by John King
Mr Farrell is saddened by the changes destroying his country. Things aren’t what they used to be. Foreign influences have eaten away at the fabric of the society he once knew. Hospitals, schools, social welfare, unions, industry, everything has been obliterated by transatlantic dogma. England has changed and changed for the worse. Nobody takes a stand against the invasion. A revolution has occurred which Mr Farrell doesn’t understand. He has been left behind by the acceleration of change. But he has his pride. He looks at the boys in leather jackets. More people should stand up for what they believe in, but nobody does because they feel there is nothing worth believing in any more. The majority have little genuine pride in their national identity.
He sits back comfortable in his seat and thinks of the war. Only those who were alive at the time care. Everybody else has forgotten. Politicians make noises which mean nothing. They use the annual occasion of Remembrance Day for their own ends. Individuals don’t matter because the greater good is what is important, but the greater good has been redefined by arrogant men in expensive suits. Pride has been reinvented as cash flow charts and excessive profit margins. Mr Farrell pictures a young German recruit in a nameless village. Younger even than his killer. The mad rush of war. How many men did he kill? He isn’t certain. Six or seven for sure, probably a few more. There are no regrets, he did his job. It was their lives or his. But the boy was different. In an ideal world he would have reasoned it out. The lad was badly wounded but still had a gun in his hand. There was a possibility he would have shot Mr Farrell, though in hindsight it was unlikely. There was no time to think. He blew the boy’s head apart. He remembers clearly.
He tells himself that people are the same all over the world. There is good and bad everywhere. He tends to believe human beings are essentially well-meaning, that evil is conditioned by fear. Men raped Mrs Farrell while children were incinerated in nearby ovens. Maybe even they had their reasons. But the next station has arrived and he has no time for such emotion. He ignores the smell of dead flesh and burning hair. Walks towards the door, catching the two boys off guard. He breaks the first one’s nose with a straight punch. He is a strong man who boxed in the army and worked outside till retirement. He is reminded of the young German soldier with half a head, face down in the dirt, brain mixed with mud. The second youth is surprised by the assault and Mr Farrell has time to deliver another punch, sending him onto the floor, blood coming from his mouth. Mr Farrell stares at them for a moment and sees the cowardice, nothing more than stupid kids repeating slogans and picking on an easy target. He wishes he had a gun in his hand. Then the anger is gone.
The station is busy and the youths don’t follow. It is the Lord’s day of rest and Mr Farrell is a dark shape walking with his head down. Nobody really notices the elderly. They are considered an outdated irrelevance. Even hospitals shun them for fear of wasting money as they strive to hit financial targets. The world has moved forward. He will leave Remembrance Day until next year. Mrs Farrell will be disappointed but the good old days can wait a while longer. She will make him a nice cup of tea when he gets home. With milk and sugar. Nobody makes tea quite like Mrs Farrell.
MAN CITY AT HOME
The cunt gets me round the neck and jams my arm behind my back. Pulls me over to the van where one of his mates pokes me in the balls with his truncheon. The pain shoots up through my gut, a short sharp shock to the system. I say nothing because I’m not giving them the satisfaction. The old bill hate it when they can’t get a reaction. This is bad news, but I’m not getting into a discussion on the subject. They can make up any story they want. My lips are sealed.
—In the van you fucking animal. They pull and push me into the transit. I make it as difficult as I can, without actually resisting arrest.
The one with the truncheon pokes me again. This time harder. More a stabbing movement. My bollocks jump into my body and my eyes are watering. I don’t want them thinking I’m crying like some ten-year-old wanker. Your balls are sensitive and getting wacked with a truncheon hurts. It’s a chemical reaction. There’s nothing worse. It’s fucking agony. They bundle me into the van and I can smell the copper’s breath he’s so fucking close. He’s put his truncheon away, sweating, and I reckon his face is going to melt if he doesn’t calm down. A waxwork with an erection. He loves the image. A hard man. Someone to be avoided. Keep your head down when you pass him in the street. Keep on the right side of this cunt.
