But as soon as I got my first touch in the centre circle it felt like 76,000 ants were tingling all over my body and I forgot all about it. A United player were in directly in front of us: almost smothering us like a heavyweight boxer taking on a flyweight. I had the ball at my feet and were well prepared with Partington’s old ditty On The Wane swimming around in my head. I knew I could take him on but, fatally. I looked into his eyes and suddenly my power, skill and drive melted away. King Rooney tackled us, put the ball through my legs and curled a 55-yard shot over Kraney’s head into the top corner of the net. The stadium erupted and I fell to the turf. I’d never memorise a Partington song again.
I wanted to remind the lads that we’d lost 4-0 rather than won but they still jumped into the Old Trafford communal bath in good spirits. Pearly, Mags and Lassie – with the water rising to their necks – headed the ball to each other. Rico were playfully grabbing Iggy’s face and trying to submerge it beneath the water. Molly, Blister and Kai were waving their shirts over their heads and chanting: ‘Sid Karim, superstar, he walks like a woman and he wears a bra…’
They all seemed to enjoy the fact I were on the pitch for about three minutes and spent about half of it on my arse. But a 4-0 defeat at Old Trafford were nothing to rejoice about. Okay, I initially wanted a 6-0 defeat, but that were before I scoffed the sarnies and sat in the dead zone. Once I got out onto the pitch, I forgot about the 8-1 bets Docker and us had for a 4-0 victory to United. There were no conflict of interest but I wished I’d put on a grand instead of £50.
Molly waved his arm and shouted: ‘Sid, come on what you doing? Get in.’
‘Not for us, mate.’
‘Come on you wimp,’ screamed Pearly.
I shook my head and walked out of the dressing-room. I turned right towards the pitch and walked past a United player who were doing an interview in the tunnel. There were a few yellow-coated stewards and some other journalists but I walked on ahead to the end of the tunnel. I leaned against its left side and looked out at the lush green turf and bright red stands.
I were startled when someone tapped us on the shoulder. ‘At least you got on today,’ said Jimmy, with a smile.
‘Oh Jim, thank god it’s you,’ I said, turning around. ‘I thought it were Bowker.’
He fiddled with the zip on the black case that carried his laptop computer. ‘I think he’s just finished the press conference.’
‘You just come from there?’
‘Hmm…no good quotes really,’ he said, finally managing to zip up the case. ‘Look, I just wanted to tell you that Ray Partington’s here today and I’m doing a long interview with him for the paper. He said he wanted a quick word with you before you left the ground. He’s in the car park outside the ground.’
Bloody hell, is this what it’s come to? Parto having to sit in shifty car parks to get a word in? The poor bugger, I wonder if they’ve even given him a pension yet. I’m sure the garden or his wife or wherever he spends most of his time makes him happy but there’s nothing like feeling that ball between your legs.
‘We’re not going straight back,’ I said. ‘We’re staying in Manchester tonight.’
‘Okay, what time have you got to get back to the hotel?
I pulled up my sleeve to look at my Armani watch. ‘I don’t know but with this lot it could be a long night. Anyhow, where is he?’
‘In the car park outside the ground.’
I looked back towards the pitch but could still hear the noise from our dressing-room.
‘Screw it,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’
The engine were running in Jimmy’s car as I sat in the back seat with Partington. We’d been there for a few minutes and the car park were still packed as fans streamed back from the stadium. Doors were flung open, cars were crawling bumper to bumper and fans were getting in the way of cars with the odd horn beeping.
Partington, who were clutching a rolled-up match programme in his hand, were looking fitter and leaner than I remembered him. His silvery, slicked back hair gave his forehead more prominence and his dark blazer, open-neck blue shirt and beige trousers completed the transformation.
‘I’m going to get straight to the point, Sid, because you need to know,’ said Partington, wistfully looking out of the window. ‘It’s the only way we can make progress.’
‘Aye?’
He turned to look at us with an ultra-serious stare. ‘I was picking you in the team regularly because I felt guilty about missing out on Ibrahim. He was a great player, you are a good one. I was so broken up about him that I thought I could undo some of the damage by having you in the team all the time.’ He paused and looked out of the window again. ‘You were from the same community…and I thought, wrongly as it turned out, that you could cover for my mistake.’
