by John King
Two hours later and we’re bored to tears hanging around. Another couple of coaches have pulled in and the old bill are ready to take us to the pub they’ve been talking about. We get back on the coach and there’s a delay as an argument gets going between the old bill and the driver of the Slough coach. Apparently a load of them have phoned for cabs and pissed off. The old bill are well narked. They want to know where everyone’s meeting up but nobody says a word. They’re pissing in the wind. Not sure of the facts.
We’re up and running and kicking ourselves for not having the idea ourselves. Mind you, it would look a bit obvious the whole fucking services emptying and a convoy of cabs shooting off to Sunderland. We sit back and have to admire the nerve of the blokes. Fuck knows what they’re going to get up to this afternoon. We arrive at a big pub set back from the road and within a couple of hours the place is packed with Chelsea. Everyone’s getting pissed and the walls are vibrating. We have a few sherbets and watch the old bill outside in the car park with their vans and dogs. It’s getting like an open nick in this country. Whatever happened to freedom of movement and choice? It’s always been like this I suppose, but it pisses you off at times. About two o’clock they clear the pub and we’re in a line of coaches with flashing lights around us heading into Newcastle.
Mobs of locals hang around giving us the wanker sign as we enter the city and approach St James Park. The coaches park up and we’re on Newcastle’s manor. There’s a bit of geordie singing down the street, but no attempt to have a go at us. We’re into the ground without aggravation and the Newcastle support is into Away The Lads. Don Wright and the others are already inside and the man’s got a black eye and skinned knuckles. He’s laughing and telling us we missed a treat. He’s well pleased. Says they made it to the pub and a two-hundred strong firm got into Newcastle without an escort and turned over a pub in the city centre. The geordies were surprised, but got themselves together and put up a show. Says it was well worth the cab fair. That a bit of travel’s good for the soul.
RUNNING THE BULLS
The sunset dazzled as it creaked through trees and rock, a stunning orange Vince Matthews had never seen in London, though it could have been that he had never really looked. Whatever the truth, the sun was burning a path through the Basque country, and the hot sweaty trip up from Madrid was nearly over. Another half hour and they would be in San Sebastian and could enjoy a few days in the quiet of a friendly town away from the fumes and aggravation of Madrid, the capital’s police and right-wing thugs out to batter the famous English hooligans attending the 1982 World Cup finals.
There were six of them in the compartment. Four Southampton lads and Vince’s mate John. They were exhausted. The cheap beer they’d brought aboard was long gone and dehydration was taking hold. Only Vince was making the effort, watching the sleepy hills and scattered peasant homes drift away, the steady motion of the train a perfect complement for the country smells and waving children. It was a great trip and he was taking it all in because he would be back home soon enough. Back in London with its tower blocks and dead ends. True, London was better than Madrid, a nightmare city, but the Basque country was in a different league.
Madrid had been an experience, Vince had to admit that much, but it was too heavy by the end. Especially after the Spain match when they’d come out of the Bernabeu and the locals were lining up for the kill, pulling knives from glossy satin shirts. The English piled in and the Spanish scattered. Then the police arrived with their truncheons raised and set about cracking every English head in sight. There were hundreds of them tooled-up like they were extras in a sci-fi film, each man pushing for a starring role. They battered the English for the Falklands, showing the papers that the hooligan legend would crumble under the majesty of Spanish civilisation. Vince and a couple of others, isolated, worked their way around the ground, separated from the English mob which stuck together for protection as much as anything. There were kicks and punches from the Spanish, but they survived without a knife in the ribs.
Vince had a lot of sympathy for the Basque cause. They didn’t want anything to do with the Government in Madrid. They were fighting for independence and Vince had learnt from his stay in Bilbao during the World Cup’s first round that this was a different set of people, like the Scots, Welsh and Irish in Britain. The Basques treated the English as though they were people and not tabloid thugs, during the first round games, before England moved to the capital. Getting drunk and playing football on the beach was a great way to spend ten days. Vince had blacked out before leaving for Madrid. A local paid the fare and put Vince’s wallet back in his pocket after taking the necessary amount. He woke up in Madrid, his only problem a hangover and some lost mates. Now they were heading north again, escaping the dust and hate of the capital.