—You’re scum. He leans into my face. Breathing all over me. The smelly bastard should brush his teeth if he wants an answer. I look out the window.
—You lot should be lined up against the wall and shot, then hung up from lampposts between here and the ground and left to rot. They shouldn’t cut you down till you’re a pile of bones.
I watch Mark and Rod further down the street. Moving away from the old bill. They’re acting casual, melting into the crowd. Getting lost in the mass of people heading towards Stamford Bridge. Two more innocent faces among thousands. Half of me is glad they’re getting away, the other half a nasty bit of work wishing they’d got nicked as well. It’s no fun getting done, but it’s worse when you’re on your own.
The old bill are excited. I keep my eyes trained out the window and don’t answer when they speak, knowing the more I do it the more it’s going to wind them up. It’s not a good idea, to be honest, but there again neither is getting yourself nicked in the first place. It’s turning into a bad day. I should bow down and act humble, show how fucking sorry I am, admit what hard bastards they are, but they can fuck off. Coppers love showing off their power. They want me to act gutted, come over all repentant like, but I’m not. I’ll survive. I should get some kind of connection going because they’ve still got to write their reports, and even though they’re thick as shit and twice as smelly they have a way with words. Know how to tell a good story. Over-active imaginations and a mean streak that runs through the system, right to the bone. The courts believe what they say without a second thought. I should play the game. Play the white man. But I’m not interested. I’m narked with myself more than anything, but I still hate them.
—Wait till we get you down the station. You won’t be so fucking cocky once you’re in a cell. Scum like you are destroying this country. You give the rest of us a bad name.
I wait for him to go into one about that golden age of law and order when everyone did as they were told. Never questioned anything that happened to them. When people were happy with their lot and front doors never got locked. Back in Toytown the Englishman never stepped out of line. There were no pissheads, nutters, perverts, junkies, killers. There was no sex and everyone was a virgin. Walking around with swollen balls hanging down to their ankles. It’s a miracle the race didn’t explode in a puff of smoke it was so fucking pure.
—They had the right idea in the old days. They should bring back flogging. That would make you think twice about breaking the law. The Arabs have the right idea. An eye for an eye and a hand for a crime.
There’s nine of us in the van. Six Man City and three Chelsea as far as I can make out. The City lads are mostly sloppy geezers who’ve been doing some serious drinking by the smell of them, though there’s a black boy who looks a bit out of place. They’re fat cunts with red faces and bloodshot eyes. The biggest one’s got love and hate across his knuckles. Real wank job that one. Should have a bit of respect for himself. Born in Strangeways the way he’s decked out. But now we’re nicked there’s no trouble because we’re separated and the old bill are in the middle keeping the peace. The moment’s gone and I’m feeling a right cunt letting myself get pulled into a punch-up round the corner from the tube. That kind of behaviour gets you nowhere and belongs in the days of fifty-thousand crowds when the old bill had better things to do and the Government was more interested in keeping the country running than fights at football.
We’re walking down from the Maltster and there’s ten or so Manchester lads pissed up and mouthing off. Walking around our streets like th
ey own the place. They’re not a firm or anything like that, but they’re not exactly peace and love merchants either. A few Chelsea beer monsters start having a go at them, and before I know what’s happening I’m joining in. Nothing serious, but well fucking stupid. We weren’t looking for City and had been down the Maltster to see a mate of Rod’s. We hung about too long and got stuck drinking. But the sight of a ruck just sucks you into the centre. Specially after a few sherbets. That’s what too much lager before a match does. It’s rubbish and nobody has to tell me. I’ve messed up and let my standards slip. I’ve been pulled into the gutter with the chancers and pissheads. Bad news all round and now I’m sitting in the van like a prat.
—We’ll book you down the station, but the cells are getting full so we’ll be taking you over to Wandsworth nick.
I want to laugh in the man’s face. He thinks he’s getting us worried. I want to look him in the eye and tell him he’s wasting his time. That he’s a cunt and I hope his family dies before he gets home. There’s no way the cells are going to be busy against City and I’ve heard the line before. Why does he bother?
