Tim Sherwood walked into the dressing room. Louis van Gaal’s reign had been a disaster, with United failing to make the Champions League, or even the Europa League. There had been an outcry among the papers, and, in their infinite wisdom, Ed Woodward and the Glazer family had decided a domestic manager was the best option.

Sherwood’s run at Aston Villa at the end of the 2014/15 season had been as successful as Van Gaal’s had been a disaster. Under him, Villa had played 16, won 13, lost three, and United fans had to endure the sight of Tom Cleverley lifting the FA Cup.

The Villains’ victory over the Red Devils at Old Trafford had been cited as the beginning of the end for the Dutchman. His side never recovered their lost confidence, and he had been ignominiously sacked, and taken over as David Moyes’ assistant at Real Sociedad.

Sherwood had engineered a simple-but-effective counter-attacking performance. That had lodged itself into Woodward’s mind, and the former Tottenham Hotspur man’s chummy bravado had won United’s Chief Executive’s affections.

“Right lads,” said Tim, “here’s the philosophy…” He had accompanied that much pilloried word with air quotes, of course. The dressing room erupted with laughter, as Tim grinned broadly.

“Show ‘em Les.” Les Ferdinand, standing by Sherwood’s side, dramatically flipped over a page of flip chart paper. On it was printed huge number “4”. “Four!” exclaimed Tim. Ferdinand flipped over another page. Another “4.” “Four!” yelled Sherwood, “say it with me lads…”

The players, led by Wayne Rooney, mostly joined in with a hearty “two!” as Ferdinand flipped another page to reveal exactly that.

There were cheers around the dressing room, as players who had been forced to adapt to a 3-5-2 system that clearly did not suit them were delighted to be freed from complex tactical thinking. Daley Blind and Michael Carrick looked a little put out, but in general the mood was buoyant.

“Tim Sherwood thinks you’re all great players,” said Tim Sherwood, speaking in the third person, as Tim Sherwood is wont to do.

“If you follow Tim Sherwood’s instructions, you’ll be just fine. First of all, you have to think like Tim Sherwood. Get it and give it. Run the channels. Passion. Lots and lots of that. It’s very important.”

“Who are we marking at corners, boss?” asked Rooney. “Call me Tim, Wazza. And call yourself Wayne Rooney, that’s very important too. Shows ‘em you mean business and know your stuff.”

“Wayne Rooney wants to know who he’s picking up at corners,” said Rooney, slowly, practising this new form of speech.

“Phil Jones is in charge of that. He’ll tell you,” replied the manager.

“Phil Jones will tell you!” yelled Jones, pumping his fist in triumph.

A few months later it was all over. After a great start, as excitement and passion carried United through, Sherwood’s tactical naivety was cruelly exposed. He was replaced by Pep Guardiola, in what was universally considered to be history’s oddest managerial succession.

Sherwood took over the reigns at Villa again, kept them from relegation, and was rewarded with the Chelsea job after Jose Mourinho left to take over at Bayern Munich.

Back to Reality

Of course, in reality, Sherwood is not the caricature painted above. His managerial career is fledgling, but he has had some success. Whilst his “win ratio” may have become a meme, he did reasonable work at Spurs, and is off to a decent start at Aston Villa.

However, he is a long way off proving himself at an elite level.

On Saturday, he will be hoping to engineer an upset against a Van Gaal side that, in reality, is in excellent form. That in itself is a long shot. The idea of him taking the hot seat at Old Trafford?

The odds on that would have to be second-to-none.

Secondly: Given the debacle that was the UETFA World Cup (I still can’t believe they built that stadium in the middle of nowhere) and the fallout that followed, it seemed Time And Fruit was done. Finished. Tossed aside like a made-up internet thing who’s creator simply lost interest because he found a series of comics he hadn’t read. Anyway, thats all in the past and with Sky announcing a new TV deal for the 2015 summer season, now seems as good a time as any to re-introduce Time And Fruit as the true sport of kings (Literally: George V ruddy loved it)

To this end, I was given free rein in the Westminster UETFA archives and the rich tapestry therein…

‘Those familiar with the founding father of Time And Fruit will undoubtedly already be aware of Sir Alf Wattlendaub’s now legendary inaugural games of 1910; what you may not know is that this was a direct response to the growing threat of World War and was subliminally pushing the idea of rationing (hence the ‘5-a-day’ rule)* With Sir Alf being the games clear winner (his nickname of ‘Apple Alf’ being a wry nod to his now patented ‘2.36, Apple’ move…hard now to imagine the effect that had on the game), this huge crowd favourite and league champion’s (1910-1918) lasting legacy was his abolition of the class system within the sport. Indeed, his first act as Lord Chief Warden of Fruit was to dismantle the strict ‘Old Boys’ network and open the game up to the lower classes (Up until 1912, East London was rife with illegal fruit-dens where the working man could gamble his meagre weekly wage but always under the threat of the rope if caught). It was not a popular move amongst the aristocracy and the 1920s were a mire of infighting and backstabbing as a once great sport that had united a nation started to alienate even its most staunch defenders: “When has fruit ever been worth this?” they could have possibly cried.’

Its around here that the archives get a little hazy on detail – a lot of the late 30s/40s is still filed as MoD classified documents and it would be wrong to speculate. The next extract is only included because of its relation to globalisation and how much wealthy billionaires invested in ‘mankind’s future’ whilst really playing Time And Fruit.

