And that was the way things would have remained had not fate taken a hand, and from a most unlikely source. For salvation came to Stanley in the shape of a Sikh door-to-door salesman.
“Afternoon,” the Sikh said, opening his battered brown suitcase the moment Stanley answered the knock on the front door. “Is t' wife in?”
“No, she's out,” said Stanley. “Anyroad tha'd be wasting thee time even if she were in, she never buys at t' door.”
“How about thee then?” the dusky Hindu persisted. “How are t' off for razor blades and shaving cream?”
“No thanks.”
If the Sikh, like so many of his compatriots, had been an immigrant to Great Britain, that might have been the end of the matter. However, as is the case with many of his brothers and sisters, the Sikh had been born and bred in England, and not too far away from Frogley at that, in nearby Rochdale, so both his accent and dialect were not dissimilar to Stanley's. In addition he was slightly built and about the same height as Stanley. These two things together might by themselves have triggered the thought process that gave Stanley the idea that was to see him in the queue outside the football ground that night, but what made it absolutely certain the notion came to him was the fact that the Sikh was wearing a Frogley Town football shirt.
“Are tha a fan then?” said Stanley, indicating the Sikh's shirt.
“I am that, lad,” replied the Sikh. “I'm going direct to t' match as soon as I knock off.”
“Is tha turban for sale?” asked Stanley.
*
“Snap!” said Dave Rave in triumph, reaching through the bars of the adjoining cell and scooping up the pile of cards.
“Are you sure you can't play any other card games?” complained Martin Sneed. “Not even Rummy?”
“What's wrong with 'Snap'?” said, Dave, adding the pile of cards to the bottom of the stack of cards in his hand.
“It gets a bit boring after eight hours,” said the newspaperman disdainfully.
It was five-thirty p.m, two hours to kick-off time in the Frogley v Brailsford game, on which Dave Rave would not be broadcasting his usual match commentary and Sneed would not be writing a report about, for their sins (which neither of them knew the nature of, since Screwer had not yet deigned to inform them).
The highest bidder for Sneed's story had been the Daily Sport, at £2000. Unfortunately for the newspaperman the editor had cut the article drastically to make space for an important story about, and a picture of, a Slovakian air hostess with three breasts. This had more or less killed any hopes Sneed had entertained of impressing the nation's red top newspaper editors into offering him a job.
Even more unfortunately for Sneed, what remained of the story contained his byline and his observation that likened Screwer to the Mad Hatter, and, the Daily Sport being by far the most popular newspaper with the members of the Frogley Police Force, this information had been picked up by several of them. When it was brought to the attention of Screwer the Frogley Advertiser Chief Sportswriter was as good as behind bars.
Dave Rave's broadcast had been heard by Constable Beaver, a fan of Dave, though not a big enough fan to disregard him calling a policeman a shithouse and several other shithouse-based names. Consequently Screwer had been informed, and the same outcome befell Dave that had befallen Sneed.
Feng Shui with Mr Wong had been heard by DC Armitage's wife, who saw his description of Screwer as a shithouse as just the opportunity she had been waiting for to get her own back on Mr Wong after she’d recently followed the Feng Shui expert's advice to re-position her Aga on the landing, for 'optimum happiness of occupants', which had resulted in the optimum unhappiness of the occupants of the house, especially the cat, when the Aga fell through the ceiling and crushed it.
Mrs Armitage had subsequently told her husband that Mr Wong was using the airwaves to call Screwer a shithouse, and even though DC Armitage shared the Feng Shui expert's opinion of his boss, the appeasement of his wife came first, therefore Mr Wong's goose was well and truly cooked.
Or it would have been if Mr Wong could have been found, but as yet, and despite a countrywide alert and the involvement of Interpol, he had yet to be run to ground, having seemingly disappeared off the face of the Earth. Dave Rave, of course, could have told Screwer that Mr Wong had never been on the face of the Earth to begin with, and that he himself was the Feng Shui expert, but remembering what had happened to him the last time he’d told Screwer that he'd used an alias he thought it prudent to keep this information to himself.
