The Football Factory

by John King

  They were soon in another bar on the seafront, the best place they’d been so far, with a mixture of locals and pretty young Spanish holiday-makers. They got the usual looks and the clothes horses kept their distance. Vince didn’t care. He wasn’t looking to get his end away. Certainly not here with one of these pin-ups. What was the point trying? They were like the clones who entered Miss World competitions. Perfect tans, capped teeth and no personalities. Still, at least these kids were one up on the Miss World girls. The lager was good in the bar. It was on tap and hit the spot. They were soon getting pissed. A Man United fan they’d met in Madrid saw them through the window and came in. He was a big, friendly bloke. Hands twice the size of Vince’s and a gentle way of talking. But he was well into a bit of aggro after a few drinks. If the situation was right. He hated scousers. Vince was starting to feel a bit sorry for the old scousers. It seemed like the whole world was against them.

  —Me and my mate were coming back from Liverpool last year, and the scousers had been singing about Munich during the game, and the two sides just fucking hate each other. You know what scousers are like. Anyway, we’re coming onto the motorway and there’s this bloke hitching. We thought he was a Manc so we stopped to give him a lift and he gets in the back and he’s only a fucking scouser.

  —He doesn’t realise and starts going on about how he was with this other lot who gave these Man United boys a kicking. Really going on about it, laughing and boasting, but he’s wedged in the back and I haven’t said a word yet so he hasn’t heard my accent, and he’s saying they really hurt them badly, no ordinary kicking. I let him go on and I looked at him and told him I was Man United. His face froze. I battered fuck out of the cunt and we pulled up on the hard shoulder and I threw him out. We started driving away and his leg was stuck in the door, caught up in the seat belt, and he was bouncing along the hard shoulder for twenty yards or so. The wanker got what he deserved. He shouldn’t go around beating up Man United fans, should he?

  —You know what it is tomorrow? Sean looked round, waiting for an answer. Nobody spoke.

  —I heard it from this Spanish bloke selling ice creams and souvenirs in a jockstrap. It’s the running of the bulls in Pamplona. He said it’s not that far away. You can easily do it on the train. We should go down and have a go.

  Vince felt the strength of the drink inside him. The others were well on their way already, the effects of the sun and lazing around. They started making plans. It would be something different. They all felt confident. People got killed running the bulls and bull fighting was a crime the English couldn’t handle, but they were convincing themselves Pamplona was okay. It wasn’t like the bull in the ring, where the creature was castrated and mutilated and had spears stuck in his shoulders, just so some flash poof in a cape could ponce himself up and torment the poor animal.

  They decided they’d leave early next morning. Talking about bull fighting had raised a few doubts, but it would be okay. It was a bit of a laugh. A couple more beers and they’d be fine. A mob of bulls didn’t hold much threat with a belly full of lager. They were more like friendly English dairy cows than rampaging killers. It was the chance for the bulls to get their own back. It was survival time. They would have to be able to shift though. True, none of the English lads were particularly fit, and they would be going into the thing blind, but who cared anyway? None of them after a few drinks.

  —It goes a bit against the grain, though, doesn’t it? Vince said when they were about to go back to the pension. They were drunk and had to get up early next morning to find a train for Pamplona.

  —I mean, it’s not like the English to run, is it?

  The others laughed. It was a good line, used by everyone at some time or other. They went back to the pension and told Man U they’d meet him and his mates the next day. Back in his room, Vince dipped his face in the sink and when he got in bed the idea of running the bulls had turned bad. He smelt the blood of the animals as they were slashed, and then he smelt the clean sheets and fragrance coming in through the open window. There was no way he was going to get up early in the morning and torment an innocent animal, and maybe get his back broken. What was the point? Ten minutes later he asked John what he thought. Vince reckoned it was the drink talking. It was a waste of time and effort. And anyway, the English were supposed to love animals. He asked John if he was definitely going in the morning.

  —No chance. Everyone will accidently oversleep. I bet you a curry when we get home.

