2

In the hospital, experts and specialists were being called. Everything about P had been checked and re-checked, tested and re-tested. Scans had been taken, X-rays had been taken, blood had been tested and sampled and drugs administered. All to no avail, P slept on.
Jo had been taken to a waiting room and served strong tea and sympathy until P’s mother and Jo’s parents arrived. She sat in a state of nervous exhaustion, her eyes sagging and red through worry and tears, her head aching through stress, her body weak and strained and her mind confused and filled with dread. She told and re-told the story to everybody who wanted to hear it, but there was really nothing to tell. They had gone to bed the previous evening, had sex (she left this bit out of the story for the parents) and gone to sleep.
The following morning she awoke and he did not. Jo thought he was joking, but he just would not wake up. Whether people were sceptical or worried or perplexed or all three, nobody seemed to believe that it was quite as simple as that. Jo was not sure what they were digging for or what they expected her to say. They had not fought or argued and P was not ill. He just wouldn’t wake up.
Through doors and walls where machines lit up and went bowwwwnnngg and doctors scratched each others heads in confusion as they read test results and suggested treatments and therapies and ideas, P slept on, the only person aware of what was happening, was the God of Miracles, Practical jokes and Good, but hard to believe stuff, who was happily chuckling and chortling to himself whilst sipping at a very old special brandy juice as an angel rubbed his shoulders. He did not really have shoulders, but you could do these things when you were a God.
Eventually, after Jo and her parents had been waiting in the hospital for over thirty-six hours, her father persuaded her to go home and sleep after being told that although they did not know when P would wake up, he could wake up at any moment as there did not appear to be much wrong with him. Jo conceded eventually and went home with her parents to sleep. The doctor in charge of P’s treatment assured her that P would be kept in for observation even if he did wake up.
It took some time and some brandy before she finally achieved it, but eventually Jo slept, much to her parent’s relief.

His father, Mr Stanley Alfred P as he was known to visiting policemen (and as SAP to his mother), was reading the paper over breakfast wearing the slippers his toes poked through and his ragged breakfast gown, the same gown he had worn for as long as P could remember, the gown he refused to have breakfast without. When he was at home, of course. He often had long spells away. That was what his mother always said when P asked where he was. ‘He’s away’ she would say. Away where? ‘Just away. Eat your sprouts’. But here he was today, sitting in his splendour. On the few occasions his mother had managed to wash it, she only placated her fathead husband with breakfast in bed. This still didn’t stop him moaning all day about it.
His father burped like a shotgun, shaking the picture of an old lake with an old fisherman on it above the table, got up from the table and took his paper with him for his regular post-breakfast dump. P watched him wobble away from the table in admiration. Fatter than a sitting hippo, more powerful than a PE teacher, able to gulp tall helpings in a single mound, it’s FATMAN!!! With his skin-tight, pink super-hero outfit he strikes fear into low, criminal types by the vastness of his blubber and his ability to trap people in alleyways by standing at one end until the Commissioner’s boys turn up. Fatman slammed the toilet door, bravely dropped his pants and let drop the first smell bomb of the day.
‘Oh not Shredded Wheat AGAIN’. Moaned P as his mother plopped a healthy bowlful before him, not knowing the danger she was in angering the Unbelievable Rubberman.
‘Stop moaning and eat it’ said his mother, hiding her fear quite brilliantly.
‘Yeah, stop minging like a girlie, Shat or else’. Herman had always called him Shat. It was one of the first words P had ever spoken and Herman gleefully encouraged his toddler brother to say it as often as he could. He subsequently called him Shat to make him feel small. As often as he remembered. P hated him.
‘Or else what?’ asked the Unbelievable Rubberman stretching himself into a noose, ready to dangle his dastardly brother to a fate worse than death. No, actually death would just about do it.
‘Or else you’ll get shredded feet later, that’s what’ said Herman with a malevolent grin. For all the efforts P made to stand up to Herman, his threats made him flinch back, worriedly, back into his regular human shape.
‘Mum, Herman said he’s gonna give me shredded feet’.
‘No you are not, Herman, you eat yours as well’ said his mother. This confused them both.
‘No, no shredded FEET’.
‘Shredded Feet? There’s no such thing’ said his mother. ‘He’s probably thinking of Weetabix. Anyway I do all the shopping round here’. P’s mother was a little odd, even for a mother. She was full of money saving ideas like wearing three sets of clothes all through the winter to save on the gas, making vases out of coffee jars, porridge so thin it was like soup and using all food leftovers for other strange dishes like Potato burgers, cabbage on toast, spaghetti sandwiches, carrot stew, corned beef casserole, all were standard fare in P’s childhood. It wasn’t just food, though. Whenever she washed his woolly hat, she would stretch it over an inflated balloon to dry “in the right shape”. If any of their family had shoes that were a little too tight, all she had to do was to fill them with water and put them in the freezer.
His mother was constantly tipping people into the spin dryer of confusion. In these instances it was better to try to think of something else. Like how to avoid Rachel and how to avoid being told off when everything he ever seemed to do got him told off and whether he should get a thin moustache like Zorro or a bigger, bushier Iron Man type. Hmmmm. Life was full of difficult choices and facial hair was just one of them. Even his Nan had some.
P was constantly being chastised in his youth, even when he was trying to be good. Like the time he had tried to give Mrs Rocos one of his sweet peanuts, but accidentally knocked her plant over instead, drenching her skirt with water and bits of dirt. Mrs Rocos had leapt to her feet and sworn at him! And her a teacher! P was sure that teachers were not allowed to swear, but Mrs Rocos seemed to have had plenty of practice.
Later that afternoon, P confided in Herman, telling him about the plant accident. ‘What did she say?’ asked Herman eagerly. His furtive eagerness and closeness should have given P a clue straight away. Herman was never interested in what he had to say and rarely asked him about anything, especially school.
‘She swore at me’ P told him, incensed.
‘Well, what did she say exactly?’ Sadly and naively, P could still not see what was coming. He looked carefully, if a little theatrically around even though he knew they were alone. Herman leaned forward, conspiratorially, eager for the words that would drop him right in it.
‘She said, “Shit! You idiot”‘ he whispered. He was going to tell Herman what else Mrs Rocos had said, but Herman grinned, ran out of the bedroom ‘hee-heeing’ and into the living room to gleefully inform their father of P’s crime. ‘Dad, Dad, Shat just swore’.
