Football Crazy

by Terry Ravenscroft

  Now, as he sat at the keyboard of his computer about to start writing the article, Sneed reflected that Stanley was without any doubt the dullest, most boring person it had ever been his misfortune to interview in all his years as a journalist. For apart from following Frogley Town Stanley had apparently done nothing. Rumpelstiltskin had done more whilst he’d been asleep for twenty years. Stanley had no ambitions, other than those which related to the fortunes of Frogley Town, no interests other than Frogley Town, and no feelings other than those he had for Frogley Town. In his entire life he had never travelled beyond Gateshead to the north, Plymouth to the south, Colchester to the east and Tranmere to the west, and he had only travelled to those places because they were the venues of Frogley Town away games. He had never been to the theatre. The cinema held no interest for him. Television likewise. He never went out for a meal, unless one were to include the half-time pie and Oxo at Frogley Town's matches. And he had only ever read one book, 'A Tale of Two Cities', and only then because a workmate had kidded him on that it was about Frogley Town's visits to play Chester City and York City.

  So the task now facing Sneed was to compose a human interest story about a subject who no other human being could possibly be interested in, by dint of the subject of the story never having done anything remotely interesting; on the face of it an impossible task.

  As he looked at the bitless screen of his computer monitor wondering how he was ever going to fill it with bits, Sneed was about to call it a day and search for inspiration in the bottom of a pint glass at his local when he suddenly recalled from the depths of his mind another seemingly impossible task that had once taxed the ingenuity of members of his profession.

  It concerned events in the offices of a boys’ adventure weekly. The story went that the comic's ace writer, who was responsible for penning the periodical's most popular serial, 'Jack's Great Adventure', had been laid low to his sick bed. The task of writing the next episode had been handed to another of the periodical’s staff writers. The serial always ended in a cliffhanger, and the situation Jack was left in at the end of the previous episode was that he was bound hand and foot to a tree; immediately behind him was a three hundred feet gorge; to the front of him, no more than ten yards away, thirty war-whooping Red Indians were charging at him on horseback, tomahawks raised; to his right two dozen crocodiles formed a welcoming party; to his left fifty man-eating tigers lay in wait; at his feet ten thousand red ants had already started to make a meal of him.

  Faced with this situation the staff writer racked his brains, but try as he might he could see no way out for Jack, and was finally forced to report his failure to his editor. All the other staff writers were consulted. None of them could see a way out for Jack either. Freelances were asked. Nor could they. Nor could the editor himself. Finally in desperation, with a publication deadline to meet, the editor had no alternative but to ring the ace writer in his sick bed to ask of him how they might possibly continue the story. The ace writer told the editor to arm himself with a pen and pad, then began to dictate: “With a single bound, Jack was free....”

  As he recalled the story Sneed smiled to himself. It was as easy as that. Just ignore anything that got in the way and get on with the story.

  He cracked his fingers and began to type. 'Football fans come in all shapes and sizes. Stanley Sutton, the Chairman of the Frogley Town Supporters Club, comes in the small, slim variety. He is a quiet, unassuming man. Yet women beat a path to his door. Currently the squeeze of Kate Moss and attracting the attentions of Naomi Campbell, amongst other top models, Stanley, or Stan the Stud as he is better known, this Frogley Town football kit-attired fornicating philanderer....’

  *

  Dave Rave shook the bars of the lock-up cell for the forty-third time that morning, then hollered at the top of his voice, “Let me out of here! Let....me....out of here!”

  All the shaking and shouting was finally rewarded when Superintendent Screwer sauntered into view with Sergeant Hawks, who was carrying Dave's recording equipment. They stopped outside the cell. Dave glared at them.

  “Let me out of here you twats!” the Frogley Radio presenter demanded.

  Screwer was wearing the smile of a man who knows something the other person doesn't. He illuminated it a few watts more and gave his prisoner the full benefit of it. “Ready to talk yet are we, Rave?”

  “There's a horse in here,” Dave complained. “There's a fucking horse in here with me!”

  As if to confirm Dave's claim his cellmate Scourge of the Terraces emitted a loud whinny.

  “So?” said Screwer, disarmingly.

  Dave however was far from disarmed. “So? What do you mean, so? There's a horse in here with me. What's a horse doing in a police cell? Don't tell me, it's called Trigger and you've locked it up on suspicion of it being part of an unlicensed firearm.”

  “Being a smartarse is only going to make things worse for you, Rave,” said Screwer, in a manner which clearly implied his words were not a warning but an established fact.

  “Worse for me?” echoed Dave. “I'm locked up in a cell with a horse; the only way things could get worse for me is if it started farting!”

  Screwer turned to Hawks. “Next time the horse is fed slip a can of baked beans in with its mash, Sergeant.”

  Dave rattled the bars again and glared angrily at his tormentor. “Let me out of here you bastard! This place is like a madhouse!”

  This made Screwer smile even more. “Yes, well you'd know all about madhouses wouldn't you, Rave.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Screwer nodded to Hawks. “Sergeant.”

