The Football Factory

by John King

  They were all laughing now. It was an interesting point, though. Vince had never thought it all the way through before. He would have to give it some more consideration in a quiet moment. He finished his drink and got a round for John and himself. A couple more bottles and he would piss off for the night. He was looking forward to a hot shower tomorrow, but had to make the best of tonight first. There were some nice birds in the bar, though he could tell they were well off and the English boys were a bit cut off from the rest of the people there. It was mostly men and women in their early twenties. The majority were dressed in white and had scooters parked outside. He paid the barman and took the bottles.

  —That bar was great in Madrid, wasn’t it? he said, when he turned back to the others. Poor old Lurch didn’t know what was going on half the time. Poor bastard just stood there trying to keep tabs on what we were eating and he had no chance.

  —It was a lot cheaper than here, Gary said, looking at his beer. And there was all that food up for grabs.

  The Madrid bar had been near the pension where they stayed. It was the first one they went to in the evening and the last after they’d been for a wander. They generally polished off the evenings with a couple of hours drinking the dirt cheap wine and beer Lurch served. The counters were covered with big trays of food, everything from battered fish and chicken wings to paella and bread. It was greasy, working man’s food, and the idea was that customers helped themselves and paid their bill at the end of the evening. The English, as was the custom when following England away, just jumped in and helped themselves, then denied any knowledge when it was time to pay. They figured that the Spanish treated them like dirt, as though they were the scum of the earth, so they went for the herd approach and reasoned that if they weren’t seen as individuals then the locals wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.

  Lurch ran the bar until one in the morning and then he was off, an older, fatter man, who owned the place, arriving to take over. Lurch was alright, and got his name from the typical horror film butler, tall and leaning forward, never showing much emotion. Occasionally he would smile as the England boys went about their business, and though there were no big conversations between the two sides, they always paid for their drinks and he rarely lost his temper. Maybe he decided that it wasn’t his bar, Vince never worked it out. It was a strange situation because they were back there night after night, thirty or forty pissed-up English lads in shorts and T-shirts, singing songs about the Falklands and chatting with the prostitutes out on the pavement.

  —Remember when we were coming back from that shitty disco and those street cleaners came along and hosed us down? We were pissed up on cooking wine and they soaked us and then just drove off.

  When they left the bar, Vince turned towards the beach while the others made a big fuss about the crisp white sheets waiting at the pension. Vince could handle the pisstake though and walked through the near empty streets to the spot he had lined up for the night. A breeze had picked up and he took his jacket from the bag he’d brought to Spain. It wouldn’t give much protection if the wind really got going, but he would survive. He got on all fours and crawled under the promenade, smoothed the sand and put the bag under his head. He raised his legs up into the foetal position. The drink would help him get to sleep. It had been a good idea. Mind you, he was hungry, fucking starving if he was honest, but there was no chance of any food now. He wished Lurch was running a bar in San Sebastian.

  Vince was soon drifting away, shifting his position in the sand, which wasn’t as comfortable as he had imagined. It was a different texture to the actual beach. This was a mixture, with heavier earth and stone from the promenade’s foundations. The sea was faint at first and he enjoyed the idea of water moving up and down the shore, the steady rhythm which would rock him to sleep. This was what living was all about. He was seeing a bit of the world. The sea would eventually become faint and then disappear, but it wasn’t working out that way, and after half an hour the noise was deafening, a dose of Chinese water torture which wouldn’t let him sleep. The wind was getting stronger and he was cold. His mind raced. Thinking of Madrid.

