dannyboy
tfso!
Work. Same old, same old. A warrior like me should not be caged. And definitely not as a Waste Management Support Co-ordinator in Lewisham Council. Phone rings. Pick it up.
"Ooo are ya? Ooo are ya? Ooo are ya?" I shout.
"Barry," says the voice. "It's Mr Stevens. Now what did we say about answering the phone in accordance with the guidelines laid down by HR in consultation with designated union representatives?"
"Sorry, Mr Stevens," I say.
"That's better Barry. Now can you please arrange for a member of the cleaning personnel team to go down to the lobby and change the waste paper basket on front desk?"
"Millwall! Millwall! Millwall!" I shout.
"No Barry. Waste paper management now. Millwall later," says Stevens. "Honestly Barry. A man of 48 really ought to be able to control himself."
"Yes Mr Stevens," I say. He's bricking it now, the mug. I hang up and email the cleaning personnel team, and then practice aggressive walking in my cubicle until lunch.
Lunchtime. Free. Outside. The Lion prowls. Trouble though. There's a gang of muppets on the corner. West Ham? They're only young 'uns, but they're probably tooled up, the scum. Two of them. I'm outnumbered. But these colours don't run.
"Come on then! Come on then!" I shout, flapping my arms up and down in a well aggressive way while walking away from them backwards.
The bigger one drops his ice cream. He starts to cry. Soon the other one is crying too.
"You slaaaaaaaaags," I shout. "Ooo are ya? Gertcha! Queen Mum! Ave a banana. Oi oi saveloy."
But hold up. It was a trap. There's another one. The top dog. Waiting in Boots. Clever.
"What the hell are you shouting at my kids for?" she says. "What is wrong with you? Scaring a five year-old in the street like that."
"I'm on your manor and I'm taking the piss," I say.
She's coming at me now. Hard. This is more than just a bit of handbags. She's tooled up: with an actual handbag. This is Luton 1985. This is Highbury 1988. This is Toys R Us 1995 when that Palace Young Team pushed me off the bouncy castle.
"Come on then! Do you want some?" I say, running in the other direction.
Course, I'm more built for raw power than speed, and after a few yards I'm wheezing, doubled up outside Dixons, lungs on fire.
They catch up to me, the three of them. The top dog's got that handbag. The small one looks mental, a proper psycho, covered in strawberry ice-cream like it's warpaint. The littlest one's got a Dora The Explorer lunchbox. The clever, clever slags.
"Why is that fat old man dressed like a young person, mummy?" says ice cream.
Is this how it ends? On the cold pavement outside Dixons? I'm going out with my head held high. They'll talk about me in the Dog And Fascist for years to come. I'm a legend. I'm a bloody Lions legend. I wait for the blows.
I feel a hot, wet sensation spreading over me. The blood, the glory, the end. I'm going to the great New Den in the sky a hero, a fighter, a geezer who never took a backward step. I hear a voice - is it God? Asking me to join His Firm, be a top boy?
"Mummy mummy, that silly fat man has done a wee in his trousers."
And then it all goes black.
"Ooo are ya? Ooo are ya? Ooo are ya?" I shout.
"Barry," says the voice. "It's Mr Stevens. Now what did we say about answering the phone in accordance with the guidelines laid down by HR in consultation with designated union representatives?"
"Sorry, Mr Stevens," I say.
"That's better Barry. Now can you please arrange for a member of the cleaning personnel team to go down to the lobby and change the waste paper basket on front desk?"
"Millwall! Millwall! Millwall!" I shout.
"No Barry. Waste paper management now. Millwall later," says Stevens. "Honestly Barry. A man of 48 really ought to be able to control himself."
"Yes Mr Stevens," I say. He's bricking it now, the mug. I hang up and email the cleaning personnel team, and then practice aggressive walking in my cubicle until lunch.
Lunchtime. Free. Outside. The Lion prowls. Trouble though. There's a gang of muppets on the corner. West Ham? They're only young 'uns, but they're probably tooled up, the scum. Two of them. I'm outnumbered. But these colours don't run.
"Come on then! Come on then!" I shout, flapping my arms up and down in a well aggressive way while walking away from them backwards.
The bigger one drops his ice cream. He starts to cry. Soon the other one is crying too.
"You slaaaaaaaaags," I shout. "Ooo are ya? Gertcha! Queen Mum! Ave a banana. Oi oi saveloy."
But hold up. It was a trap. There's another one. The top dog. Waiting in Boots. Clever.
"What the hell are you shouting at my kids for?" she says. "What is wrong with you? Scaring a five year-old in the street like that."
"I'm on your manor and I'm taking the piss," I say.
She's coming at me now. Hard. This is more than just a bit of handbags. She's tooled up: with an actual handbag. This is Luton 1985. This is Highbury 1988. This is Toys R Us 1995 when that Palace Young Team pushed me off the bouncy castle.
"Come on then! Do you want some?" I say, running in the other direction.
Course, I'm more built for raw power than speed, and after a few yards I'm wheezing, doubled up outside Dixons, lungs on fire.
They catch up to me, the three of them. The top dog's got that handbag. The small one looks mental, a proper psycho, covered in strawberry ice-cream like it's warpaint. The littlest one's got a Dora The Explorer lunchbox. The clever, clever slags.
"Why is that fat old man dressed like a young person, mummy?" says ice cream.
Is this how it ends? On the cold pavement outside Dixons? I'm going out with my head held high. They'll talk about me in the Dog And Fascist for years to come. I'm a legend. I'm a bloody Lions legend. I wait for the blows.
I feel a hot, wet sensation spreading over me. The blood, the glory, the end. I'm going to the great New Den in the sky a hero, a fighter, a geezer who never took a backward step. I hear a voice - is it God? Asking me to join His Firm, be a top boy?
"Mummy mummy, that silly fat man has done a wee in his trousers."
And then it all goes black.
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