  Hawks switched on the tape recorder. Dave's voice came on. ‘With me now is a maniac, Mr Fred Oakes. Tell me Fred, as a maniac, what is your reaction to the news that meat pie magnate Joe Price has bought Frogley Town?’

  Screwer punched the stop button and turned to Dave. “Interviewing maniacs with reference to Frogley Town, Rave?”

  Dave failed to see what all the fuss was about. “Well what's wrong with that? A lot of maniacs follow the Town.”

  Screwer’s smile instantly turned into a gloat as he hit the jackpot.

  “A lot of maniacs follow the Town? Maniacs? Incited by a man whose alias is Dave Rave?” The gloat now went the way of the smile, to be replaced by unadulterated black menace as he reached into his pocket and produced his monogrammed knuckledusters.

  “I want the names of every last one of them, Rave.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Kiss my arse” - Rude van Footballer.

  Parks should have been long gone. He realised that now. He should have slapped in a transfer request the moment Donny had announced that all the players would be required to have their hair cut like the players in the photograph of the Frogley Town 1935 FA Cup-winning team.

  If he had realised before he would have been out of it already. Far away from here. Torquay United would have been in for him like a shot, he knew that, they'd tried to sign him last year. He should have gone then, when he'd had the chance. Besides, none of the players at Frogley liked him so he'd be far better off with another club. Especially a seaside club like Torquay; seasides had lots of young fanny on holiday looking for a good time for much of the year, and young fanny liked footballers, especially fit-looking footballers with long blonde hair such as Steve Parks.

  But he had been caught between the devil of Frogley and the deep blue sea of Torquay. The reason was his benefit year.

  Although he was still only twenty seven, having signed professional forms with the Town as a youth of eighteen, Parks had almost ten years service in with the club. Consequently a testimonial match to his benefit had been arranged, and was due to be played in a few weeks time. Sheffield Wednesday had promised to send a strong team for the occasion (on hearing this piece of information Briggs had remarked that if that was the case they must have signed a few weightlifters during the close season because they certainly hadn’t got any strong footballers), and the recei
pts from the game were expected to comfortably top the fifty thousand pounds mark. Tax free!

  Although quite well paid compared to bus drivers or shop assistants or the average factory hand, Parks’ wages of seven hundred pounds a week hardly put him in the jet set, and although at his present age he could still look forward to a few more seasons on his current earnings, the sum of fifty thousand tax free pounds in the back pocket of his designer jeans was not something to be given up lightly.

  The choice for Parks was simple. Keep his lovely hair, or gain fifty thousand pounds and walk about looking like a tit. And not only walk about looking like a tit, but a tit who probably wouldn't be able to pull fanny any more.

  After much soul-searching he had chosen the latter course. He had reasoned that, all right, he would look like a tit for a while, but it wouldn't be for very long as his hair would soon grow again. Reason also told him that once his hair had grown again Price would very probably make him have it cut again. However the same reasoning also told him that by then Price would have realised that making the players look like replicas of 1930's footballers in order to make them play better was a load of old bollocks, and that hairstyles would then revert back to normal.

  Now, out on the football pitch, standing in line to have that monstrous haircut, Parks was beginning to have second thoughts. Quickly followed by third, fourth, fifth and sixth thoughts, all of which were more-or-less the same as the first thought – which was that in the flesh the haircut looked even more grotesque than he had imagined it would.

  He had thought initially that there couldn't possibly be anything more unflattering than a number one; but a number two with a fringe at the front, which in effect was what the new haircut was, was infinitely worse. The nearest thing to it that Parks could recall seeing had been on a dog at Crufts, in the Smooth-haired Ugly Little Bastard Class, but it wasn't as nice as that.

  The barber tapped Crock on the shoulder and invited him to vacate the chair, an indication to the midfielder that he had finished cutting his hair. When in his shop, to signal that his work was completed, it was the barber's habit to hold up a mirror to give the customer a view of his new haircut, but after the horrified reactions of the first couple of players to whom he had done this, one of whom had said 'Shit!' and the other who had said 'Jesus Christ on a fucking bicycle!', he had thought it prudent to abandon the practice.

  Crock got up from the chair and joined the other ten players who had already been similarly shorn, and who were now grouped together to take comfort from each other in their adversity, and who at the moment were looking at those who had yet to be shorn with a mixture of glee at their coming misfortune and pity at their plight, in equal measure.

  Price, who was supervising the mass barbering of his football squad, now turned and spoke to the group as yet unshorn and said, “Who's next for shaving?”

  “Fuck me,” said Moggs, to nobody in particular, “He's not going to give us a shave as well, is he?”

  Price overheard Moggs and put him right. “A figure of speech, lad.” Moggs’ comment had jogged Price’s memory. “And while we're on t' subject of shaving I see as some of thee are still shaving thy top lips.” He made eye contact with each and every one of the offenders to ensure they got the message, and said, “Moustaches will be worn, at all times. Droopy ones. Exactly as in t' photo. Which I am having enlarged and which will be pinned up in t' dressing room, so there’ll be no excuse. Anybody as hasn't got a moustache exactly like t' ones on t' photo by t' start of t' season will be out on his arse. Understood?”

  The players, by now resigned to their fate, mumbled and nodded.

