A Cockney's Journey (32 page)

    The quarterfinal draw was made and Arincon were paired with a team from Anaiza. We were informed that kick-off would be at six, which left us five hours to recuperate after the bruising first game. The game itself was a complete cakewalk. Arincon ran out 5-0 winners, with all the goals coming in the first half. Sheik Mohammad was now dreaming of winning the trophy and his boyish attitude towards the game was quite refreshing. Unfortunately, a drastic turn of events later on would spell the end of my stay in Saudi.
    The following day, we thrashed Buraida 6-1 in the semi-final, much to the delight of Sheik Mohammad. The final took place on the Monday at 2 p.m. Our opponents, who were extremely aggressive, came from the other side of Qatar. The Moroccan-based company had plenty of support from the locals, which was quite worrying. Matters were made worse by the appointment of the Algerian referee, who made it perfectly clear in no uncertain terms that he was totally Anti-British. Unfortunately, this feeling was also felt by the entire Moroccan football team! At 2 p.m., the nightmare started with Arincon players being deliberately hacked down every time they had the ball. The number of fouls committed off the ball was unbelievable. Lunging tackles from behind and crunching body contact all went unseen by the ref. After twenty minutes, a Moroccan player put through his own net after immense pressure from the Arincon front line. The ref had no option but to let the goal stand. Five minutes before the break, I was clear on goal. I rifled my shot against the bar, just as the ball rebounded back to where I stood. I felt a sharp searing pain in my back and legs. Two Moroccan players lunged into my back, bringing me down in a crumpled heap in agony. The referee ignored my pleas and promptly blew for half-time. I must admit the lads behaved impeccably and during the half-time talk I decided that my ankle wouldn’t take any more punishment, substituting myself for Al, which ended up being a massive error.
    The second half was no different from the first; tempers frayed, as Arincon’s patience with the ref dwindled. Then it happened: James was viciously hacked down from behind with serious intent to harm. As he lay writhing in pain, another Moroccan player stamped on his ankle. Al being Al, and James’s pal, he legged it across the pitch and head-butted the Moroccan, knocking him to the ground. A pitch battle between two sets of players followed. Limping onto the pitch, waving my arms shouting for everyone to calm down, I was set about by this lanky Moroccan substitute who thumped me full in the face, causing my nose to spurt blood everywhere. Arincon’s subs then ran onto the pitch and started bashing the fuck out of everything that moved, including the opposition’s manager. The free-for-all lasted until most of the Moroccan team either ran away or were carried off in a pool of blood. The referee had a stand-up fight with Al, who, in turn, got seriously battered. As the fight drew to a close, the Saudi army arrived, dragging cuffed players away to the local police station. Sheik Mohammad disowned and sacked every single one of us. My dream had come to a bitter end, just like it always did. If only, I asked myself, if only I’d stayed on the pitch, things might have been different. One week later, all sixteen of us were released from prison and deported in disgrace back to England.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    My only regret at departing Saudi in such nasty circumstances was the fact that I lost contact with Azziz. We really got on well together and I must admit to being sad because of it. I wondered if Azziz turned up that Friday and waited in vain for me to show up. Unfortunately, I’ll never know and that makes me even more gutted. Anyway, the following year we lived off my earnings from Saudi. To be quite honest, I started to find life boring. All the excitement of the previous year left a hole inside I couldn’t fill, no matter how hard I tried. One minute I’m in Luxor or Jeddah, the next I’m sitting having a beer in bloody Leysdown on the Isle of Sheppey; good grief! No wonder I felt depressed. I think my state of mind and the feeling of unworthiness contributed to the one act I truly regret. I don’t really want to write about my affair, but it happened. How and why dumbfounds me to this day. I’ve made many mistakes in my life and this rates as the worst, I am not making excuses, I have no right to. All I know is that the affair broke Sue’s heart and for that I am truly sorry. Only once did I fuck up in that department and, believe me, once was enough. It just isn’t worth the pain and grief. There were rumours flying around that she was pregnant with my child and this I strenuously denied and still do to this day. After ending the affair, Sue and I gave our marriage another go for the boys’ sake. However, my actions were never forgiven and I had my affair rammed down my throat every time we disagreed on something. She was still slagging me off over the affair twelve years down the line. I always knew Sue would wreak her revenge. She waited and waited before she struck her fatal blow, just like a predator stalking its prey. The rest of that episode and our divorce will come later.
    Over the next couple of years, my relationship with Sue was somewhat strained to say the least, constantly bickering over the smallest of things. I bent over backwards to try and put things right, but it was too late. The damage was already done. During this time, I started work for a company based in Greenwich, blagging my way as a multi-trade operative. Surprisingly, I lasted a year with the same firm and learnt quite a lot about maintenance work. There was one particular job I’ll never forget. The firm were contracted to do some repair work to Phillip Mitchell’s stable in Newmarket. Well, you can imagine how I felt; the thought of working in a horseracing yard thrilled me to bits. Now, the only problem with this episode is getting the facts right. As far as I can recall, we worked in Epsom and Newmarket for three trainers, doing repair work to their stables. Anyway, during the course of our work we obviously got chatting to a few stable-hands. I remember being told that this particular horse called April, ridden by Jimmy Bleasdale, was a stone cold certainty for the Cessarawitch or the Cambridgeshire, which race I can’t recall. Everyone in the yard lumped on this horse big time, backing April anti-post at 5s for two weeks solid before the race.
