Читать книгу By George - Hilarious Tales from England's Most Fanatical Football Supporters - David Stanfield - Страница 11

The next morning, we headed out of the camp to pick up some food for the barbecue to feed the rest of the S.E.C.E.F crew who were arriving later that day. On our way out there was an almighty row kicking off between the campsite owner and about 30 English people. It turned out that all these people had pre-booked to stay at the campsite, but the manager wasn’t letting them in because the camp was already overfilled thanks to loads of people being there who shouldn’t have been.

We left to go and get our shopping. We were gone about an hour, and when we returned to the campsite, fuck me, the situation had got even worse. Someone had smacked the campsite owner who’d then called the police. When we got there people were being arrested for fighting with the police and some geezer had cut a great hole in the fence. All the cars at the back were driving through the gap to get in.

We left the potential riot and went for a swim at the pool that was right next to the ground. It was wall-to-wall crumpet, all in little bikinis. We spent the rest of the day lounging in the sun drinking beer and looking at all these heavenly female bodies. HAPPY DAYS!

Ian called at about 3pm, saying they were about one hour away from us, so we reluctantly left the pool and went back to the camper to start the barbecue. Dave cooked the food and Paul went to meet Ian and the returning lads to show them the gap in the fence, which they drove through to join the rest of us. Along with Ian were Jimmy, Bruce, Lee and Kev who was Lee’s older brother. They were shocked to see how well we all looked, especially me.

The camp was buzzing now, with the new arrivals, and while all the excitement was going on, Dave said, ‘We thought we’d go out this morning and buy some food for you all, as a sort of welcome to Camp S.E.C.E.F.’ Then Bruce commented, ‘I hope that food has been paid for out of the whip you nicked’. It seemed he was still stewing over the whip money that Dave had spent in Frankfurt.

Dave went into the camper and I followed him. ‘Take no notice of him, Dave,’ I said, but Dave didn’t speak. Instead he picked up a sausage and wiped it on his arse crack. He then went back outside and cooked more sausages, making sure Bruce got the one with extra sauce on it. I was almost sick as I watched Bruce tuck into his banger; if only he’d known that it had just been banged up Dave’s arse.

That evening we went into Nuremberg. We went to about three different bars and were on our way to another when someone mentioned doing a whip. ‘Well as long as fucking Dave ain’t got it! Hang on, he’s still got two hundred from the last whip! Why don’t we start with that?’ Bruce said. That was it: all hell broke loose. Dave lost it and started going mental at Bruce. Obviously Bruce was not backing down either.

After ten minutes of arguing Dave, Ian, Jimmy, Lee, Steve and Kev went off leaving me with Bruce and Paul. It had taken about six hours for the S.E.C.E.F group to be split in two. The three of us found this rough-looking bar with all the windows blacked out. ‘Come on, let’s get on the cocktails tonight lads!’ someone shouted, and we ordered pints of Long Island Iced Tea which had a kick like rocket fuel. We knew we were in for one hell of session drinking shit like that.

We’d had about two pints and were sitting outside with six German lads when this English fan staggered past us, fell over the table, and just lay there in a heap. We picked him up and sat him on a chair. The bloke’s name was Paul, he was from Birmingham, and he looked like he had just arrived from the 1970 World Cup. He was wearing a union jack hat, a shirt and shorts that looked like his dad had passed them down to him. He was hammered.

At midnight the barman told us we were not allowed to drink on the street any more, as it was the law, but that we could carry on inside. We got up with ten German lads and even Paul the Brummie managed to get to his feet and follow us inside. By 2am everyone was smashed and having a mental party; it was boiling inside the bar and most of us blokes had taken our tops off and were dancing on the tables. The barman told us he was locking the door but the party didn’t have to stop. A LOCK-IN! Fucking brilliant.

