The Football Factory

by John King

  —Course I do. Thought she moved away. Ireland or Scotland. Something like that. Somewhere with their own language and drinking laws.

  —She did. Married an Irish bloke, but it didn’t work out. Gave it a couple of years then packed her bags and came back here. My old girl knows her old girl. That’s how we met up. By accident really, or maybe it was fate. One of the two.

  I remember Lisa when we were teenagers. She was a good-looking girl and I wonder what she’s like now. Black hair and Slav features. Her old girl was from Bucharest and came over in the war. Hated communists if I remember right. There again, who doesn’t? But the woman was always on about them whenever I saw her. Fucking hated yids as well. Them and the gypos. Well over the top on the subject. Lisa was all right, even if she was a bit laid-back and into hippy drugs when everyone else was speeding. Makes sense her marrying FA Henry. He’s a sound bloke and has never done too well with the birds. As well as the FA Cup ears he’s Fuck All Henry. Women like him well enough, but most of them are looking for a quick length, not Henry’s thoughts on creation.

  —Where you having the stag night then, Henry? Let us know and we’ll come along. Give you a good send off before you disappear into the twilight world of sweat and tears and supermarket trolleys.

  —I’m not having one, he says, looking a bit nervous. I’m not bothering with all that. I’ve never been into those sort of things. Rod’s was enough for me.

  Rod has the decency to blush, and he should as well, the dirty cunt. Speeding through space like the Starship Enterprise at the time, hitting warp factor 700. A hall off the Fulham Palace Road and there was this stripper on stage. Dirty-looking tart with a fit body and I don’t know what the fuck she was stripping for because she could have done better for herself. Real cracker. She got Rod up there on stage with her and he was out of his tree. Let her strip him stark bollock naked, spread him out on a table and shag his brains out. Mark had a camcorder and Rod was shitting it long after the wedding came and went. It was surprising he managed to get it up he’d drunk so much, but he says it was the drugs.

  —It was enough for Rod too, wasn’t it mate, and I slap him on the back and he’s looking a bit uneasy. Sometimes you do things under the influence you just don’t want to admit.

  —Don’t remind me. I remember it well enough but it was like someone else on that table. Like I was in the operating theatre getting my balls stretched or something. That bird was leaning over telling me she’d had five Taffies on stage in Cardiff the week before. Five of the bastards for a hundred quid. Talk about bulk buying. Told me I had to compete with five Cardiff City leeks. That she was full of Welsh spunk and wanted to see what a cockney could do. It got me going at the time, but looking back I must’ve been mad to dip my winkie in that old slapper.

  —I don’t want that kind of thing happening to me. Henry’s face is bright red, his ears a very dark purple. Looks like he’s about to explode. Suspect device primed to go off with a two-minute warning.

  —You’re right Henry. That’s what tradition does for you. But what about Lisa? Hen nights are worse than that. Birds get together and they go fucking mental.

  —Lisa’s not interested either. She’s not that sort of girl.

  Don’t believe it mate, but you can’t blame Henry, knowing how he runs his life. Rod let his standards slip and it wasn’t a pleasant sight watching one of your mates on the job. I felt sorry for Mandy more than anything. Mind you, she was probably up to no good on her night as well, so there you go. It all evens it self out in the end. You can’t trust anyone. Certainly not women. They’re at it like fucking rabbits then act all coy when you swear in front of them or turn up with a black eye. It’s a load of shit, but you’d be a miserable cunt if you didn’t hold out hope for people like Henry. Let him have his dreams and believe in love and romance. Suppose we all do deep down if we thought about being honest.

  —Here you go Tom. Get that down your throat and give us a smile you sad cunt.

  Mark hands me a pint. I smell the familiar football mix of plastic and lager. The bubbles feel good down my throat even though it’s cold outside. It’s a depressing evening and the place is dead. Couldn’t be more different than Tottenham. Days like that don’t come along very often. Still, you have to make the effort. Just like the Rochdale fan walking into the pub. Must be well into his fifties and wears a scarf round his neck. A few of the lads look his way but he’s an old geezer and harmless. Why fuck about with civilians? You just make yourself look a cunt if you start having a go at old men and kids. Leave that to the yids and scousers. They go back to their drinks and conversation. The Rochdale man buys a pint and stands nearby. I wonder if he’s carrying a wooden rattle. Probably an engine driver or machine minder. Looks like something out of the fifties. Thick hands and steel under the nails. Northerners are all the same. Dopey cunts the lot of them. I tell him he’ll get a decent pint now he’s in London.

