Football Crazy (9 page)

“
Yes?” said Screwer.

“
Well....Well there's a man outside, sir” said Hawks. “With....Well he says you ordered this white horse off him.”

Screwer couldn't have been more delighted if Hawks had just told him a busload of England football fans had gone over a precipice. “Is it here?”

Hawks still couldn't quite believe it. “You did order a white horse off him, sir?”

The police chief pushed his chair back, got to his feet and brandished a clenched fist. “Scourge of the Terraces!”

Hawks blinked. “Beg pardon, sir?

“
That's what I'm going to call it. 'Scourge of the Terraces'.”

“
Oh I see sir,” said Hawks, feeling the peace and quiet of his retirement take another giant leap further away.

“
Mark my words Sergeant, the football hooligans of Frogley will wish they'd never been born by the time I've finished with them!” Hawks didn't doubt it for one moment. Screwer continued. “Put it in one of the cells.”

“
Pardon, sir?”

“
The horse, man. Put in one of the cells.”

“
In one of the cells, sir?”

The good mood that had enveloped Screwer on being told of the arrival of his horse was quickly evaporating. He glared at Hawks. “Have I missed something here at Frogley Police HQ, Hawks? The well-appointed stable block for example?”

“
No. No sir.”

“
Then put it in one of the cells man! Then send out for some oats.”

“
Yes sir.”

In their portakabin dressing room the players were larking about after training. Lock was in particularly high spirits. “Hey did youse see that gooal I scored, man! God, I love scoring gooals, it's better than sex.”

Briggs looked at him in disbelief. “Who are
you
shagging?”

“
What?” said Lock.

“
Well she must be a bleedin' poor shag if she's not as good as scoring a goal,” reasoned Briggs. “The ones I'm shagging are a lot better than scoring a goal, I can tell you.”

“
Well you play up front,” reasoned Lock. “I play at the back man, I don't get many gooals.”

“
You don't get many shags either, Locky,” said Crock.

The others within hearing range joined in the ridicule at Lock's expense. The Geordie was about to put up an argument citing several fair maidens of Frogley who could testify to the contrary, and one or two foul ones as well, when the door opened and Donny and Price came in. At the sight of their boss and the new owner the room went quiet, save for Barrel who was singing 'Sex Bomb' in the showers.

“
Tell Robbie Williams to put a sock in it and get himself out here, Linksy,” Donny said to Links, who was nearest the shower.

“
It's Tom Jones who sings Sex Bomb, Boss”, said Dicks, helpfully.

“
Just get him out here,” said Donny. “We don't want to keep Mr Price waiting do we, he's a busy man, he's got millions of pies to make.”

The subject having been brought up, Hanks thought it might be a good time to bring up the matter of a pie discount with Price, but before he could broach it with the Town’s new owner Barrel was out of the shower and had joined the others, and Donny was telling them to gather round. When they had he turned to Price.

“
Allow me to present my squad to you, Mr Price.” He pointed to them in turn as he reeled of their names. “Moggs, Knox, Parks, Crock, Rock, Links, Jacks, Hanks, Higgs, Briggs, Parks, Brooks, Dicks, Cragg, Crooks, Cook, Hook, Lock, Stock and Barrel.”

Price acknowledged the players with a curt nod. Some of them smiled a reply, a couple of them waved, but most just eyed Price with apprehension. New owners usually meant a clear out and none of them were ready for being cleared out just yet.

“
It's a pity you didn't get here earlier Mr Price, you could have seen the lads practicing,” said Donny.

“
I saw them kicking a ball about on t' way in,” said Price.

“
Oh, I didn't realise. What did you think? Myself I think the lads are looking quite sharp for pre-season.”

“
I thought as they were shite.”

Donny was unfazed. “Yes, well I haven't had time to get a mistress yet. You'll see a big improvement when I do. Very much so.”

Price either misheard Donny or more likely did hear him and couldn't believe his ears, but whichever it was he chose to ignore it and change the subject. He said, “What plans have you made for these players to have their hair cut?”

“
But you’ve only just mentioned it to me, Mr Price,” Donny protested.

“
When I give thee an order I want it carried out immediately, Donnelly. I've just been over an hour with t' club secretary here, what were tha doing then?”

“
Well obviously I was coaching the lads, Mr Price.”

“
If it were obvious I wouldn't be asking thee would I,” Price pointed out.

“
No, Mr Price,” said Donny. “Obviously.”

“
And if tha were coaching t' team tha were wasting thee time. And theirs. So when is t' barber coming?”

“
I will personally myself see to it that a hairdresser calls round tomorrow, Mr Price. Early doors”

“
Today.”

“
Obviously, Mr Price.”

“
And see as tha does.” Then Price had second thoughts. “No, I can’t trust thee, so tha can leave t' barbering to me.”

“
No, you can trust me, Mr Price. Very much so….”

“
Quiet!”

“
Yes, Mr Price.”

Without enlarging on his plans on the subject of the players hair Price turned and left the room.

“
What was all that about us having our hair cut, Boss?” said Parks, immediately the door had shut.

“
I am going to be completely open and honest with you about this, lads,” said Donny. “As I always am. What it boils down to, at the end of the day, is that you've all got to look like the players in this photo.” He held up the photograph of the 1935 team. The players crowded closer to get a better look at it. “With moustaches and haircuts and kit like this.” He looked around. “And where's Higgsy? Where's my brave little right winger?”

Higgs spoke up from the back. “Boss?”

“
Well there's a strong possibility we might have to make you bandy.”

