World Cup Conversations: The Builder’s Yard

June 26, 2010 / Alan / 3 Comments

“Good choice, mate. That Cotswold stone, we knock out a lot of that.

Baz, stick it in the gent’s boot, will you. Lovely finish, it has. Then sort out that flag, health hazard you are.”

“Makes me proud, all these flags. Come on my lovely boys. Should be like this all the time, mate. Us English and proud of it.”

“Had that one made special, like, but ’course, round here, had them up for months. You know, since the election, and before, some of us. Looking a bit knackered now. Des down the Lion, not the one up on the roundabout, on East Hill, decent boozer that one, not like the roundabout. Used to be a decent place, took the missus there for Sunday lunch and not so long ago neither, now it’s all underage. And they got bouncers too. Reckon they let ‘em in if they can get a feel. Nice titty mind. You can’t tell these days, what are they f***ing wearing? Might pop down there myself Friday, don’t tell the missus. Eh Baz? He likes a bit of the underage, don’t you Baz? Eh? I’ll tell her I’m out watching the f**ing football.”

“Yeah, means something that flag, round here. Don’t just f***ing get it out for the f***ing football. ‘Course they don’t come in here. Stories I could tell you, mates can’t get work, good mates twenty years in the trade some of ‘em, good blokes. At home all day watching f***ing Loose Women and that other tosser, whatisname, right twat he is. Looking after the kids, going spare he is, my mate. Brings the kid down the Lion. Don’t like kids in pubs, mind, it’s not right, but he ain’t got nowhere else to go.”

“See they don’t pay tax but they’ll take our NHS and that, eh. Listen, if it’s England Poland there’ll be f***ing capers round here, f***ing mayhem. Few of us down the Lion, we’re ready, f***ing ready mate. ‘Scuse my French.”

“’Course those overpaid poof ponces, not worth nothing, none of ‘em. Poncing around, rubbish mate, won’t get past the group stage. Should have tanked the Yanks, what the f*** do they know about football? Don’t even play the game. Heskey? Heskey? England centre forward. Heskey? Do me a favour. Not fit to carry their bags.”

“Same every time. Too much money. Ruined the game, it has. Don’t care about us back home, we have to watch it. Lose a few and back to their f***ing wags. Mind you, I would, eh Baz? Can’t be arsed to watch it, tell the truth. That fat bloke, off Gavin and Stacy, haha, I like him, better than the game it is. Sticks it to the Krauts. Makes like he’s joking but you can tell he really hates them.”

“So that’s 30 for the ballast and 75 for the slabs, call it a 100 for cash? Cheers.”

“‘Course I’m off mate, got a nice little place in Spain. Get out of this shithole, bit of sun on me back. Give it a couple of years, You won’t see me again. Couple of years.”

Always On My Mind: Stories of Football Obsession. Waiting For Adriana.

March 3, 2010March 3, 2010 / Alan / 4 Comments

“One stop darling, one stop away”.

Adriana is still chatting in the office. I console myself that a lesser person would be affronted, especially the time she was an hour and a half late because she had been listening to the end of Woman’s Hour, but she always arrives in the end. I’ll wait.

The busy tube station is filling up. It’s near the enemy’s ground on European night. I take refuge from the hustle in my reflections on the day, my sanctuary since childhood. People at odds with each other end it a little closer. On the way out of the meeting, the young man brushes past me and turns unexpectedly. There’s a disarming softening of eyes hardened by suspicion of adults, much of it sadly justified: ‘You know what I mean. You’re all right’. I start to reiterate something I said earlier, about how I see the good in in him, if only he could, but he’s half-way down the street by now.

My mood changes as the flow of supporters becomes a flood disgorged by the escalators, spilling out into the dark and intruding upon my reverie. Groups of people laughing and families clustering close in their excitement, but I start to feel uneasy. I stare into faces and see only blank faithless souls, lost and wandering. This is not right, not right at all.

