Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans

fuckin’ paradise.

      * * *

      Ray and Matty were two mates from Manchester working in London - probably early 30s. They didn’t get to that many Old Trafford games, but there was no way they’d miss a derby at home.

      “So you’re playin’ Man City today?”

      “Aye! Where the fook you been?”

      “But, didn’t I see you blokes running along the platform earlier? Why are you getting chased by Chelsea when you’re not even playin’ ‘em?”

      “You got a fookin’ lot to learn, mate,” advised Matty.

      Ray laughed. “Aye. It’s no fookin’ game supportin’ United. You cop it at both ends: home and away.”

      Matty said, “I work with one o’ them blokes. I’m ‘is fookin’ su-pervisor! But that won’t stop ‘im kickin’ ma fookin’ teeth in before a game.”

      “Probably joost encourage ‘im,” laughed Ray.

      Matty saw the back of my shirt and said, “Judd? Oo the fook’s Jood?”

      I probably should have been just a tad more circumspect, but the jet lag and the beer combined to inflate my confidence.

      “Just remember where you were, when you first heard the name Eric Judd,” I told them.

      Ray and Matty exchanged glances, and I realised I was about to make a dick of myself. But the jet lag - the beer - I was powerless to prevent it.

      “Is that you?” asked Ray.

      “I’m goin’ to Old Trafford for a trial,” I told them. “I’m your new keeper.”

      “Hedge keeper?” asked Matty.

      “Goal keeper, smartarse.”

      Ray and Matty roared with laughter.

      “I think we’ve got a game in the Coop,” said Ray, “against the Sun-nydale Nursing Home. They moost ‘ve bought you for that.”

      Fuckin’ paradise.

      * * *

      With most clubs, the running of the gauntlet between the train station and the stadium is done by the away supporters, but Manchester United was different. The vast majority of the locals, with the exception of those few Salfordians who lived in the shadows of Old Trafford, followed City. United fans were numerous but far flung, and they had to get past the thick, blue line to enter.

      Police on horseback hemmed us in as we jogged down the rat maze towards the ground while hundreds of chanting City fans pelted us with eggs and tomatoes and sharpened coins. It reminded me of a medieval infantry charge as we trotted along, heads down, dreading danger from above. The bloke in front of me was caught fair in the face by a soft tomato and he whirled about screaming in rage as his face dripped red. Then a rotten egg exploded on his shoulder and we all scattered - desperate to escape the stench while the City fans erupted with laughter and song.

      And there it was. The Theatre of Dreams, six storeys high and dwarf-ing its surroundings like Ayers Rock over spinifex scrub. I’d managed to keep myself comparatively clean getting through the gauntlet and once we’d reached the stadium it was the City fans being hemmed and corralled, so I was free to explore.

      It was half an hour before kick off and, in retrospect, I might have waited until the following business day. But after twenty four years and Jimmy’s passing, The Letter was suddenly burning a hole in my pocket. It was time to introduce myself to Sir Ally.

      Surprisingly, it was fairly easy getting through the main entrance. I mean, I had been invited, but I hadn’t phoned ahead to let them know I was on my way. But the ease of entry was soon explained. It was a shop - the MU Megastore, no less.

      I made my way to one of the counters and addressed a chubby, young girl with henna-red hair and a name badge informing me that she answered to May.

      “Hello, May.”

      “‘Ullo. What can I doo for ya?”

      “Look, I know this is a bit sudden. But I need to see the manager.”

      “No problem, sir. I can call the manager right away.”

      She picked up a phone, pushed a couple of buttons, and smiled at me as she waited for an answer.

      “‘Ullo, Charlie? There’s a coostomer wants to see you. Checkout four. Thanks.”

      She replaced the phone but, sensing a misunderstanding, I said, “Look, erm, who’s Charlie?”

      “Store manager,” said May, as though that should have been perfectly obvious.

      “Right. I didn’t mean the store manager. I meant the real manager: Ally Berg … Sir Ally Bergsen.”

      May just stared at me. Then a young man with dark hair and very bad acne appeared.

      “What’s the problem?” he enquired.

      “I need to see Sir Ally,” I informed him. “Or if not him, then John Argyle or anyone else connected with team management.”

      The young manager looked confused.

      “Sir Ally? On match day?”

      Just the merest skerrick of doubt began to prick at my beer and jet lag fuelled confidence, but I’d come too far to back down now. I pulled The Letter (yellowing and brittle with age) from my pocket and showed it to him.

      “Look, I suppose it’s a tad inconvenient for Sir Ally right now. But what about John Argyle … is he around?”

      The manager scanned the Letter and handed it back to me.

      “I’ve never heard of John Argyle. And this letter was written more ‘n 20 year ago.”

      “So? It says to come when I’m ready. I know it’s taken a while, but it says I can have a trial, so I need to see John Argyle, or whoever’s running the Youth Team these days.”

      The Manager was incredulous, and I was aware that a bit of a crowd had gathered, sensing a scene.

      “You want to play in Youth Team?” asked the Manager, and my confidence took a further dent as a ripple of sniggering burst out among the supporters lined to pay for their hats and scarves and tacky, plastic flags.

      “Well, not the Youth Team. They might start me in the Reserves, but first I just need to make contact.”

      “Need to make contact with reality, mate!” observed a large fat bloke with his arms full of merchandise. “Joost buy summat or fook off!”

      “I’m afraid I have to agree,” advised the pimply, young manager. “We really can’t help you with this. Maybe if you try tomorrow you might get to see Sir Ally?”

      “And maybe there’s pixies at bottom o’ fookin’ garden?” said the fat bloke.

      “‘E’s got letter, though,” suggested a middle aged woman surrounded by her squabbling grandchildren. “If they’ve offered ‘im trial they ought to do the right thing.”

      “You’re as mad as he is,” sneered another bloke in a raincoat with bicycle clips around the bottom of his trousers. “Letter was 25 years ago. ‘E wouldn’t be coovered by our insurance!”

      “Looks a bit like Danny Malone, though,” said the middle aged woman.

      “Too bad ‘e don’t look like soomone oonder 30,” said the fat bloke, and something inside me all but snapped as my vision cleared. The Pethidine had finally worn off after six weeks of madness and I seemed to see myself through their collective eyes - a ridiculous old fart who’d travelled 10,000 miles to make a complete prick of himself.

      “We’ll give yer a fookin’ trial, mate,” said the fat bloke, “at the Old Bailey