Much worse than that were the post-match interview; this painful ritual had caused more injuries than any ball, player or dodgy pitch. The amount of wires and bullshit outside the dressing-room after a game were ridiculous. Gobby, who weren’t in the team at the moment, had already tripped over one of these snake-like cables and ended up with ligament damage. Partington said he were going to sue the TV company, but Mr Starmer had decided against it as he were afraid of losing the TV money. Anyhow, one time we went round to Gobby’s house to cheer him up, he were seen up a ladder trying to smash his Sky dish with an axe. That didn’t work either.
Another man who were into dishes were my agent Jamil. He used to call them ‘giant coins’ and loved to see them on people’s houses. ‘More money for people like me and you,’ he said, and he seemed to enjoy Gobby’s axe-wielding exploits even though he hated football.
I called him on the way to Haslam Golf Club and had my eye on a round of under 80 at least. I were also looking forward to giving the lower half of the body a rest and letting the upper half take the strain. After all, the golf course were our Green Peace: the exact opposite to the ferocity of a football stadium.
The first thing I wanted to tell him about were a strange dream I’d had which saw about 500 imams on a dancefloor singing ‘Let’s do the time warp again…’ They did all the moves perfectly and had big, beaming smiles on their faces. It were a bit scary but I took it to mean that I should tell someone about Ibrahim’s ‘offer’.
But just as I were about to speak, I could hear the clatter of a ball against a racket and then a wall and knew I’d have to wait. The sound of screeching rubber and whacked balls must have gone on for two minutes.
‘At last,’ he said. ‘So what’s on your mind?’
‘Ibrahim wanted me to marry his daughter…’
‘Fuckin’ hell,’ he said, as the ball clattered against his racket again. ‘Is she a minger?’
I took my mobile away from my ear and grabbed the steering wheel tightly. ‘I don’t know, you tosspot, that’s not the issue. I just wanted to know what you thought.’
I put the mobile back against my ear but could only hear a long rally again graced by screeching trainers ripping into my eardrums. Finally, it ended and Jamil muttered something to his colleague before taking a deep breath into the phone.
‘All I can say it’s just Tiswas and Swap Shop,’ he said, with a sigh.
Jamil had this habit of coming up with things in conversation that he knew full well I knew nothing about. So he’d say that sounds like Fairport Convention or this country should be republican or that chess players plot their tactics in the toilet. None of it made any sense and Tiswas and Swap Shop – even though I’d vaguely heard of them – were in that category. All I knew were that they were Saturday morning shows and that’s it, but the only one I were interested in were Soccer AM. Well, I weren’t interested in it but watched it to ensure they weren’t taking the piss out of us.
‘Tis is was’ and ‘was it tis’, he said. ‘Swapsies and shopsies. Nothing is as it is and nothing is as it was. Secret deals, bargains and family business. You’re meat in the middle – and they all want a slice.’
‘Aye, thanks for your wisdom. Just get back to your squash.’
‘This is what you should have taken up, it’s what Pakistanis are good at…’
‘I’m not Pakistani…’
‘Of course, but it’s in the genes. Pakistanis are best at hockey and squash – chasing chickens and living in mud-huts are perfect training for them…’
‘…And cricket?’
‘That was Britain’s fault.’
I smiled as I looked for the sign to the golf club. ‘Look I’m going for a round now anyway.’
‘Hold on a mo…is she a lass or pass?’
‘I don’t fuckin’ know, it’s not happening anyway.’
I ended the call abruptly because I couldn’t find the sign. The lads said it’d be near a red phone box but I couldn’t see it. Eventually after a few turns in the road, I went down the correct single track road and spotted some tiny figures on a fairway and a clubhouse in the distance. But then, this serious-looking official in a cagoule stops us before I get to the clubhouse and asks us who I am. I told him I were Sid Karim and played in the Premier League but I might have well have said The Pluto League because he still wouldn’t listen.
When I walked past him and mildly palmed him off, he slipped and ended up on the ground. He said he’d call the police and that I’d ‘end up like Sid Little’.