    Well, seeing as I liked a flutter, my wages went astray for two weeks prior to the race, standing to win a couple of grand if he obliged. The day of the race, April was backed off the boards, ending up the shortest price favourite in the race’s history. The horse had won five races all ready, cruising up to the furlong pole on every occasion and pulling clear, winning emphatically by six or seven lengths. The race was live on the box and, sitting in the front room on my jack, I watched in anticipation. Three furlongs to go and the bloody horse was nowhere, then suddenly the commentator reckoned that April was cruising on the bridle towards the leaders. I watched in amazement as April threaded his way through the field. My heart was racing as fast as the bloody horse; the adrenaline rush I got was indescribable.
    In the final furlong, April drew alongside the leader and for a few seconds I’d had it off. I waited for Jimmy to press the button and go clear but when he did, nothing happened. April then stopped running and faded rapidly, finishing fifth. I jumped up, raging with disappointment, feeling completely gutted and robbed. What made matters worse, two weeks later April ran in a big race in France and pissed it at 50-1. Bloody hell, racing’s a nightmare! Mind you, I did the same thing weeks later, but this time I was spot on. I lumped all my cash for months before the Epsom Derby on the greatest punt I’ve ever had. 11/2 I got, bloody 11/2 for a cert and it was my own fancy. I couldn’t see this horse ever being beaten, telling everyone that would listen. The day of the race, Shergar was odds-on favourite for the Derby. There were no heart-stopping moments, no ifs, no buts. Walter Swinburn swept round Tattenham corner cruising, sprinting further and further away from the rest of the field. £3,000 in the bank and there were still three furlongs to go. Cushty, I thought. I must admit the elation at seeing your selection fighting out a finish and winning, coupled with the R’s scoring the winning goal at Loftus Road was better than sex and that’s a fact. Sex you can have any time, the rarity of winning or watching QPR win must take precedence. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve been to Loftus Road and come home dejected and frustrated at yet another defeat; travelling home in the rain and freezing cold weather, trying to understand and come to terms with why I’ve supported them since I was eleven. One moment of glory followed by heartache and bitter disappointment; that seems to be my life’s pattern, without doubt!
    After finishing our contract in Newmarket, it was back to the mundane day-to-day maintenance work around South London. On one particular job, I was working in an occupied house, tiling the bathroom with this other guy, who was renewing floorboards in the hall. Suddenly I heard a loud shout from the hall followed by a gushing sound. Sticking my head around the bathroom door I saw, to my astonishment, the hallway saturated in water. From under the floorboards, water spurted up through the gaps, hitting the ceiling. The chippy started panicking, ripping up boards and swearing. He had actually banged a nail through two central heating pipes and the bloody mains water supply. The water cascaded through the banisters and down the stairs like a waterfall soaking all the walls in the process.
    “Don’t just stand there. Help me!” he bellowed.
    “What the fuck do ya want me to do about it, I’m not a plumber!” I laughed. “You put the nails through the bloody pipes, not me.”
    “Please, Eddie, just put your fingers over the holes to stem the flow, while I get some plumbing gear out the van.”
    Like a mug, I agreed, using both my hands to plug the holes, while he disappeared out the house. I wouldn’t blame you if you thought I was a sandwich short of a picnic, and on this occasion I most definitely was. While my fingers started to go numb, I heard his van start up and screech off down the road. Picture the scene; I’m bending down on both knees trying to stop the water spurting everywhere, when the occupants of the house return home. The downstairs carpet is floating like a barge on the Thames and the walls are soaking wet. They squelched their way to the foot of the stairs screaming, calling me a ‘fucking wanker’. I tried to explain it wasn’t down to me, but they just wouldn’t listen. I’ve never heard so much swearing and ranting in my life. The woman’s husband threatened to bash my brains out. I pointed out to him that if I let go of the pipes, it would be like Niagara Falls in here. His wife was furious, throwing derogatory remarks at me.
    “Have you phoned a plumber or what, dickhead?” she screamed.
    “Not since I’ve had my fingers plugging up these holes. As I said this is not my doing. I was tiling your bathroom when the chippy called me out and the tosser left me in the same position as you found me. If I get any more abuse I’ll let go and bloody go home,” I threatened.
    What a predicament. My hands were now white and strained, like I’d been on a white-knuckle ride at the fun fair. I’d lost all feeling in both my hands, I couldn’t feel if I was pressing or not; the woman phoned for an emergency plumber and then phoned my boss. The abuse she hurled down the phone at him made me cringe.
Thank God I weren’t married to that,
I thought. Anyway, after another hour the plumber turned up to relieve my achingly numb fingers; much to my delight. My boss was soon on the premises, squelching around and surveying the water damage. As you can imagine, I took the blame and was sacked on the spot. I didn’t even get paid my week-in-hand or that week’s dosh! His excuse was that someone had to pay for the damage caused, which unfortunately was me. The chippy, I found out later, reckoned it was me that banged the nails into the pipes causing the flood. Yet again, muggings took the can as per usual.
