Gringo

There’s a story too good not to share, so bear with me whilst I remember, and please be patient whilst I tell it:

Gringo was a good lad, see. Wet behind those smacking, snared ears, and sometimes on another planet

But for a kid he got respect pretty quickly on the field; our job in training was to kick him about a bit and knock him into the men’s game

And from that first session it was clear that a) you couldn’t really get near him unless you and a mate trapped him, in which case

B) He’d lay it off to whoever was dashing to fill the space you’d left. His fullback quickly learned the score

And zoomied it whenever it looked like Gringo was about to feint and twist and rip their opponents a new hole

We all thought, knew, suspected it when at 16 he not only meggied Slasher and left him snarling like Gnasher, on his arse and muddy

And whilst the rest of us drew our breath in and looked at each other like, uh-oh, Slasher got back up and with a face like thunder

Launched himself into a waist-high, studs-up, exocet missile of an assault which he’d been trying so hard to cut out of his game

But he was so wound up at getting skinned he intended to really, really hurt Gringo, break his legs, show him what it really meant

Well, Slasher learned the other reason Gringo was so special, because the centre-half found himself somehow in another mess

With the lad chortling to himself as he swerved and sashayed and floated toward goal where he rainbow flicked it into the net

Meanwhile, Slash’s ariel adventures had to come down somewhere and it so happened that he actually took Jacko out instead

And Jacko, being Jacko, got up and stood over Slasher, being the only one the mad cunt ever gave a modicum of respect

The boss blew his whistle and drew Gringo near to him. Bloody hell lad, you’re gonna get obliterated if you do that in a match

And Gringo shrugged and winked at Slasher, whose face had gone shades of red and purple, steam from his ears, the whole lot

But he didn’t do it again, not to Slash. Gringo wasn’t that daft. Instead, he dropped into a deep no. 10 position

And started spraying it about like prime-era Jan Molby, except nowhere near as fat, but bloody hellfire the boy had vision

And over the weeks that followed he grew into himself, and transformed from a wan and sickly-looking transparent-skinned little boy

Into a young man with a four-pack, cause there wasn’t enough of him to grow six, and somehow he avoided

Slash and Jacko and even Gummy, like Jacko an ex-pro at a good level in his time; in fact they came to respect the talent

And the way the boy, at corners, somehow was no longer a scrawny little powderpuff, but seemed entirely made of sharp edges

He was five foot four on a good day, and his mam had to take in his shirts and shorts so he could wear them at all

The lad, Gringo, like I say, didn’t talk much and soon as he had the opportunity would put them headphones on and nod away in the corner

Listening to whatever weirdo K-pop Jap-crap it was he had on that day, and you’d not get a peep out of him except a soft ‘goodbye lads’

Look, we knew he was special; we knew he was a player; we were really trying to do the eternal thing and toughen him up

You know, he was like part of the squad most of the rest of that season, though he didn’t get a minute on the pitch

We were embroiled – embroiled! - in a relegation battle, which is how the Chronicle liked to phrase it

And frankly we needed the Dogs of War right then, not a wunderkind will-o-the-wisp winger. His was a future talent, that was the reason,

And it was our job to make sure that future was secured. As it turned out, we stayed up on the penultimate game of the season

Tuesday under the lights, home to Colliers, a bunch of divot-making clodhoppers whose schtick was as old as the game itself, a mid-table bunch of bores

With Black Country grit and thunder and a trail of injuries and red cards left in their wake. They made us look like Hungary ‘54

Though rather than stroke it about, we had a gameplan of our own, and I have to admit most of it had nothing to do with the actual ball

But involved who to take out the game, and when, to leave the gap for the overlap, and the cross to the far post where Jacko always scored

So 1-0 at full time, and the ref blew up wearily, with some of the boys swearing they saw relief in his eyes that the game was over

Not that the fans cared. Two hundred of them, all on the pitch, celebrating a World Cup Win rather than staying in the Northern Premier

And we could hear them still as we went and showered, and trudged to the little bar under the rickety stand where there was a load of bread

And chips, and we ravenously scarfed em down, having earned them with a rare enough victory, then let the fans into the place

Oh what a night that was. The Boss told us he needed us on Friday for the last game, cause he was already thinking about the rebuild

And we all said, of course gaffer, as he zoomed off in his MX-5, thinking himself the flash cunt whilst we stood there taking the piss

Cause it’s only a Mazda at the end of the day innit? Anyway, he gave the lad a lift that day after the game, taking him home

Lest the grizzled oldies taught him bad habits like drinking and having fun and how to tell a groupie from a painted-up bitch journo.

