Premiership Psycho - C.M. Taylor

http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1849015945/ref=nosim?tag=wwwconstabler-21

C.M. Taylor grew up in Yorkshire and Suffolk, and has

lived in India, Belgium and Spain. He now makes his

home in Oxford with his wife and daughter.

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PREMIERSHIP PSYCHO

C.M. Taylor

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Alex

Stamp

Alex

Stamp

http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/book/9781849015943/Premiership-Psycho


Constable & Robinson Ltd

3 The Lanchesters

162 Fulham Palace Road

London W6 9ER

www.constablerobinson.com

First published in the UK by Corsair,

an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd., 2011

Copyright © C.M. Taylor 2011

The right of C.M. Taylor to be identified as the author of this

work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition

that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold,

hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover

other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition

including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in

Publication data is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-1-84901-594-3

Printed and bound in the EU

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

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To Our Lad, the Maldini of Cambourne.

And to Mum and Dad, for whom every day is Wednesday.

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Part One

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3

landmark translucent atrium

‘The paps just red-handed me muffing out the Captain’s wife in

the Bentley.’

‘Fuck. Kev. What? Calm down. From the beginning.’

It seemed pretty clear to me: paparazzi; forbidden quim;

twelve-cylinder Bentley Continental GT with twin elliptical

exhausts. I pull my triband Nokia 8800 Arte away from my ear

and stare at it. Did this tit, my agent, not understand the

Queen’s?

I’m shouting now. ‘The Captain’s wife. The red-tops just

snapped me going down on her.’

‘Who was it?’

‘I forget her name. Jane or something. Some girl’s name.’

‘No, not the girl. The pap. Who was the pap?’

‘I don’t know his name. Know his face. Super Soar-Away or

something. Mirror. News of the Screws. Seen him around.’

‘Where are you?’

‘M4.’

‘You’d better come over.’

I kill the line and accelerate. The six-speed 2F automatic

transmission with Tiptronic override obeys my injured foot and

the Bentley noses out towards Berkshire. Royal Berkshire.

I notch up the Acura ELS surround sound and flip to Radio

5 Live.


C.M. TAYLOR

4

Ex-England manager Terry Venables rejects the Newcastle job.

Verbal pugilist Joe Kinnear instead the surprise appointment.

Reports of Gazza’s death untrue.

Merseyside derby. Steven Gerrard on ninety-nine Liverpool

goals.

The multi-link air suspension sits me on a cushion. Of. Air.

Fucking foot, should be playing today, owning the 08-09

season. Should be scoring. But this foot, this dirty foot’s keeping

me out. I am the fucking daddy. I can play all over the park.

Off the M4 towards Maidenhead, then nail the A4130 towards

Henley. Excellent local amenities. Exceptionally secluded plots.

Buzz down the window and ring the intercom. Gated

residence. Ironwork swings open and the Bentley crunches the

gravel. Substantial detached home, finished to exemplary

standards. Stone embellishments. Six bedrooms. Five receptions.

Show-home condition.

The door opens and Colly steps out and walks towards the car.

He’s wearing an Allesandro Dell’Acqua single-button casual

jacket with checked Etro trousers and a Tim Hamilton gingham

shirt. He’s got taste, Colly, and he’s doing very well, as this gaff

attests, although handsomeness-wise, he’s not a patch on me,

due to his weirdly large head and the sort of clumpy, shanky

hands that you might find hulking from a butcher’s sleeves. Still,

agenting-wise, Colly’s got some of the Prem’s top boys under his

wing. Not that he has a wing.

I step out and dink the Bentley locked.

‘Was it worth it, Kev?’

‘What?’

‘Was she worth it?’

‘The skirt? Don’t know yet. Depends if I get away with it. And

that depends on you.’

Colly looks a bit wired. Could be the situation. Or it could be

the bugle he’s no doubt been hammering all morning. Because

he does like the high life, the boy. Has done all the time I’ve been

with him; all the seven years he’s been looking after me. First


Premiership Psycho

5

player to sign with him, I was, and even now, when he’s got

more than a few internationals on his roster, we’re still close, me

and Colly. Thick as thieves.

‘Nice house I bought you, Colly.’