Sneed put the ten of diamonds on Dave's two of clubs. “If we had another one I could teach you how to play bridge,” he observed.
“What?” said Dave, putting a seven of hearts on Sneed's ten of diamonds.
“The horse could make up the four,” Sneed explained.
“Neigh,” said the horse.
*
Stanley, the Sikh's turban on his head, his face now a deep brown, a suitcase by his side, knocked on his own front door. Sarah Jane opened the door, took one look at him and extended to him the very short shrift she gave all doorstep salesmen.
“I don't buy at t' door,” she snapped, starting to close the door before it had barely had the chance to get used to being open.
“No it's me, Sarah Jane,” Stanley blurted out.
Sarah Jane blinked in surprise, then looked more closely at him. “Stanley?”
“It's me disguise,” said Stanley. “Couldn't tha tell as it were me?”
Sarah Jane wrinkled her nose. “What's that smell?”
“Gravy browning. I used it to make me face brown.”
“Tha smells like a Sunday dinner,” Sarah Jane observed, then added, ruefully, “Well as I remember Sunday dinners smelling, it's that long since we've been able to afford meat.”
Stanley ignored his wife’s jibe. “Couldn't tha tell as it were me?” he asked her again, eager for Sarah Jane's rubber stamp.
“Well now tha'rt talking I can. But keep thee mouth shut and tha could pass for Gandhi.”
Stanley smiled, satisfied. If he could fool the woman who shared his bed he could certainly fool whoever happened to be on the turnstile at the Offal Road Stadium that night.
*
“Have you all got that?” said Screwer.
“Sir!”
In the light of recent developments Screwer’s plan for a smaller police presence at the match had gone by the board and now at 6 p.m. the police chief was giving some of his charges a final briefing before they set off for the football ground. The ten constables in question were all dressed up as Brailsford Wanderers fans in blue and white striped football shirts. A few of them had their faces painted in the club's colours and all were armed with baseball bats.
Screwer surveyed them. “You!” he suddenly barked at one of them, Constable Atkins. “Tell me what you're going to do tonight.”
Atkins took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment to aid his memory, then recited, parrot fashion. “At eighteen thirty hours we will proceed through the town centre to the Offal Road Stadium, chanting 'Brailsford are Kings, Frogley are shite', pausing only to kick in a few shop windows on the way. Once in the stadium we will position ourselves adjacent to the Frogley Town fans and the inmates from the mental hospital, who will be with Constables Noblett, Hibbert and Mourne. On the signal from you, Constables Gibb, Arnfield, Sledge, Grimm and Wain will start throwing firecrackers at the Frogley Town football fans and Constables Cuthbertson, Sprake, Tonypandy, Banderjee and Gartside will throw firecrackers at the inmates from the mental hospital, at the same time shouting vile obscenities. Then....”
Screwer cut in. “Such as?”
“Frogley Town fans are all sheepshaggers, their wives are all whores, their sons are all shitstabbers and their daughters are all ugly sods who couldn't get a shag off Blind Pugh, Sir!”
“Good,” said Screwer. “Then?”
“Then we lay into them with our baseball bats and beat the shit out of them.”
&n
bsp; “Seven sorts of shit.”
“Seven sorts of shit, sir.”
“Mercilessly.”
“Mercilessly, sir.”
Screwer scanned the line of constables with his piercing eyes. “And make fucking sure you do!”
*
An hour later, outside the stadium, the forty lucky inmates from the Frogley Mental Hospital filed off the coach, were counted off by Constable Mourne and herded together by Constables Noblett and Hibbert. All of them were wearing Frogley Town football shirts, provided by Superintendent Screwer from police funds. Being keen fans quite a few of them already owned replicas of the club's shirt, but last season's, and these were the new shirts without Smith's Suppositories on the front which had only gone on sale in the club shop the previous Saturday, and which they now wore with pride, except for Smith, who preferred last year's shirt.
