I hear the bed ripple as I get up and put on my England tracksuit. I’m in two minds but, here goes. I nudge sleeping beauty.
“Wake up mate, time for brekkie” I say.
“uh” he exhales. He’s alive then.
“Brekkie!”
“Oh, morning mate, strange dreams”.
YOU had strange dreams. I’m running towards the ball and I’m thinking this is mine. I’m excited I’m like Helen’s dog. Pant, pant, huh huh. I want to touch it, want to kick it, want to show to the world I am a football god. But I’m scared too. Scared that I’ll fuck it up and give it away and that is just what I do. Fuck! I should have kept my eye on the ball but I wish I hadn’t when I saw it drop into the feet of their striker, when I see the ball smash the net, our net, see the scowls on my team mates faces. Shit, shit, shit! So I creep towards the goal but there’s no ball. In its place is Helen being banged by a someone who isn’t me. I stare. I feel the searing radiation of the colour red infect me. What the fuck are you doing? I scream.
“Sorry honey. Everyone makes mistakes. Give me a second chance. I promise I won’t do it again”. I vomit near the penalty spot. Globs of sick swing from my mouth and form a bridge to the star on my shirt . I stagger towards them, like I’ve been clattered from behind by a German centre back. I get to the goal and just as I am about to cross the line and invade their space the whistle blows. I’m back at the beginning. I’m running towards the ball and I’m thinking this is mine. I’m excited. But I’m not scared. Not this time. The ball stops. The players are frozen and the crowd hang. I look down at the ball and I can see a butterfly. It doesn’t move but it doesn’t have to to tell me it’s alive. I look up as if moments ago I was on my knees. The stadium stares but does not see. The wind stirs but does not blow. Then I hear it speak. Can you feel me? I have chosen thee. Don’t be scared. I am a god, your god. I am the god of war. This is not the end, the war is not lost. I wrought the heathen altars, the almighty lord o’er the wide heavens. Prepare thyself for battle.
“Wake up mate, time for brekkie” I say.
“uh” he exhales. He’s alive then.
“Brekkie!”
“Oh, morning mate, strange dreams”.
YOU had strange dreams. I’m running towards the ball and I’m thinking this is mine. I’m excited I’m like Helen’s dog. Pant, pant, huh huh. I want to touch it, want to kick it, want to show to the world I am a football god. But I’m scared too. Scared that I’ll fuck it up and give it away and that is just what I do. Fuck! I should have kept my eye on the ball but I wish I hadn’t when I saw it drop into the feet of their striker, when I see the ball smash the net, our net, see the scowls on my team mates faces. Shit, shit, shit! So I creep towards the goal but there’s no ball. In its place is Helen being banged by a someone who isn’t me. I stare. I feel the searing radiation of the colour red infect me. What the fuck are you doing? I scream.
“Sorry honey. Everyone makes mistakes. Give me a second chance. I promise I won’t do it again”. I vomit near the penalty spot. Globs of sick swing from my mouth and form a bridge to the star on my shirt . I stagger towards them, like I’ve been clattered from behind by a German centre back. I get to the goal and just as I am about to cross the line and invade their space the whistle blows. I’m back at the beginning. I’m running towards the ball and I’m thinking this is mine. I’m excited. But I’m not scared. Not this time. The ball stops. The players are frozen and the crowd hang. I look down at the ball and I can see a butterfly. It doesn’t move but it doesn’t have to to tell me it’s alive. I look up as if moments ago I was on my knees. The stadium stares but does not see. The wind stirs but does not blow. Then I hear it speak. Can you feel me? I have chosen thee. Don’t be scared. I am a god, your god. I am the god of war. This is not the end, the war is not lost. I wrought the heathen altars, the almighty lord o’er the wide heavens. Prepare thyself for battle.
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