He just laughs. ‘Come in.’

We walk into the outstanding split-level reception area and

down the marbled hallway to the architect-designed leisure

complex. Sauna. Steam room. Gym space. Infinity pool. A

nosed-up bimbo’s giggling in the hot tub. She looks over. She

recognizes me. Course she does. I am Kevin King … The

Enforcer.

The likes of your Gerrards, your Lampards, your Kevin Kings …

The likes of your Kevin Kings.

‘Give us a minute,’ Colly tells the girl and she scowls but stands

and bikinis out towards the hallway.

You would. I probably will.

‘Take a seat, Kev.’

Colly gestures towards the Tropitone Cabana Club modular

stainless-steel armchairs and we walk over and sit down, facing

each other.

‘You really don’t know who the pap was?’

I shrug.

‘Describe him, Kev.’

‘Twat with a camera.’

‘C’mon, make an effort.’

‘Don’t know his name, do I? Told you that.’

‘Look, Kev. If these snaps get splashed, you’ll have to leave.

The transfer window’s closed. Where will you go? You can’t fuck

around with the Captain’s holster and expect to stay at the

club.’

‘I should be the fucking Captain.’

‘That’s not the point, Kev. Look, describe this pap to me.

Maybe we can work out who it is, get the pictures off him.

Anyway, you sure he got the photos? You’ve got tinted

windows.’


C.M. TAYLOR

6

‘Colly, I’m sure. I looked up from between her legs and saw a

fucking lens.’

‘You had the window open?’

‘We were dogging.’

‘How did he know you were there, Kev?’

‘Maybe he’s a dogger. Maybe he followed me from Nan’s …

Give a shit. He’s got the snaps.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Tall. Dark hair. Scruffy cunt.’

‘Sounds like Taff. Was it Taffy?’

‘You deaf?’

‘I’m gonna call Taff, see if he knows anything.’

Colly pulls out his T-Mobile G-1 Android phone and pisses

about with his menus. He finds Taff’s number, calls it, and flips

the phone on to speaker, holding it out so I can hear. The ringing

stops and a voice climbs out from the Android.

‘Colly. Thought I might hear from you.’

‘It was you then.’

‘Was me what?’

‘You know, Taff. Anyway, can I buy you lunch?’

‘Yeah, Colly, you can buy me lunch. The Fat Duck?’

‘Cheeky cunt. That’s two hundred quid a throw.’

‘Thought you might want to treat me, in the circumstances.’

‘All right, Taffy. See you in an hour?’

‘Fine.’

‘And Taffy, don’t forget your camera.’

‘And Colly, don’t forget your chequebook.’

Colly thumbs the call closed and we look at each other.

‘Wanker,’ we both say.

‘Can you really get a table at the Duck?’ I ask Colly.

‘No problem. Know Heston.’

He knows Heston Blumenthal. TV chef. Three Michelin stars.

Colly knows him, the flash bastard. Wouldn’t have done, a while

back, no way. But now Colly’s virtually a sleb in his own right.

They get him on sport radio, now and again, to give his opinion.


Premiership Psycho

7

Been on the goggle, also. Talking head. State of the game. That

kind of shit. Building an empire, Colly is. Like the Romans.

Except without the viaducts. Presumably.

Colly’s already speed-dialling the Duck. He don’t hang about.

‘Hi. Table for today … Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re full. As

always. Tell Heston it’s Colly, right. He’ll find me a spot.’

Cocky fucker. There’s a wait and Colly leans down and rubs a

mark from his black Cesare Paciotti shoes. I listen to the hum of

the infinity pool and then the phone monkey must be back on

because Colly says, ‘Good. Thought so. One hour. Table for

two.’

The call ends and Colly tosses the G-1 Android phone on to

the low Tropitone modular table.

‘Table for two, Colly?’

‘Yeah. Me, one. Taff, two.’

‘And what about me?’

‘You come, Kev, and your mouth’ll double the cost of the

pictures.’

‘It’ll be worth it.’

‘Last year, the year before, Kev, when you were on proper

Premiership cash, maybe it’d be worth it to you. But not on

Championship wages.’

