Football Crazy

by Terry Ravenscroft

  “Next,” called Price.

  “No,” said Parks.

  Price looked at him sharply. “What did tha say?”

  Parks stood his ground. His jaw jutted out in defiance as he said, “I want a transfer.”

  Price looked him up and down. “Does tha now?”

  “So I won't have to have a haircut now,” said Parks, putting the matter to bed.

  Briggs, who had disliked the idea of having the 1935 haircut almost as much as Parks, now saw his team mate about to slip through the net. He took immediate action. “Nobody would buy him, Mr Price.”

  “Oh yes they would, Briggsy!” said Parks. “Torquay were after me last year.”

  Unlike Briggs, Moggs, having now had the 1935 haircut, quite liked it. So it was for sheer devilment he joined in the campaign to get Parks shorn. “That weren’t Torquay United, if that’s what you were thinking Mr Price,” he pointed out. “It were Torquay Corporation; they offered him a job as a deckchair attendant.”

  Parks whipped round angrily on the goalkeeper. “Oh no they didn't, Moggsy, so shut the fuck up!” He turned to Price. “So like I said, I want a transfer.”

  But Price wasn't interested. “All my footballer's will have t' haircut as I say as they will.”

  “But I won't be one of your players, will I,” Parks pointed out, “If I'm transferred.”

  “So when tha are transferred tha can grow it again,” said Price, fast running out of patience, a commodity of which he had very little to begin with. He pointed to the barber's chair. “In t' meantime get in yon chair, and quick about it, tha'rt keeping t' barber waiting.”

  “No,” said Parks, folding his arms in defiance.

  If Parks had left it at that there is a slight possibility he might have held on to his precious locks for a little longer, maybe even for good if he was very lucky. But he didn't. He followed it up with a defiant: “And you can't make me.” If he were to have added any other five words in the English language to his initial word of refusal Parks might still even then have retained his flowing tresses. 'I prefer not to, thanks' might have done the trick. Maybe even the bolder 'It stays as it is'. Even 'Joe Price is a dickhead' would have stood more chance of success than 'And you can't make me'. Red flags to a bull were not in it. For an employee of Price's to tell him he couldn't do something could be likened only to telling Adolf Hitler, when he was in his pomp, that he couldn't hold another rally.

  Price wasted no further time on this insubordinate minion. He turned to the rest of the players and commanded, “Cragg, Crooks, sit Parks in yon chair and owld him down.”

  Just as keen to see the conceited Parks get his comeuppance along with his hair cut, Cragg and Crooks eagerly made for Parks. Parks, realising that further argument was futile, immediately turned and made a run for it. Price turned to the rest of the players, pointed dramatically at the departing Parks and shouted, “Follow that footballer!”

  The players didn't need any second bidding. They had been made to have their hair cut so Parksy must be made to suffer a similar fate. So they gave chase, and with relish.

  *

  An attractive brunette aged about thirty entered the lounge bar of the Frogley Arms. Donny, his gaze never far away from the front door, noticed her the moment she stepped in. Could this be Tracey Michelle? No photographs had been exchanged between Donny and his budding mistress so he couldn't be sure, but he hoped so, very much so, because she was an absolute cracker. However he now noticed that she wasn't carrying anything in her hand but a handbag, so maybe it wasn't her after all.

  In his reply to Tracey Michelle's box number he had thought to suggest that each of them wore a red rose in order they might recognise each other, but had then discarded the idea, considering that if he were to wear a red rose it would make him look poncified. He had then tried to think of something a little more masculine than a flower that might be employed as a means of identification. He had soon hit upon the right thing. True, a banana wasn't absolutely ideal, inasmuch as he might forget himself and eat his banana before he and Tracey Michelle had the opportunity to meet; then again a potential mistress might not like the idea of walking into the lounge bar of a hotel carrying a banana, and fail to equip herself thus; but at any rate it was better than his having to wear a red rose, and at least he himself would be holding a banana, if he hadn’t eaten it, which he hadn’t at the moment.

  He looked at his watch again. Ten past one. Classy or not it was about time Tracey Michelle was putting in an appearance.