    I had the unenviable task of telling Sue I’d been tin-tacked again, and the next couple of weeks were traumatic, to say the least. Daniel started to get really bad headaches, feeling sick and was generally very unwell. We called the doctor out on several occasions and he prescribed certain tablets and tonics that really had no effect on Dan’s condition. I wasn’t happy with the level of care that was being administered to my son. My instinct told me to phone the hospital and seek advice. Well, I say me. In fact, Sue phoned them. The next thing I remember, Daniel was being rushed to hospital with suspected meningitis. My God, how I prayed that night, while Daniel was undergoing lumber-puncture treatment. I asked my guardian angel to visit and stay with Daniel until his ordeal was over and I believe my prayers were answered, because Daniel survived and made a full recovery. I started work yet again for another builder. This was going to be the shortest job I’ve ever had. After two days, I was sacked because I refused to go down into a sewer and unblock tons and tons of human waste that was backed up in the main sewer. The bastard was so tight; he wouldn’t call out a drain company to jet the blockage.
    My life comes in short bursts; bad times always followed the good, constantly swinging to and fro, not knowing how long I’d be on the up, before being plunged back into the bad. Unfortunately, these events show no sign at all of making a complete U-turn in my favour. I’ve therefore accepted that no matter how hard I try or want to change my life, this will always be the case. For some unknown reason, every time it goes pear-shaped, I’m helped through it, literally. So I’ve come to the conclusion that I am being tested or prepared for something that I’m not fully aware of at present. Maybe, just maybe, it’s for when I leave my mortal existence and enter the spirit realm.
    I received a phone call late one Saturday night in October from James, asking, or rather, begging me to play for his local Sunday football team in a semi-final game in Bermondsey. Their regular defender and midfield man had been taken ill and the team was short of players. After a persuasive chat and a bit of arm-bending from James, I agreed. He asked me to meet him outside Bermondsey South train station at nine-thirty the following morning. The reason I tried to get out of playing was simple. On Monday, I was to start a new job and wanted to feel fresh, not knackered. But that’s neither here nor there, because I agreed to play. I turned up as promised and met James at the station. While we made our way to the ground, which was a ten minute walk away, James told me what name I’d be playing under.
    “John Brown,” he informed me.
    As we sat in the dressing room getting changed, the team’s manager came in looking distraught. “It’s the same bloody ref, the one that sent off Brownie a couple of weeks ago. Eddie, whatever you do, don’t get booked or we’re fucked,” he said shaking his head in disgust.
    
Bloody great,
I thought.
Can’t even get stuck in.
    “You’d better play me in midfield, then, otherwise I could be compromised into a tackle while defending,” I told him.
    He agreed, so I started the game on the right. Everything went according to plan; 3-0 up and cruising, with ten minutes to go. Then it all went tits up, well for me anyway. James’s long through-ball split the opposition’s back four. I sprinted down the left-hand side of the pitch, beating two defenders with ease. Approaching the byline at great speed, I screwed the ball back with the intention to whip over a cross to one of our unmarked strikers, when suddenly my right ankle snapped and I landed in a heap on the pitch, screaming in agony. My anklebone stuck out in one direction and my foot the other. After being carried off the pitch to the dressing room, the groundsman phoned for an ambulance. I was so upset; all I could think about was my new job. I knew that was now down the pan. The ambulance arrived and chauffeured me to Guy’s Hospital where my ankle was put back in place and covered in plaster. No one from the team came to the hospital with me and after leaving Guy’s, I had to make my own way home by bloody bus. I was told not to put my foot on the floor till the following day! So I hopped to the bus stop, balancing myself with one poxy crutch. Getting home was a serious mission; when I eventually arrived home, I was totally worn out and exhausted, with painful blisters on my right palm. I sat in the front room, with my foot up, falling asleep, listening to Sue slaughtering me for being a totally unreliable idiot, which I must agree was an accurate description. After she’d finished, I fell sound asleep on the sofa.
    “It must have been covered by brambles over the years,” the voice reckoned.
    “It’s all right telling me that now!” I spluttered indignantly. “You said there was a way out.”
    “I was mistaken,” the voice said.
    “Look for a large oak tree and carved in its bark is a cross,” the expressionless voice instructed. “To the right of the tree lays a tombstone, with the inscription ‘death comes to us all, death is only the beginning of our journey, so shall we live forever’.”
    “Tombstone? What bloody tombstone? There’s nothing, nothing but darkness. How will I see this tree and tombstone?”
    “Have faith, the light will return to guide you.”
    Fumbling blindly in the dark, I wandered on, looking for something I couldn’t see, feeling more and more distrusting of the unseen voice that stalked me.
    “There, see the light, not far now,” it whispered.
    Ahead of me in the distance I could see a faint light swinging to and fro like a lantern being swung by an invisible arm. Every time I drew closer, it swiftly retreated further ahead of me.