  There had been a bad atmosphere in the city. That night they were in the square drinking at three in the morning, going from bar to bar, thirty or so English singing songs about the Falklands, using the term Malvinas so the Spaniards would understand. Three English lads had been beaten up pretty badly by a gang of fascist blue shirts armed with iron bars while asleep in the park. Then a Derby fan was surrounded by a big mob of the bastards and stabbed through the heart outside the Bernabeu. They were scum. Knife merchants the lot of them. He hated people who used knives. Some of the English started arming themselves for their own defence. Then a mob of Spanish came to the square where they were drinking and piled in. The English ran them all over the shop. A bunch of shitters. That’s why the Spanish used knives and needed numbers of twenty or thirty to one. The Derby lad was lucky to survive.

  That night they got back to the square at two in the morning and for once weren’t going to end up in Lurch’s bar. They were sitting at tables when the waiters started pulling out guns. They all had pistols and suddenly the square was full of police carrying machine guns. The English were lined up against a wall and the old bill went along searching everyone. Two men stood behind the person they were searching. Vince felt a muzzle in the base of his back. Hands worked up and down his body looking for something. He wondered if it was drugs. If they were going to plant something nasty on a select few and bang them away for ten years. Then they were surrounding the three German skinheads knocking about with the English. The police were screaming at the Germans and one of the bastards was cracking Jurgen, the leader, in the jaw with the butt of his gun.

  Vince remembered the Germans had a pistol and gas cartridges. They were going to let them off in the subway after the Spain-Germany game. He figured it out. Someone had reported seeing a gun and the police had gone into action. They must have been watching all the time and had lined it up. The Germans were getting a battering while the rest of the police kept the English faces to the wall. It was a flies round shit job. Then the skinheads were bundled into a van which skidded off with lights flashing and sirens cranked up doing their best to wake the locals. Coppers loved making a drama out of nothing. It was the same all over the world.

  It was only a flare gun or something similar, and the gas would have got a few people coughing but wasn’t going to cause mass death. The Germans were daft flashing it around. They had all the skinhead gear, bought in The Last Resort shop in Petticoat Lane, and the first time the three had come into the square Jurgen stopped, pointed to his DMs, and called them nigger kickers. They had the clothes while the English were more of a scruffy casual crew, and this was a time of skinhead revival in London and English club sides in charge of European competitions. He wondered if the Germans would get a sentence or be on the first plane back to Düsseldorf.

  The sea was driving Vince round the bend. He wondered what the time was but didn’t have a watch. He’d sold it in Madrid for a giveaway price, needing the cash. Some of the lads went to the embassy and pleaded poverty for a ticket home, but Vince was making his time last and wanted a few days away from the football. Scousers were best at getting a long way on zero resources. The Liverpool fans especially, who had been following their club around Europe for a number of years, had it down to a very fine art. They paid for near enough nothing, with stories of blokes travelling under the carriages of trains, and they robbed any shop going. It was established that when Liverpool played in Europe the scousers would hit the clothes shops first and then the jewellers. The Swiss and all those rich, decent-minded countries didn’t understand this mentality. They had polished streets and intense discipline while the young men arriving from the English estates were robbers and villains on an early eighties free for all.

  The scousers were leading the trends in football when it came to gear, and they nicked all the expensive sports stuff, wearing some a
nd flogging the rest. They made a decent amount from their raids on jewellers’ shops. Get a riot going and the scousers would loot the jewellers and stash the stuff in railway station lockers. They’d return to England for a few weeks and then go back to the Continent and bring the valuables home, where they’d make enough to keep themselves going for a couple of months. The Manchester lads were next in line, and had started boasting that they were better robbers than the scousers.

  Vince wasn’t a good robber. He could nick a bit of gear, but wasn’t dedicated. It was more when he was a kid and it was something to do because it impressed. But he wasn’t bothered about England games now, he’d had enough and just wanted to sleep. It wouldn’t come. The hours passed and he was floating when the smash of glass woke him with a bang, and he was under the promenade as a group of drunks threw bottles against a wall. He had the image of himself in a hole, like a mole or frightened rabbit, but it was just annoying. They banged their feet on the wood and eventually were gone, shouting into the darkness at nothing in particular. He tried to sleep but couldn’t. The dark began fading and the sun was just below the horizon. He knew it was going to be a beautiful sunrise, but didn’t care.

