The Football Factory

by John King

  He imagined amusement arcades full of Smart Bomb fanatics splashing out on merchandising. Living rooms echoing specialist sound effects. Personal computers pulsating to the red and yellow flashes of incendiaries. He saw that kid Dave from next door hooked and benefiting from a healthy outlet for misdirected energy. The game would wean him off ecstasy and channel his thoughts. It was good, clean fun and the boy would look good with a short RAF haircut and Smart Bomb T-shirt.

  Jennings moved towards sleep, Smart Bomb Parade playing in his mind. There was a hum deep inside the machine and a blaze of ticker-tape street scenes. Blonde virgin girls waved white handkerchiefs and a stern middle-aged man wiped a tear from his eye. The graphics were excellent. A brass band played a familiar tune and this filled the combatant with hope and glory. The sound effects were perfect. Jennings was a fighter bomber pilot for the New Economic Order; power of decency pitted against the evil General Mahmet. He was ready for take-off. Red digits flashed across the screen counting down seconds. The computerised faces disappeared as he prepared for the dangerous task ahead.

  An electrified crucifix melted through fading street scenes as the military took charge of the operation. To progress through the ranks he needed a high score. It was a question of discipline and the will to win. Individual thoughts had to be controlled and his life donated to the greater good. If he lived he would be a hero with all the benefits such selflessness brought. If he perished, he would be a martyr, and his memory live forever. His family would quote Shakespeare, the message flashing briefly across the screen in a font he had designed himself, that a coward dies many times but a hero dies just the once. He was proud of the artistic touch. He was a man of culture.

  Jennings took his place in the massed ranks of fundamentalist crusaders. Modem weaponry was quiet and efficient and only punished the guilty. There was a rigorous points system that recognised decisiveness in battle and the ability to smart bomb a nation’s infrastructure back to the Stone Age. He felt the thrill of conflict. He was on the march, part of an organisation based on chivalry and the highest moral principles. He was justified in whatever actions he was forced to take to save his way of life, community, nation. His finger tingled on the mouse deciding life and death. Although strategic missiles and smart cluster bombs were readily available, there was a bonus for decisive strikes. Waste not want not was the NEO motto.

  The score was scaled according to a target’s military importance. A secret bonus scheme operated, details unknown. Schools and hospitals recorded points, though this was officially denied for reasons of political politeness, while other more complicated factors were also taken into account. Kill ratios were broken down and categorised. The player would never question the machine. Deep in NEO circuits the publicity network protecting Jennings from mass opinion called for extra memory. Nothing was left to chance. Lights flickered and the eyes of the General burned communist red. A blood red craving for infidel babies and homosexual deviance. The General was flanked by sadistic mullahs, Korans held to the sky, thunderbolts cracking the minarets of the East. There was no need to consider the strange mixture of Islamic and communist ideas. As far as the game was concerned they belonged together.

  Rockets spat flame and Jennings was soaring through the skies on the crest of an adrenalin rush, thoughts sucked towards the hard disk. He crossed parched desert landscapes and spotted a Bedouin camel train, insignificant and unarmed. He considered a strike but would be wasting time and ammunition for a low points return. He switched to control frequency, briefed by a computer programmer tapping into detailed information banks, digitised kill potential passed to a gunslinging pilot. Righteousness flooded his brain. He was a prophet in steel casing, a clean-killing European superman. He launched his craft in a calculated arc, technology confirming creative genius. Missiles burnt beneath an Arab sun. A row of slum housing exploded in dust storms. Colour was added to a drab world of hunger and disease. The gleaming dome of a mosque stretched outwards and then melted back into itself. He hit the water works, score rising as black ants ran beneath falling debris. Chemical weapons were the reward for experience. Death better than continual poverty.

  The Smart Bomb pilot turned in semi-consciousness, bumping his wife, turning for home with joy in his heart, knowing he was safe from ground attack. He had one rocket left and turned a victory roll, spotting a bazaar on the outskirts of town, a tangle of bright stalls and frantic insects. He clicked the mouse then shouted into his radio as a school exploded. The score increased, machine buzzing with complicated equations. It was an easy ride back to base, but he had to keep his wits about him. He was ecstatic with success. Mundane existence was transformed.

  The score was high and Jennings translated the success of the software into hard cash. There would be steak on the menu and congratulations from his comrades. He would drink cold American beer and listen to relaxing mood music, take a shower and enjoy the praise. He was a credit to his country. He timed his approach and felt the bounce of touchdown. Pat was awake and getting out of bed, on her way to the bathroom to clean up the mess. He hoped she hadn’t leaked on the sheet.

  VILLA AWAY

  We’re stuck in traffic on the motorway looking over Birmingham. It’s a fucking horrible place. Ties with Liverpool as the worst place I’ve been in the last few years. That’s saying something because the North is stacked with dead industry and ghost towns where the kids are deprived and the parents depraved. The traffic’s died a death and we’re pissed off because it’s getting late. Half-one and we’re still on the flyover. There’s cars and coaches and lorries backed up. The cars carry happy families and decent football fans. There’s Villa, Chelsea, Arsenal scarves hanging from windows. A couple of other clubs I don’t recognise. All the colours of the rainbow. Rod says Arsenal are playing Everton away. Wankers wearing colours.

