Football Crazy

by Terry Ravenscroft

  “The Town have never been stronger in the engine room, if you want my opinion, Fred.”

  “I remember you saying those very words before Dave,” recalled Oakes. “In the build-up to the Harlingford game. When they beat us six-nil.”

  “Yes, Harlingford had a lot of luck that day,” said Donny, then, anxious to change the subject, “Shall we get on, Fred?”

  “Of course, Dave. Fire away.”

  Dave switched on the microphone of his portable recorder and tested it. Satisfied it was working he started the interview. “It's the Day....ayve....Rave Show. With me is an inmate of the Frogley Mental Hospital, Mr Fred Oakes. Tell me Fred, as a maniac, what is your reaction to the news that meat pie magnate Joe Price has bought Frogley Town?”

  Oakes thought for a moment. “Well obviously Dave, I'm just over the moon about it.”

  Dave stopped the recorder. “Er....do you think you could say something else, Fred? Only the players said that, and if you say the same thing my listeners won't be able to tell the players from the maniacs.”

  There was bad blood between Oakes and Greaves. There was bad blood between most of the inmates and Greaves. This was because the vast majority of the patients, although to some degree not quite right, were at heart decent, caring people; whereas Greaves was an out and out copper-bottomed shit. However the blood between Oakes and Greaves was especially bad, due to the latter's favourite dessert being rice pudding.

  Oakes, not being a fan of desserts in general and rice pudding in particular, being more of a cheese and biscuits man, had until a short time ago, being aware of his fellow patient's love of rice pudding, been in the habit of giving his rice pudding to Greaves whenever it appeared on the hospital menu, which it did quite frequently as the chef had a penchant for rice pudding himself. However two weeks previously, Greaves, perhaps unfamiliar with the expression 'killing the goose that lays the golden egg', had proceeded to do just that and had brought an end to the situation vis a vis Oakes's rice pudding. For it was then that Greaves had started to spread a rumour that Oakes's imaginary dog had started leaving imaginary dog turds all over the hospital and the hospital grounds, and that he himself had personally had the misfortune to imagine he had stepped in three of them. Oakes, who was meticulous to the point of fastidiousness in the use of the pooper scoop when it came to the matter of his imaginary dog's imaginary turds, had, not unnaturally, taken offence. Retribution was immediate, and came in the form of Oakes cutting off Greaves's extra rice pudding supplies.

  Since then Greaves had been looking for an opportunity to exact revenge. A short while ago, whilst he had been with the others watching Stevie Wonder perform, such an opportunity had presented itself when he happened to observe Oakes in the company of that bloody lunatic Dave Rave. So, while Oakes had been chatting to Dave, Greaves had detached himself from the Stevie Wonder gig and surreptitiously taken cover behind a nearby tree.

  Now, as Dave put his mike to his lips to re-record his interview with Oakes, Greaves struck. With a blood-curdling yell that would have done justice to Geronimo he leapt out and plunged a knife into Oakes's football, in-between Zinedine and Zidane. It burst with a loud bang. Oakes looked down at the football, which in its newly-deflated state looked not unlike Stevie Wonder's white leather hat, and burst into tears. Greaves jabbed a finger at the football.

  “The Phantom Rice Pudding Avenger has struck again!”

  And with that he was gone.

  *

  Donny's second attempt at picking up a girl in order that she should have the doubtful privilege of becoming his mistress had been more successful than his first effort. In fact it had been one hundred per cent more successful, a least as far as the picking up part of the procedure was concerned. Even after they’d gone back to her place and she had told him that on no account must he kiss her, then had held out her hand, he had still been quite happy at the way things were panning out, putting her request for no lip contact and the proffering of her hand down to the fact that she was Irish, and thus probably a Catholic and a bit shy. It was after he'd shaken her hand and she had asked him what the fuck he thought he was playing at that he began to have doubts.