  WIMBLEDON AT HOME

  I watch the game but don’t see the football. It’s a fucking sad effort in the rain and the flu’s cutting through me like nobody’s business, I should be at home in bed with a bowl of soup and someone to look after me, but when you live on your own and you get sick you take care of yourself. Like when you get past fifty and develop cancer or something. Get a fatal disease and you’re fucked. Left to die because you’re weak and can’t defend yourself.

  The secret is don’t get ill. You have to stay healthy best you can and be your own person. Shut up shop and don’t let anything in. If you’ve got the will power and resist the dangers lurking round the corner you’ll come out a winner. But sometimes you can’t fight off all the little germs and microbes waiting to stitch you up. Like the cunts going through my head eating brain cells. The doctor just sits there looking at me doing a Prince Charles imitation, then starts making jokes that aren’t funny. All this after I’ve been waiting for an hour reading dodgy two-year-old magazines full of nonsense about junkie aristocrats and the sex lives of pop stars. Fashion models with capped teeth straight from Bugs Bunny’s worst nightmare. Truth revealed in yellow newspapers packed with football rumours that never happened.

  I don’t really dream, but the flu makes up for all that deep sleep. It’s like I’m tripping. Not that I’m into crust mode, but my thinking’s muddled. It’s a bad world when you’re sick watching life pass by and Wimbledon bypass the midfield with their long ball game. They’re backs to the wall that lot and you have to admire them on the quiet, doing so well with zero resources.

  The wind’s blowing a gale and even though my hands are buried in my pockets they’re frozen. I try and move my toes to keep them from snapping off but feel nothing. Mark comes back with a cup of tea and I hold it with dead stumps. Like I’m an out-of-work bomb disposal expert signing on for my weekly reward. It’s a shit crowd and shit atmosphere. All those cunts in warm television studios insisting football hooligans aren’t real fans don’t know what they’re on about. No clue. They’re licking the arse that feeds them. Saying what they’re told to say by the money men behind the camera. It’s true there’s blokes who only turn up for big games when there’s the chance of a ruck, but they’re a minority. Of course there’s hangers on. There’s hangers on in every walk of life. But not that many at football. Just like the nutters. There’s a few of them, and a lot of fans who if there’s trouble outside run around and swap a few punches, but most people just don’t want to know.

  —You look bad, Tom. Mark’s watching me shiver. Look like you’ve got malaria. You should have stayed at home in bed.

  I’ve been off work four days and it drives me round the bend sitting at home doing nothing. The warehouse can be a boring place, but there’s people to have a laugh with and Glasgow Steve to wind up. The flat’s nice enough and I’ve got the heating cranked up full blast, but it’s just me and a box full of rubbish. Sometimes there’s a good film on during the day. An old war effort maybe. Real propaganda jobs raving about freedom and the right to do whatever you want. But then there’s the endless love stories and soap operas doing your head in. Makes you understand why women go off their trolley stuck at home all day with a couple of snotty-nosed, screaming brats. Why they end up in bed with blokes they pick up down the supermarket. Why they batter the kids against the walls.

  —I hope it’s not catching. Rod leans over. I don’t want you giving me any tropical diseases.

  —Only tropical disease you’ll ge
t is AIDS, Mark replies. Six inches up the arse and a dose of blue monkey infection.

  —You look fucking terrible. Seriously ill. No wonder you didn’t come down the pub last night.

  I know they’re trying to cheer me up but I’m not in the mood. Get sick and you want to curl up and jump back in your old girl’s belly. All your confidence disappears. Your bollocks shoot up into your gut. You don’t feel cocky any more. Most days you’re giving it the big one because you’re in the prime of life, doing well, nothing can touch you, then suddenly it’s gone. It’s like you’re a kid again and don’t need the hassle. No fighting or shagging. The whole thing’s fucked sitting here with a head full of feedback. As though everything catches up with you in the end.

  Guilt doesn’t come into it. That’s a mug’s game just down to education. They train you to obey the rules and regulations. Try to control the way you behave. They do a good job because it’s buried deep inside and the cunts running the show get a tidy bonus. You reject what they say but when you get weak all that programming returns. They work their way under your skin but we’ve got them sussed because we’re out on limb beyond their ideas of what’s right and wrong. They don’t understand and we prefer it that way. I can see the teachers when we were kids. Me, Mark and Rod. Getting the cane and a lecture off the head. All those cunts with their speeches telling us what’s right and wrong. They do their best to gear your thinking, but they don’t come from where you come from. They get up your nose something chronic. Make you go off and do the opposite to what they tell you.

