Читать книгу By George - Hilarious Tales from England's Most Fanatical Football Supporters - David Stanfield - Страница 6
ОглавлениеMy story has to start when everything changed forever – when I went from being an ordinary England fan into one of the Georges, better known as the M.I.G.S (The Men In George Suits).
We’d qualified for the World Cup in Germany, and the draw had been made. What a group! Paraguay, Trinidad & Tobago and Sweden. On paper it was a great draw and off the field it was an even better draw: SWEDEN! Those who went to the Euros with me had experienced what the Swedish girls were about when we’d watched Sweden v Denmark – but hang on, I’m getting ahead of myself. Our story began when a group of lads from Slip End and the neighbouring village, Caddington, had been following England.
We formed our own England supporters group known as S.E.C.E.F (Slip End and Caddington England Fans) – I thought of the name, to the disgust of the boys from Caddington who said Caddington should come first as I was the only one from Slip End. The boys aren’t that smart at the best of times, and I told them I’d been online and discovered that ‘secef’ was Hungarian for ‘fuck off’. When they heard that, they were over the moon at the name and couldn’t wait to meet a Hungarian so they could put this new word to good use. Little did they know they would only have to wait a few months.
S.E.C.E.F included me, Ian, Dave, Bruce, Paul, Steve, Jimmy, Lee, Alan and Dale. We elected a committee to take executive decisions on our trip to Germany. Bruce was elected Chairman and Alan Treasurer. We decided to drive to Germany and pick up a camper van, so Bruce sorted out the camper and booking the ferry for the two vehicles taking all those going.
Just before the April meeting, Paul phoned. He’d had an idea – we should all dress up as St George. He’d seen the suits on the internet, apparently. I told him that we’d look like a load of pricks, but he said that he’d mocked up some photos of everyone wearing the suits and that he’d bring them along to the meeting.
The penultimate meeting at S.E.C.E.F’s official headquarters, Caddington Social Club, was headed by Bruce – and as usual he got a barrage of abuse from his lifelong nemesis, Dave. The two had a real love/hate relationship; Bruce loved Dave and Dave hated Bruce. At the start of the meeting Bruce told us Alan and Dale wouldn’t be going to the World Cup after all, leaving just eight of us, but then someone I hadn’t seen for years turned up – Nick Beeson, AKA Chubb. He wanted to come out with us for the first game against Paraguay, and he was accepted by the group as we thought it politically correct that we had one gay member.
Bruce said the ferry was booked for Ian’s motor and Dave’s van. He’d booked the camper which we’d pick up in Düsseldorf, so everything was sorted. At the end of the meeting, Paul told everyone about the George suits and handed round his pictures of St George with all of our faces on them. After a few minutes of laughter and piss-taking, Ian – who is well over six foot, about twenty stone and aptly named ‘The Yeti’, said, ‘Fucking hell, if those suits make me look that slim, I’m having one!’
Dave had sat studying his picture and then blurted out, ‘Fuck me, don’t this bloke in this photo look like me!’ We absolutely pissed ourselves, especially as we knew he was serious.
Four of us decided that we would buy suits just for the craic. Ian and Lee point blank refused, worried that their reputation as hooligans would be ruined. The two lads saw themselves as prominent members of Luton Town crew The MIGs, but in reality the only banning orders they’d had were from ‘All you can eat for £15’ restaurants.
The night before we left for Germany I went for a few drinks with Paul, Steve and Lee – trouble was, ‘a few’ turned into many and we ended up drinking Green Monster – my own lethal concoction of snakebite and blue curaçao. At about 10pm I went into the toilet and emerged as St George – the whole club was in uproar and people immediately broke into a chorus of ‘Keep St George in my heart, keep me English’, which happens quite a bit when we’re seen in our suits.
I’d intended to just put the suit on for a laugh, but with such a reaction I kept it on all night. Paul also changed into his suit: ‘Fuck me, now there’s two of them!’ someone shouted. ‘That’s right – I’m George the First, I announced, holding my arms aloft, ‘And this is George the Second!’ I added, pointing at Paul.
