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ONCE UPON A TIME IN A SMALL TOWN CALLED MIDDLESBROUGH 3-5-06
Old George deftly plucked the nipped Woodbine from behind his left ear and coughed raucously, habitually tapping his chest as he did so, face turning a crimson red in the process. He fished into the front chest pocket of his faded khaki dungarees and found the old battered chrome petrol lighter. In one deft hand movement, he'd flicked it into flame then lit the 'life saving' coffin nail and took a lengthy drag, so intense it was, as though his very life depended upon it.
He expanded his lungs to bursting, full of nicotine and God knows what else. He coughed so heavily that he turned purple, bringing tears to his eyes. Perversely, he smiled and sighed audibly because he actually felt better. He took yet another life saving drag through mustard hued fingers and visibly jumped as he was startled by a voice behind him.
"Hey George, don't bloody cark it on us yet, not before you finish the lock up!"
George coughed again in short staccato bursts and nodded reverently in the direction of the voice, touching his index finger to the peak of the grey tartan flat cap he wore.
He answered between coughs; "I'm nearly done Mr. Storey, I've locked all tuther gates and just got these big red buggers to do and that's it. All done!"
"Good man. Yes after what I've seen, this club is all done, dead and buried, really atrocious business sense." He said, shaking his head before adding, "Come over to the side of the South stand, we are all going to leave through a side gate to avoid any press or public."
"Oh aye, where's that one. First time I've been in here mesell. Stupid game footer."
"The one over there." Storey pointed vaguely in the direction of the door he'd half arrived through.
The frown on George's brow requested more information.
"I'll wait on the pitch for you George, on the far-side, O.K.?"
'Aye Mr. Storey I'll be with ya in a mo."
A game ensued in the street outside the old stadium at furious pace. The combatants ran around like headless chickens, shouting happily, playing from end to end of the roadway with the goals marked by jackets, jumpers and a few shirts. Football at it's most pure played through the enthusiastic bodies of youth.
George bent his small sturdy frame double, his beer belly causing an obstruction in the process, enough encouragement for him to pass wind very loudly. After another coughing fit and more flatulence, he finally found what he was looking for and extracted it from within the bowels of his canvas tool bag.
It was a length of heavy chain with a large brass and chrome lock attached to the last forged shackle. He dragged the chain along the ground behind him causing it to clink noisily, like the jailer of doom, he made his way over to the large ornate wrought iron gates.
Using the key ensconced in the lock, he opened the asp, then attempted to place the chain through the bars of the central section of the gates. He recoiled as a strange tingling force startled him as soon as he touched the red steel. It felt very like a mild electric shock. Bemused, he tried again and again, each time he felt as though he'd been zapped with tingling irritating electricity.
He exclaimed; "What the bloody hell is going on here!?" to no one in particular but, sufficiently loud enough for the kids who were playing a game of footer in from end to end of Warwick Street to hear. They continued playing their frantic game but, a few stragglers looked over to the direction of the old man inquisitively, making loopy finger signs to each other.
"I bet some little smart-arse has frigging booby trapped these bloody gates with 'tricity!"
'It weren't you young buggers were it!" he shouted in the direction of the young lads, who were too busy celebrating a goal.
"I'll show you buggers, George isn't as daft as he looks!"
He fished a pair of rubber gloves out of his tool bag and carefully threaded the chain through the bars and snapped the lock shut and triumphantly withdrew the key.
"Thought you'd trick me did ya? Little buggers. I'd give yer a right tanning if yer were mine! I were bloody fighting the Nazis for fuckers lark thee! Aye and at your age!"
Conveniently over-looking the fact he was in Dad's Army, coldly parading the bracing Saltburn cliffs at dusk, looking for the invading enemy. The fact that most of the players were barely eleven passed his notice too.
The game stopped and all the young raggy-arses looked towards the gates and could see and hear the flat-capped old man ranting and raving to himself, wildly gesticulating like a broken windmill. They all laughed loudly, and began to mimic old George's St.Vitas dance. The spell was broken by one of the kids saying;
"Hey look who's coming, it's Mogga the Boro player!"