  —Not bloody likely son. He appreciates the humour.

  Northerners are always moaning about the beer in London. They reckon it’s piss. Expensive piss. The cunts up north don’t believe it’s a proper pint unless it’s got an inch of froth on top. Can’t handle that kind of head myself. They’re right about the prices though. It’s a scandal what they charge for drink down here. We’re getting shafted left, right and centre, but there’s nothing you can do. You just have to get on with it, otherwise you’ll end up doing fuck all because you’re looking at the price tag the whole time. It’s not fair, any of it, but that’s life. You work hard and the more you earn the more worthless cunts are after you for a slice of your wage packet. Mouthy wankers in suits acting big, but when it comes down to it they’re bottle merchants to a man. Get rid of their suits and give them the options and they’d disappear up their own over-mortgaged arseholes.

  —We’ve got a good team coming through, lads. We might beat you tonight. How do you fancy a trip to Rochdale if we get a draw? Chelsea won’t like a replay.

  —I’d rather we had an away game against you lot than play at home, says Rod. Gives us a chance to get out and about. It’s more of a laugh. Small town like Rochdale would suit Chelsea fine.

  —Same here. I like going away. I’d go watch England, but it’s all young hooligans who go overseas and spoil things for the rest of us.

  —You shouldn’t believe what you read in the papers. Those blokes writing the stories know fuck all. They’re too busy getting pissed to leave their hotel bars and discover the truth. Too scared. If you don’t want to get involved, you don’t have to.

  —True enough, but you can’t trust the Frogs or dagos, or whoever else you’re playing. You pay for the sins of others.

  My glass is empty. The others have hardly started. I go to the bar and get a refill, remember I need to wash my hands and go to the bogs. The water’s freezing but I get rid of the shit. There’s no towels but at least the print has been washed off. I’ve never seen a decent pub toilet. It’s all shit, piss and graffiti. Not surprising really. The bowls have flooded so I stand in the cubicle and undo my buttons. My bladder burns as I piss and splash the plastic seat. Fuck it up for the next cunt. There’s a bog brush with white bristles. It’s got Ken Bates written in felt pen along the handle, a face drawn at the end. I button up and go back to the bar. The Rochdale fan’s already pissed off to the ground. Should have stayed for another drink. I was even planning to buy the old sod one. There’s not exactly going to be a crush getting in.

  —Tom was on the pull Saturday night after Tottenham, weren’t you mate? Rod’s filling Henry in on the details. Aims to get his story in and whitewash the memory of his stag night. He can do what he wants. It was him on that stage performing for the lads, not me.

  —We had a skinful in the Unity and went to this party in Hounslow. The three of us got a taxi down with this nigger playing jungle shit all the way. Tom was hanging out the window puking down the side of the car, but he couldn’t say anything otherwise he’d have been on for a kicking.
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br />   —I don’t remember Tom doing that, Mark says, trying to picture our journey down the Great West Road. Remember that fucking jungle nonsense though.

  I can see bits as Rod tells the story. It’s those few pints over the top, when you steam into the shorts like there’s no tomorrow morning and next thing you’re fucked for the duration. I was leaning out the window watching the road thinking we must be near Griffin Park and my guts were churning. Didn’t need to hold back because my head was outside picking up the sweet smell of Brentford. Splattered the back wing. All the time there’s some tape playing and it was making me think of Nelson Mandela with a spliff wedged in his mouth, for some strange reason, and of how the last thing I wanted now was my lungs full of poison and the brain mixed up. But once you clear your guts you’re okay and ready to live again. The bloke driving wasn’t too impressed but so what? It’s all part of the service. What does he expect?

