Football Crazy

by Terry Ravenscroft

  With it Donny initially thought he might wear his powder blue jacket and lazer blue slacks, an outfit that his lovely wife Tracey Michelle liked him in so much, but when he tried it with the bowler hat in the full length mirror at home he found that the two clashed. Then it occurred to him that maybe Price might prefer to see his manager in a more 'hands-on' mode of dress, but found that his lime green track suit didn't go too well with the bowler hat either. In the end he'd plumped for the new cream number he'd bought for acquiring a mistress purposes.

  He looked at his watch. A minute to ten. “Any sign of him yet,” he asked George, who was nearer the window.

  George looked out. “Not yet. If I know Price he'll make us wait.”

  “Well he hadn't better make us wait too long,” complained Donny. “I want to get my number two in place today.”

  *

  Ever since Price had told him that he would be looking to him to get some new supporters for the Town Stanley had been racking his brains as to how he could best accomplish this. So far he hadn't come up with a single idea. And he'd thought of everything short of press-ganging people in the pubs of Frogley during the Saturday lunchtime prior to the match. (If he had happened to have thought of it he would have put it to Price immediately and offered to be in charge of the press gang.)

  But four days on he still hadn't come up with anything that would get more people though the Frogley Town turnstiles that wasn't already being tried, or that hadn't been tried before and had failed.

  The problem was that Stanley really didn't have the sort of innovative mind that comes up with new ideas. He was a simple man; not mentally deficient in any way, or slow, but simple in the humble, uncomplicated, artless sense of the word. What Stanley was good at, and what he knew he was good at, was hard graft and being loyal to the causes he loved - and certainly nobody was better at displaying these virtues if his performances to the glory of Price's Pies and Frogley Town Football Club were the yardstick. But being a grafter and being loyal weren't much good to you when you were trying to come up with an idea which would fill the Offal Road Stadium to capacity every match day, a fact which Stanley readily admitted to himself as he sat in his living room in his red, yellow and green striped chair with his freshly-dyed faithless dog Fentonbottom at his feet.

  Then suddenly, completely out of the blue, or maybe completely out of the red, yellow and green, he had an idea. His son! He was a clever fellow. A big disappointment to Stanley, true, because he had no time at all for football; but he was bright, there was no doubt about that, he'd passed GCSEs and things and had a good job in the financial department of the Frogley Borough Council.

  Stanley spoke his thoughts out loud. “I wonder if t' lad could help me think of summat?”

  “What?” said Sarah Jane, who was seated opposite her husband, knitting him a new scarf in the Frogley Town colours, on the strict understanding that if she finished it in time for the start of the new football season he wouldn't dye the cat.

  “I were just wondering if our Craddock Kiln Wragg Hovel Clogthorpe Flinch Jabbit Crowe Fentonbottom Grit and Shakeshaft could help me out.”

  Sarah Jane pulled a face. “Does tha have to call our son by his full name every time tha mentions him?”

  “I like saying it, Sarah Jane. It's music to me ears. It's t' names of 1935 Cup-winning team.”

  “I know what it's name of Stanley Sutton; I ought to, I've heard it often enough! And what does tha want help with, anyroad?”

  “Mr Price needs more folk watching t' Town.”

  Sarah Jane sniffed. “I'm surprised as he hasn't issued all his workers with a season ticket before now and knocked t' money out of their wages every week.”

  It took only a second to hit Stanley. “Bloody hell! Bloody hell Sarah Jane, that's it!”

  *

  Back at the football ground Dave Rave was interviewing Moggs.

  “....Town goalkeeper Gary Moggs. Tell me Gary, as a Frogley player, what is your reaction to the news that meat pie magnate Joe Price has bought Frogley Town?”

  Grouped around them, all the other players waited expectantly for Moggs's reply.

  “Well....” started Moggs. “Well....well obviously Dave, I mean....well I'm just over the moon out about it.”

  All the players burst out laughing and jeering at Moggs, who threatened the lot of them with violence.