They all turned in unison to see a lanky, bow legged blonde lad in jeans and t-shirt striding towards them, as he reached the orange plastic Mitre ball he deftly flicked it up in a skilled movement and had an impromptu keepy-uppy session as the kids moved towards him. He then clipped the ball towards the lad stood in the middle of the road, guarding a goal made from piles of clothing, who clumsily caught it in mid air on the second attempt.
"Have a game with us Mogga!' They yelled at him together.
"Hang-on bairns, just got to get something from Ayresome and I will do lads."
They all cheered and returned to kicking lumps out of each other and the ball.
Constable 356, Kevin Barnes, groaned in relief and pleasure as he finally released his distended bladder. He thought, 'I'm bloody sick of poxy jobs like this, guarding the bloody entry to the Boro ground, 'turn the media and public back' his sergeant had said. Alright for that tosser but my bloody piles are killing me, my back's knackered and my flaming feet are throbbing. Suppose I should've chased those kids but who the hell is going to be bothered, Boro can go and rot for all I care, only good for a bit of Saturday overtime anyway. Good riddance.'
Tony 'Mogga' Mowbray had come down to Ayresome to pick up some wages he was owed. He'd need it as spending money so he could go on holiday with his Marske buddies. He was surprised to see a barrier across Warwick Street when he parked his old Escort half on the pathway, and thought that maybe there were road works of some sort. How wrong he was. After a brief exchange with his junior fan club of raggy-arses he approached the Middlesbrough AFC emblazoned gates then he noticed a large chain and padlock dangling in the centre and a flat-capped old man in dungarees chuntering away to himself. Before he had chance to speak the old man verbally accosted him, shouting, "What the bloody hell do you want, you gonna try and set me alight now or what?'
"Pardon Mate, take a bloody tablet. What you on about anyway and what's this lock and chain on here for?"
"It's to keep buggers like you out, that's what it's for big ears, ya nosey frigging Get!"
"Calm down Grandad, I'm a player here, are you doing something to the entry or what?"
"Oh! Sorry Son, I thought you was with them buggers out there, little bastards have booby-trapped the place. I'm working for Mr.Storey, a Government gadgee from the Official Receiver's Office. We've locked the place up Son, your team are buggered, no money left!"
"You mean we're bankrupt? But I'm owed wages and what happens next season?"
"Get yerself a proper job Son. Got it too easy you buggers I reckon, swanning around out there on the park like you own the place!" Old George gave his parting shot as he exited through the door to head into the ground to find Storey and his cronies.
"Bastard!" Mowbray exclaimed, before kicking an empty dustbin and severely denting it as it spewed it contents noisily onto the road. The orange ball thudded off the gates and he instinctively chased it down before entering the fray of the raggy-arses in the street.
William Holmes, Billy to his mates, peddled the old black bicycle along Ayresome Street and stopped with a squealing and juddering outside number 113. Wearing a red n' white striped bobble beanie that looked like a father Christmas hat, topped with a woolly white ball at the pointy end and wrapped in a red n' white hooped classic Boro scarf looped fashionably over the left shoulder of his cardigan.
He'd lived here in an earlier life, it was where his second oldest lad, Peter, had been born. Right here in the flat at the top of the stairs. But he wasn't here for all our yesterday's. Today he had bigger fish to fry.
He'd felt compelled to lengthen his usual daily cycle on the old bike, as if driven by some invisible force, pushing him inevitably towards Ayresome Park, the home of his club, his team, his beloved, his Erimus, Middlesbrough Football Club.
Since retiring from British Steel due to ill-health, he'd enjoyed his rides, they helped to alleviate the stiffness of rheumatoid arthritis. Normally, he'd travel a few leisurely miles, enough to loosen the sinews and fill the lungs to bursting with fresh Teesside smog.
But today was different, he'd ridden like a man possessed and knew he'd feel it in his old bones and muscles tomorrow morning. As he kicked away from the high curbing outside number 113, he wobbled forth avoiding in the process a few tumbleweed like newspaper sheets blowing in the wind with the headline screaming 'Boro Bankrupt' on one.
He spotted the red and white barrier at the turn off for Warwick Street as he slowly approached. He could make out a policeman with his lime green luminous reflective jacket, obviously relieving himself behind the low wall of the old school, before returning to his station, slowing pacing the footpath next to the barrier with his hands behind his back.
