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Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans
Читать онлайн.Название Mr Cleansheets
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781877006135
Автор произведения Adrian Deans
Жанр Контркультура
Издательство Ingram
“Farrr-kinell!” muttered Trevor, as the three of us stared in admiration. “That was still risin’ when it hit the net.”
“That’s ‘im, though,” said Bernie. “Got his goal. Won’t see ‘im fer the rest o’ the 90 minutes.”
* * *
They led 2-0 at half time. Jaffa didn’t score the second, but he set it up with an absolute piece of class down the right channel. And Juan Pablo of all people ran on to his final pass and slipped it inside the near post.
“Yer see,” said Trevor. “JP’s fahkin’ useless in the middle o’ the park, but look at ‘is understandin’ wiv Jaffa. Ought to be up front, yeah?”
“‘E’s fast an all,” agreed Bernie.
“Least ‘e don’t smoke like fahkin’ Jaffa,” sneered Trevor.
Bernie and I just glanced at each other, but Trevor laughed.
“Yeah … fahkin’ got me, yer bastards. So Jaffa smokes … Trevor bevvies.”
There was a bit of a silence as we watched the two teams troop off to the sheds.
“It’s not like you’d have to go on the wagon completely,” I ventured. “You could just try an’ limit yerself the night before a game. You’ve still got a lot to offer at this level.”
Trevor just shook his head.
“Eric, yer know a great deal abaht football; that’s perfectly clear. But yer know fack all abaht pissheads.”
* * *
At that moment I saw Doreen, walking up the stairs and waving, and a small tinge of pleasure washed over me.
“Hi, Eric. Are you playing?”
“Naah. Got a short run in the Reserves.”
“‘E was brilliant,” exclaimed Bernie, to my embarrassment, but a huge smile lit up Doreen’s face.
I stood up and went to give Dores a peck on the cheek, but she kissed me enthusiastically on the lips.
“Erm … Doreen. This is Bernie …”
“Very pleased I am ter meet yer,” said Bernie, automatically turning on the Irish charm for a woman.
“And this is Trevor.”
“Awright darlin’, d’yer like a drink?”
“Oh, not just yet thanks.”
Doreen sat close to me, gazing around the ground and taking it all in.
“This is my first English football match,” she said.
“Mine too,” I replied.
* * *
The second half was not unlike the second half of the Reserves match. That is, the first thirty-three minutes, and I could sense that Doreen was losing interest - as was I.
“What is it with Ronnie?” I asked. “Why isn’t he putting 50,000 volts through ‘em to get ‘em going?”
“It’s the Cup,” said Bernie.
“Eh?”
“‘E’s worried abaht injuries fer the Cup match at Barnet,” explained Trevor, and I suddenly understood why Ron had been so surly after the 6-0 win. By getting out of second gear we’d risked the health of his precious Reserves, and thereby jeopardised progress to the land of plenty - the third round.
“We’ve never made the third round,” said Trev. “It’s a big deal, mate … .when all the Premier League boys come in and a chance of makin’ ‘istory.”
“Not to mention a chance of a massive pay day,” said Bernie. “Yer get drawn away at a big club like Arsenal or United, yer get half the gate! Yer know what sort o’ money we’re talkin’?”
The other thing about the second half was the complete absence of Jaffa. It must have been the fags, because he spent the whole time either walking or doubled over, hands on knees, trying to breathe.
Then, completely out of the blue, Doreen asked, “So why do you call yourself Mr Cleansheets?”
Immediately, Trevor burst out in incredulous laughter: “Mr Cleansheets? Sounds like a rubber johnnie!”
“A rubber what?” asked Doreen.
“Erm, a gentleman’s prophylactic device,” interpreted Bernie, slightly embarrassed.
“You mean a franger?” asked Dores.
Trevor chuckled: “Mr Cleansheets … that’s fabulous, that is.”
And then Havant scored. The back four had been far too pedestrian in closing down the Havant centre half (by miles their best player) and he’d suddenly changed gear, gone straight through and given Charlie no chance from fifteen yards.
We watched in silence as the enemy clustered and celebrated.
“Now you’ll see a different side of Ronnie,” said Trevor, and no sooner had he spoken than the manager was off the bench and screaming at Gareth.
“Can’t be fockin’ everywhere!” responded Mervyn’s nephew, with a meaningful glance at Sam (one of the centre halves), and it suddenly occurred to me that Mervyn was not present - which surprised me.
There were nine minutes to go, and the Bentham boys had the wobbles. Wave after wave of Havant attacks were negated more by good fortune than good play, and Doreen’s nails were gripping into my arm as the seconds ticked away.
It was all Havant now, and Bernie, forgetting his manners in front of a lady, said, “They focken’ need yer, Trev. Y’ ought to be in good enough nick ter go on an’ do a job.”
Trevor just shrugged, but Bernie was right. We badly needed someone in the middle of the park who could take charge. Juan Pablo was lost under these circumstances, and it was unfair to expect a player of his type to win the middle.
“Shape!” shouted Ronnie. “Rags … Gareth! Get the fahkin’ shape back! Get ‘em back behind the ball!”
Then they scored again - from a corner. You could just feel the momentum swinging their way - and these guys were second last fer chrissakes!
There was a silence about the ground - 500 people were staring at their watches, willing time onwards. Doreen’s nails were slicing into me and Trevor and Bernie were leaning further and further forward in their seats.
Our guys were out on their feet and the Havant boys worked a series of triangles down our left, leaving Dennis and Glen Boyd (the left back) chasing shadows. It was suddenly two on one - seconds to go - their right winger drew Charlie then squared perfectly for the centre forward, who struck the cross bar from eight yards.
A roar went up around the tiny ground as the Bentham boys managed to regroup and get back behind the ball. And then the whistle blew. The game was over.
Trevor and Bernie fell back in their seats, exhausted from the sheer holding of breath.
“Are we going out?” asked Doreen.
POSSIBLY SOMETHING EVEN DEEPER...
After hearing Eric’s story, it had taken Mervyn Night about three seconds to realise that if a member of the Blue Fury was supposed to receive a key on a first class international flight from a mysterious stranger, then that key was intended for Graham McNowt.
For his part, McNowt was surprised to receive an invitation from Mervyn, but that Saturday afternoon the two men found themselves sitting at high tea in the Ritz, with much to discuss.