His father threw down his newspaper and hit the bedroom like a slow, fat thunderstorm. ‘What did you say?’
‘I.. I was only telling him what Mrs Rocos said to me today’ said P, now beginning to realise the evil trap Herman had lured him into.
‘Well, what did she say, then?’ Father was not going to be put off. Too late P realised his fate. He desperately tried to stop his bottom lip from wobbling as his neck disappeared into his shoulders and he shrank back from the inevitable whack.
‘She said ‘Shit! You idiot’’. WHACK.
‘Don’t ever let me hear you fucking swear again’.
He hated Herman more than ever at that moment as he sat on his bed opposite grinning maliciously at him, while P lay carefully on his own bed with a burning bottom. He swore that he would get Herman one day. One day he’d get him back for everything. Why couldn’t he be a nice brother like Fat Andy? Although he did get his revenge on Herman. A few months later when his father was telling him off for something, his father walked out of the bedroom and as he left Herman said ‘fuck off’ under his breath. But P had heard it and ran after His father to tell him, although he was only allowed to say F rather than fuck.
His father blazed back into the bedroom, raging. ‘WHAT DID YOU SAY?’ He screamed. Herman quivered and shook his head, saying nothing. ‘You told me to fuck off, didn’t ya?’ Herman’s lip trembled as real fear became apparent in his eyes. His father gave him such a wallop that P almost regretted telling His father.
Herman gave P a whack back once His father had left, so P ran crying into the living room, howling with exaggerated pain and rubbing his eyes. His father delivered another hefty wallop with gusto and Herman was a little less sadistic after that. It also curbed P’s tongue a little.
Tra-la-la and hey-diddly-dee, a dreamers life for P. Brightly coloured, fizzy pop bubbles rose out of P’s subconscious mind and popped, burst and billowed through the sky of his imagination, sweeping him forward a year in time on a sugar candy tidal wave of nostalgic reverie. To May 1971 and P was sitting on a chocolate brown carpet stained with curry, coffee and Colin the collie watching the Big Match with Herman, His father and Brian Moore. If there was ever any football on the telly, his father would not shut up about West Ham. Even if it was West Ham they were watching and West Ham lost! He was a big West Ham fan in his youth, he used to say, although P doubted that his father was ever young. It was like imagining him being skinny or his Nan in her underwear or a triangular moon. Although he thought he had seen the last one in a Toblerone advert.
‘Look at that. Fucking miles offside’ and ‘that ref must be sodding blind’ and ‘have you ever seen a jammier goal?’ It was best to either agree or just say nothing.
Herman, of course, was also a West Ham fan. Of course. Occasionally His father would take Herman along to see a game in one of those rare father and son things he seemed to have very little interest in. Herman always ended up sitting on a cold concrete step outside a pub for hours on end with the odd flat lemonade and plain crisps brought out when His father remembered he was there or walking home alone.
For some reason, P had never been that interested in watching football. He liked to play, loved to play, but not to watch and as he didn’t watch, he didn’t follow a team. But, he had recently started to take an interest in the Arsenal. Everyone at school hated them, except a new boy called Jim, who being new, small AND an Arsenal fan, was picked on relentlessly, especially by Andy, who was a terrible bully. P just used to try to blend into the background like Captain Scarlet when they bullied little Jim. P felt terribly sorry for him, perhaps because of Herman, but Jim was no pushover and one day after the Arsenal had stuffed West Ham, he’d had enough of being the school biffbag, so he lashed out with a beautiful peach of a punch and landed it on Andy’s fat tomato nose. The tomato nose bled tomato sauce, Andy rushed to the toilets blubbing like a girl and Jim was left alone from then on.
For some reason, that incident strengthened P’s love of the Arsenal. From that day on, Sunday afternoons were all about the Big Match. Ba ba ber baaaaa, ba ber baaaaaa, ba ber bababaaaaa ba ba dahdadaaaahhhhhhhh BOM BOM BOM. I liked to watch the Arsenal and Charlie George especially. Charlie was great. He had long hair, scored great goals, poked two fingers up at people and argued all the time! He was Fantastic! P wanted to be just like him and after scoring for the school in his next game, he flicked two fingers at the opposing centre back on the way back to the centre circle and received a slap in the mouth from the centre back and a ticking off from the referee, who decided to ignore the slap altogether! That never happened to Charlie, but then Charlie would just have clobbered the defender back.
A few Saturday’s later, the Arsenal were playing Liverpool in the FA Cup final. P had never bothered with the cup final before, especially as the previous summer was full of FAB footy from the Mexico world cup, but this year he decided that he would watch because it was the Arsenal and Charlie.
His father said Liverpool would murder them, despite the fact that the Arsenal had just won the championship a mile ahead of Liverpool (whatever that meant. P had just nodded and grinned when a cock-a-hoop Jim had told him). Everyone at school on Friday was hoping Liverpool would win and picking on Jim.
‘Well, I want Arsenal to win’ P piped up, boldly.
The other boys were aghast and turned on him with loose chins. Fat Andy most of all. ‘Why?’ he asked, menacingly, his mouth like a bumhole.
‘Because I like them’.
‘Are you an Arsenal supporter, then?’ asked Andy. ‘An Arse fan?’
‘Errrrmm, yeah’ said P thinly and positive this was the wrong thing to say, being anything but a supporter and feeling like he should have said no.
‘Then I’m not your friend anymore’ said Fat Andy and wobbled off, leading the other boys and leaving P with Jim and Butch. Andy tried to bully him after that and thumped him really hard on the arm several times. Jim thumped him back a couple of times for him, but it was only after Andy punched him in the face and made his lip bleed that P lost his temper and his fear, leaping up off the floor thumping him back, knocking him clean off his fat feet and sending him running away again in girly tears. He never punched anybody again.
‘I’ll be your friend, if you like’ said Jim.
‘What about you, Butch?’ P asked the lone boy leaning against the wall by the stairs, trying to look up the girls skirts. Butch looked up horrified someone had spoken to him, stopped picking his nose and shrugged.
‘My Dad takes me to Tottenham, so I don’t really like football’ he said, quietly.
