The Football Factory

by John King

  I’m trying to work out why he’s telling me this. If it has some kind of hidden meaning or whether he’s just trying to show me he was a lad in his own youth, in his own way. He smiles when Heather walks past and says hello, doesn’t make any comment though I can see he’s watching the way she moves. He asks me if I fancy a drink. He’s bought a small bottle of gin with him. I shake my head and laugh but tell him to go ahead. He makes a big deal of keeping the gin secret, so that if anyone was bothered they’d work him out straight away.

  He says he feels better. A bit of gin and old stories to tell. Says he never liked Millwall. They were always a bunch of hooligans. He’d thought trouble at football was a thing of the past. You don’t see it much on the telly these days. He seems happy. He’s actually smiling which is unusual for the old man. It’s a bit of a funny situation. You’d think he’d be gutted, but for some reason he’s really enjoying the visit.

  DERBY AT HOME

  I feel like a kid. Full of life and raring to go. Nothing can touch me. Millwall’s another story to tell in the future, again and again, over and over, small boy sitting on my knee watching the old geezer with drink on his breath, dentures chattering, gasping for air; but for now I make do with thirty of us wandering the streets between Earl’s Court and Fulham Broadway. A Derby firm has been spotted and we’ve had a call on the mobile. If we find them it’s a chance to make up for lost time. I’m in the mood. Feel good. Derby may be fuck all when it comes to football, but they’ve got a few faces prepared to do the business. These midweek Cup games in winter are ideal. There’s added needle because of the competition and darkness for cover. As long as it doesn’t get too cold and freeze your bollocks off it’s a good night out.

  We’re walking down from the Jolly Maltster. A couple of the lads go inside the first pub to check for Derby. They’re straight back shaking heads. The pub’s full, but it’s all Chelsea. We keep moving. Going against the flow of decent citizens coming out of dead back streets, heading for Stamford Bridge. Eyes full ahead, inspecting concrete as they pass. But there’s no pavements of gold, just fag ends and old paper. Even Dick Whittington gave up when he got to London. Made do with shafting his cat. They’re looking to get in early and beat the crowd arriving just before kick-off, lapping up the atmosphere like we all did when we were kids with big eyes believing we’d be out on the pitch playing some day. No chance. We check another pub round the corner. It’s my turn, and I go inside with Mark. Nothing happening. Just a crowd of men with papers and programmes talking football. We go back out.

  —Let’s have a drink and wait here for a while. Harris takes command once we’re back outside. I fancy a pint. It’ll warm us up and get the blood flowing. If Derby walk down from Earl’s Court they’ll have to come this way. Either that or North End Road, and that’s the long way round. Chances are they’ll come to us whether they know it or not. If we sit tight we’ll be okay. Everything comes to the man who waits.

  Half of us go in through one entrance. The other half the side door. A couple of the younger blokes go off to have a look around. There’s no point standing on street corners looking like a bunch of orphans, making cunts of ourselves. We go in the pub and though there’s no direct look the volume dips a bit as the men inside keep talking but have a quick glance, working us out. Robot mouths moving in time. All the usual chat. It’s obvious we’re Chelsea and the noise goes back to normal, a group of men arguing the toss about the England side and what’s wrong with football in general. Same old words and opinions, year after year. Daft cunts should let it be. You’ve got no comeback against the men in charge. Goes for everything in this country. England’s feeling the strain.

  —What do you reckon on Derby then? Mark rubs his hands together. Like an excited schoolboy who’s just nicked a dirty mag from his local paper shop and can’t wait to see the beavers tucked in his jacket, burning a hole.

  Mark’s in a good mood tonight. Haven’t seen him this happy for years. He’s being made redundant in the next couple of months and is due a healthy pay off. He’s done his time and is looking forward to the cheque. Thinks he’s got it made, Mr Big, but he hasn’t stopped to think about the future. He hasn’t planned on what happens when the money’s spent. Says he’s not bothered. Hasn’t given it much thought. Says something will turn up. No trouble. Does he look like a tosser or something? Thinking short term as usual.

