far from pleased. Even Kevin Keegan couldn't resist firing back when asked in a later interview. With a touch of scorn, he said Aldridge was getting ahead of himself, a little smug for his age, and that Millwall were in no position to be compared with Newcastle United.
That evening, Aldridge dined with Melanie, and afterward they strolled together along the Thames. The walk provided a brief respite, body and mind relaxed by the calm river at night. But both were busy, and soon they parted ways once more, each pulled back into their demanding schedules.
News then came from Lancaster Gate: the FA revoked Aldridge's red card. However, they simultaneously refused to uphold Millwall's formal complaint against West Ham's handling of crowd control.
It was, in truth, a quiet exchange of interests. Each side gave ground to avoid escalating the conflict further. The FA did not want to add fuel to an already volatile fire.
The East London Derby had long been a nightmare for the authorities. It regularly spilled beyond football, becoming a law-and-order issue that reached the streets of London. The FA dreaded government intervention in their governance of the game, yet the derby was impossible to contain. Like the Manchester derbies of the 1980s or certain Liverpool–Manchester clashes, it carried an inevitability of trouble, no matter how heavy the policing.
On the pitch, Millwall's unbeaten run in the league remained intact, but their performances were inconsistent. One week they would topple a strong opponent with breathtaking football, the next they would stumble to a flat draw.
Part of this came from Aldridge's selection strategy. In the cups, he always fielded his strongest side, no matter the opponent, determined to build Millwall's reputation on all fronts. In the league, however, rotation was unavoidable. Players had to adapt to the faster tempo and heavier demands of the Premier League, which varied depending on the opposition's tactics, the match rhythm, and even the weather. Given those challenges, Aldridge considered the current results more than satisfactory.
Fresh from defeating West Ham, Millwall travelled to Villa Park and were held to a 1–1 draw in heavy rain. The slick pitch slowed their passing, and their pressing lost its sharpness. Yet credit had to be given to Aston Villa. Under Brian Little, they were enjoying a fine season, sitting firmly in the top half of the table and even ahead of Arsenal, though the margin was slim.
By the end of November, Millwall hosted Chelsea at The Den. Among Millwall supporters, the mood had shifted. Chelsea's glamour signings no longer impressed them; on the contrary, they looked down on the Blues. In the current London football hierarchy, Millwall considered themselves the superior force.
Three days before the match, Millwall chairman Arthur Hall picked up the phone and rang Chelsea's notoriously combative owner, Ken Bates.
Arthur began with mock courtesy. "Ken, why don't you come down to The Den this weekend? I've got a fine bottle waiting. We'll sit up in the box, enjoy a good drink, and watch your European Footballer of the Year put on a show. That must be worth the trip."
Bates, white-haired, quick-tempered, and infamous across English football for his sharp tongue, snapped back immediately. "I've got business this weekend. I won't be there."
Arthur chuckled. "What's the matter, sulking at home? Come on, Ken. Millwall are even thinking of following Chelsea's grand plan—splashing money on ageing stars."
"Piss off!" Bates barked. "Don't act so bloody high and mighty. When Millwall turn into a supermarket, flogging your best players left and right, you'll be the one crying into your wine glass."
Arthur sneered. "Chelsea can't even keep pace with us now. You're the ones running around like stray dogs. If you want any of our players, you'd better come down here, kiss my arse, and beg for one. Then maybe—just maybe—I'll consider selling."
"You bastard!" Bates roared, his temper boiling over. "Arthur Hall, I'll kill you one day!"
Arthur only laughed. "See you at The Den then, Ken. Don't be late."
...
That weekend, Ken Bates came to The Den to watch the match. His appearance was almost inevitable, for Millwall chairman Arthur Hall had attended the pre-match press conference the day before and spoken like a proud father celebrating his son's success.
The reporters swarmed Arthur afterwards. A man who had grown up tough on the streets, Arthur was slick and cunning with words. He praised his son Aldridge, took pride in Millwall's progress, and finally, with deliberate subtlety, expressed his "disappointment." He claimed he had planned to welcome Chelsea chairman Bates with courtesy, even going so far as to rent a Lincoln to pick him up for the game, only for Bates to find excuse after excuse to decline.
The press wasted no time. On match day, the headline splashed across the sports pages read: Chelsea boss fears Millwall!
In truth, Chelsea had always despised Millwall, while Millwall supporters looked at Chelsea with open contempt. Odd though the rivalry seemed, this was the reality.
