He weren’t having much luck as one of the girl’s were singing along to a Kanye West number which were booming through the loudspeakers, so Mags went up to offer him some help. Now Mags were Swedish but he were curiously lacking in the gigolo department. When he came to the club, we were sure he’d be at it night after night – even though he were just five five, stocky and had a dodgy scar on his right cheek, but for some reason it just didn’t happen. Yeah, he’d had Rough Rachel for induction – all the foreign lads did, it were there initiation – but that were only because she said she, ‘wanted to do a Swede and sing Dancing Queen at the same time’. He hasn’t been the same since and we wonder if she took his mojo too.
Pearly looked across at Lassie and Mags and picked up his pint again. He swigged down the last quarter in seconds and slapped the pint glass down.
‘Fuckin’ women,’ he said. ‘They control everything…and they take everything.’
Molly downed a handful of KP salted peanuts and looked at his skipper. ‘They’re not all the same.’
‘Oh yeah, like your wife?’
Molly took a sip of his half-pint of blackcurrant and lemonade. ‘I’m not going to talk about this…’ He looked towards us. ‘So what do you think about the nappies idea, Sid?’
‘Won’t they be uncomfortable under our shorts?’
‘No, they’ll be extra soft,’ he smiled. ‘Don’t worry, even if you’re caught short it won’t matter.’ He rubbed the back of his head and then held his neck. ‘Ooh, I need some more sleep. Maria Louise is doing my head in. She cries more than Larry.’
Now Larry, as you know, is the other Swede in the team, but even though Mags and him came to the club within weeks of each other, they didn’t hang out together. We still didn’t know why this were but Larry were a very deep bloke who spent a lot of time visiting art galleries, polishing his Volkswagen Beetle and examining soot stains from Lancastrian mills. For a while we thought he might be a real full-back and like the roundhouse instead of the bungalow but he’s been seeing Kristine – his film critic girlfriend – for a year now, so he must be walking the line.
Pearly put his hand in his pocket and picked out a pill which he threw into his mouth. He grabbed my half-pint of Pepsi and necked down half of it. ‘Right, that’s better,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘Don’t worry Sid, I’ll get you another drink.’
‘How many pills you on now?’ I asked.
‘Don’t ask…they say it’s all in the head but they’re talking shit.’
Recently, however, it definitely were all in the head for our skipper. Forget his domestic and medical problems, it were his problems on the pitch that were now causing us the headaches. In his career he’d cleared so many headers out for a corner and scored so many down at the other end – for a central defender – that he were an essential part of our team. But recently, probably for the last six months, he’d been putting them over the bar when we were attacking and scoring them past Kraney when we were in our own box. The ones past Kraney were so stunning and precise – one were a diving header from 20 yards – that we were sure the skipper were losing it big time.
Pearly tutted while watching Lassie and Mags trying to make some impact with the two girls. But then Lassie turned around and spotted someone downstairs. He walked to the top of the steps and ushered someone to come up. The man came upstairs and shook Lassie’s hand. They walked over to our table and suddenly the way the man had the ball under his arm reminded us of Ibrahim and his obsession with that ball.
‘I hope you had some floodlights where you play, mate,’ sniggered Pearly.
‘Great to meet you,’ said the man, as he offered his hand to Pearly. His thinning hair and sharp face seemed better suited to The Alby Senior pub, near Starcot Lane, which had a notorious reputation for trackie tops, brutes and flying pool cues.
He shook my hand and then Molly’s. ‘What’s your name?’ asked Pearly.
‘Terry.’
‘You just finished a game?’ said Pearly.
‘Yes, we play on the astro-turf at Dove Barn. I know it’s a bit late, but it’s the only time we can book it.’
‘Hmm,’ said Pearly, looking at Lassie.
‘Give us a kick of that,’ said Lassie, as he eased the ball out of Terry’s hand.
So as Lassie put the ball on the floor, brought it up with his feet and then started doing keepy-uppies, I knew what were coming next. He stopped for a moment, walked across to the furthest tables from ours and clambered up on it with the ball.
‘Okay, just a little one Lass,’ said Pearly, putting his pint down and getting up. ‘We won’t go for the record.’