How could you? This of all teams. How could you? What catastrophic lapse of judgement led you here? Others who are not part of this evening’s ritual wait with their free papers and frequent expectant glances. They welcome new arrivals with a kiss and pair off into the street lights. Yet I am distinctly uncomfortable, even though I stand anonymous in my grey suit, and involuntarily shrink further into the shadows.

A sour-faced former manager of mine once marched up to me after a conference and said, ‘The trouble with you is that you see the good in everyone’, before turning on her heel. In her rudeness I was damned with faint praise but she was right, for once. Yet now these colours distort my perceptions and banish any generosity of spirit. All I see is smug arrogance. You’re not the same as me.

Adriana emerges from the throng, upright and poised. She grips my elbow. “Do I look Japanese? Do I?” With her I am used to being wrongfooted but this has me flummoxed.

“Is it my hat?”

I mumble something about not knowing what a Japanese hat looks like. She explains that a man jumped out of a taxi and asked her if she was Japanese, or on holiday, and would she like to see the photos in the gallery opposite, or like a drink? Although I can move through London without any acknowledgement or intimacy from my fellow travellers, Adriana long ago lost this ability.

“What is it about me?” She gazes intently at me in search of an answer. My throat tightens. I catch my breath and gulp in some air. “Come on” and we move rapidly towards a waiting bus, dodging the crowds as we go. “The train was really crowded” she says, “Is there something happening?” I begin a reply but think better of it. I have to get away. “‘We can eat later” is my response to her puzzled expression but she acquiesces. The bus pulls away sharply and we tumble together into a seat. I sigh. I’ll calm down in a few minutes. Some feelings are hard to explain.

Tottenham Stories: Always On My Mind. The Do.

February 12, 2010October 17, 2014 / Alan / 8 Comments

The attendant opens the door with a grand gesture and fusses over my coat and bag. More than my gilt-edged invitation, this absurd attention confirms my new-found prominence, and makes me distinctly uneasy.

It’s a break for me, an opportunity to put behind me those wasted years and chances spurned, but my tentative tread as I stroll along the oak-panelled corridor festooned with self-satisfied portraits betrays my sense of not belonging. I affect an air of disinterested nonchalance, trying to take in the grandeur and undeniable beauty without looking like I have wandered in from the streets, a refugee of the London Big Bus Company tour.

The crystal chandeliers lie heavy from the ceiling, their brilliance eclipsed only by the glittering egos of the great and good. And the not so good, as long as they have money to ease their guilty conscience. I glance around, wary of eye contact. With the right person, it’s fine but an itinerant gaze is a sign of desperation. A stirring in one corner: within this room any spontaneity stands out. Adriana throws back her thick wavy hair then bends forward slightly from the waist, the laughter flowing through her body and rippling out to the group of six or seven guests around her. The women look away, the men shuffle a fraction closer and laugh a little too long. She catches my eye and shrugs imperceptibly. ‘What can I do?’

I begin a smile in return but our line of sight is swiftly interrupted by a tuxedo, anxious to secure her undivided attention.

There is an art to these gatherings. My usual chosen option is to skulk around the edges, pretending that I am content in my solitude and that drinking a glass of fizzy water in 185 sips is really how I want to spend my time. However, today I’m at the top table and must drink my fill. An assertive stride towards my target, followed by a firm handshake. I’ve practised my lines. ‘We met briefly at last year’s conference” I lie but they won’t remember me, whether it is true or not. A few short moments to make an impression – in a good way, so my approach is unencumbered by champagne glass or canape. Well chosen words and a card pressed from a clammy palm.

They know after a minute or so. I’m desperately polite and flattering, adding a succinct and devastatingly accurate critique of the new Bill. But they strip all the baggage away – is this guy useful to me or not? After a minute comes the tell-tale glance over my shoulder, seeking someone more worthwhile to converse with. It’s over and I depart.

