by John King
—I went round Andy Marshall’s this morning, Mark says, handing his ticket to an old boy behind bars on the turnstile. Haven’t seen Marshall for a good two years, but he lives near that bird in Wandsworth and I thought I’d find out if he’s still alive. He’s got a beard and long hair. Right hippy. Sits in front of the telly watching old Arnold Schwarzenegger videos. Thinks he’s half man, half machine. He’s just started lifting weights. Says it kills time as he waits for a job to come along. He wants to join a gun club and kill twenty chinks with one bullet.
—They should sign him on and send him off somewhere, Rod says, leading up the steps, weaving through railings. Marshall was a Special Constable. Wanted to become a copper but they wouldn’t have him. Even the old bill have standards. He’s the kind of bloke who sits in front of the box all day and then goes out and does a Hungerford. Imagine that cunt with a shooter down Wandsworth shopping centre. Just walk through the crowd and think he was Arnie on patrol in the jungle.
We’re at the top of the steps leading into the West Stand. It’s a clear day and I turn and look over the surrounding scene. It’s a good view and I remember a clear evening with a gold sunset and West Ham turning up outside the North Stand. We were already inside the ground when it went off along the Fulham Road. I can hear the police megaphones. Visitors keep moving. North Stand to the right. Everyone stay on the pavement. There’s more vans coming along the road and coppers giving it the big one.
Cameras are busy recording life. Videotape rolls and faces are saved for future reference. We go for a slash and wait for space. The bogs are full of piss and this is the kind of Saturday you have a few pints and don’t worry about aggravation. We show our tickets to a wanky-looking steward and are in the West Stand. We look towards the visitors to see how many have turned up. There’s a few hundred Coventry in small groups. There’s empty spaces all around the ground, though there’s still time before kick-off. But the price they charge nowdays what do they fucking expect?
We’re in our seats and all the usual faces are here. Harris sits two rows in front flanked by a couple of evil cunts I know from sight, sipping a cup of tea. He isn’t a big bloke but gets things organised and is always looking for trouble. That’s all you need. With a bit of common sense and the confidence to make people believe you know best you can impress. The old bill know his face and he’s been done a few times, but he manages to escape the kind of sentences the lads who got done in Operation Own Goal were lumbered with. He’s careful and learns from past mistakes.
The camera under the roof records our sins and it’s only kids and pissheads who step out of line. You’ve got to be daft to do anything else, though occasionally things boil over and then the papers are clocking faces and running witch-hunts. It’s hard to believe there was a time when you could go on the rampage inside the ground and get away with it week after week. Like the Chelsea North Stand when I was a kid. They steamed in every chance they got. Went mental regular as clockwork. Millwall and West Ham in the Shed and the whole place went up.
—That bird last night, says Mark, her head’s banging into the wall and she’s telling me to go deeper. What does she think I am? Some kind of marathon man? A deep sea diver? It’s not the fucking Olympics. If she wants that kind of treatment she should go and see Marshall. The bloke’s in need of some serious sex. If he doesn’t do the business soon he’s going to start killing.
—He used to have a big porn collection. Rod’s thinking. Had over a hundred films. Used to sit there for hours after the pub closed with the pause button at his fingertips freezing the action. I mean, I like a dirty film like anyone else, but after a while you get sick of watching other people doing what you should be doing yourself. The more films he watched the more he bought. It was all Dutch and German stuff. Hardcore you’d get done for bringing through Dover. Customs only wants to watch the hard stuff.
It was when he lived in Hammersmith. We know him from school. He was an upright kid. Looked like a miniature bank clerk. I ended up round there with some of the lads one time and he puts this film on of a girl getting gang-banged by a bunch of squaddies. No sound, just classical music, Mozart or Beethoven, someone like that. Some dead German cunt. The girl was trying to fight them off. There were four or five blokes taking turns as their mates held her down. I was into my chow mein takeaway and wasn’t interested in that kind of sex, but Marshall was laughing. They couldn’t act but the girl was alright. It made me feel a bit sick though, seeing some bird getting treated like that.
