FIVE

Something were shaking inside us and it weren’t the balls between my legs when I blasted a volley past Kraney in training. It were something more simple: were that the Rukhsana working at that school or were her name as common as John Smith’s or Mohammed Khan’s. This were something I needed to put to bed soon because it were doing my head in like Arnie’s must have been when he were on Mars in that film when he can’t remember things.

But just as I were planning my strategy, the players were told to go over to Starcot Lane straight after training for a meeting. Partington were only at the session for about an hour and his assistant Dennis Moran took the rest. So I were wondering what the hell it were all about and, then, as we got into the car park at Starcot Lane, it were becoming clear.

‘I think we’re in trouble,’ said Molly, standing outside my car door.

‘What for?’ I said, locking the door and putting the keys into my coat pocket.

‘It’s about that stuff at Tiffs.’

I could see a crazed-looking Pearly running towards us. His wild eyes, furrowed brow and tinge of grey hair were making him look older than his 34 years.

‘Look, get your stories prepared,’ he said, panting and out of breath.

‘Surely they wouldn’t have called all the players in if it were about that,’ I said.

‘Partington’s done it before,’ said Molly. ‘Remember Lassie and Mags breaking that curfew? He wanted to make an example of them. We shouldn’t have run off in the first place. We should have stayed and sorted it out with Clayton.’

‘Look, it’s all right,’ said Pearly. ‘I’ve spoken to Clayton since and no-one else apart from him and that Terry bloke knows we were there that night.’

‘Yes, but that Terry’s our problem,’ said Molly.

Pearly looked round as some of the other players headed into the ground. He ushered Lassie to come over. He then got the three of us in a little huddle, which seemed a slight overreaction as the team meeting could be about anything ranging from Royds’ leaky roof to Mr Starmer’s new community venture.

‘So what do you remember Lasso,’ asked Pearly, with his head lowered even more than the rest of us.

‘All I remember is the bit of table football we had,’ shrugged Lassie. ‘That…and having an evil hangover the next day.’

‘Yeah, sicko, smell that,’ taunted Molly, as he raised his right hand towards Lassie’s nose.

Pearly smiled and playfully tried to get Molly’s hand back to its side. ‘Look, I hope everybody’s got the story straight,’ said the skipper. ‘We were only there a few minutes after the game and we left early. We never met anyone else.’

He finished with a grunt of ‘Albion Town will never go down’ and we were all meant to repeat this mantra by touching our palms in the middle. Instead, we mumbled and barely touched each other’s hands. The inspiration weren’t quite there on a day of shutdown and disconnection around Starcot Lane.

When we eventually got to the dressing-room, we had to wait for ten minutes before Mr Starmer entered with Dennis. You could tell it were something serious because Mr Starmer were wearing his charcoal wool overcoat with its three buttons done up to hide the bulk of his white shirt and his special dicky bow tie. He were sucking something which made his dark moustache and hair shift around a little more than usual. But most importantly he had a whistle round his neck on a piece of string, and blew it to get some quiet in the dressing-room.

‘Mark,’ he said, letting the whistle drop out of his mouth and onto his chest. ‘Do you know why the troops aren’t performing?’

‘Well, it hasn’t been easy,’ replied Pearly. ‘A lot of things have been out of our control.’

‘Like what, the odd tipple at night?’

I felt a surge of energy at the back of my neck and looked across at Molly who were sat on the opposite bench.

‘No, I think we’ve all given 100 per cent,’ said Pearly. ‘This is a tough league, I’m sure we’ll turn it round.’

Mr Starmer folded his arms and slowly looked around at all the players. He never kept his eyes on a player for more than a few seconds, preferring to scan the dressing-room for wear and tear.

‘This club has a great history,’ he said, rubbing his finger into a worn-down area of the bench. ‘It was built by great men who had the vision, courage and hard work to seize the moment. Now, we need the same determination. We can’t afford to go down.’