Billy looked over his right shoulder and when the traffic cleared, turned at right angles across Ayresome Street and, in one practiced movement, swiftly dismounted the bike before parking it pedal down on the curb so it stood bolt upright.
PC Barnes thought, 'Who's this nosey old fucker, he looks a right one this, look at that flaming hat, he looks like bloody Wee Willie Winkie! Is the silly sod all there?'
"You can't park that thing there Mate!" he intoned, followed with an arrogant stab of his finger initially at the bike then making a dismissive hand motion towards Billy, gesturing towards the direction he'd come from.
"And why ever not Columbo? Detective in charge of bloody warning signs?" Billy retorted sarcastically.
"Less of yer lip Grandad, 'cos I said so for a start!"
"Well why not, it's not doing you any harm you miserable sod?" Billy snapped back.
"Either you move that bloody bike sharpish or I'll arrest you for obstructing the Queen's highway!"
"Obstructing, the Queen's highway or?" he questioned, tapering off before adding; "what, your expert attempts at being an total arsehole. Hey Sherlock, are you going to arrest yourself for having a piss in public yer lantern jawed twat?"
"Pissing? What pissing? How did you know that?" he answered aghast.
"Your flying the flag and you've got a wet patch on yer strides!" Billy retorted, laughing tauntingly while pointing at the officer's moist crutch area.
PC Barnes hurriedly zipped himself up and angrily retorted; "Listen fucking Noddy, I'll add swearing to a policeman in the course of his duty too if you don't move it now!', finishing off by itching at his irritated 'roids and grimacing at the same time.
"Bollocks! It's going to be interesting round here for the Health Dep't when you want a cack that's all I can say. The bike is staying put yer arsehole!"
They both looked towards the offending black beast as a lumbering articulated lorry rumbled shudderingly past within inches of the velocipede. The bike tottered, first swaying slightly one way then the other appearing to steady, another pregnant pause before it then fell into the road causing cars to swerve, horns to toot and all hell and mayhem to break loose. The policeman quickly acted instinctively and ran towards the bike, which gave Billy his opportunity to duck beneath the barrier and head at a brisk canter towards the stadium.
David Storey looked impatiently at his watch as he approached the assembled group of people from his office, North East regional department of the Official Receiver.
"I can't wait any longer for the bloody locksmith! Gary, as you are the only local lad can you wait here for George, then lock up that last gate. We really need to get back down the road to Leeds before the A19 rush."
Gary nodded affirmatively, waited until they'd gone, then promptly buggered off himself and thought 'as he's a locksmith he can get himself out'. He firmly shut the battered wooden gate behind him and jumped into the white Mark IV Ford Cortina and cruised slowly out of Clive Road.
Eric Goodall drained the remainder of his pint, then wiped the residual froth from his mouth with the back of his left hand before cocking his right hand in pistol pose, saying in his best Harry Callaghan voice; "Right punk! Make my day!"
Ged Richards had already emptied his vessel and answered; "Time to make our protest Brother!"
The pair shook hands then strode manfully out of the bar of the White Rose and headed towards the direction of Ayresome Park. They looked across at each other and nodded then gave the thumbs up in freakish unison and never uttered a word until they reached the end of Clive Road and the entrance to the infamous Holgate end.
They watched as a square in a suit slammed one of the wooden gates at the end of the South stand before driving off in a white Ford Cortina.
"Ready Brother?" Eric quizzed.
"Aye Brother?" Ged answered.
Without another utterance they climbed up and over the wall helping each other in the process until they got to the barbed wire section on top of the angled wall. They simply and carefully removed a section with some wire cutters Eric had brought along for the purpose. They dropped over the wall and were out of sight. Commandos of Smog.
Steve Gibson was heading up Linthorpe Road towards Albert park in his XJ Jaguar when he heard an announcement on Radio Tees: "It appears that the Official Receivers Office will today take over control of Ayresome Park and the 120 year history of Middlesbrough Football club is nearing it's final days."
"Fucking hell!" he exclaimed audibly in frustration, banging the horn in exasperation.