‘Known to only those in the inner circle of UETFA, the Boeing 747 was initially commissioned by Sir Quentin Yacht-Smythe to produce a plane large enough to carry rare and exotic fruit from all over the globe (originally there was only going to be one and it would land at his house; a sprawling country estate where the main house was constructed out of Guava halves) in a bid to re-ignite interest in the sport after the drab war years. The effect was immediate, leading UETFA to amend the fruit allowance records for the first time in their history** as the sudden insurgence of multiple fruits made the 5-a-day rule seem badly outmoded, and the public went wild – some people suggest the ‘swinging sixties’ and the resultant London scene, often  attributed to no-hopers like The Beatles, was actually caused by this fruit liberation. The plane was eventually put into mass production (UETFA went the Alec Guiness/Star Wars royalty route. Inspired) and apparently flies people to holiday destinations all around the world’

* This was originally sold as a decision based on lack of telecommunications; carrier pigeons were used to send pencil drawings of “outlandish” fruits (Kiwi, Mango etc) where visual evidence was needed. All pictures were stored in the Archives until 1914 when the distraction of war allowed Hans Gruber to access said pictures and steal them. This lead to the withdrawal of the governing body from the sports frontlines, with no existing player allowed entrance to the hallowed halls. Gruber was never caught due to diplomatic immunity. Was eventually killed by John McClane.

** The 5-a-day rule was re-introduced with the sport becoming more professional in the late 70s.

For further reading:

Sir Alf  Wattlendaub ‘Apples and Pears don’t mean Stairs’ (Penguin books, 1948)

Sir Quentin Yacht-Smythe ‘I was the original Bruce Wayne’ (Quentin’s Books, 1972)

Mickey Rolls ‘From Street Urchin to Gold medal: a barrow boy’s story’ (Picador, 1966)

Tom McGhee ‘Please send help’ (Macbook, 2015)

16 years ago I was stumbling from one party to the next. The same faceless faces – some of them familiar, for what that was worth. For what that actually meant back then. Faces I’d seen around, but didn’t have the time, the inclination, or the humility, to find out more about. It was a simpler time. A time of endless possibilities. A time without time.

There was one night – so many since lost, as memories tumble from my ageing, addled, tired mind as the sound they once created becomes a distant echo on a dystopian landscape – I will always recall; like it was only yesterday…

A couple, whose names escape me, were giving up their lives for each others and a celebration of the news had been maniacally arranged at the expense of other’s personal plans, so that we could all feel that little bit worse about ourselves in their presence. Another night when strangers were friends, and I was alone.

I never went to these things with the intention of observing: the attendees at the waxwork pantomime projecting outwards the charade that the reality that their real life occupied betrayed; but when you navigate the threat of conversation with such calculated precision, it’s all you have. Those that don’t know you’re watching don’t care; those that do, the same. I’d say I’d seen it all, but I know there has to be more. Because there has to be.

The male of our species without question, would throw away everything: his family, his children – for an unsatisfactory fumble with a relative stranger. And they do. Those that say otherwise, never see temptation.  And sure there’s the inevitable ontological anxiety the following morning, but not enough get what they’re due.  It’s only man who believes he’s bulletproof when holding a gun to his own head. Women could do worse than remove the safety catch.

On this particular night there’d been a few flashpoints; vignettes co-habitors would soon be going over in their heads in a day or two, on the spare futon around a friend’s house. Nothing of note. Nothing special. Nothing. And then.

When the last of the people making the most dutiful of appearances, have finished off their life story at the door, you get to see who’s really at a party. Three thirds of the time it’s wall to wall me. Like staring into a mirror bigger than the room. This time was different.

I was already on the furthest side of the room before I was conscious of standing up, such was the impulse; though the lactic acid was already flooding through my limbs. Beads of sweat tempted my tongue to my top lip. I leaned in towards her. She cupped her ear to my mouth… “Falcao is that tin of Quality Street at your nans that turns out to be full of sewing kits”.

To this day I still don’t know where it came from. Maverick thoughts.

Time and Fruit: Rules and amendments

Initially based around the then unknown Government propaganda of 5-a-day (war was brewing in Europe and this was an attempt to introduce the notion of rationing – it’s hard to believe in our meat-infused modern world that before 1910, the English diet was basically just fruit), the story of Sir Alf Wattlendaub’s meteoric rise to fame as the genius behind T&F is well-documented (see: The Complete History of Time and Fruit RRP £24.99) and any Time and Fruiter could recite it almost verbatim. That said, it never hurts to clarify the rules for the new enthusiast. To this end, the following covers all the major factors that matter to both the amateur play-at-homer and the professional athlete:

1. Players are limited to 5 entries a day in peacetime. You can of course submit more entries but the judges will only consider 5. Many believe it’s therefore better to conjure up 5 winners than the hit-and-hope approach but each to their own; just remember that you have no say on which the judges pick in this case.

2. ALL TIMES/FRUITS PERMITTED* I cannot stress this enough (Although time zones can come into play in the international competitions and certain fruits in certain seasons will carry more weight in a penalty fruit-out)

3. Fruit MUST follow time. None of this fruit then time malarkey that some charlatans (who will be facing legal action) have been attempting – if you can’t handle the fruit, stay out the greengrocers.

4. ONLY Fruits. Self-explanatory really but nearly always the cause of disqualification in modern tournaments, mainly due to the explosion of yoghurt related snacks/desserts in recent years.

NB: At the time of writing, the recent suggestion for the mandatory inclusion of the hashtag on social media is being discussed; whilst many see this as a sell-out move, there can be little doubt this will open T&F to a much broader audience.

*Amended in 1962 – see Complete History for full story.

Scoring and the league format:

Now to the uninitiated, the scoring of Time & Fruit can look almost completely random, even nonsensical. However, true purveyors of the game know this almost definitely not the case – like figure skating, it’s all about execution and nuance: a ‘11.05am Banana’ for example, might not beat a ‘11.07am Banana’ or even a ‘11.05PM Banana’ simply because those two minutes/twelve hours were crucial. Perhaps even more surprising, whilst on paper a ‘4.23 Kumquat and Kiwi’ looks a sure-fire winning move, in actual league/cup competition that might not be the case – someone could eat/post before AND after that to a greater cumulative effect (eg ‘4.22 Satsuma’ followed by a ‘4.24 Mango’ – perfect pincer movement)

The scoring is supervised by 5 judges every 24hrs – all of whom are accredited UETFA officials – and points awarded accordingly: 2 for a win, 1 for a draw, 1/2 for imaginative failures. These points are then tabulated into a league format consisting of two divisions – promotion and relegation are as in any other sport, the only discernible difference being the top 5 from each top division form their country’s National team for World Cups/Euros (for additional reading see The Complete History and Sir Alf’s autobiography ‘Apples and Pears don’t mean Stairs’).