While in Madrid, they stayed in a pension in the red light district, which was run by six identical women in their sixties. They were darlings really, with their grey hair tied back tight and always dressed in black. It was just how Vince imagined Spanish women. Either that or the younger Mexican bandit whore in a Tijuana-type border town, with her tits on the counter and hair soaked in cooking oil. Films and newspapers always had the same angle on foreigners. They didn’t stretch the images, which was no surprise. The way the media represented the people who followed football was a mirror of their wider approach.
Vince was on a roll. He’d looked forward to the World Cup and saved for two years. It had been an eye-opener and he’d met some great characters. A lot of blokes travelled on their own, and everyone had a few drinks and stuck together. Some of the lads reckoned it was like the war, the spirit of the Blitz and all that, but Vince thought it was better. It was England away and the lads from Scarborough, Exeter, Carlisle, anywhere you wanted to mention, all had something to offer now they were outside the local scene. Club rivalries were for the most part forgotten. He wasn’t saying the English were perfect all the time, and there had been a few people out to hurt as many Spanish youths as possible, but there was always a small number of headcases wherever you went. It was better than a war. There was no killing for a start.
He watched the villages pass and tried to imagine himself living in the mountains. There was so much scent in the air and the sun was warm and kept the forests full of light. It was a glimpse of a totally different kind of life and he had the bug. He’d get home, save for a few years, really make the effort and cut back on unnecessary expenses, and then he was off. Everywhere he thought about sounded good.
When he had the money he was going to India. In a few years’ time. That was the place Vince wanted to see most of all. First he would go walking in Nepal. It was full of travellers, or so they said, but the Himalayas were the biggest mountains in the world, and even if Kathmandu was a bit commercial, what could they do to the likes of Mount Everest? He would acclimatise and get a bus to India, then he was going to Australia to work. It would be a culture shock, of course it would. Vince was no fool, but Spain was his first time out of England and it was excellent. He felt no pressure. Like the peasant’s yoke you saw in school books had been chopped up and thrown away. The trains through France and into Spain, Bilbao, Madrid with all its aggravation, and now this journey to San Sebastian.
He was going to have a different kind of life. Friends and family would still be there when he got back. A year away, maybe two, three, four, five. His mates would be in the same pubs, pulling the same women, talking about the same things, and this gave Vince added courage because he didn’t want to go away for ever. He wanted to see the world and come back to England and find everything the same. He didn’t want great changes. Things could be better, they could always be better, but he wasn’t one of those people who held a grudge.
The train was struggling to make it up a hill. The mechanism groaned and Vince listened for voices, the grumbling of an old man embedded in the system, a story from when he was a kid. He heard nothing. The other lads were sleeping and he was glad he hadn’t gone full throttle w
ith the drink. He left the compartment and stood in the corridor, window down, hanging his face through the gap. The air was warm but fresh. He breathed deeply and saw himself on one of those travel programmes, rambling on about paradise. Then the train was approaching San Sebastian, countryside giving way to the town, and Vince was back in the compartment telling the others they were a bunch of lazy bastards and it was time to get their gear together.
It took time to find a pension, a nice effort near the sea with blooming flowers in the garden and clean rooms, the only problem was that they were a bed short till the next day. The woman was middle-aged and efficient, wore a white cotton dress and didn’t flinch when she saw the six English boys enter. That was nice. They looked rough in gentle San Sebastian, a mixture of beer guts, tattoos and dirty ripped jeans. One of the Southampton boys, Gary, carried a suitcase tied together with a length of rope. They were a mess, barbarians from the industrial slums of the freezing north. Vince laughed at the description. But that was what three weeks on the piss, staying in cheap pensions with cold showers and limited washing facilities and a long, slow train trip did for a bloke. The woman didn’t care. Vince wondered if maybe she didn’t even notice, but then she told them to give her their washing and she would have it cleaned. That they should have a hot shower.