  Five minutes later he was back outside, his wallet lighter to the tune of fifty pounds. In an attempt to hang on to his hard-earned money he had offered the girl a Frogley Town season ticket as an alternative payment for the services he didn't require of her, but that she had insisted he pay for, but all this had got him was another demonstration of her extensive knowledge of Anglo-Saxon epithets. He was just glad that nobody had seen them together, that was all. Someone who might have recognised the two of them. Especially one of the team!

  The very thought of such a disaster befalling him had made him go weak at the knees. He had put himself in the position of one of his players, players who knew he had a lovely wife Tracey Michelle. If the boss had to pay a prossie for sex what was that all about? Had the missus stopped his tap? Well obviously. And if he couldn't manage his wife what chance did he have of managing a football team? Hobson's chance, that's what. No, he had counted himself a very lucky man indeed to have got away with such a narrow escape.

  However it hadn't got him any nearer to acquiring a mistress, and to this end he had since made two further attempts. The first of them had ended almost as soon as it had begun when, after asking the girl sat on her own at the bar of the Bees Knees if he could buy her a drink, and receiving a positive reply, he had thought it prudent, to ensure that he didn't make the same mistake twice, to ask her if she was a prostitute. She wasn't, as the ringing in his ears brought about by her fetching him one round the head with her handbag very soon attested.

  The second attempt had been at a school crossing with a lollipop lady, but progress had been slow as she'd kept interrupting his chat up line by walking out into the middle of the road to stop the traffic. Eventually he'd got fed up and wandered off, as for some unknown reason she hadn't shown much interest in him even when she was back on the pavement waiting for the next load of kids to arrive.

  In fact, although he didn't know it, and would have been the last person to suspect it, much less admit it, Donny wasn't very good with women. But in his defence he had never had to be. He had married his first and only girlfriend, Tracey Michelle, when he was eighteen and she was a year younger.

  In those days he had been a promising young professional footballer and Tracey Michelle, considering him to be a 'good catch', had made all the running. This had the effect of colouring the opinion he held of himself as an object of female desire, because if you were to ask him why, after four attempts, he was still mistress-less, Donny would have been at a loss to come up with an answer. What he would have been able to say however, as he approached the door to George's office, was that he wouldn't be without a mistress for much longer, thanks to the excellent idea he'd had.

  Donny didn't really like to consult George if he could help it, and he especially didn't like to confide in him, but as he always maintained a strict Ron Atkinson-advocated non-fraternisation policy with his players it was a case of confide in George or confide in nobody. So he stepped into the club secretary’s office, and said, “George I'd like your opinion on something.” Then, with a shrug, “Well there's nobody else around.”

  George looked up from the papers he was working on. He was surprised to see Donny. “Oh, it’s you, Donny. I thought you'd be with Price and the players; isn't he supposed to be giving them a pep talk this afternoon?”

  Donny pooh-poohed the notion. “Big Donny Donnelly has far more important fried fish, George. Fried fish that could very well make him this season's first Coca-Cola Manager of the Month.” He took a piece of notepaper from his pocket. “What do you think of this?” He read from the note. “'Tall, good-looking, successful football manager, would like to meet young, attractive lady, interested in becoming his mistress. With companionship and lifting the big one in mind.'”

  George smiled to himself. “Yes. Very clever that, Donny.”<
br />
  Donny was pleased that the club secretary had confirmed what he already knew. “Good, isn't it.”

  George continued. “I mean if your wife happened to read it she would never suspect it was you in a million years, would she.”

  “No,” said Donny. Then, puzzled, “Why?”

  “Successful? Tall? Good-looking?”

  Donny scowled. The old fart never missed an opportunity to hold him in ridicule. “Oh yes, very funny George, very funny I’m sure, I’m splitting my sides here.”

  Then he thought for a moment about what George had said. Maybe he had a point, to be fair; because it hadn't even crossed his mind that his lovely wife Tracey Michelle might see the advert.

  George now pointed out what he saw as another pitfall. “I mean if your missus thought you were having a bit on the side she might reciprocate by having a bit on the side herself, mightn’t she.”