Saturday morning, 7:30 am. I’d forgotten the clocks started this early in the night. A fella, who I presume is the landlord, is sweeping up fag butts and glass from the entrance walkway to the themed pub opposite. I sense he is a little uneasy with my presence, as I stand on the corner we accidentally exchange awkward, occasional glances. The huge limestone arches of the train bridge provide me with much needed respite from the biting wind. I lose myself for a while imagining the lives of the two young people on the double-decker bus that has just pulled up at the lights. It’s surely getting on a bit, I think to myself. 7:33am.

I’m getting a lift to the ground with Mike. Having not seen him for over a year, and knowing he’s the type to update his car on an annual basis, my eyes begin darting around. Maybe he’s already pulled up and I haven’t noticed. There is nothing resembling a ‘Mike car’ around, so I relax. Mike, although in his thirties now, would never entertain driving round in anything other than the most garish of cars he could afford to attach a fin to. 7:35am.

The ontological anxiety a hangover embraces, mixed with the usual nerves, has already seen me visit the bathroom for four ‘pre-match poos’. I can feel another one on the way. I hadn’t intended to have a drink the night before my big comeback but Daniel, who is playing for Them today, had talked me round as we’d started reminiscing on previous encounters. One had turned to two and three. Before we knew it, the fridge door was empty and a whole pack of lights were bulging from the ashtray. 7:37am.

I could hear the flatulence from Mike’s exhaust long before he appeared. He hasn’t let me down. A brand new Skoda with some hideous body kit hanging from every available extremity. I’m not sure I’ve seen THAT colour before on anything. I climb in, glancing back, once more, at the landlord as I do. He looks up, he knows he’s won the game that neither of us knew we were playing, and I can see it in his face.

“Alreeet” says Mike with a pleasant smile, accentuated by his large front teeth.

“Not bad, you?” I reply, mirroring his open body language.

“Yeah.” he says, none of the team give that question a proper answer.

He’s now half turning to see if he can pull out in to the traffic. Not as if it ever mattered to him if there was a gap or not. Mike is a teacher. He lives with his Italian mother in a two bedroom house in the back end of the city. He has tickets on himself that’s for sure. Mike is a daft sod who most people like. Spend more than ten minutes in a car with him and the thinly veiled racism and sexism soon becomes his main currency. He’s a teacher, yes folks he’s educating your children. Good luck with that. He is also our goalie and by all accounts about the best in the league. Meadow Lanes, one of our biggest rivals, has made repeated attempts to persuade him to join them, but Mike was happy to stay with us. He said he liked the way we tried to play football and would always put emphasis on the ‘tried’. He is now part of the three-man management team running things. I’d been part of it for the last two seasons before I left, so knew exactly how difficult it was to keep everyone motivated. He began to fill me in on the season I’d just missed. I’d kept abreast of it for the most part, but although I wasn’t going to admit it to him, I didn’t really care.

We’d found a new striker called Ed, who was, according to Mike, as good as we’d ever had. I’d met him briefly at training in the week and instantly taken a liking to him. He did, I admit, look shit hot. We’d been playing Max in defence a lot, a player Mike hates with a passion largely due to the fact he’s probably one of the worst players in the whole world. I suspect, as I always have, this isn’t the only reason he doesn’t like Max. The big news however was how the previous season had ended in controversy with us surviving relegation on the last day by cheating. Mike explains how we’d been playing Haven the best team in the league by far, who’d already sewn up the title three weeks previously. We’d needed a draw to stay up. Freddie our Chairman who often filled in as our linesman, a regular arrangement in the league, had disallowed five legitimate goals of theirs claiming them to be offside!

“SHIT! He’s the fuckin’ church pastor!” I exclaim.

“Yeah, we’re still in the top division though.” Mike replies sheepishly.

The Bolsower City Churches League established God knows when. I’d joined on account of an old Uni friend George, a stealth Christian, who I’d had a couple of kick-abouts with on the green. He’d told a few of us that the team he played for needed a few new faces. He’d later in the pub casually let slip he played for a ‘church team’, which we all initially baulked at. He then went on to explain how most of the team weren’t church goers and though the league had a ‘three foreigner rule’, it was seriously abused by all the other teams, as well as his. We went along to a couple of training sessions and soon realised they weren’t that bad after all. I would later realise that the ones that weren’t that bad were the ones that weren’t actually the god botherers. The actual god botherers were ‘that bad’…and that was on a good day. I’d left at the end of last season through a combination of a new job and girlfriend. At least that’s what I’d told them.

We pull up to the clubhouse about 9:15. The teams had already been let into the tired red brick building by the caretaker, so the small scruffy car park is quiet. The far corner is still being used for fly tipping and the perimeter fence has given up it’s ongoing battle with gravity.  My stomach is doing cartwheels as we enter the home team dressing room and through the familiar stench of unwashed ‘bloke’ and cheap deodorant I am greeted by a wall of sarcastic cheers. I shove in next to Ed.

“The second coming”, I whisper and he laughs. I really hope he’s not one of them.

Even though I don’t regard myself as a superstitious sort, I always wear the same underwear, but this is arguably a chafing issue. I do like wearing white boots because in an odd way it makes me more aware of my physicality, more aware of my physical parameters, but they’re not necessary.  I do always wear a wristband, I can’t explain why, I just feel more comfortable with one than without. I wouldn’t tear apart the dressing room if I forgot it or anything, but then of course I’d never allow myself to forget it. My mental tick kicks in as I began to fasten my laces. I repeat the mantra “chip the keeper” to myself. This however has never had any bearing on my finishing in a game. It started when playing for my University team. Our right-mid, Simon, had commented on the frequency at training with which I chip the keeper, compared to during matches. I was playing a game, and clean through, he began shouting to ‘chip the keeper’. I did and scored; it was a beauty. From then on he would always mention the incident before a game. I have never attempted to chip the keeper since, but I still repeat the mantra.