  He finished his brandy and coke and was about summon the waiter for a refill when his wife walked in. Fortunately Donny saw her from the corner of his eye the moment she stepped through the door. As she started to look round the bar a dozen thoughts flashed through his mind, none of them pleasant. 'Shit, the wife!' was the first of them. Quickly followed by 'What the fuck is she doing here?' Next up was 'What the hell am I going to say if she sees me?' After several more similar such thoughts, all to do with his hide and what his wife would do to it if she suspected him of cheating on her, his final thought was 'What if my lovely wife Tracey Michelle sees me, then my mistress Tracey Michelle walks in holding a banana, then my lovely wife Tracey Michelle sees her and then notices that I too am holding a banana, and puts two and two together?'

  If Donny had calmed down and perhaps taken a second or two to think logically he might have realised that all he had to do to put himself well on the way to being in the clear was to simply throw the offending banana under the table, thus removing all evidence of the assignation. But people in a blind panic rarely take the time to think logically, so Donny sprang to his feet and with a loud crash of glass and splintering timber threw himself out of the window. Without even noticing that his lovely wife Tracey Michelle was carrying a banana.

  *

  During Superintendent Screwer's first three weeks in his new position as chief of the Frogley police force Sergeant Hawks had already been given several reasons to doubt the sanity of his new boss.

  To begin with there were the methods that Screwer intended to put into force in dealing with the non-existent football hooligan problem. Then there was his eccentric treatment of the unfortunate Dave Rave. However Hawks was a charitable sort of person, always one to see the good in someone at the expense of the bad, and unless he was absolutely convinced about the veracity of something he would always allow the benefit of the doubt. Was someone mad if it was their intention to strip naked the first football hooligan that he apprehended, tattoo the words 'football hooligan' on his forehead, then sit him on top of the police headquarters flagpole? Over the top, certainly. Bizarre even. But mad, given the atrocities carried out by some football hooligans? Viewed in that light, maybe not. And hadn't far worse things been done to human beings by allegedly sane people; Stalin, Milosovic, Pinochet, Amin, et al?

  By the same token could someone be accused of being more than a few tiles short of a roof if they had kept a presenter from local radio under lock and key for four days with only a horse for company? And for the last two days of his incarceration, in order to disorientate him, had had him woken up every half-an-hour to the ninety decibel sound of, alternately, the Ying Tong Song and the 1812 Overture? Extreme, certainly. But mad? Again, far worse acts have been committed on human beings by those who would have us believe they still had a hold on their sanity. Step forward Robert Mugabe.

  Even when Screwer had informed his sergeant that he intended to mount and ride a horse of some eighteen hands in height and three quarters of a ton in weight, when his only previous experience in the equestrian arts had been on a donkey at Scarborough, Hawks had still not been completely convinced that his superior was mad. It was later, when Screwer was sat astride the horse, and, after having failed to get it moving with shouts of 'Gee up' had told Hawks to kick it in the bollocks, that Hawks realised that not only was Screwer mad, but stark staringly so.

  “Pardon sir?” said the astonished Hawks, on receiving his superior’s command.
<
br />   “You heard,” barked Screwer, impatient to get under way. “Kick it in the bollocks.”

  Hawks visualised what sort of action a kick to the horse's testicles might goad the animal into doing, and what might happen to someone who happened to be sat on it at the time, and what he saw was not a pleasant sight. “With respect....” he began, but again thought better of it. “Yes sir,” he said.

  *

  Parks couldn't shake off the chasing mob. Now about fifty yards behind, they were getting no nearer to him, but nor was he getting any farther away.

  Of the sixteen players who had joined in the chase, thirteen remained; Higgs, somewhat hampered by the barrel between his legs, had fallen so far behind as to be discounted; and Hooks and Rock, having been recognised by some of the inmates as they ran past the mental hospital, had stopped to sign autographs and had then allowed themselves to get caught up with them in football talk.

  What Parks needed was a harbour, a refuge, somewhere safe to hide from his tormentors, because if they caught up with him his hair was a goner, nothing was more certain.