  *

  Joe Price, approaching the portakabins, wondered what they were laughing about. And, more to the point, what they'd got to laugh about, since they'd been beaten the day before by a team from the Blue Square North. One thing was certain, they wouldn't have anything to laugh about for much longer.

  George saw Price's approach through the window of the portakabin. He turned to Donny. “He's here.”

  “Price?”

  George nodded. Donny went over to the mirror for a final check on his appearance. He put a stray hair back into position across the top of his head, straightened his medallion, flicked a speck of dust off the bowler hat in the crook of his arm, then turned to George.

  “How do I look?”

  “He's here to discuss the future of the club with us Donny, not audition us for Butlins,” said George. “But if he was auditioning us for Butlins you'd stand an excellent chance. Particularly if they were putting on a minstrel show and you were happy about blacking up.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Donny, unable to make the connection between his appearance and a Black and White Minstrel, but before George could enlighten him the door swung open and the new owner of Frogley Town stepped in.

  Donny had only ever seen Price from a distance, or in the newspaper. Close up and in the flesh Frogley Town's new owner was even more impressive-looking. Donny was glad he had taken such care over his appearance.

  Price looked the pair up and down. “You two will be George Fearnley and Donkey Donnelly then?”

  Donny put him right. “Donny Donnelly, Mr Price. Big Donny Donnelly.”

  “I were referring to thee by t' name as tha were known by when tha played left back for Stockport County,” said Price.

  Donny let this slight on his footballing ability pass. There were more urgent things to discuss. He set the ball in motion. “Before we go any further Mr Price, I'd like you to know that I feel it is imperative that I have a number two.” Then, just in case Price wasn't absolutely clear about what he was demanding. “I don't mean a shit or a haircut, I mean an assistant”

  The look that Price gave Donny was long in suffering but only a split second in arriving. “I know what a number two is, Donnelly,” he snapped.

  “Well it's imperative I have one, Mr Price,” Donny reiterated. “And early doors. Very much so.”

  “There'll be no number two if I've owt to do with it,” said Price. “And if tha aren't up to t' job on thee own I'll get somebody as is.”

  “But....”

  Price cut off any further protest. “And listen up, t' pair of you. It cost me one million pounds to buy t' Town. And that's a lot of meat pies. One and half million to be exact. And that's only t' beginning of what I intend spending; there's t' ground to be brought up to scratch and t' playing strength to be improved. I don't expect to see change out of fifteen million pounds this season alone. And that's a lot of meat pies. Twenty two and half million to be exact. Now I....”

  Donny held up a hand. “If I can just butt in for a moment, Mr Price. Concerning our current playing strength. Our immediate need is obviously more punch up front, more strike power if you like; and I know where I can get just the player we need if I act quickly. And he won't cost all that much.”

  “And how much might that be?”

  “I think I could get him for about four hundred thousand meat pies.”

  Price fixed Donny with a beady eye. “Are thee making fun of me, Donnelly?”

  Donny was aghast. It was the very last thing he wanted to do. How could Price possibly think he'd been making fun of him? All he'd been doing was speaking in the langua
ge of the person he was talking to, like it had advised in the book ‘The Psychology of Football’ with a foreword by Ron Atkinson. He now wished he'd stuck to his own language, very much so, but it was too late. “Making fun of you Mr Price?” he said. “Oh no, Mr Price.”

  “Only some folk do,” said Price. “Once.” He noticed Donny's bowler hat. “What has tha got that bowler hat under thee arm for?”

  “This, Mr Price?” Donny took the bowler from the crook of his arm. “Well I wear one of course, Mr Price.”

  “Put it on then,” said Price.

  Donny suddenly felt a great need to be somewhere else. “What?”

  “Put it on.” This time there was more authority in Price's voice.

  “Well I always take it off when I'm indoors, Mr Price,” Donny hedged. “It’s good manners.”

  Price leaned over and stuck his face about an inch away from Donny's and bellowed, “Put it on!”

  There was nothing else for it. Donny put the bowler hat on. He had removed the newspaper padding as he had assumed he wouldn’t be wearing it and the hat fell down over his eyes.