The WhatsApp was lively that week, all the boys checking in from wherever they ended up. There were sore heads around

And there were sore cocks from others who’d unwisely found themselves in a tart’s bed or near the bins at the back of Voudou Lounge

I don’t know how we got on it, but someone mentioned Gringo – who wasn’t in the chat, and never had been – and how we’d sort him some hole

After the Bangor match coming up, Friday night on the bus, long weekend at that, so we vowed to put in a fiver each for a brass on the way home

All week we got more and more excited, not only cause by that stage there were scouts coming to watch us in training too

Though after the Tuesday had mauled us about, we had Thursday off to bathe and coax scrappy old muscles to have one last go

It was a piss-up with a game attached, don’t get me wrong, but at the same time we all had enough about us to want to win it

Or at least to put up a good account of ourselves, and Jacko had a word with The Boss who promised Gringo’d get some minutes

Just really so we could say he’d proper played for us before he went off and dazzled way out of our orbit

You do get them now and again, these kids. They’re fearless, though to see em in the street you wouldn’t peg em for a player for one minute

So it was agreed, so we were proper buzzing as we made our way to the pick-up point near our theatre of dreams, Rockport Road,

A proper old-fashioned ground it was, all old tarmac and mismatched stands, and bits missing from ancient sponsors’ boards

And all of us piled on, and The Boss checked our names off of the list, but nobody had seen Gringo and time was ticking

And he wasn’t answering his phone. He was never late, see, so Degsie – back seat sloucher if ever there was one

Started a book on what minute it’d be when he turned up, with ‘never’ being one of the options too, and at 5-1 a few took them odds

Ten, twenty minutes passed. Degsie opened a surreptitious lager whilst The Boss stood outside, looking up and down the road

Then at his watch, then at his phone, then at the coach driver as if to say Help me out here mate, I don’t know what to do here

The coach driver didn’t say owt. He knew better, having been with us all season, and having seen The Boss lay the fuck into whoever was near

Anyway it was right at the last minute that the engine started and The Boss got on the coach, looking a bit down in the dumps

Cause underneath it all he’d been wanting to unleash this lad and set him loose amongst the dolts and never-weres of our fellow clubs

So off we went, Gringo-less and a bit sad for it, cause we were looking forward to inducting him properly into the game

Just a little bit of fun, like we all had when we started, before we got dragged down into the gritty shit and struggle and pain

We dribbled down the A55, a car-park at 6pm on a Friday, and Degsie passed around a few 500ml bottles of his special blend

Of coca-cola and vodka, which looked like the Real Thing enough so nobody’d question it. Usually we’d wait to the end

Of the game to get stuck in, but fuck it – we’d stayed up and some of the lads were clearly gonna be on their way come the close season

Which was par for the course really. They’d get other clubs. We’d get other clubs. It didn’t seem to be down to any particular reason

Aside from the directors demanding, and the managers giving them, new faces to shout at. Sometimes – no rhyme or reason – it’d work

You’d hit upon a great blend of young uns, oldies, fighters, flair players, water carriers, nifty passers, headcases, and suddenly couldn’t lose

It didn’t seem a coincidence to me that a lot of those times featured awaydays and nights out together to galvanize the lads

So we didn’t feel too bad about having a jar on the way down. The Bangor lot had their share of pissheads, and that’s a fact

Well, there were roadworks, and we pulled into Farrar Road at about 7.15pm, weaving our way through the queues, down that alley

That dark, dingy walkway, about as wide as the bus, but anyone who ever played there knew what it felt like to see the floodlights blaze away

No matter how old you were, wherever you’d been, this was how footy felt, smelled, grew and got right in your face

Where you could get a thousand in the crowd and it felt like they were right on your shoulder, too. It was just that kind of place

It was a real football ground, and that’s rarer than you’d think. We hopped off the bus, most half-cut, rushed into the players’ entrance

Sometimes you’d wonder why you still bothered with all this non-league palaver, where you had to earn everything including respect

But there, it made sense. The Boss didn’t have to do a speech – there was no time anyway – and one to eleven

Ran out to jeers and shouts and threats that made the hairs on your balls stand up; it felt like you were in the Coliseum

A desultory warm-up, a few crosses hoofed in for Lev to catch or punch away, like he never did once the action started,

A few last clenched fists and exhortations to each other to get stuck the fuck in; Slasher won the toss, which he never usually did

Then the ref blew his whistle – Bangor had only put ten players on the pitch, the silly bastards, so he counted again and had a word with their gaffer

Who said something and disappeared quickly down the tunnel, whilst we all stood around looking a bit gormless at each other

Then five minutes later he reappeared, followed by a player who’d clearly just got changed, kept stopping to do up laces

Or straighten his shorts, or whatever. And we all noticed at the same time that it was Gringo himself – you couldn’t miss his face

Well, we were confused, not least The Boss. He was halfway between apopleptic and devastated, tears of rage and genuine sadness

Cause he’d been trying to get the lad on a long contract for ages, but the board wouldn’t have it, and he’d never actually registered for us.

