The Gospel According To Pete

Even for November, this is taking the piss.

Half-time, so me and the fellas are out front, right outside, bang in the element, in a little courtyard. It is mashing it down. Smokers are hard done by in this country. Get to stand in our own segregated patio, like lepers, like fuckin’ pariahs.

I blame the Tories. There’s a bit of thing for having a dig at the old liberals at the mo, but I’d rather have a poncy liberal from Hampstead then some posh nonce from Chelsea, know what I mean? Cameron don’t know nuffin’ about living on an estate in the East End. Brown, worl, he’s got a dodgy eye. Bit porky. Fallible. Bare-knuckle boy, like me. Fair play to him, I say. Lesser of two evils, as the poet puts it. Hur hur.

Was a time personal liberty was just that – you could do what you fancied. But now, if I enjoy my quality tobacco product inside, turns out I’m killing that blonde bird who’s scowling at me. And she’s a good ten-feet away.

She looks like a whinger. Look at that horrible little dog she’s got. A rat. A nicely groomed rat, I’ll give her that, but still a rat.

Daft bint.

Blimey. I’d written off rising sea levels and all that global warming malarkey as one of them Green fings what I don’t worry about on account of the fact that it’s all a load of scare-mongering rubbish and I’ve got duties, I have, I’ve got kids, but the way it’s coming down right now, we’ll be up to up to our arseholes in ocean by tomorrow.

“What you reckon of Westham’s chances then, Pete? Relegation on the way?”
Worl. Judging by Zola’s performance so far, s’only a matter of time, really? ‘Course, I don’t voice that opinion. No. Don’t do to let the side down. So I say what the lads want to hear, which is, “Nah, mate. Zola’s a bit of a playboy, bit of a dancer, but he’s one of them Latino types (Big laugh), can’t help it. Good manger though. Give him time, boys. Give him time”.

They all nod their heads sagely at this. Much drawing of fag smoke and supping of pints. Pete’s got it bang on, as per usual.

‘Course, that’s how it works round my way. You stand by your mates. You stand by your woman, even if she moans the place down about you rolling in from the pub late slash pissed. You stand firm, even if she does demand more trips to Ikea to get cupboards and lampshades what cost me a fuckin’ fortune... and do I get any recognition for getting up at 5am to stand in the rain and wind chipping ice for Brixham beam-haulers to pack Icelandic Cod in, and me with my lumbago? Do I fuck.
I feel quite ‘urt sometimes, I really do.

And you stand by your team. What you feel isn’t what matters, sorta fing. You don’t let the side down.

Look at Gaz. Look at that hair-cut. Like a bog-brush. No, like a parrot. ‘Course, Gaz thinks he looks the bollocks, the very bollocks, but actually, he looks like my landlady’s moulting Cockatoo.

Cockatoo. I do make myself chuckle, sometimes. Hur.

Now Gaz is banging on about the need to send more troops to Iraq to deal with the Taliban. Gaz calls anyone brown “Arabs”: A-rabs, like that. And the Taliban are in fuckin’ Afghanistan, as any pillock knows. He’s saying how we need give them a taste of Bulldog Britain; a belting round the back of The Crown & Thistle etcetera. Gaz likes that sort of thing. Bit of an animal. Bit of an old-school thug, you might say. Likes a taste of splashed blood. I keep clear of him when he’s in one of them moods.

Len’s piped up. What’s he saying? He’s trying to calm Gaz down, isn’t he? Gaz gets a bit frothy now and then. Bit piss and vinegar. And then someone says something – anything – and he goes off on one and ends up in the caring arms of the old bill, and some kid’s got his arm broken in three places.

My nephew was killed in Iraq. Nice lad. Bit quiet. Spotty, face like the surface of the moon. Thought the uniform would get the birds, no doubt. Hur.

Bit of shrapnel through the temple. Whammo. Like that. And there he was, gone.
And now Gaz reckons we should make National Service compulsory, butcher the A-rabs, make footie the state religion – none of “this Allah shit.”

Sometimes he makes me so fucking despondent.

I thought of a nice little example about sticking with your team, too. Wifey, yeah? She tries on a pair of jeans, and her arse is all over the shop – like, two pumpkins in a sack, right? You wouldn’t say, “Yeah, your bum looks massive, love”. You just wouldn’t, am I right, or am I right? ‘Course I am. Anyway, that’s your team. Don’t matter if Zola’s a bit, y’know, continental. Don’t matter if my back seizes up some mornings, apparently. Don’t matter if Gaz has frankly got Rabies. Don’t matter.

You want to stick with Papa Pete, you do. I know what’s going on.

Hur.