That Little Bit of Razzmatazz

A nine-year-old boy I was. And like most boys of nine-years-old I loved football. And like most boys and girls and men and women and, well, pretty much the entire nation, I loved David Beckham.

I was luckier than most boys and most girls and most men and most women, and, well pretty much the entire nation because I had a connection to David Beckham. My Uncle David was David Beckham’s private bodyguard.

I was the happiest little nine-year-old boy. I received autographs, was told stories and even got a birthday card and present from the great man. A birthday gift! 

And then that fateful day. My Uncle David had always promised it and then…

RING RING…. RING RING.

That was the telephone. My Mum answered in her telephone voice.

“Oh Richard it’s for you. It’s David.”

“Hi David,” I said.

“Are you ok Rick?” My Uncle David replied, “Listen, I’ve got someone here who wants to speak to you.”

“Oh my God,” I remember thinking. My heart pounding. It is even now just recollecting it. I knew exactly who wanted to speak to me.

“It’s David Beckham,” he added.

“Fuck! Wow. What?!” is what I would have said if that moment happened now. I didn’t. I was nine. I actually said, “Mummy, mummy I can’t. I can’t.”

My Mother takes the phone from my embarrassed, shy, utterly pathetic nine-year-old hands. She listens…

And listens…

And then…

“Oh pack it in David. You sound like a right bloody puff!”

My Mum. My Mum has just called David Beckham a puff. A puff! At nine-years-old I didn’t quite know what a puff was but I sensed it wasn’t well received. 

“Wanoofgdfghdfhgigfdvnshaaz;jhxifh” came down the other end of the phone. Like the shouting down a phone you see on episodes of sitcoms.

My Mum had inadvertently called David Beckham. England Superstar. Every little boys idol. Every middle-aged-woman’s heartthrob (including my Mum’s) a puff.

When she said, “Oh pack it in David. You sound like a right bloody puff!” she thought it was my Uncle David winding her up. It wasn’t.

He never called again.

*I also must add, my Mum wouldn’t dream of calling anyone a puff any more. It was the late 90’s.

Simon Cowell is my friend. In a dream last night he told me so. In fact I would go as far to say he has the X Factor when it comes to friendships.

I mean how many friends would buy you a pub? None. But Simon Cowell has the X Factor when it comes to friendships and he, the high-waist-jeaned-beauty, bought me a pub. 

It wasn’t just a pub either. It was beautiful. It had high ceilings and chandeliers. It had red velvet curtains and no Carlsberg. No Carlsberg! It was like a dream.

“This looks like it should be attached to a theatre,” I thought in my subconscious. 

“Oh but it is,” my good friend Simon replied before pointing to a foyer that had just appeared out of nowhere. 

“Wow!” I looked back towards him, delighted. He winked.

My own bar in a theatre. I had big plans. It was going to have a bar stocked full of only the finest ales. The door policy would refuse entry to anybody wanting Fosters and the food would get its own standing ovation. 

As I explored up the grand marble staircase, there was more seating room with a library. Rows and rows of books for civilised drinkers to ponder and discuss. And at the end of the library stood a warm, homely open fire with two antique, mahogany library chairs.

“Shall we?” 

“We shall.”

And then we chatted. We chatted. We laughed. And enjoyed each others company like the friends we are. Simon even suggested staging Britain’s Got Talent there. I said we’d take things one step at a time. 

Simon pulled a face. A face as though I’d walked onto the hallowed BGT stage and done the worlds worst magic act. He then suggested I might want to take a look outside.

I open the large wooden doors, with green and red stained glass windows and I look out. I am in Ashton. Worse still my beautiful, traditional, grand pub with a theatre is inside here…

Simon Cowell’s friendship has the X Factor. But we also must remember that the X Factor is shit.

A week off. What does one do with a week off?

There’s so much time, so many options, I could literally do anything. I could go to the park. I could go out and explore the countryside or a new city, I could become active and take up running. Yes. Yes I think. I could definitely do that. 

And so I dig out my tatty, old running shoes and lace those bad boys up. Where should I run I think? I decide to plan a route in my mind. I can’t just run where I please, I’m no amateur, I have an app and everything! 

My earphones enter my ear and I set off, for today I am Mo Farah. For today I am Haile Gebrselassie and for today, if I get caught short, I will be Paula Radcliffe.

Twelve minutes and three seconds later I am home. Thank God I am home. I didn’t take my planned route. When, after six minutes, you start puffing through your arse, you begin to take short-cuts. I am devastated by my own unfitness. I thought I was Mo Farah.

