Football Crazy

by Terry Ravenscroft

  Having digested its contents fat-trimmer Joe Hesford was the first of the workers to make an uncomplimentary observation. “Well the crafty old sod!”

  Cold water crust pastry-maker Arthur Jones was the second. “I just don't believe this!”

  More comments quickly followed from the dismayed and angry throng.

  “He can't do that!” said gravy-maker Grant Chamberlain.

  “He's bloody well done it!” said gristle-mincer Ted Banks.

  “Language!” said pie tin-greaser Mavis Eckersley.

  “Language?” said oven-loader Jack Netherwood. “It's enough to make a parson swear!”

  “Fucking right,” said a parson, or rather an ex-parson who since recently being defrocked for an offence against a sheep had found employment at Price's as a meat-mincer.

  “I wonder how long it took that bastard Price to dream this one up?” wondered potato-preparer Seth Weatherly.

  “He didn't dream it up,” said a voice behind them. “I did.”

  The aggrieved pie factory workers turned as one to see Bone Pulveriser-operator Stanley Sutton.

  “What?” said Joe Hesford, hardly able to believe his ears

  “It were your idea, Stanley?” said Ted Banks, no less surprised.

  “Oh yes, all my own,” said Stanley, as pleased as Punch with himself.

  Fortunately for Stanley the blow from Jack Netherwood’s fist immediately rendered him unconscious, and the only injury he sustained was a black eye, for if the blow had failed to deliver him into the arms of Morpheus he would surely have received many more.

  *

  Screwer was disappointed to say the very least. “You didn't recognise any of them then?”

  “Not a one, sir,” Sergeant Hawks lied.

  Screwer couldn’t credit his bad luck. “Only I didn't get much of a chance to get a good look at them myself.”

  “Well you wouldn't, sir,” said Hawks. Then, in case Screwer should detect any trace of sarcasm in his voice, and anxious to keep on the right side of someone whose chosen method of setting a horse in motion was to kick it in the testicles, he added, “Bleeding yobbos.”

  “Bleeding yobbos is right, Sergeant. And bleeding yobbos who will pay the price of being bleeding yobbos when I get my hands on them.”

  It was Screwer's first day back after his enforced lay off nursing his wounds, which apart from the headache and concussion also included a grazed elbow, a few minor bruises, and, worst of all, his pride.

  Three days of having been ministered to by Mrs Screwer, with her 'Are you sure you should be pricing cattle prods on the internet while you're in your sickbed, Herman?' had done nothing to improve the police chief’s temper, however he was sure things would improve once he got his hands on the miscreants who had been responsible for toppling him from Scourge of the Terraces. And that time wasn’t too far away. He set the ball rolling.

  “Get me the tapes from the surveillance cameras, then get every officer not out on duty in here to see if they recognise any of the bastards.”

  Hawks muttered a quick silent prayer, then said, “I’m afraid there aren't any tapes, sir.”

  Screwer's head shot back. “No surveillance tapes?”

  “Unfortunately the surveillance cameras were down that day for maintenance,” Hawks explained.

  “Shit!”

  In fact the surveillance cameras hadn’t been out of action and the events that day had been fully captured but Hawks had thought it advisable under the circumstances to have the tapes wiped. As he had remarked to DS Love, “Christ knows what he'd do if he found out it was the football team; have them all hung then thrown into a pit of quicklime, probably.”

  Severely miffed, Screwer turned his attention to other matters, matters that he could do something about. “Match this Saturday, Hawks. I want every policeman on the Frogley force in attendance. Put the one's not on duty on overtime. Compulsory.”

  “Sir.”

  “And book me a horse-riding lesson.”

  “One riding lesson, sir?” asked Hawks, doubt in his voice.

  “Sergeant?”

  “Well it's just that when people are learning how to ride a horse they tend to have a course of lessons. You know, like driving a car.”

  “It isn't a car, Hawks, it's a horse,” barked Screwer. “Or did I perhaps fail to notice its gear stick, its clutch, brake and accelerator pedals and its steering wheel?”

