by John King
– We’re not a bunch of comedians, Harris said, putting his foot down. It was Churchill, whatever Tom says. Churchill was the main man. It doesn’t matter if he was a politician. He was an exception.
They didn’t want to argue with Harris and he had a point. They all agreed that Churchill had been there in the country’s hour of need, and that he represented all the soldiers who’d died. Harry could handle the choice, because he wanted a drink and a laugh and didn’t care about titles.
To be honest, his head was a bit spaced out from the blow. He couldn’t smoke a lot of the stuff, and it seemed like Amsterdam grew some strong weed. He supposed it helped Nicky get through life. There he went again, being all paranoid and making her out to be unhappy. It suited him to see her as carefree and loving her work. The ecstasy helped. He didn’t know, his brain slipping in with the humour of those around him. He looked at the faces and Tom and Carter and Mark were all laughing at something. For a moment he thought it was him, that they were taking the piss, but it was something else. They were happy and the feeling spread to Harry.
The bar was a good place to be and Tom leant over and said Johan had put that film they’d told him about on again, you’d think he’d get another one the tight cunt. Harry looked through the mass of faces packed in and there, playing on the wall where Brighty’s Cross of St George hung, was some blonde bint on the go with this weedy-looking bloke. Harry didn’t watch much of the film but he got the idea. He was feeling sick suddenly and got up to go outside. He struggled through the crowd and went over by the railings lining the canal. He leant over the water and saw a vague reflection, then threw up into the water. He could see the schoolkids from the ferry and he could see this kid sent from a Thai village to Sex City. Fucking hell, he should’ve left the dope to Nicky and stuck to the drink. It was doing his head in and he could feel the ground heaving.
– You alright? Carter asked, standing next to him.
Harry stood up, the sickness finished.
– Just felt sick, that’s all. Had a hard night.
– So how come you ended up with this bird then? Carter asked. You said on the phone it was a whore you’d knobbed.
Harry wasn’t going to admit he couldn’t get it up. Specially not when he’d paid good money. He’d phoned Carter earlier at the hotel to check where they’d be.
– Suppose she enjoyed what she got and wanted some more. She was knocking off for the night and just fancied having a drink and a chat. She had this blow and it’s done my head in. I’m fucked.
– You stayed with her all day then?
– We went out and had something to eat at a café and then a couple of beers. We went back to her place. Fucking hell, Carter, that girl gives the best blow job I’ve ever had. She’s fucking beautiful as well.
Carter looked at Harry in a strange way.
– She’s a tart though. That’s her job. She’s probably shagged ten thousand blokes and had ten gallons of the stuff down her throat. I hope you were careful. You know what those girls get up to.
– I know all that.
– Long as you do.
– I was careful. She said she was clean anyway, but I made sure I used a rubber. So did she. I mean, she doesn’t know where I’ve been either, does she? It works both ways.
Carter laughed.
– You haven’t been anywhere recently. No, that’s a result getting a whore for nothing. Shows you stood out from the rest of the blokes standing in line. If she was good-looking, all the better. Some of those prossies are right old boilers. I was surprised there’s so many ugly ones sitting in the windows all banged out and full of the clap and Aids. Suppose they get worn down before their time. Cunts like concrete.
Harry nodded, trying to imagine Nicky as some wrinkled peasant woman sitting in the jungle with an opium pipe and a handful of sticky rice, watching the patrols burn her village and kill the pigs. His head was fucked. He was sweet as a nut on his own, but this stuff was getting him confused. He had to sort himself out and told Carter he was going back to the hotel.
– See you later on, Carter said, slapping him on the shoulder. Mind how you go and leave those girls alone.
