“Just get him out here,” said Donny. “We don't want to keep Mr Price waiting do we, he's a busy man, he's got millions of pies to make.”
The subject having been brought up, Hanks thought it might be a good time to bring up the matter of a pie discount with Price, but before he could broach it with the Town’s new owner Barrel was out of the shower and had joined the others, and Donny was telling them to gather round. When they had he turned to Price.
“Allow me to present my squad to you, Mr Price.” He pointed to them in turn as he reeled of their names. “Moggs, Knox, Parks, Crock, Rock, Links, Jacks, Hanks, Higgs, Briggs, Parks, Brooks, Dicks, Cragg, Crooks, Cook, Hook, Lock, Stock and Barrel.”
Price acknowledged the players with a curt nod. Some of them smiled a reply, a couple of them waved, but most just eyed Price with apprehension. New owners usually meant a clear out and none of them were ready for being cleared out just yet.
“It's a pity you didn't get here earlier Mr Price, you could have seen the lads practicing,” said Donny.
“I saw them kicking a ball about on t' way in,” said Price.
“Oh, I didn't realise. What did you think? Myself I think the lads are looking quite sharp for pre-season.”
“I thought as they were shite.”
Donny was unfazed. “Yes, well I haven't had time to get a mistress yet. You'll see a big improvement when I do. Very much so.”
Price either misheard Donny or more likely did hear him and couldn't believe his ears, but whichever it was he chose to ignore it and change the subject. He said, “What plans have you made for these players to have their hair cut?”
“But you’ve only just mentioned it to me, Mr Price,” Donny protested.
“When I give thee an order I want it carried out immediately, Donnelly. I've just been over an hour with t' club secretary here, what were tha doing then?”
“Well obviously I was coaching the lads, Mr Price.”
“If it were obvious I wouldn't be asking thee would I,” Price pointed out.
“No, Mr Price,” said Donny. “Obviously.”
“And if tha were coaching t' team tha were wasting thee time. And theirs. So when is t' barber coming?”
“I will personally myself see to it that a hairdresser calls round tomorrow, Mr Price. Early doors”
“Today.”
“Obviously, Mr Price.”
“And see as tha does.” Then Price had second thoughts. “No, I can’t trust thee, so tha can leave t' barbering to me.”
“No, you can trust me, Mr Price. Very much so….”
“Quiet!”
“Yes, Mr Price.”
Without enlarging on his plans on the subject of the players hair Price turned and left the room.
“What was all that about us having our hair cut, Boss?” said Parks, immediately the door had shut.
“I am going to be completely open and honest with you about this, lads,” said Donny. “As I always am. What it boils down to, at the end of the day, is that you've all got to look like the players in this photo.” He held up the photograph of the 1935 team. The players crowded closer to get a better look at it. “With moustaches and haircuts and kit like this.” He looked around. “And where's Higgsy? Where's my brave little right winger?”
Higgs spoke up from the back. “Boss?”
“Well there's a strong possibility we might have to make you bandy.”
When Parks saw the photograph his protest was both immediate and passionate. “I'm not having my hair cut like that, not for nobody!”
Briggs was equally vehement. “Me neevah!”
The other players joined in the protest. Donny raised his arms to quieten them.
“All right, all right lads. Settle down.”
The players quietened down, but still grumbled.
Parks hadn't finished. “Who does that bastard Price think he is!”
“All right Stevie,” ordered Donny. “Obviously you feel very strongly about this. All of you. Well if my lads don't want their hair cut like that my lads are not going to have their hair cut like that. Regardless of what Price says. Never let it be said when the chips are off the old block that Big Donny Donnelly doesn't stick up for his players at the end of the day.”
The door opened and Price popped his head round. “Your office, now Donnelly.”
He made to close the door but Donny jumped in. “Mr Price! Glad you popped back. About the haircuts; I'm afraid the lads just will not go along with it.”
“Sack t' lot of 'em.”