  “Sorry sir.”

  “You are, Hawks. You are indeed. A sorry example of a police officer. Anyway I won’t be learning to ride it, I already know how to ride it, I'm just a bit rusty.”

  “I'll attend to it at once, sir,” said Hawks, not risking offering any more advice.

  While Screwer had been off sick Hawks had pondered long and deeply upon what, if anything, could be done about the fact that the chief of the Frogley Police Force was stark raving mad. The police sergeant was aware that in certain walks of life a little madness can of course be a good thing. Goalkeepers are an excellent example to which this maxim applies. Mountaineers are another. As are Wall of Death riders. And of course, in the case of Royalty, to be mad is apparently a prerequisite. But as a little madness can be a good thing by the same token a lot of madness can be a bad thing, and especially so when it is residing in the head a policeman of high rank.

  Hawks realised this and he had no doubts that he should do something about Screwer, for if he didn't a disaster of some sort or other was going to happen sooner or later. But to whom do you tell that you suspect your boss would be more at home in the loony bin than in the office of a police superintendent? His boss, Hawks supposed. But if he were to do that what would be the position if Screwer's boss didn't share his opinion of the police chief’s mental state? Where would that leave a police sergeant not all that far from retirement on full pension? More to the point, where would it leave his pension?

  So he did nothing, consoling himself that Saddam Hussein was a bloody sight madder and that it took donkey’s years for anybody to do something about him.

  Had Hawks' immediate superior Inspector Blood been available he could have dropped the problem in his lap, but unfortunately Blood was away on a Search Under Suspicion and Advanced Baton Skills refresher course. So Hawks had decided, not without some misgivings, to keep his own counsel.

  In the final analysis Hawks was correct in his suspicions. There was a disaster. Fortunately however there wasn't a great deal of damage, none that mattered anyway, and everything turned out all right in the end. But not before there were ructions.

  *

  Joe Price held up the new Frogley Town football shirt for Donny's and George's approval, although it was going to be the shirt that would be worn by the team this season whether they approved of it or not. It was an exact replica of the shirt worn by the team of long ago, the body of the shirt yellow and green quarters, with red sleeves and trim.

  “This is t' new shirt as t' team will be wearing this season,” he said, proudly. “It's exactly t' same as t' 1935 shirt in every detail.”

  “And very smart it is too, Mr Price,” said Donny, only too glad his playing days were over and he wouldn't be one of those unfortunate souls who had wear it.

  George foresaw a problem. “It hasn't got our sponsor's name on it,” he pointed out to Price.

  “Sponsor?”

  “Smiths Suppositories, Mr Price.” Donny explained, “They give us twenty thousand pounds a year. And free suppositories.”

  Price raised an eyebrow. “Do they now?”

  “That twenty thousand pounds has always been very helpful in the past,” said George.

  “And the suppositories,” Donny added. “A few of the lads suffer from constipation,” he expounded.

  “That doesn't surprise me at all,” said Price, “they have trouble passing t' ball as well.”

  “Oh very funny, Mr Price,” smiled Donny, but seeing that Price wasn't laughing he got rid of the smile as fast as he could, hoping that Price hadn't seen it.<
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  “I suppose you'll be wanting Price's Pies on the shirts, Mr Price?” ventured George.

  “We could have both on, Mr Price,” Donny chipped in, hoping to redeem himself, just in case Price had seen him smile. “We could have Price's Pies at the top and Smiths Suppositories on the bottom.”

  Price glared at him. “There'll be nowt disfiguring t' shirts. T’ players aren’t advertising hoardings. T’ shirts will be like this,” he shook the shirt, “Exactly t' same as they were in 1935.”

  “And what about the sponsorship deal with Smiths?” asked George.

  “It's off. Tell 'em as they can stick their twenty thousand pounds where folk stick their suppositories. Anyroad, players won't get constipated now they're on a gradely diet.” He turned to Donny. “But if any of 'em does, just send him to me; t' man hasn't been born as Joe Price can't make shit himself.”