The hall is full now. As I gather myself for the next foray, an actress few people have heard of is welcomed on stage. I pause, then slip away. Adriana glares at me wide-eyed from across the room, angry and enticing. Now I shrug and continue on my way without a backward glance. The cloakroom attendant purses her lips in surprise as I disturb her flirting with the burly doorman. She hands me my coat and the carefully rehearsed plan is enacted with precision. Two minutes to the exit (unseemly to rush), seven minutes walk to Liverpool Street for the 19.22 and I’ll be in my seat at five to, just before Fulham kick off. It’s a shame that I’ve missed the pre-kick-off chat and atmosphere, but we all have to make sacrifices.

Always On My Mind

December 31, 2009February 9, 2010 / Alan / 5 Comments

I am having coffee with my friend Adriana.

“So,” she says, “I see”.

She sets the handle of the cup to the right, with the spoon at a decorous diagonal.

“You were in charge in there. Very perky.”

I leave in the air the unspoken implication that this is not always the case. “Something is doing you good”.

Adriana has been marvellously supportive of my writing even though she has never read a single word. Not only is she not interested in football, she is not interested in being interested. Such is the grasp of the Premier League on modern entertainment and the world of celebrity, it’s impossible to escape totally from its clutches so most people will be able to contribute to a football conversation when the topic comes up, as of course it always has for the past 40-odd years whenever anyone enquires innocently about my weekend or leisure interests. Adriana is pleased for me if I’m going to the game because she knows how much it means to me but that’s as far as it goes. After so long it feels wrong for me to bring up the subject, and that’s fine. It’s actually refreshing to talk about something else.

She fixes my gaze with her bright blue eyes. “So – must be all these new people you’ve been meeting.” As usual she’s keen to probe deeper and ponders a variety of entertaining reasons for my resurgence, her favourite being that this is a consequence of allowing my Jewish heritage to surface. The logic is frankly sketchy but with Adriana it’s the theorising that is delightfully engaging so I’m happy to go along with it. Or it could be my new tie. That she chose.

She’s right about me today. I led the meeting that we had both attended with focus and humour, overcoming some resistance to reach consensus and a set of decisions and tasks, and it feeds my vanity to be praised for it so I settle in my chair and enjoy the moment. The reasons for my performance are clear, at least to me. Our victory against Manchester City the previous evening means that today my mind is alert and sharp. Exactly the right words come to my lips without a second’s hesitation. I instinctively understand the moods and perspectives of those around me, as if a pea-souper has blown away to reveal a world bathed in sunlight. The group pick up my drive and enthusiasm and respond in kind. We did some good things today that could have a beneficial impact on others for many years to come.

There’s no conscious thought here. It’s instinct, as much a part of me as breathing. I am energised, bright and, I have to acknowledge, as such presenting a side of myself that has been invisible to many of my recent acquaintances. Spurs have won, won well, and I am a better person. There – I’ve said it.

There are two sides to this passion, so losing hurts but I’ve learned over the years to deal with it. Permanently in the grip of this football thing yet powerless to control my fate. I keep these thoughts to myself, because she won’t understand this arcane mystery that cannot be explained to the uninitiated. To people who live in the real world.

And if I am honest, it’s scary to think that what happens on a football field, something totally out of my hands, has so strong an influence on my personality. All the more reason to push these ideas to one side, at least for the time it takes to drink a cappuccino.

Adriana turns towards the café owner and smiles warmly. He’s made her toast, she’s made his day. She wistfully talks of her new coat, a sale bargain put aside and ready on Friday, the delayed gratification merely heightening her excitement. I share her pleasure. It’s something real, tangible, something she’s worked for and will give her pleasure for years to come. And she will look gorgeous in it. It’s another world, refreshing to be away temporarily from systems and transfers, resilience and defensive midfielders. But not for too long, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Always on my mind.

Happy New Year to you all. Sincere thanks to everyone who has read my labour of love since it began in the summer, especially those who have taken the time and trouble to comment. It’s really appreciated.

And in the words of one correspondent, Daveyboy, “Great blog, especially late at night when you’re stoned.” I think that says it better than I ever could.