We get to what we refer to as ‘the pitch’, an area of outstanding natural mud with occasional sods of turf, resting on a slope; entirely open to the elements. Most of the match day squad run on with the spare balls and start twatting them into the open goals from wherever they happen to be with wide ranging results. In no time at all two or three of them are cautiously picking their way through the stinging nettles in the laurel hedge at the bottom of the field. I prefer my own company. I get a ball, juggle with it, get a feel for the pitch, and then finally find someone to act as a wall, someone to bounce a few one touch passes off as I sprint here and there. I find Ed. I’m rusty so there’s a lot more here than there. I don’t like the other team to get a good look at what I can do, I’m well aware that being 6ft 3 comes with its pre-conceptions. More than anything I don’t join in the shoot on sight free for all because I didn’t like to ‘waste’ any good shots in the warm up. After the first few minutes of keepy-ups I always know if I’m going to be up for the game. I can tell I’m not.

We gather at the far side of the field which backs onto a heavily tree-lined bridleway and do the usual group stretches. They were the same as before and as Ben, the captain, goes through the team, and the way he wants us to approach the game, we are asked to do some ‘freestyle’ stretches of our own. Again, something familiar from previous seasons. Ben, as ever, articulates the pre-match pep talk with his usual assurances and I start to feel more relaxed. We break off and go straight into widths of the pitch, a bit like they do in the Premier League. No other team we face do this, which makes me feel a little bit smug, but at the same time a little bit of a twat. For a season or two we would also do ‘the huddle’ just before kick off. If you’ve ever wanted to know how best to conjure up the feeling that makes you wish the ground would swallow you up, then try it. At times in the past, when I’d had to deputise as captain, I would insist we all pick an animal and instead of breaking off from ‘the huddle’ with manly grunts, we had to cry out the sound we imagined the animal we had picked might make. If the other team were going to think we were knobheads, I wanted them to think we were real fucking knobheads. Knobheads worth being pissed off about.

We swap ends after the toss, so we’re playing uphill, and then the referee calls both sets of players to the centre circle. Cliff Rock, our left winger, steps forward and asks us to bow our heads for prayer. I’d completely forgotten about the pre-match prayer! It’s usually undertaken by the home-team captain. The vast majority of the team captains in the Bolsower Churches league share the same traits: they are obnoxious, self-aggrandising thugs and as a general rule also tend to be the son of the Pastor for the church they represent. We were the home-team and Ben was always averse to doing it so Cliff, who thrived in this situation, was more than happy to fill in.

Cliff Rock is a Christian cliché. He is always pretending he is happy to be alive. Where he lets himself down is that everybody knows that there is no way anyone could be that happy. If he’d just turn the dial down a notch or two, he might get away with it. He is an aspiring actor and perpetually considering a move to London. He is also the ‘front man’ in the church’s band for the young congregation. They have some terrible name like ‘Cliff’s Edges’ or something. Luckily, they don’t perform near one, the temptation may be too much. Cliff’s most notable characteristic, as far as I could see, was that when he finished singing one of those songs he would insist on waiting for silence before looking upwards from his keyboard and audibly whispering, “we love you Jesus” (the thought of it as we are gathered for the prayer forces me into an involuntary snigger). He has slept with every one of the four 16 year old girls in the band. Their pink-cheeked, competitive manoeuvrings on stage, designed to see who can impress him most, are excruciatingly palpable.

The prayer passes me by as it always does. I put my head down out of respect as ever, but I’m somewhere else. The sentiment that we enjoy the game in, the spirit of fair play, is worthy of an “amen”, but it was now lashing it down. They usually thank God for the weather when the sun is out, so by my reckoning this was all his fault. I fantasise for a second that I should look to the sky with a clenched fist and scream “you bastard”. I look across to Ed and he smiles as if he’s thinking the same thing.

Daniel, my housemate, isn’t lining up on the pitch for Them and so I gather he must be starting on their bench, which I’m pleased about because despite only being an okayish player, he has an annoying knack of scoring against us. If I’m honest it drives me nuts. Foresters are much better than they were when I last played them. Apart from a passage of play at the end of the first half, that I start, and a move from our half that I somehow manage to completely fail to apply the finishing to touch to, at the other, we are lucky to be drawing nil-nil at the break. Mark, their best player, probably one of the league’s best in all honesty, has grown into an imposing figure. When we last went toe-to-toe in midfield I came out on top, in part down to the fact I was twice his size. This is no longer the case. He is a really gifted footballer and is head and shoulders above us all. Ben’s half-time talk consists almost entirely of him insisting me and Bob get to grips with Mark. Bob is also a very good player, he’s skillful and as a result gets a good kicking, but he never complains, he just keeps going. I covet his tenacity. I love having him in midfield with me. Bob asks Ben if he can come off the wing to help out and Ben throws him a disgruntled look.

Ben is our captain and unsurprisingly, the son of the Pastor at the church – Freddie, who is also Chair of the football club. In footballing terms, there aren’t many players in the league who can match Ben pound for pound. You think he’s had it after ten minutes, but then he’s the only one tackling back in the last minute. He’s an exception to the ‘captain’s rule’ of the Bolsower Churches League, he’ not a thug. He isn’t afraid of a heavy tackle, but he’s in no way aggressive. The original leader by example. Off the field Ben lives half a life. He’s in the closet. The circumstances of his life, that he never asked for, mean he is trapped in a lie. His use of recreational drugs as a result is alarming.