When it was over Marshall said it was the real item. Paid a hundred quid for the video. It was made in Aldershot. Authentic rape. Authentic squaddies. The lads just laughed, but you knew they didn’t like that kind of scene. You have to be a fucking nonce to get off watching rape. Just sitting there with your camera trained on the barmy army waiting for them to do the business. Get them going, pay your money and then send them down for ten years. I made my excuses and pissed off. After I left John Nicholson threatened him with a knife from the kitchen. Kicked him in the head and told him he was a cunt. Then he put a chair through the screen. Only honest bloke there.
The tannoy pumps out Liquidator, the Sixties Chelsea anthem from Harry J And The All Stars. It’s a ska classic and belongs to the skinhead era. Next up is Blue Is The Colour with Peter Osgood and Alan Hudson in the Top Of The Pops studios. The teams come onto the pitch and we stand to clap. The players wave and the pre-match kickabout begins. The crowd looks a bit more respectable. Men coming in from the pubs. A zigger zagger chant starts up, echoing through the West Stand, video camera capturing the image. Coppers sit at the controls. The pitch is a brilliant patch of green catching the sun. Harris laughs with Billy Bright. Mark reads his programme moaning about the price, while Rod skins up and adds a bit of blow. I sit back and wait for the captains to toss up and the game to start. Coventry get a bit of a chant going and half the West Stand looks their way. We raise our right hands and give them the wanker sign.
DOING A RUNNER
You’re well fucking pissed on ten pints of lager, with a decent jukebox and a bit of fluff knocking about, mostly slappers in mini skirts, black cotton wedged up their arses, just what you want after a few sherbets, wide-boys and tarts with wide open thighs, spread easier than margarine, telling them to wait a while because you’re drinking with your mates, downing the cheapest lager like nobody’s business. Eight, then nine o’clock, evening’s steaming past, end of the week job with two days off, and the lager tastes like heaven. Cold and sharp against the throat. Chemical bubbles brewed quickly for lager louts. All the lads on the piss talking bollocks, nothing you’ll remember tomorrow, and the music’s cranked up so you have to shout, but the electric beat is what counts, gives the place a bit of rhythm, drowns out the need to think about what you’re saying and means you don’t have to make any sense, just keep talking, moving the tongue, and the more pissed you get the more you find the words in the brain aren’t what come out through your mouth. You could be saying anything. Fuck it. Drop your money in the slot, press a button, flick the pages and choose your songs. Dead simple. A fucking idiot could do it without thinking. But it’s hard getting in at the bar if you’re not half cut, fucking difficult, but it’s easier now because you’re pissed and don’t give a toss about fine edges, just blunder your way through, push and stumble towards the barmaid with big tits bursting through her blouse, pouting painted lips and a bit of a stroppy method, knows she can afford to act like she’s something special because there’s enough pissed-up blokes looking her way, fucking loves it, time of her life, and you tell her you’ll have two of those darling, you with the blouse at breaking point, tits knocking forward, showing your wares getting the hormones going, and if some cunt doesn’t like you piling through they shut up anyway because you’re pissed, but mostly because you’re with a tidy mob of blokes who’ll put a man through a plate glass window for looking at you and your mates. No fucking strop steaming into ten o’clock, evening flashing by, all those faces
under the lights, blending together, skin tone changing with each pint, waxwork reflections and suddenly it’s last orders, always comes around too fast after ten, white faces melting through the smoke haze, the smell of perfume in the air, a sweet smell, but you want another drink, getting double rounds in, a couple of pints to knock back, and the cunt behind the bar wants you out of his pub sharpish now he’s got your money and the till is loaded, he wants to fuck off upstairs and watch his new surround-sound TV, that till full of cash, your cash, you should rob the place, smash a few windows, that slag of a barmaid on all fours getting shagged by the landlord’s dog. Lot of laughter from the lads imagining the picture. And the landlord’s got a Rottweiler out back so drink up lads, drink