‘I like Arsenal’ said Rachel appearing out of nowhere like a Mysteron, smiling. Butch stuck a finger up his nose and bent down slightly. ‘Oh buzz off, Ray’ said P and off she buzzed looking slightly hurt and disappointed as always. Would she never learn? Butch bent down to pick up a dead leaf, then stared intently at it without speaking, his index finger rammed motionless up his left nostril. Jim suddenly started shouting and P joined in. ‘RRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRR’ And for no reason in particular, the two of them ran across the playground as fast as they could, shouting as loudly as they could, leaving Butch to stare at his leaf. P just beat Jim to the railings at the end of the playground and they both grabbed them and shook them as hard as they could, grimacing and gurning like monsters.
So there they were, the three bestest chums in all the world who were outcasts when it came to the West Ham dominated football scene at school, despite P’s brilliance in the footy team. Fat Andy was true to his word. He stopped being friends with both P and Butch and in the summer his family moved out to the vile wilderness of Essex and they were never seen again.
Saturday came and Herman, a woozy father and P sat down to watch the cup final. Arsenal v Liverpool. Oooohhhh the excitement. Ooohh the tension. Ooohh the variety of crisps.
‘What d’yer reckon, Dad?’ asked creepy Herman.
‘Urrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, about 2-0 to Liverpool’.
‘Hear that, Shat? 2-0 to Liverpool. I think it’s gonna be 5-0 to Liverpool. What do you think, little Shat?’
‘5-0 to Arsenal’ said P, defiantly, his mouth as tight as a sore poohole.
‘HAH! 5-0!!?? I think not, little Shat’. Why couldn’t Herman just die like Tubby Turner’s brother? Or just leaving home would do. Tubby Turner’s brother was seventeen and had his own motorbike. Until he came off it racing his mates around death bend and bounced off his bike into the wall into a tree onto the floor and into the grave. Tubby Turner went from being a lardy, spotty pain to a really cool lardy, spotty geezer after that. Imagine having your own brother die in a bike crash. It was like being a film star!
‘I’m ffffffucking ashamed, a lad o’mine being an Arsenal supporter. Whass wrong wi’ the ‘Ammers, then eh?’
‘I just like Arsenal, that’s all’.
‘All? ALL?? You’ve never even been over there’ screamed his father as P started to feel hot flushes appear on his cheeks as His father continued his post-pub tirade and Herman grinned at him.
‘I’ve never been to West Ham, either’.
‘You been to West Ham loads o’ times when I’ve took you over yer Granddad’s’.
‘That doesn’t count, going to Granddad’s house. All you can see from there is the top of the stand. Bor-ring’. P screwed up his eyes and wished for them both to fall asleep as if brushed with magic sleepy powder.
‘Well, I still took yer, didn’t I?’ A dreamy smile appeared on his face. ‘You ‘ad a beautiful view of the north bank from yer Grandad’s’.
It was useless trying to talk to him, Especially at times like this. It was better just to ignore him and wait for him to fall asleep. Should be about ten minutes into the game on his past record.
The game ebbed and flowed like a great ebbing, flowing thing as both sides pressed for the advantage. The Arsenal were having the better of the chances and for every impassioned ‘oooooooooohhhhhh’ from P there was a ‘ha-ha-ha’ from Herman. His father actually stayed awake until half an hour into the game. A new record.
Charlie was looking good and playing well, whacking in a few long range shots that would have looked spectacular if only they’d gone in.
Full time - 0-0 - tighter than a gnat’s arse. This meant extra time.
A few minutes in and Steve Highway scored for Liverpool. ‘G O A L L L L L L L. HA-HA-HA-HA. Arsenal are cra-ap, Arsenal are cra-ap, Arsenal are cra-ap’. Herman, of course. P could feel his face getting very hot again and his self-control and resolve was starting to slip. ‘Liv-er-pool, Liv-er-pool, Liv-er-pool’ sang Herman.
‘Bog off, Herm’ he managed to say through pouted lips, burning cheeks and watery eyes. ‘You don’t even support Liverpool’.
‘I do today because Ieeeee hhhhate Arsenal’. Herman put the emphasis on Arse. Knowing he was an arse did not help P’s mood and he could feel the tears not too far away as he fought to stop his bottom lip from wobbling. His thoughts became a prayer, a mantra. Come on Arsenal. Come on, Charlie.
Just before half-time in extra-time, there was a mad scramble after John Radford looped the ball over his head into the Liverpool penalty area, Eddie Kelly poked out a toe and George Graham equalised!
‘YEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSS’. P leapt into the air with joy as his coiled spring of tension was released in an explosion of relief and grinned at Herman who slapped him to the floor. P frowned at the bastard for a second, but the tears were a long way off, now.
‘Whasss, what’s going on?’, Mumbled his father as he awoke from his slumber.
‘1-1, Dad. Arsenal just scored a really jammy goal. Probably offside’, Herman mumbled, his disappointment obvious, which made P feel even better. He had only been an Arsenal supporter for a few weeks and here they were scoring in the cup final. Football had wormed its way into his blood and he was hooked. For life. Once football had given you a fix this good, you never got away from it. No period of cold turkey ever cured you. No abstinence ever drove it from your mind. Football was a mistress, an infatuation, a desire. No matter how infrequently you saw her, how badly she treated you, you always went back for more because it was worth suffering for the good times. And when it was good, there was nothing on earth to beat it. There was no higher high. Not when you were six years old, anyway.
With about eight minutes to go, Charlie received the ball from John Radford twenty-five yards out and let fly. Time stood still. P’s mouth dropped and his eyes widened by the millisecond as the ball flew towards Ray Clemence’s goal and the ball rippled that beautifully big Wembley net.
G O O O A A L L L L L L L!!!!!!!!
P jumped and leaped and bounced and jumped around the room in delight. He was the Unbelievable Arsenalman! His father did not even bother waking up this time, so Herman took the opportunity to give P a whack. But still he laughed and bounced and jumped and cavorted around the room until the final whistle gave Arsenal the cup. At the whistle Herman got up and went to the toilet without a word, leaving P the solitary, glorious pleasure of seeing Frank McLintock walking up those Wembley steps, a weary smile on his face, shaking hands with the suits and finally, joyously, lifting the Cup.