The second half is under way and almost instantly I find a bit of space out on the left. I thread a ball through to where Ed has pointed, to the space behind his marker. He turns, and with what I presume is his weaker left foot smashes the ball in to the roof of the net first time. It’s an absolute screamer!

“That’s more like it!” shouts Ben in my face.

The rest of the team race towards Ed, who is just stood still with his arms raised up. Unfortunately, this only serves to anger Foresters. First they bring on a sub goalie and put their gigantic keeper up front on our defender Max. They then begin bombarding us with high balls until we finally concede one under the sheer weight of the shelling. They don’t stop there. Another goal comes from the same brutality. We can’t get a foothold and begin to bicker amongst ourselves. The defeat is compounded when Daniel comes off the bench to half-volley in, off the post, at the end of a neat passing move.

I light a cigarette; the ones after the matches are always the sweetest. The post-match autopsy begins. We find ourselves in the local sports bar, parked in front of the big-screen, and talk till it’s too late to eat lunch, then dinner. The few of us left, now resigned to the fact we’ve ruined any plans we had for the rest of the weekend, carry on into the wee hours. Unbeknownst to the rest of them, amongst the wreckage of our day, Ed and I have struck up a promising friendship. We swap emails. He’s not one of them.

*

For the second game I am being picked up by Max. I’m better prepared this time, only having had a couple last night and I haven’t even broken the back of the packet of fags I’d opened last Tuesday. The landlord isn’t out sweeping this week, which I find strangely comforting. It’s still cold and even the pigeons nestling in against the vandalised advertising hoardings I’m propped up next to appear to be shivering.

Max has a BMW and interestingly enough a very small penis. I’m not sure if the two are mutually exclusive. One of the reasons I think he’s so bad at football is that his limbs appear to work separate to the rest of his body, almost in spite of each other. He would, if the games were officiated properly, give away a minimum of six penalties per game. The actual figure tends to be nearer one every three games. What he lacks in every technical area required of a footballer he makes up for in determination, commitment and enthusiasm. Things that all teams need. He is the only one ever-present at every training, match day (regardless of if he was playing or not) and social. The Christians pretend it doesn’t matter that he’s gay. However, he has been told in no uncertain terms his boyfriend is not welcome at social events, or to watch the games. Nick, Max’s boyfriend, should count himself lucky, I have no such excuse.

I’d considered Max a relatively good friend; he was one of the original non-Christians who joined the team at the same time as me. I’m a little at odds with him in that he believes being gay is a choice, I personally think this is how he rationalises the fact that he fucks anything that he likes when he’s pissed. At some point a few years ago, we’d broken up with our respective partners and gone out together to drown our sorrows, of course the sorrows always float. We’d discussed the team’s general non-acceptance of him and I brazenly suggested, as his sofa was tiny and misshapen, that I sleep in his bed to prove what a well balanced sort I really was. After five minutes Max shuffled up next to me, entwined his legs around mine and in hushed tones whispered, “What happens now?” What happened was I spent the next hour, until Max fell asleep, bolt awake. Rigid (stiff, being an inappropriate choice of words). Then, trying to avoid hurting his feelings, crept downstairs to sleep to on the sofa, leaving a note saying I’d gone to watch the telly. I felt betrayed. I have forgiven him, but will never forget it.

We arrive at the ground after a two hour drive. It’s a small ground, adjacent to a disused concrete playground and backing on to a particularly intimidating looking housing estate. Removing white dog muck from the playing surface before kick-off is compulsory. This is where I had made my debut, seven years ago. I’d come on as a sub with about ten minutes left and gone straight up front. Seconds later the ball had dropped to me on the left side edge of the area and I’d instinctively hit it on the half volley. It smacked the crossbar, crashed down behind the line and back up into the roof of the net. To say I’d announced my arrival in the league was putting it mildly. The opposition full-back shouted “for Christ’s sake!” and was subsequently removed from the field of play (maybe he was taken round the back of the clubhouse and shot by a priest). Ed arrives with Ben and John and comes to the edge of the pitch where I’m standing alone. I tell him the story of my debut, showing off I suppose. “We’re on holy ground, then?” he says with a grin. We go to get changed.

The team we are  playing, St. Anne’s, are always made up of really young kids, or ‘kiddies’, as Ben liked to refer to them.  They use the football team to indoctrinate the yoofs from the surrounding estate. I think that’s what all the teams in the league are supposed to do. They are just more proactive. I’m more confident this game and me and Bob are able to control play. We roll out a comfortable two-nil win, courtesy of Ed and Ben’s two tap-ins at the end of some tight passing, barely threatened by pedestrian tackles. After, the 70s wood panelled clubhouse is teeming with kids, no older than 15 or 16 and all of them drinking assorted alcopops under the supervision of the St. Anne’s Chair. We make our excuses and leave

Me and Ed had agreed in the week, via email to pretend we had previous engagements and leave separately. We then met back up and joined our girlfriends in a little unpretentious pub in town. Ed is a lot more politically left than any one I’ve ever met, although when I call him on it he insists he’s not on a side. A pattern that will prevail throughout our friendship. I try and put him in a metaphorical box, for the purposes of a certain line of discourse, he then challenges the actual existence of the box for the next hour and the conversation ends with him admitting how much he ‘loves conversation’. All four of us get on really well, which is great. My girlfriend is the only person in my 28 years I’ve felt truly connected to; the more people you find like that along the way can only be a good thing.

*

The games seem to be coming round quicker and today I’m getting a lift from Ben. We’re playing Bolsower Baptists, who are not a particularly competitive team in the league, but according to Ben have a good solid defence. Alan is in the back with his wife Jenny. Alan used to play for the team and was actually a decent player, and nice enough, but his knees had got messed up and he’d been advised to call it a day after numerous trips on Saturday afternoons to A+E. His wife Jenny is the more interesting of the two. When I’d first joined, it soon transpired that within a few short weeks she’d conspired to sexually harass all of the new players for that season, citing awful sex with Alan as her reasoning. Jack, an ex-player who is no longer around, had most issues with her. She accosted him at every opportunity. He referred to her as the cockasidal maniac, but had welcomed the attention and eventually took advantage, such was his wont. He was an egotistical little twat and I think he broke her heart.

