simply filled with a red, burning rage and a deliciously overwhelming desire to trample and rend and smash that United cunt, Danny Malone. He trembled with ecstasy as he beheld a vision of himself wallowing in the smashed bones and blood of the ex-United goalkeeper, in front of 100,000 skinheads at Wembley Stadium. The old Wembley - not that shite new one the fahkin’ Aussies ‘d built.
Vinnie averted his eyes from the turd-smeared shirt and strides flung into the corner of the shower and gingerly touched the huge lump on the back of his head where it had come into violent contact with the porcelain. He ran his tongue over his torn gums and smashed lips. He was missing a tooth and one eye was closed, but his nose, amazingly, was fine.
His two mates, Barry and Bones, had bought some new trousers and undies and left them draped over a peg for him, trying not to laugh as they tiptoed from the room.
“Oy!” shouted Vinnie. “Get back in ‘ere!”
He turned off the shower and began toweling himself as Barry and Bones shuffled sheepishly back into the dim and steamy chamber - Barry with two black eyes and a cut and swollen lip, and Bones with a broken nose bent sharply left and bruised ribs. But they were in better shape than Vinnie and were trying desperately not to grin at his distress. Vinnie the Shiv was capable of some extreme nastiness.
Vinnie stood naked, covered with tatts and scars, and beheld his cronies - similarly shaven headed and illustrated, like three extras from The Bill.
“Right. Now what fahkin’ ‘appened?”
Barry and Bones glanced at each other, then Bones said, “It was all a bit quick, mate. You fell over an’—”
“Why was I totally covered in turd?” interrupted Vinnie.
There was a difficult silence.
“It’s not like I’m some kind of German porn star,” continued Vin as the others eyed him nervously. “So naturally I start to wonder: ‘ow did I get covered in shite? An’ why did my two best mates do nuffin’ to prevent it?”
Barry and Bones glanced a warning at each other. Life for them was a constant and cautious navigation of Vinnie’s moods, but such was the lot of lieutenants in the Blue Fury. It was well known that Vinnie the Shiv was totally barking, but that was the whole point. You had to be mad to join the BF - and even madder to get to the top. Nominally, the BF was a Chelsea supporters group, but none of them had actually been to a game for years. They spent most of their time arranging brawls, but had recently moved into more mainstream organised crime. Vinnie and his colleagues had been in Australia setting up a new branch of the BF to extend the network and things had been going nicely - first class and designer lager all the way - until the confrontation with Danny Malone.
Bones decided to take his courage in his hands: “Sorry mate, we give up. ‘Ow did yer get crap all over yerself?”
Vinnie’s look was withering.
“I was fahkin’ out, ya cunt! He got in a lucky one an’ I bashed me ‘ead against the wall. Then while I’m out, ‘e’s taken serious fahkin’ liberties. An’ where the fack were you lot? S’posed to be fahkin’ ‘ard? ‘Ard as shite!”
The overt damage to his colleagues finally registered, and even the surprised raising of his eyebrows caused him pain.
“Farrr-kinell!” said Vinnie. “So ‘e gave you blokes a slappin’ an’ all?”
There was finally a return to the traditional Blue Fury camaraderie, and despite the defeat, they all had a bit of a laugh - united against the world. It was nice like that, thought Barry, but it never lasted.
“You know what?” reflected Bones. “I’m not so sure that really was Danny Malone.”
“You what?”
“It looked like him, in the face an’ all, but that geezer was ‘ard as nails. Danny Malone’s always been a skinny bastard.”
“Bollocks!” erupted Vinnie, deeply offended at the prospect of having been beaten up by a non-celebrity. “It’s just the telly ‘t makes him look skinny. I’m here to testify that Danny Malone, the ex-United and Northern Ireland goalkeeper, is one very hard and dangerous fucker. An’ when we get back to London, ‘e’s one very dead fucker.”
With the prospect of brutal revenge gladdening his heart, Vinnie’s face split into a broad (but painful) smile. Then, as ever, his mood suddenly changed with all the violence of a North Sea storm.
“Aaah fuck no!”
“What’s up, Vin?” asked Bones, sighing inwardly for the 80th time that day.
“Bellson!” snapped Vinnie, sensing the earliest glimmerings of potential disaster.
“I was s’posed ter meet Bellson on the plane!”
SUPPLE, RIPE TANNINS
“Mmm … this is unreal!”
Like most people who hadn’t grown up in Ethiopia, I hated airline food. But a business class dinner on Qantas could not fairly be described as airline food - not in the accepted plasticky stodge sense.
Miss Palmer, however, did not share my enthusiasm. Indeed, she had accepted a glass of red but had declined dinner.
“Would you mind not speaking with your mouth full?” she enquired.
“Don’t mind at all,” I replied, tucking into a filet mignon - medium rare with mushroom sauce - and a nice little tray of roast and steamed vegetables. Then I held up a glass of red wine and savoured its bouquet like a pig rooting for truffles. It was my third glass of Penfolds 389 Cab/Shiraz, and it delightfully complemented both the steak and the eight Drambuies I’d consumed earlier.
Miss Palmer shuddered with revulsion.
“You’re enjoying that, are you?”
Despite having a bit of a glow on from the intake of fine wine and spirits, I was sober enough to understand that Miss Palmer did not approve of my exuberant enjoyment of the fare.
“My fuckin’ oath love. Best feed I’ve had since Shona’s work took us out to the Black Stump two Christmases ago!”
Miss Palmer fixed me with her most condescending stare.
“So, on what basis are you enjoying the food and wine?”
“Eh?”
“On what basis are you enjoying the food and wine?”
What a royal pain in the arse she was.
“I’m enjoying it on the basis that it tastes unreal.”
“I see,” she replied, the superior smile returning to her bitch-goddess face. “So, how would you describe the wine?”
She swirled the wine in her own glass and examined its contents expertly.
“Erm … red?”
She raised her eyebrows in joyous sarcasm.
“Red? Well, I must say, it’s exhilarating to share wine with a con-noisseur.”
She took a delicate sip and declaimed: “Doubtless you would have noticed that this is a particularly fine example of the 2001 Bin 389 with its deep colour, spicy nutmeg and aniseed aromas. The palate is well concentrated with dark chocolate and blackberry flavours.”
She savoured a second sip and continued: “Supple, ripe tannins. Finishes firm and tight … still a bit young but drinking very nicely, wouldn’t you say?”
Fucking cow. I just stared at her, plotting toxic, methane revenge.
“Because if you wouldn’t say, then you’d clearly not be qualified to be drinking this wine. It’d be like serving strawberries to pigs.”
At that moment, the smiley hostie