The Arsenal. P had only chosen them because of Jim and that twenty-five-yard screamer from Charlie that won the cup and those beautiful yellow shirts glowing in the May sunshine in the days that colour TV seemed more colourful than it is now. That and the fact that it incensed and hurt Herman SO MUCH.
Charlie further embedded himself into his affections by crying as he collected his winner’s medal, only to cheer up and finish the lap of honour with the Cup on his head. What a guy!
Herman went from the toilet straight out of the house (after quickly changing out of his West Ham shirt) and didn’t return for some time. He wasn’t used to P getting one up on him and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.
P, meanwhile, felt on the crest of a wave. His father had been wrong, Herman had been wrong, the boys at school had been wrong and, best of all, he had been right.
He went out to play footy the next day with Jim and Butch a different person. He felt as if he had power within him. The power of the Arsenal. The power of Charlie. Life felt good.
Oooohh a treat! What a treat! They were all off to Wembley to watch ENGLAND! P was so excited, he could not poo for three days. When he did poo he vowed never to go without pooing for three days again EVER.
Once there, he had never seen so many people. P dawped at Everybody walking as if their legs would not stretch out properly. Everybody ate and smelled of hot dogs. Everybody shouted without speaking properly. And then there were the horses. Horses were big. Really big. Even bigger than his father and he was MASSIVE. Upwards and across. No matter how big they were though, people always managed to sit on them and be HUGE. His father had sat P on a horse once, but neither seemed to enjoy the experience. The horse moved funnily from side to side and looked at P strangely with spit hanging from its mouth like the ceiling when his father painted it, then it lurched suddenly dropping P to the floor and scarpered.
P did not know too much about horses. They do not mind spit hanging from their mouths. They smell. They don’t have mums to wipe away the spit then spit on a hankie and wipe their faces. Horses stand on four legs, but people stand on two and use the other legs for arms. Only horses wearing hats stand on two legs. P had seen it in the circus, it was the only thing he remembered apart from thinking how boring it was.
England played football as if they were horses on two legs on a big pitch a long way away. They lost 2-0 to Holland and everybody walked away from Wembley afterwards saying sentences with lots of fucks in them. P thought it was FANTASTIC, especially the static horses. He decided that he was going to grow up to be big enough not to be scared of horses, then he was going to play for the Arsenal and beat England and make men walk away with little steps afterwards saying fuck.

Jo was back at the hospital, feeling more tired and less refreshed than if she had stayed awake at P’s bedside all night.
She was allowed in to see him as nobody at the hospital had any idea what was wrong with him and were hoping for something to happen to give them a clue. As soon as she saw him apparently sleeping peacefully in his hospital bed, she broke down crying and had to helped into another room by her father for yet more strong tea.
P himself seemed perfectly well. All sorts of tests and checks had been carried out, but the doctors were completely baffled as to why he should just be sleeping. His body seemed to be perfectly healthy and his brain showed no signs of damage, just a regular sleep pattern. It was most perplexing. The God of Miracles, Practical jokes and Good, but hard to believe stuff had just been too good for them. He had induced a ten year long sleep, just as P had wished for and now he was monitoring his experiment and its effects on all those around him, while recording P’s sleeping thoughts and dreams as he took a mental stroll, a vacant vacation. Already, just four days into the experiment, it was working out more brilliantly than he had dared hope. His Coolness had taken away the power of foresight from all the Gods after a tiff with Satan. The God of Miracles, Practical jokes and Good, but hard to believe stuff was certain this would please him, though.
He watched and listened enthralled to medical tests, checks and opinions, to doctors views and specialists confused contemplation’s, he monitored and recorded P’s dreams, introspection’s and fantasies eagerly and he made certain that P’s body survived the ten years easily. Of concern though, was the state of two humans deeply worried about P; his sweetheart, that saucy bathroom minx Jo and P’s best friend Mr Sam, recently bereaved after the unexpected cancer had taken his wife Mrs Sam in less than six months, leaving him devastated and now fretful of the health of both P and Jo, whom he had introduced.
The only conceivable drawback to his experiment was now apparent to the God of Miracles, Practical jokes and Good, but hard to believe stuff as a side effect. His Coolness was not keen on toying with the emotions of his people ever since that disagreeable affair with Job. The God of Miracles, Practical jokes and Good, but hard to believe stuff would have to enshroud this part of the game with mystery if he could and play up the entertainment side of things. That would not be easy if His Coolness was in a foul disposition, though. The God of Miracles, Practical jokes and Good, but hard to believe stuff drew up a plan to wake the slumbering P at a moment’s proclamation should His Coolness command it. He did not want to slither any lower in the rankings. Plus if anything went catastrophically wrong, His Coolness could always whizz the world back in time a few months just like he had done in Cuba.
Meanwhile, Jo was being comforted by her parents and Sam, P’s own mother was apparently bored now she knew he was unharmed or unwell, just sleeping and promised to come and see him at the weekend or before if he awoke. In turn, Jo was doing her best to comfort Sam, who had buried his wife two days before P fell into his sleep. At the time, she remembered thinking the death of Mrs Sam was what had been troubling P. Comforting Sam was not easy under the circumstances, but she was doing her best and her worries for Sam eased her concern for P and Sam in turn was helping Jo. By the end of the week, they were sitting together by the sleeping P, talking, looking through photographs, giggling and crying in turns as more experts poured over his tests, checks and records and carried out more elaborate and obscure examinations and P slept on. But every night Sam would leave Jo with a kiss on the cheek and Jo would sit staring at P for hours. She would always break down eventually and end up crying onto P’s sleeping form.

In his head, P dreamed of playing. The crowd roars HHHOHOOOOAOAOOAOROROORORORORRRRRR as P collects, inside the centre circle on that elegant right foot, ohh beautifully done by P, holds off the challenge of the Evening Standard board and skips elegantly passed that puddle of dogs piss by the lamppost. He now turns, looks up, lets fly for the school gate and its OOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHH WHAT A GOALLLLLL! Fantastic play by Arsenal’s new superstar. He gave Jennings absolutely no chance. That’s his third and Arsenal’s fourth, it’s now Arsenal 4, Tottenham 0.
‘Stop prancing about like an idiot, P and get into line’ shouted Mr Wood from the front of the line. Drat! There was always somebody who had to spoil things. Somebody with a face like wood. A face that never moved or laughed. Mr Wood had the right name. Woodface.