About 5am, after everyone had been drinking Long Island specials, a few boys were starting to flake but not me and this guy Horst, who was in the German Army. He had a shaven head and was built like a brick shithouse. At 6am the barman told us it was time to go. I opened the door and the sunlight almost blinded me – it was like coming out of a coal mine with all the blacked-out windows. My eyes had adjusted to the daylight when I realised that there were a load of coppers standing in front of me: it was a raid.

I got out the way of the forward-rushing police. We all stood outside about for about five minutes, and then the old bill came out with the barman in handcuffs. All of a sudden Horst grabbed my arm and cuddled me. I thought he was being matey so I cuddled him back and said, ‘We must do this again, Horst – it’s been mental!’ Horst then held my arms, looked me in the eye and said, ‘You will now come to my house for sex, Stan?’ I thought he was taking the piss and said, ‘Fuck off you wind-up merchant,’ but Horst said, ‘No, Stan, I really want to fuck you’. Paul heard all of this and was laughing his head off as he said, ‘Yeah, go on Stan, you know you want to!’ I wasn’t laughing, though – I knew Horst was serious and he wanted to bum me. I tried to pull away from Horst, but his grip on my arms grew tighter. Eventually I said, ‘Listen, Horst – I’m not gay, you’re wasting your time with me. Why don’t you ask Bruce? He takes it up the shithole!’ I just wanted this twat out of my face. ‘But Stan, if you want you can fuck me?’ I then angrily told him to fuck off, but he was still grabbing me by the arms. Bruce came over to us holding up Brummie Paul, who grabbed Horst and said, ‘I love you fucking Germans, you know how to party!’ Horst let go of my arms and that was it – I was off with Bruce and Paul following me shouting, ‘Hang on, Stan, your boyfriend wants you!’ They were pissing themselves laughing.

When I woke up later that same morning, a few of the lads who hadn’t had a lock in at a German gay bar were already up. I sat down, opened a beer and told them about the night before, and the boys were crying with laughter. Once everyone was up we went to the swimming pool and there were more women than the day before, but the sight of Ian and Lee bombing off the diving board didn’t really attract the female attention we craved.

Later we held an S.E.C.E.F swimming race, but Steve and I decided not to take part. Steve did the starter’s orders and I filmed proceedings. Steve shouted at the top of his voice, ‘On your marks…Get set…GO!’ As the boys entered the water, half the pool water came out, covering me and Steve. It was hard to see who was winning from all the splashing and chaos being caused by arms and legs, but after twenty metres Paul was in the lead. He was gliding through the water when from nowhere this woman bobbed up out of the water. Surely she would stop Paul’s surge towards the S.E.C.E.F swimming champion and let in Jimmy and Ian, who were close behind him. But when he reached the woman, Paul just swam straight through her, almost knocking her unconscious, and carried on to pass the finish line and take the title of S.E.C.E.F swimming champion.

After relaxing by the pool, we went back to the camper and all the boys went to the fans’ park, except me and Bruce. We got absolutely smashed beyond belief; Bruce was that pissed he decided to climb (somehow) up on top of the camper and was dancing in just his shorts singing. ‘You’re simply the best!’ I think he was singing it about England, but may have been directing at me (if it was, thanks Bruce, I love you too). It was shortly after Bruce almost falling off the van for the tenth time, that Ian, Dave, Lee and Paul returned, it was time to go to the match and time to George up again, I can’t even remember getting into my suit as I was that pissed.

With Bruce, Paul and me Georged up, we eventually reached the ground after the usual thousands of photos. We met up with several old friends who we had met on previous England trips, including the lads from Yarmouth who were part of the famous ‘Yarmouth Yellows’ and our old friend Bully. Bully was a top bloke who had been with us in Switzerland when England beat Argentina. We took our seats, front row behind the goal, and Bully joined us.

Sometime in the second half I went to get some drinks, and all the drinks staff were tapping each other and pointing at me. They all wanted photos with me. They told me I was very famous in Germany and that I’d been on all the TV stations. One little photo shoot got me four free beers! I got back to the lads and gave out the drinks. I looked up and saw I was on the stadium’s big screen – the match camera had picked me up. The boys bundled on top of me to get themselves on the telly, Bully covering virtually everyone with his Bromsgrove flag. At last we had seen ourselves on telly, but what I didn’t anticipate was how many others had also seen us.