  —We get to this party and there’s this geezer on the door telling us we can’t come in without bringing some drink, but we’re not bothered with the small print and Tom’s lining up to take the cunt out. He’s too far gone to do the job properly and it’s all getting a bit iffy. It’s about to go off with the bloke on the door and a load of his mates when the bird having the party turns up and we’re in without hassle.

  There was fuck all drink around but I got hold of a couple of cans from somewhere and at least there was a bit of talent knocking about. Makes a change. Some places you end up it’s full of pissed-up wide-boys, which is okay because you can wind someone up and give him a hiding, but it’s not the same if you’ve been steaming yids all day. It works both ways. Either pull a tart and fuck the arse off her or fuck up some arrogant pisshead with a kick in the bollocks. The easier option is to get hold of an old slapper and give her a seeing to, specially after a good day out like Tottenham. Get in a ruck in a house when you’re pissed and chances are you’ll be on someone else’s manor where the numbers are too heavy, or some bird’ll phone the old bill. Try doing a runner at two in the morning when you’re pissed. It’s a big mistake. Like we tried it once at this house in Acton. Rod nutted some bloke who was getting lippy and the whole place went up. We got a bit of a hiding and next thing there was the old bill kicking the door in and everyone scattering out back. We did a runner over the fence and down an alley. Nicked a vintage Rover and I’m driving to Hammersmith whizzing trying to keep my thoughts together. Mark was chewing a lump of dope mixed up with gum. Laughing like a psycho in the back seat. It was bad news all round.

  Nick a motor when you’re fifteen or thereabouts and go joyriding, fair enough, no-one’s going to think bad of you, but when you’re working you need to show a bit of class. Nobody wants to get done for thieving a car for a two-mile trip down the road. If you’re going to get nicked then get nicked for something major. Best off, don’t get done at all. I mean, we’ve all got previous, but not for petty theft, at least not since we left school. You have to move up the rankings. It’s all about respect.

  —We’re standing round listening to this fucking greatest hits shit, says Rod, going back to the party, and Mark’s giving this tall cunt the eye looking to start a bit of trouble and we’re telling him to leave it out because there’s loads of skirt walking around waiting for three Chelsea boys to give them a good servicing.

  —Fucking was as well, says Mark, waking up. All a bit young, but if they’re old enough to bleed then they’re old enough to shag.

  —Tom pulls straight off, says Rod, and this bird’s into him like nobody’s business. Wasn’t bad after a skinful and she’s pissed or stoned or both, fuck knows, and she’s giving him the come on so obvious even we could see it clear enough in the dark with this fucking android music breaking the eardrums.

  —They’re only talking a few minutes and they’re off. Cunt doesn’t even stop to say goodnight.

  This bird comes up all confident and asks am I the romantic type? I nod my head and say nothing. Never commit yourself. Never give a statement. Deny everything unless it’s going to serve the greater good. She looks alright and I can see the curve of her tits through a tight T-shirt she shouldn’t be wearing if she wants to keep them to herself. Purple with patterns and snug enough to show off her nipples. She’s made up like a fucking doll and her hair’s dyed a mix of red and brown, but she’ll do, can’t complain. Her body’s well put together and she’s in jeans, baggy round the waist showing the shape of her arse. Probably bought them a couple of sizes too big to make her look thinner. Says I look like a romantic and her breath stinks of fags and gin. I agree, remembering the romance of turning Tottenham over and seeing those coppers get a kicking. That’s pure romance, natural justice. Next thing we’re outside walking down the road. She shares a place with four other birds and it’s one of those big West London houses, rundown with bay windows to let in the light, overgrown front garden and peeling paint on the front door.

  There’s the sound of the telly in the front room and we have to walk quickly but quietly up the stairs. Her mate’s watching a video and is expecting in a couple of months. The bloke’s done a bunk. Gone to sea or prison. Can’t remember the specifics. The sound the video’s making it’s one of those love stories women like watching. A girl with a fat belly and box of chocolates wishing life was like it is in the videos. Not abortions and stitch-ups. We get up to this bird’s bedroom and she turns on a lamp by her bed. The place is a mess and the bed’s unmade. Pisses me off a bit, but if that’s how she wants to live it’s up to her. Can’t stand dirt and mess myself.

