Mr Cleansheets - Adrian Deans

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on up the stairs and found ourselves in the Raymond and Beverley Sackler Gallery housing Early Egypt. We wandered about the displays for a while, and I suppose some of it was interesting, especially the old musical instruments that Doreen found so fascinating. She kept pointing out the “hole configuration” on these old tootle pipes and explaining how you could tell what scales they played, and how different they would sound to modern ears. You’d think it would be boring as shit, but when someone is so totally into their work and wanting to share it with you like that, you find yourself carried along with it. I liked watching her face, so animated and absorbed.

      Then we came across something that, to me, really was interesting: a shrivelled up bloke lying on his side where he’d spent the last 5000 years or so. His skin was like dirty brown leather which had been preserved in the hot, dry sand.

      “I love this guy,” said Doreen. “Just imagine how he would have felt to know he was going to wind up here like this.”

      I was suddenly shocked to see that his arsehole had also been preserved and was both clearly defined and on display. In the British Museum of all places!

      “I reckon he had a fair idea of what was coming,” I said. “He’s mooning us, the filthy bugger.”

      Doreen laughed, and said, “How’d you reckon you’d go, Eric… naked in a museum in 5000 years?”

      “Well, if that was my only crack at fame, I’d take it.”

      * * *

      We had lunch in the Court Restaurant. Doreen wanted to shout for my birthday, but I wouldn’t hear of it. It was damned pricey too, but despite what Shona would’ve had to say about it, I decided to live the pro footballer’s life for just a bit longer. Edwin Van Der Sar or Mark Schwarzer would never have quibbled over a £120 lunch.

      Doreen told me all about her husband - estranged husband, as it turned out.

      “We’re having a trial separation,” she said. “That’s what he calls it. For me it’s over.”

      She’d caught him out cheating with one of his colleagues - in her own bed.

      “Not that I walked in on them, or anything tawdry like that,” she said. “I came home from a weekend conference and there was a coffee ring on the bedside table.”

      “So?”

      “So, he doesn’t drink coffee.”

      “Aah.”

      “That’s what he said,” she sniffed. “Anyway, I was glad to have an excuse to get rid of him. It was a mistake from the outset.”

      She sipped her Australian sauvignon blanc and looked me in the eye.

      “So what about you, Eric? How come you’re not married?”

      A question I’d been anticipating, but was still unready to answer.

      “I … erm, don’t know. Just never got around to it.”

      “But you must ‘ve had women in your life?”

      “Yeah, course I have. Still do, as far as I know.”

      “You do? Well, I’m surprised you hadn’t mentioned it.”

      She smirked at me, and I laughed.

      “Yeah, fair point. The truth is …”

      I told her everything. I had been feeling very strange about the prospect of telling Doreen about Shona because, as I’ve said, I just don’t know how I feel, or where I stand. And the way Shona’s been talking, it doesn’t seem like I have any say in the matter anyway. She talks like we’ve already broken up.

      Doreen asked me a few questions and the more I spoke, the more liberated I felt, and the more prepared I was to just keep talking - holding back nothing.

      Then Doreen waved all my problems aside: “Enough about your love life. When are you going to show me what I’m dying to see?”

      “What you’re dying to see?”

      Doreen was smiling - daring me, and I suddenly felt strange, and a little excited. It was a long time since I’d flirted with a woman.

      “I’ll whisper it in your ear,” she said, beginning to laugh. She leaned across and, for half a second, I thought she was going to kiss me. But she said, “When are you going to show me … how well you can play football?”

      “Oh. I don’t know.”

      “Are you playing on Saturday?”

      God. I really needed to rearrange my thoughts.

      “Erm … Saturday?”

      “Yes. Are you playing on Saturday?

      “Well, yeah. Havant and Waterlooville in the league.”

      “Are you going to take me?”

      “Erm, sure. You can come if you want, but you might not like it. It’s pretty rough.”

      “My brothers played rugby league in Mt Isa,” she said. “I don’t think there’s too much that can shock me.”

      “Right, it’s just that—”

      “What time’s the game?”

      “Oh jeez, 3.00 is the main game, but I’ve just joined the club. It’s unlikely I’ll be picked for that.”

      “So you’re playing in the curtain-raiser? What time?”

      “Well, kick off’s at 1.00, but—”

      “I can’t wait to see you play, Eric. You must be fan tastic to have come all the way to England to play football.”

      A KIND OF DREAMY HALF-LIGHT

      The next night, before training, Ronnie Wellard looked me in the eye and said, “Right. Yer’ve been registered as Mervyn asked. But hell will freeze over before you set foot on the pitch for this club.”

      I was stunned. A few days ago I was on my way to try out for Man United, and now I couldn’t get off the bench for Bentham Reserves.

      “You can fahkin’ tell yer gangster pal that an’ all,” snarled Ronnie. “I’ve built this place up from fahkin’ squat! An’ some Paddy gangster finks he can come in an influence selection jus’ cause ‘e owns the fahkin’ club? It’s wrong, mate!”

      We weren’t getting off on the right foot, Ronnie and I. I could feel his passion, and to tell the truth, I already had a fair bit of respect for the bloke after just one session. He was absolutely the kind of man I wanted to play for, but it’s hard to warm to someone who so obviously hates your guts.

      “It’s nuffin personal, mate. It’s just that I’ve been buildin’ somefin ‘ere. We’ve made the second round of the FA Cup for the first time in 53 years. After all that pissin’ about qualifyin’, we made the main draw for the first time in 27 years … and now we’ve made the second round. We’ve never made the third round. But we’re fahkin’ gonna do it this year. You know ‘ow?”

      “Well, mainly through discipline I would have—”

      “Fahkin’ discipline!” shouted Ronnie. “That’s ‘ow we’ve made the first round. That’s ‘ow we made the second round, an’ that’s ‘ow we’ll make the third round. Do you know what your presence does to my team?”

      “I guess you’ll say it affects the team discip—”

      “It destroys discipline!” roared Ron. “I’ve been runnin’ fings a particular way,” he paused.

      “In fours.”

      “I run fings in fours, an’ the lads all know that. They know my meffods an’ they know what to

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