Strange bedfellows

Ronnie had stretched himself along the sofa, leaving poor David wedged in a corner.  

I was deep in an evening siesta, face down, doubled over the faded cushion of an armchair, knees on the carpet.  

Football highlights were playing on the TV as I came to.  Ronnie was watching distractedly, fingers of one hand arched around a cigarette, the other cupping a whiskey.  The game was in black and white.

I flopped into the armchair.  “Who’s playing?”

“Tottingham.” from the far end of the sofa.

“Tot’nam! Not fucking Tottingham.”

David gave a sidelong glance, but said nothing, not wanting to cross his hero.

“They’re a shadow of what they were back then.  Couldn’t touch West Brom, though.”  Ronnie blew smoke across the room.  “Who do you support?”

I stood up and buttoned my jeans.

“Any of that whiskey going?”

Ronnie tipped his head towards the bottle.  I took a glass from the table.

“I’m not very loyal.”  I answered.  “Leeds United.  In their heyday.”

“Dirty bastards.” 

“York City.”

“Don’t knock it.  They done alright once.  I remember some good sides.”

“Barry Swallow, Graeme Crawford, Paul Aimson.  That was my time.  We had Albert Johansson from Leeds.”

“One of the first black players in the league.”

“Yeah.  I followed Sheff Wed, too.”

“You can get counselling.”

“I have.”

“Who do you follow now?”

“Depends where I am.  I’m trying to think.  Borussia… something.  No.  Not Bayern.  Oh shit, what is it?”

Ronnie flicked the telly over.  He chuckled to himself.  A band was playing.  All glitter and glam.  It was Top of the Pops. 70s. “Fuckin ell, look at em.”

“Your era, Ron.”

“Cheeky cunt.  It’s all my fuckin era.”

David spluttered at the end of the sofa and got a kick in the ribs.

A light switched on in my head.  

“Aaaaah. Crazy shit!”

“What?”

“Real Madrid!  That’s who I support.  I was dreaming that I lived in Berlin.  Crazy, crazy!  I really believed it.   No, it’s Real.  More or less.”

Ronnie dug David in the ribs again.  “He’s not right, your kid.”

“You’re not kidding.”

I gave up on them and went upstairs, walking into my mam and dad’s bedroom without knocking.

My dad was buttoning a starched shirt.  He had a bow tie curled in his fingers.  My mam was holding up two dresses, wondering which to put on.

“Where are you going?”

My dad looked up.  “The Mitre.”

“In that lot?  It’s dog rough down there.”

“We like dressing up.” my mam answered.  “It’s Saturday night.  We’ll be in the lounge.”

“Jesus.  You’ll get beaten up.”

A noise in the street woke me, thank goodness.  These things can drive you insane.

Eight o’clock.  I’ve been asleep for hours.