When it came to a decision, Vince opted to find somewhere else to stay that night. He left and arranged to meet the rest of the lads in a nearby bar. He couldn’t be bothered finding a pension and, anyway, he needed to save money. He was near enough skint and a night on the beach would do him no harm. The fresh air was still a novelty after the clinging, polluted atmosphere of Madrid. It was a warm evening and he went down to the sea. He crossed the sand and took his shoes and socks off, then followed the golden curve. There were a lot of people walking, mostly families and couples holding hands, stretching their legs before an evening meal. Vince was hungry. He didn’t care if he was out of place and had none of the expensive gear worn by the Spanish. Fair enough. No complaints. England was all about poverty, and he was very definitely English.
He chose a place to sit at the far end of the sand and watched the sea gently sway back and forward. Most of those on the beach obviously had money, and he tried to distinguish the holiday-makers from the locals. This wasn’t difficult, but he didn’t feel the same anger he had for the rich bastards at home. He couldn’t understand the language for a start, so couldn’t make out the different accents. Most of all, he wasn’t that bothered. He was on his own and had shed the responsibilities stacked on his back in London, where the class system was becoming so confused and distorted it took a full-time academic to break it into accurate categories. It was something Vince had never taken time over. He had an Englishman’s distrust of politics and intellectualism, yet his life and behaviour was ground in a hatred of wealth and privilege. Outside England, he was able to relax. The normal rules and regulations no longer applied. He wished he didn’t have to return home yet, but money was the big decider. Still, at least he had a plan. He had an escape route worked out. Like in the Second World War films. Except the POWs were heading in the opposite direction.
Vince sat on the beach for a long time before giving up his daydreams and heading for the bar. On the way he saw a place to sleep, under the promenade, tucked out of sight. Lovers sat on the wood, while a group of people had started a fire on the sand and were cooking fish. The darkness covered his wrecked appearance and it wasn’t till he was back on the road, with the lights shining, that he felt like an outsider again. It was nowhere near as bad as Madrid, but that had been something new, going into an angry city where the looks told him he was inferior. It was the first time he had been on the receiving end of racism, and the old men in the square where the English went to drink had been one hundred per cent fascists, supporters of Franco who saluted Hitler at the England versus Germany game when the national anthem was played. It was odd, conjuring up old grainy film of Nuremberg, and made the mocking, cartoon salutes of the English pointless.
He would have to get used to the feeling, because he was going to see the world one day, and if things went really well who knows, maybe he would never go back to England. The thought made him jolt, though it was all in the future. He was hungry but had to save money, have a couple of drinks and get a decent night’s sleep. It would be good in its own way, sleeping on the beach alone in a foreign land. Now he fancied an ice-cold drink. He entered the bar.
—Alright Vince? We thought you’d forgotten about us. John was propped against the bar looking scrubbed and polished, even if the clothes he was wearing were creased and unwashed. Tomorrow he would look the part. Or so he hoped.
—Did you find a place to stay? Gary was in a round with the other Southampton boys, and he ordered a bottle of piss water for Vince, who gave him the money. They were sticking in small rounds because none of them had much cash. Buying your own drinks was unheard of at home, but these were difficult times. Vince told them he was sleeping out.
—I didn’t think of the beach, John said. It’s a good idea. You’ll save a bit. But the shower was fucking heaven and there was hot water. Haven’t felt that for three weeks. You wait till tomorrow.
—Decent bogs as well, you can have a nice sit down without some bender peeping through holes drilled in the walls.
