The Football Factory

by John King

  THREATENING BEHAVIOUR

  I sit in a cafe watching people pass in the street outside. Monday morning and they’re hurrying to their offices. The men are identical with black suits and noddy haircuts. The women don’t vary their style much either, but there’s some nice birds around. Dirty office girls. Just like the one serving me coffee and a Danish. She walks around with her nose in the air like she’s renting a room at Buckingham Palace. Can’t be more than twenty-two but thinks she’s a cut above the rest. Birds like this are easy to work out. They come from money and are bred to be arrogant. They look down on ordinary girls. Slag them off as common. But get one of these stuck-up birds between the sheets and they’re away. It’s all down to upbringing. They’re arrogant like nobody’s business, but arrogant makes for a good shag. They don’t care about anybody but themselves.

  I smile at the girl as she gives me my order. She lifts her head and turns away. She’ll get a fucking nose bleed if she’s not careful. Her nostrils are up there in space denting satellites. Real Himalayas job. But I let her think I’m hooked. That I reckon she’s a cracker. That somehow the fact she’s good looking and well groomed makes her more than another snotty nosed slag. She stalks off rolling a shapely arse and I keep my eyes on her. She can’t resist looking back. When she catches me staring she marches into the back of the cafe. I want to laugh. It’s a classic.

  I’ve got half an hour before I’m due in court and I’m killing time round the corner from Horseferry Magistrates. I’ve been in these courts before I got wise. I know the place well enough, but it’s a good job time has passed since my last visit, otherwise the magistrates might even be looking at something more than a fine. I bite into the Danish and wish it was a proper cafe with decent food. Not a greasy spoon, just somewhere that doesn’t have its head so far up its arse it could get some decent food together. Danish pastries, croissants and all the other European shit leaves me cold. That’s the kind of rubbish you have to put up with when you go abroad. What the fuck is it doing here? It’s taking over in the rich areas because every cunt thinks the Frogs and Eyeties are better than us. It’s because they don’t belong in the culture around them that they have to look over the Channel.

  When it’s time I give the waitress a big friendly smile and ask for the bill. She’s toned down a bit now and when I’ve paid I leave a fiver in the dish. I make sure she sees it then flash my teeth at her like a prize wanker. Real devil worship stuff. Done up in my best gear for the magistrates she might even reckon I’m worth a few bob. She’s sweet now because a whore’s a whore wherever you go and whatever the accent. Only difference, birds on street corners are up front about what they’re doing. The girl returns the smile.

  I walk round the corner and up the steps leading to the court. The foyer’s full of nervous first-timers and cocky pros who think the whole thing’s a joke. Sick humour. The other Chelsea boys are up as well and to make things interesting there’s four Millwall lads down the corridor. I know they’re Millwall from the crest and slogan sweat shirt one of them’s wearing. They’re scruffy bastards. Haven’t made any kind of effort. No respect for authority. We’ll be down there in the League Cup in a couple of weeks and it’ll be mental. They’re ragged and even if they didn’t have the cunt with the shirt it would still be easy to tell them apart by the rest of the gear. It’s easy working out where football fans come from. It’s not even the style. That spreads fast enough. There’s something more. Scousers look like scousers. Geordies are geordies. Forget the clothes and look at the haircuts and tashes for Northerners. Their heads are a different shape. The faces look like they belong to another race. Must go back to tribal times.

  Take London. Go to any derby game and you can tell different firms apart. It’s not just the niggers at Arsenal and yids at Tottenham, it’s something more. You know from experience where they come from. West Ham and Millwall are tatty even when they’re looking smart. There’s common blood with West Ham and Millwall, and the difference from living on opposite sides of the river. Same with Arsenal and Tottenham. Then there’s Chelsea and nothing clubs like Rangers and Brentford. The Millwall boys are giving us the eye and there’s no love lost. Chelsea generally have a bit more cash because West London’s a classier place than the likes of Peckham and Deptford. Acton and Hammersmith piss all over the Old Kent Road. I feel a bit of a cunt in my Sunday best but that’s why they’re on a hanger in my cupboard. Weddings, funerals and court appearances. All the sad occasions. If you can save a hundred quid dressing up for a couple of hours then why not? The waitress was obviously impressed.