  Price had no doubts now. “Tha are making fun of me, aren't tha Donnelly!”

  The feeling Donny had of wanting to be somewhere else, a nice comfortable snake pit perhaps, grew even stronger. His voice became hoarse. “No, Mr Price,” he managed to croak.

  Price stepped forward, took the hat off Donny's head and looked at it more closely.

  “Where did tha buy this hat, Donnelly?”

  “Buy it, Mr Price?” Donny's mind raced. “Er....Next.”

  “That's funny,” said Price. “Because it's one of mine. One of my old ones as I threw out. And things as I throw out my wife gives to t' charity shop.”

  “Next….door to Woolworths, Mr Price....Age Concern,” gabbled Donny, thinking on his feet. “I couldn't think of the name, Mr Price. Now I can. It was Age Concern.”

  Price looked at him imperiously. The feeling Donny had of wanting to be somewhere else grew ever stronger. Maybe some nice quicksand whilst giving Dawn French a piggy back.

  “Tha'rt a lying sod, Donnelly.” Price said. “But I give everybody one chance. Tha has just had thine.”

  The valve on Donny's bootlicking tank opened again and more obsequiousness oozed out. “Thank you Mr Price. Obviously.”

  “Now let's get back to business. Regarding t' new player as tha wants, we'll be buying nobody until we've got best out of t' players as we already have. And we can do that by instilling in them some good old-fashioned virtues. Has tha ever heard t' expression 'Clothes maketh the man', Donnelly?”

  “Well obviously, Mr Price. I am a disciple of it.”

  Price produced the old photograph of Frogley Town and held it up so Donny could see it. “This is a photograph of t' Frogley team of 1935. It is our blueprint for t' future.” He looked with fondness at the photo. “Look at 'em! That's what tha calls a football team! A proper team, with proper shirts and proper shorts and a little right winger with bandy legs.” He slapped the photograph with the back of his hand, with a flourish. “This is exactly how I want to see t' present team turned out, Donnelly.”

  Donny looked at the photograph. Surely not? “Dressed like that, Mr Price?”

  “Not only dressed, Donnelly. Their hair t' same as well. Cropped, with a fringe at t' front, just like in this photograph. Lined up like coconuts in a coconut shy! And droopy moustaches.”

  Donny could only imagine what sort of reception Price’s plan would get from the players and it wasn't 'Oh that's a good idea, Boss'. He decided the best way to handle it was to be a bit cagey. “Well I might be able to talk the lads into having a number one or number two, and maybe a droopy moustache at a pinch, but I can't see them going for the fringe, Mr Price. I mean....”

  But before the beleaguered manager could tell Price what he meant the club’s new owner butted in. “T' Manager too, if he insists on arguing with me!”

  Donny removed caginess from the menu immediately. “The lads are as good as on their way to the hairdressers, Mr Price.”

  *

  Superintendent Screwer sat at his desk and brought all his thirty two years experience in the police force to bear on planning the best way to set about eliminating the Frogley football hooligan problem.

  If it had been left to him there wouldn't be a problem; there would be no such thing as football hooliganism. He would have stamped it out long ago, when it first raised its ugly, spotty, drunken, drug-crazed, face-dyed-in-the-club's-colours head. He could do it tomorrow, at a stroke. The way he would do it was simple. He would hang the next football fan who stepped out of line. Make an example of him.

  Screwer was a great believer in making examples of people. In his it was by far and away the best aid to efficient policing that man had come up with. As he was fond of saying, you didn't get too many of the locals in the Jerusalem area walking about carrying notices which read 'I am a Christian' once the Romans had started throwing them to the lions.

  He had no doubt at all that hanging the next football fan to step out of line would bring an end to the hooligan problem. Hang him, then tar and feather him, then draw and quarter him, or her, then lop off his or her head, then display each of the four quarters outside the main gates of Old Trafford, Anfield, Elland Road and St James's Park for a month, and use the head for a ball at the next FA Cup Final. You wouldn't have to do that too often before yobbish fans called a halt to their hooligan missile-throwing foul obscenity-chanting antics.