  Birmingham stretches as far as you can see. All the way to the horizon. There’s no colour, just grey warehouses and derelict buildings dwarfing identical houses full of Jasper Carrot Brummies. There’s mist floating around but it’s no natural beauty, more like poison from the traffic clogging the motorway. Traffic speeds in the opposite direction while we sit tight like a bunch of cunts. Coachloads of grannies and Paid pilgrims head south to London. Can’t blame them wanting to enjoy a bit of civilisation. Anything for a break from a lifetime stuck in a slum clearance like Birmingham.

  We’re not going as far as Spaghetti Junction, turning off for Villa Park before we’re sucked into that particular abortion. But we’ve been through enough times going to away games to know about the jams and fumes. Space Age gone wrong. When we go away it’s either coach or train travel and both have their advantages. At the moment we’re using coaches a lot because you avoid the aggravation and expense of travelling on British Rail. There’s no coppers standing at the barrier watching you from the moment you pull out of Euston or King’s Cross till touchdown in Manchester or Leeds. There again, when you go by coach you end up tied to the fucker. That’s if you want to get back to London without forking out for train fares. Nothing’s perfect in this world.

  The old bill have Saturdays sewn up and are always on the lookout for coaches, so you have to work things out in advance. The more they install cameras and set up cordons around grounds like it’s some kind of war zone, the further away they push the problem, stretching the Harris imagination. That’s all anyone really cares about, keeping their patch tidy. No major disturbance translates as a clean bill of health according to those in charge. But nothing gets solved ignoring the problem. It just sets up shop somewhere else. It’s human nature and that’s why banging someone up never does much good, because even though it’s no picnic inside, the causes are still there bubbling away.

  —Mandy thinks she’s up the duff. Rod’s been a miserable cunt since this morning and now it’s easy to understand why. He sits there looking at us like a stray dog feeling sorry for itself.

  —What do you mean? Mark looks puzzled.

  —What do you
think I mean?

  —What do you mean she’s up the duff?

  —Well, mate, it’s like this. Blokes have this lump of meat between their legs that fills with blood when it sniffs a bit of gash. The bird gets greased up when she sees the bloke. The man shoves this stiff object into the hole between the woman’s legs, moves back and forwards for a while, in your case a couple of seconds, and shoots off this white washing-up liquid. Nine months later, if the timing’s right, a screaming brat pops out and the cunt responsible gets to pay for it for the next sixteen years.

  —Are you serious?

  —That’s how it works Mark. I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about something that important. It’s in all the medical books and most of the programmes on telly, though they don’t show all the details. It’s the birds and bees. Watch them next summer if any of the cunts get lost and fly down your street and you still won’t have a clue what I’m on about. I’m surprised your old girl didn’t tell you when your balls dropped. They taught us at school when we were kids, but you were always skiving so you were probably down the arcade or something fucking about with the Space Invaders.

  —Very funny. Are you sure about Mandy?

  —She’s two days late. Didn’t seem bothered when she told me this morning, but it felt like she’d kicked me in the bollocks. I’m getting dressed ready for a day out and she comes back from having a piss and breaks the good news.

  I tell Rod that two days isn’t a long time. Birds can be a lot later than that. Some are so fucking dozy they can’t count past ten so they never know what time of the day it is let alone the month. I can see he’s gutted. It’s there in his face carved in deep like he’s been glassed by some headbanger. Even Mark sees it and he usually misses the subtle things in life. Like his time in the nick. He’s always been like that, even as a kid. He’s thick-skinned like a pissed water buffalo. Just says what comes into his head and doesn’t give a fuck if it winds people up or not.

  He’s leaving well alone at the moment. It’s a good idea, because though Mark can be a nasty bit of work sometimes, with a mean streak that makes you think he’s a closet psycho or something, Rod can be a bit naughty himself. If Rod gets pushed far enough he snaps. Goes mental and then he’s worth two of Mark. I remember him at school in the playground when some kid picked a fight, said his old girl was a prossie, and Rod went off his rocker like someone had pulled the plug. Had the bloke on the ground with his shoulders pinned down, smashing his head on the concrete, again and again. I had to pull him off in the end before he killed the cunt. It’s not part of his basic character, but it’s there all the same. Everyone has a breaking point. I can’t imagine Rod being a dad.

  —What are you going to do if it’s true? What if Mandy is in the club? Mark looks worried. Kids are bad news all round.

  —Don’t know what I’d do. Mandy wouldn’t get rid of it and it’s not like she’s some slag I’ve serviced in a doorway after one pint over the top. She’s my fucking wife. I suppose I’d end up being a dad. Either that or kick her down the stairs.

  —That’s a fucking stupid thing to say.

  —I wouldn’t do it. Don’t know why I said it. I’m a cunt, alright?

  —You could buy it a Chelsea shirt and bring it to games. You wouldn’t be out with us lot much, would you? You couldn’t go out steaming Tottenham with a kid sitting on your shoulders.

