One Three One: A Time-Shifting Gnostic Hooligan Road Novel (25 page)

We were still setting a mighty pace, but Mick caught my eye behind the posh one’s back, and raised his own eyes in alarm. By now Leander was cradling his stomach rather too gingerly for anyone else’s liking. Who was that Walter and what was he on? Poor Breakfast, he’d been way out of his depth on Poett. These were renegades he’d been pitted against. We were violent people, but we were lovely violent people – morals and codes-of-ethics and
Weltanschauungs
and everything. Those others were thugs, highly artistic but thugs none-the-less. I’d seen José
Mackenzie wield a knife one night at Dehydrated for no other reason than some behooded Raver took exception to José hassling his woman. That night, José had got himself thrown out of his own gig. But here at Poett? Well, it was us who were outside our own Laws – Dar-al-Pennines if you like. So whichever way we read the situation ahead, this land on which we now walked was José & Luis Land. Er, at the very least.

For a minnow microsecond, some spark of recognition betook its place in my mind. Those names? Loon. Walter-Under-The-Bridge. Were they? What were they? Where did I know those names from? But before delivery of their meaning could be signed for, just as soon was their memory dimmed and made irretrievable, then finally squibbed out of their very existences.

But as we closed in upon the Stadium’s environs, we heard converging upon us from the northwest the sound of drums and pipes and marching men, the sound of great male teams all harnessed ritually together in a gigantic display of their shared birthright. Beautifully timbre’d and all of one Irish voice, surely these masses would soon overwhelm us. Relishing this first opportunity to damage another on foreign soil, however,
ye Bard hurried ahead so as to establish their positions. But he soon came running back despondent.

As though by magic, a lunatic leprechaun rushed up to me and cuddled me harshly. What the fuck? This was Connery the Barbarian from Ambergate. Oi oi, you fucking wanker. C-the-B was an errant Forest fan with whom I’d shared many a crack pipe before matches under the W. Bridgeford bridge. Barely five-foot-four tall, his bare torso aerosol’d bright Nissan Shamrock green, and sporting a vivid Rave-green Indian head-dress that trailed past his arse, Connery pointed both of his massive studded motorbike gauntlets directly at Mick. Then he snapped at me far too severely.

And with that the two of them were off. The chase had begun. Breakfast would run him down for sure. But Connery’s manner had utterly appalled me, especially here in the international arena. We weren’t breaking into houses on Bread-and-Lard Island now! This was the real World Cup! Tweak thy behaviour up a notch or three, my lad, or nothing but certain failure can be your guarantee. But such la-di-da thinking as his could only aid our own cause. Today, the fool had severely undermined the real Irish Hooligans out there at work in this teeming crowd of Diddymen.

Behind us, nudging us, beeping us out of our own captured high street clanked a bright Rave-green 1960s John Deere tractor towing a flowered-up flatbed trailer decorated with artificial shamrocks. Set upon its green-and-white striped Syd Barrett floorboards, a glittery Irish Showband of the old school variety doled out 15 m.p.h. C&W versions of such timeless fare as Terry Woden’s ‘Why Don’t We Go to the Moon Anymore, I Mean It’s Not Exactly Rocket Science?’ But even though we were clearly not about to budge, still the green John Deere tractor kept edging forwards. Fuck right off! Still the smug buck-toothed driver kept his Greenhorn Steer locked in at such a steady pace that we were everyone-of-us forced eventually to leap out of the way. No way! Loss of face! About twenty of those fuckers sailed past us,
pewter tankards aloft, their sedate musical quintet now vamping in 3/4–time upon the ancient Cork drinking ballad ‘Clonakilty as Charged’. Until, that is, the opportunistic Gary Have-a-laugh ran up behind the too-precariously-placed drummer and simply dragged his drum stool from under him, causing the poor flailer to grab at any nearby cymbal stand or amplifier, thus upsetting the entire ensemble. Down went the lot of them, crash, bang, wallop: by far the best tune of the afternoon IMHO.

