Sometimes I
wonder what I’d do if I stopped, I lie in the bath some nights for ages leaving
the hot tap on just enough so it dunt get cold. And I wonder what I’d do if I
stopped going the match. And I start thinking about the Wolves again. At the
end of the film one of the she-wolves gets driven out of the pack. It was
winter so there was a chance she might not make cos they can’t hunt so well on
there own. But she hooks with this lone wolf and they go off to start their own
pack. I’m not talking about having a family, but there’s a big fucking world
out there, and I don’t just wanna see it through a TV or a package holiday. If
I stopped going the match I’d have to move away I don’t think I could stick it
around ‘ere. Then it’s the morning again, and the factory, and it starts all
over again. You know what I mean. Dunt matter what job you do, it’s like a
snowball. Something starts gnawing at you, a worry or something somebody’s
said. You don’t sleep to well and the next day it’s still there whispering to
you, and it starts to fester, more sleepless nights and it just builds and
builds as your fuse gets shorter. Then something makes you snap. You probably
take it out on your husband or your misses or your kids. For us there’s the
match. See you just hurt the people you love, we want to hurt them and they
want to hurt us. Not fellers with their kids or ordinary fans in shirts, their
firm, their top boys. The ultimate adrenaline rush. I’ve been gassed, battered
by the old bill, had fireworks, bottles, and half-enders thrown at me. I’ve
known lads stabbed and some that have died. All that and when it’s over, the
fear of having your door put through with a sledgehammer on a dawn raid, even a
year later. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it, if life would be better if me
nerves were dead like every other fuckers. Senses that only work now and again
just to remind ‘em that they’re still alive. Instead of mine like a spring
wound tight, waiting ready. Maybe I’ll just fuck off and start fresh. Just be normal,
drink in a boozer without clocking all the faces and watching the door. Go for
a piss without picking the safest place in the khazi in case you get jumped.
Not have to remember every face you had a row with. No need to wonder if that
car that pulls up outside’s full of coppers or ballaclaved bad men looking for
revenge. You know just be normal let life grind you down as the bastards chip
away at your soul. And then I’m back on shift, and the wanker of a foreman’s
trying to give me shit, or some cunt from management’s talking down to me,
taking the piss. They know I can’t do fuck all cos there’s no work about, and I
need the job ‘cos my lady might be pregnant. So I have to swallow it, and it
starts all over again and it’s like a slow death. It’s like I’m suffocating,
fighting for breath. I get to the weekend, couple o’ jars early doors, mebbe a
line, then out for some reconnaissance, there they are fucking top boys ‘n all,
they’ve just turned the corner. Quiet run down to the corner, no noise till
we’re right behind them. We don’t know how many there are. There’s only four of
us, could be more than ten of them. They could be tooled up, who gives a fuck
this is what we’re here for. They’re here-LETS ‘AVE IT…
And I’m alive, me lungs fill with air, and
I unleash all that fury. And all the shit is forgotten, until next week. It’s
not perfect but at least it’s a laugh. That’s not an excuse it’s just an
observation.
All rights reserved Ged Forrest © October 2001
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