I fled through the woodland like I’d just wandered onto Elm Street by mistake. I was thirteen, not esteemed for my speed or athleticism and being hounded to the point of extinction by three shadowy figures. I kept my head down and my legs moving; the darkness wrapping itself around me in the same uncomfortable way Joe did. I was out of breath, exhausted, yet somehow moving as fast as evolutionary law would permit. I tripped on a branch, half hidden in a heap of leaves, cutting my leg. The hunters accelerated, their shift in gears taking them ever closer to me. I struggled to find my footing in the long grass, unable to see more than a yard in front of me, when I fell.
They figured I was dead. Maybe they peered into the bottomless pit, saw nothing, heard nothing, got scared, turned on their heels and deserted their helpless prey. Either that or they simply didn’t care and went home, job done.
The next thing I recall was a foul stench sweeping over my bruised body. It was cold. I clambered onto my knees, stumbling slightly before I caught my balance in the sticky mire. My right arm was throbbing as I reached into the pocket of my sodden jeans, pulling out my mobile. I illuminated my surroundings enough to see that I was in trouble. The hole was deep and caked in gooey mud; climbing out looked impossible.
There was something waiting for me, in the darkness.
“Poo-yah-foo-yah!” it whispered, in a voice like the wind. I can’t remember being scared. The last time that happened was when a gang of kids on the bus took my phone and really beat me up. All because I was sitting by myself, a little black girl with my hair straightened, listening to music. They thought, “She looks innocent, she looks like a victim.” Now I usually carry a knife, because these days everyone’s a challenger.
I didn’t believe in things all dark and dangerous. Nights had never been graced by vampires and witches. I figured it must be an injured animal so I waited quietly, listening.
“Poo-yah-foo-yah!” it repeated. My eyes explored the bottom of the pit for the first time. It stretched far beyond the hole I had fallen down, its vastness unknown; just lots of dark places where something could hide.
I quickly changed direction with the torch. It didn’t look very scary as it squatted there, small and barely noticeable, with spaghetti arms and a large belly hanging only inches off the ground. Its colour was a grimy green, with pointy ears, decaying teeth and a sneer where a smile should have been. Its breathing was more of a wheeze and it was sad-looking, held prisoner by rusty chains nailed deep into the mud behind. I kept my distance as the glaring light started to annoy the creature. It disappeared into the darkness. I arched forward, spotlighting the creature for a second time.
“Stop that, you annoying jobbernowl.” it snapped, surprising me.
I just stared as it tugged and pulled at its chains, soon giving up, no doubt like the countless times before.
“Why were you running?” it asked. I opened my mouth but no words came out. “Well?” said the creature, gawking at me. “Don’t tell me my first guest in over two hundred years cannot speak.”
My torch searched for an escape route.
“There’s no way out,” he said calmly, “I’m afraid we’re teetotaciously banjaxed.”
Tea, what? I stared the creature in the face.
“Why are you down here, chained up like that?” I asked.
“Why were you running, causing such a conbobberation?” he replied.
“You’re weird.” I concluded.
“No, I’m Hush,” he said, “and I can help you escape.”
“I don’t believe you,” I told him, staring into his big eyes, “Two hundred years? You should be dead.”
Hush sunk slowly into his chains, refusing to speak another word. I was equally stubborn and after several fruitless attempts exploring the cave it dawned on me to actually call someone. I plumped for my best friend Tracy because my mother was ‘entertaining’ and wanted me out of the house. No signal. I tried several times but my reach was limited and I was getting more and more tired.
I gave up and eventually, against my wishes, I fell asleep.
*
My promised land above, at one time desolate, was now enriched by resplendent sunshine, and I wanted to be basking in it. I woke, briefly losing my bearings until the pain in my right arm snapped me back into reality. I felt around for my phone, finding it, but the battery had long since died. I searched the darkness knowing that I may have been asleep for some time, realising that the creature down there with me, Hush, could be anywhere.
“How do I know you won’t eat me?” I asked nervously.
The silence was broken by his laughter.
“I’d rather eat peas,” he replied, then, choosing his moment carefully, “Who were you running from?”
“Does it matter?” I asked, realising he hadn’t budged. He really was a prisoner. Hush took a meaningful pause.
“Secrets give me strength, slangwhanger.” he told me, “You must have a skeleton in your cupboard. It may give me enough strength to break these chains. Then we can escape.”
