Just like Kolly Kibber blues

Tangoman lies on the bed. His cup of coffee gone cold on the side, pastryflakes scattered all over the sheets. Over by the sink Pardew is grinning at the mirror; beside him Dowie’s face is big and glum.

Tangoman flicks his eyes from one to the other, then lands them on the third man. ‘What’s wrong with you, Reed?’ he sneers, his tongue flicking reptilian on his lips.

And Les Reed shuffles from foot to foot, takes his hands out his pockets, puts them back in. ‘Nothing guvnor, it’s just… there wasn’t to be any more killing.’

‘You gone milky, Reed?’ Tangoman’s face throbs orange in the halflight. In his pocket he thumbs his flick-knife. Pastryflakes on the sheets.

‘No, boss, not milky. Not me.’ He looks left, catches a glimpse of Pardew’s mouth in the mirror, curled to a snarl.

The room goes dark, momentarily; the light dips. Tangoman sits up, draws his knife.

‘What was that?’ he rasps.

Dowie raises his heavy lids. ‘Looks like something moved across the window, boss.’

Out on the window-sill, something is hanging; something masked, caped, and dark.

And the wind breathes at the window-pane: Semedo.

Bad Boy

Lee Hughes goes down clutching his face and they’re up off the bench, on the touchline, Parkinson and Breacker, telling him to pull his bald mug off the pissing floor. But there’s no way he’s getting up, not now – Murderer, murderer, murderer coming from the stands. Usually works a treat, that kind of shit raining down on him, it usually gets him going. So why’s he shanked two easy chances then? The first was a horror show.

The ref’s leaning down, having words in his ear. Time to get up, Lee Hughes. Nah, not just yet, thanks. He sees the ball bobbling at him again, and he stretches his toe, then watches it prod off to the left of the post. Bastard bloody luck, leaving him strutting around that pitch with nothing on him but attitude.

Well, it gets worse, Lee Hughes. Later you’ll step up for a penalty that you’ll drive down the middle, nice and safe. And you’ll see the Charlton keeper fling himself off left, but the ball will hit his boot, and fly up high above the goal. And that’ll be your day done, Lee Hughes, and no-one will pay you any mind.

Old Man of the Midlands

Parkinson has them lined up in rows in front of the tactics board. Notts County tomorrow, he wants them to understand just what that means.

‘Oldest club in the world, this lot,’ he says. ‘Notts County were there before all the rest, kicking cans around t’ alleyways on their own, long before anyone else turned up. Lonely business. Just imagine it, a league of one.’ He nods his head. ’Oh, they’ve had their glory days too. FA Cup winners of 1894, League Two Champions of 2009/10, Anglo-Italian Cup winners ’94/’95.’

He stops to let what he just said sink in. ‘That’s right. This lot were lifting the Anglo-Italian while Charlton Athletic were still nursing a hangover from Pisa the year before. Bloody runners-up that year, too. This is a club with pedigree.‘

Towards the back Paul Benson lifts his hand.

‘Yes, Benno?’

‘Sorry, gaffer,’ he says with a cheeky-chappie Essex-boy wink-and-grin, ‘but aren’t Notts County a bit of a joke club these days, what with Sven and Sol Campbell and that?’

Parky composes himself. ‘No, Benno, they’re not. We take teams like Notts County very seriously.’ He surveys the rows of heads watching him; his eyes land on Kinsella, standing by the door. Charlton Athletic have to everyone seriously now, he thinks, not like in Kins’ day. Oldest club in the world, or otherwise, we’re all doggy-paddling, just trying to keep our noses above water.

Dodgy hips all over the place, dodgy tickers.

Oldest club in the world, yeah, everyone feels like that sometimes.

Greasy ‘uns

Parkinson taps the microphone and peers towards the back of the bus.

‘Is this thing on?’ he says to the driver, who flicks a switch; ‘HELLO?’ Parky’s voice booms out, waking sleepy Gary Doherty in the front row.

‘Right, lads.’ His eyes scan the rows of bored faces. ‘Reidy, headphones off please. Mac, let go of Solly’s head, he doesn’t like that. Francis, stop oiling your joints.’

He waits for the coach to settle down, then begins.

‘The more observant among you may have noticed that we are now in Exeter. Soon we will be passing through the area of St. Sidwells, so named in tribute to the local saint Sidwell, a young girl murdered by a jealous stepmother, whose place of burial became one of many wells in the area which were the beginnings of Exeter’s water systems back in Roman times. As I’m sure you all know, St. Sidwells gave rise to the nickname, the Grecians, because the residents of the area are known as Greeks, or Grecians.’

‘Why dat?’ someone says.

Parkinson looks momentarily flustered. ‘Well, I suppose that was probably due to the location of St. Sidwells being outside the city walls. The name might well be a nod to Homer’s Iliad, in which the Greeks laid siege to Troy. But I’m just guessing. Anyway…’

Just then a hail of stones hits the coach window; Parkinson almost drops his microphone when he looks down the road and sees who’s there at the centre of a barricade across the top of Sidwell Street. ‘Stop the coach, driver,’ he says. The doors whoosh open. ‘Come on, lads,’ he says over the speakers. ‘Looks like an early kick-off.’

In the road Tisdale and his crew are waiting. Little oiks in tracksuits, their hair all matted and unwashed, jogging back and forth.

‘What do you want, Tisdale?’ shouts Parky.

‘Oh nothing,’ returns the bald-headed supremo with the metrosexual neckwear. ‘Just thought we could have a little pre-meet. Get to know each other.’

