The Football Factory

by John King

  The captains made their own versions of the flag and we walk up some steps onto the deck of the ship again and look over the side at the water and there’s big ropes everywhere and Dad says a pirate’s life must have been tough with storms and hard conditions but it must have been exciting because they got to live in the West Indies where the weather is nice and different to England where it rains all the time and they were their own people and didn’t have to worry about electricity bills and gas bills and taxes and paying for the phone and local council charges and they didn’t have all the insurance people and rule-makers after them all the time making their lives a misery. Dad says maybe he’d have been a pirate and smiles at Mum, with all that drink and beautiful women with big earrings and necklaces and stacks of gold and sword fighting, and she could have been a pirate as well like Anne Bonny and Mary Read who they didn’t hang because they found she was going to have a baby. There would be no more laws to tie them down and steal their wages for stupid reasons and someone is always after Dad’s money, trying to take it away from him, making him pay lots of money for the rent and they just have to make a law and he has to pay what they say otherwise he goes to prison.

  I can imagine Dad being a pirate with pistols and a sword and baggy trousers and he’s got a big black eye where he got punched by a Chelsea fan when he went to see West Ham play there and I bet he would make the men who punched him at Victoria station walk the plank. Sarah wants to go to Never Never Land across the road so we walk back through the exhibition and I have a final look at the pirates and the guns and then we’re waiting to cross the road.

  —That’s the sixth Rolls I’ve seen since we’ve been here, says Dad. I wonder how many millionaires live in Southend.

  I look and there’s a black Rolls-Royce along the road and this is where the people who get rich in East London come to live and there’s a cartoon picture of a man in a coat with a funny look on his face and I ask Dad what that is and he says it’s a police warning about flashers and he says that flashers are men who show their willies to people who don’t want to look at them, and Mum says that’s one of the reasons we need policemen and Dad nods and agrees. I laugh because it seems a bit stupid showing your willy like that and it must be freezing with the wind blowing and we cross the road and Dad gives the old man some money and we go into Never Never Land.

  Mum leads us through the big cartoon pictures and says it’s all about Peter Pan who was a boy who never grew up and I say that’s strange because I’d like to grow up and be like Dad, but he says not to rush because he’d rather be a child again, that’s the best time in life because you don’t have to worry about anything and you can just play and go to school and be yourself. He says if he could have his childhood again he would learn stuff at school and he’s always saying this to me, that it matters when you grow up, and Mum tells us about Wendy and Tinker Bell and Captain Hook and a crocodile. Sarah wants to be Wendy and I’ll be Captain Hook because there seem to be pirates all over Southend and I could carry a sword and I’ll tell them at school and maybe we can play it in the playground. Sarah likes Never Never Land and wants to see Tinker Bell and Mum says it’s just folklore, there aren’t fairies and little people any more but Dad says yes there are, and they laugh, maybe Mum says, but not around where we live, we’d have to go right out into the country somewhere, or across the sea to Ireland, and even then we might miss them because we’re not used to seeing this kind of thing. There’s a shop with books and toys, and Mum and Dad buy Sarah the Peter Pan book and I get a sword.

  When we get outside again it’s not so cold as before and we walk along the seafront. There’s more people around now and we get some donuts from a little shop and watch the lady making them and they’re brilliant when I bite into them. Mum says she’ll read us Peter Pan tonight when we get home and I keep thinking of pirates and would like to see a real pirate ship sailing towards us and I’d wear a patch over my eye and have sword fights if I had the chance. Dad says we’ll walk to the end of the wall and turn back. Then we’ll go back to the car and drive home so we miss the traffic and we’ll see Bobby who’ll be waiting for her dinner, and Mum says she just hopes that bloody dog hasn’t been in the bin again.