As he hit the junction of Ayresome Street, he veered right, just squeezing between a couple of cars which were heading into the town centre. He was hell bent on getting to the stadium to see what was happening. It was then he hit the tail of a static traffic jam, waited a few minutes and as there was no movement apart from palms pressing horns, parked his car in a side street and walked the rest of the journey on foot along Ayresome Street towards the embattled Boro ground.
Eric and Ged were now inside the stadium and heading swiftly along the concrete terracing of the famed Holgate End until they were adjacent to the rear of the goal at that end of the ground. They stood leaning on a barrier looking down the ground towards the East Ayresome Park road stand, taking in the vista, the Boys End, the Chicken run, the Away corner and that magnificent pitch, normally billiard table smooth but now overgrown with newspaper sheets and old toilet roll streamers blowing over it's surface.
The whole place looked lost and uncared for.
Without a word, Eric took of his jacket and Ged followed suit as they both began to undress slowly, Eric folding his clothes neatly into a pile and Ged tossing his clobber all over the place like a demented stripper. Now totally bollocky buff naked they retook station on the crush barrier silently dredging through memories of this shrine to football.
Eric broke the spell, "Ready Brother?"
"Aye Brother!" Ged retorted.
Eric took a pair of red and white hooped Boro socks out of his jacket pocket and passed one to Ged. The brothers in arms then simultaneously placed the individual socks over their genitals and with a lusty war-cry of; "Come On Boro!" Off they set down the terracing. Then climbed the fence very carefully, as you would when naked, and when on the other side at the pitch edge they jogged slowly to the centre circle. Socked genitals bouncing in a metronomic motion causing the packages to flap around as if in a breeze.
Billy Holmes reached the end of Warwick Road and didn't like what he saw. It made him very angry. A large lock and chain hung between the bars of the central gate with a tag dangling from it. He could see written next to a crest like insignia;
'Office of the Official Receiver. DO NOT REMOVE.'
In his petulant anger, he grabbed the bars and began to rattle the gates and the instant he touched the cold steel he felt a compelling force enter his body, like an electric shock but not causing him harm. His head buzzed with images and his mind whirled but he couldn't and didn't want to break his grip. Steam appeared to be coming from his mouth, his nostrils, his ears, wisps cascaded from his clothing. His hair stood out like it was impersonating a burst couch and the red and white bobble hat stood up on end and his scarf stood rigid out both ends pointing downwards in a reverse V as if starched stiff.
He intoned over and over again, "You are my Boro, my only Boro!" in a very low, very
deep voice, and stood gripping the gates for a full intense minute before letting go and falling to his knees and shouting loudly about his possession; "Hallelujah! We will rise again!"
Old George, unlit binger stuck to the corner of his bottom lip, lifted his right leg and let go another bit of anal mimicry, not unlike the ripping of an old bed sheet, as he made his way from the dark depths of the player's tunnel towards the bright light and the unkempt green baize beyond. He was stopped motionless in his tracks by the sight of two men, naked but for a red and white football sock stretched over their genitals, standing back to back in the centre of the pitch.
"What the fuck!" he exclaimed out loud.
He edged slowly forward, knowing his presence would not be suspected by the interlopers, staying close to the cold concrete wall, hidden by the tunnel's darkness.
He watched as the men suddenly stand on tiptoe and begin to pirouette round each other in ever widening circles until they were the width of the centre-circle apart, they broke rank and skipped merrily towards the goal areas at either end of the pitch. On reaching the goalposts he watched them jump, till they were hanging off the cross bar of each goal and in perfect unison began singing, "If they could see me now .." while swinging like experts on the parallel bars.
"Fucking loonies!" George whispered to no one in particular, as the singing acrobats manoeuvred to be hanging upside down by their legs, red and white hooped packages giving in to gravity.. "those little friends of mine".
Mogga slotted the ball between the legs of the goalie who made very little attempt to save the ball, "Your in now Mogga, it's your turn now!" he gleefully told the big man.
Mowbray watched as the ball bounced off the curb and rolled slowly towards the red gates, it was then he noticed the old man who'd passed them a short time earlier, he was kneeling outside the centre gate moaning to himself.
'Dozy old fart!' he thought, as he wandered across to retrieve the orange Mitre ball.
"You alright mate!" he called out as he approached.