Donny turned to the players. “You're all sacked.”
“You can't sack us for refusing to have our hair cut!' protested Barrel.
“He can do anything as he's a mind to,” said Price. “And if he can't, I can.” He looked the players up and down. “So, who's for a haircut, and who's for t' dole queue?”
A few seconds went by. A few of the players looked at each other seeking support but most of them had suddenly found their feet very interesting. Parks exchanged worried glances with his reflection in the mirror. Price waited for them. “Well?” he said impatiently.
“Well....Well I were thinking of trying a new hairstyle, anyway,” said Moggs.
“Me too, Mr Proice, said Stock. “Oi mean speaking for moiself oi think it looks quoite attractive.”
“Especially with the moustache,” added Jacks.
“Aye, so do I,” agreed Cragg. “Youse can pit me down for one of they haircuts too, Mr Price.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Sinclair is to his left and he also has options on his right” - Barry Davis
“I wasn't on his right at all, I was behind him - Gary Options”
“I gather that in previous seasons the police presence at your home games has been of a somewhat sketchy nature,” said Superintendent Screwer, making no attempt to keep out of his voice his disapproval of the previous laxness of the football club with regard to crowd control.
“Well we have the stewards, of course,” George pointed out.
The Frogley Town secretary had agreed to meet the new chief of the Frogley police force to discuss, in Screwer's words, 'Some pressing matters of vital importance, quite possibly to life and limb', and Screwer's comment about how things had been run in the past had been his opening salvo.
The police chief continued, the disapproval in his voice now replaced with disdain following George’s comment. “Professional persons are they, these stewards?”
“Well we pay them,” said George. “Ten pounds per game facing the pitch, fifteen pounds facing away from the pitch.” Then he added, smiling at the joke, “Although there are some who say it should be the other way round.”
“I think you'll find that those facing away from the pitch will spend half their time doing what they should be doing, half their time sneaking looks over their shoulders to catch covert glimpses of the game, and half the time picking their noses and scratching their arses,” said Screwer, in his voice of experience voice.
George considered for a moment whether it would be worthwhile telling Screwer that he'd used three halves and that football was a game of two halves, as most football managers were wont to remind everyone on a regular basis, but as he didn't want to prolong the interview any longer than necessary he thought better of it; it would be going on for quite long enough judging by the length of the list of items to be discussed which the chief of police was now consulting.
His opinions on the value or otherwise of stewards having been aired, Screwer continued to work his way down the list. “How many surveillance cameras have you got?”
“Surveillance cameras? Well we don't have any.”
Screwer's head jolted back as though he had just received one of Mike Tyson's best right uppercuts. Almost choking he said, “No surveillance cameras! Why not for Christ’s sake?”
“We don't need them,” said George, matter-of-fact.
Screwer's head shot back again. Not as far this time, because as it was already back
from the previous occasion it didn't have very much farther to go before it collided with the wall behind him, which it did with a sickening thud.
“Shit!”
George commiserated with the police chief. “Sorry, we're a bit cramped for office space; as you can see.”
Screwer straightened his cap then glared at George. “What do you mean you don't bloody need surveillance cameras?”
“Well it would just be a waste of money,” explained George. “As we never have any trouble at Frogley Town.”
If George had left it there he might have escaped the next five minutes. But he didn't. He followed it up by saying: “In fact I can't ever remember seeing a football hooligan at a Frogley match.”
So for the next three hundred mind-numbing seconds he was treated to Screwer's views on football hooliganism in general, and exactly what he intended to do about it in particular. To his wife, later that day, George likened the experience to being attacked by a madman with a flamethrower. Certainly he was left in no doubt whatsoever as to Screwer's feelings on the subject.
When the police chief had satisfied himself that George had well and truly got the message he carried on: “Eight surveillance cameras represent an absolute minimum requirement. One each centrally positioned at each side of the ground. One each mounted on the floodlight towers, above the gun turrets.”