Our forces now straddled the intersection with Via Risveglio, Have-a-laugh’s one-man riot of cymbals, curly guitar leads, beer glasses, wine bottles, molto amounts of hand percussion and scrambling, slithering fallen marchers blocking anyone else’s egression into that final avenue to Sant’Elia Stadium. Mick marshalled Brent and Dean to scatter all of the stricken percussion further across the path of the incoming Irish, while Zoughy and I dislodged a crusty parked-up pale blue Piaggio three-wheeler, dragged it rear-end-first into the street mess, then – after first throwing its piled load of second-hand paperbacks down upon the tarmac – elbowed that rusting teeterer onto its side and goggled with glee. Stu and Have-a-laugh, meanwhile, had leapt aboard the green-and-white trailer and brought it to a decisive stop when the terrified driver fled. St. Patrick brought to a halt by St. Spongebob. Righteous. Triumphantly we stood our ground, hands on hips, sneering up collectively at the Polizia helicopter circling overhead. But none of us could truly delude ourselves that this sudden accidental success had been anything more than that. And barely had we found the time to raise our revolutionary fists aloft when that buzzing copper-chopper turned and hightailed it across the sky off towards the main action at the football stadium, its new trajectory across the skyline diverting everyone’s horrified gaze to a single demonic
figure that leered and gesticulated from high atop the distant RAI-TV tower. Behind the silhouetted figure – in utter defiance of today’s England–Ireland match – flew a great orange windsock care of the Dutch. The silhouetted figure was none other than Judge Barry Hertzog himself. And he now commanded the TV tower – alone.

A full half-hour later, with Farmer Have-a-laugh now at the controls of our hijacked John Deere tractor-and-trailer, we chugged into the raw, burning chaos of Sant’Elia Stadium at the speed of a narrow-boat down some Victorian canal. But although we had navigated successfully the battle-strewn sands of Poett Beach, then passed relatively unscathed under the Ultras’ fusillade of rubble hurled down from the Home Supporters’ bridge, I was already doubting – even as we battered our way successfully through the stadium’s main gates – whether our end result could possibly be worth all of this fuss. For everything within Sant’Elia’s precincts was now burning and in chaos. Could there even be a football match played here today? Several of the main food concession stands – those stinky-arsed Meatburger caravans run by Spackhouse Tottu’s Mackenzie Brothers – had been turned over and set afire. Also ablaze near the entrance were two abandoned Carabinieri Alfa Romeo patrol cars. A third Alfa – quite untouched – squatted beside the TV tower. High above the stadium, the raging figure of Judge Barry Hertzog still sat atop his World Podium, a full set of bagpipes slung around his neck, screeching out unintelligible instructions through a loudhailer to his Party Orange faithful far below. At this continuing rudeness, the apoplectic World Cup hordes now jabbed their index fingers collectively upwards at their aerial tormentor: ‘You’re
gonna die cause we’re gonna kill you!’ they snarled over and over and over. The time was 3.05pm and the match should by now have commenced. Supporters out on the terraces were also getting beside themselves with fury at the hold-ups down on the pitch below, where herds of intimidated Polizia and Carabinieri loitered, unconsciously trampling the very playing field itself. But with the decisive G. Have-a-laugh at our old Deere’s controls, we snowploughed on through the Green, the White and the Orange hordes towards the RAI-TV tower, then set up our long articulated vehicle right beneath its sheltering form. If we were to endure another Hillsborough, then this half-scale Eiffel Tower would serve us best as a place of protection.

Elsewhere under the TV tower, an unrighteous assemblage of Maniacs, Murderers and Militiamen from around Europe had by now gathered and could be observed drawing lots for the right to ascend the tower’s heights and topple Judge Barry Hertzog from his sky throne. One platoon of Treatment’s finest, today
under the leadership of the great Vic Nesbit himself, found themselves obliged to take a short oral exam for the honour of representing Millwall at such a lofty level. Each rose to the occasion magnificently, however.