  LIVERPOOL AWAY

  Liverpool always beat us at Anfield. We don’t expect anything result wise, but the team generally puts up a good performance. It’s a funny ground. Gets a lot of good press but I’ve never liked the place. There’s a cold atmosphere. I don’t go for that chirpy scouse wit bollocks. Unity in poverty. All that shit. The real Liverpool is gangs of scrawny scousers with blades trying to pick off lone cockneys on their way back to Lime Street. Shitty streets and piles of rubbish. Under-age scallies throwing darts and dropping concrete slabs on the trains back to London. Indiscriminate scum.

  They can put Brookside on the box and try and bring the place upmarket like they try and do everything else, but Liverpool’s just forgotten housing estates, Toxteth riots and the scousers moaning when they lose a game. Cilia Black and all those professional scousers make money out of the myth. But you never believe that kind of stuff. You believe what you see and Liverpool can be a nasty bunch of knife merchants and there’s never been press about what it’s like to get bushwhacked on the streets of Merseyside. Trophies count and nobody wants to know.

  The ground’s emptying and we’ve lost again. Mark’s cousin, Steve, is with us. Met him outside the ground. He’s parked up by Stanley Park and we’re driving back to Manchester. It feels like half a day out this one, because there’s Harris and the regulars trying to work out a way to find the opposition, but they know the old bill have the situation tied up. They picked us up coming into Liverpool and we didn’t get a look in.

  We shuffle our way to the exit and now we’re out in the grim Liverpool night, dark streets and a flood of coppers. Same scene as London. The bastards on horseback carry long sticks and serious attitudes. The old bill are scousers themselves and hate Chelsea like everyone else in the country. They don’t take any lip in this part of the world and if you step out of line they’ll have you. It doesn’t impress the harder element but makes them wary. Harris tries to con his mob away from the coaches but the old bill aren’t daft. He’s got fifty or so blokes hanging back. No chance. Vans block their way. They smell of trouble and they’re caught in the trap.

  We follow Steve and persuade a copper we’re going to the car. It takes some doing but we’re walking along the side of Anfield, large areas of concrete and men and kids hanging around talking. We feel obvious. There’s paranoia because all we need is a mob of scousers to come round the corner and we’d be cut up in seconds. They’d fucking love it finding four Chelsea boys on their own. We’re keeping our voices down because there’s no point being careless and getting overheard. My fists are clenched and the first scouser who mouths off is going to get his nose broken into tiny bits of shrapnel. Drive the bone into the brain and maybe it’ll sort out that whining scouse accent. Steve better know where the car is because it’ll be a sprint job.

  There’s no hassle though and any interested scousers must be waiting towards Lime Street, mobbing up down one of their concrete tunnels. The thieves I’ve seen watching England are human rats. Pale white skin and that fucking accent which nobody understands. They brag about being good robbers and they did the business following Liverpool around Europe nicking expensive gear from Switzerland and Germany, starting a designer trend with stolen property which dozy followers of fashion, missing the point, went out and paid through the nose for years later. But when it comes to doing a few Dutch equal odds in Rotterdam the scousers would rather turn over a jeweller’s. Thieving little cunts the lot of them. We’re in the car and I’ve got a thirst and a hard-on. Some Manc bird’s going to have a good time tonight.

  —Turn on the radio, will you? Mark’s in the front seat with his cousin. Let’s hear the other scores.

  It starts to rain outside and our glimpse of Liverpool is huddled figures and street lights, bricks and mor
tar shining under artificial lights. Tottenham have lost and we cheer. Steve’s windscreen wipers sweep side to side clearing a path through dirty streets, chip shops packed with scouse kids and old men. Mushy peas and chips with curry sauce. It’s a fucking sad place and as much as I hate the bastards I have to feel a bit sorry for the young kids in thin rain-soaked shirts. This is bottom of the shit heap this city. They can keep their Boys From The Blackstuff and Derek Hatton. I’d die in a place like this after growing up in London. I mean, London’s shit, but it’s home and nothing like Liverpool. This city has to be the arsehole of England. I don’t blame Yosser Hughes nutting everything in sight. I’d do the same.