When Parks saw the photograph his protest was both immediate and passionate. “I'm not having my hair cut like that, not for nobody!”

Briggs was equally vehement. “Me neevah!”

The other players joined in the protest. Donny raised his arms to quieten them.

“
All right, all right lads. Settle down.”

The players quietened down, but still grumbled.

Parks hadn't finished. “Who does that bastard Price think he is!”

“
All
right
Stevie,” ordered Donny. “Obviously you feel very strongly about this. All of you. Well if my lads don't want their hair cut like that my lads are not going to have their hair cut like that. Regardless of what Price says. Never let it be said when the chips are off the old block that Big Donny Donnelly doesn't stick up for his players at the end of the day.”

The door opened and Price popped his head round. “Your office, now Donnelly.”

He made to close the door but Donny jumped in. “Mr Price! Glad you popped back. About the haircuts; I'm afraid the lads just will not go along with it.”

“
Sack t' lot of 'em.”

Donny turned to the players. “You're all sacked.”

“
You can't sack us for refusing to have our hair cut!' protested Barrel.

“
He can do anything as he's a mind to,” said Price. “And if he can't, I can.” He looked the players up and down. “So, who's for a haircut, and who's for t' dole queue?”

A few seconds went by. A few of the players looked at each other seeking support but most of them had suddenly found their feet very interesting. Parks exchanged worried glances with his reflection in the mirror. Price waited for them. “Well?” he said impatiently.

“
Well....Well I were thinking of trying a new hairstyle, anyway,” said Moggs.

“
Me too, Mr Proice, said Stock. “Oi mean speaking for moiself oi think it looks quoite attractive.”

“
Especially with the moustache,” added Jacks.

“
Aye, so do I,” agreed Cragg. “Youse can pit me down for one of they haircuts too, Mr Price.”

“
Sinclair is to his left and he also has
options on his right” - Barry Davis

“
I wasn't on his right at all, I was
behind him - Gary Options”

“
I gather that in previous seasons the police presence at your home games has been of a somewhat sketchy nature,” said Superintendent Screwer, making no attempt to keep out of his voice his disapproval of the previous laxness of the football club with regard to crowd control.

“
Well we have the stewards, of course,” George pointed out.

The Frogley Town secretary had agreed to meet the new chief of the Frogley police force to discuss, in Screwer's words, 'Some pressing matters of vital importance, quite possibly to life and limb', and Screwer's comment about how things had been run in the past had been his opening salvo.

The police chief continued, the disapproval in his voice now replaced with disdain following George’s comment. “Professional persons are they, these stewards?”

“
Well we pay them,” said George. “Ten pounds per game facing the pitch, fifteen pounds facing away from the pitch.” Then he added, smiling at the joke, “Although there are some who say it should be the other way round.”

“
I think you'll find that those facing away from the pitch will spend half their time doing what they should be doing, half their time sneaking looks over their shoulders to catch covert glimpses of the game, and half the time picking their noses and scratching their arses,” said Screwer, in his voice of experience voice.

George considered for a moment whether it would be worthwhile telling Screwer that he'd used three halves and that football was a game of two halves, as most football managers were wont to remind everyone on a regular basis, but as he didn't want to prolong the interview any longer than necessary he thought better of it; it would be going on for quite long enough judging by the length of the list of items to be discussed which the chief of police was now consulting.

His opinions on the value or otherwise of stewards having been aired, Screwer continued to work his way down the list. “How many surveillance cameras have you got?”

“
Surveillance cameras? Well we don't have any.”

Screwer's head jolted back as though he had just received one of Mike Tyson's best right uppercuts. Almost choking he said, “No surveillance cameras! Why not for Christ’s sake?”

“
We don't need them,” said George, matter-of-fact.

Screwer's head shot back again. Not as far this time, because as it was already back from the previous occasion it didn't have very much farther to go before it collided with the wall behind him, which it did with a sickening thud.

“
Shit!”

George commiserated with the police chief. “Sorry, we're a bit cramped for office space; as you can see.”

Screwer straightened his cap then glared at George. “What do you mean you don't bloody need surveillance cameras?”

“
Well it would just be a waste of money,” explained George. “As we never have any trouble at Frogley Town.”

If George had left it there he might have escaped the next five minutes. But he didn't. He followed it up by saying: “In fact I can't ever remember seeing a football hooligan at a Frogley match.”

So for the next three hundred mind-numbing seconds he was treated to Screwer's views on football hooliganism in general, and exactly what he intended to do about it in particular. To his wife, later that day, George likened the experience to being attacked by a madman with a flamethrower. Certainly he was left in no doubt whatsoever as to Screwer's feelings on the subject.

When the police chief had satisfied himself that George had well and truly got the message he carried on: “Eight surveillance cameras represent an absolute minimum requirement. One each centrally positioned at each side of the ground. One each mounted on the floodlight towers, above the gun turrets.”

George suddenly stopped being concerned and started to get alarmed. “Gun turrets?”

Screwer enlarged. “For the police marksmen.”

George made another attempt at putting Screwer right. “Superintendent there really isn't any need for any of this. This is Frogley, not Jalalabad. The north west of England not the North West Frontier. We are an insignificant little team in the Coca-Cola League Two. Just. And, like I said, we don't have any football hooligans.”

Screwer was unabashed. “You won't have any once they've got wind of the police marksmen, that's for sure.” He gave George the benefit of a smile that wouldn't have looked out of place on an undertaker viewing a multiple motorway pile-up, then carried on. “Whereabouts is the Police Operations Centre?”

“
We don't have one.”