by John King
Denise came back down the bar and after she’d had a quick glance over her shoulder at the old boys at the other end of the counter, involved in some argument about the number of Asians who’d died building the Burma-Thailand railway, she refilled Balti’s pint. She was more friendly now, with nobody about, and even if Carter hadn’t let him in on the secret Balti would probably have guessed from the way she looked at him. Balti settled into his seat and started thinking about Blackpool as Denise told them how Slaughter had got himself nicked the night before for drunk driving. It was lucky he’d left his machete at home. Otherwise he’d be getting done for murder as well.
BEANO
The Jag was spotless. Cleaned in one of those valet efforts staffed by Eyeties. It was a flash motor, nobody would argue about that, but there was nothing flash about Mango’s CD collection. A right pile of shit. Luckily there was a cassette player and Will had done them proud, saving their souls and delivering a decent soundtrack. They were humming north with Harry’s electric soup doing its duty, fucking up their heads, the man himself in the back seat with Balti and Carter, half-asleep.
Will was up front next to Captain Mango, playing the selector, and it was classics all the way. The Jam were stuck on the Underground as the Sex Division ran a bombing mission over Birmingham, the throb of the engine racing straight up Mango’s right leg and tickling his bollocks. Will waited for the song to fade and slipped in a collection that included the Blaggers ITA, bringing the tradition forward with a bang. This Jag was no ramraider special though, not the kind of Made In Britain topnotch precision engineering model some hip-hop cunt was going to drive through the off-licence window. Not with the anti-theft gear Mango had splashed out on anyway. No fucking way.
The lads in the back were getting pissed quick enough on the electric soup, food of the people, Mango a bit nervous in case one of those mugs behind him decided to puke up, and Harry thought he’d have a laugh telling the cocky cunt at the controls, Captain Scarlet, that he felt sick, with his guts about to do the old heave-ho. He didn’t know whether he could control those saveloys from last night, the pickled onions, wally and chips, that he might have to spread his breakfast over the upholstery as well, a bacon and eggs special.
Mango looked in the mirror and caught the fat boy’s eye and told him, all serious like, with a cutting edge Harry and the rest of the lads hadn’t heard before, real Jack The Ripper stuff, bit spastic, a tang that made them sit up and take notice—Mango saying that if Harry messed up the Jag he’d pull on to the hard shoulder and leave you behind you tart, this is my fucking car and I’m paying the fucking petrol. I’ll drop you off and keep going and there’s no U-turns on the motorway so I won’t be coming back. I’m doing you a favour and there’s no second chance. Behave yourself.
Harry wanted to get to Blackpool in comfort, enjoy the ride, the suspension and everything, not hitch-hike on the hard shoulder choking to death. He wanted to enjoy the weekend. Have a laugh. Maybe get his end away. That was only natural. I was joking Mango mate, where’s your sense of humour you miserable git. To play things safe Mango pulled into the next services and parked up, the lads going for a piss, in another world now, an outpost in the wilderness.
This was the real England, not London, that was full of blacks and browns and yellows and all the colours in the rainbow, with every food and type of music, a cockney bazaar where the cockneys were a minority from Bengal. No, this was flat-cap land. Up North. Where they fancied their pigeons and shagged their whippets, five pence a pint and mushy-pea butties for dinner, four-bedroom houses that cost five grand and mining villages living with a hundred per cent unemployment. Balti nicked a couple of CDs from one of the shops for a laugh. He bought himself a chocolate bar that he scoffed in the car park, then got back in the Jag with the others, Mango sweet again, back in command, commander of his jet fighter—precision machine.
They quickly picked up speed filtering back on to the M6, putting his foot down knowing he could do naught-to-sixty in 7.9 seconds, six in-line cylinders, thirty grand’s worth of XJ6 3.2 Sport sex on wheels, hardcore British technology second to none. And it was patriotic to buy British. Fly the flag. He was laughing again enjoying some old-time pre-revolution Ted Heath generosity, helping people out, the kindly benefactor, Will skinning up sitting back soothing things, Balti in the back taking the CDs from inside his jacket, one a Country and Western greatest hits effort with a Dolly Parton lookalike on the front. Look at the lungs on that lads. The other a marching band with soldiers in busbies and red tunics, lots of brass on display. Must be hot, the silly sods, walking to slaughter.