  A tramp crawled under the promenade early in the morning with the sun starting to rise. He was drunk and surprised to find anyone, let alone a famous English hooligan, asleep in a pot hole under the promenade, there in San Sebastian. He blinked and thought he was hallucinating. Too long sleeping rough. Too much cheap drink. Then he accepted Vince was real and tried to teach him the essentials of the Spanish language. A half hour of this and Vince had to leave. He didn’t want to move but his head was banging. He was hungry. And tired.

  He walked along the beach and laid out on the sand. This was better. It was much more comfortable and soon fitted the shape of his body. The sun was warming things up quickly and then he was dozing. Later he took off his top and replaced jeans with shorts. He fell asleep. A deep sleep. And when he woke it was with a shock, his head buzzing. People were talking. He opened his eyes and looked around. The beach was full. He looked to his right and two topless teenage girls were eating ice creams. He looked to his left and a body-building Spaniard passed by with some kind of G-string half covering his vitals. Everyone was tanned and saw themselves as beautiful. Vince moved and felt the pain. He looked at his chest and legs. He was red. It hurt. He had fallen asleep and not felt the sunburn. He pulled his shirt on and walked up to the road. It hurt more when he moved. He asked a woman the time and it was eleven. It was painful but it could have been a lot worse. He could have slept till three.

  The rest of the lads were sitting outside a cafe sipping coffee. They looked refreshed. They were wearing familiar, shabby clothes, but it was great what a bit of soap and effort could do. He went straight to the pension and the woman started making a fuss when she saw his bums. She took him to the room he would be sharing with John and gave him some cream. He eased back on the bed and looked towards the open window. Everything smelt so good. There was the same scent in the air he noticed coming up on the train. He wondered what plant or flower it was. He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  —You alright Vince? John was sitting at the end of his bed.

  —What time is it?

  —Nearly two o’clock. The others are down on the beach.

  —I just lay down for a minute and I was out.

  —You should see some of the crumpet down there. All a bit young, but they don’t mind stripping off. Very nice. The others have got their Union Jack out and put it on the sand. They’ve dug a trench around themselves and built a castle. The kids love it. They’re heroes.

  —More like freaks.

  —We’re a bit different. It’s the sense of humour. There’s no aggro in this town. Even the body-builders in their plaster-on suntans are laughing.

  —England on tour.

  —You coming down? The woman who runs the place says we can have a special rate if we stay three days longer. What do you think? It’s a rest after Madrid. I’m in no hurry to get back to England. My job’s gone anyway so I might as well get the most out of it now.

  —I haven’t got much money left. I’m skint.

  —Me neither. But I thought we could bunk the train back to England. Enough people seem to be doing it.

  —Could do I suppose. We could use the money now and worry about the ride home when the time comes.

  —Have a think. I’ll be down the beach. Turn left out of here and we’re straight ahead. You can’t miss us. We’re the white-skinned bastards with club crests on our arms sitting on a Union Jack.

  When John had left, Vince went for a wash. The sunburn didn’t seem as bad as he’d feared. There was a bath and he filled it up with warm water. He sat in it for half an hour. There was nothing like it in the world. He thought of the tramp and wondered when he’d last enjoyed something so good. Poor old sod. He dried off and put on some cream. His clothes were still dirty, but it was hot so a T-shirt and shorts would do. He washed his gear in the sink and hung it out on the balcony. Then he went to find the others on the beach. It wasn’t difficult. Just as John had said.

  —Alright Vince?

  —You fancy a drink? I’m not sitting in the sun right now. I don’t want to die on the first day.