The facilities consist of changing rooms constructed from abandoned freight containers and I don’t think the plumbing has worked since before I was last here; if at all. The pitch is littered with branches and debris from the over-hanging trees. After only a few minutes of the match their striker clatters into Max. He then gets to his feet and begins telling Max to “get up and fuck off”. I’m sure with such confused messages even the most intelligent of players would struggled to know what to do with themselves. Players from both sides wade in. The referee gives him a warning adding,”I’m not like your usual refs in this league I will send you off if you fuck with me”. There is an audible pause for breath from everyone.

The referees in the Bolsower Churches League aren’t just weak; they are effectively innocent bystanders, turning a blind eye to criminal activity. They are all trained officials, the league after all, did have FA status, however 99% of them are respected members of their congregation and therefore encouraged and expected to take a lenient line. As a result The Bolsower Churches League always wins the area fair-play award.  They think this presents the Churches League as an example to aspire to. To me it just shows them up as the small minded, under-developed hypocrites they are. There is a true story of how the captain of Haven, head-butted a player after a blazing row and when told to “calm down a little” by the referee responded by head butting him too. The referee, face hemorrhaging, recommended Haven make a substitution. As the offending player was the Haven captain, he refused and in the ensuing argument head butted the referee for a second time. The referee postponed the game, as he had to go to the hospital to have his face stitched back together. It was replayed later in the season and the player never faced any disciplinary action. This is what we have to contend with.

Ten minutes or so later the striker is on the edge of area and attempts to play a one-two with a team mate, but the return ball is poor. The striker releases a string of fucks into him and turns to see the referee holding a yellow card.

“If I hear one more word from you”, shouts the ref … “you’re off”! And he means it.

I’m not sure why, because I’m not usually like this, but I decide to take an opportunity that presents itself. Every time I go past the striker, I stare at him and put my finger to my lips, or mime ‘zipping’ my lips together. With about five minutes to go before half time, the ball breaks to me down at left back and as if reading from a script, the striker steams towards me. I shape as if I’m going to hoof it up-field and then dip my shoulder at the last second and nutmeg him, adding “What have you got to say about that”.  I’d already planned to say that if I got the chance, while the ball was out for a thrown-in earlier, but didn’t imagine it would work out so perfectly. They never usually do. He goes ballistic; he is chasing me, kicking at me and swearing. Both sides, including the subs, use the excuse to indulge their pent up frustrations with a bit of a scrap, or as Cliff would later repeatedly refer to it, to my eternal annoyance, “handbags”. The striker is sent off. The repentance for everyone’s unruly behaviour will surely never come, as was the standard.

At half time our other central defender, Neville, was loudly engaged in his favourite past time, castigating Max for all that was wrong with the world. Neville is thoroughly incapable of taking even the minutest of responsibility for anything. He revels in having Max as a central defensive partner as it affords him this luxury of planting all blame firmly at Max’s feet. To describe him as emotionally unhinged maybe doing a disservice to someone somewhere. He talks himself through the game and even refers to opposing players movements as if he’s providing live commentary for an emo sports channel. A text book ‘L’ plate’s pastor, his main hobbies involved introducing knuckles, elbows and teeth to flesh. I politely ask if he could shut the fuck up. Cliff had been doing the best impression of himself that he could, by playing abysmally. Ben had huffed, Ed had puffed, but their defence was big and solid. Ben says that me and Bob should try and time our runs into the box as we weren’t getting picked up.

It’s a tough second half, in a ghastly wind.  I’m getting my own running commentary from Neville after the words I’d had with him. Halfway through the half, Bob gets on a bit of a run. The Baptists are basically just hacking at him, but he’s managing to keep possession. He gets all the way to the far touchline, down by the corner flag, and in seeing he is trying to create a yard to stick a cross in,  I make a dart for the penalty spot. The cross is a peach and lands plum on my head, before nestling in the bottom corner of the onion bag. That’s how the game stays.

I’m a little wary of getting back to the changing room, as we share the showers with the other team. I needn’t have worried though, not because they are all sporting and have forgotten about the sending off, no. They are the type of team who go home without showering. The filthy shitbag type.

“Who’s going to wash away their sins?” whispered Ed.

As we are discussing which pub the rest of the day should disappear into, there comes a gentle tap at the door. Before anyone could invite anyone in, Freddie pokes his head around it.

“Hi chaps! Great score today.” He exclaims in his grating plummy tones.

His eyes shift round the room at a rate a sniper would envy. There is never a reason for him to enter the changing room, but he would always find one. Freddie had been keeping a low profile after his much maligned cheating at the end of the previous season. The league online chatroom has been flooded with derogatory remarks about his character: if only they knew. I remember helping him on the church on soup-runs. This was its working title; it would more accurately be described as a recruitment drive. Freddie was the best at this. He took great pleasure in reminding the vulnerable just how useless they were. He even took to “accidentally” forgetting the donated blankets on the bitterly cold nights so he could entice them back to the church itself. His hatred of Max was embarrassingly palpable. He presented himself as a kindly man, but if you caught him off guard, you would glimpse something far more sinister.

*

I decide, as I’m getting used to getting up at this ungodly hour, and I’m feeling tangibly fitter, to walk the couple of miles to the church and pick up a lift there. I usually avoid the place. I find the huge medieval edifice, adorned with brickwork, darkened from the passing of time, quite possibly one of the most unwelcoming architectural blights on the city landscape. It turns out to be a bad idea. A really, really bad idea. Sat on the dry-stone wall at the pick-up point, is George.

“Hey, how are you old chap?” He says in his grating plummy voice.