Just then the midfield boys come forward, juggling rocks between them. But they keep fucking up and dropping them all over the place on account of their greasy hands.

‘That’s some pretty passing you’ve got there, Tisdale.’ Parky sniggers. ‘Now watch this.’

He whistles, and Semedo steps forward, the ground shaking with each step. With a wave of his hands Martin and Reid go dancing off down the pavements, and Racon sort of starts praying. Parkinson shrugs, and presses Francis’s ‘on’ switch. But the big man runs straight into the nearest wall. ‘Damn bloody thing,’ Parky mutters, looking down at his remote control, ’configurations are still out of whack.’

The teams are advancing on each other. Who will come out on top, the Greasy ‘uns or the Addicks?

Arthur’s bet: 0 – 2 (Martin, Abbott)

Are you Redbridge in disguise?

Bald bloke in Block H winning prizes for originality, if nothing else.

And the lairy little shits in the Jimmy Seed are giving it, making slaphead gestures while the kids in the West lower mount up again, ‘Does your social know you’re here?’, and the famous little wanker in blue makes baffling gestures and dances like a pillock.

The evening’s entertainment, ladies and gentlemen.

Because this is the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy, and what’s going on under floodlights isn’t worth the fiver these kids have paid to get in. Pointless, pointless, pointless. Could we not just concentrate on the League?

Killer & Flash: Ep#3 – The Haircut

[Int. Flanagan's bedroom. Early afternoon. An alarm clock is beeping.]

Mick ‘Flash’ Flanagan lies in bed, his head buried under the covers.

[close-up of red-and-white striped duvet, a long grey perm spilling out onto a red-and-white striped pillow]

[cut to the doorway, where Derek 'Killer' Hales is watching and shaking his head slowly]

Killer goes over to the bedside and slams his hand on the alarm, cutting it out. Flanagan comes to, a dazed expression on his face.

‘Wakey wakey,’ he says, deadpan, ‘rise and shine, muppet.’

Flash groans and tries to turn over, but Killer pulls the duvet off leaving him lying there exposed in his red-and-white striped boxers.

‘What did you do that for?’ he shouts.

‘To get you up, you bloody slob. Ever since Saturday you’ve been slouching around, moaning. What’s the matter with you?’

Flash turns on him, a wild gleam in his eye. ‘What’s the matter? What’s the matter?! A few years ago we were watching Premiership football, Derek. Now all I’m seeing on Match of the Day is ex-Charlton, and we’re losing to Huddersfield in League bloody One. Does that not bother you, Derek? What about the glory years? Curbs, Simonsen, 1947?’ He turns his face bashfully. ‘Us, Derek. Killer and Flash. Out there roughing teams up. What about all that?’

[close-up of Killer's face, his eyes squinted, his head nodding]

‘Right, Flanagan,’ he says. ’Up with you. We’re going on a trip.’

[cut to Charlton Church Lane, Killer and Flash standing outside Andrew's Hairdressers]

‘Inside,’ says Killer menacingly.

Flash is frowning as he’s forced into a barber’s chair. ‘What’s all this about, Killer?’ he says with a little laugh, trying to make light.

Killer comes forward, a rope in his hands, with which he quickly tries Flash’s arms to the chair.

‘Right, barber. This man is suffering from nostalgia.’ He takes Flanagan’s perm in his hands. ‘Off with his hair, all of it. It’s sapping his strength, like Samson in reverse. This is the weight of the seventies, right here, and the FA Cup, and the Premier League. Cut it all off and we’ll have done with it. Get this man ready for the fight.’

[fade to black, crowd noise, Big Dave shouting 'Make some noise for the boys!']

The Disappearing Frenchman

Breacker lifts his head from his fitness charts, an aggravated look on his face. Is someone going to answer that phone, or not? And in a dreadful moment of realisation, he remembers -  that ringing, it’s the red telephone. He gets up, frantically clearing the pile of papers from the desk, the ringing getting louder and louder the deeper he goes. Finally he uncovers the phone, removes the glass casing and picks it up.

‘Breacker here,’ he says. ‘With whom am I speaking?’

‘My name isn’t important,’ says the voice of Stephen Hawking. Hawking? thinks Breacker. Weird…. and then it hits him – it isn’t Hawking at all – the voice is coming through a transformer.

‘Is that you, Kelly?’

‘Who I am does not concern you,’ says transformer-Hawking.

‘What do you want, then?’

‘What?’ says the voice.

‘What do you want? You called me! And if you’re not Kelly Youga, what are you doing using the special Youga hotline?’

For a moment Hawking seems flustered. ‘I, uh… I… well, I am not this one you call Youga, but I bear news of, erm… a certain footballer, who… uh, whose news may be of interest to you.’

‘Okay,’ says Breacker with studied patience. ‘Go ahead.’

Hawking clears his throat. ‘Ahem… If you are in darkness, you call to the one who hobbles. But you are left behind.’

‘You what?’

‘You are left behind… left back, if you will.’

‘Right then. Anything else?’

‘The hobbling man cannot hear your call, because he is waiting for the morning to come. And, uh… he is in a cave, where the morning never comes.’

Breacker just sits there, the phone making his ear sore.

‘Erm… my knee still hurts,’ says Hawking. ‘I’m not coming back yet.’

‘Okay, Kelly,’ says Breacker. ‘Give us another call next week then.’

He hangs up, shakes his head. Another deadline gone.

‘Jesus,’ he whistles. He puts his feet up, reaches for a beer. ‘The French…’