Forever Is Over (117 page)

Thinking back now, I have to say it was one of the most bizarre
experiences in my whole life! I did not have a clue what was going on!
England were leading Switzerland one-nil in a drab start to the 1996
European Championships, when for some reason, my father swapped
his allegiances from King and Country to the landlocked European
neutrals.

Mark, one of the barmen at The Buck, was out from behind that
prison cell of a bar, to collect some glasses and to get a proper look at
the footy. Everyone in there was downbeat, it had been a dire game
and to make our suffering even worse, in the 83
rd
minute, the ball was
booted at Stuart Pearce
’
s hand, inside the box, from close range and a
penalty had been awarded. A Switzerland penalty was not in the script
for a triumphant start to Euro
’
96. Everyone was crestfallen except one
man.
My father.

“
What
’
s going on with your Dad?
”
Mark asked.
“
Why is he so made
up? Is he part,
Swiss?
”

“
He
’
ll have a hole in him like Swiss cheese, if he doesn
’
t sit down!
”
some irritated England fan warned.

“
Sit down, Dad!
”
I pleaded.

“
Does he make watches or fondue sets or penknives or something?
”
Mark suggested.

“
No,
”
I replied,
“
he
’
s not Swiss and he has absolutely nothing to do
with Switzerland. I haven
’
t the foggiest idea what goes on in that man
’
s
head!
”

“
Well,
”
Mark continued,
“
he certainly seemed Swiss when he
screamed handball as soon as the ball struck Pearce
’
s arm. He was
pointing to the spot before the referee!
”

I looked back over at my Dad, to see what he was up to now,
hoping the bloke who was threatening to make him into Emmental
had managed to calm down. Dad was fidgeting nervously in front of the
screen, he had gone so close he was blocking several people
’
s views and
was literally pulling clumps out of his own hair, chuntering to himself
as Kubilay Turkyilmaz placed the ball on the spot,

“
He
’
s going to miss this! I know it! He
’
s going to miss it!
”

Dad clasped his hands and looked up to the heavens or at least to
the ceiling of
“
The Buck
”
!

“
Remember our deal, God?
”
he said to the ceiling,
“
I
’
m on your side
now, remember? See me right, God! See me right!
”

             
Turkyilmaz was all set to strike. He stood in the little semi circle
on the edge of the box, I don
’
t know what
its called, our Richie was the
one into football in a big way, I just watched the big games in the pub.

The Swiss striker was ready, but so was the English goalkeeper, the moustachioed, David Seaman, who stood on his line with big gloves
and a positive focus.

“
Come on Seaman!
”
someone shouted at the TV like a bored house
wife who had consented to sex when she was tired and ready to sleep.

“
He
’
ll miss this!
”
I shouted over at Dad.

“
He better fucking hadn
’
t!
”
Dad replied,
“
HE BETTER FUCKING HADN
’
T!
”

Turkyilmaz ran up. A long run up for a penalty. This was not one
of those Spanish jobs where they just take one step back. Seaman
stared intently, all set to spring, cat like, on to the oncoming ball. Dad
crossed himself. The run up towards the penalty spot could not have
lasted more than three seconds, but it was during those three seconds
that the penny dropped or given the circumstances, the Swiss franc
dropped! All of a sudden, I understood. Dad was in trouble. Big trouble!
Big trouble which would, given the sweat on his forehead and the hair
in his fists, only be getting bigger if this penalty did not go in. I am a
proud Englishman. I may not have a bulldog tattoo on my right arm,
but I cried in 1990 when Gazza was booked. I thought St George
’
s Day
should be a Bank Holiday. I waved my Union Jack at the TV on 29
th
July
1981 when Charles and Di were married. I sang the National Anthem
with more gusto than any other Englishman and knew the verses that
were never sung, the ones about scattering our enemies and confounding
their knavish tricks. I was English and proud of it but in those three
seconds, my loyalties were no longer for my country, they were solely for
my idiot of a Dad, who had no doubt fucked up royally this time.
“
Score,
”
I whispered, just as Kubilay Turkyilmaz struck the ball with his left foot,
“
please score!
”

There was an almighty groan from the four corners of The Buck as
Seaman flopped to his right and Kubilay Turkyilmaz, with pinpoint
accuracy, stroked the ball into the keeper
’
s left hand corner! With less
than ten minutes to go it was England 1 Switzerland 1! Risking a
beating from two hundred Englishmen and women, Dad pulled the
front of his newly acquired T-shirt over his head and zig zagged around
the tables and chairs with his enormous beer belly and two hairy man
boobs on display.