Bates, who had owned Chelsea for more than a decade, was still intent on mixing in the game's upper circles. He dreamed of profiting from his ambitious "Chelsea Village" development and could hardly afford to show weakness against a club like Millwall. To back down in front of a hated rival would have been nothing short of suicide in the eyes of his fans.
So Bates came. And the moment he appeared in the directors' box, the stadium cameras zoomed in on him.
He and Arthur stood, embraced, and smiled for the crowd as though they were lifelong friends.
But no one outside knew what was exchanged in their low whispers.
"Arthur, your Millwall are enjoying yourselves now, aren't you? But let's see what happens in the summer. When the big clubs open their cheque books, who'll still bother watching the likes of you? The mid-table and small fry will be swept aside."
Arthur smirked. "Old bastard, don't lecture me about football. Millwall are alive and well. You went and bought yourself a former European Footballer of the Year, and your team still looks half-dead. Tell me, Ken, who's the fool here?"
Bates bristled. "You're daft. Millwall haven't even won a major trophy, yet you sit here acting like kings."
Arthur shot back. "And Chelsea? Do you have a championship to boast about?"
Bates snapped, "We've won the top division!"
Arthur laughed loudly, his voice dripping with mockery. "Almost fifty years ago! Half a century, Ken, and you still cling to that? Ha! Living on past glory and pretending it makes you superior—you're pathetic."
The two chairmen sat down again after their performance, following their embrace with polite chatter about family and business.
To the cameras and the watching press, they looked like two respectable men able to coexist peacefully. But in truth, Arthur's smile came from genuine satisfaction, while Bates's grin was forced, hiding the sting of their exchange.
Before kick-off, Aldridge walked calmly onto the pitch. Instead of heading straight to his technical area, he turned deliberately toward the Chelsea dugout. Extending his right hand, he approached the man standing with arms folded at the edge of the technical zone.
"Sir," Aldridge said with a polite smile, "when I was a boy I used to watch you play. Your performances back then left a deep impression on me. If Chelsea's players today can reach the level you once showed, then Chelsea will certainly be a formidable team."
His words carried a double edge: part genuine compliment, part barbed remark.
The man before him was Glenn Hoddle, one of England's most celebrated footballers of the 1980s.
Aldridge had vivid memories of watching Hoddle at the 1986 World Cup on television. While Gary Lineker had been the poster boy of that England side, Hoddle's elegance in midfield had stood out. He was one of the most gifted English players of his generation.
Hoddle looked mildly surprised at Aldridge's gesture, but he shook his hand with a courteous smile. "Your team is impressive as well. It is hard to believe someone so young can control a side of that strength."
Aldridge shook his head modestly, gave a faint smile, and then returned to his technical area.
His respect was genuine—for Hoddle the footballer. But Hoddle the coach was a different matter.
Superstition, or "faith" as it is often dressed up, may be a personal matter, but it becomes dangerous when imposed upon others, especially a collective like a football team. Hoddle would later prove a prime example. As England manager, he notoriously brought a faith healer into the national setup and often spoke about reincarnation and fatalism, views that clashed sharply with modern scientific thinking.
From the touchline, Aldridge turned his attention to Chelsea's lineup. The most eye-catching figure was, of course, Ruud Gullit. At thirty-three, the Dutchman was past his peak but still carried immense charisma and technical quality. Beyond him, Chelsea's squad contained few stars of international renown. Their policy was clear: build around experienced foreign superstars while keeping a core of local players.
It was exactly the kind of development model the FA publicly encouraged at the time. With the Premier League still striving to enhance its appeal, the idea was that importing big names in the twilight of their careers would add glamour, bring experience, and help English football narrow the gap with Europe. It was a pattern that would soon be repeated by several clubs—Middlesbrough, Bolton, West Ham United, and others would all try the same formula.
Chelsea, however, carried another motivation that day. Aldridge's interview had openly mocked their reliance on Gullit, belittling their progress. His remarks had stung. From the boardroom down to the dressing room, Chelsea arrived at The Den determined to teach Millwall a lesson.
But they seemed to have forgotten a crucial fact. Since Aldridge had taken charge the previous summer, Millwall had turned their modest home ground into a fortress. The Den had not witnessed a single defeat under his reign.
When the match began, Chelsea never found their footing. Their attack sputtered, and they quickly sank into a passive role.
In midfield, they relied on the ageing Ruud Gullit. At thirty-three, he still possessed flashes of creativity and moments of vision that set him apart from ordinary Premier League players. But his legs could no longer cover the ground, and his defensive weaknesses were glaring.