  Some time ago Screwer had in fact proposed his hanging theory in a letter to his Chief Constable. He received a letter back congratulating him on his astuteness and assuring him that his 'Neck Stretching Plan' would be put to the highest authority as a matter of urgency. But nothing had come of it. Screwer hadn't been surprised; nothing had come of his idea to clamp jay walkers either, after an initial favourable reaction from above.

  He looked at the notepad on his desk. It had one word written on it, in his firm but child-like scrawl. 'Citadel'. Yes, that's what the Frogley Town stadium would have to become if it were to be hooligan-proof; a stronghold, a fortress.

  The great thing about a citadel was that as well as keeping people out it could also keep people in, and that's what he knew he would have to do if he were to control the hooligans. And to make sure they knew they were inside a citadel. Get it into their thick heads that once they were inside there was no escape for them once they'd started with their hooligan ways.

  He thought for a moment or two then underneath the word 'Citadel' on the notepad he wrote 'Moat? Obtain estimates.'

  Screwer had yet to pay a visit to Offal Road but had driven past the stadium and had already seen citadel-like possibilities; there was a fence all the way round the perimeter for a start, and although it wasn't all that high and could easily be scrambled over by a hooligan intent on mischief it wouldn't be scrambled over so easily once it had barbed wire on the top of it; and the four floodlight pylons could certainly be put to good use.

  Recalling this now he made another note. 'Barbed wire, that razor edge stuff they use to keep cattle in. Platforms for floodlight pylons'.

  There was a tap on the door.

  “Come,” said Screwer.

  The door opened and a somewhat hesitant-looking Sergeant Hawks stepped in.

  “Yes?” said Screwer.

  “Well....Well there's a man outside, sir” said Hawks. “With....Well he says you ordered this white horse off him.”

  Screwer couldn't have been more delighted if Hawks had just told him a busload of England football fans had gone over a precipice. “Is it here?”

  Hawks still couldn't quite believe it. “You did order a white horse off him, sir?”

  The police chief pushed his chair back, got to his feet and brandished a clenched fist. “Scourge of the Terraces!”

  Hawks blinked. “Beg pardon, sir?

  “That's what I'm going to call it. 'Scourge of the Terraces'.”

  “Oh I see sir
,” said Hawks, feeling the peace and quiet of his retirement take another giant leap further away.

  “Mark my words Sergeant, the football hooligans of Frogley will wish they'd never been born by the time I've finished with them!” Hawks didn't doubt it for one moment. Screwer continued. “Put it in one of the cells.”

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “The horse, man. Put in one of the cells.”

  “In one of the cells, sir?”

  The good mood that had enveloped Screwer on being told of the arrival of his horse was quickly evaporating. He glared at Hawks. “Have I missed something here at Frogley Police HQ, Hawks? The well-appointed stable block for example?”

  “No. No sir.”

  “Then put it in one of the cells man! Then send out for some oats.”

  “Yes sir.”

  *

  In their portakabin dressing room the players were larking about after training. Lock was in particularly high spirits. “Hey did youse see that gooal I scored, man! God, I love scoring gooals, it's better than sex.”

  Briggs looked at him in disbelief. “Who are you shagging?”

  “What?” said Lock.

  “Well she must be a bleedin' poor shag if she's not as good as scoring a goal,” reasoned Briggs. “The ones I'm shagging are a lot better than scoring a goal, I can tell you.”

  “Well you play up front,” reasoned Lock. “I play at the back man, I don't get many gooals.”

  “You don't get many shags either, Locky,” said Crock.

  The others within hearing range joined in the ridicule at Lock's expense. The Geordie was about to put up an argument citing several fair maidens of Frogley who could testify to the contrary, and one or two foul ones as well, when the door opened and Donny and Price came in. At the sight of their boss and the new owner the room went quiet, save for Barrel who was singing 'Sex Bomb' in the showers.

  “Tell Robbie Williams to put a sock in it and get himself out here, Linksy,” Donny said to Links, who was nearest the shower.

  “It's Tom Jones who sings Sex Bomb, Boss”, said Dicks, helpfully.