I tried to get my head around it. The plan sounded stupid but the whole situation was hardly normal, and what choice did I have? Climbing out was impossible, my phone refused to work, my mother was entertaining and probably didn’t even realise I was missing.
“Okay, I’ll tell you. But you have to promise me two things.”
“I’m listening.”
“Promise me you won’t say a word.” I said.
“On my life.”
“And that you won’t eat me.” I added.
“I don’t like peas or children,” he said. Then he paused, and added, more or less as an afterthought, “But I am partial to boiled baby every once in a while.”
I ignored him.
“You might not like what I’m about to tell you.” I told him, but I couldn’t have been further from the truth.
*
My secret was as large as his bloated gut suggested, enabling him to break the chains around his ankles and support my bulky frame, just like he said he would. His shoulders were red raw as he watched me struggling to find my grip. He had ballooned in a matter of minutes, enabling me to feel the fresh air above on the tips of my fingers as he lifted then hurled me to freedom.
“Hurry it up, child,” he said impatiently, “I’m easily bored by mud.”
I dragged myself out of the hole, ignoring the fall of my mobile as it slipped out of my pocket and slapped down into the bog below. I was relieved to feel the brisk morning air on my face, grateful to a secret-guzzling faerie for his help. But I wasn’t that grateful.
“What are you waiting for? Reach down and pull me up.” he begged.
I had other ideas, helping wasn’t one of them.
“Snollygoster!” screamed Hush pitifully as I ran away, coiling between the trees like a cheetah that had drunk far too many cans of red Bull, leaving him helpless and alone for what should have been another two hundred years.
*
I was awoken by the sound of my mum talking to a stranger in the kitchen. He sounded different to the others, the men who would be there when I went to bed and be back again in the morning before I woke up. With a sense more of curiosity than anything else (they were always short on looks and one was almost sixty) I peaked to get a look at him. I was shocked to see he was a copper, sipping tea opposite her. A filthy mud-splattered mobile sat on the table between them.
“I know she’s had problems in the past,” said my mother, trying desperately to defend me, “but happy slapping?”
“We prefer not to use that term.” he told her, “There’s nothing happy about it.”
I felt sick as I listened from the hallway, nervously picking at the dried blood on my leg. I remember that day vividly. I was a bit depressed at the time and I saw this girl the same age as me and thought, “She looks so happy, she’s rich, she’s got everything she wants.” I wanted just to destroy her face a little bit and I really punched her; her face was bad. I filmed it too, just to show off.
“Are you going to send her to prison?” asked my mother.
“She’s thirteen,” he replied instantly, “You know we can’t send her to prison.”
I crept back upstairs and made my escape through a bedroom window. I’d often fit through windows, being so small and skinny, so they used me for burglaries. I never stopped to look behind me; I just kept running, unaware I was being chased by the copper. I ran until the buildings became all strange looking, sinking into the earth at obscure angles.
I found myself on a notorious estate. All sorts of criminal activity went on around here. A figure emerged from one of the blocks. Limping from the darkness was Hush, as tall as me now. He grabbed me and pulled me into a derelict garage. I was too tired to fight.
“You need to keep running as fast as your chubby little legs will allow.” he assured me, “At the end is your refuge.”
I wondered why he would help me, so I asked him.
“We’re not all bullies.” he replied, “And I trust you have learnt your lesson?”
He probably didn’t believe me but I nodded.
“Then go,” said Hush, pushing me away, “I will take care of the woodentop.”
I didn’t need a second invitation and I didn’t see the wicked smile that must have stretched across his face as he watched me run right into an old friend.
We stood on the estate, under the streetlight that made everything look ill and we stared at each other’s pasty yellow faces. A heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder, his other wandering in the same uncomfortable way. I felt my arms go weak as I looked Joe in the eyes.
“Trust is everything.” said Joe, with a hint of regret as two more from my crew joined him from the shadows.
If I was in the wrong territory I’d expect a beating. That’s how it is here. At the end of the day, I joined a gang thinking I would be safer. But it turned out I was far more likely to be a victim of violence from members of other gangs, or even my own. I realised this, and I knew that what I did to that girl was sick and gruesome and I tried to get out. I wanted to be that innocent little black girl again.
It’s easy to join a gang. Just try leaving one.
Lying in a pool of my own blood, I kept thinking about Hush, and I imagined him skipping across the woodland like a free man, singing a joyful song and dancing a merry jig. He had also beaten me.
