by John King
—Once a month more like. Once a month with Mandy anyway. You’re a pig fucker on the quiet.
—Piss off. Only regular sex you get is off your right hand. And I hear that’s getting fussy these days as well.
Ten minutes of Rod versus Mark banter and the coach pulls up. Ron Hawkins the retired skin is at the wheel with Harris sitting at the front, ship’s captain, in charge of a select crew. We climb aboard and there’s one pick-up left, at Hanger Lane, then we’re off to the miserable north. We go to the back. It’s a class coach with a toilet and video. Blade Runner’s on the screen. I’ve seen it before but don’t mind because it’s a smart film. All robots and changing times. Specially the language and new breed of people. Bit like London really. Mutants in the underground. Harris says he’s got a pirate Clockwork Orange for later if anyone stays awake past Birmingham.
I sit by the window and share out the food. It tastes good. The Chinese know how to cook. Them and the Indians. Best food you can get. I open a can of lager and watch London pass by. We roll through closed pubs, packed takeaways and pissed couples to the Western Avenue. Then down to Hanger Lane. There’s ten or so blokes waiting across from the station outside a parade of shops and Harris has a full coach. Good news for the man’s finances, though he always has a decent turnout for the aways because there’s enough people around who respect his ability to sniff out trouble. We pile round the North Circular and pick up the M1 heading north. The engine pulls at the gradient. The coach is heated and slick, motor humming with confidence. Ron puts his foot down and Blade Runner replicants stick the boot in. It’s man against machine and I want the replicants to batter Harrison Ford to a bloody pulp. Want the cunt to spit out bits of broken teeth. I know the finish but you always hope for something a bit different. Break the routine with a happy ending. Bit of magic.
Rod’s head has snapped back and he’s deep asleep. Dreaming of Mandy. I nudge Mark and get down on the floor. Tie his laces together. Silly cunt’s out of it which serves him right for mixing shorts and lager. Mark hands me a lighter and I set a lace on fire. The flame takes off and in twenty seconds there’s smoke spiralling up from his trainers. Still the cunt sleeps. Must be a good dream. Mandy getting her fifteenth portion of the night. Rod’ll be so knackered when he finishes he won’t be able to play fireman. He’s the dummy on the bonfire laughing at death.
—Rod is burning, Rod is burning. Mark to the tune of London’s Burning. Call the engine, call the engine.
—FIRE, FIRE. FIRE, FIRE. The back of the coach joins in.
Facelift, a headcase from Hayes or some other West London building site, leans over. Taps Rod on the shoulder. Tells him he’s doing a Guy Fawkes. At first Rod doesn’t understand. Looks around confused caught with his trousers down, Mandy asking what the fuck he’s stopping for halfway. Finally he picks up on the smoke, looks down. Panics. Kicks his feet against the seat in front and he’s going to set the whole coach alight if he’s not careful. But everyone’s laughing, even Facelift, though with him laughter could mean anything.
—You cunts. You trying to kill us all or what? Leave my darling wife a widow with five hungry mouths to feed?
—You haven’t got any kids. Mark looks like his head’s about to launch into space he’s laughing so hard. Fifteen times a night and you can’t even get your woman up the duff.
—Least I’m not some bent cunt servicing my hand.
—Could just be a cover. Marry a bird and it throws the rest of us off the scent. Closet bum bandit mate, that’s what you are. Fucking iron on board a Chelsea coach. Doesn’t look good, does it? That’s a hanging offence.
—Piss off to the bog and give the five-fingered widow a portion.
—Fuck off.
Rod’s swearing and banging his feet trying to get rid of the flames. They jump a healthy six inches in the air. Red and white whiplash effects. Stronger by the second. But he kills them with a bit of effort and starts having a go at me for some reason. How he knows it was me I don’t know.
—Don’t just sit there with that stupid grin on your face. Has that cunt sitting next to you been having a go at your arse? Is that what the smile’s about?