Will was coming under pressure from the Bollock Brothers and Carter, the sex machine wide awake now and knocking back a can of Fosters, telling Harry that the electric soup would do him no favours. They wanted to listen to Land Of Hope And Glory, but Will said in a minute, hang about, and they soon forgot about the marching band because Carter was telling the lads that if they didn’t service something this weekend he was giving up on them. Non-believers you lot.
Northern birds were alright and didn’t pose like the women down south. Salt-of-the-earth, high-heeled tarts hunting in mobs twenty and thirty strong, inflated tits out on the counter. Girls who were ready for a good time, and all Northerners were like you saw on Coronation Street. But it wasn’t a patch on EastEnders, though Carter reckoned the Mitchells were bottle merchants because you never saw them getting stuck in, not really, it was all front, and they were always mouthing off. Said it was like West Ham used to be, remember that time they came in Gate 13 and Chelsea gave them a pasting, and Balti asked the shag machine if that was the time he got his nose broken when some ICF cunt nutted him, and Carter shut up because it was and West Ham had the nous to get up the ground early and buy tickets for that area of the East Stand where they knew Chelsea’s main faces would be.
Harry weighed in saying leave it out, I hate West Ham as well but you wouldn’t have seen the Mitchells anywhere near the ICF, and Will was passing the puff round, Mango shaking his head keeping himself on the straight and narrow because he was doing the driving and the Jag was thirty grand’s worth of sheer automobile heaven, cruising at ninety miles per hour, working himself into the machine, feeling the energy. The rest of the chaps should show a bit of respect for the power and the glory, a Best Of British factory working overtime turning out the purest kind of machine.
They gave wanker salutes to the Liverpool and Manchester signs, all those games at Anfield and Goodison, Old Trafford and Maine Road, ice-cold Saturdays playing Oldham, on their way to Blackpool Friday afternoon. It wasn’t much further now as the miles clocked up and then they were pulling off the motorway rolling towards the town centre where Mango had lined up a place on the seafront. He was fiddling it on his expenses, feeding the accounts department a line. Amsterdam would have to wait. He could only do so much. And the rest of the Sex Division wondered where they’d end up, whether Mango was just giving it the big one again flashing his credit card around, if he really had the say-so, but the bloke was a con artist of sorts and they had to agree that he was a good bloke sharing the wealth around like that. Not his own, mind, but ready to use WorldView for his old mates.
They were watching the streets. Houses plastered in bed and breakfast signs. Polished toytown brickwork. Wondering if they were going to end up buried in one of the terraces. Blue-rinse grannies and Glasgow bouncers sick on candyfloss. Then Mango was pulling up outside a smart hotel. A real quality effort it was too, and they were standing in the entrance, the foyer, whatever the fuck it was called. Mango steamed right in with his WorldView confidence, no problem, and the staff even wore uniforms.
None of the lads had stayed in a place like this before, except Mango of course, but they didn’t feel out of place because corporate cards counted and made you something with the weight of a major firm behind you. Numbers mattered. They were going up in the lift with some spotty Lancashire youth showing them the way. They had two rooms side by side. Car
ter was in with Mango, and Will was sharing with Harry and Balti.
They dumped their gear and Mango went into the attached bathroom to wash his face in the sink, taking his time with the hot water and soap. Leaving the door open, Carter throwing his bag on to the bed nearest the window. The old sex machine magic was bound to rub off. Mango was tired. Carter sticking his head round the door—you fucking ponce, what’s the matter with you, wasting time when we could be down the bar having a few sherbets. Mango was brushing his teeth—don’t worry about your breath you slag, because you won’t get near a bird tonight—and he laughed it off, but Mango was hoping he’d pull.
It was alright knocking off pros, a simple business transaction with both parties happy, but he’d like something for free once in a while. A bird who didn’t need a backhander to open her legs. Genuine affection, or at least attraction. Shafting whores all the time made him feel ugly. As though he was rotten inside. He was in the mood, with WorldView left behind for a few days, but in a strange way he wasn’t too bothered about sex, there wasn’t the same frantic need to dip his winkie, because once you got out of the City, outside London, things eased and you could do whatever you fucking wanted. Blackpool was his first decent break for ages and he wanted to forget everything and relax.