It almost made you want to stand up and shout ‘CHARGE…’ but then you remembered Mr Starmer’s record with ‘the troops’ and you weren’t too sure. Once, he sacked a kit man who had questioned the official club history in relation to the team’s colours. The kit man said that the team colours were actually based on a misinterpretation when somebody said ‘It’s chilly’ rather than ‘It’s Chile’ and that’s why we ended up with red shirts, blue shorts and white socks. But Mr Starmer felt insulted and said it were obvious the team colours of ‘red, white and blue’ were to do with the flag and the army connection. He won, of course. Another time, he told Lino that he couldn’t have a break while driving the coach because none of the journeys would take longer than five hours. Lino went on strike and we ended up taking our own cars all the way down to Exeter. We were hammered 6-0.

The door opened again and Dennis walked in. He went over and stood by Mr Starmer. We began murmuring again and Mr Starmer put the whistle to his lips once more.

‘Quiet,’ he said forcefully. He looked at Dennis and then continued. ‘This club is about tradition and modernity going hand in hand. It will have 30,000 seats in three years. For that to happen we need to stay in this division. So it’s with great regret, that I’ve had to terminate Ray Partington’s contract…’

‘Fuckin’ hell!’ interrupted Pearly. ‘We’ve got Arsenal tomorrow.’

‘From today, Dennis will take over as caretaker manager. Mark, I want to speak to you outside after I’ve finished.’

It were a relief he didn’t know about the Tiffs episode – as he might have brought a firing squad in – but this were a shock to rival Jet’s revelation that he hated Bruce Lee.

But something else were niggling away at us. Partington had been at the club for 28 years, 17 of those as manager, and I hardly knew the old bid at all. Okay, I’d only been at the club for about five years but in all that time – apart from once when he visited us at home after a lengthy bout of flu – the only things I knew about him were that he liked clear tactical instructions, flying after-shave bottles and Eric Sykes.

‘Didn’t he leave something for us?’ asked Larry, looking dejected. ‘Not even a goodbye message or anything?’

Mr Starmer looked across to the corner of the dressing-room. ‘In that box there’s a pile of black armbands.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know if they’re supposed to be symbolic or something but he was adamant he wanted to leave these for the team, so I agreed. He said they weren’t for him, so I know as much as you, really.’

‘Weren’t for him?’ asked Larry.

‘Like I said, I know as much as you,’ said Mr Starmer. ‘Now I’ve got a lot of business to attend to today…so Mark, can I have a word, please?

Mr Starmer, Pearly and Dennis left the dressing-room but the groans and murmurs went on.

‘Partington’s brought this club a long way,’ said Molly, coming over to sit beside us. ‘He’s only had six games in the Premier League and that’s not enough. I don’t like the way he’s been treated.’

‘Well there’s nowt we can do,’ said Lassie, sat to my right. ‘Keep your Pampers on or you’ll get us all into trouble.’

‘It’s the principle, don’t you get it?’

‘All I do is get paid for booze, nothing else. I don’t do politics.’

‘Have you been practising that one for weeks? I asked.

‘Have I heck as like,’ laughed Lassie, using the hook to get off the bench. ‘I just don’t want us to get involved in this shit. Just wait for the new gaffer and we’ll take it from there.’

Lassie rarely said anything that were worth mulling over for a few seconds. But this time, he seemed to have a point, even though I were sympathetic to Partington. The problem were, he never remembered what he said, because of his thirsty tours, and were just as likely to go along with whoever shouted the loudest a few days later.

Molly got up and walked away towards the dressing-room door. ‘I’m not playing whatever happens,’ he said.

Now Partington would have licked us good and proper if he’d caught us in and around Starcot Lane but Molly insisted we try to track down our former boss – in the pubs around the ground. He wanted to say goodbye to him, personally, and I went along with it even if I were a bit wary of gawper paupers staring at us and wanting autographs.

But Molly had this persuasive streak in his nature and usually got his way. At school, he were so persuasive that he got us to throw a water balloon at Mrs Gooding – our hated English teacher – but she ducked and it splatted across the blackboard and wiped off all this Shakespeare crap she’d prepared for our incoming class. Molly were outside giggling but she didn’t spot him. Anyhow, she forced us to get a mop, but not to soak up the water off the floor but to play the part of Lady Macbeth. So there I were in front of the whole class – as well as the grinning Molly – talking to a mop which were saying things like ‘my dearest partner of greatness’ through the voice of Mrs Gooding. At that stage it didn’t seem too bad but then the mop said it wore a ‘heart so white’ and that I were ‘a coward in thine own esteem’. So I were just about to stick the filthy mop down her cakehole when she grabbed it and tickled my ear with the wooden end. ‘To bed, to bed, to bed,’ she said, while the rest of the class screamed with laughter. This Macbeth tart sounded more like a slapper than a lady.