Eventually Rod sees the funny side and the whole coach is cracking up. Even Harris and Ron the driver who have a stake in making sure we don’t end up a burnt-out wreck on the hard shoulder. Just our luck. Coach wrecked before we get to Watford. But Rod’s pissed and tired enough not to want revenge which is fine by me because I’m not in the mood myself. He plays the white man, takes stick, and goes back to sleep. I’m knackered and though I’m in the mood to hand it out, I don’t fancy taking it as well. There’s cans going round and Facelift’s into a bottle of quality vodka. Tattoos cover his arms and his gut spills over his jeans. One of the few football stereotypes on board. The rest are nutters, but smartly dressed nutters. Facelift’s pissed and moaning about Black Paul and John. Talks under his breath. But they’re sound blokes and do the business. He’ll learn soon enough when the geordies pile in. Geordies always get stuck in against Chelsea. They’re no bottle merchants.
Have to admit I don’t like Facelift but wouldn’t want to cross the man. He did nine months for glassing his brother-in-law after a row in some snooker club over in Hayes so wouldn’t hesitate with a casual acquaintance. Says he just lost it and cut the bloke up. Ran home and the victim’s mates were round the house trying to kick the door down when the old bill arrived and nicked him. Said it was the only time he was glad to see the bastards, though he reckons his brother had a shooter stashed upstairs and he’d have used the fucker no problem. You’ve got to be a bit mental to take life so seriously and Facelift’s the kind of bloke who’d do it all again. Prison just makes people like him worse. Makes everyone who goes down bitter and more fucked up than ever. It’s not a pretty sight seeing someone’s face sliced open, even if they’re a cunt and deserve the grief, but you can half understand someone doing it in a blind panic to a stranger. But not your sister’s husband. You’ve got to have standards or you’re nothing.
Motorways are all the same by night and you don’t get to see the rolling fields of England’s green and pleasant land because the dark shuts out the housing estates and dead factories. Cities of the living dead; Derby and Wolverhampton and then up to Leeds and Huddersfield. England’s fall of shit towns. Places like Barnsley and Sheffield. They can’t compare with London. We’re out on our own and don’t belong with the rest of England. Northerners hate us and we return the compliment. We’re just a bunch of flash cockney bastards as far as they’re concerned. They think we’re all Mike Baldwin wide boys because we treat them like country bumpkins, even though they come from some fucking rough cities. It’s two countries in one. Different ways of thinking. Though when you get to a football ground we’re all the same really.
Mind you, go see England away and Northerners turn human. A bit like Blade Runner in a way. Android lads from Yorkshire take on new identities when you’re in Poland or some other East European slave state. When you’re facing a couple of thousand mad Poles aiming to kick you into the next world the sight of a mob of fat geordie bastards steaming in washes away all the problems. It’s an odd experience and you have to push yourself at times not to lose the edge. You know you’re fighting blokes with the same attitudes but it doesn’t stop anything. If you sat down and analysed it you’d end up doing fuck all. You can’t apply logic. Just blank the situation and enjoy yourself. Watching England’s different and you have to remember your priorities. If you clock a familiar face back in England you’re obviously not going to pile in. You’d avoid it somehow, though the situation’s unlikely to come about. But no matter what, I’d have a word and save the bloke concerned. If I couldn’t I might as well give up. That would be me ground down standing to attention. Sitting on this coach speeding north it doesn’t pay to think like this too much. It serves no purpose. You want your fun and that’s the end of the matter.
—Arsenal had their moment for a while. Facelift’s hold
ing court behind us with Martin Howe and some bloke who used to be in the Marines. Dave Cross I think he’s called.
—They were never going to touch Millwall or West Ham, Dave says. Too many fucking niggers.
—They’ve had black faces in their time.
—Not like fucking Arsenal. It’s all the kids from Finsbury Park and Seven Sisters. Paddies don’t get much of a look in these days.
Black Paul’s down the front of the coach. I can tell he’s listening. Him and Facelift don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things and it’ll come out one day. At least Billy keeps his mouth shut. There’s few niggers in this mob but the couple we have are here on merit, plus something extra. It’s down to geography more than anything. Black Paul gets up and walks down the coach. Facelift sends him a look that gives nothing away. Their eyes lock on. Nothing’s said. Black Paul goes for a piss. Facelift has a swig of vodka and says he’s looking forward to doing a few geordie cunts.
