Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans

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      “Where the fack you goin’, Ginger Minger?” inquired a sack of shit stuffed into a Chelsea shirt two sizes too small. “Why n’t you stop an’ buy us a pint, mate?”

      Jaffa tried to ignore him and keep walking but his mate flicked out a foot causing Jaffa to stumble, which the three Blue Fury seemed to find hilarious.

      “Sorry mate, accident,” explained the offender.

      “Yeah, like your face an’ all, mate,” replied Jaffa. “No mother could intend something that boot fahkin’ ugly.”

      I sighed, as the room held its collective breath …

      Time seemed to slow as the shocked expressions on the Blue Fury faces turned to a sort of delighted anger, and the Tripper threw out a ponderous right which Jaffa ducked effortlessly. At the same time, the Beast tried to charge me but I stepped aside like a matador and cracked him under the left ear as he went past and finished up face first in a bowl of cold nachos. The Sack of Shit tried three times to break his half-full bottle on the counter and then swung his Doc Mar-ten at my groin, but I caught his boot, threw him onto his back and then stamped on his nuts - causing him to howl rather comically. The guacamole-covered Beast swung a thunderous right in an attempt at a king hit, but again I saw him coming and drove my own right into his ribs as he over-extended in his follow through. Jaffa had retreated to the door, pursued by the Tripper, and as neither the Beast (clutching his ribs) nor the Sack of Shit with the sore nuts seemed to take any further interest in me, I strode up behind and swept his feet with a raking kick of my own. Immediately, Jaffa danced in and drove a heel into his face, smashing his nose - leaving all three Blue Fury bleeding and/or moaning on the floor of their new fiefdom.

      “Pleasure doin’ business, pal,” I snarl/smiled at the recumbent Beast. Then Jaffa and I bowed to the startled lunchtime crowd and made our exit - strolling back to Jennings Road as though nothing had happened.

      And still my back felt brilliant.

      * * *

      Back at work we had the house to ourselves, so Jaffa took me out into the back yard, pointed at a couple of trees about 15 feet apart, and said, “Awright Eric, let’s see what you got.”

      With that, he retrieved a football from underneath a wisteria and commenced juggling about 20 metres away while I stretched my back and hamstrings.

      He certainly had some skill, but the athletic effect was spoiled by the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth as he bounced the ball from foot to head to shoulder.

      “Hurry up, you ol’ fart!” he shouted as I continued to stretch. “Lady Shite ‘ll be back soon, so we’ve only got time fer a few.”

      “Hold yer fuckin’ horses, mate. I’m still a bit jetlagged, plus I’ve been liftin’ boxes all morning.”

      “Keep yer fahkin’ bollocks fer the rest home,” replied Jaffa as he let fly with a terrific half volley that was straight at my head. Despite the fact that I hadn’t touched a football since that grand final penalty save, the old reflexes snapped straight into play and I effortlessly palmed the ball down at my feet and side-footed back to him. He didn’t say a word but I could tell from the raised eyebrows that he was already impressed.

      “Awright, let’s see how you go with something not lobbed straight to yer,” he said and slammed a shot low to my left. Without even thinking, I was down to it and pushed the ball into a bed of roses.

      “Not bad,” conceded Jaffa as he lifted the broken stem of a white rose and then tore it away to conceal the damage. “Mind you, the goal’s not full size.”

      “Wouldn’t matter how big it was against an amateur like you,” I remarked as he trotted back to his mark, examining the ball for possible punctures.

      “We’ll see abaht that, Artful Codger,” replied Jaffa as he took a bit of a run up and drilled the ball hard, about six foot to my right and head high. Immediately, I was off my feet and palmed the ball over an imaginary crossbar and straight into a lead light window which crunched like a rotten tooth.

      “Goal!” shouted Jaffa, but before I could dispute the matter we were confronted by the lady of the house, incandescent with anger aDRIan Deans

      “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, stamping her foot, hands on hips.

      “It means England one, Australia nil,” replied Jaffa.

      * * *

      Jaffa dropped me back to my digs in West Hampstead, just around the corner from Mervyn’s club.

      “I’m tellin’ yer, Ronnie won’t mind,” he insisted. “It’s no problem to come along to training. The ground’s just down the end of your street, for chrissakes! Just bring yer gear and be there by quarter past five.”

      I didn’t know how I felt about this development - being invited to training. I’d more or less determined to retire from football for the sake of peace with Shona. England, after all, had already rejected me and I had little desire to subject myself to further humiliation.

      “I dunno, Jaffa. Southern Conference is probably a little out of my league these days.”

      “I’m not askin’ yer to play first team,” sneered Jaffa. “Jus’ come fer the fahkin’ run, mate.”

      I climbed down from the truck and stretched my back. It felt pretty good.

      “I’ll see how I feel.”

      THE BAD LUCK OR STUPIDITY OF YOUTH

      My digs were at 42C Kentside Rd in Bentham Green, a tiny suburb just west of West Hampstead. My place was about 300 yards from Kentside Field, where Bentham United played, and 500 yards from the West Hampstead Sportsmen’s Club.

      The digs had been arranged by Mervyn. It was essentially a private home with a room to let, owned by one Bernice O’Toole - a youngish old stick, about 65, who had more in common with a tropical cyclone than with your standard-gauge British widow. Most of her energy was reserved for surfing the Internet, and when she discovered I’d never ventured into cyberspace, she was aghast.

      “What, nivvir surfed? Young man like you? That’s a disgrace, so it is.”

      Her computer was in the little office, just outside my bedroom door, and before I could stop her she’d set me up with an e-mail address.

      “What’s yer nickname?” she’d asked, causing me to consider.

      “Actually, I haven’t had one for a while. They used to call me Mr Cleansheets.”

      “And best yer keep it that way,” she chuckled. “Right. Yer now Mr Cleansheets at hotmail dot com. Who d’yer wanna contact?”

      Well. There was only one e-mail address I knew:

      FROM: [email protected]

      TO: [email protected]

      SUBJECT: Hello

      Hi СКАЧАТЬ