up gentlemen PLEASE. Otherwise you’ll get the dog set on you, that’s what he really means, nice little warm up for the mutt before he slips the woman a canine length. And in the street it’s cold and you’re hungry, fucking starving because the drink gets you going and it’s only poor cunts go down the burger van to stand in the drizzle, it’s a long hike for a burger made from cat food and you’re all agreed, it’s straight down the curry house. Can taste it now. Red velvet wallpaper and Ravi Shankar sitting out back tuning up the sitar, and though you don’t admit anything you know it’s a fucking good sound, magic music when you’re pissed and staring into the pilau rice doing an acid turn in front of you, buried deep in the plate, multi-coloured spin washable, the original bangra sound without the electrics, just the old rishi on a mountain top job stroking passing tigers. Like fuck. But you’ve got to get inside the curry house first so you have a few minutes making the effort, acting sober though the waiter giving you the table isn’t convinced, you all know the real state of affairs, the cunt must be able to smell the hops or whatever shit they put in your drink nowdays, who knows, imagine that, not having a fucking clue what you’re drinking, same goes for your food down the supermarket, it’s dangerous thinking about that kind of thing, but so fucking what anyway. Money’s money and the waiter knows your face. It’s the easy option. Better than an argument and there’s hard-earned cash into the bargain. The curry boys can’t lose. You’re wedged in ordering a stack of papadoms and six pints of lager, and you know it’s going to be Carlsberg, that it’s always Carlsberg in curry houses, that it tastes wrong if your Indian isn’t accompanied by a bit of Danishhhhhhhhh. Maybe it’s down to bulk buying or something. Brewed by Danes for Indians. Fucking right. What else does Europe give you apart from a few dodgy lagers? Not like the Commonwealth, shunted out the back door, you’d rather have a curry any day of the week, none of that French muck the rich bastards eat, fucking wankers, if they want to be French fuck off to France. What have the frogs ever done for the English? The cunts come over in 1066, stick an arrow in someone’s head and build a load of stone churches. Then they make the rich cunts speak their language while the rest of us are told our words are filth. Fuck off. And they fucking sided with the Germans when they rolled into France in the war. No bollocks those cunts. No fucking pride. Hang on to the curries and JA sound systems. But the place is packed and you’re lucky to get in because there’s blokes being turned away a few minutes later, mobs of geezers, not taking it well, stroppy cunts can see there’s no tables left, too fucking bad pal, and there’s four birds at the next table, right old slags by the look of them, fit bodies a couple of them but fucked-up faces, all shagged out, cunts like the Mersey Tunnel most likely, what was that Stranglers song, something about making love to the Mersey Tunnel, you can’t remember, kiddie memories, fuck it. They’re pissed-up looking over and you start giving it the classic chat while you’re waiting for the papadoms and they’re dopey cunts, know fuck all about curries, just looking for a length, then they get their kormas delivered, and what’s the fucking point coming for a feed if you go and order a korma? Should be embarrassed with a full tandoori menu in front of them, but that’s women for you, and they’re going on about it being hot, how the fuck can it be when it’s full of yoghurt or whatever the bastards put in it, probably spunk, have to laugh, telling them the korma’s full of it, a line of waiters wanking in the sauce. The birds look disgusted but only halfway, and then the lager arrives and you’re straight into the papadoms giving the main order, bhajees all round, digging into the chutneys, lime pickle and mango, chopped onions, fucking beautiful, the business, talking with your mouths full, then the various vindaloos and Madras dishes, Bombay potatoes and bhindi bhajee side orders, ladies fingers wrapped round your knob, but the girls next door are no ladies, no chance, and you order a stack of nans, half plain, half Peshwari, then the waiter fucks off and your mouth’s like a dam. Peshwari nans, fucking beautiful, and you’re telling the lads about your Irish mate who went overland down through Iran and Iraq, hard trip through the desert but good people, sound people, and he ended up in Peshwar during the war against the Russians, and the town was the base for the