Tag Archives: Football

I’m Back In 1995

15 Dec

Lately, when I lie in the darkness at night smoking a couple of spliffs in bed and switching off from the day spent traipsing all over teaching my students English, I’ve been having vivid flashbacks to my childhood. Random stuff. Never anything particularly significant. But one memory always leads on to another, and I am there, back on the school field or sat in detention or on Western Road in Brighton doing Christmas shopping with my sister, my nan and my aunt. I can smell it. Hear it. Feel it. Tonight is no different, but for the fact that I don’t have to get up for work tomorrow morning on account of a chest infection, meaning I can sit up in front of my laptop and write some stuff down. I am aware that smoking with a chest infection makes me an idiot.

For some reason tonight my brain took me back to an eventful day in the early months of 1995, when I was 11, playing out like a film in my mind’s eye, with 3D glasses provided free of charge, scenes that had been absent from my memory for well over a decade. Bizaare scenes.

It’s about half past one in the afternoon and, unlike most of my mates, I’m not in class but rather the school hall. I’ve been excused from lessons because I’m in the school production and an emergency rehearsal has been called because the performance date is approaching and we’re shit, basically. Nowhere near ready. My role in the play is a small one so most of the time it’s other people rehearsing their bits while I’m sat on the floor with the other D-Listers. I keep getting told off for talking and pissing about and the teacher’s really starting to get on my tits. I’m not interested in the production, I only signed up for a part in it because I knew it would get me out of class occasionally. Also I’ve got something more important on my mind. In a few hours I’m going to be making my debut for the school’s Year 5 football team and, even more exciting than that, it’s against Manor Hall, our biggest enemy, the school from just up the road, the kids of which we fight in the park, the same kids that we went to first school with and were best friends with until we separated and went to different middle schools at the end of Year 3 and became sworn foes. This is a proper derby. And my nan’s coming to watch. And even better than all of that, we get to leave school early to get over to their school in time for the game. At 2 o’clock I’m sent to go and get changed with the rest of the team. I’m given shirt number 11. I wanted 8, because it’s Gazza’s number, but 11 is the next best thing, I’m not complaining.

There aren’t enough seats in the mini-bus for the whole team so those of us with bikes take them instead. Down Church Lane, cut through the graveyard, across the green, through the square, along Manor Hall Road. Say hello to my nan. Jog up and down. Start the game. And then a moment that will haunt me for the rest of my life, of this I am sure, almost 20 years after it happened. A cross is put in from the left wing. I don’t know by who, but it isn’t by the player that should be out there, our left winger, because that player is me, and I’m hovering about just outside Manor Hall’s box. The ball goes over my head towards our star player Ross and as it approaches him it plays out in front of me in slow motion, as I know that Ross is more than capable of taking the sting out of this with his chest and then laying it off to me, and the one thing that I pride myself on is my technique when it comes to volleying. I position myself and Ross plays it perfectly, it bounces just in front of me and sits up nicely and I take it on the half volley and connect with it more sweetly than I will ever connect with another ball in my life. I watch it fly from my boot and I know already that it’s going in the top corner. Everybody knows it. There is silence as the ball spins away deliciously to its target. The goalkeeper doesn’t even bother moving. I’m about to write my name into school folklore by scoring a wonder goal from outside the box against Them. Them from up the road. Them whose school jumpers are bright blue as opposed to our navy blue ones. And my nan’s watching. And she’ll tell everyone what she saw. She’ll tell my dad. What goal celebration am I going to do?

The ball smacks against the angle of the crossbar and the post and ricochets behind for a goal-kick.

I go into shock.

Continue reading

No Sex Please, We’re British (And Human). And Other Musings…

26 Feb

17th Feb 2014
It’s 6pm and I’m sitting in a bar, a nice kind of stoned, after an hour and twenty minutes walk through the countryside, to the nearest town, La Hoya, the closest place to my mum’s home that I can buy Rizlas. Drinking a Coke. Dry mouth. Even though after I ordered it, the barman – a bloke in his mid twenties with pointy designer sideburns, wearing a bright pink t-shirt, and looking like he would rather be anywhere else – started making me a coffee. “No! una COCA COLA, por favor.” It’s badly lit in here. And the table is uneven, wobbling as I write upon it. Up above my head there’s a telly showing a Spanish soap opera. No one’s watching it. Apart from me and the barman the only other person in here is an old boy, sat at a table on the other side of the room, who has been staring fixedly through the glass of the front door for a good ten minutes. His mouth open. Catching flies. I don’t think he’s actually looking at anything; he’s off in his thoughts. Or memories. When I first caught sight of him he reminded me strongly of Grandad. Something in the dropped jaw, the yellow teeth and the vacant look in the eyes, and yet still managing to give off an impression of innocent mischief. That’s how I remember Grandad, sat in his armchair every waking hour of the day, right up until the end. I actually felt like I knew this old man. And because he was away with the moon and stars, I could keep stealing glances at him and remembering Grandad, without him noticing and thinking I fancy him. I felt warmth towards this solitary senior. After a couple of minutes, though, I looked down at the table in front of him and saw that he was sitting over a glass of red wine. And instantly the connection was lost. He became a different person. Nothing like my Grandad at all. Now, if he had been nursing a cup of tea and a couple of custard creams or bourbons…………..

On the walk here, as I strolled up a narrow country road, I found my path blocked about 20 yards up ahead, by two cats. Shagging. Right in the middle of the road. One black, one white. Kinda like a Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney collaboration. Continue reading

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