England Away

by John King

  Harry shrugged and they went out on deck to get some fresh air and watch the ferry load. He was beginning to wish he’d gone the long way round and taken Eurostar, but then he’d be travelling alone and that wouldn’t be much fun. If you were going to be on your own you might as well stay at home in front of the telly. He didn’t fancy the tunnel and it would probably be more expensive. He didn’t fancy an IRA bomb under his carriage or another fire. Whatever way he got to Europe, though, it was worth the aggravation. Harry had been to Spain, Portugal, Belgium and France, and he’d liked them all. He enjoyed the extended drinking and the food, the clean streets and laid-back manner. There was a different attitude somehow, even if it was only what you saw as an outsider. Probably if he lived in Lisbon or somewhere similar and he was decorating houses like he did in London, then the fumes would smell the same and there’d be all the usual problems, but that was why you went away in the first place. If the language was different it meant you had a breather from all the propaganda being pumped your way through the media. It was a break from the non-stop doom and gloom. A big plate of paella and a nice jug of sangria and Harry was happy. That’s all you needed in life. Food and drink and a decent shag every so often.

  The European birds were sound as well, though the Spanish and Portuguese didn’t seem to get out much. Mind you, the Belgians were a bit scruffy and the French stuck-up, but he liked the accents all the same. That’s what made them attractive, the accents. Give a half-decent bird a European accent and he could feel his knob stirring before she’d finished the first sentence. He was turning over a new leaf on this trip and going back to square one. He was sticking with Carter the unstoppable sex machine, and picking up a few tips. Carter would be dabbling non-stop and Harry reasoned that if he followed the bloke like a shadow he could pick up the leftovers. He was the apprentice boy marching with the grand master. He’d learn from Carter and shag his way across Europe. The rest of the lads, Tom and Mark and that, they were more into the aggro side of things, but while Harry didn’t mind that part of the national identity, he needed some sex. His bollocks were aching, down round his knees. If he stuck close to Carter he’d be alright. Holland and Germany wouldn’t know what hit them and the girls had better be ready for the road show. He was looking forward to Europe, but London would always be his home.

  Thinking of London, Harry felt the first tingle of homesickness. He couldn’t believe it. They hadn’t even set sail. Right now he’d be coming in from work, running the bath, putting the kettle on, sticking his kebab and chips in the oven, getting in the water and washing the paint and wallpaper paste off, out and dry, putting clean clothes on and stacking his work gear in the corner of his bedroom. Then with his mouth watering he’d be back in the kitchen buttering the bread and pouring boiling water into his Chelsea mug, covering the tea bag, adding milk and sugar and taking everything into the living room with the kebab and chips on a plate, using a knife to push the chilli sauce back over the meat and salad, sitting there all ready to go with his mouth watering and his arms feeling good from the roller, fucking starving after a long day grafting for West London Decoration, the kebab meat steaming with the chilli sauce and peppers, the chips piping hot, salt and vinegar on the tray ready to go, a beautiful mix of smells, sitting there ready to go and – FUCKING HELL – the remote was on the telly. So Harry would put everything aside and go for the remote control, hitting the On button and running through the channels till he found the news for some easy entertainment. He’d sit back at last and enjoy the full experience, getting stuck into the food with TV images of Protestants and Catholics in Belfast, Spanish fishermen nicking the English catch, and finally, just before the sport, news of a ferry sinking off the Philippines. Harry was digging into the kebab, sipping his tea, waiting for the football slot and a couple of minutes of gossip before the weather. The new weatherman was a weatherwoman with a nice pair of tits ruined by a BBC accent that promised a violent storm at sea. Ferries were sailing at their own risk. He almost choked on the kebab and swore. He should’ve guessed.