  —Fucking zoo this place, says Rod, following my train of thought like he’s a mind reader. No wonder the bastards come down to London just to sleep on the streets. At least in London they get to suck a rich man’s cock and earn a few quid. What are they going to do round here?

  —Fuck all, says Steve, keeping his eyes on the road. Liverpool’s a dying town. It’s gone. There’s too much Irish blood and Toxteth’s full of kids left over from the slave ships. Liverpool was the original slave town. They bought the bastards here from Africa before shipping them to America. The past has caught up with this city.

  —I don’t know about all that, but the place should be bulldozed and the scousers sold off to the highest bidder. Rod stops to think. Not that anyone would want the bastards even as slaves. Wouldn’t get much work out of them. He starts whistling the tune from the Hovis advert.

  —Manchester’s class in comparison, says Steve. Manes and scousers hate each other’s guts. You’ve never seen anything like it. It’s worse than what you get in London. You go see Man U play Liverpool and it’s evil. Real hundred per cent hatred. Only thing worse is Rangers against Celtic. Total civil war that one. It’s religion tips the scales. Protestants and Catholics living like they did a hundred years ago. There’s even a bit of that kind of feeling left over between Liverpool and Everton, Man U and City.

  We start picking up speed and soon we’re on the motorway to Manchester. The results come through the radio and we swear and cheer as our prejudice takes us. We’re feeling good now leaving Liverpool behind, even though Chelsea got beat. We’re in a relaxed mood. You get out of the situation, away from the mob, free from alcohol, and you’re not bothered. We’ve done our bit for the Blues and I just fancy some food, a few pints and maybe a decent woman. Steve’s putting his foot down and the rain’s coming heavy now. We’re steaming along surrounded by lorries and cars, dim outlines which could be anywhere in England but somehow we know we’re up north. There’s a definite smell and feel to the place, even on a stretch of motorway. Go into a service station and it’s all fry-ups and strong tobacco. Like going back in time. You get spoilt living in London. It’s a different world up here. A primitive world full of primitive people. Different tribes for different parts of the country.

  When we get to Manchester, Steve parks up outside his flat. It’s a dead area but only a short ride into the city centre. We haven’t brought any gear with us, so pile in the nearest pub. It’s early yet and there’s a few locals staring into their pints, all laid back and reflective, which makes us feel noisy till we’ve downed three pints and calmed the nerves, and it’s going to be a good night. I can feel it somehow. You go through the routine all week, keep your wits about you down the football, maybe do the business, maybe not, but now we’re relaxed and out to destroy a few brain cells.

  We end up having six pints in an hour and a half and Steve is pissed. Can’t make my mind up about the bloke. Whether he’s alright or a bit of a cunt. There’s something not quite right about him. He’s not a full shilling. Not thick, but not all there. Not sure what, but there’s something. He goes off and calls a taxi. The pub’s filling up now. Mostly middle-aged couples. A good laugh most of them, dressed up smart like Northerners tend to do. They’re sound people, and I suppose if we were sitting in a boozer full of scousers they’d be alright as well. We make the last pint stretch and the taxi arrives to take us into town.

  —There’s a fair bit of crumpet knocking about, says Rod as he pays for the drinks in a done up pub with glass mirrors and leather bar stools. One of them’s going to get a strong dose of Chelsea tonight. A dose of London infection.

  I have to agree with the bloke and the pub we’re in is packed solid. They all seem a bit sweet somehow, students or something probably, and I’d rather get hold of a real chunky northern girl than one of these inflatables. A hundred per cent Manc. The music’s okay though and the lager’s cheap so we stay a while and try sussing out some Man U or City fans but this lot are more into their clothes than rucking. Poor little babies wouldn’t want to get their costumes messed up. Fucking idiots all think they’re Peanut Pete and it’s daft really because wankers like these deserve a kicking just to bring them into the world with a bang. Slap their bottoms and force them to breathe in the fumes of an English city, but when there’s no resistance you don’t bother. You want a bit of conflict, not one of these docile wankers who hate violence yet use it in their language and manners.