Harry laughed and headed towards the hotel, but instead of turning into the street he kept going, working his way through the clubs and bars to the street where Nicky worked. He found a doorway and stood there for an hour before sitting down in the shadows with his back against the wood. He stayed for another hour and a half. People came with roars of laughter. There was every kind of male and a lot of females just having a laugh. He saw a few pervs and a lot of drunk men in small gangs, but most were just decent citizens. They came and stared and pointed. These were the little people. Men and women who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. They came and looked at the spectacle, leaving their living rooms and filling up on sleaze. They were window-shopping for memories and tales to tell their mates. A lot of them laughed and some pushed men forward.
Harry could see Nicky in her window. He counted five men who disappeared inside before reappearing after varying lengths of time. There were two drunk tourists, an older man, a business type and a couple. Strangely, he didn’t think about what was happening on the other side of the curtain. He was simply counting. After five he saw the light shut off and he imagined she must’ve done five before he got there. For the first time he thought of the reality. He saw her taking a mouthful of spunk and tying up a succession of condoms. He saw the gel by the side of the bed next to the mouthwash and could smell the sweat of the men and the perfume of the girl. He could taste the lager on the men’s breath and the sweetness of Nicky’s mouth. He remembered Nicky saying how she didn’t like Arabs because they always wanted to give her one up the bum and he laughed at that, because she always said no. The Thai girls got pissed off at the Arabs because they only wanted the girls up the arse. Them and the boys. Then it was all gone and it was numbers and meant nothing, the rubbers putting up a barrier and her kisses something private.
He stood up and moved down the road. He waited for Nicky to come outside. She closed the side door behind her and she was alone. Harry thought she would be because he’d been counting properly, but he wanted to see it with his own eyes. He saw Nicky hurry down the street, a jungle spirit nipping through the city, so small she passed inside the cracks. He followed her a short way, feelings of being a spy replaced by those of a bodyguard. He saw her cross the Amstel River and jump in a taxi. She was home and dry. Harry turned and aimed for the hotel, his head a little clearer now. He’d seen her alright. More than that, he’d seen her leave work on her own. For some reason that was important.
When he got back to the hotel Hank was sitting at the night desk reading a magazine. He made no attempt to hide it away and it was like Kev had said, full of big flabby mamas with big flabby tits. Hank winked and remarked that Harry hadn’t been home last night. He had a flask and offered his guest a cup of coffee. Harry said no thanks and hauled himself up the stairs. He was tired but happy. Sheets had never felt better and a minute after hitting the pillow he was asleep.
More English have arrived in Amsterdam and everyone’s got together in a small square on the edge of the red light district. It’s getting late and things are starting to liven up. If the Dutch are going to have a go then now’s the time, because tomorrow we’re on our way to Germany. Word’s gone round that there’s a mob of Dutch by Centraal Station. They know where we are, but shouldn’t leave it too late. We’re in the middle of Amsterdam taking the piss and it’s up to them to approach us. This isn’t going to be about pimps and drug dealers, but a mixture of Ajax and other local hooligans. Probably some travelling football fans from Rotterdam, the Hague and Utrecht. Who knows and who cares where they come from. Give us a few hundred punch-bags and we’ll batter the fuck out of them.
There must be at least three hundred English drinking around the square and there’s a buzz going because this could be the start, the Charity Shield warm-up for the big kick-off in Berlin. Up till now
it’s all been nice and quiet. The Dutch have got to make an appearance otherwise they’re going to look like shit. They’ve had snippets on the local news. The Dutch have to know there’s a big English presence in Amsterdam so it’s up to them to make an appearance. We’re standing in the middle of the city, ready and willing, waiting for the cunts to live up to this reputation we’re always hearing so much about. They’ve got to show sooner or later.
There’s blokes from all over England mobbed up in the square. There’s all the firms you’d normally expect and it’s amazing what a cross-section you get. There’s a new enemy and the club stuff is frozen. It’s all a game. It’s a game with something extra to get the adrenalin going. That’s how I feel now seeing all the England together with three riot vans parked down the road. The old bill obviously know there’s got to be a riot of some kind before we move on. Just depends how bad it gets and whether they can get a handle on things.