The Sex Division were soon back in the lift on their way downstairs, piling into a bar that was nicely done up with big old paintings on the walls and a new carpet on the floor. There was some greasy scouser behind the bar pouring pints. They all hated scousers, because you had to if you came from London. It was written down somewhere in the rules. Everyone except Will that was, because he didn’t hate anyone. But the scouser was alright when he came over and started talking. He had a sense of humour to go with his Terry McDermott tash, because they asked him where Kevin Keegan was and he said upstairs clearing one of the bogs that was blocked, making the most of the dodgy haircut. There was no preferential treatment in Blackpool. That fucking toilet needed clearing and King Kev was the man for the job.
They liked the barman straight off, so that meant they hated all scousers except the one they’d spoken to, and that was probably in the rules somewhere as well. They moved over to a table by the window, looking out to sea. The waves were grey and white in the drizzle that had started, the sun bright through grey clouds, a slow-motion strobe effect, the wind kicking-up and battering a tram carrying a fucking great Goofy cut-out. They all laughed. There was a word for it. They sat back and watched Goofy vanish.
This was the life. A chance to have a drink and breathe in healthy air, even if it was in the bar. The first round went down quick enough, Will ordering more lager. The prices were cheaper than in London even though this was a hotel so fuck knows what it’s going to be like down the town lads, Carter lifting the glass to his lips. These Northerners are thick as shit, don’t forget we’re going back in time, that Jag’s a fucking time machine.
They were kids on a beano, Will telling the others he was going to phone Karen to let her know they’d arrived safe and sound. They started taking the piss as he went to the end of the bar, Terry Mac moving the phone over so he could sit on a stool and take his time and have a bit of privacy. Will talked for a bit and Carter, Harry, Balti, Mango were having a good laugh, taking the piss something chronic, ball and chain and all the normal stuff. Who the fuck is it wearing the trousers? Look at that thumb print between his eyes. His head’s nodding like he’s giving Mango a blow job. Fuck off you cunt. Karen was a cracker though. Shame she didn’t have any sisters. What about her mates? That was one to think about when they got back. Nice one Balti. Fuck off Carter, it was my idea, you keep your hands off. Don’t want you infecting her with a tropical disease.
Will came back and took his glass, keeping up, and one or two older couples were coming into the bar and ordering from Macca and his dodgy tash. A husband and wife sat by the window, nodding as they passed, and the Sex Division had to admit that Northerners were friendly.
It wasn’t just the mobbed-up brass either. They admitted this on the quiet, because you had to maintain the pecking order. An old geezer, a right northern slaphead, and his wife, a big postcard woman rabbiting on the whole time, sat at the next table. The slaphead took a shine to Carter and asked him who they supported. Were they into the football? When he heard Chelsea he laughed and called them a bunch of hooligans, because he read his papers and stereotypes were essential to the nation’s well-being.
He was a Leeds man himself and had never forgiven Chelsea for beating them in the Cup Final in 1970. Will chipped in, saying Webby’s at Brentford now, and the old boy went into one about Tony Yeboah and how Leeds hated Man United. Leeds were Yorkshire and Man U Lancashire. That was enough. It would’ve been interesting to know some of the history, but that kind of thing just kept going century after century, and then it was ingrained, and then it was all down to Eric Cantona.
When the Sex Division membership left the hotel they were on a roll. The electric soup had worn off, but the lager gave them a kick. They laughed at Goofy, the silly cunt, back and forward all day, and went in a big fish shop on the seafront. It was full of Jock tattoos and families, but there was enough room for everyone. The batter was crisp and the chips well done. They ordered and ate quickly, ready for a decent drink.