  I go for a piss because if there’s one thing worse than going home with your balls loaded it’s trying to shaft a bird when you need a slash. The bathroom’s a state with bras and pants hanging everywhere, a year’s supply of tampons in with a couple of hundred toothbrushes and almost as many empty containers. I go back into the bedroom and this bird’s only lying on the bed asleep. Didn’t take her long to forget what she was supposed to be doing. Right dead loss. I think about waking her up, but I’m knackered myself so just pull a blanket off the floor and go to sleep in a chair. The bed’s too small for two people unless one’s on top of the other and Tottenham has made me tired. A good day all in all and next morning I take a look at the woman and she seems like the sort who’ll want to talk and I’m not in the mood for idle chatter.

  I call a taxi and let myself out. It’s early, the streets are empty and I’m freezing. I feel dirty and my neck’s stiff like I’ve been strung up for murder. The cab arrives and I’m on my way home listening to some chirpy cunt on the radio telling me what a fucking great life it is and how we should appreciate the time we’ve got before God calls us back up to heaven. Cunt must be doing some serious drugs. What does he know?

  —Tom disappears and we don’t see him till Sunday night and he looks shagged, says Rod. Which he obviously has been. He only goes through her handbag and nicks twenty quid. Says she was so pissed she’d think she spent it, that he needed to get home and was skint. But he’s just a fucking tea leaf on the quiet.

  Rod and Mark like winding me up. Henry looks on a bit disgusted. Fucking idiot. This isn’t Alice tripping through Wonderland. There’s no magic bus back to Hammersmith at eight on a Sunday morning. It’s a long hike from Hounslow and I’m not in the mood. The bird looks like she’s got a bit of money so she won’t miss twenty pounds. Spent enough on the fucking make-up. Henry wants to grow up sometimes. What’s he going to do in a couple of years’ time when he finds his wife’s been shafting the plumber, dustman, local fire brigade? You have to be careful. Look after yourself. Fuck them before they fuck you.

  Henry drinks up and he’s off. I ask him what’s the hurry. Have another drink. But he wants to get down the ground. Rod goes to the bar. I tell Mark he doesn’t like being reminded of his stag night. Mark agrees. We should wind the cunt up a bit more. The image sticks in the head. Spread out on a slab and this old tart on top, tits hanging into Rod’s mouth. She was tasty all right, but rough as fuck. Mark says he
gave Rod the videotape in the end it was causing the bloke so much grief. Mandy would have done her nut if she’d found out. Of course, Mark would never have shown her, but Rod was worried and you can’t really blame him.

  I can just imagine the wedding reception. Mark’s had photos made and they get passed round with everyone pissed and Rod’s old man making his speech about his son turning out okay in the end. Has another drink and says he had some difficult times when his son was a teenager growing up, but that’s understandable because he’s a young lad getting to grips with the world, sowing his oats, no offence Mandy, moving into manhood, all the usual bollocks. The blushing bride who Rod met pissed one night and when they went home together he couldn’t get it up. Probably made them, that lack of a hard-on. Something special as the films say. Pulling a bird and not shafting her right off.

  The old man’s giving it the big one about the reformed young hooligan with a good job as an electrician, making a bit of cash, buying his own flat, still into his football. Rod the good son taking out yids and shooting his load over Indian wildlife. Rod the honest lover stripped off ridden half to death by a whore with a cunt full of Cardiff City fans, Chelsea tattoo coming out well in the video, face dazed and distorted in artificial light. Everyone wants to have something to look back on. That period of being a bit rebellious then growing out of it and turning into a nice boring citizen. Fuck that for a game of soldiers. Talk to people like that and they’ve done nothing. They just like to think they have. Blokes and birds. They’re all the same. Wankers the lot of them.

  —You know, Rod, I’ve probably got a copy of that tape knocking about somewhere. I’ll have to give it to you. Mark starts winding him up.

  —You gave me everything you had. Rod holds his pint still, stuck on its way to his mouth. That’s what you said. I got rid of it straight off. Obscene propaganda. You’re a fucking pervert taking those shots. You’re not an iron by any chance? Keeping it quiet because you know you’d wind up on the end of a serious kicking rather than some queer’s joystick.