It was 1972 and P had now decided that playing football was almost as much fun as watching it. His enthusiasm, fired by the mighty Arsenal powering their way to the double, made him believe that he was the next Charlie George and he pondered long and hard on the advantages and possibility of changing his name to Charlie. He also informed his mother that he wanted to let his hair grow long.
‘No you are not. I had enough of that with your dad during that silly flower power nonsense. Honestly, your dad was stupid enough at the time without you trying to follow in his footsteps. All that ‘free love’ and Paki music and trying to get me to take some LST while I was trying to watch the telly. All that love-in stuff was just silly. I preferred to watch Peyton Place with some nice choccys’. P hardly ever knew what his mother was talking about, so he just waited for her to finish.
‘But I want hair like Charlie George’ he said with a deep frown.
‘I said NO. All the other mothers’ll think I’m not taking any notice of you. Like that time you were crying just because you were missing the Magic Roundabout. You cause me enough trouble without looking like a maniac as well. You’ll just have to be Georgie whatever his name is with short hair’ she said and started pounding the mashed potatoes furiously.
‘Charlie George!’ How dare she get his name wrong.
‘Well, whoever. All those footballers are just little boys that don’t want to grow up. Like that Georgie Best’.
‘Oh Georgie Best is a spas. He plays for Man United’. Cor, what do Mums know about football, eh?
‘Yes and he’s got long hair, so you don’t to look like a spas, do you?’ P did not know what to say to that. Curses! She was dead good at catching him out like that, so that he didn’t have an answer. He grinded his teeth for a bit searching in vain for a smart answer, but smart answers had a habit of eluding him. He always managed to find the smart answer about fifteen hours later.
‘Can I have a biscuit?’ He asked, changing the subject.
‘Plea-ese’.
‘Plea-ese’ he said as sweetly as he could muster.
‘Not before dinner’ replied his mother almost breaking the table with her fervent mashing.
‘But I’ve got a bit of brick in my throat’ he said in desperation, feigning a sudden cough.
‘You have not. Stop being silly’.
‘Owwwwwwww. Can I have a biscuit after dinner?’
‘Only if you eat your greens’.
TAAAAA! He stomped off into the living room, exasperated. Why did he have to eat greens when they tasted like poo? If something tastes like poo, don’t eat it. You don’t eat poo, do you? Because it tastes like poo.
‘Look at this!’ His father was reading the paper as P slonked sulkily into the lounge and flopped into an armchair to watch Tom & Jerry. ‘‘Smoking kills one hundred thousand people every year”. What cobblers. AND they’re gonna ban smoking from buses and trains! Well, they’re not gonna stop me from having a fag on the bus. I pay my fares so ....I can .................’ Another thrilling report from DAD LIVE NEWS had come to an early end.
‘Absolute cobblers!’ Oooh, here we go, part two. ‘It can’t be that bad for ya. I can’t have a good cough in the mornings without .......having......................’
‘Dad, can I have a scalextric for Christmas?’ said Herman.
‘A what?’ said their mother from the kitchen as she continued to pound the potatoes like a steam hammer.
‘One of those electric toy car set things’ said his father. ‘Maybe Herm, if they’re not too dear’.
‘What do you want for Christmas, P?’ said his mother.
‘I’d love a Chopper’ he said excitedly.
‘Wouldn’t we all?’ said his mother, looking over to her husband who frowned and quickly went back to the newspaper.
‘You too little for a chopper, Shat. You’ll have to have a tricycle. With extra stabilisers’. Herm was being a pain. Again. Why couldn’t he be grumpy and quiet all the time like the girls? They sat in their rooms ALL the time being miserable and fighting with each other.
‘You know, a chopper. A bike’.
‘I can’t afford a sodding bike’ said his father.
‘Unless it’s a trike’ sneered Herman with his mouth.
When his father had left for work and his mother was putting the things away, she said ‘Don’t listen to your Dad, love. You never know what Father Christmas is gonna bring you’ and gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. P smiled nicely to keep on her good side, then wiped the kiss off as hard as he could once she wasn’t looking.
He walked to school feeling nice, happy and big the following morning. He was thinking that he had the loveliest Mum in the world and the worst Dad.
Jim’s and Butch’s mothers were both horrible old bags, virtually identical, identi-kit hags with lanky hair, saggy legs and fags in the corner of their mouths, haggy wags who were always shouting and dragging them around and stopping them from coming out to playtime. Whereas his Mumsy always gave him some sweetie money when he got to school, but Jim and Butch just had their dinner money and that was all. They hardly ever had sweeties. Ha-ha.
P had never seen Butch’s father at that time, but Jim’s father was ENORMOUS. He must have been twenty feet high! Easily big enough to kick horses whenever he wanted. He looked like Clark Kent before he became Superman. Jim was always banging on about how great his father was and how strong he was and how he could lift both him and his brother at the same time. P’s Father never lifted him or Herman at any time. He never touched them at all, in fact. He could not walk up the stairs without getting out of breath, the fat bastard.
The only thing P knew about Butch’s father was that he was an ugly milkman and took Butch to see the Orient, even though Butch wasn’t particularly keen on watching football and if he had been bored at Tottenham, then the Orient were hardly going to spark his footy flames.
Butch said he didn’t like to watch football, but he was fantastic at it, even though he was a bit of a chubster. Jim, Butch and P were all in the school football team, but Butch was easily the best.
Christmas came and went without a bike in sight. In the street there seemed to be a never ending stream of jammy snotty’s with gleaming new bikes, amongst them several choppers, while P was given a train set. A pigging train set! What use was a train set? Could you jump on your train set and zip round to Jim’s as fast your legs would pedal you? Could you use your train set to get to school or football? Could you race your train set up and down the street? No. You just watched it going round and round in circles. Train sets were crap with a capital CR. Herman kept playing with the train set over Christmas, until he realised that it was not annoying P in the slightest, so he stopped. He already had a bike that he never used and which was slowly rusting to death. P decided that as Herman never used his, that he would use it instead. Herman caught him riding it and punched P as he pedalled by smiling. P was sent crashing to the pavement, losing a tooth and blood galore.