As I settle down it hits me. That totally wasn’t my fault. Those tatty, old trainers. They’ve cost me and almost made me feel I was totally unfit. I zip my coat up and head into town. I will not be defeated.

I decide a yellow pair of trainers will suit my new running prowess, in fact they will make me better. A bit like yellow boots make non-league strikers better, or at least seem it.

The next day arrives. I am Mo Farah. I am Haile Gebrselassie and if needs be, I will be Paula Radcliffe.

I spring through 5k like the true athlete I am. I pound on further with the help of The Who, The Stone Roses and Bruce Springsteen. Yes Bruce, I really was born to run. I am Mo Farah.

Same again tomorrow I think. My inner Mo agrees.

The next day arrives, I roll out of bed, because rolling is all I can do. I have a bad foot and a hugely sore knee.

I have been defeated. I am not Mo Farah.

“Are you Pakistani?”

I shook myself out of my mid-work daze and looked across at the man being served by the till.

“Am I Pakistani?” 

I think that was the Pakistani man staring at me from across the till has just asked me. Me, the pale, skinny, slightly-beardy, typically Northern young man. Am I Pakistani?

I find this more than slightly confusing. A Pakistani man asking me if I’m Pakistani. Nobody has asked me this before. He must know what a Pakistani man generally looks like. He must look at one literally every morning in the mirror whilst he’s brushing his teeth.

So when I reply, “Am I Pakistani?” I’m just making sure, because this mustn’t be right. 

“Yes,” replies the man.

I consider this for a moment. I’m pretty sure I’m not. I think it’s something I’d be aware of if I were. My Mum has definitely never mentioned it to me during dinner. 

“Now Richard, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but you’re actually Pakistani.

“Oh and you’re not leaving the table until you’ve eaten your broccoli!”

I mean I used to be ok at cricket and I do have a penchant for a veggie curry but apart from that I tick none of the boxes a young Pakistani man should tick. 

“No. No I’m not,” I conclude. 

“Oh it’s just you have the look. The Pakistani style.”

I am stunned. Firstly I didn’t know it was a look. And secondly I never knew I was pulling it off. 

“It’s the hair. You have the hair,” he adds. 

“Oh, right. I see,” was all I could muster up. Gobsmacked.

I’ve often wondered what is my look. It turns out it’s the Pakistani style. I think about this and realise I do own a kaftan and a lot of collarless shirts. If he’d caught me on a collarless shirt day he may have said I was totally working the look rather than I just had it.

Perhaps the Pakistani look is the next look. A bit like the Black America look is in at the moment with the Nike trainers and snapback caps. I could be at the forefront of the new, trendy Pakistani look. Swaggering down Market Street in my kaftan. My hair blowing in the breeze. Women collapsing at the sight of the new cool guy in town.

The Pakistani look is coming. Watch this space…

It’s a Tuesday afternoon and I’m casually meandering through town. I’m heading towards Sports Direct like any man casually meandering through town would do. I have nothing to do and there are cut-price European football shirts to look at. It’s a no-brainer.

I look down at my phone because that’s what people do when they’re on their own, mainly to look as though they’re not on there own. Making out that on the other end of that phone there’s another human just wishing to be with you.

You have no new messages.

I look back up and after a double take I am filled with pride. That’s Jade Jones I think. It’s Olympic Gold Medallist Jade Jones. Wow. What an honour to be approaching Jade Jones. What should I do, what should I say?

Then it struck me, what should a man casually meandering towards Sports Direct say to an Olympian?

I know what I want to do. I want to run over and give her a huge hug and kiss, I mean you would with any of last summer’s heroes. Though running over and kissing and hugging an unsuspecting Taekwondo Gold Medallist would probably end only one way. With me on my backside.

 What about a handshake? I could say how proud I am of her and as a nation she and the rest of Team GB refilled the country with hope. How it was so inspiring to see a regular girl from a small town in Wales conquer the world. How because of her incredible efforts at the Olympics more and more youngsters are getting into Taekwondo.

Of course this would mean actually having to talk to Jade Jones. I am not worthy, an average Joe like me meandering over to Sports Direct to look at cut-price European football shirts. I cannot possibly go over and talk to Jade Jones on a whim.

 A nod and wink? No she’d think who’s that creepy guy with a spasm and a twitch.

 A thumbs up? A thumbs up would be good. Just a hearty thumbs up. She’d know what I meant and a thumbs up says everything. Yes Jade you were brilliant and not only do you warrant a Gold Medal but you also warrant a big old thumbs up from everyone.

I am going to give her a thumbs up. She’d love that.