I will always remember him, he did something that the YOT couldn’t, he helped me change my life, and every time I pick up a newspaper and read about the latest stabbing or another happy slapping, I always wonder, will he get to them too?
Thursday, 1 January 2009
Time
Broken neon identified it as the End of the World. The grim reaper held a pint glass aloft, throwing random puddles of dingy blue light on to the car park below. I needed a drink. Some bitch had run me off the road somewhere between nowhere and going nowhere. The next time I see her she’s dead.
A bitter wind in my face was almost too much to bear. With my car wrapped around the tree like a koala it was a miracle I was still able to walk. A miracle my sanctuary smelt of cheap ale and scampi fries.
Inside it was hardly Gin Lane. Mother Hubbard would have loved it here, a lack of custom hardly surprising with One Republic playing on the jukebox. A girl barely out of her teens sat alone, her table littered with empty bottles and an overcrowded ashtray. I stopped and stared. She had an unnerving innocence about her, just what I was looking for.
There was no need to rush into things. The only competition came from the barman and he looked just as forlorn as she did. This place lived up to its name alright. I was on my third pint of Dutch courage when Dawn staggered over to me. I hadn’t spoken to a woman in ages.
I was a mess of a man, unkempt, the ring on my finger Frodo-like, turning me invisible for the last ten years. I stank of cheap booze, the same shirt gracing my back three days running. It wasn’t a record. There was only so much blame I could pin on a possessive ex-wife. Besides, I was a free man, tonight was supposed to be a celebration. The previous five hours had been just that. What better way to kill the fatted calf than to do it with this fine woman shadowing me like a re-homed greyhound. Her seductive scent was stimulating parts I’d forgotten existed. Play it cool, I told myself.
“It sure is dead tonight.” She said, gazing down at me through large trusting eyes.
Her hand snapped forward, pulling a chair out from underneath the table, joining me. She squeezed my arm tight. My heart started pounding, my knees doing a Grobbelar. This wasn’t happening. It was too easy. I was old enough to be her father and she was drunk. I couldn’t believe my luck.
“Can I get you another?”
“You better.” she replied, her voice touched by a sadness I really didn’t want to get into. Whilst I pitied the bloke that ditched this fine woman, I couldn’t help but thank him at the same time. I was looking for confirmation I wasn’t quite past it so I plastered a smile on my face and hoped for the best. We drank, smoked and talked, mostly about her and how her life was officially over. I wanted to go somewhere more private but she kept talking. Maybe that was all she ever wanted to do. Maybe she didn’t want to feel wanted at all. Maybe I had been out of the game too long and couldn’t read the signs.
“You’re gorgeous.” I remarked, foolishly. All that Richard Curtis bitch-piss Barbara forced me to watch had taken its toll. Dawn glared at me.
“Just kidding,” I said, trying to claw back some self-respect. I shifted awkwardly on my stool, rubbing my sweaty hands along my thighs. A bottle of Stella flew at my head. It was too big, too quick and too fast, my reflexes too comatose to stop the missile exploding on my face.
Dawn buried her head deep into the table in front of me. I couldn’t believe it. She was more insane than Barbara. Now was definitely a good time to leave. I staggered from my stool, glancing across at the barman out of politeness. He stared back at me. That’s when I saw his face…
I felt a tap on my back. I spun around, feeling a searing pain at my throat. That was no love bite. Snarling at me, Dawn now resembled Boris Karloff in drag; a hate-filled, flesh-flying, disembowelled cannibalistic zombie. She hesitated, a vacant and unsuspecting face awakened from death by the return of something I really didn’t want to know about. I came here for a drink and a bite to eat, not the other way around.
A bell signified last orders. I turned to see the mutated barman ring that bell like his lack of life depended on it. His arm fell off. I spun back to the girl. She was on the table, teeth readily sharpened, my own blood dripping from her imperfect teeth. I had to get out of there. There was no way out. The door refused to budge, the windows refused to smash. I was trapped.
Dawn had decided to eat me out instead.
*
I awoke in the best shape of my life. Then I peered out the window and saw my ransacked Rover wrapped around the tree, a body being shunted into an ambulance. My body. My eyes stretched further, tyre tracks leading into a ditch where another vehicle was. Another body escorted from the wreckage. A woman. Dawn.
“They found a bottle of whisky by his feet.” said the paramedic.
Some celebration. I glanced back, reaching for the door handle. It refused to open. I suddenly found myself trapped and I wasn’t alone. The barman greeted me with a wry smile. Perched on a stool was a mournful Dawn, a nasty head wound hiding her fragile beauty.
