by John King
Carter was probably off to pick up some sort and give her a portion in the luggage room, while the other two would get hold of one of the satellite town pearly kings in the canteen and set him on fire. They’d chuck the burning Iron over the side for the port authorities to fish out, killing time till the bar opened and they could have a decent drink, Carter in the top rack behind the bags of tea and I LONDON T-shirts servicing some Danish au pair who’d come to England and fallen in love with the bulldog breed. Fucked off with Copenhagen she’d gone to London looking for adventure. She was searching for the bulldog spirit, with Carter breeding in the top rack doing her doggy style, keeping their voices down so they didn’t upset the other passengers. Imagine that. Mr and Mrs Rotterdam pulling a bag of dildos down and seeing a wide-eyed English hooligan shafting a Danish beauty queen. They probably wouldn’t be all that bothered and take it in their stride, select a Dark Destroyer from the bag and disappear into the Ladies. The Dutch were a funny lot. Not like your Middle England couple who’d be narked they were missing out on the fun and call someone in a uniform to break things up. Pull those two apart steward and give them a good caning.
Harry turned and looked over the cars and lorries waiting to load, drivers held back by the barriers getting impatient, juggernauts narked they were losing precious time, all of them wanting to get on a free stretch of road and accelerate into the sunset. Funny how they called it Harwich International, like it was going to compete with Heathrow. He scanned dead grey buildings and oversized ships, passing through stacked containers and packed coaches. The containers were packed with rockets, and the coaches held rows of holiday-makers dreaming of Stockholm and Venice and Prague. Harry was glad of the break, but wouldn’t really start enjoying himself till touch down in Holland. This was the worst part of the journey, crossing the English Channel, because Harry had a problem with ferries. He always got sick when he went to sea.
Joking apart, he was glad he wasn’t in the Grimsby fleet or the Royal Navy. He wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes. Those blokes in the old days who popped out for a pint and got lumbered with twenty years on the high seas definitely lived at the wrong time. The poor bastards put their coats on and went down the pub to meet their mates, and then when they’re wandering home feeling good about life, glad to see the missus and check the kids, maybe get their leg over, then the fucking press-gang steams in and gives them a kicking, and next thing they’re waking up on the way to Jamaica. That kind of thing was bang out of order and it made you think about how the men themselves felt. Wife and kids left to get on with things while Dad was forced into a life of rum, sodomy and the lash, but because it was so long ago it became some sort of joke. Nobody cared about the feelings of those men. You could put up gravestones and carve names and dates to last five hundred years, write books about the admirals even, but Joe Public was history as well. The difference was the unmarked grave. Another skeleton at the bottom of the ocean.
Harry had been a dreamer most of his life, rolling along and trying to work out the future, and it had taken the death of his mate Balti to bring home a few truths. It made him stop and look at the world. There was no place for dreams and soppy ideas. The bloke had been dead less than two years and already people were forgetting him. Not really forgetting him, it was more like he now belonged to some other story. The memory wasn’t alive. That’s what it was. The memory was stacked away with all the others. It was like it didn’t make any difference whether Balti had ever lived. He was now known as that geezer from the pub who liked his drink, football and curries, and who’d got his head blown off by some mad old Paddy from South London. If that was all there was to show for all those years of life, then it was seriously fucking sad. It wasn’t the drink, football and curries, because that was fair enough, but those were the things he did, not what he thought. Everyone said he was a good bloke, and that was important, but the memory had to stay alive. They’d forget he was a decent bloke and go back to the drink, football, curries line. That’s what everyone did in the end.
Harry could hear the crew shouting to each other. The ferry was getting ready to leave and a lot of people were going to be left behind. They were impatient and angry because the system was failing them. The boat was full and the electronic board was passing on the message. Digital displays relayed the information in thin streaks of light. It was too bad. He watched the passengers around him, most of them leaning over the railings. They spoke different languages and this brought back his first thrill of going over the Channel. The boat was moving slowly and he realised the sheer size of the hull, looking back over the railyard and storage zones. Harwich did its job and nothing more. It was a gateway and didn’t have time to sit still. The worker ants came and did their jobs, some of them getting to go to sea on the boats, while Customs looked out for drug smugglers and vans full of hardcore porn, checking the containers coming in from all over Europe and parts of the Middle East, looking for that major heroin haul, the illegal guns and explosives, unwanted immigrants and asylum seekers.