  “Yes, Mr Price,” said Donny.

  *

  It was early afternoon and Sarah Jane was reading the latest edition of the Frogley Advertiser, Fentonbottom dozing at her feet in glorious Technicolor, when Stanley came in from his morning shift at the pie factory.

  “And where did tha get that?” she enquired of her husband, on looking up from her newspaper and observing Stanley's black eye.

  “Tha'd think as folk would want to watch t' Town now as they're going to be great again, wouldn’t tha, Sarah Jane” Stanley complained.

  Sarah Jane didn't follow up her enquiry. Her husband had probably asked for the black eye if she knew anything. Instead she held out her hand, palm upwards. “Wage,” she demanded. Stanley’s reaction to his wife’s request was not to hand over his wage packet as bidden but to shuffle his feet uncomfortably. Sarah Jane was immediately suspicious. “I hope for thy sake as tha hasn't spent it on having more lottery tickets printed? Because there should be no need for thee to do that anymore, now as moneybags Joe Price owns t' football club.”

  Stanley was defiant. “I haven't spent it on lottery tickets.”

  “And a good job too!”

  “I've spent it on paint.”

  “Paint?” Sarah Jane could scarcely credit it. “More bloody paint?”

  “It's good stuff, Sarah Jane,” said Stanley, defending his purchase. “It's that as has t' big dog on it.”

  Dogs can't understand the English language, despite the claims of some doting dog lovers, dreamers who proudly impart the information to anyone not too bored to listen that their mutt 'understands every word you say'. These people should try saying to their dog 'If you don't move from where you are immediately a brick is going to fall on your head and brain you', and see if it moves. The chances of it remaining exactly where it is, and wagging its tail stupidly, are far more likely.

  Other than their name, and not always that, and simple command words like 'sit' and 'stay', the average dog understands about as much English as a one-year-old Chinese with learning difficulties. Stanley's dog Fentonbottom, smarter than the average canine, understood the words 'sit, 'stay', 'fetch', and 'dog'.

  What can be claimed with some justice however is that the sound made by a particular word, without a dog in any way understanding the meaning of that word, can have a profound effect on a dog. The word whose sound had a profound effect in the case of Fentonbottom was 'paint', and on now hearing it come from Stanley's lips, in close proximity to the word 'dog', the effect it had on it was to cause it to prick up its ears, howl, then bolt from the room with its tail between its legs.

  Stanley watched it go, puzzled. “I wonder what's got into Fentonbottom?” he mused.

  “It's not what's got into it, it's what it thinks you might be putting on to it,” said Sarah Jane, returning her attention to the Frogley Advertiser.

  She turned a page and came to the first of the sports pages. Sport held no interest for Sarah Jane and never would unless husband flogging ever became a sport, and she was about to put the paper down when she suddenly saw Stanley staring back at her from the page. She blinked and looked again. It was Stanley all right; there couldn’t be two people who looked as stupid as that. What on earth was a photo of her husband doing in the Frogley Advertiser? It was printed alongside an article with the banner headline: 'Local Lothario Is Big Town Fan'.

  She read the article. Then she got up, walked over to Stanley, and punched him in the eye that wasn't black. It very quickly became so, a perfect partner for his other black eye.

  *

  Big Donny Donnelly was worried. The first game of the season was due to take place tomorrow and he still didn't have a mistress. That is he had a mistress but they hadn't yet had sex. They had tried to have sex but Donny had been unable to. He had no idea why, it had certainly never happened to him before, and he had definitely been up for it - or rather he hadn't been up for it, which was the trouble. Perhaps he'd had too much to drink that night and it was his first experience of brewer's droop? Possibly, but he doubted it, he'd only had two pints of lager. Just enough to stimulate the desire without dulling the performance, if his past efforts between the sheets were anything to go by.