I last through Blade Runner but fall asleep before Clockwork Orange gets going. Next thing I know the sun’s making me blink. I never remember my dreams which suits me fine, but it makes the night go quick. Seems I’ve only been asleep a few minutes, but once I straighten my neck I’m feeling good. Rub my eyes and look out the window. Don’t know what the time is and fuck knows where we are, but the coach has stopped and there’s a green field and blue sky outside. Facelift stands in the middle of the field with his empty vodka bottle at his side, pissing away the dregs. Steam rises from the grass. A fucking slob that man. If he wasn’t so hard he’d be an embarrassment.
—Piss stop lads. Harris looks fresh as a daisy, but all the daisies are getting pissed on by Facelift. Time for some fresh air. Last stop before Sunderland.
I get up and go outside. It’s a crisp morning and it’s a good piss. Maximum relief. Full bladder orgasm. Better than the chemical job on the coach which isn’t working properly. I look over the fields and there’s birds singing and mist rolling across lush grass. There’s hedges and old oaks. There’s a couple of houses in the distance surrounded by green trees. There’s cows grazing on the side of a hill and when I look up at the sky there’s just a dome of brilliant blue with all these weird little clouds floating around. And there’s a tattooed Hayes cunt turning back towards the coach. He throws his empty bottle into a bush. There’s the smash of glass and a couple of distant cows turn their heads and they’re probably thinking the bloke’s a right wanker doing that in such a beautiful bit of countryside.
—Could do with a good fry-up lads. Facelift wipes his face with the back of the hand. Set me up for steaming geordies.
Some of the lads standing around pissing in the grass laugh because he’s like something out of a newspaper cartoon. Of course he plays along to the crowd at times because we all understand the difference between this bit of England and our own lives. It doesn’t have to be spelt out. We stop, have a piss and get back on the coach. We leave our empties behind without a thought. There’s no time to muck about with nature and romance. Start thinking like that and you’ll be old before your time. Maybe we think we’re shit and don’t deserve something this good. The coach moves off.
The idea of the early start is to get to a pub in Sunderland where Harris has organised a get-together. The plan is to meet up with various Chelsea firms, have a few sherbets, then catch a train into Newcastle. That way the geordie bastards won’t know where we’re coming from and the old bill won’t be there hanging around playing big brother. The Newcastle boys will be standing about with their noddy kit tops and Newcastle Brown beer guts when suddenly there’s a flash of smoke and Chelsea steam in. That’s the idea anyway. By the time the old bill get their truncheons out of each other’s arses there’ll be fuck all left except a few fat geordies to scrape off the pavement. Harris has got the day organised and if he pulls it off there’s going to be some bruised heads by three o’clock. The cunts deserve it for all the fucking mouth they carry around with them. If the master plan works it’ll be a tasty row.
I’m feeling great and there’s not a hangover in sight. The chinky must have soaked up the lager and a few cans of piss water to wash it down beat off dehydration. Rod is awake and moaning about his footwear which doesn’t look too damaged from where I’m sitting. Mark’s just staring out the window watching the world pass. I feel fresh but wouldn’t mind a bath. Don’t like to do without. Can’t understand those dirty hippy crusty bastards.
—Old bill ahead, lads. Harris calls back. Keep your heads down. Pretend you’re asleep or something.
It’s a turn-up for the books this one. Eight o’clock Saturday morning and there’s a police car with a flashing light ahead and a copper waving us over. Could be chance, but this seems unlikely when a van pulls round the corner. A copper gets on and talks with Ron. He looks back and grins. We sit expressionless, good as gold on our way to church. Maybe we should practise a few carols. Ron switches off the engine and goes to talk with the old bill. Harris sits at the front boiling. I can feel the heat from here.
—That’s all we fucking need. Mark’s shaking his head. What are we going to do from now till three o’clock? I should have knobbed that bird last night. These bastards will probably send us back to London.