“Not bad, you?” I reply, uncomfortably.

“Yeah.”

He introduces me to his wife and fills me on all the work they’ve been doing at some Christian outreach centre in Liverpool. She has a strong accent and seems incredibly shy. George is the son of one of the parishioners at the church. He is the stealth Christian who got me involved in the first place. He was captain when I first joined, enough said. The last time I’d seen him coincided precisely with the timing of my leaving. It was no coincidence.

He was in training to become a Pastor and was invited by the church, with Cliff, to take a service. It was decided that the football team should go along to show our support. Having already made excuses for the previous three or four church things, I’d had no option. It was to be one of the single worst experiences of my life. George proceeded to tell the congregation how good Christians, like himself, would never, and should never, allow themselves to be influenced by the ‘lads mag’ culture that was destroying the moral fabric of society. They were lapping it up. He threw in some light-hearted, gentle jokes about the difficulties of avoiding self abuse that he himself had experienced as a teenage boy. His conclusion was that this abstinence had now made his life ultimately more fulfilled and he was a better person for it. What a large number of the congregation didn’t know was that when I’d first met George he had boasted to me, entirely uninvited, that he didn’t consider “a lay a proper fuck unless he’d managed to stick his finger up the bitch’s arse while he came”.  If he was allowed to perform his “party piece” as he liked to call it, he “would think about letting them get a good deep dicking again”. He made me feel physically sick and incredibly irrational. My eyes are welling up. After some ex-drug addicts, now new-Christians, had told some of the most terrifying, horrific and heart wrenching stories imaginable, the service was brought to an end. Cliff asked if anyone had been moved enough by what they’d just heard to stand and join him in prayer. I was the only one left seated. For fucks sake you can’t just hijack peoples emotions like this and then prey on them, I thought. I was beside myself with anger.

Somewhere in the past year this anger had subsided. Seeing George brings it all back.  I’d already told Ed all the stories and examples of why I wanted to stop playing and he was ready to leave too. He had his own collection of incidents that were more than nudging him that way anyway. The way I see it, I can never be sure of what I truly believe, so surely I can be forgiven for only believing what I see?

As we warm up for what was going to be our final game, I tell Ed about my mental tick. Tongue-in-cheek he says if God really was listening he’d probably pick today to make it happen. The game is a bit of a non-event. Then, with ten minutes left, their goalkeeper comes out of his area to make a rushed clearance and scuffs the ball in my direction on the halfway line. I control it and before it hits the floor, manage to catch a volleyed lob and send it right back from where it came from. The ball loops up, way over the stranded keeper, hangs in the air for a few seconds and then begins its descent. It comes down with a ‘thunk’ on the crossbar, before rolling off down the hill.

*

If you would like to submit a short story or a piece of creative writing then please do by emailing us at hello@bifurcated.co.uk

‘Is this your real phone-number?’

Of course it is, I think.  Before I have a chance to answer though – my mouth hanging half-open, ready to protest and assure – I’m interrupted by the ringing of the house landline.  It takes a while to figure out why, even though it’s four o’clock in the morning and unlikely that anyone would be calling at such an hour, until I see him smirking at me, mobile in hand and realise he is testing the number I have just given him.  Satisfied now, he makes to leave, turning back momentarily to tell me,

‘I’ll call you in the morning – don’t forget now!  The game starts at half twelve.’

I’m pretty apprehensive about the whole idea, it’s been many years since I’ve been to a football match and I wonder how I’m going to make conversation.  That, plus – at this rate – I’m only going to get about four hours sleep and I will almost certainly have a hangover.

*

‘Muuuuuuuuuuum! Dad! Muuuuuuuuuuuum, daaaaaaaad!  We’re going to be laaaaaaaaaaate!’

I shout this up the stairs, defying a family rule.  We’re always late for everything, I think bitterly, despite the fact I don’t even want to go to this stupid football match.

Once I get them in the van the journey to Highfield Road isn’t that long, just a few miles or so, but during the short time we’re on the road (and with Olly in the back, safely out of ear shot), mum and dad manage to ask me what feels like one hundred times, why I’m going out with him.  I’ve been asking myself the same question, but being sixteen, hearing it from a parental source only serves to makes me more determined to fall in love with him and preferably to elope, or get pregnant – just to irritate them.

By the time we get there, I’m already feeling belligerent and as if to augment this feeling, there are loud, shouting men everywhere and Olly with his overconfident behaviour and lack of regional accent, is doing his best to make us really incongruous.  His mother is a head teacher and his parents are so middle class that they have just recently left him, at sixteen years old, alone in their family home while they spend three months in India.  While waiting for them to return, he is allowed to not bother to go to college, as his parents say there’s no point forcing him to until he’s ready.  Considering all he seems to do is sleep into the afternoon and watch films, it looks pretty unlikely this will ever happen.  I think about how he calls his parents by their first names and shudder, even though I feel dislocated amongst all these men, in this unfamiliar setting, I have a stronger affinity with the rest of the crowd, these strangers, than with Olly.  At least all these other blokes are normal, I think to myself.

*

I’m in a new part of Bristol I’ve never seen before.  I’ve been living in the city for two years, but as a student have mostly only seen the parts that students see.  It makes me feel extremely mature, sophisticated even, to find myself here now, with a man five years my senior and an actual Bristolian to boot.  All my housemates just go out with other students.  I manage to maintain this sense of superiority, even after parking on a dual carriage way, walking for – not knowing the area or where we were going – what seems like miles and miles and miles, over a derelict train bridge and across a muddy park.  As I only met this bloke the night before, it normally would have seemed a bit inadvisable to follow him for miles through unknown parts of the city had it not been for the fact that there are plenty of other people, decked out in white and red, also heading across the same bridge and park, with Ashton Gate in their sights (they’re lucky enough to know what they were looking for).  On the way, Ben tells me;

‘I decided to start liking football for something to do on a Saturday.’

