by Gary Davison
‘Worst comes to worst,’ Sam was saying, ‘you’re going to get your leg over, aren’t you? You’re guaranteed that, and I swear, Al, she looks well tasty since she finished with her bloke.’
‘And she’s definitely up for it?’
He nodded, then took a deep breath when he realised the pub was emptying.
We followed the last supporters out and made for the ground.
There were queues of chanting fans at every turnstile.
Sam squeezed my shoulder, then headed for the north stand entrance. I joined the west stand queue and watched his blond head weaving through the crowd. Once inside, I stood against the back wall, out the way of people downing last-second pints. A father stood next to me with his two young sons. There were stewards on every exit.
Fat Boy Slim’s Right Here Right Now blasted through the stadium, causing mass panic.
I was last up the stairs, my heart thumping.
The floodlit pitch was completely closed in, police and stewards around the perimeter and at the exits, 25,000 people on their feet cheering. There was no way Sam was running out of here.
I shuffled along row M and flopped onto my seat.
No matter what Sam had said, I knew getting caught wasn’t an option for him. He had talked it up as being a laugh and that he wasn’t bothered if he got caught – but he was. That’s why he wore the mask in the first place. He’d done it so we could have a giggle watching it, not everyone else. I pictured him being dragged away, his mask ripped off, his head hanging limp.
There had only been twenty minutes played. I had enough time to get to the north stand and stop him. I stood up and was about to leave when everyone around me jumped up, screaming for a penalty. The referee pointed to the spot.
Everyone remained standing and quietened down.
The Darlington player waited for the ref to blow, then coolly slotted the ball into the bottom left-hand corner. No sooner had the net bulged and Sam came tearing onto the pitch, twenty minutes earlier than we’d agreed.
I barged along the row, arms in the air, punching people out of the way, and threw myself down the stairs, just managing to grab the handrail as my feet went from beneath me. ‘I’ve seen enough,’ I panted at the steward as I fell towards him.
I sprinted through the car park, dodging between cars, come on, come on, you’re going to make it, come on!
I burst through the side doors of The Golden Fleece and scrambled up the stairs and into the gents.
It was empty.
I kicked my shoes off and frantically pulled the second pair of jeans down to my ankles and tried to get the bastards off, but I couldn’t get them past my stupid feet, so I dropped onto the floor, in among the piss and slops, and wriggled around until I got them off. I ripped the extra t-shirt over my head and stuffed the spare west stand ticket into the front pocket of the soaking jeans, rolled them up, and jammed them behind the cistern in the third cubicle along.
I calmed myself in the hallway, then went down into the bar and ordered two pints.
A few minutes had passed when the side doors banged open and shut. Seconds later, four police and a couple of stewards ran past the window.
Sam, red-faced and blowing hard, joined me just as Darlington scored again. The place went up and we went ballistic, pints flying, over a table, on the floor, doing the pogo, we went off it and when Sam poured his pint over his own head, I was helpless to stop myself doing the same. Come on!
We were still throwing ourselves around when two police came in. No one paid them any attention and they soon left.
Unable to talk about it and frightened to leave, we knocked the pints and slammers back and sang our hearts out with the Darlington faithful.
Midway through the second half, we followed the majority of the supporters out and along the road towards the Copper Beech. Just as everyone ducked inside to catch the last ten minutes, Sam took off down the road at full speed.
I bolted after him, mimicking every shimmy and swerve, around lampposts, between cars, and across gardens and driveways. I was a good way behind when he disappeared into the train station.
I staggered down the stairs and collapsed onto the empty platform.
Sam appeared alongside me and we lay on our backs recovering.
I turned on my side and brought up a mouthful of beer.
Then another.
Sam got up and checked the timetable. ‘Ten minutes.’
I looked up at him in total admiration. ‘Can you believe it?’
He helped me up, then jerked me over his shoulder and ran the length of the platform, screaming, before dumping me on a seat and marching off, wired again.
I went after him. ‘Well? Come on, then! What the hell were you thinking?’
‘Unbelievable, Al. I swear, the crowd,’ he shook his head. ‘They give you so much.’
‘Why did you go so early, you lunatic? I nearly didn’t make it out in time.’
‘It just built up and up and when he gave the penalty I was gripping the pants ready to go. I could’ve burst. And when you’re out there, with the crowd, I can’t explain.’
He said the players were stunned and the stewards and police slow to react, and even when it bottlenecked at the exit, he was going too fast for them to stop him.
‘What about getting out downstairs? How did you get past the stewards?’
‘I was nigh on jumping landing to landing, so when I hit the bottom, the steward right in front of me got a shock. It was a woman and she just stepped aside.’
I told him all about my part and the difficulty running in two pairs of jeans.
The train came and we got on. There was only a young skateboarder fidgeting with a ghetto blaster in our carriage.
I rested my head back against the window and pictured Sam coming onto the pitch. Enclosed in a space with 25,000 people, all exits manned, and he ran into the centre of them, in the buff, then disappeared under their noses. There can’t be many people in the world that would have the bottle to attempt that, and even less who could pull it of.
Sam nudged me and I rocked forward.