  —They’ll have a few boys down tonight.

  Rod pours his bottle of Light Ale into a glass as he speaks. Acting flash like he’s a genius on remand. Fucks up the image making me laugh. Swears because he’s given the Light Ale too much head and the cunt’s threatening to spill over. He puts it on a beer mat and lets the advert take the strain.

  —We steamed this vanload of Derby up by Earl’s Court, about five years ago, says Harris, coming over with his tonic water. We were on our way back to the tube. Been hanging around for an hour after the game, but nothing was happening so we fucked off to the nearest station. Well pissed off we were, slagging the cunts off, then this van stops at a red light. Right rust bucket. Must’ve been running on a bent MOT, but it had Derby inside so we tried rocking it over and suddenly the back doors swing open and this tribe of Midland headcases piles out. Fuck knows how they all got in the van. Couldn’t believe it. Must’ve been auditioning for the circus, though they weren’t exactly a bunch of clowns or beauty queens practising for the high wire.

  —I remember that one, Martin Howe joins in. Don’t know where you lot were. They were mental. Big bastards in donkey jackets. Never heard the war was over. Still hanging about in the jungle eating roots for twenty years in gear that went out in the Stone Age.

  —About twenty of the cunts steamed us, says Harris, taking over the storyteller role. Must’ve been hiding under the seats or wired into the electrics. Lary as fuck. Tooled-up with iron bars and baseball bats. Cunts pushed us halfway down the street we were so fucking surprised. It was the shock that did us, nothing else. Didn’t run us, more like we moved back to clock the situation. Looked like they lived on shit burgers and twenty pints of stout a night. It gave us time to get ourselves sorted. Lobbed a few bricks and tooled up, then chased those Derby bastards back to their van.

  —Billy puts a bottle through the windscreen and the driver’s panicking and tries to run the cunt over. Up on the kerb thinking he’s on the dodgems. There’s a bit of a barney and everyone backs off and Derby are back in the van safe and sound and just piss off. Cunts were laughing as they disappeared. Flashing their arses as they went. Fucking irons. Went up in a puff of smoke.

  —Must’ve been a cold ride home without a windscreen, says Rod. Thick bastards probably didn’t notice till they got halfway up the M1 and started dropping dead with frost bite.

  I knew this Derby nutter a few years back. Met him in Poland watching England. Mad as they come, but a good bloke all the same. Was in the army as a kid but got kicked out after one punch-up too many while he was stationed in Germany. A smart bloke. Read a lot of books and could tell you the prime ministers and wars from a hundred years ago. Knew his history and geography. Any capital in the world. Didn’t drink and spoke so quiet you had to stop and listen to what he was saying. Kept himself in good nick and got stuck in at the football. Haven’t heard from him for three years now. Last I knew he was inside. Could’ve been a year. Don’t remember exactly though the extra months would’ve meant a lot to him. A mixture of football, thieving and general mischief. The big one he got sent down for was assault.

  He was alright. Sort of bloke you knew was going to do something with his life. He wrote me once when he was inside. Said things were getting wound up tight as a queer’s arse at a fascist rally because it was summer and rumours were going round the whole time. Said everyone was on edge waiting for the place to go up. Wrote his letter dead straight. Very factual. Clinical way of thinking and I could see him working his way up through the system, building a name for himself, football a hobby, bit of an apprenticeship even, though proba
bly one of the last ones going because they don’t have apprenticeships these days. No cunt running a company’s interested in anything but quick profits. Still reckon Derby’s done well, whether legit or otherwise.

  —You recovered now, Tom? Facelift stares me in the eye. I look at the scar where Millwall damaged his looks. He’s ugly and the stitch marks aren’t exactly going to turn a mob of screaming birds off him. They’re cunts Millwall, but we were there, and nobody’s going to take that away from us.

  Can’t be denied. We were on Millwall’s manor giving it the big one, taking the piss, mob-handed walking around, but who was it left behind? Me and a few others. Real brain damage material. Don’t remember seeing this cunt much when it went off but it’s a bad way of thinking because Facelift’s no bottle merchant. He’s a nutter. A cunt. A mad bastard. A slob. But he’s no shitter. That’s all that matters at the end of the day.