  The three of us have always stuck together. Your mates are what’s important. You don’t get to choose your family and if you end up with a bird, like Rod has, then it all comes back to men against women eventually. You can con yourself there’s something more with women, but it’s wishful thinking. Nothing’s like the films. People should grow up. Your mates are what count but don’t expect too much sympathy when you’re ill. There’s no shoulder to cry on.

  —I’m glad that’s over, says Rod when the ref blows the final whistle. Come on. Have something to eat and we’ll buy you a pint. It’ll help clear your head. Have a couple and go home.

  We leave the ground and walk towards Fulham Broadway. It’s raining and the street’s full of dark figures bundled up against the weather. Few people speak and nobody sings or chants. It’s a fucking ghost town. The stench of meat cooking makes me feel sick. I think I’m going to puke in the middle of the street. That would give the lads something to laugh about. We go in a cafe and I order eggs on toast. That and a pile of chips. It’s well cooked food and I reach across Rod for the ketchup. We drink coffee and it warms me up. People queue at the counter for chips and pickled onions. Some go for the works with fish or pies. The windows are steamed up and sweating like a monster getting her third portion of the evening. Mascara smeared across her face like an inflatable doll. The bird in question was a right goer. Can’t remember her name. It was years ago now. Appreciated the attention because beauty’s only skin deep.

  When we leave half an hour later the streets are clear. Nobody hangs around for Wimbledon. They don’t have many fans let alone a firm. It’s all greyhounds and sex killers on the common. There’s only a few clubs worth bothering about when it comes to the crunch. Most are useless. We walk past the tube towards North End Road and into some fun pub, with tables for burgers and salads. There’s a few birds sitting around and Mark’s eyeballing them with all the subtlety of Chelsea bushwhacking Spurs. Rod gets straight in at the bar. We sit at a table and I down half my pint of lager. I shouldn’t be drinking with the medicine I’m on but fuck it. It’s Saturday night and there’s fuck all else to do. I’ll have a couple of pints and get a taxi home. Leave the other two to get on with it.

  —My old girl’s started seeing this fucking Arsenal fan, says Mark. He’s ten years younger than her. He’s the brother of some woman she works with. I met him when I went round last week. Big cunt with tattoos all over his arms like he’s a fucking Hell’s Angel, except he’s got no hair and talks like a mincer.

  —It was bound to happen sooner or later. Rod looks at a mob of girls talking too loud, trying to get noticed. Your old man died three years ago. Not many women would last that long.

  —I know all that, and I’m not having a go at her or anything, but it’s still strange going in and seeing her sitting on the couch with a stranger watching the telly. Just like she used to do with the old man.

  —Your dad would have wanted her to get someone else. She’s a good woman. She shouldn’t be on her own the rest of her life. Not at her age. She’s still young enough.

  Everyone likes Mark’s old girl. She was good to us when we were kids. Always made us a sandwich when we went round. That and a glass of milk. It nearly killed her when the old man died. He was alright. Never a day’s illness and looked younger than his years. Then one day he complains about pains in his head. That night he goes for a piss and falls down dead. Just like that. Doctors said it was a blood clot on his brain. One day he’s there laughing with the family, the next he’s down the undertaker’s having his blood drained. Whatever you do in life there’s always something waiting round the corner. That’s why those dozy cunts moaning about football firms rucking each other are out of order. We’re only interested in the other team’s mob and don’t care about anyone else. They let the fucking queers and sadists batter each other, but when it comes to something like a bit of football violence they get on their platforms and start preaching.

