England Away

by John King

  Everyone laughed and Harry relaxed again.

  – You go round these sex shops and you wouldn’t believe some of the stuff they’ve got here, Harris said. First time I came to Amsterdam was more than ten years ago and I went in one shop, picked up this magazine, and there was this fucking kid in there. Stark-bollock naked wrapped in barbed wire. Little boy of about nine. On the opposite page was a girl even younger. I couldn’t believe it and had a go at the bloke behind the counter. I don’t think they let that sort of stuff go any more. Makes you think though, the kind of scum there is in this world.

  – Do you think they’ve really got rid of that stuff? Mark asked. Because if they haven’t we should go and do the cunts selling it. Make it a righteous Christian crusade. You can be Richard the Lionheart.

  – Must be underground now, Harris said. I don’t know. Amsterdam’s a good place and they’re laid back, but you get the rubbish coming here and taking advantage. They know things are loose and they can get away with murder. Most of the nonces go to Asia, places like Thailand and the Philippines where they’re poorer than in Europe. They can do what they want over there, but that’ll change one day as well.

  Harry didn’t want to hear about all this. He was in a positive frame of mind and wished the others would ease up. He didn’t want to think about nonces. You got enough of the child-killers, rapists and all that at home. When you were abroad you couldn’t understand the language, so it was hear no evil, see no evil as far as he was concerned.

  – That’s the only thing wrong with Amsterdam, Harris said. The nonces and Ajax. They’ve got a good youth system and that’s probably why the nonces come here in the first place.

  – What’s wrong with Ajax? Carter asked, coming awake.

  After all, he believed in total football. In filling a bird any way you wanted. That’s what it was all about. He thought Ajax were a respected outfit.

  – They’re a fucking yid team, Harris said. They’re the Spurs of Holland.

  – I thought Hitler gassed them all? Carter said.

  – Doesn’t seem like it. No, they’re the yiddos of Holland. You wouldn’t catch me going to see them play. It would be like going and spending your afternoons at White Hart Lane. You look the next time they’re on the telly. They’ve got Stars of Davids on their flags. They’re Tottenham alright.

  Carter sat in silence for a while. That was a turn-up for the books. Ajax a yiddo team. As Chelsea boys they all had a natural hatred for Spurs that went back a good thirty years to the original skinhead era.

  – So what are we having? Harry asked, studying the menu.

  Harry had been talking with the hairies about the things to see in Amsterdam, and they told him about the Docker statue with its inscription: ‘keep your filthy hands off our filthy Jews’. The Angels laughed and it showed a few things about the Dutch. One of the women said the Dutch starved under the Nazis and that there was still a lot of bitterness towards the Germans, which these days usually came out at football matches. Harry didn’t want to think about that right now because he was starving as well, or at least hungry, and the owner was hovering in the background. They left Harris to order. They got seven more bottles of lager and waited for their food.

  – Suppose this is like an Indian at home, Tom said, and Harry laughed. It was exactly what he was thinking.

  – Funny how everywhere you go there’s the same things. There’s Ajax and Tottenham, and then there’s Feyenoord and Chelsea, and there’s this Indonesian same as a curry house. Mind you, walking into a bar and seeing Blondie getting one up the arse is different. You’d only get that at a serious sex club or on a stag night. You wouldn’t get it on a screen down the pub before a game would you?

  – I wouldn’t mind a pint of Fosters, Carter pointed out.

  – And a pack of English crisps, Mark added.

  – A nice pint of Fosters in a pint glass.

  Harry wondered sometimes. They’d just spent a bomb getting over here and Carter was moaning because he wanted a pint of Fosters. It was just lager and not exactly pure English heritage. Harris, now, he was a bit more together. He had a taste for Europe. The bloke had certain leadership qualities and needed room to manoeuvre, some extra living space. He was looking at bigger horizons and Harry wondered if he would stay in England all his life. No, he wouldn’t be able to live without going to see Chelsea. After a while somewhere like Amsterdam would be too quiet. England was in his blood.