Beyond, almost hidden in shadow and still awaiting instructions, the black-clad Belgian shock troops of Charleroi’s Nous Voyageons – each one spooled up with yards of polypropylene rope – clustered around their tough-looking R.O.C.C.M. team-leader, his face as smashed and broken as the cartoon bulldog emblazoned upon their club’s shield. But by now the most truly inflamed of all supporters were those poor souls from the Republic of Ireland who had mistaken Barry Hertzog’s brazen orange windsock above for a display of power by Protestant Ulstermen. How like enragèd Rave Madhatters the Irish seemed as they teemed towards us, scores of them slipping unchallenged into the cold grey confines and unyielding light of our temporary sanctuary. Fearing that each Irish supporter would mount our trailer then rush up the TV tower ahead of him, Full English Breakfast jumped down into the hordes impetuously and
thrashed a dozen soundly. Then, screeching like a dive-bombing herring gull, he re-mounted the trailer and plucked off a couple more of these cheeky monkeys who’d dared to use ‘our’ trailer as a springboard from which to assail the Judge.

We all kept our heads down, knowing what a death sentence we’d be handing ourselves should anything go wrong with the sacred offspring of Sharon La Pasionaria Goodby. High above us the Agusta A129 attack helicopter continued to buzz and harass Barry Hertzog atop his great monolith. Around the stadium, the international hordes clapped the helicopter’s efforts and stamped out their simple: ‘We want the match! We want the match!’ But three brave men were now preparing to make the steep climb up the tower to challenge the Judge. The first of the three was that loutish Gauloise-chomping leader from R.O.C.C.M. whose burly six-foot frame seemed, from this low level at least, quite capable of exacting justice upon Hertzog’s reckless hide. For several minutes, the man from R.O.C.C.M. stood surrounded by his colleagues in some grand meditative bonding, then suddenly set off at a punishing pace up the sheer sides of the tower. Full English Breakfast frowned and moaned and pawed at his aching belly. He stared cross-eyed and beat his fists against his head.

Then the second climber of the three – Treatment’s competition winner, smartly attired in the dark blue of Millwall – began his own ascent up to Piano-1 of the great TV tower and the crowds grew even fiercer. For they believed that the time of the exasperating X-faced man was drawing very near to a much-deserved close. Again, Full English Breakfast petitioned me for permission to climb.

Atop the great TV tower, the Judge now hoisted his bagpipes aloft, then began to swing them widdershins like a human helicopter, aping the grey-black attack machine circling above. Round-and-around whirred the Judge’s pipes; round-and-around until we felt sure that he must topple from his grand perch. Within half-a-minute, however, this World Ridiculing of the authorities began to take their magical effect, first as the rotor blades of the Agusta A129 faltered, next as they stopped altogether. Then just as the excessive weight of the chopper’s chin turret started to pull this beast right out of the sky, so did both of its Rolls-Royce Gem turbo shaft engines roar once more into life, and the freaked-out two-man crew hightailed it out of this
Zona Paranormale Paramilitare
. Hertzog raised both
of his arms as though wielding an invisible football scarf above his head. Then he began to conduct the air, mixing its currents together from On High, air-hand-washing invisible clothes for the Gods. At this, those creepy Party Orange faithful standing among us began to drone in chorus. And each one raised their arms aloft as across the hijacked P.A. drifted a gruesome sound.