So Molly had his ways of twisting my melons but, as we walked into The Good Ship about an hour before closing time, I were adamant he weren’t going to do it this time. Status Quo’s Whatever You Want were playing and two middle-aged men, in immaculate suits, were singing along by the jukebox. They had their arms round each other and were trying to keep their pints from spilling over.

The stools by the bar area were full of drinkers with their backs to us; as though their knees were fastened. Behind the bar area, there were an official team calendar with the club crest as well as a signed replica shirt hanging next to it. The tatty, wooden tables to the left were well-stocked – with beer and people – and there were quite a few replica Town shirts dotted around. Beyond this part of the pub, there were a set of stairs leading to a section below.

‘Don’t worry, we won’t be here long,’ said Molly, as he looked intensely around the pub and then headed for the stairs.

The last time he said that he collared us into the shops for nearly four hours looking for a baby car seat. Nothing came of it, and he were so worried about how the baby were going to get from the hospital to their home, that he also missed training the next morning just to watch other prospective mums choosing their seats.

We walked down the stairs and spotted Partington sitting at a table with at least seven other people. We recognised most of them as shop owners and workers in and around Starcot Lane. He had a lit cigarette in his mouth and a glass of red wine in his hand. He had a few top buttons undone on his blue shirt and his glowing cheeks resembled his promotion photo last year when the lads sprayed champagne all over his face. Even his shaggy silver hair were well-groomed to give his face a vitality I hadn’t seen since Rough Rachel gave him the eyes at the club do last year.

Molly approached the table and tapped Partington on the shoulder.

‘Hey, it’s the home-grown fruit,’ said Partington, turning around ‘Come and join us, lads.’

Molly bent down a little and whispered in Partington’s ear. ‘Can we talk?’

‘Now come on, we’re all one family here aren’t we?’ said Partington. ‘Grab a drink…’ He turned back towards the punters. ‘…And anyway, as I was saying, we had a defender once who was a brilliant stopper but had this thing he couldn’t deal with. The problem was he’d go into the opposition penalty area for a corner or free-kick and instead of trying to head the ball into the net, he’d always nod it over the bar or round the post. He was so used to clearing the ball past his own bar and post that he did the same in the other penalty area. In the end we had to get a psychologist in to work with him.’

Partington’s audience smiled. ‘Did it work?’ asked one.

‘Yes,’ said Partington, moving forward in his seat. ‘But he ended up scoring in his own net.’

This sounded uncomfortably like Pearly, although I couldn’t ever imagine the skip sitting down with a shrinko and ‘letting it all out’.

Molly looked at the jovial figures round the table. ‘Look, fellas, can you excuse us for a while,’ he said. ‘We’ve got something important to talk about. We’ll make ourselves available for a little while afterwards, if you want, but we need a few minutes with the boss.’

Partington put his hand up as the men got up. ‘Do you know who these guys are?’

We shook our heads.

‘These men are responsible for keeping you on the straight and narrow,’ he said. ‘They’re my eyes and ears around Starcot Lane. I’ve got nothing to hide now. Whatever you’ve got to say to me, you can say to them.’

So these were the bastards eyeing me up when I went into a shop. I thought they were dazzled by my star status but they were obviously reporting back to the big boss.

‘I think you know most of them. Colin from Tyre Punc,’ said Partington, as he started introducing them one by one. ‘Ron from The Alby Senior…’

And on it went until he got to Pete from Pie & Match. It weren’t quite the Stepford Wives meets Goodfellas but it were clear these trusted members of the community were enjoying the limelight. They smiled and nodded one by one as Partington introduced them.