—We’ve got tickets, says Rod. It might just be a check. How would they know we’d be coming into Sunderland this time of day when Chelsea are playing in Newcastle at three?
It makes you wonder. The old bill must have had advance warning. Makes you think of undercover coppers and ten-year sentences. Things are tight these days and the serious firms have to watch faces and suss people out. You tend to know people over a period of time so anyone turning up on the scene is always treated with suspicion. You have to be careful. If you’re not in the club you can fuck off. Ron is arguing with the old bill, raises his arms in the air, then comes back to the coach. He says something to Harris who tells us the bastards aren’t letting us into Sunderland. They’re taking us to a service station where we can have breakfast, then a pub outside Newcastle where they’re holding all the Chelsea coaches till an hour before the game. Word’s got out somehow and they’re making sure Chelsea don’t get loose in Newcastle.
There’s nothing we can do and we’re just sitting back playing it calm. We don’t know if the old bill have got specific information about the meeting, or just know something’s been planned. It’s a bit worrying. Like you’re being watched and your conversations taped. Seems you can’t do anything these days without spies recording the event. If it’s not a video camera watching you it’s some undercover cunt keeping his head down passing on information. It’s like being in a South American dictatorship or something.
The police car turns and we follow with the van behind. It’s a fucking joke this. Their lights are flashing like we’re some kind of virus that can’t be allowed too near the locals. We’re lepers. They think we’re vermin and they can treat us how they want. We pass through green countryside and dead houses, and finally we’re entering the services. Haven’t got a fucking clue where we are. The day has gone seriously wrong.
—I should have shagged that bird last night, says Mark, who’s talking bollocks going on about it because there’s no way he’d miss a trip to Newcastle. Instead of some woman giving me a blow job I’m stuck with you lot and a motorway fry-up.
We take over the services and I’m sitting at a table getting stuck into a full English breakfast. It’s expensive for what it is but we’re no grubby paupers and aren’t complaining. We’re all making money and it has to go somewhere. There’s a few families looking at us a bit nervous but fuck knows what they think we’re going to do. True, we’ve had a couple of good punch-ups at services through the years, but service stations are easy for the old bill to police so you have to be careful. You can end up trapped. Even so, when another team’s coach pulls in you have to do the business if they’re interested, otherwise you look like a bunch of cunts. The old bill keep a lid on things. They know what they’re doing.
W
e see a coach arrive with a police escort and look to see where it’s from. Obviously Chelsea, but we’re checking the name to see if it’s a load of trainspotters or another firm. Turns out to be a Slough coach. A mixture of older blokes and younger lads. The men are well into their thirties and we know the faces and some of the names. They’ve been around years those blokes and don’t take any lip.
—How’s it going lads? Don Wright stands over the table. Must be forty if he’s a day. Old bill picked us up like they knew everyone was mobbing up in Sunderland.
—Makes you think who’s been tipping them off. Mark flicks beans across the table at Rod. It’s going to be a long wait till three o’clock.
—All gone a bit wrong somehow. Don goes off to get his breakfast, eyes glazed.
—That bloke’s a fucking schizo, says Rod. Used to work in a morgue, or so they say. You look at his eyes. Looks like he’s pissed or stoned, but he’s not all there. You’ve got to be off your head to work in a morgue with all those dead bodies.
—I heard he was a brickie. Mark leaves the beans alone. Even Don Wright wouldn’t work in a morgue. You’ve got to be sick to get into that kind of life.
—I saw him jumping on some Leeds cunt’s head one year. The bloke’s out cold and he’s using the man’s bonce as a trampoline. Real brain-damage job. I don’t mind giving someone a pasting, but trying to crack their head in two like a coconut is out of order.
I try to think what it would be like working in a morgue. They drain the bodies of blood and you’d see all kinds of mutilation from road accidents and that. You’d start dreaming of corpses and it would do your head in. Suppose you wouldn’t think anything about jumping up and down on someone’s head if you saw bodies being sliced up every time you went into work. Only thing I can think of worse than that would be working in a slaughter house. Least you’re not killing them in a morgue. I watch Don Wright at the counter inspecting the menu and wonder.