  I catch up with Mark and he wants to know what Customs were on about. I tell him it’s nothing personal. He wants to know if they’ve got me on record as part of some Dutch porno ring, dealing in kids and freaks. Rumanian orphans and drugged English teenyboppers. Limbless grannies and two-headed pygmies. I hate all that stuff and tell him he’s a sick cunt. Tell him to fuck off. Child-molesters are the lowest brand of scum and I know Mark agrees, because when he was inside he gave this nonce a serious hiding. Wouldn’t have cared if he’d killed the bloke. Long as he didn’t get done for the murder. The telly says all the nonces are working overtime on their computers, hiding in Amsterdam wanking over the Internet. Dregs of Europe pulled to the magnet of a liberal society. Maybe the England boys will wreck the place as a taster and show the Dutch that it’s worth maintaining standards. That it pays to fight back now and again. Stand up for what you believe in. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. There’s no need to stand around trying to analyse scum like that.

  Harris is already in Amsterdam and the word going round is that Berlin is going to be major. It’s all there at the right time because you’re not going to find many blokes on this trip who agree with the way England’s being ripped apart by Europe. None of us wants to be ordered about by Berlin. That’s what the last war was about. It’s all big business and laws coming in through the back door. Not that I believe in our legal system being the best in the world, because that’s bollocks. Anyone who’s dealt with the English legal system knows it’s run by the rich, for the rich. The only ones who believe that shit about being innocent till proven guilty are the people who never go outside their front door. Upbringing decides your fate. Commit the same crime and your accent says whether you get ten years or an apology. It’s fucking mental thinking, though, that some cunt in another country can tell us what to do. It’s bad enough having some jumped-up wanker telling you what to do in your own language, but who wants the lecture in German and French as well?

  The politicians are all traitors. Keeping us in the dark, doing what they want. Just like they’ve always done. Berlin is pulling a lot of things in at the same time and when we get over to Europe nobody’s telling us lot anything. We don’t need an excuse for a riot. Don’t need an excuse to go on a two-day bender in Amsterdam. We’ll see if the Dutch can get a mob together. Don’t know much about them to be honest, but Ajax have the F-Side and there’s some Chelsea boys who’ve added Feyenoord to Glasgow Rangers as an extra interest. Widening their scope with things so tight in England these days.

  Mind you, the idea of Amsterdam is more about sitting back and watching the world pass. It’s not so much that the dope’s legal, I mean that’s common sense, but there’s this atmosphere about the place that can calm you right down if you’re not careful. Suppose we shouldn’t stay around too long or we’ll lose the edge. But that goes to show you what’s wrong at home. Imagine us getting nicked for a bit of blow on a Sunday afternoon down the Great West Road when we’re minding our own business, not hurting anyone. Thing is, the cunts in charge have got no bollocks. Those Crown Court duffers you can understand, because they live in another world – another fucking planet – with their livers burnt out on gin and tonic and their brains rotting from heavy-duty clap. Diseases they picked up in Asia and Africa during the days of the Empire. Filling all the hospital beds and demanding hanging for some fifteen-year-old kid flogging Es down the local youth club. Hang the boy and cut him down, then hang him again while the judge spurts off. All because the boy’s selling some happiness that doesn’t come in a bottle. Heavy drinking Empire administrators propped up in their hospital beds, packed in with heavy-smoking cancer victims. I mean, I don’t care either way if they want to kill themselves, but it makes you think. It’s all double standards. Let us drink twenty-four hours a day, take whatever other drugs we want, turn off the surveillance cameras, and England’s the perfect place to raise kids. It’s the best country in the world.<
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  – What do you reckon on them over there, Mark asks, when we’ve caught up with the others. Look like West Ham to me.

  I clock the blokes queueing for food. They look like West Ham well enough. Can spot them a mile off. The badge the tall one’s wearing gives the game away. I know Mark holds a grudge when it comes to West Ham, his old man getting a slap outside Upton Park when he was a kid. They were fucking wankers doing that to a bloke taking his boy across London to watch a game of football.

  – I’ve seen them at England games before. Outside The Globe before Holland during Euro 96.