And this must be some kind of mistake and all. I am one of the best creative players in the Premier League and that were a fact. My stats always said that I had one of the highest pass completion rates in the league. I find players, pick them out, that were my job. All that Ibrahim shit were sad but it had nothing to do with us. Yes, he could have been a great player but I were playing in the Premier League and he weren’t. Okay, he were in a coffin now but I’ve been in the dead zone too.
Partington rubbed his neck and shifted in his seat. He eased his right leg onto the seat and his arm across the back of the seat so he were facing us. He opened the programme – which were a bit difficult as it kept curling up – and seemed to be looking for a specific page. He got to the page and then folded the other page behind it.
‘Who’s that smiling mug?’ said Partington, as he pointed to my individual team photo.
‘You’re not out of nappies there Sid,’ laughed Jimmy, from the front seat.
I don’t know what they were finding so funny because Parto’s bombshell were making us want to go outside and get involved in some hooliganism.
‘Today’s visitors…’ continued Partington, as he read from the page. ‘Sadiq Karim, 6ft 1ins, March 20 1987, position midfield. Karim came through the ranks at Albion and along with Matt Malone is the only other player to have graduated from the youth team. A stylish left-winger, he is known for his exciting dribbling skills and is hoping to make an impact in the Premier League.’
Partington stopped reading and looked at us. ‘Stylish? Exciting?’
‘I haven’t really had the chance,’ I said, resting my elbow on the door handle. ‘Look, is that all you wanted to tell us? I’ve got to go. Bowker and the lads’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’
Partington didn’t answer and maintained his ultra-serious look which were draining away the little confidence I had left. I opened the door and prepared to step out.
‘Wait on,’ said Partington, grabbing my arm.
‘What?’
Partington smiled and then broke into a wild volley of laughter. Jimmy did likewise and turned to face the windscreen.
‘What’s going on,’ I said, with a stern look.
They kept on laughing and Partington had to grab the headrest in front to maintain a sense of balance.
‘Ohhh…we nearly had him there,’ said Partington. ‘Nice move, Jim.’
‘It’s a crazy world, Ray,’ said Jimmy, trying to control his laugh.
‘YOU BASTARDS, WHAT’S GOING ON?’
Jimmy turned around from the seat again and stopped chuckling. ‘Did you believe that, Sid?’
‘Well aye,’ I said awkwardly. ‘I sort of did…but it’s not true, is it?’
‘Course it’s not, you daft bugger,’ said Partington, hitting us playfully with the rolled-up programme.
I paused for a moment and then hit Partington a little less playfully on the shoulder. ‘So why did you say it then? I were about to go apeshit and beat some fans up.’ I breathed a sigh of relief and closed the door.
Partington gathered himself and rested his palm on his forehead as though he were checking his temperature. ‘Oh Sid, I
enjoyed that so much…at least you’re still resting on my every word.’
‘Never again,’ I said, with a smile.
‘I wouldn’t say that Sid,’ said Jimmy. ‘You might need to again soon.’
I gave Partington a puzzled look. ‘What do you mean?’
Partington took a deep breath and put the match programme down on the seat.
‘I’m the new England manager.’
‘Stop having me on,’ I said, opening the door again. ‘I’m leaving.’
This time Jimmy put his arm on my shoulder. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘Ray is England’s new boss. That’s why I’ve got him here. The Evening Chronicle are getting the first exclusive interview…’
‘Nooooo…’ I said, with my mouth wide open. ‘Surely not?’
‘They wanted an Englishman with bags of experience. The others all backed out because of the press intrusion. It’ll be announced to the media on Monday. I was only told a couple of hours ago at half-time.’
My eyes widened with a sense of bewilderment and excitement. ‘You’re the England manager…I can’t believe it.’
‘Well, believe it, because it’s true.’
I offered my hand and Partington shook it with conviction.
‘At my age, I couldn’t refuse,’ he said.