  George’s proposition was completely beyond Donny's comprehension. He couldn't believe anyone could think such a thing. “Tracey Michelle?” he scoffed. “What would my lovely wife Tracey Michelle want with another man when she's got Big Donny Donnelly?” He shook his head, ridiculing the very idea. “You do come up with them, George, you really do.” He had an afterthought. “To be fair though, it might be better for me at the end of the day if my lovely wife Tracey Michelle was completely unaware that I didn't have a mistress.”

  “Perhaps it would be better then if you didn’t put football manager in your advert,” suggested George. “There can’t be all that many football managers in Frogley. That would throw her off the scent.”

  “Yes. Right.” Donny thought about it for a moment, then said, “I know, I'll change it to 'professional person'. That sums up my status quite nicely.”

  So does ‘poor misguided little tosser’ thought George, but was too much of a gentleman to say it.

  *

  Meanwhile out on the pitch the players were honing their ball skills. They had been told that Price was to address them at two-o-clock but it was already ten past the appointed hour and the new owner of Frogley Town still hadn't turned up. Hanks, his mind never far away from food, had just suggested that he probably had a load of pies in the oven and Crock was about to tell him not to be such a stupid twat but was stopped from doing so by a sudden yell of disbelief from Crooks.

  “Bloody hell!”

  Whatever had caught Crooks’ attention now caused him to burst out in hysterics. Unable to speak for his laughter he gesticulated wildly in the direction of the dressing portakabin. The rest of the players turned to see the object of his amusement and immediately joined in the laughter. The cause of the merriment was Higgs, now to be seen waddling out onto the field with a nine gallon wooden beer firkin lashed between his legs.

  “Shit a brick Higgsy,” said Lock, never short of an elegant phrase with which to express himself, “What do you think wor are on man?”

  “I’m trying to make my legs bandy, what does it look like,” said Higgs. Then, in explanation: “Well the boss said Price wants a bandy right winger, didn't he?”

  The players roared with laughter. He was a case, that Higgsy, and no mistake.

  “You daft bugger, Higgsy” said Briggs.

  Higgs then commenced to dribble around with a football, but only succeeded in falling over, to more ribald laughter. A loud voice now broke into the merriment.

  “Good idea that mon with t' barrel.”

  It was Price, now striding purposefully across the pitch towards them. Higgs picked himself up off the ground as the rest of the players looked at Price expectantly.

  Price gesticulated to Higgs. “Go on then.”

  “What?” said Higgs.

  “Don't 'what' me lad,” said Price. “I said go on. And wear that barrel between thee legs whenever tha'rt training on every occasion from now on.”

  “What?” said Higgs.

  Price glowered at him. “I thought I'd just told thee not to 'what' me?”

  “It were only for a laugh, Mr Price,” explained Higgs. “The barrel I mean. It were only a joke”

  “A joke?” Price looked at the rest of the players. “Who else thinks as it's a joke as I want a bandy right winger in t' team?” The silence was deafening. Price broke it. “Well?”

  Price waited. One or two of the players started to look elsewhere.

  “I fink it's a good idea meself, Mr Price,” offered Briggs.

  Several of the other players immediately jumped onto the bandwagon.

  “So do I, Mr Price. Stanley Matthews was bandy,” said Parks.

  “Aye, and Willie Waddell,” agreed Cragg. “A pig could have run through Willie Waddell's legs and nae touched the sides.”

  Price smiled at Higgs and raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Yes, but....” Higgs began, but Price cut him off.

  “Of course I could always buy a bandy right winger.”

  Higgs could see there was no way he was going to win so quickly set about cutting his losses. “Actually I was thinking of sleeping with it between me legs tonight as well, Mr Price.”

  “Do that.” The situation resolved to his satisfaction, Price got down to business. “Now pay attention, t' lot of you. Here is t' Do's and t' Don'ts as will apply from now on. T' Do's first. There's only one. Do as I tell thee. Now t' Don'ts. One....”

  Briggs interrupted him. “I fink Barrel should wear a barrel between his legs as well, Mr Price.”

  Barrel turned angrily on his team mate. “What?”