As we walked away from the stadium, after seeing England beat Trinidad & Tobago 2-0, we had to once again go through the madness of hundreds of people wanting to have their photo taken with us. After what seemed endless photos, I started to feel really rough, like I was going to collapse at any minute. I never told the boys how I was feeling and just carried on trying to smile for the cameras, but inside my whole body was aching and felt wrecked.

We got back to camp and everyone cheered and Dave said, ‘Here he is – the most famous George of all! Stan, I’ve been telling these boys all about you here in Germany and they can’t believe that someone could drink as much as you have and still be alive to tell the story. You want a beer?’ I looked at him and said, ‘I just want a cup of tea, I’m fucked!’ I walked into the camper and collapsed on the sofa. I was completely dehydrated but after reviving myself with two cups of tea, I checked my mobile. I couldn’t believe it – I’d missed 230 calls and texts from people back home who’d seen me on telly. I dived out of the van and said, ‘Right, now I’m ready for a beer!’ A stranger and handed me a beer like my life depended on it and said, ‘Hello mate, I’m George, nice to meet you.’ I said, ‘I’m George as well, but I’m off duty now. Cheers for the beer mate!’ ‘Right, come on boys. England just won, so let’s go and have a party!’ I screamed.

When we got to the town, all the boys went for a Chinese and I went to an off-licence to get some desperadoes. When I walked in, I spotted Scouse Jamie and his mates. Three of them were shouting like mad at the Indian guy behind the counter, while the others were filling rubble sacks with beer from the fridges. ‘Eh, alright Stan? We owe you one, what you drinking?’ Jamie said. ‘Desperadoes, mate.’ I answered ‘Any Desperadoes in the fridge, Steve?’ Jamie asked, and Steve filled a sack with Desperadoes for me. Jamie handed me the sack and said, ‘Enjoy, Stan, have a good one mate.’ I took the sack, threw it over my shoulder almost Father Christmas, and went back to my mates.

On my way, I bumped into the Man City boys and I told them about the Scousers robbing the beer from the shop. ‘Fuck me, do you Cockney fuckers pay for anything?’ they said, ‘We’ve just seen all your mates running away from that Chinese restaurant, they had their food and then all of them fucked off without paying!’ I just laughed and eventually caught up with my lads, who when I found them were dancing in the street throwing beer all over the place.

That night in Nuremberg there was a fantastic atmosphere and we partied long into the night with the Trinidad & Tobago fans, who while they hadn’t brought the greatest football team had definitely brought some of the liveliest fans, who were all well up for it.

The following morning, which happened to be Kev Mark’s birthday, we packed everything up as we were heading to our next destination – Cologne for the Sweden game. We all agreed that rather than drive to Cologne we’d go back to Frankfurt, park outside the campsite and have a party that night by the river bank. We decided to be a bit cultured and visit the place where the Nuremberg Trials for Nazi war criminals were held. As we walked in, we were met by a load of English radio reporters looking for comments from England fans. They approached Ian and said, ‘Hello mate, want to do an interview for Radio Four?’ Ian swiftly replied, ‘Fuck off, talk to him!’ pointing in my direction. The interviewer got the comment he wanted – I talked for about ten minutes about the education of future generations, never forgetting the atrocities that had happened during World War Two. I knew who the listening audience would be and made my interview as serious as I could, and when I finished the lads gave me a round of applause and the interviewer couldn’t thank me enough.

We all did the tour, some a lot quicker than others. Paul and I took our time as we were both interested in the Second World War; we even tried to get down to where the gallows were to get the ultimate photo – a St George about to be hung – but we couldn’t figure out how to get there, which was probably a good thing, because if you give Paul enough rope, he will hang himself.