‘Do we have to?’ said Molly. ‘We’ll get the tables dirty.’
This ‘record’ were the number of times the ball were passed from player to player while we carried out our own version of table football. Pearly, Mags and us stood up on separate tables and began the fun. Molly stayed sitting on his table but then reluctantly got up and joined us.
‘Just a little one, then we stop,’ he said, looking at the soles of his black shoes before climbing up on the table.
Lassie, whose head were still some way from the ceiling, headed the ball to Pearly who thighed it towards us. I left-footed into Molly’s path and he headed it back towards Lassie by the bar area. It must have been about 70 passes, nowhere near the record of 267, and that were enough for the skipper.
‘That’s it, Lass,’ said Pearly, continuing to keep his eye on the ball. ‘I think we should stop now.’
But Lassie stuck his chest out and carried on singing along to Kanye West like some karaoke kaiser.
‘You’ll be flying off my boot in a minute you prick,’ said Pearly anxiously.
A few more passes were made but Molly’s header back to Lassie were woefully short. He had no chance of getting the ball but he were so desperate that, with the ball up in the air, he jumped off the table and launched at the ball. In mid-air, he scissor-kicked the ball towards Terry just before he hit the ground.
‘GOALKEEPER, SAVE IT,’ screamed Lassie. ‘TERRY, SAVE IT.’ The ball headed bullet-like to the left of a startled Terry. It went through the small gap between the glass panel and the top of the steps and headed for the packed bar area below. Pearly, Molly and I virtually froze on our tables like a mini-Subbuteo team. The ball smacked against a glass on the bar area, which then hurtled through the air into a full glass of beer being drunk by a well-dressed man. His glass smashed in his hands and the beer spilt all over his shirt and tie. He shrieked in pain and his hand may have been bleeding as the glass scattered all over hands, arm and chest. The ball itself took another trajectory. After smacking into the initial glass, it crashed into a bottle of beer on the bar area. The beer bottle skittled across the bar and hit the nose of one of the staff who were crouching down behind the bar area to stock up the fridge. She screamed in pain, holding her nose, as the beer from the bottle continued to pour over her head.
‘FUCK IT, LET’S GO’ shouted Pearly, as he jumped off the table and picked the dazed Lassie up off the floor.
‘Oi, where are you going?’ said Terry. ‘Don’t run off,’
‘Just remember it’s your ball, mate,’ said Pearly, turning to Terry.
I jumped off the table and headed for the exit; there were a fire escape from the Clayton Suite out into the car park. The door were to the right of the dancefloor. I pushed it open and ran down the stairs; the sweat poured off my Ralph Lauren shirt but the cool, night-time air were blissful and overwhelming. I sprinted across the car park towards the car. My mobile rang.
‘Aw fuck, not the phone,’ I said, struggling to get it out of my pocket. I got the keys out first and opened the door. I held the door open and eventually answered it.
‘Hello, Sid?’
‘Oh, hi Jamil…’
‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘Look, I can’t talk now,’ I said shakily. ‘I’m in the middle of something, I�
��ll see you later.’
‘No, wait on…’
I put the mobile in my pocket and got into the car. I pressed the window down and could see Molly, Mags and Pearly coming out of the back door. They were carrying Lassie: Mags had his legs and Pearly his arms, while Molly just had his hands on his head wondering what were going on.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow lads,’ I said, turning on the ignition.
‘OI, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?’ screamed Pearly, wiping his brow as he struggled with Lassie’s body, which were twisted like a jalebi. ‘You’re gonna take him home…’
‘That pisshead’s not coming in here,’ I said. ‘This is a pure motor…’
‘WELL, HE AINT COMING WITH ME COZ I’LL KILL HIM BY THE MORNING.’
They managed to get Lassie round to the other side of my car and I cringed as they threw him down on the front seat.
‘Right,’ said Pearly, ‘Mags can come in my car…Molly can squeeze in there, can’t he?’
‘I thought you weren’t driving,’ I said. ‘You’ve had a few…’
‘I’ve hardly had anything…’
Molly squeezed in reluctantly beside Lassie as he didn’t want to get in Pearly’s car. He shut the door and I zoomed off. It’d be wrong to say I hadn’t thought of a high-speed chase with us at the wheel showing off all my skills of manoeuvre, control and poise but it were now just a case of making sure Lassie got home and didn’t fuck up my car with his pissed-up antics. He seemed out for the count, anyhow, so it didn’t seem to matter.
