I usually wouldn’t be seen dead round here but it were dark enough so there were no chance of being spotted. I knew it were somewhere on the Saunders Industrial Estate – about five minutes’ drive from Starcot Lane – but as there were about 20 or 30 factories, companies and warehouses on this estate, it would take a few minutes to pin it down.
I eventually stopped about four or five warehouse blocks past First Frames. I looked in the rear-view mirror and were shocked by the length of my goatie, so I switched on my shaver and got rid of it as fast as possible.
About 10 minutes later, after splashing on some Lacoste Red and feeling re-energized, I caught sight of Rukhsana’s Astra pulling in slowly just past First Frames. The Astra stopped and I watched intensely as Yousuf got out of the car. He didn’t look around and lumbered slowly towards the sliding door. I took the keys out of the ignition, got out of my car and walked towards them. Yousuf went in through the door and I quickened my pace as I approached Rukhsana’s car. She were looking towards Yousuf to see him go in. I approached the passenger’s side of the car and hesitated a moment before deciding to get in. As the door clicked open, she turned around and gasped.
‘Fuckin’ hell, you scared the shit out of me,’ she said angrily, putting both her hands up to her face. ‘What the hell are you doing here anyway?’
‘I were close-by for Jamil’s party,’ I said, getting into the passenger seat. ‘…I thought I’d just come to see how the new lad’s settling in.’
She hesitated and gathered herself. She looked across at First Frames and then turned to us again. ‘Jamil’s house is a couple of miles away isn’t it? That’s hardly nearby.’
‘You should have come, it were a good night.’
‘I don’t think it’s the right time to party.’
Well I can’t think of a better one, love. You look whacked after dropping off Freddy Kreuger for his nightshift and I’m sniffing the old Lacoste Red, what could be a better combination than that? Freddie’s fangs couldn’t give you the red-blooded bite I could provide.
I stroked my smooth chin for a boost. ‘I know that this ain’t the place for you.’ I said.
‘I don’t work here, he does.’
‘You can do better than this.’
‘Better? Who do you think you are? Maybe you should do a shift or two in there.’
Hey, just because I’m a top player don’t think I haven’t done my hard work down the mill. When I were 16, I did four weeks in a sarnie factory where I had to make sure there were four slices of cucumber in every buttie. It were very, very tough and there were no let-up. In fact, one time I were so tired and hungry that I were forced to nick a cucumber slice from a sarnie just to keep going. So don’t talk to us about pay and conditions. I know how brutal it can be.
She turned away and shook her head. She had kept the engine running and reached for the gear stick.
‘Wait,’ I said, instinctively putting my hand on hers as she tried to move from neutral to first.
‘Get your hand off me,’ she said, moving her hand away from the gear stick. ‘Are you pissed? You stink of smoke as well.’
Bloody hell, the Lacoste Red weren’t as powerful as I thought. ‘Can’t you smell anything else?’
‘Didn’t your parents teach you any manners?’
‘They probably tried but I’m my own man.’ I moved slightly closer and raised my chin. ‘Can’t you smell that?’
‘No, all I can smell is cigarettes and alcohol,’ she said exasperated. ‘I just don’t understand you. What do you want from me now?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said looking ahead through the windscreen. ‘But I think I know what you don’t want.’
‘And what would that be?’
I looked across to First Frames.
‘He’s not that bad,’ she said. ‘He’s a bit lazy but you’ve just got to get him going.’
A bit lazy? If Bowker ever got his mitts on him, he’d make him do a Paula Radcliffe all around town. He needs straightening out he does. Too many chappatis and gobi have made him into a couch potato – and he hasn’t even got into telly yet. Even the spinach didn’t help.
‘Look, you can only stay if you tell me about the progress you’ve made in finding that ball because I want to go home and get some sleep.’
I looked up at the roof of the car. ‘Fuckin’ hell, that ball again. What’s so special about it? I’m sorry I didn’t look after it, but your father were DYING and I had to get him to hospital. I’m sorry, OKAY?’