I get my thumbs ready. I feel prepared for this. She’ll love it. I look up.

Gone.

Olympians don’t stand on the spot for five minutes whilst you approach them and think what you should do. Apparently.

As I walk down the streets of Amsterdam, I am frightened. Not frightened because there are hookers. Not frightened because there are big Dutch men with their big, scary joints. By this I don’t mean big Dutch men with big, scary elbows and knees, though that’d be equally as frightening, I mean big Dutch men with big, scary joints that you have a puff on and feel a little wizzy. 

But no, not frightened of big Dutch men with their big, scary joints. But frightened of being killed.

As I walk down the streets of Amsterdam, I am filled with funny smells. Lots of funny smells, but the sights and sounds of a million bicycles that seem to always be heading in my direction. Like I’m some huge magnet that attracts rusty spokes.

“Ring, ring.” 

You take a step to the side to avoid being smashed into by a bike with a wheelbarrow at the front carrying four children. 

“Ring, ring.” 

Oh of course, there’s clearly another bike right behind you heading your way.

“Honk, honk.” 

Mustn’t forget those trams. You know what, I think I’ll take my chances.

There are 249 miles worth of cycle lanes in Amsterdam. I estimate that only four cyclists have ever ridden on them.

As I dodge cyclists through the streets of Amsterdam, I realise it’s a very beautiful city. Every building has it’s own unique character. Every building totally different to it’s neighbour.

I took a stroll through the city alone one early evening. The sun had not long set, and the fear of death by bicycle had receded. Even the bicycles all look pretty, parked up.

The bridges come to life like a Van Gogh, hundreds crossing the miles and miles of canals, all lit, sparkling on the water. 

And the canals,wow, the canals- not an abandoned shopping trolley in sight.

Of course around the corner there’s a big Dutch hooker in a window not-so-elegantly lit and who’s probably riddled with every disease under, well under the dirty, red light.

You tell people you’re going to Amsterdam, they don’t look further than the drugs and the hookers. It’s more than that. There’s great beer too. And a very pretty city. And lots of bicycles. Too many bicycles.

I feel awkward. Very awkward. The man sat next to me feels awkward. Very awkward. I have just boarded a train, sat down, pulled my book out and realised I’ve broken the most important rule of train etiquette. 

It’s quite busy I thought as I stood shivering on the platform. I could see there was going to be a fight for seats. I sneaked past the lady with the walking stick and got myself to the front. 

“Any seat will do,” I think to myself, “Just get on and sit. Pull your book out and pretend you haven’t seen the lady with the walking stick.” 

I’m not a total douche, I do have a sore leg myself. But it would be inexplicable for me to ask old Irene if she’d give up a seat for a strapping, young man with a bit of a niggle in his groin. 

The train slowly pulls in to the station. Late. Any seat has done and I am now sat next to a mid-twenties businessman with brown shoes and a document. I pull my book out and immediately begin to read. 

As the train pulls out I look up. You’ll be happy to know the old lady has got a seat too. But so has everybody. I have overestimated. I have broken the first rule of train etiquette. I have sat next to a man. I have sat next to a man when there are not one, but three empty rows of seats. 

It’s not a problem right? I don’t smell. I’m not fat. There is literally no chance of my skinny little thighs brushing against his. It’s fine. Not a problem.

I’ve tried to tell myself this but I know I hate it when it happens to me. 

“What a dick,” I always think if it happens to me. 

“What a dick,” is probably what he’s thinking now. 

But why do I think this? Why does he probably think this? What’s wrong with sitting next to another passenger on the train? It’s not as though he’s put his coat down next to him, or a bag. If there’d been a bag there I wouldn’t have joined him. There wasn’t. He’s practically inviting me to be his travelling companion for fifteen minutes isn’t he?

I think about moving to an empty row. But I can’t. I’m here for the count now. I can’t get up. What if he thinks I don’t want to sit next to him? What if he thinks I don’t like him? Or I think he smells? He seems a nice enough chap. I don’t want him to think I think he smells. He really doesn’t. 

After ten more awkward minutes of my trying to play it cool, sitting, reading, checking my phone in the hope of a message, a tweet, a phone call to distract me, I disembark. 

It’s quite an easy mistake to make I think as I walk down Piccadilly Approach.

Three hours later I take my train home. A man sits next to me. “What a dick,” I think. 

It had been a difficult day at work for me today. In fact it had been a difficult week. Something had been bugging me. And when something bugs me, it only seems appropriate for me to let it bug someone else. Because hey, that’s the kind of guy I am.