Mujaheddin, fucking hard cunts, a real wicked place on the North West Frontier, the Golden Crescent, and he spent a couple of weeks there out of his head. Some cunt says he should watch it because those Muslims would have him, specially the desert warriors, they have no qualms about shit-stabbing a bloke, and your mate said they were good people, no hassle. Still, you don’t want to take chances. Not in Pakistan anyway. And the slappers next door are giving it the big one, always some mouthy cow leading the charge, some body-builder slag with a wet pair of knickers, always those birds have the biggest mouths to go with the biggest leg muscles, telling you they’re putting it on a plate for you, eat your curry lads and come back with us for a drink, for a fucking shag you mean, but you’re hungry, really fucking hungry, and you just want them to shut up so you can concentrate on the food. Either that or fuck off girls, go and pick up some other cunt. Doesn’t matter who it is, but the food’s important, watching the trolleys get rolled out, tandoori chicken sizzling for the mob a couple of tables along, look like off-duty squaddies, shaved heads and straight clothes, smart wearing blazers, none of the crisp Fred Perry gear, must be soldiers, can’t read the words on the blazers but know it’s some kind of crest, fuck them, you’re not getting involved because the army’s always on the lookout for a bit of aggravation, a couple of hours out of the garrison and the cunts need a ruck, it’s essential to their training, Queen and country and kick some cunt’s head in, basic training is what decides a soldier. Shut the old brain down and learn to obey orders because the Eton wankers in charge know best, just do as you’re told, follow orders, and one of the lads says his great granddad was a soldier on the North West Frontier, up on the Khyber Pass, must have been fucking mental and you wonder what it was like being a soldier in the Empire, keeping the Commonwealth together, and the old boy saw a donkey one time loaded down with bricks or whatever, and the poor fucker was breathing fit for a heart attack, about ready to explode, and the soldier called the man over, the cunt who owned the donkey, and cut the rope holding the bricks and told him not to overload his donkey, because the English love their animals. No fucking cruelty mate. Or not much anyway, except for the scum who burn cats and drop dogs off high rise blocks. Cunts you read about in the paper but never see, because if you did you’d be straight in and break their fucking necks. Cunts. Just eat your curry when it comes and the lager’s sliding down a treat, the onion bhajees arriving with a sweet mint sauce, salad arranged around the sides. There’s a slice of tomato, bit of cucumber and lettuce. You get stuck into the bhajees, order more lager from the waiter, call him Abdul, he’s Abdul and you’re Mustafa Curry, bloke just laughs because he’s heard it all before, every fucking time. You’re starving and there’s four prats to the other side, away from the birds, two couples with their food positioned in front of them, and you’re looking all envious, then the big cunt with you, always the big bastard who’s one hundred per cent beer monster, gut spilling over the front of his jeans, old lager drenching his hair, the kind of bloke who’ll never get married or have kids, you know the one, he’s fucking famous and you meet him all over the country, he’s everywhe
re you go whether it’s a city centre or village high street, wherever you go he’s there after the pub’s kick out, rain or shine, well, the big cunt leans over and sticks his hand in the middle of the nearest plate, pilau rice and dhansak, and you laugh and feel for the bloke who owns the curry, because he’s not exactly Henry Cooper, splash it all over, or Frank Bruno, first of a new generation of black boxing heroes, and the prat can’t do a thing about it, just hope his woman isn’t the kind who demands honour gets defended, one of those cunts who think they’re the fairer sex and should be fought over, fucking slags, and he takes it well when the big cunt leans over with a smile on his face, stopping with his hand in the bloke’s food, saying YOU DON’T MIND DO YOU MATE? like he’s worried, really worried he’s gone too far, and maybe he is because the messages are getting delayed on the brain-to-tongue trip, but you know he could go a lot further, fucking headcase that bloke after a few sherbets over the top, but he’s your mate and you forgive most things if it’s your mate. Poor bloke just laughs a bit and shakes his head and