Saturday, 26 January 2013
Wednesday, 23 January 2013
Tuesday, 22 January 2013
Saturday, 19 January 2013
Friday, 18 January 2013
Sometimes I wonder what I’d do if I stopped, I lie in the bath some nights for ages leaving the hot tap on just enough so it dunt get cold. And I wonder what I’d do if I stopped going the match. And I start thinking about the Wolves again. At the end of the film one of the she-wolves gets driven out of the pack. It was winter so there was a chance she might not make cos they can’t hunt so well on there own. But she hooks with this lone wolf and they go off to start their own pack. I’m not talking about having a family, but there’s a big fucking world out there, and I don’t just wanna see it through a TV or a package holiday. If I stopped going the match I’d have to move away I don’t think I could stick it around ‘ere. Then it’s the morning again, and the factory, and it starts all over again. You know what I mean. Dunt matter what job you do, it’s like a snowball. Something starts gnawing at you, a worry or something somebody’s said. You don’t sleep to well and the next day it’s still there whispering to you, and it starts to fester, more sleepless nights and it just builds and builds as your fuse gets shorter. Then something makes you snap. You probably take it out on your husband or your misses or your kids. For us there’s the match. See you just hurt the people you love, we want to hurt them and they want to hurt us. Not fellers with their kids or ordinary fans in shirts, their firm, their top boys. The ultimate adrenaline rush. I’ve been gassed, battered by the old bill, had fireworks, bottles, and half-enders thrown at me. I’ve known lads stabbed and some that have died. All that and when it’s over, the fear of having your door put through with a sledgehammer on a dawn raid, even a year later. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it, if life would be better if me nerves were dead like every other fuckers. Senses that only work now and again just to remind ‘em that they’re still alive. Instead of mine like a spring wound tight, waiting ready. Maybe I’ll just fuck off and start fresh. Just be normal, drink in a boozer without clocking all the faces and watching the door. Go for a piss without picking the safest place in the khazi in case you get jumped. Not have to remember every face you had a row with. No need to wonder if that car that pulls up outside’s full of coppers or ballaclaved bad men looking for revenge. You know just be normal let life grind you down as the bastards chip away at your soul. And then I’m back on shift, and the wanker of a foreman’s trying to give me shit, or some cunt from management’s talking down to me, taking the piss. They know I can’t do fuck all cos there’s no work about, and I need the job ‘cos my lady might be pregnant. So I have to swallow it, and it starts all over again and it’s like a slow death. It’s like I’m suffocating, fighting for breath. I get to the weekend, couple o’ jars early doors, mebbe a line, then out for some reconnaissance, there they are fucking top boys ‘n all, they’ve just turned the corner. Quiet run down to the corner, no noise till we’re right behind them. We don’t know how many there are. There’s only four of us, could be more than ten of them. They could be tooled up, who gives a fuck this is what we’re here for. They’re here-LETS ‘AVE IT…
And I’m alive, me lungs fill with air, and I unleash all that fury. And all the shit is forgotten, until next week. It’s not perfect but at least it’s a laugh. That’s not an excuse it’s just an observation.
All rights reserved Ged Forrest © October 2001
Friday, 4 January 2013
why did I do it?
Cos Stevie’s a good lad
‘e’s game as fuck
and they thought they could push ‘im around
‘aven’t you been listening
don’t you get it?
we’re all the family some of us ‘ave got
you know your family ‘cos you were born into it,
your family tree is mapped out on paper
ours is traced in scars and bruises
money lent with no return date asked
nights on sofas when there’s nowhere else to go
ours is a trail of broken glass
and promises cast in stone.