  Not that we spent much time down Baker Street. The place gets too packed and then everyone goes for the tube at the same time. The trains can’t handle the crush and there’s always some wanker who pulls the emergency lever, starts fucking about with the doors or mouthing off at the old bill. You’re standing there waiting to move and the old bill aren’t going to take any verbal off some pisshead when they’ve got the numbers and are on overtime. This is their big day out, so reinforcements are called in and they make everyone suffer for The Bad Old Days when the hooligans made their lives hell. No, we prefer drinking round St John’s Wood and Kilburn. If we’re playing someone fruity then we might even go down the ground and use one of the pubs there if the old bill are all over the trains. But the foreigners never bring a firm over. Where were the Dutch and Germans during Euro 96?

  It’s funny, though, because in the build-up the papers, radio and television were crying over the security situation, creaming themselves like the Customs and judges. Bunch of wankers the media. Mindless cunts saying how they couldn’t understand the mentality of the men who were going to defend their country. They couldn’t understand it, but fucking loved the idea all the same. Right-wing, left-wing and no-wing, every social commentator was earning a crust writing stupid articles and presenting self-righteous reports. Preaching double standards. Bleating through the airwaves while we were laughing at them, because everyone knew the Europeans wouldn’t show. Just send their mums and dads and happy families over. Keep their own heads down. Makes you laugh sitting there reading the articles about the media’s major love, Nazis. They can’t leave it alone. The ignorance is unbelievable. And then you’ve got the old bill raring to go, because we don’t want any nasty business, do we son? Everyone has to have an enemy.

  – I fucking hate West Ham, Facelift says, nice and loud.

  I look at the Dagenham cockneys again, but they don’t react. Didn’t hear or don’t want to know. Too busy drinking in Barking and making plans in Gant’s Hill, telling everyone how wonderful East London is now they’re living in Essex. Chelsea always have a bit more class, tying up Kent, Surrey, Berks. Knowing the Happy Hammers, Facelift was out of range, because there’s enough of them for a row. Fair enough. But Facelift has to realise the rules are different. You can’t go away with England if you’re kicking seven shades of shit out of each other the whole way. And another thing, we’re on a ferry and you’ve got to behave when you’re on a boat. If it kicks off on the ferry we’ll be turning round and going straight back to Harwich. It’s simple really. Doesn’t take a lot of brains to work that one out. You’re a sitting duck waiting for the Luftwaffe to blow you out of the water. Thing is, you get all these blokes who’re ready to go, been looking forward to the trip for months, and they get on the boat and they can’t fucking wait. Soon as they get on the train the cans come out and they’re on the piss. We haven’t even got out of the port yet and Facelift is acting the cunt. Could be a liability and I’ve never been sure about the bloke. You have to watch someone who glasses his own brother-in-law over a game of fucking snooker.

  I can just see Customs and the old bill lining the pier ready to welcome us home after the ferry gets wrecked. The media circus tipped off for some special-edition moral outrage, running on about the English Disease and our rich history. Harping back to The Good Old Days when hooligans ruled the waves and sunk their ferries before they’d thought about getting off. That’s the way those wankers see things anyway. You have to grin and carry on regardless. Work your way round things these days instead of going straight through the middle. I don’t want to eat, so me and Mark piss off to the bar. Leave Facelift to make his own decisions.

  – I’ll have a word with Facelift, Mark says on the way. He’s got to wait till we’re in Holland before he starts anything.

  I nod and we’re thinking the same way. Great minds. We pass through the ranks of the brain dead. Guidebook tourists and confused travellers walking round in small circles. Hands on the shoulders of the zapped-out zombie in front. Worrying about their luggage. Bothered by the exchange rate and rip-off commission. They can’t wait for the single currency to arrive so they can save a few pence changing their pounds to guilders, and then watch the price rocket on everything else. We have to skirt past these people and I wonder why they don’t go and jump over the side. Hundreds of lemmings following the basket case in front all the way to the till. Follow the leader over the rails and into the deep blue sea.

  – It’s shut, Mark says. The fucking bar’s shut.

  The grille’s pulled down and there’s no sign of a barman. There’s a few old boys standing around with light in their eyes and a hurt look on their faces. They need a drink after the coach down from Macclesfield.