There was no beauty in the place and Harry looked further along the coast, past half-hidden pubs and hotels, noticing the change of scene, the boat slow to move then gathering speed, the English coastline broadening fast as the people and buildings on the shore got smaller, shrinking as the view widened, the incredible shrinking nation, cities spilling into green fields, the ferry pushing out to sea until the first proper waves came through, deeper troughs that told you it was real, that the Channel was deep and dangerous, Harry hearing somewhere that the seas around Britain had claimed more than a million lives since records began. He tried to get his head round the figure. He wanted to make the most of this trip and had forgotten about being sick. He tried thinking of a million skeletons under the water without the headstone Balti’s mum had put on her son’s grave. The island race buried at sea.
Harry was looking forward and leaving Balti in the past, dead and at peace. He was crossing the Channel and when he came back it was going to be a fresh start. He wanted to get stuck into the birds in Amsterdam and hoped he could pull something nice, but if not he was straight down the red light and splashing out. With Carter at his side he was feeling lucky. He would watch and learn and try to repeat the bullshit the sex machine used. Everyone who ever went to Holland always came back with stories of the blow they’d smoked and the whores they’d fucked. It sounded good to Harry, because he hadn’t got his leg over since Balti was killed. He’d been drinking more than usual and things were building up. He’d been getting so pissed when they went out that he couldn’t speak halfway through the night, let alone chat up a woman. When he got to Amsterdam he’d get himself a right little cracker and fuck the arse off her. If it was a prossie he’d give her the best shag she’d get that night.
He started feeling better already. Mind you, he didn’t really want to pay for the business. He’d prefer a nice Dutch bird who worked in a shop selling clothes rather than sex. Someone who wanted him for his personality – well, not his personality, but maybe a drink and a laugh. It didn’t matter. He had to be realistic because the future was never going to be that rosy and he’d have to make sure he didn’t get too pissed. He’d take a rubber along and remember to protect himself in the red light district. He didn’t want to die young. He wanted to see what happened next. Get everything in order and see where things were leading.
Balti hadn’t left a will, though in truth there wasn’t much to leave. There were his clothes, and those went to the jumble, because no way was Harry walking about in a dead man’s jeans and trainers. There were some odds and ends, a few records and CDs, a broken record player, a small pile of Chelsea programmes from when Balti was a kid. There wasn’t a lot really, but then Balti hadn’t had much, and towards the end he’d been skint and signing on. Just playing the lottery trying to get a lucky break, and imagine that . . . if he’d won and left Harry a fortune. He’d pocket the millions and buy himself the best whorehouse in Holland. He’d be Harry the Pimp and get himself a
zoot suit and smoke Havana cigars, do his old mate proud. He was feeling positive. He used to dream at nights but now he was sleeping straight through. Death had blown everything away. What was the point of mights and maybes when you could die in the street in a pool of blood? He was going to live his life right and stick with Carter. Terry didn’t bother thinking too much. He got on with the job and concentrated his attention on getting his end away.
There’s different kinds of holidays. Different away days. Different ways to go. Following England is all about pride and history. Our place in the pecking order. For centuries we’ve been kicking shit out of the Europeans. They start something and we finish it. We’re standing on the White Cliffs of Dover singing COME AND HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK YOU’RE HARD ENOUGH. Waiting for the Germans to get the bottle together and cross the Channel. Fifty English will run two hundred or more Europeans no problem. A thousand if you’re talking Italians or Spanish. I’m proud to be English and proud to say so. This Germany game is a chance to escape the prison football at home and flex some muscle, because however hard the foreigners try to control us when we get on their soil they don’t have a chance.