Screwer, mounted on Scourge of the Terraces, watched the inmates disembark from the coach with an approving eye. He liked the look of some of them, liked the look of them very much indeed, especially the one with the eye patch and the large scar running the length of one of his cheeks. He noted with pleasure that his request for Stevie Wonder to be included in the party had been honoured. He looked forward to personally braining him. Following Stevie Wonder off the coach was Mr Greaves, who didn't really like football, but who did like the idea of being let loose on the fun side of the hospital gates for a couple of hours. Screwer smiled contentedly to himself. He was going to enjoy himself tonight!
He had enjoyed himself last night too, when a cocktail of gin, tonic and three of the date rate pills had worked on Mrs Screwer and they’d had sex. Not only sex but Screwer’s favourite kind of sex, as in addition to the act itself he had given his wife a good verbal fucking at the same time. And now he was going to fuck the football hooligans of Frogley! And to some tune!
When the last of the inmates had left the coach and the constables who had been given the responsibility for their welfare had started to shepherd them towards the nearest turnstile, Screwer turned his mount and made for the main entrance.
After having once being thrown by Scourge of the Terraces the police chief had had serious reservations about ever getting on a horse again but the recurring picture in his mind's eye of the Policeman on the White Horse controlling the crowds at Wembley was never far from his thoughts, and the lure of the opportunity to emulate his hero had proved to be irresistible. He had still taken only six riding lessons, four less than the absolute minimum prescribed by the riding school owner, but what did she know, after all he wasn't like one of her normal clientele, some twelve-year-old schoolgirl still growing her fanny hair, he was a fully grown man, and a police superintendent at that.
Stanley, in the queue next to the one that the inmates were now joining, chanced another glance at Screwer. Like the police chief Stanley was going to enjoy himself tonight too. And, again like Screwer, he had already had cause for celebration, when his dog Fentonbottom had returned, completely out of the blue, or perhaps completely out of the black, as from the state of its fur it looked like it had been down the nearby disused coal pit for the entire time it had been missing.
Stanley had been overjoyed to have his dog back, even though, probably thinking that Stanley was a Sikh, it had bitten him when he’d tried to stroke it. However once Stanley had spoken to Fentonbottom it had recognised his voice immediately and had started to lick his face, which Stanley had enjoyed but had had to discourage as it was licking all the gravy browning off it - much to the disappointment of Fentonbottom as it hadn't eaten for three days and had been enjoying it.
Screwer had been stationed outside the ground when Stanley arrived. On seeing the police chief Stanley very nearly turned back, even though he knew that Screwer couldn't possibly know it was he under the turban and not a genuine Sikh. And, as Sarah Jane had said, nobody would as long as he kept his mouth shut. Which he firmly intended to do. So he had steeled himself and carried on, the urge to see his beloved Frogley Town overcoming whatever fears he entertained about what Screwer might do to him if he was discovered.
And it was going to be all right, he was sure now, because he had walked within five yards of Screwer and the police chief had taken no interest in him whatsoever. Even so he still felt uneasy being so close to Screwer and was relieved when the superintendent started to head off in the direction of the main entrance. Good. Screwer would soon be out sight and he himself would soon be safe and sound inside the stadium. There was nothing to stop him now.
Then, just as Screwer passed by him, Stanley sneezed.
*
Half an hour later Stanley took a bone out of the barrel and tossed it into the Bone Pulveriser. Clunk, crunch, it hit the blades.
Not wanting to go home, but wanting to do something, anything, to take his mind off what had happened to him outside the football ground a short while ago, Stanley had gone in to work, remembering that his opposite number Albert Humphries had wanted to visit his wife in hospital.