‘They weren’t there to just keep an eye on you lot,’ he said, stubbing out the cigarette in the packed and filthy ashtray. ‘There were some other benefits too. The Grimsby team coach got a flat tyre last season close to the ground.’ He smiled and looked at Colin. ‘Some of the players decided to walk the rest of way – it was only about half a mile – and they ended up at Greasy Garth’s. They had some grub down there and went down with food poisoning a couple of hours later. They had to play and we won 3-1.’

Molly looked at Partington as he laughed along with the others. Partington picked up his packet of Peter Stuyvesant and took out another cigarette.

‘I’m not sure I’d do that kind of thing,’ said Molly, with a serious look on his face.

Partington lit his cigarette with his silver Zippo lighter and took a drag. ‘Listen Matthew, I’ve got three kids as well, you’re not the only one with paternal and moral instincts.’

Molly stood up. ‘I think this might have been a mistake.’

‘Hold on,’ said Partington, with familiar firmness. He shook his head and then ran his fingers through his hair. ‘When you’re operating in an industry where agents can earn seven figures for spouting gibberish about a player it’s safe to say there isn’t much sanity around. There’s no whistleblowing because everyone knows what goes on. So…’ he said, taking another drag on his fag, ‘…you sit in the dug-out and belt up.’

‘Is that why you’re not at the club anymore?’ I asked.

He laughed and rested his fag on the ashtray. ‘Starmer knows everything that goes on at the club. He’s the one that gave me the idea of the flat tyre. He does more dodgy deals than Tricky Dicky Nixon.’

Molly grabbed my arm. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

Partington turned around and grabbed Molly. ‘You want to be captain, don’t you Matthew?’

Molly didn’t answer, so Partington grabbed my arm. ‘…And I know Sid’s a bit pissed off with Ibrahim.’

With Partington’s connections, I half-expected him to know about the Ibrahim problem, probably from Spares but the former boss were in deeper than that.

‘It’s not the first time Ibrahim’s tried to make it at Starcot Lane,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

Partington turned away and picked up his fag again. ‘I was asked to make sure we signed him for the club,’ he said, taking a small drag and letting the smoke through his nostrils. ‘I was assistant to Billy Moss at the time. He came down for a trial and I’d never seen anything like him. He had everything: touch, technique, passing, shooting. He was the best player I’d seen for 30 years and we had to get him…’

‘So what happened?’

‘Mr Moss had already spoken to the lad. He’d guaranteed he’d make it as a pro, but because he was busy at the time, he asked me to go and see his family. Ibrahim told me he’d definitely sign but he just had to iron out a few things. When I got to the house, I spoke to his father for a few minutes but Ibrahim was sat in the corner, quiet and motionless. His father said football wasn’t for his son and I could see Ibrahim was trying not to listen. I pleaded with his father that this was the greatest player I’d seen for years, and he’d be a superstar but he wouldn’t have it.’

Some weird thoughts were entering my head. If the dark lord had been Skywalkered, and Ibrahim had made it as a top player, would I have become the first Immie Khan-style icon in the Premier League? Maybe not, but at least he wouldn’t have had to do ads for Ravishing Rice on Albion FM. I got a few quid for it and it only took a few hours but Amejee wanted to test out the rice at home. One winter, she were so angry with the taste that she yanked a plate of white rice off Abujee’s lap and buried it in the snow outside Simpkiss Street. I didn’t do the ad again.

Partington stroked his face. ‘I got into a bit of a slanging match with the father,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t proud of it. I was still a relatively young man at the time and I got frustrated. I regret the way I acted but I just couldn’t bear to see all that magic gone to waste.’

‘How did…what’s he called…Ibrahim take it?’ asked Molly.

‘I think I just let something like ‘you people’ slip into the conversation and from then on the father threw insults at me, as well as throwing me out. I made a genuine mistake, and I still think about it all the time.’

I suppose ‘you people’ were just like being called UB40 or U2 in those ancient days, seeing how many black and Irish lads were banged up for being in groups.

I could see that Molly had calmed down a little. ‘Those black armbands that you left in the dressing room…’

Partingon nodded slowly. ‘A great player like Ibrahim should be remembered.’

‘But he isn’t dead yet,’ I said.