The next time I see her she’s dead.
A bitter wind in my face was almost too much to bear. With my car wrapped around the tree like a koala it was a miracle I was still able to walk. A miracle my sanctuary smelt of cheap ale and scampi fries.
Inside it was hardly Gin Lane. Mother Hubbard would have loved it here, a lack of custom hardly surprising with One Republic playing on the jukebox. A girl barely out of her teens sat alone, her table littered with empty bottles and an overcrowded ashtray. I stopped and stared. She had an unnerving innocence about her, just what I was looking for.
There was no need to rush into things. The only competition came from the barman and he looked just as forlorn as she did. This place lived up to its name alright. I was on my third pint of Dutch courage when Dawn staggered over to me. I hadn’t spoken to a woman in ages.
I was a mess of a man, unkempt, the ring on my finger Frodo-like, turning me invisible for the last ten years. I stank of cheap booze, the same shirt gracing my back three days running. It wasn’t a record. There was only so much blame I could pin on a possessive ex-wife. Besides, I was a free man, tonight was supposed to be a celebration. The previous five hours had been just that. What better way to kill the fatted calf than to do it with this fine woman shadowing me like a re-homed greyhound. Her seductive scent was stimulating parts I’d forgotten existed. Play it cool, I told myself.
“It sure is dead tonight.” She said, gazing down at me through large trusting eyes.
Her hand snapped forward, pulling a chair out from underneath the table, joining me. She squeezed my arm tight. My heart started pounding, my knees doing a Grobbelar. This wasn’t happening. It was too easy. I was old enough to be her father and she was drunk. I couldn’t believe my luck.
“Can I get you another?”
“You better.” she replied, her voice touched by a sadness I really didn’t want to get into. Whilst I pitied the bloke that ditched this fine woman, I couldn’t help but thank him at the same time. I was looking for confirmation I wasn’t quite past it so I plastered a smile on my face and hoped for the best. We drank, smoked and talked, mostly about her and how her life was officially over. I wanted to go somewhere more private but she kept talking. Maybe that was all she ever wanted to do. Maybe she didn’t want to feel wanted at all. Maybe I had been out of the game too long and couldn’t read the signs.
“You’re gorgeous.” I remarked, foolishly. All that Richard Curtis bitch-piss Barbara forced me to watch had taken its toll. Dawn glared at me.
“Just kidding,” I said, trying to claw back some self-respect. I shifted awkwardly on my stool, rubbing my sweaty hands along my thighs. A bottle of Stella flew at my head. It was too big, too quick and too fast, my reflexes too comatose to stop the missile exploding on my face.
Dawn buried her head deep into the table in front of me. I couldn’t believe it. She was more insane than Barbara. Now was definitely a good time to leave. I staggered from my stool, glancing across at the barman out of politeness. He stared back at me. That’s when I saw his face…
I felt a tap on my back. I spun around, feeling a searing pain at my throat. That was no love bite. Snarling at me, Dawn now resembled Boris Karloff in drag; a hate-filled, flesh-flying, disembowelled cannibalistic zombie. She hesitated, a vacant and unsuspecting face awakened from death by the return of something I really didn’t want to know about. I came here for a drink and a bite to eat, not the other way around.
A bell signified last orders. I turned to see the mutated barman ring that bell like his lack of life depended on it. His arm fell off. I spun back to the girl. She was on the table, teeth readily sharpened, my own blood dripping from her imperfect teeth. I had to get out of there. There was no way out. The door refused to budge, the windows refused to smash. I was trapped.
Dawn had decided to eat me out instead.
*
I awoke in the best shape of my life. Then I peered out the window and saw my ransacked Rover wrapped around the tree, a body being shunted into an ambulance. My body. My eyes stretched further, tyre tracks leading into a ditch where another vehicle was. Another body escorted from the wreckage. A woman. Dawn.
“They found a bottle of whisky by his feet.” said the paramedic.
Some celebration. I glanced back, reaching for the door handle. It refused to open. I suddenly found myself trapped and I wasn’t alone. The barman greeted me with a wry smile. Perched on a stool was a mournful Dawn, a nasty head wound hiding her fragile beauty.
The next time I see her she’s dead.