I feign understanding of this as a reason to become a fan of something and ask, in that case, if he comes every Saturday.  He says,

‘No, this is only the second time.’

Then laughs so unexpectedly loudly that I jump.  The laugh is over as soon as it arrived.  I decide I like him.

*

The game is tedious, nothing seems to really be happening, as far as I can tell and every time a noise surges up from the crowd, I’m taken aback because I don’t know what they’re reacting to.  It’s cold too and I hate being cold.  Olly keeps asking me why I’m not enjoying it, not even waiting for an answer before jumping around because of some new excitement on the pitch and hugging the stranger next to him.  I survey the people around me and can find nothing in their faces kind, or becoming.  My gaze comes back round to Olly.  He tells me he loves me all the time, I think I’m meant to be pleased, but I look at him now and can only find him ridiculous.  God almighty, I think – how many more years until I can get the fuck out of this city?  There are so many people here, but to my eyes, there may as well just be three: him, them and me.

*

The game’s about twenty minutes in and I’m giving myself a headache trying to maintain polite interest without looking like I’m claiming any real knowledge.  When the rest of the crowd cheers and shouts, I feel like I should clap politely, nodding and looking to those around me, as if to say, ‘well done to you all, you must feel very satisfied with that pass.’  I don’t want to appear dispassionate – that would feel almost dangerous in this context – but I don’t want to look conceited either.  This is hard enough, but trying to capture all that at the same time as being on date is making my life impossible.  If I wore a watch I would be sneaking a look at it.

Someone nearby releases some foul smelling flatulence and whilst trying not to breathe, I’m desperately hoping Ben doesn’t think it was me.  Even though everyone nearby is gagging and shouting blame at one another, me and Ben just stare ahead and pretend we haven’t noticed.  Maybe it was him I think, suppressing a giggle, and surprisingly, I realise I wouldn’t mind if it was.

I was told we would have pies at half-time, I’d welcome something warm because I’m absolutely freezing.  I realise that’s probably why football fans always have scarves, I don’t have any practical clothing on; I’m dressed for a date.  What an idiot.  I remember mum telling me about when her dad took her to a Coventry City match against Wolves in the sixties.  She didn’t know about ‘colours’ and wanted to look nice for her father, so spent all week making herself a black and gold dress with a matching jacket.  It took her all of about thirty seconds after walking proudly into the Coventry City stand to realise she was trussed up in opposition colours.  I feel a bit now how she must have felt then, like there’s a glaring spotlight on my naivety.  I hate being a cliché.

*

At half time Olly gets out a flask and some food.  He makes me cringe unbelievably as he tells me how he has made us coffee from his dad’s imported coffee machine and instead of sandwiches he has bought us homemade ravioli from some deli in Earlsdon.  If he whispered this to me I would think him a snob, but he says it so loudly that I think he is worse than a snob: I think he is an absolute twat.  Luckily, most people have filtered out for half time, so I don’t think anyone really hears.  I try and remind myself that he is being kind to me, he thinks this is what I want – something apart – but he never bothered to ask me and so he’s got it terribly wrong.  He irritates me so intensely and for a reason I can’t even name, that I cannot return his kindness.  When people start coming back in for the second half Olly unexpectedly puts his arm around my waist and steals a kiss.  The man next to us says:

‘Look at that, young love, ey?!’

Then stares wistfully at me for the rest of the game.

*

We don’t go for pies after all, Ben says we should keep our places during half-time and it doesn’t occur to me to protest.  I ask him some football related questions instead, he doesn’t know the answers to most and by way of reply does that startling laugh, as if to punctuate his ignorance.  He looks sheepishly around him and I realise he feels as out of place as me, but he can moonlight because he’s a man and a Bristolian.  He leans in and says cryptically,

‘Everyone here is really Bristolian.’

Like I should know what that means, and like he isn’t.  I smell alcohol strongly on him and I realise he must be pretty drunk already, again.  For some reason, I don’t mind this either.

The game restarts and I think, great, only 45 minutes to go.  I’m sure my nose must have gone really red by now and I don’t want to think about what the damp weather has done to my curly hair.  Something is happening on the pitch, but a combination of ignorance and not being able to see over the crowd means I can’t make out what.  Suddenly, the man in front of me yells loudly and really forcefully, ‘YOU TWERPS!’  Because of his choice of insult and his heavy West Country accent, I’m assuming this is aimed at his team, Bristol City, for some transgression or other.  I start to laugh, then turn to look at Ben and see he is laughing too.

*

The second half drags on for what feels like an eternity, I’m not paying attention to what is happening on the pitch anymore, but am going through the motions.  Not for Olly, but for the rest of the crowd’s sake.  Usually I would resort to a daydream to pass the time, but I can’t find comfort in this just now, every other life I imagine just serves to highlight my dissatisfaction with reality.  I tell Olly I need the toilet, to get away for a bit.  It’s like a different world outside of the stand, stark and empty, the crowd sound much further away than they actually are.  I sit on the toilet for five minutes and think about what to do with my life.

*

The game ends nil-nil.  We trek back across the park and the bridge and back to his car.  I don’t know how much he has had to drink already, but it occurs to me he shouldn’t be driving.  Ben seems unconcerned though and I don’t want to appear provincial, so I ignore it.  Just as he’s about to pull out of the parking space, another car goes whizzing past and Ben yells, ‘you twerp!’ at him.  We laugh.  This moment of companionship gives me the courage to keep talking and I tell him about the only other time I’ve been to a football match.

*

It ends nil-nil.  We go back to Olly’s house and he tells me he thinks girls wearing football shirts are sexy and asks me to put his on.  I’m astonished, he sounds like something out of Reader’s Wives.  He wants us to have sex, but I go home instead.  I walk all the way, even though Dad was going to pick me up if I waited a bit.  When I get home I call my sister in Leeds and ask if I can come and stay for a bit.

Jayne has a book diary Bookyish and tweets from here @Bookyish