A Sweet and Tender Hooligan

I came late to the football (aka soccer) but as Gulfboot once said, "I created a monster", i took to the game and the culture as if i was born beneath the guns of Brixton, i studied it and watched it non-stop, i was hooked and though i vaguely remember my World Cup 94 experience that was more cuz a bunch of Irish lads were drinking their way through a historic win over Italy and i was just along for the ride, mainly cuz it was the pub i frequented most and i had the day off but that was covered a few years back, come 98 i was well into it and was a big fan of the man called Zizou, still am, thought Zidane played the game beautifully and even when he laid out that piece of trash for talking shite on the biggest stage i couldn't hold it against him, yeah he blew it and lost his cool but a few seconds of a game does not a career make...

And so it was announced one fine day the my fair city would host a Champion's League summer tour game, this was some ten odd years or so ago and while i was hoping for Celtic or maybe even Arsenal back when they were quite pleasing to watch i ended up with tickets to see Chelski v. Roma, Chelski recently having been purchased by a billionaire Russian gangster who treated it as his own personal toy gave me just cause for picking a side and so i was Roma for a day or more correctly the biggest burr up anyone's ass wearing a blue shirt...

I got on the train early that day and by train i mean booze cruise, i was to meet my mates at the stadium for the game but i went early and ran into a bartender friend of mine, a guy who was a few inches shorter than me, roughly around 6'1 or 6'2, and running a probably a good 220lbs, a broad shouldered lad who Gulfboot had once told that he'd be scared shitless by him except that he was milk chocolate in complexion and not dark chocolate, luckily D-Train was a great guy and laughed and poured us some more black pints and we stayed til well after close... on this fine summer day i was wandering around the North Side streets hassling anyone in a Chelski kit when i heard D-Train call out and i wandered over and spent the next hour or so shooting the shit and downing beers and chanting derogatory songs at any blue in sight, you see being a pro i had called the venerable Gulfboot and asked for the something nasty to chant at the Blues, of course he made the mistake of telling me just sing "You dirty Chelsea Rent Boys" over and over and i figured that was simple enough so off i went armed with a smile and a song, of course as i stood on this corner with D-Train he laughed at the number of times i was given the finger, the V-sign, called an asshole, a faggot, a dickhead, a cocksucker and anything else but of course being 6'4 and a bit unhinged and standing next to my back-up meant that there were very few people willing to get within arms length of me, most wouldn't even come to my side of the street, of course i'd just laugh and grab my balls and keep on singing as D-Train just stood there laughing...

So as kick-off approached D-Train and i had ran into a few of my friends and his friends were walking along and i was singing at the top of my lungs and he paused and said "damn i wish i was sitting with you, i got money it doesn't take you ten minutes to get thrown out or into a fight..." and then we shook hands and went our separate ways to enjoy the match...
Of course D-Train was wrong as it took me roughly five minutes to get shit kicked off, you see there was a whole row of guys in Chelsea kits three rows in front of me and from the time i sat down i didn't stop, "youdirtyChelsearentboys, youdirtyChelsearentboys" over and over, until finally they turned around and started motherfucking me and calling me all kinds of things to which i calmly smiled and blew kisses and kept right on singing...

This went on for a few minutes before the ushers came running down, apparently a family with kids didn't take kindly to all the language my friends from across the pond were hurling in my direction and once i figured out what was happening i quickly grabbed an usher and told them shit would calm down, that i was just winding them up and i didn't want to see a bunch of guys who came a long way get tossed cuz some yank was taking the piss, it was then that a gentleman tapped me on the shoulder and asked to speak to me in the concourse...

This gent was a friend of the boys in blue, he was from Strongsville, a snotty suburb in Cleveland that i grew up despising and not only was he from Strongsville but he was a cop to boot, we stood there with a couple of wee-men waiting for me to walk the steps and as i got up my friend T-bag was yelling that we was coming too and i smiled and waved him off and turned and laughed, what the fuck is the lollipop guild gonna do to me? and bounded up the steps three at a time, i then proceeded to tell Officer Blow Me that i detested his upper middle class credentials and liked cops even fucking less, i then explained that i had just saved his friends from being thrown out and that at half-time i would gladly buy them a beer seeing how at the time i was flush with free money, he said that'd be great and was all apologetic and the lollipop guild stood around drooling like muppets and off i went to watch the match...

At half-time i made my way to the concourse and introduced myself to the lads and they were all good sports about it, all except for one, i bought them all a beer and we began laughing about the whole thing and they admitted they didn't think they'd find some septic who would wind them up that much, the one was quite impressed with my knowledge of the game and such in the short time we talked but i could sense a problem brewing with the Hard Man, i finally asked him what the problem was and he started in on a diatribe about how did i know who the Chelsea Headhunters were and i said yes i know who the fuck they "were", emphasizing the were part, and he stated that i'd have been chummed into the Thames back in the day and i stated that this wasn't the fucking 80's mate and that this was H'america and we didn't carry fucking knives in our socks we carried fucking glocks (didn't bother to tell him i never owned or carried a piece) and that if he was a real sweetheart i'd introduce him to a guy who'd sell him one out of his trunk, i then said something to the effect that if he wasn't such a fat bastard he might not be such an uptight prick to which his friends began hooting and hollering and laughing hysterically, of course at this point he stormed off and i bought another round for the decent folks and we wandered back in towards the second half...

The second half i spent talking to the one bloke, a nice guy, the one who was impressed that a septic knew so much about the game, he thanked me for helping them not get kicked out and we found some empty seats and watched the second half together and debated the merits of Roman A's spending spree and the upcoming season, a pleasant second half all around and as the game ended we shook hands and he asked "what are you up to now?" and i laughed and said "i'm fucking wasted mate, gonna roll through the hood and see if i can score some fucking shitty coke", he just laughed and told me i was mad and i made my way towards the exit and found the car and headed towards the hood...

And yes the night ended with me rolling slowly down the side streets of my favorite hood looking for the boys peddling their wares, of course i was to fucked to worry about much so i asked pretty much anyone on the street if they knew where i could score, mainly i just sent them all running as if i was some raving fucking maniac but then again maybe i was, so i lit that last cigarette and headed my ass home, another fine night indeed... and in case you were wondering it was Chelsea 3- Roma nil.