On immediately recognising Stanley by his sneeze Screwer had dealt with him, summarily and swiftly. Stanley had fought and scratched and kicked and struggled as Constables Noblett and Hibbert had carried out Screwer's orders and yanked him from the queue. The threat from Screwer that if Stanley ever came within a hundred yards of the stadium ever again he would personally rip his head off and shit in the hole rung in his ears as the constables had half marched, half dragged him away.
He threw another bone in the Bone Pulveriser. The thigh bone of a cow. Clunk, crunch! He wished it was one of his own bones along with all the rest of his bones. Then, pausing as he picked up another bone, he thought, “Well why not?” Because what was the point of going on? There was nothing left to live for now. No Frogley Town to watch every week meant no life. Well not a life he would ever be able to come to terms with.
He dropped the bone back in the barrel, pushed the red stop button and the Bone Pulveriser ground to a stop. Then he got down from the platform and started to look around for something that would be long enough to reach the start button from the inside of the Pulveriser.
*
After twenty minutes play the score was Frogley Town nil, Brailsford Wanderers two, with Brailsford rampant and looking like they might score a hatful. The home side was not as sharp as they had been in the match against Grimely, and by some stretch. The reason for this may simply have been that Brailsford were the better team, it may have been because the Frogley players' unusual diet was beginning to take its toll, but it was probably because, to a man, and in direct contravention of Joe Price's orders, each of the players had had sex the night before the match, and the vast majority had had sex on the day of the match also.
On the Monday Donny had run out of the bromide Price had provided him with and when he had telephoned him for more supplies Price had been unavailable. Donny had made a note to call again but had not yet done so, not seeing it as being critical if his players went without their vitamin supplement for the odd day or so, and anyway he couldn't have given it to them even if he'd had it to give them as they were all still in jail at the time.
Consequentially by the Tuesday evening when they were released all the players were getting erections again, and not having had any for over two weeks had immediately set about putting them to good effect. All of those who had wives or girlfriends had had sex with them at least twice, most of them more than that; Parks had had sex with all three of the girl fans with whom he had failed to have sex with after his heroics in the Grimely match; the two players who hadn't got a wife or a girlfriend had masturbated at least twice; and one of the players who had a wife and a girlfriend had had sex with both of them, twice, and a wank for good luck.
Donny too had found himself to be the proud owner of an erection, and with the Brailsford match in mind, and still not sure if only having given his mistress a fish supper really qualified him as having a mistress, had quickly got in touch with her and had given her much more than a fish supper. She
in turn had given him syphilis, although he had yet to find this out.
Screwer, astride Scourge of the Terraces on the popular side, now gave the signal that would very soon make it the unpopular side. On his signal, Constable Gartside opened the box of firecrackers and started to distribute the contents to the constables who were dressed-up as Brailsford supporters. Thus armed, they quickly lit them and commenced to throw them at the nearest Frogley Town fans, most of whom happened to be the Frogley Mental Hospital inmates, strategically placed there by Constables Noblett and Hibbert precisely for that purpose.
In no time at all absolute mayhem broke out as the inmates, in an effort to stop more firecrackers showering down on them, charged the constables. The resultant pandemonium quickly spread to include other nearby Frogley fans, who despite their usual peaceful behaviour needed little excuse to join the fight as throughout the match the constables dressed as Brailsford supporters had been shouting vile insults and obscenities at them.
Screwer surveyed the scene. He thought it was quite wonderful. All the football hooligans who had been festering had now erupted in a pus of red, green and yellow shirts, just as he had forecast they would, just as he knew they would. He signalled again and now twenty uniformed policemen armed with riot shields and batons burst out of one of the portakabins and joined in the melee in an attempt to restore order and make arrests. Soon policemen were battering football fans, football fans were smashing policemen, policemen were braining policemen, and football fans were walloping football fans. Bones were broken and blood flowed. Now Screwer himself charged into the fray on Scourge of the Terraces, wielding his favourite lead-tipped truncheon, and commenced to rain blows on whichever head happened to be the nearest, football fan, maniac or policeman.
Football Crazy Page 18