  —Next time we play Millwall we’ll make sure we give some of their boys a hiding on your behalf, Facelift says, smiling, mouthy as ever. We’ll do it even if we have to go down there five hours before the game with a shooter. Next time. There’s always the next time. Take a shotgun along and blow some Bushwhacker cunt’s head off. But it was a mental night whatever way you want to look at it. One to remember.

  I think about arguing the toss but what’s the point? Now I’m on my feet again, Millwall’s something to talk about and look back on. I don’t think too deep about it, specially being on the ground with half of South East London doing their best to kick me to my reward, but there again the whole night was mental. It rarely happens that bad. You get a handful of decent rucks a season, but Millwall was something else, and though I got a kicking it gives me a bit of respect from the other lads.

  If I’d been hiding, holding back even, then I’d probably never have got done. I suffered, but it gives me something in return. Respect. Bit of a name. That’s important. You have to earn respect in this world, unless you’re one of those bent public schoolboy politicians. There again, that’s just their own idea of respect because every normal person thinks they’re scum. There’s no way you can con your way through life. Comes a time when you’ve got to stand up and be counted. You can hide, but if you hide you don’t live. Definitely not at football. You get sussed soon enough and if you’re a wanker you can fuck off.

  —I hope they bomb fuck out of those Arab cunts, Billy Bright’s watching the telly propped at the end of the bar. Fucking animals. They should use a warhead on them. That would sort the ragheads out. It’s all desert anyway, land’s not worth a fuck, so why not drop something special and get rid of the bastards. Just make sure the wind’s blowing away from England and you’re laughing.

  The woman on the box is going on about possible air attacks on a Middle East dictator. The volume is down low but I pick up some of the words. Same old phrases and excuses. Usual bollocks. Like a fucking advert. We’re sick of hearing about it. Nothing but the threat of bombing for the last week and it’s obvious the Government’s softening everyone up so there’s no protest when they steam in. Public relations. Stand together. Another showing of Coronation Street or Eastenders. Formula curries. Bulldog breed. We won’t see the cunts burn and so we don’t care. We’ve got our own lives to worry about. There’s no tin soldier gear or guns for us lot.

  —What happened with that nurse at the hospital? Mark waits for a story but there’s nothing to tell. Did she spit or swallow?

  I asked Heather if she’d come out for a drink. Couple of pints and a meal. Said I wanted to show my thanks for getting me put back together again. My treat. She laughed all embarrassed like and said she had some late shifts coming up, but leave my number and she’d give me a bell. It was a nice way of getting blown out and it made me feel stupid asking her in the first place. Knew inside there was no chance getting in there, but if you don’t try then you don’t know. Said she’d call this week sometime, but I know she won’t because Heather had me worked out by the end of my visit. She was half keen, but knew I was a cunt. And that’s the way it goes. You get the kind of birds you deserve. Just another piece of skirt looking to turn you into a Saturday afternoon wanker down the high street shops. Life’s a bitch, then you marry one, then you die. Saw a sticker saying that on a Jag once. But only if you’re a cunt to start with. Nobody makes you into something you’re not.

  —There’s Derby coming down from a pub off North End Road. Harris has the phone to his ear and is relaying the message. Don’t look like anything major but there’s forty or thereabouts. Look like they could be up for it with a bit of encouragement. A lot of pissheads but a few boys in there as well. A mixed bag of treats. They’ll be here in a few minutes. They’re not exactly in a hurry. Taking their time seeing the sights. Terraced streets, cockney dustbins and the like. Should charge them for the tour.

  —Give it a couple of minutes and we’ll give them a running commentary on the wonders of West London, says Rod.

