Racists - The Next Generation
I used to play for Harpole FC in the Northamptonshire Youth League. There were ten white kids and one black kid in the team. The black kid was a lad named Maurice who was – to put it eloquently – the dogs bollocks at football.

We played an away game over the other side of town one time. It was a momentous game because my dad actually got his fat arse off the couch and came to watch his son prance about and have ten barrels of shit kicked out of him by more talented footballers.

After the game as I’m trudging towards my dad’s motor with a few more of the beleaguered members of Harpole FC, my dad says: “Any of you boys need a lift? I’m sure I can squeeze five on the backseat and another up front.” As he held the car door open on his shitty Talbot Horizon.

“Sure, dad – that’d be great. But we’re not taking Maurice,” I said.

And my dad went apeshit. “IS IT BECAUSE HE’S BLACK!?! HAVE I BROUGHT A RACIST INTO THIS WORLD?!? IS MY OWN FLESH AND BLOOD A RACIST?!?”

Even before I could remonstrate my dad had Maurice collared and in the back of the Talbot. Even Maurice was protesting, but my dad was having none of it. My dad had suddenly become the modern-day Martin Luther-fucking King of the Midlands.

A few more of us piled in and with the car well and truly rammed with sweaty, muddy teenage boys my dad set off for Northampton town centre.

“Errr... what are you doing here?” said another one of the team.
Maurice, who the question was aimed at, shrugged: “I really don’t know,” he replied moodily.

“Errr... Mr Hanky – why is Maurice here?”

And my dad wasn’t happy. “Just shut up the lot of you! Christ, is this the next generation? Is this Thatchers Britain? God help us.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just that –“ But before another of my team mates could finish Maurice interjected.

Maurice leaned forward and went:

BBBLLLLUUUUUURRRRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHH !!! As a technicolour yawn of Tardis-like proportions spewed out his gob and splashed over the back of my dad’s seat, little chunks of carrot and baked beans pebble dashing the Talbot’s interior.

SCREEECH!!!

“Get out!!! All of you, get out!!!” my dad yelled. And we did. Very fucking quickly indeed. All of us except for Maurice, who sat covered in puke, shaking, and turning a very interesting shade of puce: “Sorry. I’m really sorry. I tried to say something... I get really bad car sickness, Mr Hanky. I'm really sorry,” and then Maurice started to blub.

My dad didn’t bother coming to watch his son play footie anymore after that.

Thank fuck.
( SpankyHanky, Thu 1 Apr 2010, 16:59, 2 replies)

click

(zero.coke, Fri 2 Apr 2010, 16:16, closed)

Spewtastic
that is all
( venezuelan beaver cheese is mortally afraid of spoons, Sat 3 Apr 2010, 19:50, closed)