Articles
LET HIM ENTERTAIN YOU
Kevin Keegan had barely enough time to get comfortable inside the dugout when Marvin, the pessimistic android, squeezed beside him to offer his enthusiastic support. Ignoring the depressed robot’s vote of confidence, Keegan stepped out on to the pitch to a scene no longer Hitchhiker’s but pure Hitchcock. An avian attack in waiting, hundreds of starved cynics perched on the seats of the main stand, claws freshly sharpened, all waiting silently for any false move so they could take to the sky and begin their savage assault on one of Newcastle United’s greatest players.
Success has been more comatose than the residents of Sleepy Hollow. It’s so sleepy, Freddy Krueger is rumoured to have sold his property on Elm Street and moved to Tyneside. Rare highlights include a semi-final appearance in the FA Cup during the 2004-05 season and runners-up in the Premier League way back in 1997. Now the Club is trying to achieve the impossible. Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins do Rocky. This may be the toughest fight of Keegan’s life but it also seems to have jolted the city out of its coma.
Whilst Keegan resembled the shy and reclusive Edward Scissorhands, the crowd for the FA Cup replay against Stoke at St. James’s Park had more than doubled. Hundreds were locked out, unable to buy a ticket; thousands had been reunited with their favourite passion. This is a man trying to start a new chapter in his life, a new chapter in the history of a Football Club that over the years has sunken slower than the Titanic.
It happens only in the movies. Kevin Keegan, Chairman Chris Mort and owner Mike Ashley shouldn’t be revered; they should be welcomed to their theatre of dreams with arms aloft, hugs all around, and a large bucket of popcorn. Even the third instalment of horror trilogy Final Destination cannot compare with the rollercoaster ride of this upcoming season. Already the arrival of former Leeds United boss Dennis Wise as executive director has added a greater twist than the ending of The Usual Suspects.
At long last a trophy cabinet more desolate than Fargo could be brimming with silverware and more importantly, the supporters, heedless of their team’s failings, will be entertained. Don’t expect it to raise a smile on Marvin’s face, but maybe on Big Sam’s.
0-60 POUNDS IN SECONDS
Last Monday (January 28th) shoppers cheered as a £60 ticket was issued to an illegally parked £1 million Bugatti Veyron left in a loading bay in Manchester city centre.
Six months prior residents of Market Harborough, Leicestershire, were introduced to Vlad the Impaler and his blood red army of cruel Parking Attendants. The town had recently become decriminalised, existing traffic regulation orders now enforced by the council instead of the police.
It wasn’t long before residents swarmed all over the offices of the local newspaper to complain. Instead of reading The Highway Code they wrote angry letters glossing over the facts for sympathy.
One angry townsman believed that the local council had discovered an easy way to make money out of unsuspecting motorists. Another insisted the local council was trying to drive shoppers from their own town.
The latter included a moving story about buying their child her first pair of shoes. After driving around town for some time, ignoring the many car parks charging an extortionate 20 pence per hour they finally found a space disguised as a single yellow line. A sign post alongside it stated that no parking was permitted between the hours of 8am and 6pm.
Astonishingly, the address supplied alongside the letter was actually a five minute walk from the town, so why this parent was going to buy her daughter a pair of shoes when she would never get any use out of them was never really explained.
Other complaints followed when commuters travelling to London ignored a residents parking scheme introduced to an area surrounding the train station. Despite being in too much of a hurry to park sensibly the disgruntled commuters still found enough time to write angry letters aimed at Vlad and his band of merry men.
Other letters have noted that natives are allowed to park on double yellow lines if they live in the house opposing them because it’s their property and therefore they also own the road. These letters kindly offered advice, telling readers that by challenging fines with the line ‘but I have always done it’ should mean that they are rescinded.
Social networking sites on the Internet are throbbing with groups claiming to ‘hate’ parking attendants and not one applauds them like the shoppers of Manchester. It seems laughing at someone else’s misfortune is on a par with parking incorrectly and until this stupidity changes Vlad will happily continue with his legendary cruelty.
Kevin Keegan had barely enough time to get comfortable inside the dugout when Marvin, the pessimistic android, squeezed beside him to offer his enthusiastic support. Ignoring the depressed robot’s vote of confidence, Keegan stepped out on to the pitch to a scene no longer Hitchhiker’s but pure Hitchcock. An avian attack in waiting, hundreds of starved cynics perched on the seats of the main stand, claws freshly sharpened, all waiting silently for any false move so they could take to the sky and begin their savage assault on one of Newcastle United’s greatest players.