‘Lucy,’ I called, ‘Something’s been bugging me.’ 

This was now bugging Lucy. And probably (not) the rest of the people we passed the something on to.

‘What is that song?’ we (probably just me and Lucy. Everyone else had probably just got on with their lives) were now all thinking.

Now I know you’re thinking this is pretty trivial. It’s not like one of those, ‘I don’t know what to make for tea’ bugs or ‘Did I leave the iron on?’ bugs. It shouldn’t linger. It shouldn’t fester for almost an entire week. But it did. 

And by the way, for those in catch up mode, I work in a department store. A department store that plays music not even on an hour long loop. 

Hearing that song. That song with a familiar voice but you (or at least I) can’t quite put your finger on every 50 minutes. Every 50 minutes for a week.

50 minutes had passed since I had shared my bug. There it went again, a quite whiny voice, definitely from the past, probably quite successful. Maybe in an old band.

After the song finished I racked my brain. I hummed the song in my head because the lyrics were to whiny to recognise. ‘Dylan,’ I thought, ‘No it can’t be, unless Dylan has taken a new discoey direction.’

‘Lucy, who could this be?’ 

We knew it had to be someone famous. A famous man from the past. She was thinking Dire Straits. ‘Could it be the man from Dire Straits?’ she asked.

‘Midge Ure?’ I replied. And then following the most uneducated musical conversation of all time, or at least of that day, we almost had it. This singer was between Bob Dylan and Dire Straits.

We were ready. Ready to hear it again. Ready to finally realise who sang this song. 50 minutes passed…

‘mmmme mmme aahhh ehhhh rock ‘n’ roll…’ 

That was whining by the way, and ‘rock ‘n’ roll.’ The only lyrics I could actually fathom out. 

Nope. Nothing. Lucy asked another colleague. Nope. Nothing. But then, then a man who had overheard. A fat man with a bald head. Almost like a musical Buddha, he rose. He rose from nowhere. Well he rose from the sofa near where we were talking and cut in, quite rudely actually, he cut in with one word.

‘Prince.’

‘Ahhhh Prince,’ we both said as though we totally knew and were stupid for not realising.

Then, hang on?! That guy was so rude. ‘Prince,’ he said with the utmost cockiness. Like it was so obvious. 

‘Prince,’ he said but really meant, ‘God it’s Prince. How can you not know it’s Prince, you utter cretins. It’s so clearly Prince. Wait until I tell the guys at the Greater Manchester Prince Fan Club meeting. They will literally piss their pants.’

I bet he’s there now. Mr Fat Bald Musical Buddha with his army of little Prince fans, sat in some old, knackered back room of a Conservative Club laughing. Literally pissing their pants.

By the way, I do realise that this man could have been bluffing. He could have said it was Leo Sayer and we would have gone, ‘Ahhh Leo Sayer.’

It is Prince. I’ve Googled it. It’s called Rock ‘n’ Roll Love Affair. It’s like a cross between Bob Dylan’s new discoey direction and Dire Straits. 

It’s shit.

Now, I hate glory hunters. Children who support City or Chelsea because they’re good disgust me. The parents should be ashamed of themselves for depriving their kids of ever getting to watch proper football and confine their lives to Saturday afternoons in a sweaty pub watching a Ukrainian broadcast of the game.

I have been a Stalybridge fan virtually all my life. I have never really had the opportunity to choose who I support. I was taken to ‘Bridge games and fell in love. I never had the chance to be a glory hunter, or if I did I spurned the opportunity. I’ve never had the opportunity to support someone because they were good. Until now.

In recent months, I’ve become an avid watcher of NFL. Inspired by sitting in a packed out bar in Vegas, drinking beer, surrounded by whooping Americans in their jerseys, proud. Prouder than anything to support their team, yet enjoying the company of fans from around the nation. High-fiving their rivals after a good play. It was something I found comforting. 

Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed the game anyway, but I’d never really taken it seriously. But how can I possibly take it seriously without a team? 

I have no affiliation with America. Following that large jug of Sam Adams, and a few more, I declared I will become a fan. I will follow my team home and away (from the comfort of my armchair, and unless it doesn’t get too late). I will don the colours of my team and wear them with pride. I will worship my favourite player and will paste an already put together wallpaper onto my computer screen. 

One problem, who were my team?

I have crafted a list of ways to decide how to go about choosing a team. If this was football (soccer) or I lived in the US, it’d be no problem. It’s all about the geography. 

But geographically, it’d be pointless. 