The bloke doing the talking has a thin face and bulging eyes. Bullfrog breed. There’s a dedicated look about him. Believes in what he’s doing. Wants to make the streets safe for pensioners and kids on their way home from school. Probably collects stamps in his spare time, but the fat cunt he works with is more into hardcore porn and fifteen pints of lager. They should fuck off and hassle some real criminals. The rapists, muggers, nonces. Instead they’re wasting their time at football. They’re missing the point. But they’re also taking home a healthy wage packet for having some fun at the taxpayer’s expense. I reckon some of them love it more than us lot.
—You won’t get much joy in Wandsworth lads. The fat cunt joins in. Better make sure your arses are ready because they don’t like football hooligans in the nick. You’ll be walking with a wiggle by the time you get released tonight. Shitting yourself something rotten because your arses have been split.
The man’s a hundred per cent wanker. Who does he think he’s conning? Just because a bloke goes down doesn’t mean he turns into a fucking iron. The copper knows he’s talking bollocks, but he has to try it on. It’s part of his thinking. All that wanking in Hendon as a boy recruit. He’s repeating the same nonsense trendy lefties like to put about. All that bollocks about everyone being a bum bandit on the quiet. They fucking love it those cunts, with their scabby clothes and wishful thinking. Their world revolves around the male arsehole. They lecture the rest of the country about equal rights for queen and how shafting other blokes is natural, then rant on about prison bum bandits to try and prove the point. If it’s no big thing like they say, on all those late night programmes on the telly, where the cunts sit around slapping each other on the back trying to be all unemotional, then why go on about it like it’s some kind of exclusive?
Basically those cunts know fuck all about reality. They get their piece of paper and think that’s it. They get a plush job and retire to the TV studio to continue their lectures. Cradle to grave. That’s why nobody in London wants to know about today’s Labour Party. They should roll up their sleeves and get their hands dirty. Build up a sweat. A day’s hard graft would kill them. They’re the cunts who wash their hands after they’ve had a piss, never before.
—Right, Bob, let’s get this rubbish down the station. The fat copper shuts the back doors as he calls to the driver. I need a cup of tea and a cheese roll. Put your foot down will you, I’m starving.
The van starts up and we’re crawling through traffic for the short ride to Fulham Police Station. I’ve been there before. I think of the time against West Ham. Got nicked when West Ham piled in the pub we were drinking in and it went off right there in the door. I’m standing around minding my own business and the doors burst open and a mob steams in bopping up and down like jumping jacks. I turn round and I’ve just got this whistled Bubbles going through my head before one of the cunts smacks me in the mouth. It was a split second thing with no time to react. The pub was packed with Chelsea and West Ham were there for five seconds before bottles, glasses and some chairs and tables sent them back into the street. West Ham piled out fast as they’d arrived and the old bill took their place. They steamed in with truncheons and I was one of the unlucky ones. The copper who nicked me just grabbed the nearest body. Just like this one now.
That was a wicked day with West Ham causing havoc all over the shop. The cells really were full, and the old bill were giving it the big one then about putting us in Wandsworth, but nothing happened. They got us down the station and moved us to a truck with cells. We sat there for two hours. Real premature burial effort. Half of us needed a piss and kept asking the coppers, but they were laughing like the cunts they are, telling us we’d get a kicking if we pissed ourselves. There were three of them sitting at the front telling stories. One with a bigger mouth than most going on about a queer he’d nicked down some bogs who wouldn’t go in the cell. Said he was scared of being in a small space. The bloke promised he wouldn’t close the door. Soon as the queer goes in, bang goes the door. Said the queer was screaming and going mental when he turned the key. Frothing at the mouth like he’d picked up a dose of rabies and the copper just laughed and walked off. There was a bit of laughter from the lads in the cells. The old bill liked that. A show of unity.
—What are you looking at, you black bastard? The fat copper gives the City nigger a bit of verbal. You don’t come down here causing trouble in the white man’s streets. You should’ve stayed in Moss Side where you belong with your drugs and whores.