All rights reserved © Ged Forrest Oct 01
Thursday, 3 January 2013
(Snort) Ahh, there’s nothing like a line o’ cack and a suck off in a club toilet to take the edge off your Saturday night, know what I mean. ‘Scuse me a minute, slow down luv it’s not an horse race. Ahhh blisto, she’s a good girl Cathy always nice ‘aving a regulator on the firm. Well it’s a pretty average sort of Saturday so far, drew 1 all at home, not a bad result but we should be doin’ better than that. They only brought about 20 lads down and they had a Police escort, man they’re a fucking Mickey Mouse firm. We’re up there in 3 weeks and we’ll be firm handed, all top boys, we’ll fucking ta…. ‘ang about I know that voice that’s that fucking body builder works the doors on the other side of ‘castle. Fucking muscle bound freak, ‘e was in Yates’ last week picking on one of our young lads ‘cos ‘e thought ‘e was on ‘is own. Wanker we’re never on our own, we’re a family, we take care of our own. Pick on mine and you pick on me, ‘im ‘es just a fucking bully. It’s like this nature film I saw once, about a Wolfpack. The Wolfpack’s like a family see, like our firm. And the Wolves 'ave it wi’ the Coyotes. The Coyotes are scavengers see, like ‘im out there. And if the Coyotes cornered a Wolf, the Wolf would stand its ground and front ‘em, and the Coyotes would leave it ‘cos they’ve got no fucking bottle, just like ‘im out there. But the Coyote has to keep looking over his shoulder or else its game over, just like ‘im out there. Loyalty see, that’s what it’s all about, standing together, looking out for each other. That’s what all the politicians and coppers and journalists, and Mr. And Mrs. Fucking average ‘ll never understand, the closest they ever get to loyalty is cashing their bonus points in at Sainsbury’s on a Sat’dy afternoon. And ‘im out there ‘e’s ‘aving a dig and if ‘is fucking mates want some they can ‘ave it ‘nall , ah, ahh, ahhh. ‘Ast ever noticed ‘ow difficult it is to think about fighting and violence when you’ve got some lovely looking birds lips ‘round yer cock. Just think if that Monica bird ‘ad stayed in the Whitehouse Clinton probably wouldn’t ‘ve bombed the shit out of Iraq. Mind you ‘e deserved it hairy lipped cunt. Ohhh, I’ll see you back in the bar I’m missing the best bit here.
All rights reserved © Ged Forrest Oct 01
Wednesday, 2 January 2013
That’s why I like it in here, all the lads in here know the score, this is our boozer. You get some wannabes like that tosser over there –oi lend us your walk mate –wanker he’d be the first on his toes. But in here we’re all the same, we all play by the same rules. I mean some boozers you go into where they’re supposed to be respectable and they’ve no fucking manners. Middle class wankers too full of ‘emselves to be polite, oh yeah they’ve got the manners of exclusion knowing which fork to use and all that bollocks. But you get summat wrong in their world and all you get is a cold smirk around the dinner table, get summat wrong in ours an’ you can get a glass smashed in your face. You know how it starts, a little nudge a wrong remark, someone getting a little bit fucking fresher with your space than they ought to be know what I mean. Then it ‘appens that little thing that ‘appens from time to time an’ in your head someone tosses a coin an’ the next 2 minutes of this cunts life depends on how it lands. Will it be ‘eads will it be tails, you take a deep breath like all those new age hippy wankers tell you to to calm down. But it’s just like adding fuel to the fire; the oxygen hits your lungs, adds fuel to the fire. The coin spins through the air, will it be heads will it be tails. Heads he’s dead, tails I’ll leave it. Heads I’ll bust his face open and glass the first cunt who wants it, tails I’ll down me pint and go. Will it be heads will it be tails, we’ll ‘ave to wait and see. It’s tails I skull me pint and move on.
It’s nothing new, razor gangs in the ‘30s, Teds, Mods. See really Football casuals are just like Mods further down the line. Spending your money on designer gear to go down the match and ‘ave a row in. All those wankers wandering around Knightsbridge spending money they don’t even notice on Armani and Dolce ‘an that; we started that on the terraces and they don’t even know it. They live in their world and we live in ours. They talk about us like we’re some sort of disease or summat. Yea, well let me take you by the hand and lead you ‘round the pubs and clubs of this country. I’ll show you something that’ll make you shit yourselves. We’re the reflection of their society that they’re too scared to look at. Violence is part of this country, it’s the red of the red white and blue, it’s the cross of St. George. They know fuck all, we are England. They just don’t live here.