  He turned into the High Street, Frogley's main thoroughfare, quite busy with shoppers for a Tuesday. But unfortunately not so busy that he might lose himself amongst them. Perhaps he could duck into a shop and wait until the chasing group had passed by? He looked for a likely one as he raced along; Woolworths, Frogley Do-It-Yourself, Oddbins, the Rubs R Us massage parlour. He chanced a quick look over his shoulder. Christ, they were getting nearer. Certainly near enough to see him nipping into one of the shops, so that idea was a non-starter!

  He was getting quite desperate when up ahead he saw help in the shape of Frogley St George’s Church. Sanctuary! He was right wasn’t he? Churches had to give you sanctuary if you asked for it? Or was that just in films, like The Hunchback of Notre Dame, when they gave that bloke with the hump, what was his name, Quasimodo, sanctuary? No, he was sure he'd read somewhere about sanctuary being asked for and granted on other occasions too. Great, he’d ask for it!

  His exhilaration lasted for about two seconds before he thought of a snag. What if you were an atheist? Would they give sanctuary to a non-believer like him? His fears were valid, although probably unfounded, as with church attendances nowadays similar in number to the sort of turnout to be found at a convention of elephants held in a matchbox the average vicar is only too thankful to get anybody at all through the doors of his church, believer or not; a necrophiliac requesting a little quality time alone in the crypt must stand some sort of a chance nowadays.

  The church was getting ever nearer. Decision time. Should he go in or shouldn't he? He decided he'd risk it; the vicar wouldn't know he was an atheist and even if he did he could tell him he was a lapsed atheist who had now seen the light, three cheers for Cliff Richard, so where were the wine and biscuits or whatever it was they dished out to bible bashers?

  He made to turn into the church gateway. Then he froze. What if the door was locked? Pound to a pinch of shit it would be, you can't leave your door open anywhere nowadays, not even if you're a church, especially if you're a church. What, with the burglars of today? I should cocoa, your font would be full of goldfish and doing duty as an ornamental water feature in somebody's back garden before you could say Our Father which art in heaven.

  He risked a glance over his shoulder again. The break in his stride when he had almost made the mistake of trying to get sanctuary had given the chasing pack another ten yards on him. They were now no more than thirty yards behind. One of them called out. It was that loudmouthed bastard Briggs.

  “Why don't you give up now Parksy? You might as bleedin' well, because we're going to catch you.”

  “Then snip snip snip” added Cragg, miming the hairdresser's art.

  “Bollocks to the lot of you,” Parks shouted over his shoulder.

  He ran on. But he knew it was futile. He was a fast as any of them, faster than most, but over short distances only. His stamina was suspect, which was one of the reasons why he hadn't made it to the top; those players following who weren't as quick but had a better engine and would catch up with him sooner or later.

  It would have been sooner if he hadn't at that very moment been going past the Frogley Arms. For amazingly, just after he had passed the entrance to the hotel, Donny landed immediately behind him in a shower of broken glass and window frame, a painful yell announcing his arrival as he hit the concrete of the pavement. Following closely behind, the first two players in the chasing group, Jacks and Dicks, couldn't avoid the spread-eagled body of their manager and tripped and fell over him, bringing down four other players in the process and causing the rest of the group to pull up sharply.

  Jacks was the first to recognise Donny. “Christ Almighty Boss, what you doing there?”

  “Are yow all roight, Boss,” enquired Stock, concerned, as he and Links helped the dazed and shaken Donny to his feet.

  Their manager was anything but all right. His left knee and elbow had taken the brunt of the fall, and although neither felt broken they were both throbbing like jack hammers. Even so, the pain had to be put to the back of his mind as an explanation of his current circumstances would have to be found, and early doors - for on no account must his players ever be given reason not to look up to him (The Psychology of Football with a foreword by Ron Atkinson, Chapter Three).

  “That's two,” announced Donny. “Only three more pub windows to crash through now and I’ll have made one thousand pounds for charity.”

  In the meantime Parks, taking advantage of this stroke of good luck, was making himself scarce.

  Then two things happened simultaneously. Several people, Donny's lovely wife Tracey Michelle amongst them, emerged from the Frogley Arms to see what was the cause of all the noise. And Cragg, noticing Parks disappearing into the distance, quickly raised the alarm.

  “Parksy!” he shouted, then pointed down the road. “See, the bastit's getting awa!”