They had a couple of pints in a pub full of old-timers, then went for a wander along the front, legs eleven and intergalactic shoot-emups booming from speakers, the Sex Division standing back laughing as a mob of youths pegged it round the corner, a bit of a row going on, followed by a bigger mob, blokes done up in suits and ties like Northerners dress when they’re out for the night, the dozy cunts. They were well thick the old Yorkshiremen, or were they from Lancashire, it was one of the two, and the locals would’ve been well pissed off if they’d heard that one, because there was the Wars Of The Roses to think about. Pikes and axes thick with blood. Men had died in the fields fighting for their county, and there were a few bottles flying without much chance of contact, a lot of shouting, the sound of breaking glass, and then it was all over and it was more than Leeds against Man U. Will would ask the Leeds man if they saw him again. Get some details.
It was like they didn’t belong. Just spectators watching someone else’s battle. But they didn’t give a toss either way, with a gentle breeze blowing in off the sea, quite nice really, and Balti said Ireland was straight ahead over the horizon somewhere in the dark, and McDonald would be on his way home for a bit of rehabilitation in his Belfast slum soon enough. That was the best place for him with ten pounds of semtex shoved up his arse.
The Blackpool Tower was in front of them now, and there were crowds of people everywhere, a bingo town full of grannies. There was a bit of crumpet about as well, but so many Jocks you could’ve been in Scotland. Big extended families wandering around loaded up with donuts and the smell of chips in the air mixing with candyfloss.
They saw a decent-looking pub that was packed solid and were soon inside on their way to the bar, right off the Bollock Brothers chatting up a couple of birds, blondes done up very nice thank you with their tits stuffed tight inside boob tubes, heavily painted faces and sparkling eyes. They were friendly with it. Well fucking friendly. Drinking pints. And the rest of the lads were talking with some of King Billy’s boys when Carter mentioned Chelsea, and the Rangers boys were sound enough, well fucking pissed, singing some battle hymn telling Will how much they hated the Fenian bastards, how Bobby Sands could do with a chicken supper, the dirty Fenian fucker, and Will wasn’t going to argue the toss. He wouldn’t get involved in a discussion on Ireland because he didn’t fancy getting glassed.
A DJ sat in the shadows at the far end of the pub, togged-up bouncers on the door, a view through the bodies and glass to the sea, and Will was gagging for a decent drink, the same as Mango who was smiling and looking all laid back. Even Carter didn’t seem that bothered about pulling, and the time was going fast, getting stuck into the lager-lager-lager, and before they knew it the fat northern cunt beh
ind the bar was calling last orders, just like the fat London cunts at home, no fucking difference. They were tired, rolling back to the hotel with the two birds who’d linked arms with Balti and Harry on the seafront, drunks wandering around talking to themselves, people shouting and laughing at each other, laughing at two drunks trying to smack each other but swinging and missing and ending up on the ground.
They piled into the hotel bar lining up the drinks and Carter was apologising to Terry behind the counter for that game when Newcastle got thumped 6–0 at the Bridge and every time McDermott went near Gate 13 they’d been offering him ciggies and it was like Gazza and the Mars bars, winding them up, they earnt a decent enough wage to suffer a bit of verbal, and Terry said not to worry, it was all part of the game, he’d laughed all the way to the bank, and they were back by the window, same table, getting stuck into the drink, and then Mango asked where the Bollock Brothers had gone and the lads realised they’d pissed off upstairs.
Who cared anyway? That geezer from Leeds had appeared and was winding them up, and his wife was howling, red in the face, such a dark red that Will thought she was ready to pop but kept quiet, at least he hoped he did, he could feel the hangover coming, and above them Balti was turning off the light, with the door locked—Will would have to sleep next door—and he took off his trainers and jeans and was between the sheets and he could hear Harry and the other girl whispering in the next bed.
The bird Balti was with had his knob out and he hoped he wasn’t too pissed, too drunk to fuck, so he ran his hand back from her pants and made sure, the old confidence returning, and then he hoped he wasn’t going to blurt before he got inside because it had been a long time, too fucking long, and he had her pants down, bra off, naked now except for her stockings, and Harry was taking his time, his head spinning round and round the mulberry bush and the same ideas were there, and then he heard his mate in the next bed banging away and the bird moaning, the cunt didn’t waste any time, and the girl was whispering about using a rubber, just my fucking luck to pull a sensible bird, and then she was sitting up and the curtains were so thick they couldn’t see a thing, so she turned on the lamp by the bed and the first thing Harry saw was Balti on the job.