There’s some Bolton lads who have been drinking all day and they go into NO SURRENDER, pissed out of their heads, and everyone else joins in. We’re hanging about seeing the numbers grow as different English find out where everyone is, and though it’s not hard to guess we’ll be down the red light district where all the whores and bars are, they still have to find the main England mob. Now they know because you can’t miss this square full of Englishmen waiting for something to happen. It’s only a matter of time, because with this many men knocking about some kind of disturbance is guaranteed. In a way I’m surprised the old bill haven’t moved in already and closed the bars. The bomb’s packed and the detonator’s ticking. We’re having a drink behaving ourselves. If the Dutch come down looking for trouble then naturally enough we’ll respond. Nothing more than self-defence. We’re minding our own business. Keeping our noses clean. Conducting ourselves with dignity and restraint. Working hard to please our masters at home. We’re doing the decent thing. Turning the other cheek. Promising we’ll walk away from provocation. Making the most of the local culture. Doing our best to avoid aggravation. And when the Dutch appear at the other end of the street a massive hit of patriotism swamps everything else. The energy comes through and this is what we’re here for.
We’re off and running up the street towards the Dutch who are lobbing bottles and a couple of firebombs. We’re all united now steaming into the battle and you know you’re with some of the most dedicated here. Everything is forgotten. The drink and drugs and whores vanish. Any lingering club grudges disappear. We’re England, united, we’ll never be defeated. We’re England and run towards the Dutch who’ve pulled a decent mob together and are raining bottles and bricks at us, hitting a couple of blokes who slow down with cut heads, but the rest of us keep going and the Dutch manage to stand firm and we go straight through them like a fucking rocket. They do their best but it’s more or less equal numbers and we kick the fuck out of them. There’s some hard cunts but they don’t have a chance. They haven’t got the history. We run them over the canal and do a few of the big boys brave enough to stand and proud enough to take a hiding for Holland. There’s a few stragglers paying the penalty, but the main mob are back down the road.
The old bill are the ones to worry about because there’s a good hundred of the cunts appearing from a couple of side streets. They’re the business this lot, decked out in the height of riot control fashion, like machines off another planet with their body suits and air-force helmets. It’s the same at home and probably right through Europe now, with coppers everywhere looking the same and sharing their information down the computer lines. They go for the high-tech paramilitary look these days and it’s a long way from those seventies riots in Lewisham and Southall and all the other inner cities that used to burn in the summer, because in those days the coppers were defending themselves with fucking dustbin lids. That’s how it should be. Coppers digging around in bins looking for scraps. Not these days. They spend a fucking fortune on the right gear and weapons. They’ve got everything they need to fight a war. The old bill are all over the nearest people and doing whoever they can get their hands on. They go straight towards the bars where we were drinking and start laying into the English fans still there, the tiny number who weren’t interested in steaming the Dutch. Not many have stayed behind and they don’t have a chance.
All that wishy-washy liberalism is forgotten by the Dutch as their police force fights back. They’ve had their hands tied behind their backs by faggot politicians who’ve flooded their country with immigrants and drugs and perverts, so when they get the chance they want to make up for lost time. A few blokes get battered, and once the old bill have finished there they start moving our way.
We’re already on the move ourselves, smashing every bit of glass we can see. Wouldn’t bother with this sort of vandalism normally, but for some reason it’s different when England go away. Takes you back. There’s Dutch tourists and workers standing back watching the spectacle and none of the English bothers them. The police come so far and then stop as the bottles rain in. We start rocking a car and turn it on its roof. A couple of youths stuff a ripped T-shirt into a Renault’s petrol tank and set it alight. Everyone moves out of the way and the fucker explodes. White and red fire shatters the darkness and it starts to burn. A column of flame rises and the old bill back off as more bottles are lobbed their way. The faces in the glow are sort of mesmerised by the flames, and the same blokes start doing a Saab. We back off again and after a delay that explodes as well. The old bill don’t move, using some kind of tactic they haven’t told us about. There’s a mob wrecking the shops and a couple of Dutch blokes get a slap for protesting, and then Harris is over by this big sex shop with vibrators and bodies in the window, and there’s this scouse lad saying that the cunt who runs it was selling kiddie porn when they were looking at the merchandise earlier in the day. There’s a load of England boys gathered round and they smash the windows. There’s a mixture of shoppers and hiding Dutch inside and they filter out, the dodgy ones getting a kick and punch, and then the fucking owner comes out with a baseball bat.