the fat bastard lifts a hand full of Persia and stuff it in his mouth. You’re so fucking pissed you’re cracking up, start pissing yourself but keep control of the old bladder, mind shifting round all the time, watching the squaddies getting in a bit of an argument with some long-haired cunts at another table, trendy wankers or something, you don’t mind a bit of dub-smart drumming and synthetic magic but you don’t fucking dress up for it, slags to one side moaning the fucking korma’s too hot, stupid cows, forgetting about the happy foursome with the wrecked dhansak. The onions in the bhajees are harsh as fuck and you wash them down with more lager, feeling a glow inside, get up to go for a piss, stumbling along between the tables, the racket must be turned up but you don’t register because you’ve drunk your fair share. The door slams and cuts off the Ravi Shankar tunes, fucking tunes mate, Toon Army, geordie bastards, and you unzip and rock forward against the wall, piss bouncing against the marble, solid marble like the Taj Mahal, that picture above your table sticks in the mind, real love story behind that, the waiter told you once, a few months ago when you weren’t so pissed, and the marble’s being destroyed by pollution and the Government wants to close down the factories in the area, save the Taj Mahal, fucking beautiful building, but more for the tourist money it brings in, and the factory owners say they’ll bomb the cunt, jobs are jobs, fucking right they are, and you think of your head leaning against the wall and how some sick cunts wipe their snot there when they’re pissing, you’ve just washed it as well, rock back too fast and nearly fall over. What a way to die. Back of the skull cracked by a sink. Sad. You zip up and wash your hands and wipe your head, squaddie coming through the door, doesn’t fucking see you, walks like a prize bull, fucking animal, Stone Age man in slacks and blazer, hard cunt you wouldn’t fuck about with unless there were some very good odds, ten onto one. You’ve grown up in the Slough-Windsor area and seen plenty of aggravation with the army, fucking wankers, and this bloke’s not exactly a raw recruit, more like a career soldier, well into his thirties and you reckon he’s killed his way round the globe, cutting throats in the Falklands and shooting his way through Northern Ireland, all over the shop, and you get out of the bog because it smells like fucking death in there, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of the bloke, by standing too close or sneezing, breathing too heavy, it just needs an excuse. You’re back at your table and the waiter’s come along and taken away the plates, put out the heaters, and you down a third of a pint chatting with the tarts next door who’ve finished their meals and ordered ice cream, congealed spunk this one lads, ha fucking ha, telling you to hurry up with your food, they’re waiting, and you tell them they can wait as long as they want, they just laugh, playing hard to get are you lads, the mouthy slapper, real pig meat, though the bird next to her’s nice enough, jet black hair and massive eyes, but when she opens her mouth the teeth are rotten, fucking horrible, you don’t want that wrapped around the old anti-tank missile do you, and then the main meal arrives and they can fuck off home for all you care. It’s the business this and you’re getting stuck in, everyone sobering up fast, sharing fair and square, and the two couples next to you ask for the bill and are on their way, and you’re lifting the first few forkfuls into your mouths, heaven, fucking beautiful, the meaning of life, Ravi Shankar going into one in the background, the strings vibrating like they’re about to snap, listen to the fucking music you silly cunts, real music, none of your mechanised bollocks you long-haired cunts, did you say that, the squaddies laughing and the long hairs looking round, don’t know where it came from, the birds are laughing too, one of them leaning over rubbing your leg. You tell her to leave it out, all good things come to the slag who waits, and they don’t like that, what do you think, we are, common or something, fucking right darling, flat out on the parade ground with a queue of squaddies in line like that video you heard about, that’s not nice boys, but so what anyway, fuck them, and the couples have gone leaving their money on the plate with the bill and one of your mates leans over and pockets the lot. You see what’s what and keep the momentum, cracking a joke with the slapper acting aggrieved, they haven’t seen a thing and neither has