  “Well you're called Barrel, in't you,” reasoned Briggs. “So it's only logical you should have a barrel between your legs.”

  Barrel glared at him. “What the fuck has being called Barrel got to do with it?”

  “A lot,” said Briggs. He turned to Price. “Innit it, Mr Price?”

  Barrel didn't wait for Price's opinion on the subject. “Oh no it has not! Anyway if what people were called had anything to do with what they had between their legs you'd be called Darren Smallpenis, wouldn't you!”

  This below the belt riposte elicited sharp intakes of breath from about a third of the players. The rest laughed and jeered.

  Briggs turned on Barrel. “Bastard!”

  *

  Stanley hadn't gone to Price straight away with his great idea. After all he'd never had a great idea before and he felt the need hang on to it, to possess it for a while before he gave it up to someone else; to take it out every now and then and stroke it, as though it were a new puppy or one of his treasured old Frogley Town football programmes.

  Of course it wasn't really his great idea, it was Sarah Jane's, but he now considered it to be his as he had since rewarded his wife by buying her a new frock in the Frogley Town colours. True, she had said she wouldn't be seen dead in it, and had told him in no uncertain terms where he could shove it, but he was sure she would soon be wearing it with pride once the Town had won a few games.

  In fact Stanley had once had a great idea on a previous occasion, sometime in the long ago, when he had been out marching in a procession with the Boys Brigade as a fourteen-year-old bugler, but the effect of trying to hold on to the idea until he could write it down whilst at the same time marching next to the boy with the big drum had given him a headache, and by the time the procession had ended he had forgotten it.

  But whatever it was, it certainly couldn't have been as good as the idea he was now in possession of. After all there were over three thousand workers at Price's Pies, and hardly any of them attended the Town's matches, so to get them through the turnstiles would represent an increase in the gate of three thousand, or as near to it as made no difference.

  Stanley had conjured up in his mind what this would mean in extra gate money, in the extra bounty it would bring to the club. There was three thousand at an average of ten pounds a throw for a start. Thirty thousand pounds! A veritable Aladdin's Cave of riches. And that was without the spin-offs, replica shirt sales, programme sales, meat pie sales, tea and coffee and Oxo sales and t
he Golden Goal competition. Forty thousand pounds at least he reckoned! Aladdin's Cave with knobs on!

  Of course Stanley knew as well as the next football fan that forty thousand pounds wouldn't even amount to a week's wages for many of the players in the Premiership. But this wasn't the Premiership, this was Frogley, and for teams like the Town forty thousand pounds was wealth untold. But just as important was all the extra fans who would crowd into the stadium to support the team.

  As he gave the WC pedestal another coat of red paint he took a guess as to what the attendance figure at the Town's matches would be after his great idea had been put into practice, after taking into account the extra interest there would also be now that Mr Price had bought the club. Six thousand? Seven? He sighed with contentment. When the team ran out onto the pitch in a couple of weeks time it would be just like the old days!

  He didn't know how right he was.

  *

  “....Twenty-seven,” continued Price to the players, many of who were now exhibiting distinct signs of boredom. “Don't give interviews to t' newspapers without my permission. Twenty-eight. Don't use mobile phones.”

  “While we're at the ground, you mean?” asked Links.

  “While tha'rt above ground,” said Price. “And t' first mon as I catch using one will very quickly be below ground unless I take pity on him and settle for arranging for him to have a one-to-one with t' bloke at t' Labour Exchange; so think on. Twenty-nine. Don't watch television. And t' final Don't, Don't....”

  Knox couldn't believe his ears. “Don't watch television?”

  “You heard.”

  “What if we're on, Mr Price?” asked Crooks.

  “On what programme? 'You've Been bloody Framed'? Because t’ road as tha play football it’s t’ only programme that’d get on,” said Price, then went on, “There were no television in 1935 when t' Town won t' FA Cup so as far as tha are concerned there'll be no television now. T' final Don't. Don't have sexual intercourse on t' day before t' match and on t’ day of match.”