Success has been more comatose than the residents of Sleepy Hollow. It’s so sleepy, Freddy Krueger is rumoured to have sold his property on Elm Street and moved to Tyneside. Rare highlights include a semi-final appearance in the FA Cup during the 2004-05 season and runners-up in the Premier League way back in 1997. Now the Club is trying to achieve the impossible. Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins do Rocky. This may be the toughest fight of Keegan’s life but it also seems to have jolted the city out of its coma.
Whilst Keegan resembled the shy and reclusive Edward Scissorhands, the crowd for the FA Cup replay against Stoke at St. James’s Park had more than doubled. Hundreds were locked out, unable to buy a ticket; thousands had been reunited with their favourite passion. This is a man trying to start a new chapter in his life, a new chapter in the history of a Football Club that over the years has sunken slower than the Titanic.
It happens only in the movies. Kevin Keegan, Chairman Chris Mort and owner Mike Ashley shouldn’t be revered; they should be welcomed to their theatre of dreams with arms aloft, hugs all around, and a large bucket of popcorn. Even the third instalment of horror trilogy Final Destination cannot compare with the rollercoaster ride of this upcoming season. Already the arrival of former Leeds United boss Dennis Wise as executive director has added a greater twist than the ending of The Usual Suspects.
At long last a trophy cabinet more desolate than Fargo could be brimming with silverware and more importantly, the supporters, heedless of their team’s failings, will be entertained. Don’t expect it to raise a smile on Marvin’s face, but maybe on Big Sam’s.
0-60 POUNDS IN SECONDS
Last Monday (January 28th) shoppers cheered as a £60 ticket was issued to an illegally parked £1 million Bugatti Veyron left in a loading bay in Manchester city centre.
Six months prior residents of Market Harborough, Leicestershire, were introduced to Vlad the Impaler and his blood red army of cruel Parking Attendants. The town had recently become decriminalised, existing traffic regulation orders now enforced by the council instead of the police.
It wasn’t long before residents swarmed all over the offices of the local newspaper to complain. Instead of reading The Highway Code they wrote angry letters glossing over the facts for sympathy.
One angry townsman believed that the local council had discovered an easy way to make money out of unsuspecting motorists. Another insisted the local council was trying to drive shoppers from their own town.
The latter included a moving story about buying their child her first pair of shoes. After driving around town for some time, ignoring the many car parks charging an extortionate 20 pence per hour they finally found a space disguised as a single yellow line. A sign post alongside it stated that no parking was permitted between the hours of 8am and 6pm.
Astonishingly, the address supplied alongside the letter was actually a five minute walk from the town, so why this parent was going to buy her daughter a pair of shoes when she would never get any use out of them was never really explained.
Other complaints followed when commuters travelling to London ignored a residents parking scheme introduced to an area surrounding the train station. Despite being in too much of a hurry to park sensibly the disgruntled commuters still found enough time to write angry letters aimed at Vlad and his band of merry men.
Other letters have noted that natives are allowed to park on double yellow lines if they live in the house opposing them because it’s their property and therefore they also own the road. These letters kindly offered advice, telling readers that by challenging fines with the line ‘but I have always done it’ should mean that they are rescinded.
Social networking sites on the Internet are throbbing with groups claiming to ‘hate’ parking attendants and not one applauds them like the shoppers of Manchester. It seems laughing at someone else’s misfortune is on a par with parking incorrectly and until this stupidity changes Vlad will happily continue with his legendary cruelty.
A town, a team and a dream
A Town. A Team. And a dream.
On a recent shopping trip I happened to stray past a local bookstore. Intrigued, as any sad little bookseller would be, I reluctantly entered the dilapidated building, hoping to meet fellow geeks like myself, albeit better looking and female, when I happened upon a shelf in the sports section.
A book, simple in itself, stared back at me. I should make it clear that it wasn’t eyeballing me. It’s not like I went in there looking for a fight. I picked it up, ignoring WWF Divas Uncovered, hypnotised by its tender purring, the subtle sparkle from its smouldering red and white dust jacket pleading with me, begging me to take it from its isolated perch.
My eyes did not deceive me. The following book is real.
THE EVENING TELEGRAPH NUMBER ONE BESTSELLER…
‘Just about everything you could ask for in a sports book… excluding promotion to the Football League’
SATURDAY
NIGHT
PINTS
I continued, turning inwards, my eyes disbelieving when I reached that singular page denoting a dedication from its author…
To Owen Wright, whom I miss.
To Anton, English and Gazza, whom I don’t.