So I ended up in the clubhouse with two coppers who questioned us about the ‘fight’. I seemed to be seeing a lot of coppers since 7 All but I suppose it were nothing like the part-time players from Sporting Massala who were returning from a game in Glasgow and were thrown off a plane for singing ‘We won 11-9, say we won 11-9…’. Some of the security staff believed they were actually praising the attacks of September 11 and deliberately crowing by flipping the date round. After three hours of questioning, they were finally released but the story went down well amongst the lads, hence 11-9 and 7 All.
But if the coppers in the clubhouse wanted to see some real action, they could have asked us about my one and only fight with a guy called Gary Bridge. I were only 16 at the time and had just broken into the youth team so I celebrated by spending about £500 in River Island. But just as I were trying on some new kecks in the changing room, Bridge pulled away the curtain and smiled at what he saw down south. I were naturally angry and we ended up trading punches. It were caught on the store security cameras and obviously, we were worried about the police finding out. But the store manager didn’t do that because, after reviewing the footage, he said we’d shown how much we’d cared by being so emotional. He also gave us discount cards, vouchers and a goody bag with jumpers, shoes and ties. But then he wanted to feel the ‘areas that hurt’ and we felt that were going a bit too far.
This story were important because it reminded us of the pushy nature of people in authority. The coppers and the cagouled one reminded us of the ref who gave seven penalties against us in a League One game a few years ago. And two of those were retaken.
But just as I were about to show them who were boss, they took us on the course – with handcuffs on – and asked us to get a ball out of the bunker. Now, even though my six GCSEs were given a slight push by my agent, I smelt something as fishy as Pie & Match.
Most of the other players were on the green as I tried to get the ball out of the bunker. Rico were right on the edge of the bunker, leaning on his putter. He looked down with a smile. ‘Is like Iraq down there…’
This made a nice change from Rico’s only other verbal communication which consisted of ‘paaarss…paaarss the ball, you peeesed-up fuckers…’ and ‘the ref’s a Puta’. And even though he were from Cordoba he seemed to be well up with matters over here. He wanted to talk to us about the Moors but I told him all about Hindley and Brady and he quickly changed to subject to Islamic history. I still didn’t know what he were going on about, though.
Anyhow, after four attempts, I gave up and chipped the ball up with my left foot and volleyed it with my right. It hit something and made a tinny sound. I got up out of the bunker and found all the players and the coppers laughing their heads off. The ball had hit the sign ‘Haslam Golf Club’ and they had been taking the piss all along. These guys weren’t coppers at all and it were all done because the players wanted to start my ‘stag events early’. It were obvious that although I’d asked Spares not to tell anyone about Ibrahim’s Starcot Lane episode, he couldn’t help telling the skipper. They were real close and Spares had also employed a lip-reader to find out what Ibrahim had said to us on the goalline, through the club’s security cameras. If it weren’t bad enough touting the club’s tickets off to the highest bidder, he were snooping in on a private conversation. That were a disgrace but luckily for us he said the tape were ‘so emotional…like Roots or something’ that it would stay sta
shed in the Starcot Lane vault ‘to respect his memory’.
The desire to visit Ibrahim in hospital were always there: before and after every training session, on match day and while sitting in my Audi R8 admiring its interior. He were on one of the wards so there were still hope, but his last words about marrying his daughter meant there were a bit of friction around: a bit like being booked early by a ref and not talking to him until he gave us a free-kick. He’d already cold-shouldered us – before the ambulance came to Starcot Lane – because I’d said no, so now it’d be awkward meeting him again so soon. It hurt us to say it, but the relationship had changed simply because of those few words. He were the man, but now I weren’t too sure.
Instead, it were time to confront Abujee and see if he had any hand in this dodgy business. I didn’t want to go down to Simpkiss Street so, as it were Friday, I went down to Roshni Mosque.