  Maybe it had something to do with his mistress, Carol Ann? Again possible, but hardly likely, for she was young and pretty, certainly as young and pretty as his lovely wife Tracey Michelle had been when she was young and pretty. Something was wrong though, definitely, because he'd tried for over an hour, and nothing. Zilch.

  He had even tried closing his eyes and imagining having Kylie Minogue from behind, an erotic fantasy that usually gave him a stiffy up to his belly button, but even the thought of getting up close and very personal to that wonderful antipodean bottom had failed to stir Little Donny into life. In the end he'd given up and had taken Carol Ann for a fish supper instead.

  Now, topping up his tan on the sun bed, as he wanted to look his best for the game tomorrow, obviously, he wondered whether it counted if you had a mistress but hadn't yet had sex with her? If buying her a fish supper was an adequate substitute? He was aware that, given the choice, many women would actually prefer a fish supper to sex. This was certainly the case when couples had been married for a few years, he knew that for a fact, because his lovely wife Tracey Michelle had once said the same herself (though not to him, but over the fence to their next door neighbour, when she'd thought that Donny had been asleep on the sun lounger).

  Donny hadn't thought to ask his lovely wife Tracey Michelle what she’d been doing in the Frogley Arms on Tuesday lunchtime last week. Not that he wouldn’t have liked to have done, but because he couldn’t do so without admitting to her that he had been there too. So he had dismissed it from his mind, persuading himself that his lovely wife Tracey Michelle had obviously just popped in for a quick one while she was out shopping, as it could be thirsty work, shopping. Oddly though, when he had asked her what sort of day she'd had, she’d told him she'd had a very quiet one, she'd stopped in all day because she'd had one of her headaches. But that hadn't fooled Donny, she'd obviously said that because she'd probably been shopping for a present for his birthday next month and obviously didn't want him to know about it. That would be just like his lovely wife Tracey Michelle, thoughtful to a fault.

  So, his potential mistress Tracey Michelle having failed to materialise, Donny had done what all good football managers do after a setback, which was to put it behind him and get on with the next fixture.

  In fact he didn't get on with the next fixture, it was the next after that, because the next one turned out to be a transvestite. The experience had almost put Donny off the idea of having a mistress altogether - up to then the only male penis he'd ever had hold of was his own and after having now had hold of a second one he certainly didn't want to risk getting hold of any more, thank you very much. However on learning that in addition to Ron Atkinson, Malcolm Allison and Tommy Docherty having had mistresses, that ex-England manager Bobby Robson had also had several mistresses at the height of his success, which had confirmed further the soundness of his plan, it was a risk he was prepared to take. Which had led
to Carol Ann. And in turn had led to him being in his present worried state.

  As he lay on the sun bed soaking up skin cancer he tried not to worry. After all, worry was one of the things that caused impotence, according to the club doctor, Dr Grimshaw.

  Donny had gone to see Dr Grimshaw ostensibly about the knee injury he’d sustained when jumping through one of the plate glass windows of the Frogley Arms, and had taken the opportunity to ask the physician about impotence 'on behalf of a mate'. Dr Grimshaw, who in thirty years as a general practitioner had never once had to advise so much as one solitary man on the subject of his impotence, but had advised well over a hundred men who had been asking 'on behalf of a mate', had gone on to tell Donny the other causes of impotence. Apparently they were high blood pressure (in Donny's case, no), heavy smoking (no), heavy drinking (no), drug abuse (certainly not), old age (no!), physical trauma such as an accident (possibly), and hormone abnormalities (do you mind!). Which meant that in Donny's case it was possibly just worry.

  Recalling this he breathed a sigh of relief. Because if it was worry that was causing the problem he would be back to normal by five-o-clock tomorrow; for by then the Town would have won their first match of the season and then there wouldn't be anything to worry about anymore. But….hey, hang on a minute. What if they didn't win? What if buying your mistress a fish supper as a substitute for having sex with her didn't count and he still didn't have a genuine mistress?