  With some decent grub inside us, we’re ready for a wander. The bill’s cheap and we’ve done the place proud, paying and not doing a runner. Even leave a generous tip. Suppose the Dutch leg it often enough, but I remember when the yids played here a few years back and the Dutch were popping off shots at the English. Someone even got killed. Outside the rain’s stopped and we walk slowly. Turn across another canal that could even be a river. There’s not a lot of people about as we cross, and we turn a couple of corners. Dam Square’s up ahead with a funfair buzzing away. Buildings tower over the commotion, all flashing lights and blaring music. Organ tunes and Abba pop favourites competing. We stand on the outside looking in. It’s happy families and tourists, but I don’t think any of us are interested in the rides. We’re standing with the husbands and wives and kiddies having fun. Simple pleasures. We’re just hanging about and seeing the sights. Not bothering anyone. I’m an ordinary bloke having a look and glad the kids are enjoying themselves. Laughing and screaming. Singing their heads off. I’m just standing around when this fucking cunt comes up to me and asks me if I want to buy some smack.

  This pisses me off. First off, this is a family event. Second, he’s a stroppy black bastard slurring his words with some wank street slang. Third, he’s talking down like he’s drug sussed and I’m shit. Fourth, and this is the one that gets right up my nose, the thing that does my fucking head in, is that he thinks I look like a fucking dosser. He’s out of order and he’s hit the chord. My hair’s short and I wash my clothes. I shave my face and have a bath. I look like what I am. I don’t look like a smackhead. I don’t mind junkies, because that’s their problem. Each to their own. But I work for my money. I pay my rent and get along. I work hard and keep my life in order. I don’t like cunts I don’t know coming along and telling me they think I’m a fucking loser.

  This wanker stands there bouncing from foot to foot. I ask him if he’s a Harlem Globetrotter. He looks at me half-sneering with this stroppy attitude that gets me where it hurts. I punch the cunt full in the face. He’s not ready for this because he’s used to dealing with scrawny wankers and hippy scum. I reckon I bust his nose. He stumbles back into a candyfloss stall. Luckily we’re still on the outskirts of the fair and only the candyfloss man sees what’s happening. The dealer goes inside his jacket, but before I can kick the cunt Harris pushes past and knifes him in the leg. He doesn’t go deep but cuts the bastard and the cunt staggers sideways. Drops a razor. Harris goes to cut him down the back and rip his expensive top, but Mark clocks a couple of coppers and we move away. The old bill haven’t seen us, and this wanker’s not going to start screaming with his pockets full of a class A drug, or however they classify it over here. We filter towards a side street and disappear.

  – What did you go and hit him for? Mark asks, as we go back over the river towards the red light and a drink. He only asked a question and you go straight into him.

  – He wound me up, I say.

  – He only asked. This is fucking Amsterdam. What do you expect?

  Mark laughs.

  – It’s a fucking drugs town and they sell drugs. What’s the matter with you, you silly cunt? You’ll end up nicked with the old bill right there.

  – Just didn’t like the way he was muscling in. He was rude. I didn’t see the coppers. It was bad manners. I didn’t see the old bill.

  – Neither did he, Harris says. He was a fucking wanker. Lucky for him they were around. Did you see the razor? I hate people who go round tooled-up like that.

  Me and Mark look at e
ach other and smile. Harris doesn’t care. Old age is making him worse than ever. He’s always been a nutter, but we’re in the middle of Dam Square and he knifes someone. Mind you, I shouldn’t have hit the bloke right there on stage. Lights shining in my eyes. I don’t care now, but it was open and asking for trouble. It’s the drink makes you careless. They’ve probably got video cameras like back home, but we’re passing through so it doesn’t really count. At least Harris didn’t dig in like he could’ve done. He could’ve made the cunt scream. Thing is, you get the scent and now we’re walking with a spring in our steps. Everything was nice and quiet and now it’s turned round.