the waiter who comes over, looks round, asks his brother, then one of them goes to the bar, they’re confused, talking among themselves, arguing, Abdul going outside looking up and down the street. There must be some kind of mistake, decent citizens don’t do runners, not respectable little men and women in their best clothes who go to the theatre and have nice jobs in finance. Not those cunts. And you’re trying not to laugh because this is what it’s all about, all that wealth distribution bollocks, this is what makes the country tick, petty thieving and sharing the cost, money safely tucked away, bunking the trains and being ready to pocket the difference. You order more Carlsberg and it’s there in front of you, nice white head, the Danes know what they’re doing, most of the time, like when they won the football and voted no on Europe, but then they fell apart on the pitch and were forced into another vote, and said yes, silly cunts. Just had enough of the old pressure politics and let the businessmen have their way. You’re washing the food down, throat burning, magic this, and there’s a bit of a commotion as the squaddies and a mixture of acid casualties and other lads start fighting. It’s a right fucking grin because it’s all slow motion and the bull soldier tries to smack someone in the face but he’s too pissed and the other cunt jumps up on a chair and kicks him in the chest, more like a push with the bottom of his trainer, and the bastard falls back through a table letting the regiment down, then a couple more soldiers in casuals who aren’t as pissed come over and the whole lot of them are into it, waiters running behind the bar taking cover, you wave to Abdul and he half smiles, not sure this time, what a way to make a living, and the phone will be going for the old bill. You’re sitting there watching the show, everything moving out of time, punches missing their mark, talk about a drunken brawl, like something from a Carry On film, Carry On Steaming, you can’t remember the name, but it was that Western, Carry On Cowboy, something like that, with Sid James, the great British hero, a fucking Aussie or South African one of the lads reckoned, part of the Commonwealth, a bunch of convicts shipped off for fuck all, raped on the ships, not a bad job if you’re a sailor, it’s not fucking funny though if you’re one of the women or children. And your meal’s nearly finished and you’ve only got half a pint left, lift the glass to the lips and there’s a table emptying across the room, all the waiters out back now, the bar end of the restaurant a big fucking bundle, playground fight, hasn’t got that nasty edge yet, not vicious or anything, just because they’re all so fucking pissed, though it won’t be long before someone gets hurt, and more people are joining in, a little cunt who must think he’s a karate master or something, chopping some scruffy pissed cunt, his bird jumping on the bloke’s back, ski pants and legs wrapped round his body, cunt wedged up against the base of his spine, like something from those karma sutra cartoons, smacking his head with her fists, fucking lovely,
real laugh, and the old bill won’t be long and maybe she’ll get a cell all to herself. Fucking wicked. Rakes her nails down the man’s cheeks. Long red slashes. You wipe your mouth and the whole table’s up on its feet heading for the door, a right fucking laugh, and the cunt with the nicked money says next time lads, next time we pay nothing, though you’re paying nothing now, but it’s always good to have something to look forward to, something that’s planned, you’ve got to take your chances in life, don’t ignore the opportunities when they crop up as you don’t get that many, every little helps, the small victories are important because that’s your lot, and the half of the curry house not involved in the punch-up is doing a runner, eighty per cent anyway, a few dozy cunts too honest or thick, what’s the difference anyway, they stay where they are, but you’re outside in the street and the lot of you are doing a runner, saving your hard-earned cash for the future, out in the evening air shooting round the corner, out of sight. You’re pissed and running and soon you’re fucked, leaning against a wall, panting, breath gone, laughing and wheezing at the same time, and when you catch your breath you know you’ve been a bit silly, that you’ll have to tread careful next time you go to that particular curry house, maybe leave it a few months, go back when you’re pissed and think you won’t be recognised, but fuck it anyway, and there’s always one cunt who thinks