“
Bloody hell, Ursula Andress has got hairy tits these days!
”
shouted
someone, which was a mightily impressive shout as I didn
’
t think anyone
other than me in
‘
The Buck
’
would have been aware of the former Bond
girl
’
s Swiss heritage.

“
Sit down, you tosser!
”
someone else shouted,
“
I swear, if Switzerland
score another, I
’
ll break your bloody neck!
”

“
Don
’
t worry!
”
Dad shouted back from under his T-Shirt, if
Switzerland score another, I
’
ll break my own!
”

Sometimes in life, you have to reach a dead end before you realise
you are heading the wrong way. I had been a gambler for over thirty
years, I had won a few battles, but lost every war, yet I just kept going.
It was total lunacy. Only once my life was on the line, did I understand
the seriousness of my addiction and make a deal with God to stop. I
had lost a lot of money, but just as importantly, I had sacrificed a lot of
time. If I am careful, I still believe I can get Dorothy and I back to the
financial status that we would have enjoyed if I had never completed a
betting slip, but I will never get my children
’
s childhood back. I pray
every day that I live long enough to somehow make it up to them. Once
they have children, I have vowed to treasure them in a way that I never
have with my own offspring.

That evening, back in 1996, following the final whistle in England
’
s
one-all draw with Switzerland, a new Charles Billingham was born, as
the greedy, sinful, materialistic, liar, died. I must admit, I was more than a little excitable when Kubilay Turkyilmaz equalised for Switzerland and
uttered some of the final profanities to leave my lips, but once the final
whistle went, God gave me a composure I have managed to maintain
to this day. I collected my
£
6682-50, asked the ladies in there never to
mention the win to a living soul, then after brief stops at WH Smith and
the pawn shop to reclaim Dot
’
s rings, I headed home. Once home, I hid
the plastic bag full of notes and all the mail from that morning behind
a drawer in my office, to avoid Dorothy
’
s detection and the rings were
returned to the bathroom as if they had never had a journey out.

I did not want to lie to Dorothy, but at the same time, I did not want
to have to tell her that we had six grand in cash, but every single penny
would be needed to make a small dent in our overall debt and would
prevent a local gangster setting his henchmen on to me.

Sure enough, the following morning, as I looked out of the front
bedroom window, Kiffer
’
s crew were there, standing menacingly outside
Kiffer
’
s limo, in the road at the top of our drive. There was no doubt
they would have been anticipating an act of aggression that they would
need to carry out, to teach another bad debtor a lesson. As Dorothy
snorted her way through her dreams, I slipped into my office, collected
my plastic bag full of bank notes and another plastic bag I had prepared
for them, then went outside to confront Kiffer and his band of merry
men. I pitied them. A new chapter in my life was set to begin, but they
were still entrenched in their violent lives. I knew I would not be betting
again, God had reached out to me and I was not going to let go of his
grasp now, but these men before me
would continue to threaten, to
intimidate and to kill. Sometimes God can only be found if you open
your eyes.

I walked towards the limo, presuming, like twenty four hours earlier,
that all four of them would be there. Kevin,
“
The Smirking Giant
”
and
Bobby aka
“
Muscles
”
were standing outside the limo, chatting and
attempting to look like James Dean whilst smoking a cigarette. Marcus,
the driver, had his window down and his arm draped out, whilst Kiffer
was no doubt sat in the back, contemplating what words to grace me
with before setting his pack of wolves on to me. I felt empowered as I
knew the last thing that they would be expecting, would be for me to
repay the debt. The whole six grand. I knew they would be expecting a
frightened, desperate, hopeless man who would try anything to save his
skin. When
“
The Smirking Giant
”
and
“
Muscles
”
spotted me heading
along my path, one plastic bag in each hand, they quickly dispensed of
their cigarettes and stamped them out. Their break was over, they were
back at work.

“
What the fuck
’
s in those plazzy bags, Charlie?
”
The Smirking
Giant demanded.

“
Money and a gift for each of you
”
, I replied calmly and with a smile.
Trust is not a word in a mobsters dictionary.

“
Fuck off, Charlie! We weren
’
t born yesterday! Drop the fuckin
’
bags where they are and step into the limo.
”
Muscles commanded.

I dropped the bags at the end of the drive, it was a breezy day, but
they were both too heavy to blow off.