“Up and down the City Road

In and out The Eagle”

Then it’s across the road to the bookies and around the corner to watch the Jack the Rippers in pub around the back. Well that’s how yesterday started. We’d took the day off. Me, Az, Elton, Si and a few others. To put some spunk in our balls, have a bet and a night-out around N1.

But now is Saturday in N10 and I awake to find a girl on the edge of my bed.

“Hi, I’m Claudia”

“Oh, Hi I’m Richard”

“Yeah I know and don’t worry nothing happened. You couldn’t!”

“Ah cheers, story of my life”

“You shouldn’t drink so much, you shouldn’t fight so much and you shouldn’t rely on young innocent girls to get you home safely.”

“Well give me a clue.”

“You were on the 43 bus insulting some New Romantic kids - and then you started on some fella and his boyfriend.”

“Shouting about how the younger lad would never get out of his house alive.”

“Yeah, the twat with the glasses.

“I don’t remember but that man is bad. Did the kid go home with him?”

“I think so, but anyhow I found you sweet, somehow.

“Plus I didn’t want to go home to my boyfriend and thought maybe there was life in a young drunken man.

“I was wrong there wasn’t I?”

“There’s life now.”

“Nah sorry, you missed out.

“Anyhow I sorted myself out. Those pictures of Buffalo Boys in The Face are useful for some things.

“I’ll see you around – gotta go to work now.

“My work number is on the magazine, give me a call on Monday.

“Just one thing, Claudia.

“Did the vampire come during the night?

“Nah, just me, honey.

“See ya”

Who the fuck is she? Cute, bit of a big arse but haven’t all Aussies. This is going to take some time to piece together. It can wait until Monday, I’ll bell her and see what happened. Az will fill me in with what he can remember about the rest of yesterday.

The kettle’s hot and she’s done the washing up. I’ll definitely call her Monday. I pour a Nescafe and butter two slices of toast. It’s 8.11am. I feel decidedly fine. Meeting Az in The Castle at one as Arsenal are playing Leeds but first I’m up west with the rest of the lads.

It’s the same route every other Saturday. We meet at the Dominion. Guzzling is late, Tone is later and Ade is even later. We laugh and joke and nip into Woodhouse on Oxford Street, down Wardour Street into Nick Nack and through the backs of Soho to Austin Reid on Regent Street. Up the stairs to gaze in awe at Fila and Cerruti 1881 and then check the check in Burberrys and Aquascutum and then brush past Eros into Lilywhites.

Always searching, us lot always searching. Looking for Sergio, Rene and Adi. Jeans by Ball and shirts from Woodhouse. Picking up garments, trying things on.

“Has Greavsie got this, Tone?”

“Does Felice wear Nike?”

Forest Hills or Wimbledon? Skiing or sailing? Pringle jumpers for goalposts. Golfing for hooligans. Tennis for thugs.

What a strange world we inhabit. What would Margaret Hilda Fucking Thatcher think of us? If only she knew we existed. Just young men from Carlisle to Canterbury that she knows fuck all about. All dressed up with lots of places to go. If there’s a war I’m sure she’ll come a calling.

There aren’t many dressed up in the Castle but it’s swarming with Leeds. Moustachioed men looking for a fight. And looking at my puffy pumps and faded jeans. My bubble coat and my Lancashire demeanour. Az is looking sheepish under his Guinness and hangover as my Northern accent cures their curiosity and they go on about their business not clever enough to know their white from red roses.