As I picked up speed, I turned to look at Molly. He were uncomfortable – Lassie’s head were resting on his shoulder – but he were relieved that we’d got away from Tiffs. I looked at him again and this time he burst into laughter. I offered up my hand for a high-five but his laughter were now so uncontrollable that he missed my hand. This set us off into the kind of giggles – and then wild laughter – I hadn’t experienced since watching Deuce Bigalow at Kai’s house.
We were now laughing so hard that we could hardly hear anything else. But then I raised my finger to my lips.
‘Ssssshhh…’ I said. ‘What the hell’s that?’
It were like some squeaky mouse had invaded my Audi. But then I realised what were going on and reached into my trouser pocket for my mobile.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Nice of you to hang on, Jamil.’
‘What have you been laughing at? I could hear it all.’
I pulled the mobile away from my ear and looked at Molly, who were holding his chest and were lost in a chorus of high-pitched screams. I passed him the mobile and gestured to give it to Lassie.
‘Hello, hello? Sid, are you there…?’ said a distant Jamil.
Molly held the mobile and put it to Lassie’s ear. Lassie twitched a little as the sleek metal touched his tash but he settled down again.
‘Hello, Sid, this is really important now, I need to talk to you,’ said an irate Jamil.
I nearly missed a right turn because Molly’s hysterical laughter were distracting us.
‘…Hello, Terry?’ grunted Lassie, who suddenly spoke despite his eyes still being closed.
‘Sid, Sid?’
‘Terry…you’re a great player…what a save.’
‘Who’s that?’
The laughter went on. I nearly felt sorry for Jamil but how could you feel sorry for a bloke who were more interested in getting the host’s number on Chegger’s Plays Pop rather than enjoying the show as a 12-year old. He thought it were a good opportunity but his ‘yellow’ team threw him out after he’d tried to smuggle backstage and sign Keith Chegwin as a client.
Lassie opened his eyes and looked around. ‘Hello…’ he mumbled, realising he had a mobile at his ear. ‘Tony Weller here…occupation, goalscorer.’
‘Oh, I could have guessed,’ acknowledged Jamil. ‘It’s Lassie. How are you feeling, Tone?’
‘We lost…but I feel great.’ Lassie perked up a little. ‘Hey lads are we going for a kebab?’
Lassie then raised his head slightly and hurled a chunky mass of yellowy-white liquid from his mouth. The vomit went all over Molly’s hand, the mobile and – like a bullet through my heart – the dashboard.
‘Aw, you dirty git Lass,’ groaned Molly, as he dropped the mobile beneath the seat ‘Even my Maria’s not done that yet. Stop the car, Sid.’
‘YOU FUCKIN’ DICK, LASSIE,’ I screamed. ‘I KNEW THIS WOULD HAPPEN, YOU’RE NEVER COMING IN THIS CAR AGAIN.’
‘Do you want to give me mouth to mouth Molls,’ laughed Lassie, with a gobful of sick swimming in his cakehole.
‘WHERE’S MY PHONE?’ I shouted, as I slowed the car down and prepared to stop.
Molly looked down and, using the tips of his forefinger and thumb, picked the mobile up tentatively from behind the front passenger seat. He handed it to us as I indicated left and stopped the car. Molly opened the door and got out. With the door open, he tried to drag Lassie out of the car.
I looked at my pebble dash interior and wanted to give Lassie a cruciate. I held the mobile a few inches from my ear. ‘Sorry, about that Jamil, what did you want to talk about it?’
‘Mullah’s in intensive care.’
FOUR
As soon as I walked in, I knew it weren’t the place for me. I weren’t a sissy or a wuss but these kind of places made us shiver. The charts and monitors were a bit like those in the treatment room, but this were a step up: humans and machines locked into one by a network of wires, tubes and plasters. I took one look at Ibrahim’s pale face and bare arms and could feel my power diminishing. So I touched his right foot and left.