  I pinpoint a mouthy cunt near the bar with some of his mates. Dressed up like a clown obviously thinking he’s some kind of Saturday night special who’s going to show his bottle down some flash club impressing birds who reckon being hard’s a haircut and expensive gear. Cunt. I’m going to take the bastard out no problem, but my head’s still together enough to know it’s early in the evening and I’d get tugged within ten minutes. I’ve got to keep things sharp and pick the right moment. No point making a prat of myself. This one’s personal and not something to share with an audience. I know the time and place well enough. Piece of piss and the bastard’s going to have a split head the next time his bladder starts hurting him.

  —I only go down the clinic and the bloke there tells me to drop my trousers. He has a bit of a look and then starts scratching round my knob. Mark’s pissed going into one about his visit to the STD clinic.

  —I’m thinking whether to nut the bloke, whether he’s a fucking iron or something, and he must have the problem all the time because he starts talking about his wife and kids. How well his young ones are doing at school and all that family stuff. How he hopes his kids will go into the medical profession like their old man.

  —You’re better off dying of the clap than having some doctor playing with your balls, less it’s a bird of course, and Rod’s laughing into his drink spilling lager down his front, over the floor, everywhere. Scratch your own bollocks. Least you don’t have to give up drink.

  —It’s professional, isn’t it? It’s different than some queer trying to get to grips with you and I was clean enough first time round, though I’ve got more tests coming back next week. Said I should watch where I dip my todger, not in those words exactly, but I started thinking about that skinny bird I had and what a tight fit she was. That’s a real blood job. That’s where you get your AIDS from.

  The mouthy cunt I’ve been watching puts his bottled lager on the bar and fucks off to the bogs. I follow him across the pub. Music’s loud in my ears, some old Happy Mondays wank, I don’t know, but I can hear the bloke’s voice and see the cockiness in his face. Cunt. Reckons he’s something special. I go in the bog and he’s having a piss, leaning over the bowl admiring himself. There’s another geezer zipping up ready to leave and I pretend to wash my hands. When he’s gone I walk over to the wanker at the bowl, grab a handful of his golden locks, pull his head back and slam his skull into the wall hard as I can. There’s a heavy thud of bone and concrete. I pull his head back and slam his face into the tiles. I feel the shudder through my arm. His knees go and he’s sliding into the piss down below, blood splattered across the wall. Fucking lovely pattern. Poor little darling’s fucked and his clothes are fucked as well. Blood and piss, the great British cocktail. A national institution. I walk out and tell the others we’re leaving, that I’ve just done some Manc cunt. We get out of the pub sharpish.

  M
anchester’s buzzing and there’s a real flavour to the place. I feel better. Brought things to a natural level. Cunt deserved a bruising. Hope his fucking head’s split in half. Hope the stitches dig in deep. That the doctor fucks them up first time around. But it’s no time to linger so we get walking and ten minutes later we’re in another pub better than the last one and there’s a couple of tasty girls at the bar. They’re well moulded. Built for one thing. Remind me of Letter To Brezhnev, but then I remember that those girls were scousers, that there’s a difference, that Mancs hate scousers, and scousers reckon they’re the business when it comes to thieving. Have to watch my money with these two.

  I’m leaning across one of the girls ordering four pints of larger. She smells strong of perfume and she’s laughing with her mate making no attempt to move away. I lean into her a bit more a little unsteady on my feet from the drink, using it as an excuse to test her and she doesn’t shift an inch and I know I’m in. I can feel her tits through the thin material of her top and know she’s wearing a low cut bra. It gives me a boost just getting the scent and texture.

  —Get any nearer and you’ll be sucking my nipples, she says with a smile which spreads lipstick across her face, and her mate’s laughing, choking on her drink.