with his knob and wants to fuck the girls at the next table. Did anyone see where they went, did they do a runner as well, who fucking knows, who fucking cares, and a couple of the lads piss off home with the sound of sirens in their ears as three cars flash past and you shout that they’ve got a major disturbance to worry about. They don’t give a fuck about a bunch of wankers who’ve just done a runner, they’re interested in the ruck demolishing the curry house. Problem is, the running got your head straightened out a bit and the curry’s soaking up the drink, you’ve got your breath back and you decide to take a wander, should have got it lined up with those slags at the next table, so you start walking back in the general direction, get near and see the wagons pulled up outside, blue lights pulsing like bedlam, setting off epileptic fits, fucking video games, playing police and thieves nicking a load of blokes, some short-haired figure, not a squaddie because he’s not thick enough, he hits a copper and the bastards have him on the ground and start kicking the shit out of him. Battered to fuck outside the tandoori by the old bill. The waiters are looking through the window. The English are a race of barbarians and the Indians get their revenge, like the time down that curry house at the seaside, well pissed, and the bastards only laced the fucking meal, you thought it tasted a bit iffy at the time but put it down to the heavy water beer up north. You remember it well, have to laugh, you deserved it trying to throw a table full of food across the room, and you got the train back early the next morning shitting fluid the whole way. If you ever go back the lads are going to wreck the place, put a fire bomb through the window because your arses were burning all the way back to London, talk about the big smoke, then the tube home, but credit where credit’s due, those northern waiters were smart. And you’re no fool either saying enough’s enough, turn and take another road, no point being spotted, making it easy for the old bill, more cars steaming past, looks like World War Three has broken out, Islamic fundamentalists on the rampage, more like Christian militiamen. You walk down by the station and there’s two of the tarts from the curry house by the taxi rank trying to pull soldiers, three blokes from the tandoori, one the white buffalo soldier from the bogs, they must’ve done a runner as well, woke up halfway through battering some cunt and realised they were in trouble and got out before the old bill turned up. And the mouthy slag is giving them some chat, but the blokes are too pissed, you can see it in their faces, jaws hanging down dribbling over their clothes, no chance, rough bastards who’d give the girls a hard time of it, but they’re going to be suffering brewer’s droop soon as they get back, and the only hard things left will be their fists when the girls start laughing, pissed, too much vodka, too much something, but they work it out and they see you coming and blow the squaddies out, leave them for the taxis and come over and it’s getting late and a bit cold and they’re inviting you back for a drink, a shag, whatever you want lads, bit of music, don’t have anything but shitty sounds, nothing worth listening to, who cares, it’s somewhere to go, something to do, better than nothing, just standing around idle. But the squaddies are up and moving and there’s a bit of an argument about nothing in particular, the sound of a police car nearby, they say you can have the women boys, you’re welcome to them, and the squaddies return to the rank, jump in a taxi, fuck off back to barracks or wherever they came from, and you’re standing against the wall, listening to the siren cut off, knowing you’ve got off lucky. The two birds are telling you not to worry about it, those squaddies mate, those fucking squaddies are bred to kill, trained to inflict brain damage and other serious injury and the mouthy slag is looking a bit more human now, her perfume is strong and doesn’t let her down, makes her warm and female, but she’s a pig, you know that, a pig in knickers, though her mate’s not bad, but those rotten teeth, rough as fuck both of them, be honest about it, you’re well pissed, and your best mate has just walked off in disgust and left you to fend for yourself, you can’t believe it, the smell of perfume and warm breath, wet pants and a beer gut, rotting teeth and a dose of the crabs, you’ve got to make a stand, show a bit of class, all you’ve got to do is say no, but you know you’re going to hate yourself in the morning.