It’s all in the head. In the genes. We’ve got this stubborn streak. We hang on and don’t let go. They can’t beat us. We know it and they know it as well, deep down inside. Where it hurts. We’re winners. They can send in their riot squads and fire their tear gas and, if it’s Luxembourg, they can even call out the army, but we just don’t care. We’re English, and if there’s any slack then our drunks will walk through foreign borders with their jeans round their ankles, taking the piss. Flashing the forty-inch bust at the passport desk. The Europeans don’t know how to handle us. They can do the mass arrests and that, try it on, corner someone in a back street and batter the fuck out of them. Try and crack your spine and open your skull. But still the English carry on, full steam ahead. That kind of pain’s skin deep, though now and then they go overboard and you have to watch yourself. They take things too seriously and target someone. Try to cripple him. It comes with the landscape.
Thing is, they pull out all the stops, give it their best shot, and what happens? If they’re waiting at the border we tread lightly because we’re no mugs. We pick our spot and then when it goes off we keep coming back for more. The English have been rioting in Europe for well over twenty years, and that’s just the football. Your Italian and Spanish old bill can’t get their heads round it. They’re used to dealing with the ultras of Juventus and Real Madrid. Holding seminars and printing scarves. That’s why we won the war. No surrender. Get beaten to a pulp by a mob of spics and back you come before the wounds have healed. And because of what’s happened you’re worse than before. The mad dogs just get meaner.
If this game wasn’t on I’d be spending my time somewhere else. In a Spanish or Greek resort taking things easy after the domestic season. On the pull shagging anything that moves. Cutting through the stereotypes servicing every brand of decent-looking English woman available. No-nonsense spunk-lovers from London and the Home Counties; the factory workers from Liverpool and barmaids from Newcastle; the officer girls from Leeds and johnny-sellers from Bristol; the shop assistants from Manchester and unemployed goths from Norwich. Then I’ll be showing a healthy interest in foreign culture with the roving Morvern nutters of Scotland, the religious Orange Order girls of Northern Ireland and the Merthyr miners’ daughters of Wales. Showing no prejudice and moving forward to the fish-slicers of Oslo and strippers of Munich and nurses of Vienna. Women are the best thing God invented. His greatest idea letting me sit on a Spanish beach watching the girls pass by during the afternoon, then slipping them a length at three in the morning. Now that’s another kind of holiday.
It’s an easy break where you don’t have to do much work. Give it some bollocks and empty them inside the hour. Wander the clubs and bars putting up with the tinny music they play. Weaving in and out of the wankers lining the pavement talking through their arses. No need to go overboard. Taking things nice and steady. Keeping yourself together. Maintaining standards. Looking to get some bird on your knob by the end of the night. At first keeping a tab, but losing track when it gets boring. The same old words and the same old cunts. No challenge and no danger. Still, what else is there, because then you start looking forward to the mornings when you get up early and have a swim. The weather’s fine and there’s a buffet breakfast waiting, and you’re having a laugh with Pedro the Barcelona fan. Tell him you know his brother Manuel. You do your duty and get your money’s worth. Along to the pool for a couple of hours in the sun watching the bird you shagged last night up against the back wall of Del Boy’s London Bar try and stroll past, too embarrassed to say hello. So you yell out alright Kim? She turns and goes red but seems keen. You give her the once over and she’s not as fresh as last night. You’ve shot your wad up her so you let the small talk fade. She goes her way, you go yours. Straight in the pool. Have a swim. Mark and Rod awake now. Same old stories. Gets more boring day by day. Concrete blocks and formation palms. Chicken dinners and flat lager. Everyone pissing in the pool.
Then you’ve been there nearly a week and you’re cranking up inside. You see the Munich boys in a bar across the road and start getting lairy. Feel the energy coming up. Keeping it back. Taking your time. Those wankers across the road in their shitty megastore gear. You know it’s going to kick off because you look at your mates standing around fucked off by the routine and they’re feeling the same way. Want to take it easy, but need some excitement. The Munich boys aren’t the real Munich. They’re not your old-time Stretford Enders, just Premiership playboys. More into their club-sponsored clothes than a cold midweek game in Leeds. You have some respect for the Red Army, but these wankers make you laugh. Getting wound up looking at the slags giving it the big one with the women. Their own little world. Don’t go to games half these cunts even though they’ve got all the gear and mouth.