George suddenly stopped being concerned and started to get alarmed. “Gun turrets?”
Screwer enlarged. “For the police marksmen.”
George made another attempt at putting Screwer right. “Superintendent there really isn't any need for any of this. This is Frogley, not Jalalabad. The north west of England not the North West Frontier. We are an insignificant little team in the Coca-Cola League Two. Just. And, like I said, we don't have any football hooligans.”
Screwer was unabashed. “You won't have any once they've got wind of the police marksmen, that's for sure.” He gave George the benefit of a smile that wouldn't have looked out of place on an undertaker viewing a multiple motorway pile-up, then carried on. “Whereabouts is the Police Operations Centre?”
“We don't have one.”
Screwer's head was about to shoot back again but, remembering the painful encounter with the wall the last time he affected surprise, he just managed to stop himself in time.
“I could get you a portakabin, I suppose,” George offered. “Or a caravan maybe.”
“A caravan?” Screwer almost shrieked it. “I'm a police officer, not Gipsy fucking Petulengro! Or perhaps you'd like me to start telling fucking fortunes at half time?”
George tried to pacify the police chief. “They can be quite roomy, caravans.”
Screwer fixed George with a baleful glare. This man was even more stupid than he looked. “It isn't the room I am concerned about, it is the construction. It takes more than a bit of plywood to contain drug-crazed hooligans.” Fortunately he had just the thing for such contingencies. “I'll use one of our mobile armour-plated jobs until you've had time to build something proper out of reinforced concrete.” He referred to his list. “I've priced some barbed wire. That razor stuff they use for cattle.”
George didn't really want to ask but forced himself. “What for?”
“Round the perimeter fence, of course.” Christ he might be the secretary of a football club but he wouldn't last five minutes in the police force. “You haven't got any on it. Unless some has suddenly rooted and flowered while I've been in here with you finding out all about your non-existent ways of dealing with football hooligans and informing you what you're going to have to do about it.”
“We don’t have any hooli....” George stopped himself. What was the point?
“It'll cost you two thousand two hundred pounds,” Screwer went on. “If you go through me.” He explained. “As a regular and long time valued customer I can get you a good discount. All completely above board, this isn’t graft. You'll have to erect it though. To my specifications of course.”
At this point George decided he had no alternative than to pass the buck, the only option that seemed open to him under the circumstances, and one he wished he had thought of doing ten minutes earlier. “Look, I'm not at all sure about this,” he said. “I'll have to put your suggestions to Mr Price.”
Screwer scowled and said, “I'm talking to the oil rag then?”
“Yes. But Mr Price did mention to me that he had plans to improve the stadium. Nothing specific yet, but....”
“Ah. Then he'll no doubt appreciate my input on that score.”
From his brief acquaintance with Price George doubted very much that his new boss would welcome Screwer’s input. He was not about to reveal that to the police chief however, because the sooner he got rid of him the better he’d like it. He borrowed a phrase from Donny. “Well obviously.”
Screwer got to his feet. “Make me an appointment.”
*
Dave Rave had been a regular visitor to the Frogley Mental Hospital ever since one of the residents housed within its walls had written to him telling him how much Frogley Radio was enjoyed by all the patients, especially his Frogley Town match commentaries.
Dave was a young man who firmly believed that show biz celebrities should not only connect with their fans over the airwaves but also in the flesh whenever and wherever possible, and whilst some of his peers might not have been over keen on being seen on the wrong side of the chain link fence of a mental hospital Dave had no qualms about it whatsoever. These are the people who put me where I am, was the way Dave looked at it, and will help put me where I am going. True, he had been a bit nervous about it at first - especially as the patient who had written to him had signed the letter 'Rasputin' - but after a few visits he had come to realise that whereas none of the inmates was a full shilling, otherwise they wouldn't have been in there in the first place, it was by no means apparent in the behaviour of the majority of them; and even the ones who did act a little oddly from time to time were in no way dangerous. Greaves could be a bit of a trial at times, but he was more mischievous than malevolent, and Napoleon could be a bit of a problem when he was in one of his Empire-building moods, but apart from that they were fine.