I’ve decided to go down the best team route would make me not only a hypocrite but also I’d probably end up behaving like a City fan. And I wouldn’t wish that on anybody never mind myself. 

The first method, ashamedly was best kit. I am a lover of a nice sports kit and have a few kits from around the globe that have just tickled the old fancy, so hey! why not combine the two?

[The Pub]

“Ohh hey, did you catch the Vike’s game the other night,” asks a random man noticing me looking cool in my jersey. He seems pleasant, loves his sport. A proper man’s man.

“Yes, Yes I did.” 

And so we’d chat about the game and bond over a cold ale. We’d probably even get into a round. And then…

“So, how come your a Vikings fan?” 

“Well, ermm, I just, I just really liked the kit,” And then knowing me probably add, “Purple is just sooo my colour.” 

Then he’d leave, and it’d probably be his round so not only would I seem extremely feminine but I’d lose out on a pint. 

Next, which I think is a great way to pick a team, is a name that matched your personality. I thought long and hard about this. I’ve checked and checked the 32 teams of the NFL and sadly nowhere in the country is home to the Handsome-Sex-God-ers. So that was out.

Hang on I thought, whilst there are no Handsome-Sex-God-ers, there are lots of teams with cool names. Why don’t I just choose the coolest? I scanned the list again.

The Buccaneers? Na too piratey.

Vikings? Na I’d still feel like I was doing it because I’d get to wear purple.

Bengals? Orange, you must be joking!

I could go on. There are lots of great named teams. And there are lots of little reasons why not to support them. When you already love something, it’s easy to put up with little foibles. I was already in love with my girlfriend before I realised she chews really loudly and I was already in love with Stalybridge before I noticed, well I noticed they were really rubbish.

It’s a lot harder when you’re not yet in love. An orange kit? Oh God I don’t want to get involved with that. Could I really walk down the street with a picture of a dolphin on my t-shirt? 

I let a few days pass on this. Well weeks actually. I looked for clues. Wherever they may be. There was the Marshall Eriksen factor. It did seem that all roads were leading me to Minnesota. I mean it’s as cold as Manchester right?

And then it hit me. Manchester. There’s Manchesters all over the planet. Geographically it wouldn’t be pointless. I’d find the closed team to Manchester, New Hampshire and support them. Support them with all my might. Be proud to wear the jersey of that team. Worship their Quarterback like he was David Beckham and their coach like he was Jim Harvey. 

And with that I went to work. I went to work rather excited that when I got home,  after some painstaking Christmas shopping, my new team would be found courtesy of Google Earth. I was ready. My team to support would be…

Well. Actually. After work, I did indeed go Christmas shopping. I also popped into Foot Locker on my way up to the station. I bought a Giants shirt. I’m a Giants fan now.

After a long, thought out plan to choose a team. I had chosen. I had chosen the Giants. I had chosen the Giants, ashamedly, based on the best looking jersey. The best looking jersey on the four they actually stocked. 

GO GIANTS! 

It was a cold, cold day in the city of Manchester. Frost clinging to the cars. Couples clinging to each other in order to stop the bitter temperatures thumping them like an ornament to the face.

The sight of breath lingers all the way down Market St as people chatter. Whilst inside, I am speechless.

Inside one of Manchester’s many warm, Christmasy department stores, I am speechless. Jingle Bell Rock plays over, customers are laughing, warm, embracing their Christmas shopping and the thought of smiling little faces as they present their gifts.

I have just briefly looked up to answer a question from a colleague. And I shudder. Not because I hate Christmas, far from it. I love a bit of tinsel and Home Alone. But because I have just stared into the eyes of a killer (not my colleague, at least i don’t think! I don’t see this particular colleague the murdering type).

A shiver is sent down my spine, I am speechless. The sort of shiver you’d get if you were to share a one night stand with David Platt. A glare, a glare of menace. A glare across the till point which suggests, “you’re next.”

All is silent, it’s not, I’m being asked a question and other people are answering. Shoppers are talking and music is playing. But it feels like it’s silent. Almost in a tension building moment. Only one noise, echoes, echoes around my mind…

“Beep… beep… beep.”

The sound of a life support machine, not at all the scanning of customers items at the till. The sound of a life support machine. The sound heard for days by her victim.

“Beep… beep… beep.”

I stand their, shocked, motionless. This is how he must have felt, though I would have also thought slightly turned on seconds pre-attempted murder. How can she just stand there, happy? Buying her goods without a care in the world. She probably just thinks it’s one less present to buy. One less pair of socks to wrap.

I have looked into the cold, dark eyes of a killer. We had just served Tracy Barlow.