But before you get anywhere there’s a row on your own doorstep with some fucking yids at the bar. Can’t believe it. Tottenham right next to you and you didn’t even see the cunts. Taking the piss or what? Looking at the bloke two feet away with the side of his face sliced open, a neat cut from the bottle Mark’s holding with blood spouting out of his face and you stand back looking at the fountain and, to be honest, it’s not pretty. Bit naughty really. The Spurs holiday-makers come through and you don’t have time to think about the ifs and buts, because you dodge back and smack some cunt in the head as he swings pissed and out of control on the old dodgems of life. Kick him in the top of the head twice and stroll away singing HE GOES TO THE BAR, TO BUY A LAGER, AND ONLY BUYS ONE FOR HIMSELF, leaving one cut, one twitching, and three more bruised and helping their mates. Nothing personal you fucking cunts, passing the Munich fashion dolls hiding now inside the bar. Cunts. Give us some Cockney Reds and we might even let them buy us a drink.
Different holidays for different things. Go to a resort and you’re looking for a nice line of slappers flat on their backs. Leaning forward over the railings of the tenth floor balcony as you give that Nottingham bird with the tiny nipple-sized tits an oil change. Watching rockets explode, flashing orange and red sparks over the tourist tower blocks. Looking over the landscape of Cliff Richard’s summer holiday nightmare. Cheap food and drink. Forget the music because it’s shit and you take your own. Play the cassettes in your room or by the pool. Wind the wankers up. That’s the seaside in Spain, but go away with England and the whole thing’s ten times better. Resorts are more sex and football’s more violence. England away’s sex and violence if you play your cards right, but the aggro comes first. Least that’s how I see things, though Carter and Harry would list the birds first. Sex and violence are what we’re good at. Right through England, from top to bottom, through the centuries, it’s sex and violence all the way. The Cross of St George drenched in blood and spunk. Putting some bollocks in the Union Jack.
Look at your politicians and it’s all there. It’s the power trip. Sex gives t
hem the power because they can pay some poor girl to do anything they want. They’re in charge. Even the old cunts you read about who want to get whipped and tied up with barbed wire. They’re still paying for the service, letting the tension run loose. It’s their big treat. The violence, though, that’s a bit different, because when they’re mixing it up with the sex they can pay for that as well, but when there’s no sex angle they don’t fancy getting involved. Not personally anyway. They want the thrill but have to pay someone on their behalf, so fork out for their men in uniforms – the old bill, army, what have you. They want the control. Violence is allowed when they say so. Pass a law and it’s on their terms, mixing in the power, while the trendy cunts want it in their films and documentaries. They want to sit in a circle discussing it through the night, throwing in their minority views and filling it with meaning, never going anywhere. Trying to settle their own grievances. Boring fuckers clogging the channels when you want a good horror film.
Sex and violence. Everyone loves it, because that’s where the excitement comes. You don’t have to confuse the two. It’s what made us great. We move in on the women and they can’t resist. We kick fuck out of anyone who has a go at us. The English are fair and square, and by English I mean your everyday bloke like me and Mark, and Rod as well if he wasn’t a sad married cunt. People like Harry and Carter and Brighty and Facelift. Don’t know about Facelift. We’re hard but fair. That’s the English. No pretence or pissing about, because what you see is what you get, standing outside the duty-free talking with a couple of Man City fans, old-time Kippax we know from before. They’re eyeing up the rows of fags, spirits, choccies, wondering out loud whether there’s any scousers on board, or maybe ICJ. Looking to fill their pockets. Mark tells them it’s the yids who’d go for the instant thieving even though they’re stuck on a ferry. Can’t wait. We all laugh. Funny how it works.