  We’re outside and suddenly it’s a perfect evening. Sharp but clear, and not that cold. Makes your mind concentrated. It feels good to breathe in and out, without the death fumes and disinfectant of hospital. Rain has washed away the poison. We walk along keeping to the pavement, heads down like decent citizens, near enough silent. We turn a corner and Derby are up ahead. Silly bastards are laughing and joking like they’re on holiday with a plate of Spanish baked beans in their guts. We stand back in a junction and wait. They’re a bit slow and don’t clock us right off. Then they see Chelsea waiting and stop. It’s a bit of a comedy really. Like stray dogs with ruffled fur, scratching their heads wondering what the next move is. We’re two different dimensions. Chelsea are smart and without colours. Derby oldtime drunks with kit tops. Obviously not a serious mob. Just a load of geezers out for the football. They’re not the ones we were expecting to find, but still, sometimes you just have to make do with what you’re given.

  —Come on then, you Derby cunts. Harris gives the visitors a warm welcome. Steps towards them. Best foot forward.

  —Fuck off cockney, shouts a big bloke in dub top, flanked by the half smart element, backed up by the pissheads with beer guts and bad reflexes.

  We laugh and move. It’s hardly big time this but it’ll do for now because major London derbies like Millwall, West Ham, Tottenham are all about inter-breeding and bad blood. Northerners are aliens and you don’t expect large-scale aggravation, at least not for a midweek effort this near the ground. Not with modern technology and everything. Amusement arcade battlegrounds and video cameras on rooftops. It’s slow motion again and Harris puts his leadership up front and the Derby cunt with the mouth tries to headbutt him, misses, hits cold air, off balance like the mug he is, gets a bruised jaw for his trouble. There’s a brief punch-up, a lot of front and kicks, and Derby do a runner as though it’s synchronised. All turn and run at the same time. Should be on a fucking ice rink. We follow at a jog, knowing their hearts aren’t really in this, follow the trail of shit for a bit, then give up. We walk back the way we came, Harris shaking his head. We’re half sad, half narked we’ve only found a bunch of drunks and not some decent opposition.

  —Shitters. Facelift laughs like a Rampton special. What the fuck are they doing down here if they’re going to run soon as it goes off? Makes you wonder, cunts like that. Can understand the old men and kids, but not blokes on the piss on someone else’s manor. Waste of effort that lot. Should have stayed in Derby with their whippets and pigeons.

  We melt into the side streets away from the busy glow of North End Road. Leave the shop windows for people with nothing to hide. Heads down hurrying to watch a ball kicked up and down a patch of grass, maybe even between a set of posts. Fucking dumb when you stop and think about it, but there’s something more for me, Mark, Rod, all the boys here, the whole thing that goes with football, the way of life you can’t see changing but know it will eventually, when you get tired and old and a younger firm comes up and makes a name for itself, carrying on the tradition with a new set of rul
es, shifting the emphasis to avoid detection, always a few years ahead of the old bill and five or so in front of the media and public opinion. It’ll either be that or I’ll end up like one of those trainspotters who never change because nobody notices them, so they just get on with it day in, day out, undisturbed.

  I see kids with their old men down North End Road. Lit up 3-D by street lights, cartoon cut-outs, electricity in the air. There’s cold and rain and burning bulbs everywhere, the only bit of warmth during winter, and when they pass the Maltster and get down to Fulham Broadway they’ll be nearly home and dry. Then they’ll see the floodlights glowing like some kind of spaceship. Get all religious, and it was Bill Shankly said football was more important than religion. A famous quote that one. They’ll hear the crowd and it’s unreal when you’re a kid. Like when I first went down Chelsea and saw the Shed singing its head off moving back and forward, on its feet, and there was that passion all round Stamford Bridge which could spill over into a punch-up or pitch invasion at any time.

  It was supposed to be dangerous but somehow you felt safe at the same time, because apart from a few headcases that you get everywhere, there were rules. Even major aggro looked worse than it was. You soon got to understand what is and isn’t important, because the people running the show were outraged when shop windows got smashed and a few hundred lads ran onto a piece of grass. But out of sight of the cameras and reporters it was a different story. It’s like those monkeys. See no evil, hear no evil. It’s all cosmetics which isn’t a bad thing really because as long as we keep out of sight we can have our fun and games. Just don’t shit on the grass.