And I can’t refuse the thought of wearing the number 11 shirt and dribbling the ball down the wing as FIFA bods watch on, checking their smartphones for their next cushy invite. I take a few men on and put a juicy cross over to you-know-who and ENGLAND HAVE WON THE WORLD CUP. I go up the steps casually and rest my hand on the golden globe. OBEs and MBEs follow with an open-top bus parade to top things off; an end to decades of hurt – and the start of new era.
My mobile rang. I smiled at Partington and Jimmy as I opened the car door. I stepped outside, leaned against the car and answered it.
‘Where the hell are you?’ said Molly. ‘Bowker’s going spare.’
‘I’m coming back now. Where are you, at the hotel?’
‘We’re here now, but we’re going for a few drinks soon. We’re not coming back after that; we’ll probably go for a big curry.’
Big curry? You don’t know the meaning of the word. Amejee once had 76 people round – I counted them – and made a chicken curry that didn’t fit in the number of pans she had. So she used a brown bucket – a clean one, of course – to pour in the extras and left it in the kitchen. But greedy Mr Mushtaq popped into the kitchen while no-one were watching and wanted to gobble an extra packet of Ringos. He got the snack all right but on the way back he didn’t see the bucket and kicked it over so it splashed all over the blue and yellow tiles. Everyone came into the kitchen to see what had happened and by this time Mr Mushtaq were rolling around in the curry on the floor. But then something miraculous happened, because when Amejee wiped the curry off his face, his face was peachy white underneath. We were all astonished. He said ‘I’m Mr Marsden really’ and walked off home. It were incredible.
‘We’re going on a grub crawl, we’re starving,’ said Molly. ‘I’ll be happy to let my hair down for a while and get away from the little one.’
‘I thought Bowker had a meal ready for us?’
‘He did, but he’s letting us go out. Come on, hurry up, we’re playing for high stakes tonight.’
‘Like what?’
‘Who can down the most curries in as many joints as possible.’
About an hour later, I handed the cab driver his fare and prepared to join my team-mates on Wilmslow Road. As I stepped out I spotted Lassie grappling with a tall, blonde man about a hundred yards away from us. The cab driver sped off and I walked briskly over to the two men who were right on the edge of the kerb.
‘You United fans,’ said Lassie, whose nose were nearly in the other man’s mouth. ‘You’re the scum of the earth.’
‘But I’m a City fan, you dick,’ said the man.
I grabbed hold of Lassie and managed to pull him away.
‘Yeah but you were singing Keep the red flag flying high,’ said Lassie, still trying to move forward.
‘FLYING HIGH,’ said the blonde-haired man, stretching his arms out. ‘Do you get it, you knobshite?’ He straightened his shirt and began to walk away. ‘You’re not worth it, you’re just a bunch of losers from a shite town.’
I gradually helped Lassie move away. The man walked off and stuck two fingers up at us.
‘Are you pissed already?’ I asked.
‘Not even close,’ replied Lassie.
But as he opened his mouth the whiff of alcohol blew away the scent of spicy and exotic food coming from all sides. A few yards ahead of us I could see the other players in a doorway of a restaurant sneering and laughing. I couldn’t see much further because Lassie had hold of my neck and I were stooping down as I dragged him along.
‘Chicken korma,’ said Lassie. ‘I need a chicken korma.’
We were sat in our fourth curry house of the night but I hadn’t been taking much notice because of Partington’s revelations. The fact that he were about to become England manager were a massive shock to the system, but not half as much as the vicious pakora I’d eaten at the third restaurant we’d visited. This prickly brown bazooka ripped into my mouth and made my eyes water so much that I had to down enough liquid to cool down my tongue. I didn’t even have time to go to the Botswana for back-up.
But I did have enough time to place a bet for tonight’s grub crawl. Eight players took part in the challenge, and the rest of us tried to tip the winner. I put my £500 on Mags, who I thought would keep his appetite the longest. The winner and the tipster would split the winnings.
Unfortunately, Mags caved in while we were in the second restaurant and my £500 disappeared. Rico also failed to finish his meal, probably because of the rip-snorting pakoras. But Fletch, Lassie and Iggy carried on to the third. Here, it were the chicken kormas that eliminated them – literally – and sent them scattering to the Botswana as well as the front door for some air.