P’s school, Nobworthy Comprehensive had a superb football team, with lovely all yellow strips (which P could pretend were Arsenal’s cup final kit) and Butch was the star. They were cruising at the top of their league and coming up to the East London Cup semi-final.
Their coach, Mr Trinculo was a thin, seedy looking sports teacher from West Bromwich with a crap moustache that he thought made him look like Jason King, when it actually made him look like the bad mouse in Speedy Gonzales. Trinculo was looking after Butch very carefully in preparation for the semi. Butch was not allowed to take part in rugby, cricket, running, jumping or even netball until after the big match against Plaistow. This meant that while all the other boys were taken down to Epping for a bit of finger numbing, nose numbing, testicle shrinking, freezing February cross-country, Butch was left behind to play soft, girlie games like rounders and hopscotch, the jammy git.
The week before the big game against Plaistow, while all the boys were running against 60mph winds, through thick, hard mud and thicker woods in their all weather, paper thin school PE shirts (and for the unfortunates who had forgotten their kit, vest and pants!!!!!! PE teachers were the lowest scum on earth), Butch was being anything but by playing the girls at table tennis, when DISASTER! Butch had stretched for a wide smash (from a girl!!), lost his balance, tripped over the bench lying alongside the table tennis table, fallen into the drums and percussion section of the school band and, amongst a tremendous, orchestral CRASH, sprained his ankle!!!!!
Semi-final day arrived. Butch was at home resting his poorly ankle, nursing his damaged pride and reading the Beano without laughing, so P was shoved up front with Pete Slipper, Tony Attanyakie had P’s usual place on the wing and stood there transfixed staring at the spectators, while Mr Trinculo was resigned to defeat. The first half came and went with only eight goals scored, two by own goals, two by crosses that went straight in, two from Pete Slipper and two from P. One at each end, unfortunately, but it really wasn’t his fault. 4-4. The other two goals they had let in were both due to Johnny Howe waving to his mum every time he got the ball, being dispossessed and their goalie hiding behind the post every time the big number ten was about to shoot. It really should have been 6-4 as their number ten missed the open goal at the last minute as Sammy Crayston wailed in fear behind the post and put him off.
Mr Trinculo, expecting humiliation, was delighted with his hardy boys. ‘You’re doing brilliantly lads, brilliant. Just toighten up on their number seven now, don’t pick your nose Colin, throw in those tackles and don’t score any more own goals, alroight? Remember it’s a game of two halves and whoever wants it most on the day will win and with Wembley at stake, you must give it your best shot. Well, not Wembley, exactly, but King George’s playing fields and that’s just as good. Remember. Remember. The cup foinal is waiting for you, boys’ he said clenching his fists in front of his cold, knackered boys, urging them on. ‘And Ian, if that number eleven tries to push past you once more, deck ‘im, alroight?’
Ian Slaughter raised his shivering hand. Trinculo nodded in his direction. ‘I want to go home’ he whined.
‘You can go home after the game and if you’re crap second half, Slaughter, I’ll have you on cross country detention, get it?’ Ian’s lip wobbled and he ran into the toilets. At this point, though Mr Trinculo was only talking to three of the team, as the others had spotted their parents with flasks of hot soup, tea and in Joe Solomon’s case, fags.
The second half got under way with the wind at Nobworthy’s backs and with Ian looking worriedly at the huge, opposing number eleven and as the ball drifted out to Plaistow’s number seven, P remembered Trinculo’s wise words, ‘Toighten up on number seven and throw in the tackles’. So P threw in a tackle that sent number seven flying off the ball, off his feet and off the pitch, got up with the ball, ran the length of the field, nipped inside the full-back, let fly with a scorcher and scored! 5-4! Mr Trinculo looked like a man who had just won the pools.
‘YEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSS’. Trinculo punched the air in delight, jigged along the touchline, went down on one knee and pointed a victorious finger at his opposite number. It was faintly embarrassing for the boys on the pitch as well as the watching parents, as they team strolled nonchalantly back to the half way.
Plaistow equalised with ten minutes left to a restrained cheer from their coach. Compared to Mr Trinculo his celebration was positively comatose.
Nobworthy piled forward looking for a last gasp winner that would send them sailing through to the final at the prestigious King George’s playing fields.
A surprisingly accurate long ball from Porky Drummond found P halfway into the Plaistow half and his deft layoff was hit first time by Michael Bibby to force a spectacular save from the Plaistow keeper. The corner looped into the box, was feebly headed away straight to the feet of Hot Shot McP and he thumped it first time SMACK into a defender’s face, which deflected the ball and sent it trickling into the net and sent Mr Trinculo into a paroxysm of glee. As the boys trudged wearily back to the centre circle through the mud, Trinculo was arousing the anger of the Plaistow parents by duck walking along the touchline singing ‘Plaistow are crap, Plaistow are crap, allooooo, alloooo’.
The game ended at 6-5 to Nobworthy. As the boys showered and took turns to flick Ian Slaughter with their towels until he blubbed, Mr Trinculo was full of praise for his young charges.
‘Fantastic game, lads, fan-bloody-tastic. The way you sent that number seven to the first aider was poetry, P. Sheer poetry. Colin! Don’t pick your nose. You’re not celebrating much are you?’ he asked the small wet ones before him.
‘When Oi was a lad, after a game like that, we’d all be in the showers after the match kicking the soap from one end of the room to the other and if anyone bent down to grab it, they’d get a wet kick across their behoind or a crack on the willy. Ha-ha, yes. Those were the days. You youngsters just don’t know how to enjoy yourselves’.
The cold, wet boys headed off home for tea, except for three unfortunates who instead headed for Mile End Casualty: The flying number seven with a broken leg, the poor number two with a possible broken nose and Mr Trinculo with damaged jaw, teeth and eyes after taunting the Plaistow coach and parents just that bit too much.
On his arrival home, P re-counted the match to his disinterested father who had not bothered to come to the game as it was too cold. Nobody offered him a warming cup of half-time Bovril.
‘...then Porky scored an own goal with his face, so it was 4-4 at half-time, then..’
‘Is this gonna take long? I’m trying to watch It’s A Knockout. What was the final score?’
‘6-5 to us’ said P, sulkily.
‘Did you score?’