Take Stevie Wonder for example. Who was to say that a man was off his rocker just because he chose to wear his hair in dreadlocks, sport a big hat and sunglasses and pretend he was blind? They certainly don't accuse the people who get dressed up as pop stars and appear on television in 'Stars In Your Eyes' of being mad, do they? All right, so the people who go on 'Stars In Your Eyes' don't dress up like their pop heroes all the time, nor do they drag out their white piano into the grounds whenever it's a nice day like Stevie Wonder had done today, but it was all a matter of degree, wasn't it. Where do you draw the line? When do you stop being eccentric and start being mad? Christ, in certain societies people would claim Elton John should be locked up in a rubber room just for going about his day to day business!
No, if you asked Dave, there were people in this world to be found on the outside of the perimeter fences of mental hospitals who were far bigger nutters than most of the people on the inside of them. (It had never crossed Dave's mind that as a man whose ultimate ambition in life was to be a Radio One DJ and present the Brit Awards that he himself might be regarded by the majority of people as someone who, for his own safety, ought to be locked up in a lunatic asylum.)
Today when the radio presenter arrived at the mental hospital it was a bright and sunny day, and because of this most of the patients were relaxing in the grounds. Quite a few of them were being entertained by Stevie Wonder, today wearing a rather fetching white leather hat, and who at the moment was treating them all to an especially spirited rendition of 'Sir Duke'. The performance had distracted Dave from his mission at the hospital that day, and, being something of an aficionado of the coloured American singer, once distracted he found it difficult to drag himself away.
The song finally came to an end, and when Stevie turned from his piano to take the gene
rous applause of his audience Dave made to leave, but just as he did a squabble broke out when another of the inmates, pretending he was Paul McCartney, tried to get on the piano stool with Stevie for an impromptu rendition of 'Ebony and Ivory'. However this was quickly resolved when Stevie head butted Paul on the nose and told him to fuck off back to Liverpool. A little disappointed, for Dave was a big fan of Macca also (despite his having written to the rock superstar when he married Helen Mills and suggested to the ex-Beatle that he might write a song called ‘I Want To Hold Your Leg’ in her honour, and not receiving a reply), and would have welcomed a rendition of the duet, he got down to business.
He soon located Fred Oakes and gave him the football the Frogley Town team had kindly autographed for him a few days previously.
Oakes was effusive in his thanks. “I will treasure this, Dave. I will cherish it for the rest of my life. It was very, very good of you.”
“My pleasure, Fred,” said Dave, magnanimously.
“I owe you one, Dave.”
“No you don't Fred, because there's something you can do to pay me back right now. See I'm doing a Dave Rave Show Pre-Season Football Special and I'd like to interview you, if that’s all right with you?”
Oakes had been looking fondly at the signatures on the football with the pleasure that ownership of something coveted brings. Now, however, he suddenly looked surprised. “How long has Zinedine Zidane been playing for the Town then?” he asked, puzzled. “Did he change his mind about retiring?”
It was Donny’s turn to be puzzled. “What?”
“Zinedine Zidane.” Oakes pointed at a signature on the football. “There you are see, next to Carl Crock.”
Donny smiled. Those guys! Weren’t they just something else! Even so, amusing as it was, he would have to have a stern word with the Frogley players about it. All right, a joke's a joke, but these were fans we were talking about here. “Just a little joke, Fred,” he explained to Oakes. “One of the lads.”
“A joke?” Oakes considered this for a moment. Then he smiled. “Yes, of course. I should have realised. I mean why would Zinedine Zidane come to Frogley Town when we already have a wealth of talent in midfield? Well you know that better than I do, Dave, I mean you yourself are always going on about our strength in the middle of the park.”
Football Crazy Page 7