Rukhsana looked out of the window. ‘I’m making a short film about where most of these Premiership footballs are made. When I get a bit of time I’ll be travelling to Sialkot and getting a few kids involved. It’s the least I can do for my father.’ She turned to look at us. ‘He told me that the ball you both played with was special, that’s all. I want to get my hands on it and find out what was special about it.’
I sighed and sat back as I could feel the mood lightening. ‘Do you remember when your father used to pick us up from matches when I were in Year 9?’ I asked.
‘Do we have to go over this now?
‘I knew you were in the back seat. Maybe I weren’t interested, I don’t know…but I remember once when I got in the car I were so cold that I couldn’t open my packet of Real McCoys. My hands were shivering and the packet slipped out of my grasp. It went behind the seat and as I went for it, so did you and our hands touched. You were looking squarely at us.’
Rukhsana pressed her foot on the accelerator. ‘They weren’t Real McCoys, they were Twiglets.’
A man peered out from behind the sliding door of First Frames and looked at the car. Rukhsana held her hand up and acknowledged him. She turned off the ignition. She took out the keys and turned to look at us.
‘Look, I’ve still got a few things of my dad’s thing to sort out,’ she said. ‘After that, I’ll give you a bit of time, okay? So I’d just like to go now because I’m sure you don’t want to come back and see the Iron Lady.’
Course not. But it were true that Amejee weren’t always around to do my ironing any more and I needed some vintage lass to do the odd shirt. It’s the area beneath the collars that’s the real problem. Whether Mrs Latif could sort that out – in between her ranting and raving – I don’t know. But if I’d said ‘I do’ maybe she’d have found another use for a hot, steaming iron – like branding ‘dirty boy’ on my nadgers and chasing us down Albion town centre.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to watch a movie tonight?’ I asked. ‘I’ve got a DVD player in the car.’
‘Got popcorn and ice-cream too?’
‘No, but I can get it, there’s a place just round the corner…’
‘I’m joking, I’m joking…’ she said, cutting me off. ‘God, you’re persistent aren’t you. Complete opposite of your mum and dad.’
‘Thank God, I’m the opposite! So when are you going to make that short film.’
‘Not for a while. It’s bad enough trying to keep it together in the odd student film, never mind anything else. I mean, I was in Manchester yesterday where a friend’s making a short film. She got me a tiny part in it and said if I wasn’t ready for it, she understood. But I insisted, so I went along. I only had to say three lines and I was working in a café. There I was wearing an apron and a hat behind the counter and all I had to say was, ‘How’s the family?’ to my co-actor but after saying that I couldn’t follow it up. She answered but I couldn’t respond. I just couldn’t stop my father’s image entering my head.’
‘Did you finish it in the end?’
‘Yes, after about 15 takes.’
‘Takes?’
‘Doing the same scene again. It was a bit embarrassing. I mean, I know that any TV programmes about hospitals, death and illness are going to set me off. The same goes for music, clothes and the odd conversation, but this was a bit of a stretch.’
Suddenly there were a loud, incessant thumping on the passenger
window which made us jump from my seat. I looked to my left and Yousuf were stood outside with his hands in his zipped-up coat pocket. I looked over to Rukhsana and then opened the door and got out of the car.
‘Salaam Sadiq,’ he said, as he brushed past us and held the door open. He then kneeled onto the passenger seat of the car and opened the glove compartment.
‘Did you forget something?’ asked Rukhsana. ‘You have clocked in, haven’t you?
‘Still few minutes yet,’ he said. ‘Why Sadiq here?’
‘I don’t know, ask him,’ replied Rukhsana.
Yousuf picked out a packet of Gold Leaf fags and put them in his pocket. He moved away from the seat and held the door open.
‘Didn’t you get any cigarettes?’ asked Rukhsana. ‘Those are from over there, aren’t they?’
‘I like the taste,’ he replied.
He closed the car door, walked round the back of the car and up to First Frames again. Rukhsana started the car and put her seat belt on. She looked out of the window at us as I stood in the road and revved up the engine.
‘I’ve got Indecent Proposal too…’ I shouted.