Millwall's relentless pressing suffocated him. The Lions harried and closed down with such ferocity that Gullit looked dazed, unable to even bring the ball under control. Instead, Millwall's transitions surged forward at speed, their quick breaks slicing Chelsea open.
The home crowd responded in full voice. Their chants grew louder with each attack, their pride swelling. Even if the league title seemed out of reach this season, within London the picture was clear. On the capital's stage, no one outshone Millwall.
Arsenal? Millwall had already opened a ten-point gap on them.Chelsea? They were hardly worth a mention. They had neither the heritage nor the glory to match Millwall's momentum.
From the terraces, Millwall's supporters roared with mocking songs.
"Chelsea, Chelsea! West London pretenders, you don't belong here! You parade your 'world star,' but what good is he? At Stamford Bridge it's all suits, supermodels, and celebrities — is that football, or just theatre? Down here, we'll show you what real football is! Come on lads, rip them apart!"
In the corner of The Den, fewer than two thousand Chelsea supporters huddled together. They clenched their fists in anger and frustration, but their faces showed sorrow too. Deep down, they recognised the sting of truth in Millwall's taunts.
Chelsea's own identity had shifted. Once a club with strong working-class roots, they had been pushed away from their traditional base as the cost of living in West London soared. Many lifelong supporters had been priced out, forced to move south, closer to Millwall territory, which only deepened the hostility between the two sets of fans.
Meanwhile, Stamford Bridge filled with a new clientele. The stands were dotted with stockbrokers and businessmen in suits, bringing clients or glamorous girlfriends to show off "British culture." For them, football was part of a social calendar. Business was discussed in the boxes. Appearances mattered as much as the results. It was a world apart from the raw terraces of The Den, and just as rival fans mocked Manchester United's rampant commercialisation, Millwall supporters laughed bitterly at Chelsea's new image.
On the pitch, Millwall tore Chelsea apart in the first half.
In the eighteenth minute, Pavel Nedvěd ghosted into the penalty area and lashed home the opener. Chelsea's defensive line sagged under the pressure.
Within thirty minutes, David Trezeguet added two more. The Frenchman buried one header and then struck again before half-time. As the whistle blew, the scoreboard read 3–0.
The Den erupted. Every Millwall supporter wore the same jubilant grin. At home, joy felt guaranteed.
Under Aldridge, The Den had become a fortress. The crowd's passion poured onto the pitch, fueling the players. Opponents arrived already unsettled, suffocated by the intensity and hostility. Millwall's own players, meanwhile, relaxed and thrived in familiar surroundings, expressing themselves with confidence. The combination was devastating.
As his side trotted down the tunnel, Aldridge deliberately studied the faces of Chelsea's players. What he saw was resignation. Their body language had collapsed.
He knew Gullit could not change that. The Dutchman's golden years with AC Milan and Sampdoria were long behind him. In recent seasons he had slowed noticeably, struggling even in Serie A. To expect him to carry Chelsea as a saviour now was wishful thinking. At best, he was in England to wind down his playing days while preparing for life as a coach.
Aldridge did not dwell on Chelsea. The Premier League already had a pack of strong sides; Chelsea were not among them.
The second half unfolded much the same. Chelsea offered little improvement, and Millwall eased into a more relaxed rhythm. Late on, Ole Gunnar Solskjær came off the bench and struck twice, sealing a resounding 5–0 victory.
Up in the directors' box, Ken Bates could bear no more. He stormed out, his face purple with rage.
Arthur Hall bellowed after him, his voice booming across the corridor. "Old bastard! Come back again sometime! And next summer, buy yourself a few more 'world stars' while you're at it! I love watching your expensive heroes prove they're past it on my pitch!"
Bates spun on his heel, beard bristling, and shouted back, his voice hoarse with fury. "Arthur, you filthy bastard! One day Chelsea will crush Millwall, grind you into the dirt, and make you crawl on your knees! And when that day comes, I'll ram every word back down your throat!"
Arthur roared with laughter, his face flushed red. "The only thing you'll be chewing on tonight is your pride, Ken! I love you, you old bastard. And don't you dare try stirring trouble for Millwall at next month's Premier League round table. As for Chelsea—charging ridiculous ticket prices for rubbish football—tell me, is garbage really worth so much?"
Bates glared, eyes blazing as if sparks were about to leap from them. For a moment, it looked as though he might explode. But he said nothing more. With a furious twist, he turned away and marched out.