miracle she stayed in here for the hour.
Thass all right, Rob said at the door.
I wonât write the referral on her, she said, back at her desk, looking at her computer screen.
Fantastic. Iâm sure that was worrying her.
Zanetti had a shot; well, a cross that drifted goalwards. Seaman caught it easily enough but Rob shifted in his seat, put his half-eaten burger back on the table, his mouth drying.
All day, his uncle boomed. Theyâll have to offer more than that to get anything in this game, eh?
He spoke too loudly and confidently, probably knew it himself, whistling against the dark.
Rob imagined that somewhere, in some run-down football club next to a rusting corned-beef factory in the back end of Argentina, there was a minor local politician proclaiming loudly the inevitability of an Argentinian goal. Sitting next to him, thereâd be his nephew, a failed footballer, fidgeting in his seat, barely able to watch, sitting with his old man on the other side, a disabled Malvinas veteran or prisoner of the generals or an old team-mate of Maradonaâs or something, biting his nails, wondering just quite why and how some men that you didnât even know running around on a field on a different continent, some foot or hand of God, might somehow re-order the world, or at least re-order the world in you.
Dyer want the rest o that, Rob? Jim motioned at the half-eaten burger and reached for it as Rob shook his head.
The truth was that he wasnât a good councillor.
This thought was beginning to haunt Jim. He couldnât think of one thing heâd done well in twenty-three years. Not really well. Even things that had been successful, like the vegetable van that came round the estate now or pulling down the Perry Court flats, heâd opposed at first and had to cover his tracks. The things that he could say heâd done well, like getting that Lottery funding for the drainage ditch at the club and organizing all the junior teams, or being on the governors when the school came out of Special Measures, finding this new Head, werenât anything to do with being a councillor, not really. Even little things like helping Stacey with her tax credit forms the other night for instance, that made him feel good, were good things to do, but really, really, what difference did they make in the end? The councillors didnât even run the council anyway, the bloody officers did and they were all Tories.
What was more, for once in his life, he could have done without this game of football on Sunday. It was like somesort of bad joke. The Sunday team used to just be a way of raising the club extra subs towards the pitch and a few quid behind the bar after the game. Nobody took it that seriously. Sometimes a few of the first team squad would turn out, but usually it was a case of sending eleven out from the pub. Sunday football had been a bit of a joke, but something had changed. It became easier to get players out on a Sunday than on Saturday afternoons, even with the promise of a bit of cash and a write-up in the
Sports Argus
. Something had changed. And while Cinderheath FC scraped along on Saturday afternoons at the bottom of the West Midlands League, not knowing if theyâd have hot showers or be able to paint the lines that week, these bastards â to add insult to injury â swanned around on Sunday mornings in their new England kits at the top of the league. It wasnât a bad standard these days, as well.
And now they were dead level with Cinderheath Muslim Community FC and playing them on the last day of the season to decide the title, unless some kind of miracle happened â if the game was drawn and the Gurdwara scored a hatful up at Castle Villa then the Sikhs could nick the league. Ordinarily, it would have been quite exciting. As it was, it was like some kind of bus crash.
The newspapers, TV and radio had suddenly begun talking about the âpossibility of new extreme-right West
Thass all right, Rob said at the door.
I wonât write the referral on her, she said, back at her desk, looking at her computer screen.
Fantastic. Iâm sure that was worrying her.
Zanetti had a shot; well, a cross that drifted goalwards. Seaman caught it easily enough but Rob shifted in his seat, put his half-eaten burger back on the table, his mouth drying.
All day, his uncle boomed. Theyâll have to offer more than that to get anything in this game, eh?
He spoke too loudly and confidently, probably knew it himself, whistling against the dark.
Rob imagined that somewhere, in some run-down football club next to a rusting corned-beef factory in the back end of Argentina, there was a minor local politician proclaiming loudly the inevitability of an Argentinian goal. Sitting next to him, thereâd be his nephew, a failed footballer, fidgeting in his seat, barely able to watch, sitting with his old man on the other side, a disabled Malvinas veteran or prisoner of the generals or an old team-mate of Maradonaâs or something, biting his nails, wondering just quite why and how some men that you didnât even know running around on a field on a different continent, some foot or hand of God, might somehow re-order the world, or at least re-order the world in you.
Dyer want the rest o that, Rob? Jim motioned at the half-eaten burger and reached for it as Rob shook his head.
The truth was that he wasnât a good councillor.
This thought was beginning to haunt Jim. He couldnât think of one thing heâd done well in twenty-three years. Not really well. Even things that had been successful, like the vegetable van that came round the estate now or pulling down the Perry Court flats, heâd opposed at first and had to cover his tracks. The things that he could say heâd done well, like getting that Lottery funding for the drainage ditch at the club and organizing all the junior teams, or being on the governors when the school came out of Special Measures, finding this new Head, werenât anything to do with being a councillor, not really. Even little things like helping Stacey with her tax credit forms the other night for instance, that made him feel good, were good things to do, but really, really, what difference did they make in the end? The councillors didnât even run the council anyway, the bloody officers did and they were all Tories.
What was more, for once in his life, he could have done without this game of football on Sunday. It was like somesort of bad joke. The Sunday team used to just be a way of raising the club extra subs towards the pitch and a few quid behind the bar after the game. Nobody took it that seriously. Sometimes a few of the first team squad would turn out, but usually it was a case of sending eleven out from the pub. Sunday football had been a bit of a joke, but something had changed. It became easier to get players out on a Sunday than on Saturday afternoons, even with the promise of a bit of cash and a write-up in the
Sports Argus
. Something had changed. And while Cinderheath FC scraped along on Saturday afternoons at the bottom of the West Midlands League, not knowing if theyâd have hot showers or be able to paint the lines that week, these bastards â to add insult to injury â swanned around on Sunday mornings in their new England kits at the top of the league. It wasnât a bad standard these days, as well.
And now they were dead level with Cinderheath Muslim Community FC and playing them on the last day of the season to decide the title, unless some kind of miracle happened â if the game was drawn and the Gurdwara scored a hatful up at Castle Villa then the Sikhs could nick the league. Ordinarily, it would have been quite exciting. As it was, it was like some kind of bus crash.
The newspapers, TV and radio had suddenly begun talking about the âpossibility of new extreme-right West