‘No course not, and I hope he makes it…but he should still be remembered.’

‘I’ll be wearing mine at the next game,’ said Molly. ‘Anyway, what are you going to do with yourself now?’

Partington sighed. ‘Probably move down to the south coast. Rita deserves some more of my time.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Maybe you should be getting home to Kate and helping change the nappies.’

‘Don’t worry, my hands are as dirty as my boots,’ laughed Molly. ‘Just how you like it. Crap on the back of your legs.’

Partington stood up and put each hand on one of our shoulders. ‘Look, I’ve been sacked and people can say what they want but over the years I’ve watched boys like you come through and it’s the greatest feeling the world…’ He paused for a moment. ‘…But I still think about the one that got away.’

*

So our boss had been sacked but some people acted as though the clash of civilisations had kicked off for real. Don’t get us wrong but I’ve never thought of gawper paupers, Pundicks and so-called fans as ‘civilised’ but maybe they should get a life instead of obsessing over our every break of wind. There were protests outside the ground, the papers were wanking off as usual and Lassie were attacked by a fan in the car park. Well, he were only shoulder barged – and he may have been a little tanked-up – but you see how these things can get out of hand.

Anyhow, once the game started our boss could have been Dennis the Menace as far as I were concerned: we were going to beat Arsenal. As soon as the chant started, about four minutes into the game, I felt all the joyous, twisted energy of a few fans propelling us forward. To the tune of The First Noel, they cleared their throats and raised their voices in spine-tingling fashion.

El Sid, El Sid

He ain’t no Yid

He’s the Popadom Kid

El Sid, El Sid…

Now, I know the Kick Racism Out of Football people have done a lot to stamp out this sort of thing, but there were nothing for them to get worked up about here. I could deal with it myself simply because I’d never actually eaten a popadom in my life. And then there were the second line which were the kind of dumbo jumbo I expected from the stands. Of course, I ain’t no Yid, you dicks: I’ve been circumcised.

There were probably only about 25 of them singing it anyway in the corner of the Billy Moss End; although it didn’t help when Mags kept cupping his ear to them to say he wanted it louder. But strangely this chant seemed to fire us up, and after Arsenal had taken the lead in the 34th minute, I saw Kai make a great run and lifted the ball through for him. He belted it in off the post and celebrated with a body-popping routine in front of the Arsenal fans. Now, I didn’t know break-dancing were big in Liberia but amazingly he didn’t get any aggro and the Arsenal fans seemed to be enjoying it. The only problem were, one of the fans jumped over the advertising hoardings and challenged Kai to a body-popping contest. The two of them went at it, hammer and tongs, as though they were stuck in the mid-80s with their headbands and huge stereos. We were ready to kick-off again but Kai were still at it, eyeballing this Gooner for all he were worth. In the end, Rico had to go and fetch him so we could kick-off again. The Gooner were finally taken away by a sleepy steward but not before he could try a headspin, backspin and caterpillar. He nearly got a bigger cheer than our goal.

We could even take a weasly team-talk from Drab Dennis at half-time and still believe a famous victory were ours. Call it momentum, adrenalin or the simple fact that the Arsenal players were still dazzled by their body-popping mascot, but when Iggy curled in a 25-yard free kick, there were no way back for them. Until that is, they equalised because I could still taste Lassie’s salty lips on my right eye. I don’t know why the dick were kissing us more than Kai – after all, he were the one that scored – but I were still rubbing it when they got in down the left and eventually rifled in from 18 yards.

So it were 2-2, but now something else were taking over. Pearly clapped his hands and shouted, ‘Do it for Partington’. I thought about telling the skipper what Partington had said about him but he had those extremely low eyebrows which meant he were, at least, heading the ball in the right direction. But, in truth, I were knackered and hung out on the right touchline for the next ten minutes. Then the ball came down the flank and I punted a hopeful ball into the area. Arsenal failed to clear and there were Pearly, playing as an emergency attacker, to plant the ball home. It were like NASA shuttles had been sitting underneath the four stands because the stadium exploded; with the small group of Arsenal fans in one corner the only ones left on earth.