It’s a slow ride. The traffic’s diverted away from Stamford Bridge causing a jam. All the people on foot move in one direction. Off to football like they do every Saturday. It’s like those fish that go back to where they were born. They have to return. Something inside forces them back. It’s in the blood. Upstream all the way, but you just have to get there. It’s going on all over the country and Chelsea’s one of the bigger clubs. I think of all those shit teams who will never do anything, only get a couple of thousand through the turnstile, and know that if Chelsea were the same I’d still be there.
—You lot don’t care about football. You just come along because you want a fight. You should piss off and let the other idiots get on with it. If they’re stupid enough to come along every week they should be able to watch the game in peace and quiet.
He doesn’t have a clue. He’s talking to himself repeating the rubbish he hears on the telly and reads in the paper. Five minutes later the van arrives at the station. Things have quietened down because the old bill get bored when no-one answers back. The day’s grinding to a halt. For me it ended getting nicked. The City fans have come a long way and they’ll be into their hangovers soon. A wasted trip. Manchester to London for a few hours in a cell and a date in court. Now it’s just down to procedure and the petty digs. The endless wind-ups and irritation.
—Right, out you get. The coppers are outside standing by the doors. Hurry up. We haven’t got all day. Sooner you get in and we check you out, the sooner you can go home.
I expect a kick or punch but they’re standing back bored out of their skulls. The excitement has quickly died down and they’ve realised it was a small scuffle and not the start of a major riot. It’s not like the system’s going to be overthrown or anything. You’d think after all these years policing football they’d understand what goes on, but they still haven’t got a clue. It makes you wonder where they dig them up from. And who’s in charge of the operation? Probably some old geriatric with a cabinet full of recommendations he never did anything for and a brain rotting with the clap.
We’re led inside to be charged. The bullfrog copper holds my arm like I’m going to do a runner or something. Public enemy number one. Don’t make me laugh. I take my turn and give my details. Tom Johnson. No previous. Just say what’s necessary and the copper behind the desk writes it down as though he’s on a go slow. He’s got glasse
s which keep slipping down his nose and a bald patch at the back of his head like a monk. Doesn’t look at me the whole time. Just stares at the forms. I’m not important enough. Another statistic. He takes his time and the bullfrog next to me shuffles his feet getting impatient. That makes two of us. They take me to be photographed and fingerprinted. It’s a load of shit and I’ve told them I’ve never been nicked before because, who knows, maybe nothing will show up on record. It happens sometimes, or at least that’s what I’ve heard, so it’s always worth a go. I haven’t been in trouble with the old bill for a few years so it won’t count when the case comes to court. That’s the theory anyway. But a simple lie keeps them off your back.
The copper leading me round tries to make a bit of small talk now the commotion’s over and the paperwork’s got to be done. I’m just looking at him thinking I’d like to nut him. Break the bridge of his nose and see those eyes pop out of his skull. Or stick a banger in his mouth, watch the fuse bum and his head explode. Wanker. Why don’t they turn a blind eye now and again? It’s not like it’s anything serious. A few punches and a bit of shouting. Nothing more. A scuffle which generally looks worse than the reality. Major efforts like Tottenham only come around a couple of times a season.
I’m led to a cell and put in with some other Chelsea lads. City get their own accommodation and that’s the last we’ll see of them. I nod to the others and sit down. Time to go through the boredom of waiting till the game finishes, the old bill check my details and decide to let me out. Then I’m going to be down Horseferry Magistrates listening to three old squires who should be six feet under telling me what a fucking evil bastard I am. I’ll have to stand there listening to the usual bollocks and, worst of all, I’ll have to pay the cunts a fine for the privilege.
—I’m just standing there trying to keep out of the way and I get arrested. A skinny kid looks to the rest of us for a reaction. There’s these blokes having a go at each other and I’m trying to find a way past and suddenly someone thumps me from behind. Right across the back of the shoulders and I feel him against me and I use my elbow to get him off. I thought it was a City fan and when I turned to get away it’s a policeman.