So it were Pearly and Kai who were left in the face-off. They were sat opposite each other with steamy, brimming dishes of Karachi Keema in front of them: the only food on a table full of beer bottles and glasses. We turned our chairs towards them and waited for one of them to falter. As they ravished the biryani with their forks, it were apparent that Kai were beginning to slow down. He looked at Pearly and it were obvious that his captain’s relentless appetite were dispiriting him.
‘No Kai, don’t stop,’ screamed Larry, who had tipped him for victory.
‘Keep it going Pearly,’ said an excited Docker, who were standing up with fist clenched.
Our shouts and screams were reverberating around the restaurant but Kai were visibly struggling. His scrunched-up face and listless eyes suggested he were slipping and, after looking at Pearly for one last time, he threw his fork onto the half-full plate.
‘Yeeees!!’ shouted Docker, standing up and raising his arms.
Pearly grinned but continued eating until he finished his food. It were a monumental effort: four completed meals in four different restaurants. He threw down his fork onto the clean plate and threw his arms up in the air.
Docker went round the table to pick up his winnings. ‘Come on, hand it over,’ he said to Molly, who were sitting next to him.
The shouts and exuberance had obviously attracted attention. A waiter, holding a tray of soft drinks, walked up to table and stopped.
‘Is it possible you could keep it down, please?’ he said, in an accent located somewhere between Costcutter and Kolkata.
Pearly looked at the waiter and then stood up. ‘Ssssh everyone…’ he said, putting his finger to his lips. ‘Look I’ve got a joke.’ He lowered his voice. ‘What’s the most popular name in the Indian phone book?’
Everyone shook their heads.
‘RICK SHAW,’ he shouted, looking pleased with himself.
Blister laughed the loudest, Kraney slipped off his chai
r and Docker folded his arms tight across his stomach to protect his hernia.
‘I don’t get it,’ said Lassie.
Pearly rolled his eyes. ‘RICK SHAW, YOU STUPID DICK…you know, as in…’ he rasied his fists as though he was riding a motorbike. ‘Rick…Shaw, get it?’
Lassie shook his head and took another swig of Boddies.
‘Oh forget it, Lasso, you’re a lost cause,’ said Pearly, sitting down again.
The only impact the joke had on us were that RICK SHAW were turning into RUKH SANA. It were the only name I were hearing.
The waiter looked at Pearly. ‘Isn’t Pearly a bit girly for a nickname?’ He then looked across at us for longer than he should and walked away.
Pearly didn’t or couldn’t answer. The other players looked at him and laughed even more heartily. I didn’t because of the way the waiter looked at us. I weren’t going to take that, so I got up and approached him just as he reached another table to serve the soft drinks. I tapped him on the shoulder as he smiled at the couple in front of him.
‘Oi, got a problem with us?’ I asked.
He turned around and his smile disappeared.
‘Yes, you’re a coconut.’
ELEVEN
Now I’ve had a few Bounties in my time, the odd coconut smoothie and even a few bits in a plate of sweet rice, but never have I been accused of actually being a ‘coconut’. I mean they’re too small for a start and, as far as I can see, they can’t play football too well. I’ve also never seen one speaking and never seen one pop along to the shops for a loaf, so I don’t know where Mr Waiter got that from. Okay, if he’d said to a lass ‘you’re a coconut’ I could have understood it a little because she’s got some milk in her nips, but I haven’t got anything coming from that side of the pitch so I don’t really know what he were going on about.
And I didn’t know what Steven were going on about either when Molly and us opened the new disabled enclosure near the Billy Moss End. We posed for pictures just before the Everton game and Steven were wheeled out, along with Kathy, to join us on the pitch just in front of the enclosure. They were sat next to each other in their wheelchairs while Molly and us stood by their sides and smiled. The corner flag swirled in the wind and were nearly touching us as the photographer took his picture. He wanted one more with the players crouching down by Kathy and Steven so I bent down and put my arm round Steven. He looked at us with his head slightly tilting away and his arms curled up in front of his stomach.
Season of Sid Page 15