Entranced, ignoring the lofty beauty of the six-fingered bookseller trying to encourage me to read Harry Potter I turn to the back cover, curiously wondering what I’d laid my greasy mitts on. Scanning the blurb, I soon find out…
In the country of Northamptonshire football is rubbish. And nowhere is more rubbish than the small town of Kettering. There, every Saturday afternoon from August to May, a bunch of footballers play their hearts out for the honour of their town. Or a town that pays them just about enough to do it (unless they have to turn professional, then they join someone else). They play in front of 900 people. Unless an England legend stops by, leaving shortly after, like the unwanted Uncle at a Wedding, only here for the party.
In 1990 Daryl Wing spent a season, then another, then another twelve, discovering just what makes a town pin its hopes on anything but the eleven men on a football field. He lived with the students, plumbers, postmen, pickers, packers, coaches and townspeople who dedicate their lives to their team, sharing their joys and triumphs, their pains, injuries and bitter disappointments. Mostly the latter.
Saturday Night Pints is one of the best books about sport ever written. It is the story of how dreams and reality collide, at once glorious and immensely sad. Very sad in fact, because for the twenty-odd men (until we get a reserve team) of Kettering Town FC these days will have been the best of their, and our, lives.
‘Superb and disturbing… more than a sports book, it’s a search for the ideal of ordinary people.’ ETHEL, NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOUR. BIT MAD.
‘A remarkable book, fascinating from start to finish, full of surprises, especially when you realise there isn’t one’ BOB
‘Saturday Night Pints offers a biting indictment of the sports craziness that grips, and infuriates most partners… it also explains why drinking heavily is the only cure’ KETTERING BOOK CLUB
I ran out that bookstore like Owen Wright once did down the wing, only I didn’t hit the wall on Cowper Street. Instead I stumbled inside the decadent exterior of a run-down video shop. Out of breath, my eyes strayed upon a dusty entrapment, once again its smouldering poppy red enticing me with the warmth of its figure-hugging glow.
They’d only gone and made the film as well…
FROM THE PRODUCER OF 11 MILE
(To Kettering from Harborough)
PAUL GAZZA GASGOINE
SATURDAY
NIGHT
PINTS*****
“The best sports movie for years.”
EVENING TELEGRAPH
“This is a must-see sporting classic… I just wish they’d win promotion.”
JOHN VAUGHAN – THE SUN INN
Obviously, I turned to the back cover, praying they hadn’t turned it all Spielberg with CGI and sentimental final acts. They hadn’t.
When you come from nothing, winning isn’t everything… it’s the only thing.
****
HEAT
(Didn’t one of the players shag the ginger one from Girls aloud?)
Academy Award winning producer Daryl Wing (11 mile) and director Tony Wing (Welcome to Wetherspoons and King Dad) team up with Oscar winner Tarkan Mustafa (Bandits, The Descent) to create what THE SUN called “Wally - who cares if it’s female.”
Saturday Night Pints chronicles the 15 years spent by a courageous bunch of friends, Kettering Town FC, the most successful football team in Northamptonshire’s history. For the young men of the team, every play is a chance to transcend their small town and the fleeting dream of the Football League whose pinnacle may be reached by the time they turn 81. The movie paints a vivid portrait of Kettering and places like it across England where once a week, sometimes twice, during the full season, the town and its hopes come alive beneath the dazzling lights of Gala Bingo.
I couldn’t be bothered checking out the special features. There hadn’t been that many special moments during the last 15 years. Only recently we witnessed the beauty of national exposure. We’d always wanted it, so when suddenly we got it, weren’t we glad when it was all over, normality resumed? Finally, we can return to what our team do best. Underachieve.
Fortunately, Gazza has already written his autobiography and I’m guessing we won’t be seeing a Special Edition or the missing chapters in the very near future. So please, let’s move on, shall we? Let this be the penultimate chapter on a very weird and wonderful season. Now all we have to do is win promotion or Saturday night pints will be drowning our sorrows forever more.
On a recent shopping trip I happened to stray past a local bookstore. Intrigued, as any sad little bookseller would be, I reluctantly entered the dilapidated building, hoping to meet fellow geeks like myself, albeit better looking and female, when I happened upon a shelf in the sports section.
A book, simple in itself, stared back at me. I should make it clear that it wasn’t eyeballing me. It’s not like I went in there looking for a fight. I picked it up, ignoring WWF Divas Uncovered, hypnotised by its tender purring, the subtle sparkle from its smouldering red and white dust jacket pleading with me, begging me to take it from its isolated perch.
