ARCHIVE: The Rioch’s Great Summer Holiday
The scene: Summer 1994, a bright sunny day. The Rioch’s wander hand-in-hand through the quaint old flower-quarter of AMSTERDAM.
Mrs. Rioch: Oh Brucey, my love – isn’t it romantic?
Bruce: Ah! Certainly so, my reason to live. And just the break I needed after the day-to-day pressure of ‘re-awakening a sleeping giant like Bolton. Lets face it... they were a steaming pile of Division Two poo before I showed up. Christ... who was that short, stumpy one with the tash? Jim? Julia? Can’t recall but I’m glad I got shot of ‘im.
Mrs. Rioch: Now Brucey, luv – you promised... no talkin’ footy. This is our summer hols!
Bruce: Thousand apologies, my ray of sunshine. Fancy a bunch of tulips, pear drop?
Mrs. Rioch: Oh! You are a romantic, tactically astute old fool!
Bruce: When I’m the manager of a REALLY big club, wind beneath my wings, there’ll be flowers in your vase every day!
(Bruce approaches a street-side Tulip Seller)
Bruce: ‘Elio matey – how much them tulips? ‘Ere – what’s up, son? You look a bit down-in- the-mouth – Ajax lose or somethin’?
Seller: Nine!
Bruce: By NINE?! Bloody ‘ell!
Seller: No, Ajax no lose. It just me. How you say in English – life’s a bitch, yeah? I didn’t want to be a tulip seller I could’ve gone places in my life. I could’ve been an actor, but the only roles I ever got offered were in, how you say... cheapo blue movies. Hence the hair, see I had to grow it special, like.
Bruce: Yeah... bummer, eh? Specially those flowin’ blonde locks – you look like a proper big girl’s blouse.
Seller: And not just an actor – my greatest love was photography... I always wanted to be a famous photographer – a David Bailey or a Lord Lucan (smiles). Once I was in Paris and I got this great shot of...
Bruce: Hold on! Hold on! You say you got a GREAT SHOT? Just what we’ve been lacking these past couple of years. A midfield general of guile, intelligence and wisdom – a passer of the ball with an eye for goal – a maestro of flair and vision. And Dutch, too – Gullit, Bergkamp, Van Basten, they’re all Dutch, aren’t they? And dead good! Chin up, son – you can’t do better than that. Ever played football, lad?
Seller (bemused): Er, yeah, but I not like. If you only knew the havoc that ninety minutes can reek on a head of hair! Tangles, conditioning problems – I have to hot oil for a week!
Bruce: Oh, well never mind that, er...
Seller: Richard... but my friends call me Rusty.
Bruce: Okay, Rich lad. ‘Ere – take this cheque for five pounds, courtesy of G. Hargreaves. Just add a few noughts on the end and I’ll see you down Burnden next week. Here’s a map. Cheerio (rejoins wife).
Seller (shouting): Hey! Do they have a Sassoon salon at this Burnden place?
Later that night – RESTAURANT “VOLENDAM”
Mrs. Rioch: Oh, thanks for the meal, treasure – egg and chips – my favourite!
Bruce: When I’m the manager of a BIG FIVE club, sugar in my tea, there’ll be a banquet every night.
(A tall waiter approaches the table)
Waiter: The bill, sir.
Bruce (unfolding bill): Blimey! This one’s for Hargreaves, I reckon! Anyway, thanks for the service, son.
Waiter: I tried my best, sir.
Bruce: Eee... you’re a big lad, aren’t you? Ever played footy, son?
Waiter: Only 5-a-side in the local EDAM CHEESE RESTAURANT COMBINATION, sir. I play in goal – I’m a bit crap, you see – but I try my best.
Bruce (frantically re-positioning salt-sellers and pepper-pots on the table): I can picture it now... Wembley Stadium, late into extra time – low ball played into the box, you hit the post with a chance that the Queen Mum would have thumped home, the ball comes back, you control it with your arm before poking it past the stranded Trinidadian keeper. You are thus hailed a hero and everyone forgets what a useless stump you really are (well – for a couple of months, anyway). How’s your first touch, lad?
Waiter: Er... well... I try m...
Bruce: Oh, never mind that now – we’ll give you to Patty and Jimmy for special training. What’s your name, son?
Waiter: Fabian – Fabian “I try my best” DeFreitas.
Bruce: Ooo, that’s a bitch! We’ll call you “Fab” for short – not ‘cos you are, like, but we won’t fit you on the scoreboard otherwise.
Waiter: Well, it is a big career move, you understand – you must give me some time to think about it. (pauses) Okay... where do I sign?
Bruce: Just stick a few noughts on this bill and I’ll see you down at Burnden next month.
Waiter: I’ll try my best, Boss, (leaves)
Bruce: Eee – what a day, fuse in my plug! Two Dutch superstars for a bunch of tulips and some egg and chips. I can picture the headlines now – “TOTAL FOOTBALL COMES TO BURNDEN. Think we’ll take a glance at those mock-Tudor mansions near Epping Forest when we get back, prawn in my cocktail!
Mrs. Rioch: Oh, shut your mush and pour us another glass of that nice BLUE NUN!
First appeared in Issue 6 of White Love in spring 1996.