  We keep moving and Mark says come on, let’s go and have a look at the whores, we haven’t seen the prossies yet. He’s got a point. We all know about Amsterdam and the whores. I’ve seen them before but suppose we’ll have to go and see them again. We follow the street back into the centre of the red light. The pavements are busy and we’re away from Dam Square. A good percentage of the people who visit Amsterdam come down for a look, and you see enough Dutch as well. Always remember how bored the girls look, till you get near and they smell money. The sultry look comes out and they’re better actresses than Blondie filling the wall of Johan’s bar. Just keeps smiling as another queer junky actor corks her arse. A girl’s got to work.

  Amsterdam doesn’t have things all its own way, because tourism and over-exposure destroys every good set-up in the end. We were on our way to Denmark that time when England played in Copenhagen, and we stopped in Hamburg for a night out. I’d never heard of the Reeperbahn but some of the older blokes who’d been that way before showed us where to go. There was England everywhere and the girls were legal. Logic is, it keeps them in order. There were girls on corners and in doorways, and there was this underground car park as well. It was fucking massive, with a big door and huge painted legs doing the splits. The girls were on little stages. Real crackers as well. Standing on platforms giving the shoppers a twirl. Mirrors in the background for an all over view. The England boys were on the prowl. When I think of it, most times I’ve been away with England we’ve ended up staying in or near the red light zones. Never really planned it that way, but it’s true all the same. Maybe it’s where the cheap accommodation is, but probably it shows how the English like to mingle and experience the local culture. Give us a choice of bars and drink, throw in some half-decent birds, and we’re happy. And there’s always going to be a punch-up somewhere along the line. Put all these things together and you’ve got the perfect package tour.

  There was a bar in Hamburg where this big mob of English were drinking. We were watching these girls working from a doorway. There were three of them and none was a pig. Rod was eyeing up this blonde number. Couldn’t have been more than twenty. Long hair down to her arse. Short white skirt. I can still see her. Rod was watching her for what must’ve been at least an hour. She was a German girl from the country who’d gone to the city to make her fortune. That’s how we were telling the story. He kept saying he was going over but never did. Just stood there in the bar watching her approach passing men. Back and forward offering her services. Don’t know why Rod didn’t go and shag her. There weren’t many punters around and none of the girls was getting anywhere. Rod was thinking big. Going over in a minute. Any minute now he was going to fuck the arse off her. Wrap that long blonde hair round his bollocks.

  He started wondering why she was on the game. We gave him the fräulein story. Kept repeating it till he got bored. We were looking at Rod. He was going on and on about this blonde. What was she doing chatting to strangers in the street like that when he was ready and willing? We were pissing ourselves laughing. So was Rod after a while. Something stopped him going over. As soon as he finished his drink he was going over. He slammed his sixth or seventh bottle down and was on his way. This was it. He’d see us later. Big smile on his face. Hitching up his jeans. Except he had to stop and watch as the girl approached an old man. They started chatting. A sad old man in a saggy flea-bitten suit. Must’ve been at least sixty years old. The blonde’s mate joined in. Licking her lips. There was some laughing and whispering, and then the two girls linked arms with the man and led him away. Down the street to a door and off inside. We told Rod that the girls were taking the old git to a big double bed and were going to give him the best heart attack he’d ever had. They’d give the man a line of coke and blow his brains out. Rod didn’t know what to do or what to say. He’d missed out on a treat. He told us she was a fucking whore. A dirty old slag. A fucking scrubber. Couldn’t we see she was a bad woman. We were all laughing. Me, Mark and Rod and a few others. He nodded his head all serious like a preacher and said she was a harlot. Rod was making the most of his missed opportunity. Taking the piss.

  But we started rubbing it in. Telling him he’d taken too long and now he’d just have to make do with his imagination. Think of it, Rod, those two birds taking turns sucking that old codger’s knob. First they’d have to clear away the cobwebs, and then they’d have to smooth out the wrinkles, but then he’d get the scent and be humping away for hours trying to dig up some fluid. Rod’s bird would be leaning over the bed with that centurion behind her while her assistant offered encouragement. Trying to get a result. Rubbing his arse and those fossilised balls. And that dirty fucker would be beavering away for at least an hour with his dentures chattering and dribble falling on the girl’s back. Heart racing and brain bulging. Finally reaching Go and giving her a bellyful just as the old ticker explodes. Could’ve been you Rod. But you missed out because you’d rather spend quality time with your mates. Rod just stood there. Stood there in silence before going back to the bar for another bottle of lager. Shaking his head.