My eyes did not deceive me. The following book is real.
THE EVENING TELEGRAPH NUMBER ONE BESTSELLER…
‘Just about everything you could ask for in a sports book… excluding promotion to the Football League’
SATURDAY
NIGHT
PINTS
I continued, turning inwards, my eyes disbelieving when I reached that singular page denoting a dedication from its author…
To Owen Wright, whom I miss.
To Anton, English and Gazza, whom I don’t.
Entranced, ignoring the lofty beauty of the six-fingered bookseller trying to encourage me to read Harry Potter I turn to the back cover, curiously wondering what I’d laid my greasy mitts on. Scanning the blurb, I soon find out…
In the country of Northamptonshire football is rubbish. And nowhere is more rubbish than the small town of Kettering. There, every Saturday afternoon from August to May, a bunch of footballers play their hearts out for the honour of their town. Or a town that pays them just about enough to do it (unless they have to turn professional, then they join someone else). They play in front of 900 people. Unless an England legend stops by, leaving shortly after, like the unwanted Uncle at a Wedding, only here for the party.
In 1990 Daryl Wing spent a season, then another, then another twelve, discovering just what makes a town pin its hopes on anything but the eleven men on a football field. He lived with the students, plumbers, postmen, pickers, packers, coaches and townspeople who dedicate their lives to their team, sharing their joys and triumphs, their pains, injuries and bitter disappointments. Mostly the latter.
Saturday Night Pints is one of the best books about sport ever written. It is the story of how dreams and reality collide, at once glorious and immensely sad. Very sad in fact, because for the twenty-odd men (until we get a reserve team) of Kettering Town FC these days will have been the best of their, and our, lives.
‘Superb and disturbing… more than a sports book, it’s a search for the ideal of ordinary people.’ ETHEL, NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOUR. BIT MAD.
‘A remarkable book, fascinating from start to finish, full of surprises, especially when you realise there isn’t one’ BOB
‘Saturday Night Pints offers a biting indictment of the sports craziness that grips, and infuriates most partners… it also explains why drinking heavily is the only cure’ KETTERING BOOK CLUB
I ran out that bookstore like Owen Wright once did down the wing, only I didn’t hit the wall on Cowper Street. Instead I stumbled inside the decadent exterior of a run-down video shop. Out of breath, my eyes strayed upon a dusty entrapment, once again its smouldering poppy red enticing me with the warmth of its figure-hugging glow.
They’d only gone and made the film as well…
FROM THE PRODUCER OF 11 MILE
(To Kettering from Harborough)
PAUL GAZZA GASGOINE
SATURDAY
NIGHT
PINTS*****
“The best sports movie for years.”
EVENING TELEGRAPH
“This is a must-see sporting classic… I just wish they’d win promotion.”
JOHN VAUGHAN – THE SUN INN
Obviously, I turned to the back cover, praying they hadn’t turned it all Spielberg with CGI and sentimental final acts. They hadn’t.
When you come from nothing, winning isn’t everything… it’s the only thing.
****
HEAT
(Didn’t one of the players shag the ginger one from Girls aloud?)
Academy Award winning producer Daryl Wing (11 mile) and director Tony Wing (Welcome to Wetherspoons and King Dad) team up with Oscar winner Tarkan Mustafa (Bandits, The Descent) to create what THE SUN called “Wally - who cares if it’s female.”
Saturday Night Pints chronicles the 15 years spent by a courageous bunch of friends, Kettering Town FC, the most successful football team in Northamptonshire’s history. For the young men of the team, every play is a chance to transcend their small town and the fleeting dream of the Football League whose pinnacle may be reached by the time they turn 81. The movie paints a vivid portrait of Kettering and places like it across England where once a week, sometimes twice, during the full season, the town and its hopes come alive beneath the dazzling lights of Gala Bingo.
I couldn’t be bothered checking out the special features. There hadn’t been that many special moments during the last 15 years. Only recently we witnessed the beauty of national exposure. We’d always wanted it, so when suddenly we got it, weren’t we glad when it was all over, normality resumed? Finally, we can return to what our team do best. Underachieve.
Fortunately, Gazza has already written his autobiography and I’m guessing we won’t be seeing a Special Edition or the missing chapters in the very near future. So please, let’s move on, shall we? Let this be the penultimate chapter on a very weird and wonderful season. Now all we have to do is win promotion or Saturday night pints will be drowning our sorrows forever more.
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