Hearing the sound of his voice, that voice, the old man pulled himself upwards and turned towards Mowbray with outstretched arms and upturned palms stating;
"You are one of the Sons, you will lead us out of two divisions and onto the Moon!"
Mowbray could now see the condition of the man, he appeared to be smouldering with a vacant almost manic look on his face and his scarf and hat all stiff as though washed in starch. His eyes were on blood shot stalks and stared into his very soul.
"I think you've been gazing too long at the Moon ya silly old twat!" Mowbray answered.
On hearing this blasphemy Billy turned on Mowbray spouting invective;
"Oh! Ye of little faith! The moon, the moon, little faith, little faith!"
Mowbray watched as the old man brushed past, arms outstretched like a zombie, repeating over and over again like a possessed mantra; "Red n' white army will rise again! Red n' white army will rise again!"
Seeing him coming, the assembled gaggle of players began to laugh, at the sight of the man, steaming hat and scarf on a stalk. A manic old man heading into their midst and they mocked him, walking around like resurrected Egyptian mummies and doing comical stiff limbed zombie impressions. Stopping in their midst he waved his hands with pointed index fingers exclaiming;
"Oh! Ye of little faith, we shall arise at the Riverside, we the Smogs, and one day eat from the table of UEFA!"
Mogga began to howl with laughter, "The fucking moon, arise, Riverside, UEFA!" he shouted, "They can't even pay my bloody wages yer daft old Get!"
Ignoring him and the cackling hoards, on Billy stumbled, he was driven by the force of the gates, his mission had to be fulfilled.
Steve Gibson was almost level with Warwick Street and could see a fallen policeman laid across a prostrate bicycle in the middle of Ayresome Street, he was moaning loudly about how he'd done his back in and traffic was banked up in both directions. As he was about to turn in to the entry road to Ayresome Park he caught sight of the barrier and went down on one knee to read a sign posted on the top of the red and white stripped crossbar.
"No Entry, Official Receiver's Department!"
Gibson angrily ripped the poster off and was startled at the sight of an old man lumbering towards him who appeared to be gently smoking all over and whose beanie pointed stiffly towards heaven as his scarf pointed towards hell. Before he knew what was happening the man was upon him uttering gibberish, manically waving and repeating;
"Gibbo! Ye, Ye re the one!"
Thinking he was a drunk, Gibson tried to push him away and only succeeded in locking hands and gaze with the man. Suddenly all his conscious thought was overtaken by an electric charge, an invigorating impulsive power which began to take over his very being. His mind filled with imagery of red and white glory, an amazing whirring dream took hold, a fairy tale of biblical proportions about his beloved Middlesbrough Football Club.
A tale barely believable in the context of bankruptcy, a tale of promotions, relegations, cup-finals, a fabulous new stadium, international superstars, England stars, flashes of silver, England managers, amazing youth warriors of the Smog and, a goblet from Uefa!'
All this whirled around Gibson's mind as he stared into the eyes and soul of Billy Holmes, as if the old man was the portal to the future, the totally unbelievable future.
After what felt like hours but in fact was only a minute, the two men dropped to their knees apparently exhausted and embraced, hugging each other like lost brothers, both crying tears of joy.
Billy broke the spell and spoke; "Son, you are the chosen one, you know what you must do, now go forth and make this club great again!"
Gibson stood first and pulled Billy to his feet before shaking the old man's hand and turning sharply on his heels purposely striding back along Ayresome Street. He had work to do.
The pandemonium on Ayresome Street was now attended to by an ambulance, three police cars, seven policemen and Sergeant O'Connor, bellowing into the open doors of the ambulance;
"You useless sod Barnes, you couldn't look after a bloody blind man in a lift!"
Billy spotted the old black bicycle leant against the school wall, so he discretely ambled over, put the bike clip over his right trouser bottom, put his left foot onto the peddle and he was off coasting discretely back up Ayresome Street like a stealthy panther.
Old George lit a fresh rollie, adjusted his flat cap and skipped out of the darkness of the tunnel into the bright sunlight now cascading onto the green baize of Ayresome Park.
"If my friends could see me now!" he bellowed as he danced merrily like a rotund Fred Astaire and headed towards the centre circle.
He finally understood, and was resplendent in his proud nudity.
Enough said.
ErimusRed.
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