  “So who's next for shaving?” Price reiterated.

  Rock stepped forward and took his place in the barber's chair. There were now only five players left in the queue. Parks was next but one in line. He now quietly slipped out of the line and went to the back of the queue.

  *

  Donny, who today had chosen light grey flannels and a midnight blue blazer with the club's crest on the top pocket, was seated in a window seat in the lounge bar of the Frogley Arms Hotel, awaiting the arrival of his new mistress-elect, Tracey Michelle. He wasn't sure what sort of young lady she would turn to be, although from her letter she had sounded very nice indeed, so had decided to dress in a manner that would appeal not only to the sporty type but also to those who preferred their men to dress a little more soberly, while his open neck cerise shirt and medallion held universal appeal with those of the opposite sex, he was quite sure, very much so.

  The night before, in their last pre-season friendly before the big kick-off this coming Saturday, the Town had played host to team from the Coca-Cola League One. Contrary to Donny's confident forecast that in a continuation of their improving form his team would draw with them, they had managed to upset the apple cart and had lost by seven-nil. To any other manager such a result might have been regarded as a major setback, but Donny had been as unconcerned about it as Dwight Yorke might once have been on receiving a thirty pounds fine for speeding on Jordan. For that was yesterday. And today he would have a mistress. And having a mistress would make all the difference.

  Since first realising that three of the greatest managers ever to grace the beautiful game with their eminence, namely Ron Atkinson, Tommy Docherty and Malcolm Allison, had kept mistresses, Donny had written to six other top drawer managers to ask them if they too kept, or had ever kept, mistresses. Five of them hadn't even bothered to reply to his letter. Which had only confirmed to Donny that they must indeed have mistresses, otherwise they wouldn't be trying to hide it by refusing to admit it to him. The one who had replied, Sir Alex Ferguson, had not only categorically denied that he had or had ever had a mistress, but had also made it abundantly clear to the Frogley Town manager that if he ever had the temerity to even hint at such a thing again he would quickly find himself in deeper shit than a dung beetle in a diving suit. However Donny had put this down as the exception that proved the rule and to Fergie being a Scotsman.

  Donny checked his watch. One-o-clock exactly. Tracey Michelle should have been here by now. That she wasn't pleased rather than displeased him, as it proved to him that she was a woman who didn't want to appear too eager. “Classy”, he said to himself, nodding in approval. She would be just right for him, he was certain.

  He picked up his brandy and coke and offered a silent toast to his future amour.

  *

  Screwer had sent for Sergeant Hawks. “I'm going to pay our friends in the nuthouse a little visit,” he informed his subordinate on his arrival. “Where did you put that list of suspects we got out of that Dave Rave reprobate?”

  Hawks found the piece of notepaper containing the names in one of the trays on Screwer's desk. “Here you are, sir.”

  Screwer took the list from Hawks and glanced at it briefly, then got to his feet, all business. “Right then, we'll see what Messrs Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Michael Jackson, Stevie Wonder and the rest of them have to say for themselves. Have Scourge of the Terraces saddled up for me Sergeant, it's a nice day for a ride.”

  “Sir,” said Hawks. Then, making conversation, “Done much horse riding have you, sir?”

  “None,” said Screwer.

  Hawks was non-plussed. “You've never ridden a horse, sir?”

  “No,” affirmed Screwer. “Donkeys.”

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “Donkeys, Hawks, I've ridden donkeys,” said Screwer, beginning to get irritated. “At the seaside when I was a lad.”

  Hawks took a deep breath. “With respect sir....,” but that was as far as he was allowed to get as Screwer raised a hand like the traffic policeman he once was and barked, “Hold it right there, Hawks.” He fixed the sergeant with a baleful look. “Every time you start a sentence with the words 'With respect sir' you follow up those words with something that proves to me that you have no respect for me whatsoever. I sincerely hope you aren't going to do that now? I sincerely hope you are not going to tell me that just be
cause I once rode a donkey with 'Sandy' written on its bridle it doesn’t mean to say I can ride a horse?”

  Apart from the donkey being called Sandy that was exactly what Hawks had been about to say. Now he thought better of it. Instead he said, “No sir, I was going to say 'With respect sir, although it is a very nice day at the moment, rain has been forecast for later, so might it not be more advisable to go in a police car?' ”

  “Good,” said Screwer. “You're learning at last. And thank you for the concern for my welfare, but if it rains I’ll put my cape on. So saddle her up, Hawks!”

  “Yes sir.”

  *

  Jacks was the penultimate member of the Frogley Town squad to receive the 1935 FA Cup-winning side haircut. Now only Parks remained.

  As God's gift to the young women of Frogley and district watched the barber cutting the hair of his team mate he now realised there was no way on earth he would be able to submit himself to the same treatment. He just would not be able to bear looking like that, full stop. Not even for fifty thousand pounds. Not for a million pounds. I mean what chance would he have of picking up a bit of fanny if he walked about looking like that? No chance at all. If he went to a zoo he might just about be able to pull an orang-outang, but only then if the orang-outang wasn't too particular.

  The barber finished Jacks and the back four man joined his similarly shorn team mates.