  I tell Harry this as we’re walking along. He laughs.

  – Maybe that’s why he got married young. He wanted something more than tarts bending over a bed. Must be good if you fall in love with a decent woman, settle down and have some kids. It’s hard to find anyone worthwhile. Most birds just want to grind you down, and if you haven’t got money they don’t want to know.

  Don’t know why he’s getting all romantic. A fuck’s a fuck as far as I can see.

  – Married life’s a life of misery, Mark says, overhearing Harry. You look at Rod, stuck at home with the wife. Mandy wants her cut and they’ve got bills to pay. He’d love to be in Berlin for the football. He’d love being in Amsterdam smoking some herb, but no, he’s stuck at home like a fucking cunt. He’s lucky as well, because he still gets out. Some blokes get married and you never see them again. I don’t like Mandy much, because she nicked our mate, but she doesn’t tell him what to do all the time like a lot of people I could mention.

  Don’t know what Harry’s thinking. Must be age. He’s a few years older than me and Mark. Suppose things change. Maybe that’s what he wants. Some of that romantic nonsense. It’s bollocks though, because there’s plenty of birds around so why get stuck with one? It doesn’t make any sense. Suppose it’s in all of us, just depends on how much you’re willing to change your life for a woman. Maybe it’s his nature, though, because Carter’s the same age and he’s not exactly saving up for a white wedding.

  I notice a shop that’s still open. Selling all the usual tourist shit. There’s a rack of cards and I stop to have a look. The others hang about waiting. The owner’s standing there and I buy a card off him. He gives me the stamp. It’s a scene from the red light district. Welcome to Amsterdam. There’s black buildings and a row of lit windows. Girls behind plate glass in stockings and suspenders. Red neons glow. There’s signs promising live sex. Live action. Promising the world. This one’s for Rod and we’ll think up a good message while we’re pissed, and send it before we’re sober. That’ll wind the poor cunt up even more.

  We turn down another street and look at the girls. Most are black. There’s one or two Orientals and a few white girls. They look shagged out, and there’s groups of wankers waving and making stupid jokes. Welcome to the show. We’re spectators sta
ring at the prostitutes lit up nice and pretty. There’s this group of wankers nearby and they push a young lad forward. He goes to a black girl and has a word, then disappears inside. The men stand there not knowing what to do next. It’s fucked them up, knowing he’s in there getting his knob inspected. They move along quietly. The authorities are keeping it off the street and supplying an extra tourist attraction. Something to go with the art galleries and churches. Can’t be bad. Might even splash out myself, but not with any of these.

  – Anyone having a go? Harris asks.

  We all shake our heads. Later on maybe.

  – Come on then, let’s have a drink. You can get a whore anywhere.

  You can get a bottle of lager anywhere. But I know what he means.

  Harry stayed with the girls in the windows. He watched Carter and the rest of the boys walking off, pissing about, and no-one even noticed he’d been left behind. It was the same as the ferry coming over, and if he’d fallen overboard they wouldn’t have missed him till they got to Berlin, Carter sitting there in the room they were sharing talking to himself, but it gave him some space so he wasn’t complaining. They’d been drinking all day and it was fair enough. They were starting to get edgy, with Tom and that wanker in the square, Harris doing his bit for Chelsea and England, but Harry wasn’t interested in roaming the streets of Amsterdam looking for people to slap, not right now anyway. He was inspecting the girls on the meat racks and had to be honest and say there wasn’t anything better than he’d find down Blues back in London. He didn’t know whether to be glad or sad, so he headed in the opposite direction to the others, putting some extra distance between them in case Carter came back looking. Harry did some window shopping, checking the sex shop displays and sex club line-ups.