He nodded at the skateboarder, who was switching stations. ‘Stick it back on Metro for a second, mate,’Sam said.
‘…. Yes it can seem like good fun and a laugh at the time, but does it send out the right message? Do we want to take our children to football matches and be subject to a man exposing himself? Will he stop at this or is this the first stage in something more sinister? Is there a difference between this man exposing himself to thousands and a pervert jumping out of a bush and terrifying a girl on her way home from school?
‘He’s struck again tonight, listeners. The Faccome Flash. That’s the subject of tonight’s phone-in on the North East’s number one, Night Owls…’
We legged it off the train at our stop and made for the flat.
5
In 1982 Erica Row bared her forty-inch chest at Twickenham and became an overnight phenomenon. Michael Angelo took to the pitch at Lords in 1975, hurdling the stumps, before being led away with his modesty covered by a police helmet, and Robert Opel (arguably the most famous of them all) caused a worldwide sensation when he streaked behind David Niven at the 1974 Oscars. Metro Radio DJ, Alan Robson, said that although these one-of incidents were probably spontaneous and just for laughs, the aftermath caused a lot of problems for authorities.
‘The Darlington streaker is a different breed from all those I’ve mentioned,’ he went on. ‘He has evaded capture and wears a black sex mask. What does this tell us about the individual? Why hide if it’s only fun? If it’s not for fun, why do it? And the most frightening thing is that sexual predators could carry these masks and claim to be copycat streakers, and, from what I can see, the law can do very little about it. Until a serious crime is committed, that is. So what do we do? Hang around and wait for an outbreak of masked rapists or stop this man now?’
Sam had gone right into his shell and hadn’t spoken for ages. What people thought a
bout him meant a lot. Not because he’s vain – which he is – but because of his father, who was a complete waster. An embarrassing waster, who drank himself to death before he was fifty. Sam’s everything his father wasn’t – fit, hardworking, and a good person. He tries too hard at times to be all three, and I know it’s because he’s bothered what people think. That’s why he won’t go travelling because he thinks people will see it as bumming around.
The first few calls had us rolling off our sofas.
Linda from South Shields. ‘Alan, I’d just like to congratulate my sister who’s lost two stone recently and also to say to The Flash, if he’s listening, that I’m here for him, right now, touching myself…’
Julie from Byker. ‘Alan, about the Flash. You’re totally wrong about him. I know people who KNOW. You hear what I’m saying? They KNOW through experience that he’s not a pervert, and I tell you, Alan, I’d do anything to get some of that…’
Peter from Darlington. ‘Alan, pal, I was at the match tonight. Now, don’t forget that we were playing Faccome, who are shit. It’s a miracle they got the replay. Now, up until the penalty it was a dire affair. Absolute tripe. Now, when the kid came on, the atmosphere was electric. Electric, pal. And it stayed like that for the rest of the night. When do you get that being a Darlington fan? I’ll tell you when, Alan. Never.
Never known, not like this. It’s one of the best nights we’ve had and the kid got everyone going. Now, how can that be offensive, pal? I can’t repeat what my missus is saying about him, but her and the kids think you’re jealous and that you must have a tiny…’
Sam was well chilled now, sharing a smoke with me and guzzling the vodka.
It was after twelve o’clock when he staggered to the phone and slurred, ‘I’m ringing in.’
I pushed myself up. ‘You sure you don’t want to leave it until tomorrow?’
Sam’s face had collapsed and he had a vodka rash on his cheeks and neck.
Twenty minutes later, he was still standing with the phone in one hand, the vodka bottle in the other.
Robson snapped during one of the calls, when a woman said that she had just finished watching a phone video of the Flash’s streak at Faccome and was heading to the radio station with her ‘satched’ knickers. ‘Enough!’ he yelled. ‘Enough! The debate ends here! Vulgarity is not what this show’s about. We won’t be taking any calls on streaking, nudity or anything associated with it.’ There was a long pause, then, ‘After the break, it’s dedications and announcements only.’
After some dedications with smutty tag-ons, a seventy-year-old woman came on to talk about her late husband, on the anniversary of his death, and his relevance to tonight’s show. She said he was a great man, ‘big as a bear and just as hairy’. He had been a high-ranking officer in the Navy and had run a successful stationary business. They had many friends and she couldn’t have asked for more sincere well-wishers when he died, but the unrelenting support came from their friends at Heddon-on-the-Wall Naturist Club, where they had been members all their married life. She felt closest to her husband when nude, and although the walks were getting too much now, she was happy serving up the tea and biscuits.
The woman wasn’t at all fazed being on the radio. Her speech was slow and deliberate and quite soothing. When she’d been speaking a while she sounded croaky and stopped for a drink. She had been on a good ten minutes, when Robson started steering her to a finish.
‘I’m still enjoying life, Alan,’ she said, ‘but not half as much without Bobby. This young lad streaking reminds me of him. Full of fun, running around in the nuddy. Bobby loved the fun. Anyway, I’m off to bed. God bless.’
Robson went straight to the adverts.
After the break, he called out the Faccome Flash.