  I look at the sheet pinned to the wall. It’s a mix of drunk driving, theft, assault, the standard football charge of threatening behaviour, and a rape. Bad news that last one. People mill around talking. A cross section of everyday blokes, though the men doing the defending all come from the same classrooms. They’re easy to tell. No need to look. They’re the cunts with the clipped accents. Stroppy the lot of them. Relations of the bird in the cafe. It’s all men as well, not a woman in sight. Suppose it’s true what they say. It’s a man’s world when it comes to crime.

  The kid on the assault charge talks with his brief. Shitting himself. He doesn’t belong here and it’s out of order they put that kind of bloke through the grinder. Shows what cunts the old bill are when it comes down to it. They stitch themselves up in the end because they turn everyone against them. I think of Tottenham. Anything they give me today will be okay because I’ll be watching the coppers, magistrates and all those other snides sitting around wanking themselves off. I’ve been in there with the lads doing some of their own and they haven’t got a clue.

  I haven’t bothered with a brief. No point. Just plead guilty and get it over with. Nobody saw me do anything, but bollocks, why bother? The first time I got nicked I’d done fuck all. I was just a young lad into football, a drink and a quick punch-up if one came my way. The old bill turned up after a bit of trouble and I was straight in the van even though I was just passing by. I was down Fulham nick in ten minutes and when I got to court I pleaded not guilty, which was a big mistake. Whatever they say about the British legal system being the best in the world, it’s shit. They say you’re innocent till proven guilty, but the first thing the magistrates did was order me to sign on every Saturday when football was on till my case came up. I waited two months and learnt a lesson from a bloke up on the same charge. He was another teenage bystander who’d done nothing, but he was smart. Pleaded guilty. Paid his fine and took his chance. Said he couldn’t be bothered and didn’t want to miss Chelsea.

  It was funny that one. He’s telling the magistrate what happened and the old cunt is looking into him like he’s a nuclear scientist gone mental. Says that if what the kid’s saying is true then he should be pleading not guilty. The bloke knows that if he does that he’ll have to sign on like me. He wants to watch Chelsea. They’ve got some good games coming up. He tells the magistrate he just wants to plead guilty. Everyone knows the score. It’s a lottery. The kid’s almost begging the bloke to accept he’s guilty even though his statement says he’s not. The magistrate convicts and fines him.

  For two months I signed my name at three o’clock while everyone was down Chelsea. I could have shot down the ground for half-time but what was the point? It was a miserable time. I was shitting it as well. It was like being a virgin or something, not knowing what to expect. I got myself a brief and he was a plonker if ever there was one. I’m standing outside waiting to go in and it’s the first time I’ve seen him face to face. He says a few words and makes a crack about not liking Saturdays because all the riff raff comes in for the football. He lives in Fulham. One of the cunts who pushed house prices up and gave the area a dodgy reputation. Wanker with a plum in his mouth.

  Having said that, I went in court and the copper who nicked me must’ve been brain damaged at birth, though that’s being unkind to flids. The bloke representing me did a good job. I got Mark and Rod to give evidence and the arresting officer
mucked up his story. The magistrates didn’t like it, but they couldn’t really get away with a conviction. The old bill were gutted. It was a good moment. My brief asked for costs and the cunt in charge snaps at him and says no. Says I shouldn’t have been where I was when I got nicked. I can’t dwell on the past, though, because what’s done is done. But it shapes you for the future. When my turn comes I plead guilty and tell the three waxworks staring at me that I regret my actions and was only defending myself. I wait for the speech. There’s a lot of cases lined up, so the man in the middle, a prat with greasy black hair who looks like he hangs around schools at closing time, gets to the point and says I should be ashamed of myself. He asks me what my parents and friends think about me being in court?

  I have to tuck my head into my chest so I don’t burst out laughing. He probably thinks I’m ashamed. I should tell him to shut up and stop molesting kids, but what’s the point stitching myself up? I’ve got to keep quiet, take my punishment and come out smelling of roses. I look up quickly and see the fat woman next to him nodding her head. Real dyke prison warden effort in desperate need of a length. The third magistrate wishes he was inspecting his stamp collection. He wants to go home and seems a bit embarrassed by it all. Like the rest of us.

