Seven fifteen. Saturday morning and Saturday's kids that live in council houses, v-neck jumpers and faded trousers.
I'm drinking a coffee clearing the hangover. The hangover of all hangovers. Standing on the concourse, Euston station waiting for the seven thirty train. All dressed-up and football to go to.
Pockets of match-going lads buying papers, having a fag, buying a paper, chewing fat and chewing the fat.
Travellers journeying north, students studiously studying timetables, railway workers discussing the politics of Margaret Hilda Fucking Thatcher as she tightens the screw on their wage demands. A living wage for the living hell that London can be. And this morning it is grey in hell. Grey and damp - a kagoul to keep the cold away.
A kagoul that says I'm "Norvern". I'm on my own with my kagoul and coffee and paper and hangover. Alone with my thoughts.
Waiting to go 400 miles in a day for ninety minutes football. But we're going well. Going for three points. Going for promotion. Pull the ticket and young persons from my pocket and make my way to the platform.
Then out of nowhere a roar goes up.
"ICF, ICF"
Then out of nowhere two gangs clash. Clash city rockers. Cockneys at each other and I'm in the middle of the melee. I hear "United bastards" and realise it's Cockney Reds versus Cockney Rejects. And all I can think of is keeping hold of my coffee as it cost more than a pint did last night. But I'm in it. In the middle of it and I feel the cold harsh blow to my ear. Hit me anywhere but not on the ear and not from behind. "You bassssterrrd" - tells them I'm "Norvern" but by now it's over. Old Bill has scattered the mobs as quickly as the mobs scattered the students and the travellers. The railway workers just stand and grin. They've seen it before. They'll see it again. They've Margaret Hilda Fucking Thatcher and Superman on their minds. Not petty, violent squabbles.
Seven twenty in the morning and the Saturday's kids - the real creatures that time has forgot - have had their first kicks of the day.
I get the train and read the paper, fall in and out of sleep. The throb of my ear rivals the throb of my hangover and my hearts still jumping. I dream and daydream of three points and the faceless bastard that hit me from behind. Madness. All this madness for football. Hangovers and headaches.
The only cure is the "only cure" and that is a can from the buffet. A can of ice-cold lager at 8.03am. It is truly beautiful. As beautiful as Loretta, Lorraine and Louise. And Val and Jenny and Claudette and Lena and all the other fucking beautiful women that pass by my intoxicated way.
The cold liquid hits the spot sharply. A rush to the head and to the heart. Same rush as the poppers last night. Same rush as the kiss on the lips from Jenny yesterday morning. Same rush as the violence that engulfed me less than an hour ago. Same rush as the football will undoubtedly deliver this afternoon. Us Saturday's kids. From Woking to Wigan. V-neck Pringle jumpers and faded Lois trousers.
As featured in the latest edition of The Mudhutter http://www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk/download.php?view.27
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