the Cup,” said Bernie.
“Eh?”
“‘E’s worried abaht injuries fer the Cup match at Barnet,” explained Trevor, and I suddenly understood why Ron had been so surly after the 6-0 win. By getting out of second gear we’d risked the health of his precious Reserves, and thereby jeopardised progress to the land of plenty - the third round.
“We’ve never made the third round,” said Trev. “It’s a big deal, mate … .when all the Premier League boys come in and a chance of makin’ ‘istory.”
“Not to mention a chance of a massive pay day,” said Bernie. “Yer get drawn away at a big club like Arsenal or United, yer get half the gate! Yer know what sort o’ money we’re talkin’?”
The other thing about the second half was the complete absence of Jaffa. It must have been the fags, because he spent the whole time either walking or doubled over, hands on knees, trying to breathe.
Then, completely out of the blue, Doreen asked, “So why do you call yourself Mr Cleansheets?”
Immediately, Trevor burst out in incredulous laughter: “Mr Cleansheets? Sounds like a rubber johnnie!”
“A rubber what?” asked Doreen.
“Erm, a gentleman’s prophylactic device,” interpreted Bernie, slightly embarrassed.
“You mean a franger?” asked Dores.
Trevor chuckled: “Mr Cleansheets … that’s fabulous, that is.”
And then Havant scored. The back four had been far too pedestrian in closing down the Havant centre half (by miles their best player) and he’d suddenly changed gear, gone straight through and given Charlie no chance from fifteen yards.
We watched in silence as the enemy clustered and celebrated.
“Now you’ll see a different side of Ronnie,” said Trevor, and no sooner had he spoken than the manager was off the bench and screaming at Gareth.
“Can’t be fockin’ everywhere!” responded Mervyn’s nephew, with a meaningful glance at Sam (one of the centre halves), and it suddenly occurred to me that Mervyn was not present - which surprised me.
There were nine minutes to go, and the Bentham boys had the wobbles. Wave after wave of Havant attacks were negated more by good fortune than good play, and Doreen’s nails were gripping into my arm as the seconds ticked away.
It was all Havant now, and Bernie, forgetting his manners in front of a lady, said, “They focken’ need yer, Trev. Y’ ought to be in good enough nick ter go on an’ do a job.”
Trevor just shrugged, but Bernie was right. We badly needed someone in the middle of the park who could take charge. Juan Pablo was lost under these circumstances, and it was unfair to expect a player of his type to win the middle.
“Shape!” shouted Ronnie. “Rags … Gareth! Get the fahkin’ shape back! Get ‘em back behind the ball!”
Then they scored again - from a corner. You could just feel the momentum swinging their way - and these guys were second last fer chrissakes!
There was a silence about the ground - 500 people were staring at their watches, willing time onwards. Doreen’s nails were slicing into me and Trevor and Bernie were leaning further and further forward in their seats.
Our guys were out on their feet and the Havant boys worked a series of triangles down our left, leaving Dennis and Glen Boyd (the left back) chasing shadows. It was suddenly two on one - seconds to go - their right winger drew Charlie then squared perfectly for the centre forward, who struck the cross bar from eight yards.
A roar went up around the tiny ground as the Bentham boys managed to regroup and get back behind the ball. And then the whistle blew. The game was over.
Trevor and Bernie fell back in their seats, exhausted from the sheer holding of breath.
“Are we going out?” asked Doreen.
POSSIBLY SOMETHING EVEN DEEPER...
After hearing Eric’s story, it had taken Mervyn Night about three seconds to realise that if a member of the Blue Fury was supposed to receive a key on a first class international flight from a mysterious stranger, then that key was intended for Graham McNowt.
For his part, McNowt was surprised to receive an invitation from Mervyn, but that Saturday afternoon the two men found themselves sitting at high tea in the Ritz, with much to discuss.
“‘Ow’s business?” asked Mervyn as the waitress poured from the Royal Doulton tea pot.
“None of yours,” replied McNowt.
Mervyn gave a tight little smile as the waitress served scones with silver tongs, and then left them to it.
“Jus’ bein’ polite, so I am,” said Mervyn, rather enjoying the fact that he had McNowt at a disadvantage.
McNowt eyed Mervyn with unconcealed disgust. Paddies weren’t black, but they were much worse in some ways: all the lazy, degenerate traits of the negroid but with serendipitously white skin - black sheep in sheep’s clothing.
“Well, delightful though the surroundings are,” he said, “I’m sure you didn’t invite me just for tea and scones.”
“It’s true,” replied Mervyn, dabbing a scone with raspberry jam and reaching for the clotted cream. “I ‘ave an agenda. But before I get to dat, I just wanted to ask why you’re associating wi’ such low company these days?”
“The answer’s simple: you invited me.”
Mervyn laughed: “Always the one wid a glib response, so ya were.”
McNowt had always detested the Irishman’s homely smugness and decided he’d had enough.
“Listen you bog paddy, either tell me why you’ve asked me here, or I’m leaving.”
Mervyn decided the time had come to get hard: “Alright. Yer’ve reneged on the London arrangement.”
“That’s rubbish!” snapped McNowt.
“Is dat so?” asked Mervyn. “Den why are the Blue Fury running amok on the edge o’ my territory wi’ de word on the street bein’ they’re in your pay?”
“Rumours,” sneered McNowt, with a wave of his hand.
“Rumours, is it?”
Mervyn paused to sip his tea, savouring both the fine surroundings and the aces up his sleeve.
“Well I t’ink it’s more ‘n rumours an’ I’ve called in all ma favours wid yer neighbours to the south an’ west. If it’s war yer want, it’s war ye’ll get.”
Not so long ago, McNowt would have been appalled by Mervyn’s threat and hastened to reassure him that normal service would quickly be restored. But McNowt had new priorities