Harris takes him out and the English pile in because the bloke’s a cunt doing the paedophile stuff and he’s getting done badly like he deserves. The scouser and a few other lads run in the shop and they must be after the till. The police have moved forward and we all walk back a bit further leaving the nonce on the ground unconscious in a small pool of blood. We stand there along two streets and on a bridge going over one of the canals. Brighty’s flag is out on show hanging over the rails and I can see a couple of flash bulbs popping behind the old bill. A few of the lads have cameras and take their own pictures. There’s another car, a Volkswagen, and we rock this over. Ten or so English sit on the upside-down car and have their photos taken against a line of coppers in the distance. It’s easy this and it’s a show with a mob of three hundred English standing here in the middle of Amsterdam fronting up the old bill who’ve got all the paramilitary gear in the world, and even they’re keeping their distance.
We’re singing ONE BOMBER HARRIS, THERE’S ONLY ONE BOMBER HARRIS, ONE BOMBER HARRIS as the Volkswagen explodes, singing as the cars burn bright and the flames light up the splintered glass lining the street. There’s a bar with the windows done and everyone’s helping themselves to bottles of spirits inside, having a drink and a laugh, and it’s a mad scene and I don’t understand why the old bill don’t charge. There’s a lot of England around so that must be the reason, but I start thinking, then look inside and there’s Kev pouring drinks and a load of blokes ordering draught lager. Outside the bottles are still flying at the police. We’re getting our money’s worth. Nice stretch of the muscles. The riot police are behind their shields and they’ve got to get stuck in soon. They must be gagging for a row with the commander playing his own game. The English old bill would be straight over the space between the two sides, but maybe the Dutch are that bit more intelligent.
We’re into RULE BRITANNIA and GOD SAVE THE QUEEN when Harris comes round and says we should shift,
because the old bill will be closing the area off right now and we shouldn’t get cocky. They’re not standing there for their health. This clicks home and the Chelsea boys get together and start moving in the same direction as the Dutch mob because they’re not just going to disappear. Most of the English follow. It’s a stroll this one with a few windows getting kicked in as we go and the English split up gradually, smaller mobs patrolling the streets. A sort of search-and-destroy operation that happens without anything being said. The streets are smaller and darker and we’ve already made our mark. I look back as we leave the canal, see the burning cars and the wreckage. It’s like a bomb’s gone off. It’s fucking brilliant and a taster for Berlin. Getting everyone in the mood. Now it’s a case of working through the streets looking for the Dutch, but the area will be mobbed soon with old bill, like Harris says, so we’ve got to watch our step.
The riot police have started moving forward. There’s dogs barking and we move further away from the lights. We’ve made our point. I see the riot police pass over the sex shop owner lying there in the street. They don’t even look at the cunt. The coppers take back the main street. Leave him face down in his own blood, a piece of scum in the mud of no-man’s land.
GATES OF THE WEST
THE TELEVISION SET in The Unity was showing video footage from Holland. There were three cars burning in the middle of the screen and a thick line of riot police dodging a hail of bottles thrown by a big group of English football fans. The film had been shot the night before and rushed to various news studios around the country. It had also been sold abroad. The camera was steady and the black silhouettes of the rioters contrasted with the vivid colours of the burning cars. The soundtrack mixed human voices, barking dogs, smashing glass and the well-chosen clichés of a disgusted reporter. There was also an alarm ringing. When a car exploded there was a loud cheer from the English.