Well, it was predictable. They absolutely rattled us 5-1, our goal coming in the last minute from a pretty dodgy penalty

Given by the ref to attempt to calm us down whilst Gringo cut through us again and again. He scored a hat-trick that evening

And we couldn’t get near the cunt. He was quicksilver, magical, an international, generational talent

And though we tried to kick the fuck outa him, nobody could lay a stud anywhere near where he was – he was that good in a way you dreamed about

The Boss was yelling at us to hack the fucking traitor down; we tried, but he was operating in another galaxy.

When we got off the pitch at full-time, knackered, half-pissed, covered in mud, blaming the referee

We knew what we’d witnessed from Gringo was the start of a special career. And when the time came to get on the bus

He was there with the gaffer, seemingly having made friends again, sitting there like a schoolboy at the front

We got stuck the fuck into the coke and vodka, couple of crates had appeared too, and despite the shitty result morale was high

Cause we’d done it again: nine months at the coalface. It was a game of stamina, really. Only the most bloody-minded survived

So we pulled up on the hard shoulder near to Flint – Jacko’s ancient bladder mostly the culprit on this particular occasion

And we all lined up to piss there, like sixteen of us, with cars zooming past, cheering as they clocked our al fresco wazzing

So some of us turned round and waved our cocks at the traffic, and Slasher turned around and did the old Goatse too

Then somehow Degsie stumbled and zig-zagged into the road, cars swerving to avoid him, the pissed-up fucking fool

But he was convinced he was immortal, so he carried on his dance into the fast lane, and over the barriers

Where he turned around, thumbs up, and moonwalked back to the fucking bus like nothing was untoward

And we all piled back on again, properly jarred this time, a bit rowdy, but just a gang of lads letting off steam,

Which is why we didn’t notice Gringo hadn’t got back on, until we saw The Boss absolutely raging, his language quite obscene

Because not only were our two lanes stopped cause of Degsie’s little jaunt, but all the way across the other two lanes

Lorries were beeping like fuck, swerving to avoid a little fucker wearing headphones, oblivious and jinking on his way

And we watched as he pirhouetted, balletic on the tarmac of the motorway, cars screeching to a halt

Before a petrol truck’s horn sounded, like a ferry-boat’s warning, but too late; the driver, distracted, and too fast,

Clipped a Ford Mondeo just back from a liaison in a Chester hotel, went airborne, and crashed down, crunched and chopped,

We watched, aghast, as the truck slid and skipped and shed its load, glooping oil all over the shop

And Gringo was still dancing as the cab hit him, knocking him fifty feet into the sky. Then in slow-motion he fell

And at the same time the petrol started to catch, and fire started to burn, and we all hunkered down under the seats, fucking hell

I swear to whichever God there is, or gods, or anything you care to put in front of me, that in that haze of twisted metal and filthy fire

I saw Gringo float up to heaven, arms out, smiling benevolently; then we were driving to Bangor again, and the motorway was clear

Since then, nobody speaks of Gringo, or if they do they insist they’d never met him: it was all a put-on, a wind-up, a myth

To make our team look good: a supposed secret genius to unleash in another relegation skirmish,

And you won’t get a word out of Jacko, or Slasher, or The Boss, and you’ll get fuck all else from me

Cause we beat the sheep-shaggers two nil, with a rare thirty yarder from that drunken motorway-dancing reprobate Degsie

And we’d never played with no Gringo wonderkid,

The best player I’ve never seen.

No evidence that he’d even existed

So the story will die with me.

I Ate Them All

I am sorry

I ate the 

apple, 2 pears, 3 plums, 4 strawberries, 5 oranges,  piece of chocolate cake, 1 ice-cream cone, 1 pickle, 1 slice of Swiss cheese, 1 slice of salami, 1 lollipop, 1 piece of cherry pie, 1 sausage, 1 cupcake, and 1 slice of watermelon and green leaf

That were in

Your icebox

I am very hungry

And

Am catterpillar

The Game's Gone

The gentrification of football and the inevitable squeezing out of its working-class demographic has led directly to the rise of pseudo-political grandstanding as purveyed by the likes of Farage.