  The players immediately gave chase. Donny, up to then shielded from his lovely wife Tracey Michelle by the players, and quickly taking in the fact that he wouldn't be shielded by them for very much longer, had no option other than to join them in the chase, throbbing knee and elbow or no.

  The time spent by the players falling over Donny, picking up Donny, and picking themselves up, had been put to good effect by Parks, who was by now a good seventy yards ahead of the chasing mob. Hiding in a shop while they passed by was now an option that had a distinct possibility of success. If he could just get round the next corner and into a shop before the chasing group rounded the corner he would be home and dry. And the next corner was just ahead. He rounded it.

  The first shop on the street was Antonio's, Gents Hairdresser (formerly of Naples and Cleckheaton). Brilliant! A gents hairdressers was the last place they would think of looking for him. He made for the door. As he did a notice in the glass panel which at the moment said 'Open' was reversed to say 'Closed for lunch', then the door opened and Antonio stepped out.

  “Let me in,” Parks panted.

  Antonio looked him up and down suspiciously. “You are a customer of Antonio?”

  Parks thought quickly. He could lie, but the tone of Antonio's voice had suggested the hairdresser's question had not been an enquiry, more an expression of doubt as to Parks’ previous patronage of his establishment.

  “A thousand French letters please,” said Parks, desperation coming to his assistance. “Large, the most expensive you stock,” he added, in the hope this might persuade the hairdresser to accommodate what would already be a very profitable order, and also as a matter of self esteem.

  “I donna sell those things,” said Antonio.

  He turned to lock the door. Parks looked at him in open-mouthed amazement. A hairdresser who didn't sell rubber johnnies? “What?” he said, once he had managed to close his mouth.

  “Is against my religion,” smiled Antonio, pocketing his key.

  Parks cursed his luck. All the gents hairdressers in Frogley an
d he had to pick a bleeding Catholic.

  He ran to the next shop. Except that it wasn't a shop. It was the police station. Even better! Because even if the players did see him go in surely the police wouldn't let them scrag him and march him off to have his hair cut, because that would be assault. He looked over his shoulder. The chasing group rounded the corner.

  The first entrance to the police station available to Parks was not in fact to the police station itself but the gate to the police station yard. He quickly opened it and slipped inside. Seconds later the chasing group followed him in.

  *

  Superintendent Screwer will never know how lucky he was. If Sergeant Hawks, now with his leg drawn back to kick Scourge of the Terraces in the testicles, had proceeded to carry out that act, it would almost certainly have been the scourge, not of the terraces, but of Superintendent Screwer himself. However, at the very moment Hawks was about to deliver the coup de grace to the horse's stallion tackle, the police yard was suddenly invaded by what at first glance appeared to be Davy Crockett pursued by a Red Indian war party, but was of course Parks and most of the Frogley Town football squad and their manager. So instead of going absolutely berserk and possibly running into the gable end of the police station or the perimeter wall of the police station yard, probably crushing Screwer in the process, the horse took fright at the sudden sight of the advancing horde and merely reared up and threw Screwer out of the saddle, causing him to land on his head and consigning him to bed for three days with a severe headache and concussion.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Football is probably the only sport in which chants of ‘You fat bastard’ can be directed at one of the players by members of the crowd who are even fatter bastards.

  Disingenuous was Joe Price's middle name, and he was far too wily a bird to employ Stanley Sutton's idea in the form in which Stanley had presented it to him. The pie manufacturer knew how far he could take his employees without risking open revolt, and knocking two hundred and fifty pounds out of their wages and giving them a Frogley Town season ticket in return for it was quite a few steps beyond the pale. Conveniently however, the sum of two hundred and fifty pounds was more or less the same amount as the three per cent wage increase the pie factory workers usually received each year. So, taking advantage of this happy coincidence, Price simply explained to his workforce that due to a levelling-off in the market conditions of the pie trade the company would unfortunately be unable to grant its staff the expected pay rise this year; while at the same time informing them that as he was now the owner of Frogley Town Football Club he was consequentially in a position to soften the blow by offering each and every one of them a free season ticket to the Town's games for the coming season. This he did in the form of a notice on the main factory notice board, a bulletin that was now being read by several of the firm's employees.