She didn’t answer and moved off. She drove slowly around us in the middle of the road, stopped for a moment and then drove off. I watched her car disappear into the night and trudged back to my Audi.
TEN
Now everyone knows goalkeepers are a few crackers short of a picnic but, believe me, our man mountain Kraney took the biscuit. This six foot six creature went plane-spotting, had beggars round for breakfast and studied horoscopes like some old tart working at a department store. He also had the biggest hands I’d ever seen and held a permanent grin on his face. This were usually reassuring but once, when he punched the ball into his own net at Leicester City, we wanted to knock his teeth out because he were still beaming like a bald bugger who enjoys boys from behind.
So when I saw him standing outside the canteen looking agitated, I knew something were up. I’d walked into the players’ entrance looking forward to my pre-match meal – as there were little else to look forward to – but were surprised when the door were locked. Kraney kept bending down to peer in through the small window and then kept holding his back in case he did any damage.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked, approaching him.
‘Communist,’ said Kraney, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked up to the ceiling. ‘I NEED FOOD…’
‘Calm down, just tell us what’s happened.’
Kraney headbutted the window. ‘I NEED GREENS…WE’RE HEADING TO OLD TRAFFORD FOR GOD’S SAKES.’
Luckily, I saw Bowker approaching from the corridor below. He were speaking to someone on his mobile and walked up the stairs.
‘Yes, as many as you can…’ he said. ‘We’ve got a hungry mob here.’ He looked up at us as he carried on talking. ‘As soon as you can then…we’ve got a big game today. Okay, speak to you soon…’ He put his mobile away and loosened his tie a little.
‘What’s the damage, gaffer?’ asked Kraney.
‘Look lads,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘There’s no pre-match meal, so I’m making some other quick arrangements.’
Kraney clasped his hands together. ‘I can’t play then…’
‘You will play,’ said Bowker firmly. ‘It’s not my fault Martin’s gone down with a virus. I’ve made other arrangements anyway. It won’t be anything heavy.’
‘I thought Susan took over if Martin was ever ill,’ I said.
‘She does, but the orders for more stock weren’t put in and she hasn’t had enough time to get everything ready. She’s apologized to me but I said we’d get by.’
‘I should have eaten at home,’ said Kraney, shaking his head. ‘Worse than the Russians…’
‘So what are we eating then?’ I asked.
Bowker gave us a stern look. ‘Something better than prison food…’
Well, there went the creeping, arse-licking or anything else I may have thought of to get close to the boss. He knew about our little brush with the law so I were going to have to think of something else to get back into the team.
Bowker were just about to answer but was distracted as Molly, Blister and Docker walked up the steps. He turned back towards us. ‘You’ll find out on the coach…’
As soon as he pulled back the flaps of the cardboard box, I knew what he’d pull out. My four weeks at a sarnie factory weren’t for nothing and, when he pulled out the first butties, there were a massive groan from everyone on the coach. They were all wrapped in silver foil and Bowker began handing them out.
‘Get that goodness inside you,’ he said, handing Kraney two of them.
I were sat with Molly two rows from the back in the aisle seat. There were something about the coach that were so cosy that I always removed my trainers and put my feet up on the seat. Some of the players used to call me a sissy or a wuss but I didn’t care, it were more comfortable than keeping your trainers on throughout a long journey.
Bowker moved towards the centre of the coach. The open flaps brushed against both sets of seats and he found it difficult to make quick progress. Pearly were sat to our left and got up. He put his hands on his hips and looked towards Bowker.
‘It’s not a teapot we need but some nosh,’ shouted Lassie, from the seat in front of us. ‘Come on captain, get a grip. I need some meat and tater.’
Most of the players near the back of the coach chuckled. Pearly walked down the aisle towards Bowker. He put his hands in the box and scooped out as many butties as he could. He walked briskly towards the back of the coach but dropped a couple on the floor.
‘This some kind of picnic?’ said Lassie, reluctantly taking the small package. ‘How are we gonna get through the game by eating this? I thought we were in the Premier League.’