The last time I’d been down there I ended up on the pavement outside as it were one of those Eids where they didn’t have enough room for everybody. I remember going down to the concrete with about 200 others and not enjoying the taste of gravel on my lips. One worshipper, we were told, couldn’t actually open his mouth. We heard later, the coppers had arrested a man for spreading glue on the pavement. The worshipper’s better now but likes to go to a mosque with more room.
So I sat in my car, in Madison Street, and waited for the worshippers to stream out of the mosque. The white and green building – only about 10 minutes’ drive from Starcot Lane – had a soothing, gold minaret and slightly rickety door that never seem to close properly.
As the worshippers trickled out of the mosque, I pulled my Lacoste beanie hat over my ears. A bearded elder in white shalwar kameez walked past the car, and looked concerned. I know what the old bid were thinking – something along the lines of, ‘If you were my son I’d grab you by the ear and drag you home to seek knowledge in the big book’. Well, keep on looking concerned chacha or I’ll wind up my Audi R8 and give you some Vorsprung Durch Technik right up your backside.
Luckily, Abujee came out of the mosque and eventually approached us. His tidy brown beard, bronzed face and specs made his white hat glow more than normal. He were wearing a snappy, pinstripe waistcoat on top of his kameez and, as usual, kept slipping his fingers in and out of its pocket. He stood on the passenger side and I wound down the window.
‘I thought you liked a different kind of worship,’ he said, taking off his hat and easing his fingers through his hair.
He were still on form, the old man. Whenever I had a set of questions ready to fire at him, he always got in first and threw us off balance. Just like the opposing full-back tomorrow, I’d eventually get round him.
He got in the car and took out some £10 and £20 notes from his waistcoat.
‘You still a committee member, here?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but it’s difficult,’ he said, flicking through the notes. ‘There’s a lot of bickering. We always seem to get enough funds to do what we want, but that’s the easy part. The Raja’s are even trying to take over the mosque now.’
‘Aren’t they happy with the number of houses? How many is it now?
‘Still four…number 82, number 84, 86 and 88…’
‘You said they were looking for another one…’
‘Yes, next door to us…but Mr Winterbottom isn’t moving out now so that’s good news.’
‘Anyhow, I need to talk to you about Ibrahim and what he wanted us to do.’
He stopped counting the notes and looked up at us. ‘This is a bit abrupt…’
‘Well, so were he.’
He sighed and put the hat back on his head. ‘Is this what they teach you in that new family of yours?’
At least it is a family, unlike the one I had the bad luck of popping up into. I mean who wants a junkie for a father? Not me, that’s for sure. Okay, you now live in the moral universe, but I know for a fact you used to sing along to Grange Hill’s ‘Just Say No’ campaign because Ibrahim told us as much. That kind of hypocrisy is what junkies are all about. I know you’ve been clean for years now and ‘found Allah’ but it’s once bitten twice kitten in my book. I’m proud of my record and, whenever the FA testers are about, I give my urine sample with pride. It’s the best piss of my life: pure, clean and simple. One of the testers even commended us for the ‘golden glow of the sample’. He even said it were even good enough to drink once. That’s the standard we’re talking about here.
‘They’ve taught us a lot at Starcot,’ I said, rubbing my lap. ‘Particularly about drug-testing.’
‘Oh please, save me the lecture…’
‘So have you been to see him in hospital?’
‘Yes, he looks in pretty bad shape. I suppose that’s what happens when you’ve been working since the age of four.’ He shook his head. ‘In those conditions too…’
‘What’s he got then?’
‘They still don’t know, but I’m not sure it matters. If the dust, machinery and light didn’t do him in Sialkot, then Lings probably finished him off while he was here.’
‘Aye, but you both left years ago…’
He rubbed his chest and nodded his head in acknowledgement as a young man walked by. ‘Yes, but once you’ve breathed it in, there’s not much you can do…’
‘So did he speak to you about the Rukhsana thing?’
He opened the glove compartment and started looking through CDs and DVDs. ‘Ibrahim spoke to me about many things, and some of them would be very painful for you.’