  I start laughing and Rod gives me a nasty look. He asks what’s so funny. I tell him I’m imagining him kicking some Spurs cunt in the head with a kid on his shoulders directing operations. He could be the firm’s mascot. He doesn’t see it himself and shakes his head. The idea starts growing on me but I’m not telling Rod. He’ll end up like one of those blokes you see on a Saturday with messy grey hair walking down from Fulham Broadway, who goes in the ground and has to sit in the family section surrounded by brats while the lads are having a good time. If Rod ends up like one of those cunts I’ll get a shooter and put him out of his misery. Play the vet doing the decent thing for a poor dumb animal. Otherwise he’ll end up another one of the walking dead. The people milking the game say football should be family entertainment and all that nonsense. They say more birds should go to football. There’s enough of them there already and who wants a stand full of screaming kids like at England home games?

  We cheer up as the coach pulls off the motorway heading towards Villa Park. We’ve got a different driver with Ron Hawkins off with the flu and he doesn’t take long to get lost in the traffic, missing the signs, and the old bill are dozing and don’t see us go past. We end up on the other side of the park backing onto the Holte End. He’s a fucking wanker this driver. Doesn’t want the ticket Harris always gets Ron for the game. We get the bloke to drop us off. Tell him we’ll walk and he can meet us at the same place after Chelsea have stuffed Villa.

  —You’ll be alright, Mark says, trying to cheer Rod up. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Not yet anyway. Every bird is late now and again. That’s how it goes. She could’ve had a shock or something, or not been feeling well. Maybe she was frightened when that thing you were talking about filled up with blood and hit six inches. Fright of her life after getting used to six centimetres.

  —Mandy looks after herself. Rod laughs despite himself. She knows what’s going on inside her gut. Mind you, she said she didn’t think she was in the club. Reckoned she’d be able to tell though fuck knows how.

  —Forget it. Maybe we’ll find some Villa fans. That’ll cheer you up. Batter a few Brummies and you’ll be smiling.

  —Some chance. Remember how they scattered that time on the pitch? Last game of the season and they get steamed by fifty Chelsea and do a vanishing act.

  —Bunch of cunts.

  —Thought I’d been slipped a nasty chemical. One minute they’re standing there like they want to know, the next there’s nothing but thin air and a pile of steaming shit.

  We walk down a terraced row of houses. There’s two beat up cars and a load of kids playing on the sidewalk. Small scrawny bastards shivering in the cold. There’s a Paki shop on the corner with bare metal shelves and a few tins in the window. Curried beans and chopped mushrooms. A rack of newspapers with a bird on the front in suspenders and a headline accusing a leading politician of adultery. A gang of black kids stands around the corner watching us. Must be eight or nine with oversized coats and trainers. They’ve got flash bikes and bobble hats as well, so they must be doing something right.

  They’re waiting for cars coming to football, trying to make a bit on the side, offering protection from other kids they say are going round slashing tyres. You have to admire their understanding of the free market. It’s basic economics, because you take something like a major war and it’s a money spinner. Bomb the place till there’s nothing left standing and then a few years later put in bids for work rebuilding the place. There’s big money in sewage systems and fresh water. It’s sound business sense. Build and destroy. Or when you can’t go out and smash it straight off, put a timing device inside so after a few years the fucker breaks down.

  We head off across the park. A coachload out for a stroll and it must be an odd sight. It’s a mild day in the park with green grass and trees, and a loving couple walking their dog take one look at us and head in the opposite direction. It’s funny, but I feel uncomfortable. We’re out of our surroundings and must look a right bunch of cunts. It’s like when we stopped for a piss on the way to Sunderland for the Newcastle game and Facelift was doing his best to pollute the English countryside with an Agent Orange piss attack. We didn’t belong and now we’re taking it a stage further. The fat cunt’s not with us today, but Harris is up ahead getting muddy, looking left and right like one of those bouncing toy dogs Pakis carry round in the back of their Datsuns.

  There’s a smart red brick building to our right and we’re coming over a ridge walking through dead leaves. Like a tribe of Apaches on the skyline. There’s locals heading in the same direction, little knots of teenagers who you know straight away h
ave never been in trouble in their lives. We come to the street along the side of the ground and turn right into the buzz of Saturday afternoon. The main entrance to Villa Park is impressive. It’s old brickwork from another era, a nice bit of history. Classy but ancient. It’s two o’clock and the place is packed with people walking up and down, a lot of them wearing Villa tops. We go towards the Holte End, a wedge through the middle of the street looking for reaction but not expecting much. The crowd melts away. They know we’re Chelsea and know we’re a firm. No colours or shouting, but it’s obvious. Any cunt could tell us apart. Harris slags off a few blokes walking the other way but it’s a waste of time, they don’t want to know.

  —What’s the matter with these cunts. Mark is laughing because it’s a bit of a joke.

  —They’re not interested. They just want their football.

  I look at the blokes walking along holding the hands of small children, making sure their kids don’t get lost in the crowd and trampled underfoot. They look at us sharpish with a bit of dread mixed with disgust. They’re older and not exactly trainspotters, but they’re on their own with the kid and we’re just another problem along with the bills and dole queue. They want to watch the football while they can still afford to get in the place.