What was this music?
Was
this music? What
was
this? As though from under the floorboards of Zeus, I heard a titanic engine starting up. Vruuuuuuugh! Drifting like a burning death ship across the hijacked sound system. Vruuuuuuugh! Care of Party Orange and the X-faced one who reigned above came the sound of Death’s Theme incarnate. And all across Sant’Elia Stadium did evil men rally and family men shrink and dwindle at the sheer menace of its sound. What was this unrighteous and droning Highland grind, this Theme of Corpses that now disgorged itself across the P.A. and infiltrated our unsuspecting World Cup lugholes? First came the drones of bagpipers long dead, drifting across Sant’Elia’s smoky ruins. Next came the traps and snares of Highland drummers breaking through the Party Orange walls of human droners below. And then came the hissing and the dissing and the pissing on the stragglers whose hearts were not in tune with today’s misadventures. Cro-magnon was its sound and ‘Caledonian’ was its way. Relentless and inspiring only of Doom, Judgement and Fiery Death, this was a song so evil that it had killed its own composers – true. And I recognised it at last as Barry Hertzog’s own nightly theme from his club Slag Van Blowdriver! Oh, the hubris! The sheer insufferable hubris of this act!

And then it happened. The Man from R.O.C.C.M. fell backwards suddenly at the problematic intersection with the lighting gantry. Then he slithered, crashed and banged, down and down
on to the concrete below. ‘No!’ screamed the crowd. ‘No!’ Then the Man from Treatment too, hitting the same snags at that same cursèd intersection, went suddenly the way of the first toppler, sliding inelegantly sideways into the maze of metal struts and interlacings, his seemingly lifeless body thereafter crashing and bumping to the stone cold ground. Could they both be dead? Outrageous tragedy! For a full minute, total silence fell upon the stadium. Then 70,000 voices erupted once more as R.O.C.C.M.’s lifeless Lazarus raised one fist from the cold stone floor. Then, with doctors and paramedics on hand, the P.A. tannoy pronounced Treatment’s own hero safe and alive. Sweet relief.

But now arrived at our TV tower many high-ranking Polizia who, backed up by the doctors and paramedics, now ruled that no more foolish climbing efforts were to be attempted – they alone would extract Barry Hertzog from atop his perch. Yeah, right. Among this knot of constabulary loitered several plain-clothed officers, plus a whole host of other municipal ne’er-do-wells, who strutted around with pens and notepads, jotting down the registration numbers of the dead police cars and noting the burning Meatburger caravans. One of those be-suited fuckers was José Mackenzie, clucking like a gangly bastard. He
spotted me atop our trailer and strode over with fury in his eyes.

As if cued-up by José’s despondent declamation, Full English Breakfast now seized his opportunity and shinned be-booted up the industrially sticky galvanised steel scaffolding tower: anti-climb paint to warn you, metal splinters to taunt you, stories of Heysel to haunt you. Moreover, it was clear from the high speed with which dear Leander now ascended the tower that our hero had deduced from the increased police presence just how brief his opportunity might be. Indeed, the sudden influx of angry policemen and even angrier stallholders into our midst was a vicious one, and the squads from Treatment and R.O.C.C.M. judiciously evaporated as though into thin air, now replaced by these furious authoritarians, each protagonist quite prepared to by-pass current safety conventions so long as control of the crowd could be restored. How unfortunate it was now for Full English Breakfast that each of those injured parties far below him – the cops, the Carabinieri, the TV crews, the radio people – had been thus far unable to snatch their X-faced antagonist from his perch 150 feet above them. For in order to diffuse their pent-up frustration, each group now began to take out their anger on Breakfast’s own more accessible form. And so it was that for the proceeding fifteen minutes, while Judge Barry Hertzog ruled aloft and undisturbed, far below did our
heroic Leander Pitt-Rivers Baring-Gould cling on steadfastly to a dream that he’d long held dear.

First, Leander caught a full blast in the back from the Carabinieri’s water cannon thirty feet below. How he clung on I’ll never know, for just the weight of the water left hundreds of fizzing electrical wires hanging off the TV tower. No more of that, said the authorities. But still Breakfast kept on climbing. Next, the Polizia marksmen shot teargas into Leander’s new stronghold upon Piano-3, where the junction boxes were all located in one great weatherproof room. But one teargas rocket settled on the ledge beside Leander, then flared up igniting a low blue flame upon the anti-climb-painted platform. It looked set to melt the entire junction box – that is, before Leander confidently stamped out the flames to a roar of crowd approval. No more of that, said the authorities.