Philip Kerr - False Nine

‘Mr Target bought it. And from the condition of the book I’d say he read it too. There are passages here that have been heavily underlined.’

‘Really? Such as?’

‘“Football has become the new Esperanto. A modern lingua franca in the true meaning of that phrase: it is a bridge language, a trade language which facilitates cultural exchange throughout the world. A friend who was in a remote part of Vietnam told me that in the two weeks he was there he got by with just two words: David Beckham. Everyone has heard of Becks. And everyone likes him. Just to mention his name is to create some kind of bond. So let’s forget Prince Andrew. It’s Goldenballs who should be given a job as Britain’s special representative for trade and investment; not to mention a knighthood and anything else that will show our appreciation for a man who is one of our best exports. Frankly, the royal family needs the lambent glow of Beckham receiving a knighthood more than the man needs this gewgaw himself. And isn’t it time Beckham was asked to join the FA’s board of directors? With all due respect to Heather Rabbatts — a non-executive director of the FA board — it’s not racial diversity that the existing board lacks, it’s bloody footballers. If I can borrow a phrase of the England rugby captain, Will Carling, speaking of the RFU commission, the FA are just fifty-seven old farts. If the England team is ever going to matter again we’re going to need footballers to make decisions about the English game. Because the national team is becoming increasingly irrelevant. If, with apologies to E.M. Forster, any football fan had to choose right now between not watching his country and not watching his club, it is more or less certain that he would have the good sense not to watch his country.”‘

I winced. ‘I’d forgotten that. Oh shit. I don’t think that’s going to help me when I face an FA disciplinary panel for bringing the game into disrepute with my tweet about Rafinha’s period. Do you?’

‘Probably not. Could be you’re going to need a lawyer there to do the talking for you.’

‘It sounds like it, doesn’t it?’

‘Unless you can persuade David Beckham to represent you.’

Grace turned several dozen pages, read some more and laughed.

‘What?’ I said.

‘This isn’t much better. “The game is truly egalitarian in that it has something that appeals to everyone. It is the last bastion of tribalism in an otherwise civilised world. As such it is a refuge from all politically correct thinking. Those who preach politeness, orthodoxy, toleration and the socially homogeneous can be safely ignored; witness the hostile reaction of Tottenham fans to the FA’s cloth-eared proposal to make using the phrase ‘Yid Army’ subject to legal sanction. Men and women feel safe within the world of football. It is an enclave from the self-righteous values of the BBC, the Guardian , the Labour Party, the fifty-seven farts and all the cares of the world and you try to breach its walls at your peril. Going to football is like saying ‘fuck off’ to all of the above. When you go to football you don’t need to give a shit about your country’s economic travails, bird flu, AIDS, gender equality, the war in Iraq, Afghanistan, the Troubles, Africa’s starving, Islamic terrorism, Islam, 9/11, the Palestinians — in fact you don’t need to think or care about anything very much except the game itself. Not only that but a football stadium is perhaps the last place in the world where a grown man or woman can behave exactly like a child without anyone really noticing or caring very much. It’s like fishing in the way it clears the mind of everything except catching a fish, with this important difference in these socially fractured times that we live in: when you go to football you are part of a family. A family that doesn’t ask questions about who or what you are because it’s the colour you wear that counts; it’s the scarf that matters, not what you say, or think, or do, and to hell with everything else.”’

Grace put the book aside for a moment.

‘How much did you say they can fine you?’ she asked.

‘That bad, huh?’

‘No, really how much?’

‘I’m not sure if there’s an upper limit, actually. I think the highest fine ever imposed was on Ashley Cole for calling the FA a bunch of twats on Twitter. True of course. But that cost him ninety thousand quid. No, wait. It was John Terry. Yes, of course. How could I forget? In 2012 he got fined £220,000 for calling Anton Ferdinand a fucking black cunt.’

‘Two hundred and twenty thousand — pounds?’

I nodded. ‘Frankly, I’ve been called a lot worse. And I’ve racially abused more than a few myself. It’s swings and roundabouts, really. I think it’s a complete nonsense that there’s language you’re forbidden to use on the pitch when half of the players in the Premier League can’t even speak fucking English. Who says what — it’s all bullshit. How is it even possible to police something like that when, for example, the Spanish word for the colour black is “negro”?’

‘It would take me almost five years to earn that kind of money.’

‘That’s ten days’ pay for John Terry. It’s lucky he didn’t bite Anton, as well.’

‘I don’t understand. How have you got away with this until now?’

‘I told you nobody read that book. It was remaindered almost immediately. Most of the copies are in my attic, I think. Nobody reads fucking books in England. Not any more. But put something on Twitter and this is something very different. They treat a tweet like it’s a letter from Emile fucking Zola.’

‘They will read your book now, don’t you think? The FA, I mean.’

‘You’re right. I’m going to need a brief to represent me, aren’t I? So. The job’s yours if you want it.’

‘Really? You’d fly me over for the hearing? To London?’

‘Why not? Just as long as I get to fuck you again, Grace. I ought to get something out of this hearing, don’t you think? Besides, it will look good me having a black brief.’ I grinned. ‘I always did like black lingerie.’

‘Scott, my dear, I think I’d better start thinking of your defence right now. Tonight. You’re going to need every word of mitigation I can find in the thesaurus.’

When Jérôme came downstairs he was wearing a pair of G-Star RAW jeans that looked expensively ragged and a message T-shirt which read SCORES UNDER PRESSURE . I’d once seen Mesut Ozil wearing one at the Chiltern Firehouse and thought he was taking the piss; scoring under pressure wasn’t something he’d done a great deal of at Arsenal. Jérôme was also sporting his Cartier panther earrings and a gold Tourbillon watch that had more bling than the Kimberley diamond mines. We gave each other a homie handshake and then he helped himself to a glass of wine.

‘This is a nice wine,’ I said, politely. ‘Domaines Ott. I must remember that one.’

‘It’s Gui who knows about wine,’ said Jérôme, ‘He’s got a wine cellar downstairs that looks fabulous. Me, I just order from the expensive end of the wine list and then hope for the best.’

‘Living in Paris, that could be costly.’

‘It is. Maybe wine will be cheaper in Barcelona.’

‘They make some pretty good wines in Spain. Perhaps as good as anything made in France.’

‘What’s the book?’ he asked Grace who was still reading.

‘I found it on Gui’s shelves. It’s by Scott.’ She held it up to show him the cover which featured a moody picture of me. What else do you put on the cover of an autobiography? I remembered when the book first came out how unnerving it was to see my own face staring back at me off the shelves of my local Waterstones. Like seeing a poster of some wanted criminal.