‘Yeah, I got the winner’ he said, a bit livelier this time, full of pride over his triumph without the mighty Butch. ‘It floated over from a corner, then-’.
‘Well done. Can I watch this, now?’
P lay in bed that night seeing faces and spider webs in the patterns the streetlights made on the ceiling and making curtain tunnels playing the match over and over in his mind. A cup final! What a great team they were. The way he’d smashed the winner off that kids face was sheer pottery.
At least Butch was more interested in the match report than his father had been. Butch sat enthralled as P and Jim gave a blow by blow account of this roller coaster of a semi-final. Butch chimed in with the occasional ‘Dear me’ or ‘Hoorayyyy’. When they reached the dramatic, last gasp winner they all leapt into the air and cheered as if it had only just happened. Butch leapt as well as he could with a poorly ankle, which had got a little worse earlier in the day when P was describing how the Doctor had finished off the Sea Devils in Saturday’s episode of Doctor Who and accidentally kicked it.
‘We would’ve won by a much higher score if I’d played, of course’ said Butch modestly whilst picking his nose.
‘Except that you’d rather play table tennis with the girls’ said I.
‘I bloody don’t’ said Butch. ‘Trinculo made me play’.
‘Oh, oh please sir, I don’t want to play football with the rough boys. Please let me play with the girls and play with their dolls, ooh, ooh’ said P, mincing about the room like a poof. Butch got annoyed and a short scrap ensued until Butch hurt his foot again and had to have a rest. Like a girl.
Butch sat down rubbing his ankle and saying ‘OW’ a lot.
‘See ya, you big girl’ said P, running to avoid the missile thrown after him. It was not really a missile, it was a piece of used bogie tissue. That was even worse.
Their high spirits did not last too long, however, as the next day was needlework day. All the boys hated needlework with the suspicious exception of Squinty McLoone, who threw himself into it with a vigour that surpassed any of the girls and surprised Mrs Cunningham, the needlework teacher. She was unused to an enthusiastic boy in her class and after teaching it for twenty-three years, she saw it as yet another example of the collapse of English society. In her view, boys should not even be taking needlework, let alone enjoying it. She would have to take afternoon tea with Mrs Moss, the cook and the Times after teaching Squinty in a vain attempt to recapture “old” England. But then Squinty was weird. He was sometimes called Shitty McLoone, after Billy Ponce had once forced him to eat a lump of his poo when Billy’s gang had him cornered in the toilets. Apparently, if you gave Squinty 50p, he’d eat a bit of poo in front of you, but P had never put this to the test. He did not want to go to the toilets with Squinty under any circumstances.
Today, Mrs Cunningham was off sick, so they had their lesson with Mrs Currie, instead. Mrs Currie was a flamboyant, bohemian, hippie type with an enormous bottom, an extrovert’s love of life, a little moustache and a mother earth attitude to all her little charges. She was therefore an easy lesson and an easy target.
‘Today, darlings, as poor Mrs Cunningham is off with her -’ (she mouthed the last word, ‘womb’ and most of us missed it), ‘we will be having a change of plan. Instead of the usual boring old needlework, I’ve managed to wangle a special little something with Mr Butt and we are going to do pottery instead’. The last two words were spoken as if she expected thunderous applause. She found the twenty-five blank faces looking back at her slightly disappointing.
‘Mrs Cunningham’s off with her what?’ asked Butch, baffled.
‘Her Woo, I think’ said P, also baffled.
‘What’s a woo?’
‘It’s her car. Her car’s a Woo’ said Jim. ‘My granddad’s got a Woo’. P was not convinced and made a note to ask Mum what a woo was when he got home.
‘Is that alright with everyone, or would you rather do needlework?’
‘Needlework’ cried little Squinty.
‘Shut yer face, Loon, needlework’s crap’ answered the delicate young thing that was Maureen Stoat.
‘Well, pot-tery it isss, thennn’ sang Mrs Currie, clapping her hands and leading us all off to the art room. P clapped his hands and followed Mrs Currie trying to walk as if he had a big fat, girlie arse. Unfortunately he was looking backwards at the boys when Mrs Currie spotted him and did not spot the slap on the head coming. Mrs Currie then took him by the ear and dragged him to the front. She was easy as long as you did not make fun of her arse, obviously.
The art room was a shambles. Crumbling easels that seemed older than horses, paint and clay splattered walls, the feeble artistic offerings of poorly developed, east end minds, dusty, faded mobiles, grotty desks filled with woodworm, grimy windows, stained paint pots, crusty brushes and this season’s ‘right on’ posters of which the Clangers seemed out of place. Strangely enough, the Master had been watching the Clangers in Doctor Who on Saturday. P never liked the Clangers, he could not understand a thing they said.
‘Now darlings,’ said Mrs Currie. ‘Today we are going to explore our feelings. I’m not going to give you a specific task to perform. Oh no. Today I want you all to look inside yourselves, to draaaaag out your feelings, your deepest emotions and to let those feelings flooooooooow along your arms, throooouuuuugh your fingers and into the clay. Make that clay LIVE. Let your subconscious thoughts swim to the surface of the pool of your mind and give shape to them through the clay. Alright? Off you go’. Butch huffed, puffed and moaned his way to his wheel.
‘I bloody hate pottery’ he said.
They were each sat at a wheel and had a lump of clay plopped in front of them, then left to it. They were all a bit confused. Butch, Jim and P looked at each other bewildered.
‘What have we got to do?’ asked Jim.
‘I think she said we have to drag out our fillings and let our conkers flow into the clay’ replied Butch.
‘It’s not the time for conkers’ said P getting more and more confused by the minute. Butch’s explanations were not helping.
‘And I’ll splatter anyone that tries to drag out my fillings’ said Jim.
‘Well, perhaps she meant make the clay look like fillings’ suggested Butch. The three of them looked at their mounds. ‘Or…or teeth’. They looked deeply into their pieces of clay, desperate for a sign of some kind, desperate for inspiration. None came.
‘I’m gonna make a bum!’ said P, suddenly vibrant with inspiration and pounded his fingers into the soggy mound. It felt nicer than it looked.
‘And I am going to make an elephant’ said Butch, suddenly animated.