  I walk out with a two hundred pound hole in my pocket. It’s a con but I’ve seen it before. I don’t hang about. There’s no point trying to say anything because it’s meaningless and I’ve got nothing worth saying. These people are scum. Everything’s sorted before the accused arrives. Sometimes you get lucky but even then you still have to put up with the hassle. There’s never an apology. Look at all those Paddies who got stitched up by the old bill, not to mention all the other bastards through the years. There must be loads of poor sods rotting away inside framed by bent coppers. I’ve got the old bill’s number. Just keep away from them and live your life on the quiet. It’s only wankers who get done. Wankers like me.

  I walk away from the court and remember the waitress. I look at my watch and it’s half-twelve. It’s worth a try. I head back to the cafe and go in. Sit at the same table. The bird sees me come in and though she tries to hide it I see she recognises me. When she comes over I tell her I’ve had a hard morning. Been busy signing a big contract. Made five grand in my pocket but it took a bit of doing. She raises her eyebrows. I tell her life is hard on the streets. She nods and says she knows what I mean. I want to crack up but keep a straight face. The slag walks to the back of the cafe to get my order. I sit back and watch the people outside. The streets are getting busy with office workers running around looking for food. The fine doesn’t faze me. It’s a risk you take. I don’t like the law or any of those involved, but there’s no point getting wound up. Two hundred quid’s a drop in the ocean. The amount of gear I sell on the side from the warehouse keeps me going. That and a modest wage. It’s always the fringe benefits that see you through. Leave it to management and you’ll lag behind all your life.

  I drink more coffee and eat a sandwich. Life’s okay if you know how to handle yourself. Horseferry Magistrates is a minor inconvenience, not the end of the world. Just keep your chin up and they can’t touch you. I’m thinking how to spend the rest of the day but have a good idea the way it’s going to go. I’m on a near enough cert. There’s no point going into the warehouse this afternoon. I told them I was going to a funeral. They won’t miss me at work. Everyone respects death. I don’t fancy a day off my holidays for the old bill. Far better to invent a family tragedy.

  When I start getting bored I catch the waitress’s eye and she comes over. She’s a good looker and has that rich bitch sleaze about her. This is the fucking class war. Not a bunch of cunts dressed up thinking they’re hard when they’re more into their clothes than getting stuck in. If they want to go on about class they should have a bit of this bird working out my bill. Or just give up the notion and get stuck in at the football where you avoid the limelight and do the business without justifying yourself. Aggravation without the excuses. I ask her if there’s a decent pub nearby. She gives me directions. A five-minute walk. I ask her what time she knocks off. Half-two. Ask her along for a drink and she says yes. Not a second’s hesitation. I think about giving her another hefty tip but decide against the idea. A bit obvious that one and I’m into her for a fiver already. We give each other the eye and I watch her arse move all the way back to the kitchen.

  I find the pub easy enough and sit down with a pint of lager and the paper. It’s one of those Central London pubs done up nice enough but without much character and hardly any locals. The dinner hour mob are clearing out when the bird from the cafe turns up. She looks fit without her uniform. A nice body with good legs and a healthy pair of lungs. She’s got a short haircut which suits her bone structure. I know she’s going to be a dirty cow. Everything about her spells it out in giant letters. She’s got a strong line in confidence and gets the drinks in, then sits down at the table. Her legs brush against me straight off breaking down space.

  Her name’s Chrissie and she lives in a flat in Westminster. Belongs to her parents. They live in the Far East and she gets the place for nothing. They’re into drugs, the legal variety. It works out well for her because she doesn’t have to worry about rip-off rents. She tells me London’s full of high prices for studios in dodgy areas. We have the one drink and then she’s taking me back to her flat. There’s an entry phone downstairs and a video camera bolted to the ceiling. We get in the lift and Chrissie’s sticking her tongue down my throat while I’m still swearing at myself getting caught on film. What happens if I want to come back another time and turn the place over? I’m on a mission, doing my bit for the workers. Muscle relaxation after the tension of a court appearance and maybe the chance to make good my losses.