‘Are you going to answer my question?’
He picked out one DVD and closed the glove compartment. ‘I’d like to borrow this.’
‘Training Day? What do you want that for?’
‘Well, you know I’m trying to get back to work after a while,’ he said, reading the back of the DVD. ‘So I’m training to be a ticket collector. It’s nothing much but I need to get back into something, at least. Roger is training me up, so I’m learning as we go along.’
‘I’m not sure that’s the best thing you should be watching…’
‘Well, we’ll see,’ he said, placing the DVD on his lap and turning to look at us. ‘Anyway, all you need to know about Ibrahim is that he’s very sick, has done more than you can imagine and did want you to marry Rukhsana. Yes, I knew about it but wanted to wait a bit longer. This obviously changed when he got as sick as he did and he wanted to do it quicker, that’s natural.’
I put my hands on the steering wheel and tightened my grip. ‘Well, let us tell you that’s impossible and always will be.’
‘Oh yes, I forgot you’re out of our league now.’
‘You got that right,’ I said, starting the car.
‘What about Rukhsana? Haven’t you thought about her?’
‘Not my problem.’
‘She graduated last year. I haven’t seen her since then.’
‘She went to university, then?’
‘You’re well informed aren’t you?’
‘Well, the last time I actually saw her were when she were about 13.’
Abujee took off his glasses for a clean and then put them back on again.
‘Yes…and that looks like it will be the last time.’
There were something about this Premier League lark that weren’t quite the shiny, happy product advertised. Yeah, it were faster, richer and more popular but the games came quicker than Hannibal Lecter’s next meal: Saturday; Wigan, Tuesday; Portsmouth, Saturday; Everton, Wednesday; Manchester City. I were already more knackered than a sheep crossing the Pennines into enemy territory – and all the emotion that entails. Jamil kept telling us to toughen up and think about a great heavyweight boxer, but Audley Harrison kept coming into my mind and I were down again.
But that game at Everton did give us our first point of the season, even though Lino kept us awake by singing Merry Across the Mersey all the way down the M62. Next were Manchester City at Starcot Lane and this were t
o be our first maximum of the season. When I saw the lashing rain clinging to the floodlights, beaming down on the sparkling green turf, I could almost smell the victory. Pity, I could also smell a break of wind from the backside of their centre-back which meant I were left out of position for their goal. We lost again.
In the dressing-room after the game, it were the usual witch-hunt. Pearly threw his boot against the wall in frustration and blamed Jet for not tracking back. Jet didn’t understand and were actually more angry with the Anglo-Chinese interpreter who repeated Pearly’s rant in the quietest, mildest voice possible. So Pearly grabbed him in a headlock and Kai and Larry had to jump in to get the skipper off Jet’s back. Mags had calmly got changed and were brushing his floppy brown hair. I thought this were now the right time to visit Ibrahim, but not before we’d all calmed down at Tiffs.
I weren’t of the ‘drowning sorrow’ kind; I left that up to the lads. This might have been down to religion or that legless geezer I saw outside Starcot Lane licking the dirt and singing ‘Kum Ba Yah’ but it were probably much simpler than that: drugs. After seeing Abujee dozing around on substances, early doors, I didn’t want anything to do with the weed killers. And when my drink were spiked at a club do three years ago, and I ended up sticking a football pump up the barman’s arse (it were rather big) it sealed my decision.
So as we sat in Tiffs trying to forget the City defeat, I remembered another saying from Granny Fatima, who said she’d picked it up from an old colonial before partition: ‘Teetotal means you remember the tittle-tattle’. As I wanted to make skipper one day, this were important.
Tiffs were a spacious, soothing bar with two floors and our place were up above in the Clayton Suite. This were a generous, blue-tinted area with its own mini bar, about 12 tables and its own dancefloor. The rest of the punters were downstairs just where we wanted them: away from us. The owner Steve Clayton took care of them and left us to watch Lassie trying to chat up two girls on another table.
Season of Sid Page 4