  – Let’s go outside and have a wander.

  – Like kids on a school outing, crossing the Channel and seeing the foreign port and supermarket, then coming straight back home again. Back in time for tea.

  – I don’t remember that.

  – We never went on those trips, but that’s what the kids get now. They get all the privileges.

  We work our way through another herd of passengers moving at one mile an hour, out of their heads on Prozac, dumping our bags in the luggage store as we go. Squeezing through spotty teenagers and arguing couples. A baby starts crying. We push through the doors and get a face full of fresh sea breeze mixed in with what smells like oil. We pass along the side of the ferry and up some steps to a deck where we can see the port better. Pulling on the rails, feeling old rain on flaked paint. The Unity boys are there already and we go over. We drink in the same pub, and every time I’m in there these blokes are sitting by the window with their mates, on the piss. I know them from football so it’s a double barrel. Fat Harry and Terry.

  – I don’t think those Brummies are going to get on, Harry says.

  – Serves them right, Mark laughs, looking over to where a police van stands with its light rolling. You can’t expect to arrive pissed like that and not attract some attention. Definitely not these days. It’s up to them how they handle it, whether they behave and keep their mouths shut or start pissing about.

  Harry laughs and nods. I like the bloke. He’s alright. A big bastard with a heart. Terry too. Less heart, but sharper. They’re a few years older and wiser. Terry’s a bit of a Romeo as well and always on the pull. Listen to Harry and the others, and they reckon it’s all dog meat, but I’ve seen him with some nice enough fanny through the years. Harry can drink any of us under the table and he’s got the gut to prove it. He hasn’t really been the same since his best mate got murdered. Another Chelsea boy from the pub. Head blown off by his old foreman. We went down to Balham and helped sort the cunt out several months before the killing. You never know where those things are going to end I suppose.

  – It’s manners, says Harry. It’s the new way. Never mind, though, because it means there’s more room for the rest of us. There’ll be more Dutch birds going spare.

  We see the Brummies being dragged along by the old bill. Another van arrives with its siren off so’s not to upset the happy tourists. But it’s hurrying all the same. Can just see the driver all pumped up at the thought of battering some football hooligans. The Brummies have probably got mouthy with the coppers and that’s all the excuse the old bill need. It’s honest in a way, telling the police to fuck off, but it only gets you in trouble. Where’s the sense in that? There a
gain, the old bill don’t need an excuse. Strongbow is struggling like only a drunk struggles and he’s got four coppers on him. They pull him into the van and crack his head on the door, the Bully boy bouncing back and the old bill trying again. A little harder this time. Head thumping metal panels and the body spilling into the van. All accidental of course, the fucking wankers.

  – Fucking scum, says Terry. There’s no need for that.

  The back door slams shut and a tall copper thumps the side of the van. He’s tall and thin and loves the power. The brown dirt cowboy at the controls puts his foot down and speeds off. It’s pathetic. Thinks he’s in The Bill or something. Things like that make you hate the cunts.

  – Don’t worry, we’ll make up for all that when we get to Holland, says Mark.

  Everyone nods. We all want the holiday and the chance to take out some frustration on the Europeans. We want the trip abroad. A nice break from the daily grind. Change as good as a rest.

  Mark and Tom hung around for a while watching Harwich grind along, hung about till they got bored and said they were going inside to wait for the bar to open. Carter fancied a drink and went with them. There was nothing new to see on deck and he’d rather be watching the crumpet pass than a load of sweaty sailors. Harry was settled into his seat and enjoying the view. The others didn’t understand, didn’t appreciate the finer points. He wanted to stay where he was until they set sail. He wanted the full holiday experience and maximum value for money. There was some drizzle falling and the wind was picking up, but Harry liked the idea of sitting on deck till they got out to sea. It was good to be alone sometimes. He watched the lads walk away, heads turning for a girl in a short skirt and plastic mac. She was well dirty and Harry wondered if he was being clever letting the sex machine out of his sight.