‘I don’t, and never will, agree with what this man is doing. I won’t try to pretend that I understand the reaction of the public to him, either. What I will do is continue to serve this community the best way I know how. So if you’re listening, Streaker, ring the show on this separate number, and tell us why you’re doing this. Better still, let us at Metro know your identity, proving that you don’t have a hidden agenda.’
Sam felt his way along the wall towards the bathroom. ‘Ring it, I’m going to spew.’
The line was constantly engaged.
Sam came out the bathroom, his face ash white, and reached for the vodka bottle. ‘Try, ring-back.’
I did and got through and instantly chucked him the phone like it had burst into flames.
I turned the stereo off and darted into my bedroom and switched my clock radio on.
Robson was explaining to a woman the perils of supporting this streaker, when he interrupted their conversation to say, as far as they could make out, they had the person who had streaked at Faccome on Saturday, and Darlington tonight, on the line.
‘You’ve obviously been listening to the show, so you’ve heard what I think, and it appears that I’m in the minority in opposing what you’ve been doing. So, for us all to get a better understanding, tell me from the beginning how this all came about.’
There was a ridiculously long pause and I held my breath, hoping Sam hadn’t choked up, or worse, fell asleep.
‘First of all I’d just like to thank everyone who has phoned in and supported me tonight.’ His voice was deep and controlled. ‘Especially the Darlington fans. You were great tonight. You made me feel ten feet tall, and I can tell you now if the next lot of supporters are anything like you, there’s no chance I’ll get caught.’
A woman clapped and cheered in the studio.
‘It’s all very well thanking everyone, but where the hell do you get off thinking it’s acceptable to expose yourself to families on a night out supporting their local team? Exposing yourself is against the law. And why the mask?’
Another decent pause, then, ‘You asked me on this show, so either hear me out or I hang up.’
The delayed responses were cranking up the suspense and mystery. You didn’t know if you were going to hear from him again or not, and I, no doubt like everyone else listening, was hanging on his every word.
‘I’m doing this for a very good cause and tonight was instru… instrumm… tonight was vital in getting the publicity needed for it to be a success.’ Sam composed himself after the stutter. ‘Tonight was a dummy run. A week on Saturday I’m going to streak at one of the North East’s top three venues. Sunderland, Newcastle or Middlesborough.’
Robson snorted, ‘Well, at least you’ll be caught, no matter what your reasons.’
‘You want to put your money where your mouth is, Mr Robson? In the name of charity, how much are you willing to stick down that I don’t make it out of one of those stadiums a week Saturday?’
‘What charity? You’re talking nonsense. You’re a drunk exhibitionist clutching at straws because you’re being exposed on live radio’
‘Christopher Sellhurst needs an operation and this’ll hopefully bring in the money he needs to go private.’
‘Who’s Chrisopher Sellhurst? Why the sex mask? Why won’t you reveal yourself to us?’
‘I’d be grateful for any contribution towards this charity.’
‘How can people sponsor a criminal act? You haven’t thought this one through, have you?’
‘Who mentioned sponsorship? Support, not sponsorship.’ Sam was slurring now and his sentences tailing off. ‘If any female fans would like a date with me, send your details with your donation to enter a free draw, to the Fiddler’s Arms in Faccome.’
‘You’re talking gibberish. This isn’t about charity, it’s about your ego, of which I’ve heard enough. After the break, your reactions to the man exposing himself to children for charity, on the North East’s number one, Night Owls.’
I walked back out into the living room, shell-shocked, that not only had he told the world about the charity, but that he’d offered to whore himself out in a raffle.
Sam had passed out on the sofa clutching the phone to his
chest.
I lit up and listened to the rest of the show.
6
The phone was ringing. I rolled off the sofa and staggered into my room.
The dream. I was giving Becky one from behind, at the living room window, with the blinds fully opened. It was dark and I could see someone pointing up at us from the pavement. Becky was waving and I joined in, totally unbothered at being spotted.
… Sam was carrying something in a clear plastic bag. I kept trying to have a look, but he held it close to his side. The motorway lights were blinding. I thought we were playing chicken, but Sam tripped me over and held me down. I stopped struggling and he lay next to me. Cars came from behind us, screeching and sounding their horns. Any second one was going to go over us. I kept my eyes shut and elbows tucked tight into my sides as another shadow passed and a horn sounded. Sam was wafting the plastic bag above my face, something red and silver or gold.
… We were walking towards our flat. I looked up and Becky was leaning out the window, rocking back and forth, laughing. I crossed the road and stopped to let a bus pass and I stared at the driver – a young Jack Nicholson, laughing.
I downed the glass of water that had been on my bedside table for days, then ringed the reccurring elements in the dream. Sam, Jack Nicholson, and the bag with something gold in it. Sam, Jack, the bag. And gold. Because there were reccurring elements in my dreams, it meant my subconscious was trying to get an important message to me.
You only have three seconds after you wake to remember your dream. REM sleep is when most dreams occur. If you are awoken during REM sleep – which is when you first fall asleep and start dreaming and the eyes flicker – you will remember much more of your dream. The longer the REM sleep lasts, the longer the dream. I needed to stay sober and wake myself during REM sleep.