‘Well, I think I’ll make a......erm......errrrrrrr.. Hill!’ said Jim. ‘Finished’. And he had. It looked exactly like a small, brown hill. P reached over and put a small ball of clay on the top, then giggled. He thought he was being incredibly clever and funny turning Jimmy’s hill into a tit. Jim picked up the nipple and flicked it at P, who smoothly ducked out of the way and the ball flew through the air and landed in Maureen Stoat’s hair. The three boys smaned into their clay mounds with their hands over their mouths. Mrs Currie was not impressed with Jim’s hill.
‘Yes, very amusing, James. Is that really your deepest of emotions, hmm? A small hill. Now if you’d made a breast, THAT would have been interesting. Now try to make something real’, she told him as Butch and P made silly faces at him behind her.
‘Yes, make something real, James’ said Butch, taking the piss. Jim slumped, sighed and looked depressed. Art was not his strongest subject and pottery looked like being his weakest subject so far. Butch looked down hopelessly at his pile of clay and Jim pounced on this opportunity by picking a nice sticky bogie, one of those that has a sticky bit and a hard bit, rolled it into a ball and flicked it at Butch while he wasn’t looking. P saw it fly through the air and land on Butch’s collar. P and Jim looked at each other exhilarated and hid their wide grins behind their hands.
Mrs Rocos saw them and lightly tapped them on the back of their heads. ‘Clay, boys’ she sang. Cla-ayyy’.
Jim sat deep in thought for while, staring at the pile of clay before desperately hoping for something to float to the surface of his dull mind and finding nothing. Eventually he came up with a dice. Again, Mrs Currie was not impressed.
‘Is that the best you can come up with? Have you searched deep within yourself and examined your feelings only to come up with a dice? Never mind, perhaps you’re more of a rug weaver or basket maker’.
‘Sorry miss’ he said, staring at his shoes.
‘Oh, never mind, never mind’. With an extravagant spin and a clap of her hands, Mrs Currie faced the class. ‘Time’s nearly up, darlings, so put those finishing touches to your little masterpiece’s and let’s get them intoo the kil-hiln. Now, make a line and show me your creations as we put them in’.
The class had come up with the most pathetic collection she had ever seen, but she tried to give a ‘well done’ or a ‘good try’ to each of them. P’s bum did not go down well. At PE afterwards, he told Mr Trinculo he was looking glum (as he put it) because his bum did not go down well with Mrs Currie.
‘Unloike Mrs Currie, eh?’ he replied with a big laugh. P did not understand what this meant and did not really want to be taken into Trinculo’s confidence, anyway.
‘Is that what I think it is, P?’
‘It’s a bum, miss’.
‘It’s not clever and it’s not funny, P’ said Mrs Currie as she crushed his bottom into a squidge again and threw into the pile of clay. ‘That’s not going into the kiln. Now, move along and do better next time’. P’s face fell into ‘glum’ and his chin wobbled slightly, but he soon pulled himself together and moved off angrily, denied the chance to see his bottom glazed.
‘It’s lucky you didn’t make a nob’ said Butch, who was next up with his elephant. P suddenly had an unpleasant picture of Mrs Currie crushing his nob, but he blanked out this unpleasant picture by squashing Lucy’s mouse while she was looking out of the window.
‘Oooohh Jamie! That is wonderful. Why an elephant?’
Butch shrugged. ‘Cos I like ‘em’.
‘This is very interesting. Perhaps you see yourself as some kind of wild animal, striding through the wilderness of life as a...a colossus of nature. A primal, unstoppable force, a true power. You obviously have a great artistic talent. I look forward to seeing your work again’. Amongst the garbage she had just seen, Butch’s elephant was like a masterpiece. Until Squinty McLoone brought up the rear.
‘It’s a rose, miss’ he announced in his squeaky little voice, pushing his mammoth glasses back up his nose.
‘Hoooooooohhhhhhhhh. Michael McLoone’. Mrs Currie looked as if God had appeared before her. ‘This is exquisite. Beautiful. We must show the Head as soon as it has been glazed’, and off she went into the kiln room, dragging little Squinty behind her, murmuring ‘exquisite’ and leaving the class to their own devices in an empty art room full of clay.
P’s anger was dissipated by a loud fart from Mrs Currie’s large behind as she left the room.
‘The Demon Beans strike again’ shouted P as she scurried from the room, her ears were reddening. P looked quickly about, then picked up a handful of clay. ‘A DICE, James?’ He bellowed in the general direction of Jim, he was such a terrible show off. He then threw a handful of clay in the general direction of Jim, who was gazing out the window, trying to ignore him. Seconds later, Jim scraped the clay from his shirt, added an extra handful and threw it back at P, who skilfully ducked and the lump thudded into Joe Solomon’s back who immediately gave chase to Jim, rather than join in the fun and throw clay back.
P stood back and watched the chase and the scrap that ensued, then threw another piece, this time in the direction of Butch, who saw the lump coming and calmly stood aside just like Simon Templar to allow it to whack into the side of Sandra Day’s head. She fell onto one of the wheels sending clay and wheel plopping onto the floor, then burst into tears, whilst staring at one of her favourite dresses covered in muck. The war had begun.
When Mrs Currie eventually returned with the Headmaster, the art room resembled a battlefield. Chaos reigned, girls cried, girls and boys bled, Squinty hid under the sink, the fighting raged and clay covered virtually everything in the room. As the Headmaster roared ‘whaaaAAAAAT ON EARTH IS GOING ON HERE????’ it was as if someone had stopped the film, just for a split second everything froze, crying stopped, fighting stopped, cease-fire.
Just for a split second. Until the last lump thrown by Joe Solomon hit the Headmasters jacket, then a communal gasp went up. All eyes fixed onto Joe Solomon, whose jaw dropped as his face took on the look of a condemned man. The headmaster’s face glowed red and his features contorted with rage.
‘SOLOMON! IN MY OFFICE IMMEDIATELY’ he eventually managed to shout. Joe Solomon slowly, miserably walked out of the room followed by the Head, who in passing gave Mrs Currie a fierce look and said, ‘You too, Mrs Currie, when all this is cleared up’.
The art room clay fight passed into Nobworthy folklore. As did the beating Joe Solomon took for getting clay onto the Headmaster’s jacket.
And when Butch’s elephant came out of the kiln, its trunk had fallen off, so it just looked like a pig with huge ears. Just like his mother. The bottom still looked the best.