‘Here, take another one,’ replied Pearly.
Lassie picked out another one and then turned away to look out of the window. ‘I’m still not happy about it though,’ he said.
Bowker seemed to be watching the skipper trying to keep Lassie happy. He threw the box onto Iggy’s lap and rushed towards the back of the coach.
‘Tony, what’s your problem?’ asked Bowker, flitting his gaze between Lassie and Pearly.
‘Nothing boss,’ he said, unwrapping his buttie quickly and taking a bite. ‘Hmmm…prawn salad…nice.’
Bowker took a deep breath and looked towards the rest of the coach. ‘ANY OF YOU OTHER PRICKS GOT A PROBLEM WITH THE CUISINE?’
We all shook our heads but Larry, who were listening to music on his mobile, were nodding his head with his eyes closed. Bowker rushed towards Larry’s seat and yanked the headphones off his ears. He drew his mouth right down towards Larry’s right ear.
‘GOT A PROBLEM, LARS?’
‘Er no, boss…’ said Larry, looking shocked. ‘I’ve eaten two. I was just listening to Jarvis Cocker.’
Bowker took a deep breath again and turned to the rest of the coach. ‘Look, we’re already a bit late,’ he said. ‘I had to do something quickly. And anyway, you lot should be grateful we’re staying over in Manchester after the game.’
‘How did you blag that boss?’ asked Lassie. ‘I thought we were a bit tight.’
‘The live game brought a bit in.’ said Bowker, approaching my seat. ‘So don’t worry, you’ll all have a fantastic meal afterwards. It’s all booked.’
So there we were, heading to the Theatre of Dreams with a theatre of creams in our sarnies. Thousand Island, onion and chive, mayo and all sorts of shit I couldn’t name. We were starving, brawling and heading for a certain battering. Good. A 6-0 hammering would do nicely.
Look, I know the history of this ‘sacred place’: Munich 58, Fred the Red, United 93 and all that, but I weren’t enjoying sitting on the bench with two subs while the others pussyfooted around on the famous turf. I mean, Lassie were literally wanking off after feeling the corner flag and Grant wiped his palms on the turf and then rubbed it
all over him like some Lacoste Red. It were obscene.
Another thing that didn’t help were that everyone inside the stadium – fans, players and even the referee – had life, energy and activity bursting out of them while I were rotting away in the dead zone. It were like a lengthy sit down on the toilet with your pants up: the buttock-sucking seat draining all your energy and enthusiasm.
Thankfully, things on the pitch were going well with United 2-0 up and I looked at Bowker to see if he were going to make any changes. He stood there, in the technical area, with his arms folded like some Reservoir Dog without a plan. And then the third goal went in – for United – and Blister were partly responsible. Bowker went ape and ran over to the fourth official to claim offside. It looked like he were going to clout him one but he only twisted his nipple. He then walked across to the bench and I couldn’t believe it when he gave me the call to get stripped. I hadn’t even warmed up but I didn’t give a shit, I were getting on at Old Trafford.
So with eight minutes left, I stood on the touchline waiting for the moment when the ref would give the fourth official the all clear. But he didn’t do it: for seven minutes; because the ball never went out of play. The poncy United players were doing ‘olés’ all around the park and never gave us the ball. In one move, I counted 127 passes and even the keeper got in the on the act by backheeling it to his full-back. But then, thank God, Pearly’s patience snapped and he put in a rasping challenge and the ball went out of play. The ref blew his whistle, the board went up and Blister came trudging off. I didn’t want to touch his hand so I didn’t look at him as I ran into the field. No-one clapped in the crowd and I couldn’t understand why. Maybe they’d been eating too many prawn sarnies, but that were no excuse. We had to eat them too.
Bowker hadn’t given us any instructions but I knew that he subscribed to Partington’s mantra of not ‘naming, thinking or talking’ about opposition players. The new boss had torn up all of Partington’s training methods but had kept this one. He felt it kept us concentrating on our own game, rather than worrying about someone else’s.
Season of Sid Page 14