—You remember when Sean was sitting there reading that dirty mag he got off that old boy in the square? He’s sitting there having a wank and then he looks up and someone is watching him perform.
Sean looked embarrassed by John’s story. He sat on a stool with the other Southampton lads Gavin, Tony and Gary. He was always calling John a chirpy cockney, and the Londoner was doing his best to live up to the pisstake. They’d known each other since their arrival in Madrid on the same train. The others just laughed.
—He comes running out with his jeans round his ankles with a hard-on and the watching eye has legged it, but one of the old dears is passing and she stops and just stands there staring at him. He turns and runs back in the bog with his arse hanging out.
—Those old girls were alright, said Vince. Nice ladies. What a place to live, though. Smack in the middle of the red light. They weren’t bothered by it much, were they, and they were off to church every evening as well. The Spanish are a bit funny like that. They have Franco in charge all those years, and their coppers are nutters who must’ve been trained up by the Gestapo, and the Government’s worse than Parliament, and then they all march off to church together.
—It’s like the Mafia films, said Gary. You look at a film like The Godfather and they’re cutting bits off each other and shooting people for fun, and then they’re there in front of the old cross giving it a load of chat, asking God for forgiveness.
Vince drank from the bottle of lager. It was freezing cold. He was used to the taste of Spanish beer now, but couldn’t say it was that good. He tried not to moan too much, because all the other lads were always going on about drinking piss water, but he told them he’d never drunk piss before so didn’t know what it was like. It got a laugh.
—It makes you think about the old Catholics, doesn’t it, he said. You look at it, and what countries were fascist before and during the last war? Italy had Mussolini and Spain had Franco. Germany ran the show with Adolf and he got a lot of his support from the Catholics in the south, in Bavaria and thereabouts, while the Croats and Ukrainians both joined up. The French split in half and shipped their Jews off to Germany, while the Poles didn’t exactly love them and if they got out of the Warsaw ghetto they had the Polish partisans to face. Then you’ve got Latin America and all the dictatorships. They’re all at it, aren’t they?
—How do you know so much? asked Sean.
—I read the occasional book. Watch documentaries on the telly and things like that.
—What about the Irish then? They weren’t a fascist country, were they? My mum and dad are from Ireland. They would’ve told me if Hitler had been in the running over there.
—The
Irish are different.
—How’s that then?
—They’re Gaelic. They only became Catholic because the Scots that the English brought into Ulster were Protestant. They just went for the opposite. That’s what it was like then. And anyway, the Irish aren’t exactly the most open-minded people in the world, and they didn’t back up England in the Second World War either.
—Why the fuck should they back them up? What did the English ever do for the Irish?
—We gave them Oliver Cromwell, said John, laughing, trying to calm things down.
—Yeah, right. Oliver Cromwell. Murdering bastard.
—I’m not having a go at the Irish, said Vince. I was just saying it’s a bit odd how the Catholics seem to go towards right-wing leaders. I’m not saying whether it’s good or bad or whatever, I’m just saying it’s a bit of a coincidence.
—It’s because the Jews killed Christ, said Gavin. Yiddo bastards killed the Saviour. That’s why they all hate the Jews. You look at the Catholics and they’re fanatics, aren’t they? You saw how they were in Madrid. It’s buried in their heads. They don’t know why it is, but they have to obey the leader. They obey God or Franco or Hitler or Mussolini or who fucking knows who. It doesn’t matter. It’s built in. Comes with the religion.
—The Irish aren’t like that, said Sean.
—They’re different. An island race. A different tribe. Gaelic like Vince said.
—Why does everyone hate Spurs then? asked John. They’re the yids and every club hates those bastards.
—That’s because they’re flash, Vince answered, laughing now. It’s there, but not the same. There’s no religious mania in England, just a few vicars man-handling their flocks. A few old spinsters in the shires wishing they could get a length off the farm hand, but knowing they can’t and pointing to the Bible and saying if they can’t get a good poke then why should anyone else?