By the time the club shut, we were hammered – all except Lee who was on antibiotics. Not for a dose; the closest Lee had got to a bird’s knickers in recent months was hanging his Mum’s washing out. Anyway, Lee drove my van when we left the pub and we all went over to Ian’s house, even though Ian didn’t know we were coming. Now you’ve heard about the size of Ian, so waking him up was a risk to our health. But Ian was my oldest and best mate and where other people had to be careful of him, I could get away with murder. The only trouble was that for all his size, Ian’s going out with my sister Sharon (who stands a massive five foot three inches) and she was boss. It was her we really had to worry about.
We stood outside my sister’s house, and I came up with the clever idea of breaking in. The downstairs window was ajar so I got a screwdriver from the van, slid the screwdriver in, lifted the handle and opened the window. I climbed in and opened the front door to let Paul and Steve in.
Once in we raided Ian’s beer supply and I decided Steve needed a haircut, so I got my hair clippers out. We sat Steve in the dining room and proceeded to give him a skinhead, even though he’d only asked for a short back and sides. We hadn’t been cutting Steve’s hair for long, though, when there was a loud knock at the door. We heard movement from upstairs and started running around the house looking for somewhere to hide, as we knew my sister and Ian would not be best pleased firstly by whoever was knocking at the door and secondly by the fact that there were two St Georges and a half a skinhead in their house.
Ian charged down the stairs – we knew it was him as it sounded like a herd of wildebeest on the move – and he was screaming at the top of his voice ‘Who the fuck is that?’. This was quickly followed by my Sister screaming ‘I bet it’s that fucking stupid brother of mine’. How wrong could she be – they didn’t even hear me enter.
Ian wrenched the door open and came face to face with two old bill. ‘Do you know what fucking time it is?’ he asked (obviously his Mickey Mouse watch had stopped). The first copper told him that a neighbour had witnessed someone wearing a red cape breaking into their house.
My sister shouted, ‘Does it look like there is anyone hear with a fucking red cape on, burglar or not?’ At that point I came out of hiding behind the lounge curtains to reveal that the burglar in question was indeed her ‘fucking stupid brother’. The two policemen looked stunned when I appeared; my sister on the other hand, who wouldn’t put anything past me, said, ‘What the fucking hell are you doing here and how did you get in?’ Paul then emerged, holding Steve up.
The first copper said, ‘Excuse me, Madam, do you know these…?’ He wasn’t quite sure what to call us. ‘Yes, I fucking do know them. It’s my brother and his drunken mates.’ Ian was laughing as he wandered back up the stairs to leave my sister to it. His parting shot was ‘Don’t nick any of my lager!’
The police came in and I explained why we broke in and why we were dressed as knights. My sister didn’t seem to be listening – she was too busy looking strangely at Steve who looked like he’d got a bad case of alopecia.
The police apologised to my sister for disturbing her, and as they were about to leave the second copper asked, ‘Any chance of a photo, mate? The boys down the station are never going to believe this!’ So me and Paul stood either side of the copper, while his mate took a picture.
The two old bill left my sister’s and I waited for the torrent of abuse which was surely coming. She looked me in the eye, shook her head and started laughing. ‘Look, Shaz, sorry about…’ I began, but before I could finish she raised her hand and said, ‘Will someone please finish cutting that bloke’s hair? He looks fucking ridiculous.’ Then she turned and went to bed.
I finished Steve’s hair and we called it a night, after having another couple of Ian’s beers of course. Ian woke me at about 5.30am, while I was still sprawled out on his sofa. He’d already screamed at Steve and Paul and I knew it was my turn. ‘Come on, get up – we’re off to the World Cup now and we’re not waiting for you,’ he said. I walked into the kitchen where Steve looked like he was in a daze. He was in a house he’d never been to before and he couldn’t remember how he’d got there. I did have to laugh when he scratched his head only to discover that all his hair had gone. I said nothing, but he knew who’d scalped him.
Bruce, Dave, Jimmy and Lee arrived soon after and Jimmy looked at me and said, ‘Told you Stan would be hammered.’ The boys would be shocked if I wasn’t. We packed the bags into Dave’s van, jumped into Ian’s motor, and off we went. It only took Ian a matter of seconds to start telling the others of the previous night’s events, which they thought were hilarious.
On the way to the motorway, we picked Chubb up, who looked like death warmed up. ‘Fuck me, Chubb, what’s wrong with you?’ I said. ‘I’ve got the shits something terrible and I’ve been up all night,’ Chubb replied. Oh well – with all the S.E.C.E.F members now present and correct (well, sort of) we were off to Germany.