  What do they think they’re going to get for their talk? Do they think they’ll go to heaven and live happily ever after? Or live right here for ever like some of those religious nutters who come round banging you up at eight o’clock Sunday morning believe? They’re mad the lot of them. When your time comes you’ll be sitting in your own shit and piss gagging for breath and everything you’ve done in life will mean nothing. Those cunts you see Sunday evening polished up for the television cameras in gold-plated churches will choke on their own sick like the rest of us, wishing to fuck they’d had a bit of fun while they had the chance. Imagine being seventy years old watching all the birds passing without a second look for a hunched-up old man who can’t get a hard-on any more. End up like that and you’ve wasted your life. Mark’s old girl understands, now her husband’s dead and she’s left alone. Mind you, she wouldn’t say it in those exact words.

  —She shouldn’t have chosen a Gooner. Mark laughs. That’s the main problem. Mind you, he could be a Tottenham yid with the curls and hat. Real Stamford Hill effort.

  —Or a nigger. Original Gooner from Finsbury Park.

  —Not my old girl. She’d never go with a nigger.

  —Might be some old West Indian geezer with a bit of dignity and a sense of humour.

  —No. She wouldn’t go with a nigger. Not her generation.

  The birds next to us are talking louder the more they drink. They’re well groomed with long hair. Typical prick teasers. Not bad looking though. Like all prick teasers.

  The pub’s filling up quickly. I’m forcing the lager down but I’m dead. I was hoping it would get me going. There’s something happening but it’s no miracle cure. All I can think of is Mark’s old girl flat on her back with Tony Adams in full Arsenal kit slipping her a length. A horrible thought. It’s amazing what the brain can do. Must be what happens to your serial killers. One day they’re good as gold going about their business, the next they’re sitting by the radio tuning in to Jack the Ripper. Disease gets into the brain and all the messages get scrambled.

  —The old girl’s got to have her life but I don’t like seeing her with another bloke. Someone other than the old man. It’s wrong somehow.

  Mark’s getting a bit emotional on us and it makes me feel uncomfortable. We’re mates and help each other out and everything, but we handle our problems alone. The things that go on inside your head. There’s nothing anyone else can do for you. It’s down to personal responsibility. You can’t show weakness in this worl
d otherwise the virus gets into your blood and you waste away. There’s no mercy and my temperature’s racing. I’m burning up. It’s no ordinary infection. Doctor says it’s come all the way from Asia. I think of Mark’s old man. About when we were kids. About Rod’s family and Mandy at home with a different idea of what the bloke’s like when he’s out with his mates.

  I know he’s into Mandy in a big way, but if truth be told he shouldn’t be shafting birds behind her back. It’s not on really, but I don’t say anything because you can’t. I’d just make myself look a cunt and what’s he going to say anyway? He’d just tell me to fuck off and mind my own business. Mark would pile in as well because he doesn’t like Mandy much and reckons all birds stitch you up soon as they get the chance. We’ve all been through it. You’re trained up to believe the films and all that love bollocks but you soon work things out. There’s no place for sentiment unless you want to end up a snivelling wreck.

  I always wondered the reason Rod got married and one day when we were on a bender I asked. Just said he got lonely. That she was the salt of the earth and he had to grab her while he could. He’d never get something better. Real diamond. Said he knew he was a cunt fucking her about, but one day everything would be fine and they’d live happily ever after. Just like the films. I laughed when he said it, but he wasn’t joking. It’s all a bit sad really.

  —I thought about having a word with the old girl. Mark looks miserable as fuck. Tell her to get herself something better, or do without. Respect the old man’s memory.

  —I know what you’re on about, but the point is she’s got to get on with her life. She can’t mourn for ever. Nobody can. I wouldn’t like the idea of some other geezer shafting my mum but it’s a different situation now to when your dad was alive. You say something like that to her and you’ll just make a cunt of yourself.

  I remember my old man arguing with my mum when I was a kid. Telling her she was a slag. That she could fuck off back to her family in Isleworth if she ever did whatever it was she’d done again. My mum was crying and I asked her what was the matter. She laughed like she was going mental or something and said she’d been peeling onions. My old man pissed off down the pub with a red face. I knew she wasn’t peeling onions. We’d already had our tea and we didn’t eat onions much. I never found out the truth, but it’s not hard to guess. Things like that you have to ignore. Push it down and keep it there on a back burner. Bury the bad times under concrete. What’s the point of thinking too much about things? It just fucks you up. Like the dossers you see begging round tube stations and sleeping in doorways.