With time running out, there were only one thing on my mind. The ball were near the halfway line and I were fouled. It were true, I’d been watching a few old westerns on TCM lately, and the way they went down after a duel were special. But here there were physical contact and, as the other players surrounded us like a poor supporting cast, I stayed on the ground for as long as possible. The whistles around the stadium were deafening. I got up on all fours and the impatient ref drew the whistle to his mouth. All four stands were up too, joyous and ecstatic. We met in the middle for our first maximum.

Jamil had his hair up in a ponytail and kept touching the back of it as he sat in his leather office chair typing away furiously on a keyboard. His living-room were too quiet for us and even a boring England friendly on the TV couldn’t help, even though it were comforting to know a place in the national team were there for the taking.

‘Are you trying to get us on Question of Sport? I asked, getting up off the sofa and walking towards him.

‘No, it’s for your new boss,’ he said, continuing to type. ‘It’s just a bit of stuff to tell him how much you bring to the team.’

‘We don’t even know who it is yet.’

He stopped and turned to look at us. ‘Life’s short, a career’s shorter but YOUR career…’ he said, pointing at us, ‘…is the shortest.’

Well thanks for those words of wisdom Mr Qazi. But I ain’t thought much about being a bid and finding something to do when I’m 40. That’s a long, long time away. I’ve heard stories of former Town players like Frank Spears and Graeme Ridge going penniless but that won’t be us. If I’m ever hard up, I can always pop down to Perv’s Pakoras and endorse his products for a lot of dough – and I mean a lot. Pervez doesn’t understand why women won’t go into his shop, but I can help that part of the business, no sweat.

‘Talking about short things in life,’ he said, beginning to type again. ‘Did you see Mullah?

‘Aye, I couldn’t stay long.’

He stopped typing and sighed. ‘Not as tough as you thought, eh?’

‘I could feel my fitness going down the pan. Anyhow, I wanted to ask you about his daughter.’

He leaned back in his chair and untied his hair. ‘His daughter?’

Now it’s true that I’d had another dream since Ibrahim’s Pink Floyd saga. But this were even worse because it were some kind of gameshow that Granny Fatima used to go on about called Mr & Mrs. I could tell the woman were Mrs Latif – the one I saw at school – and the bloke were just a black silhouette. I thankfully woke up when a ref’s face were emerging as her husband.

‘I don’t know if it were her,’ I said. ‘But there were this teacher at school and she were a bit distant…’

‘All teachers are a bit distant,’ he said, shaking and rubbing his fingers through his hair. ‘They’ve got so much crap in their heads they have to teach to the kids. Anyway, if it was that Rukhsana she has every reason to be a bit off, after all her father’s right on the edge.’

‘Aye, I know that but she called herself ‘Mrs’, how can that be?’

He put his hand on his forehead and leaned back on his seat. ‘Now, I’ve got too much crap in my head,’ he said. He got up from his seat and sat down on the floor cross-legged. ‘Didn’t balance my chakras today.’ He closed his eyes, joined his palms and started breathing deeply.

‘Aw, not that Yoga shit again,’ I tutted. ‘Before you get into prawn chakras, just tell us why you think she called herself ‘Mrs’?’

He continued to breathe deeply and still had his eyes closed. ‘It’s usually a sign of marriage,’ he said, softly.

I were ready to whack him one but he were fucked-up enough already.

His breathing got heavier and he were sniffing like a junkie through his nostrils. ‘Some of our people meet for breakfast…’ he said, at a snail’s pace. ‘…they have small talk for lunch and are hitched by supper, so what’s the problem?’

‘What’s the problem? She were only offered to us a few weeks ago…’

‘What did she look like? I’m just in the middle of a visualisation.’

‘About five seven, long straight hair, small nose…and yeah, she had dimples on her cheeks.’

‘Did she have a face like Jennifer Jason Leigh?’

‘Who?’

‘Jennifer Jason Leigh, she’s an actress.’

‘Never heard of her. Is she married to Jet Li? Bruce and Rob are the only other ones I know.’

He looked at us with disdain, ‘Did she have light brown hair?’

‘Think so.’

‘…Hmm,’ said Jamil, ‘That’s Mullah’s daughter.’