Now you may think I were a sissy or a wuss for not staying, but if Ibrahim were to wake up, who’s to say he wouldn’t take one look at us and kick the bucket straight away. It’s awful to think about but if a 47-year-old man – whose football dreams have been shattered, who can’t have a new son-in-law and who’s off to meet Allah – wants to recover then he shouldn’t really feast his eyes on Mr Jilted should he?
These wild thoughts were thankfully clearing as I went out into the corridor but, just as I got my mind on the next game, one of the visitors collared us. I recognised him as the man who’d politely nodded as I stood by Ibrahim. He’d been sitting by a woman whose face were muzzled by an oxygen mask.
‘Sorry,’ he said, tapping us on the shoulder ‘…Just got a little request.’
He handed us a small, torn piece of paper and a small red pen regularly used in betting shops. ‘I hate football,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s not for me.’
‘Who’s it for, then?’ I said, as I tried to find a surface rigorous enough to rest the paper against.
He looked at us with a resigned smile. ‘…Just make it out to Stephanie.’
I rested the paper against the wall and tried to begin writing, but the pen weren’t really up to the task. I changed the trajectory of the pen and thankfully some letters emerged.
‘It’s not great but it’s the best I could do,’ I said, handing the pen and paper back.
‘It’s fine,’ he said, taking the piece of paper and looking at it.
‘She’s a Town fan?’ I asked.
‘Yes, she even wanted to be buried wearing a Town shirt.’
‘Anyhow I hope she makes it.’ I said, offering to shake the man’s hand and preparing to leave.
‘Thanks for that,’ he said. ‘…And I hope your father gets better.’
These kind of presumptions seemed to follow us wherever I go. Have you been back to India then? Are you allowed to have a shower? Do you kiss the floor? Have you got a bomb in your bag? And the one circulating around the dressing-room at the moment: how minging do you think some birds look on HDTV?
‘He’s not my father,’ I said, firmly.
‘Oh, sorry,’ said the man, as he headed back to the intensive care unit. ‘Is he a relative then?’
Suddenly, my mind seized up as a doctor walked past. ‘He’s a…friend,�
� I said.
‘Well, at least you’re still close,’ he said, raising his hand.
Yeah, about as close as Albion Town will ever be to the Champions League.
Now I’d never bought into that ‘you wait ages for one and then two come at once’ drivel because I couldn’t actually remember the last time I waited for anything. At restaurants, cinemas and clubs I usually went straight past the murmuring, miserable bodies standing out in the cold and, it’s true, my heart did flutter a bit but then it soothed again when I went in and the owner told us how good I were.
But the reason I were citing this gawper pauper stuff were that I’d just had a couple of dreams on the bounce and there could be something in them after all. The latest one happened on the coach on the way back from the 2-2 draw at Birmingham after Larry sat next to us and persuaded us to listen to a few tracks on his iPhone.
I were sat next to the window and he had his right elbow on the table. He were looking into my eyes as I listened to the music. His playlist had already bored the pants off us with the likes of Secret Machines, Nick Drake and Pink Floyd but he said he had a final treat for us. It were a band called David and the Citizens with a song called Are You in My Blood? So I started listening to this but the combination of guitars going in my ears and cars whistling past us on the M6 made us doze off.
Anyhow, when I woke up, the coach had obviously stopped because there were some kind of commotion to our left. Larry weren’t sitting next to us any more and when I looked out of the window there were three stationary police cars and at least six other damaged cars in the fast lane. They were cordoned off with traffic cones on the fast lane and the car at the front were crumpled up so its boot and bonnet were nearly touching.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: I had a dream about some poor innocent in his Ford Fiesta and he’d been mown down by a toff in a Porsche. But no, the actual dream were a double header about Ibrahim and Starcot Lane. Firstly, I’d turned into a giant hammer and looked down on a helpless Ibrahim lying in the net at the Billy Moss End. Anyhow, he’s begging for mercy but all I say to him is ‘All in all, it’s just another game of football.’ Then, just after that, I see Ibrahim driving a bus on the Starcot Lane turf but it’s not one of Lanacashire’s finest but one of those dusty, multicoloured buses in Pakistan which honks its horn all the time. Man it were scary.
Season of Sid Page 5