  Gary and Sean followed Vince to a bar along the seafront. They ordered beer. Piss water. But it was cold piss water. They sat in the shade and Vince watched the waiter and thought of the undercover police in Madrid. It must have been a bit mental for the blokes working there full-time when the old bill arrived and told them they were taking over. They even had striped shirts on, or so he thought. He was pissed at the time but was sure they were dressed like the bicycle-riding, onions-round-the-neck caricatures that screamed out from every tabloid whenever there was a cross-Channel disagreement. There were probably enough police on the lookout around San Sebastian. The Basque separatists didn’t sit about waiting for the Government in Madrid to get generous. They planted bombs just like the IRA. Except Vince understood the Basques much easier than the IRA, even though he didn’t know anything about the history of the conflict. The IRA were too close to home.

  —Dear oh dear, look at the tits on that, said Gary.

  —Not bad. You should watch what you say, though. Walls have ears and so do women in shorts.

  Gary laughed and looked away. They’d been sitting in the square in Madrid in the afternoon watching the time pass, waiting for the England-Germany game the next day. A nice looking woman in tight black shorts passed their table. The shorts ran up the crack of her arse. She was dark skinned with blonde hair over the collar of a short-sleeved shirt. She was a cracker and Gary, sipping his lager, casually asked if she took it up the bum. The other lads at the table laughed. The woman turned round and came up to them.

  —What did you say, you filthy bastard?

  The accent was educated and English. A school teacher working for the British Council maybe. Gary squirmed in his seat. His face went red. Like Vince’s sunburn.

  —Who do you think you are, talking to a woman like that? You bloody animal.

  The woman lifted a jug of sangria from the table and tipped the contents over Gary’s shirt. Then she stormed off. Total humiliation. The three of them laughed remembering her lesson in good manners.

  —That was a nightmare. Why did it have to happen to me? I didn’t know she was going to be English and understand. None of the people in Madrid speak a word of English and you can say whatever you want and they just scowl at you. Trust me to choose her. Nice arse though. Has to be said.

  They passed the afternoon in the cafe and Vince filled up on a couple of long bread rolls stuffed with cheese and salad. He was going to stay the extra days and bunk the train back. It was a good idea. The fare saved meant he could enjoy himself. When he returned to the hotel John was just getting back. A couple of blokes he recognised from Madrid were standing outside the pension. John had had a run in with them the week before.

  —What are you
two doing here?

  —We’re looking at the accommodation. You staying here? What’s it like? Looks like a free bed to me.

  —It’s an alright place. Nice woman runs it.

  —Likes her sex does she?

  —If you fancy fifty-year-old women she’s okay. Old enough to be your granny I expect.

  —I don’t mind. I’ll fuck anything.

  John moved towards the kid doing the talking and leaned into his face. They were a few years younger. Skinny runts. The silent youth moved forward looking to have a go and then saw Vince approaching.

  —Listen to me you cunt. You can fuck off somewhere else. You’re not staying here. You try it and you’re in the fucking hospital. We’ve got a nice little place. No problems. No aggravation. The woman’s alright. She’s not some rip-off merchant. You fuck it up for us, you’ll have your mate’s trainers sticking out of your arse with your mate still inside them.

  They moved away. They weren’t going to risk a kicking. They’d been round Europe on the blag and would probably be going home with a profit out of nothing. Vince had even seen them ponce a couple of drinks from a Scrooge of a barman in a bar outside the Bernabeu. Wankers were nowhere to be seen when the trouble started though. Spics with English passports those two.

  —See you later boys.

  Vince had a sleep till nine, then the Southampton lads were knocking on the door and he was washing his face, lining up a few beers and some food. He wasn’t out to get pissed like back home. It was a different approach in Europe. Better licensing laws for a start and there wasn’t that need to get down the pub in the evening and shove as much beer down his throat as possible before the barman did his town crier impersonation and started ringing last orders. True, you could go on somewhere, but most clubs were interested in fashion victims and silly little disco girls. A bunch of lads on the piss meant trouble and they were generally left out in the cold to fight and break a few windows. In Europe you could take your time.