Instead of being able to afford travel to away games, a few pints and a scrap with your team’s rivals, young men are following entirely more dangerous, insidious characters around. Taking the game away from the streets doesn’t mean the streets go away. It has created a generation of lads whose sense of belonging has been ripped away.

This, along with a narrative that is designed to create Bogeymen, has diverted the rage of powerlessness away from targetting the capitalist hoarders and sent it toward blameless working-class people who have been forced to leave their own communities behind.

This punching down-or-across has added irony in that the untenable situation that made people leave their homes behind is completely avoidable. Modern conflicts and wars are created by the 1%, the moneyed classes, over oil, rare earth metals, and other resources.

The game’s gone.

Morning Rituals

Every morning he made sure to sit on the edge of his bed and sob.

Just a couple of hacks, coughs of utter dismalness, whilst he allowed himself to acknowledge the weight pushing his back forwards and his head into his hands.

He growled and hiccupped and groaned and wheezed until the self-embarassment broke through enough for him to realise it was another morning.

A couple of hefty breaths from the bottom of his lungs, and he was ready for the day.

Everybody had their crosses to bear, of course. That was no comfort. Other people had lost lovers and family and friends. Sad for them, but not helpful to him. He supposed that somewhere else in the universe – maybe on this planet – another being was waking up and having a little giggle for the same reasons.

Probably someone in his ramshackle town-that-was-a-city. Possibly someone under the grey-blue slate skies of his neighbourhood. Maybe right now. A little chortle at how hilarious and random life was. Mirth response. That wasn’t a bad band name. Mirth response. Sounded like an ambulance for superannuated clowns having heart attacks on stage.

Ah, they’d say, but that was the way he’d’ve wanted to go, old Panucci the clown. Surrounded by laughter. That sounded alright. That sounded like a well-lived-life. And, of course, the great clown Panucci had a well-known and tragic joke involving mental health, didn’t he?

Yes, but actually: Fuck that guy.

No, he’d rather put a notice around his neck – tattoo it on his face – that he was 100 per cent certain he was a DNR case. In fact, rather than even trying to put him in the recovery position; instead of bothering smacking his chest about to the rhythm of the Bee Gees; and as an alternative to someone breathing life back into his lungs – whomever found him choking finally on life was to sit with him and to force out a genuine belly-laugh. That’d do him and he could go out on a smile.

Lately he’d been wondering whether his treasured morning sobs had not been about the dead people that he missed, or the lovers with whom he’d been star-crossed for a day, a month, a year, or a glance across a packed train, or the state of… everyfuckingthing. That was all sad enough, and perhaps had once been the catalyst for the two or three tears he’d shed. But these days, he was suspicious that actually he was crying because once again he’d woken up alive and still robust enough to have to get the fuck on with it.

He padded naked toward the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Black-rimmed eyes like a shit panda. Hair greying but thankfully not balding. He could probably do with a shave. He moved his head back and forth and blew air into his cheeks. The trick was not to think of any of that shit. But to consider that meant that the consideration of it was bad enough, so he tried not to consider what the trick was. He swore at his reflection and creaked rustily toward the shower:

1. Get in shower

2. Squirt mint gel on feet

3. Showerhead in hand, turn on water

4. Aim jets of freezing water away from body

5. When it warms up enough, aim at feet

6. Wash one foot with the other

7. And so on

At some point during the process, he'd forget his woes and locked into the moment. It was water, it was lovely and warm, and to stand there underneath this cleansing rain was a luxury. The steam clouds built up, and as they loosened the phlegm from his misbehaving lungs they also released a hum or a tune or a swearword or a jest or an idea.

Today the ritual bubbled up the notion that if his skin was only made of bubble-wrap he could sit at home all day popping himself stupid. 

__

This Is Just To Moider

Who the fuck

eats plums

let alone from

an icebox

from which

you will probably

suffer

diarrhoea

Fuck's sake

how ridiculous

what's wrong

with coco pops

Metallic Grace

Let us exult the misfits,

The delicious broken biscuits,

The weirdies, the beardies, 

All those who quietly risk it,

The inventive and the sensitive

Who ask you how you're going --

And want a real answer --

They have struggles of their own.

Cerebral conflagrations,

Cacophonies of thought,

Whilst the world turns far too quickly

And spins some of us off.

Listen: somewhere, right this moment,

Somebody reads the newest

In a series they've adored 

Since you guided their soul to it,

And they will share the secret

That there's magic in those words,

And that angels live amongst us

But they hide their wings on Earth.

For JJ

Elvis

Elvis Elvis Elvis Elvis Elvis

Elvis

Elvis

Elvis Elvis Elvis Elvis Elvis

So

Good

I named him twelvis