The Football Factory by John King

Author:John King
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: PM Press
Published: 2015-08-03T16:00:00+00:00

WIMBLEDON AT HOME

I watch the game but don’t see the football. It’s a fucking sad effort in the rain and the flu’s cutting through me like nobody’s business, I should be at home in bed with a bowl of soup and someone to look after me, but when you live on your own and you get sick you take care of yourself. Like when you get past fifty and develop cancer or something. Get a fatal disease and you’re fucked. Left to die because you’re weak and can’t defend yourself.

The secret is don’t get ill. You have to stay healthy best you can and be your own person. Shut up shop and don’t let anything in. If you’ve got the will power and resist the dangers lurking round the corner you’ll come out a winner. But sometimes you can’t fight off all the little germs and microbes waiting to stitch you up. Like the cunts going through my head eating brain cells. The doctor just sits there looking at me doing a Prince Charles imitation, then starts making jokes that aren’t funny. All this after I’ve been waiting for an hour reading dodgy two-year-old magazines full of nonsense about junkie aristocrats and the sex lives of pop stars. Fashion models with capped teeth straight from Bugs Bunny’s worst nightmare. Truth revealed in yellow newspapers packed with football rumours that never happened.

I don’t really dream, but the flu makes up for all that deep sleep. It’s like I’m tripping. Not that I’m into crust mode, but my thinking’s muddled. It’s a bad world when you’re sick watching life pass by and Wimbledon bypass the midfield with their long ball game. They’re backs to the wall that lot and you have to admire them on the quiet, doing so well with zero resources.

The wind’s blowing a gale and even though my hands are buried in my pockets they’re frozen. I try and move my toes to keep them from snapping off but feel nothing. Mark comes back with a cup of tea and I hold it with dead stumps. Like I’m an out-of-work bomb disposal expert signing on for my weekly reward. It’s a shit crowd and shit atmosphere. All those cunts in warm television studios insisting football hooligans aren’t real fans don’t know what they’re on about. No clue. They’re licking the arse that feeds them. Saying what they’re told to say by the money men behind the camera. It’s true there’s blokes who only turn up for big games when there’s the chance of a ruck, but they’re a minority. Of course there’s hangers on. There’s hangers on in every walk of life. But not that many at football. Just like the nutters. There’s a few of them, and a lot of fans who if there’s trouble outside run around and swap a few punches, but most people just don’t want to know.

—You look bad, Tom. Mark’s watching me shiver. Look like you’ve got malaria. You should have stayed at home in bed.

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