Championship wages. Listen to him, the wanker. I may be on

Champs cash now, but I know – and every fucker who’s seen me

knows, every fucker who really understands the game, that is –

that I’m Prem quality.

Made for the Premiership, I am. Made of it, almost. If you like.

Yet now I am exiled, adrift in the Bermuda Triangle of the lower

leagues. But one day I will return triumphant, passing adored

once more through the gates of the Prem, riding an enormous

footballing horse, or somesuch. And when I do return, I will win

everything. I simply will.

I, Kev King, will merely amass silverware. That is a given. It

is my goal, my driving ambition. Though I do have other goals,

such as upholding consumer rights, which is crucial. And


C.M. TAYLOR

8

getting my nuts in, clearly. Obviously.

‘Look, go home, Kev. I’ll call you when it’s a done deal with

Taffy. Go back to the flat. Watch some games. Put that knacked

foot up and relax. I’ll get you out of this.’

Colly stands and walks out from the leisure complex and I

follow. His Paciottis squeak across the hallway’s marble and he

bellows, ‘Off out,’ up the stairs, then we head through the door.

I slide into my four-seater coupé and watch the nearest door of

Colly’s quadruple garage hum open. He emerges in a 4.2 litre

super-charged V8 Jaguar XKR-S. Not a bad little motor. But if

Colly had done a proper spec reccy he’d have seen that his 420

bhp is dwarfed by the Bentley’s 552.

I watch Colly back out, spin round and turn left out of his drive

and I nestle within the Bents for a while, musing on returning

inside and bopping his playmate. But I don’t. Not the right time.

I turn the coupé over then hang right out of the drive, heading

back to the flat.

There’s some countryside or something and then I hit the

outskirts of town. Not London. The gaffer won’t let me live in the

proper city. Part of the deal when I signed with this tinpot and

recently relegated club was that I had to live near the stadium,

near the training ground. Could have taken a spanking,

out-of-town exec ranch like Colly, but I’ve been nailed drink

driving too many times to risk the ride home from the town’s

bars. So I took a flat in town.

Sophisticated living in a secure location. Concierge and lifestyle

management services. Enviable and privileged settings.

The coupé dips into the underground parking and snugs into

my parking spot, ‘King. Penthouse’, painted on the concrete in

its centre. Up to the flat. Superb specifications. Generous living

space. Elegant and stunning.

I toss the car keys and hunt the remote and the BeoVision

7 forty-inch LCD TV with tilt and turn functionality hums

alive. I twist the Venetians open and the BeoVision’s

VisionClear technology adjusts to the new light levels, altering


Premiership Psycho

9

the screen’s abundant light output and contrast levels.

I press play on the built-in DVD and last night’s porn churns

through the advanced digital surround sound processors and

climbs from the speech-optimized optional BeoLab 7-4 vertical

central speaker with acoustic lens technology. A variety of women

are displayed in frame-by-frame dynamic contrast. From a variety

of positions they climb variously to a variety of climaxes and I

relax. I scan to 5 Live on the Nokia 8800.

Merseyside derby. Early kick-off.

Liverpool two up. Torres double.

Fucking Torres. He’s nothing. A nothing player. Like to see

him dazzle once I’ve been through the back of him, raked my

studs down his fucking calves.

I flip to the Championship scores. My muppets aren’t playing

yet.

Three o’clock kick-off. Half an hour to go.

I sit down and do some porn then I call Colly to see how he’s

doing with the pap but he doesn’t take me. The afternoon

stretches out like a fucker in front of me. Pop over and see

Nan?

No, not yet. I’ve got a test to do.

In the bathroom I take out an eyeliner pencil and look at myself

in the mirror. I draw a black line from the centre of the bottom of

my nose downwards to touch my top lip, then I pick that line up

underneath my bottom lip and continue it down, over my chin,

then under it and down over my Adam’s apple.

I have split my face in two halves. It is a face of two halves.

I take out my scientifically formulated Elemis ice-cool foaming

shave gel and lather up. Having applied the software of shaving,

I reach for the hardware.

From the bathroom cabinet I take out the King of Shaves Azor

hybrid synergy system razor and place it on the left-hand side of

the sink. Then from the same cabinet, I take out a Wilkinson

Sword Quattro Titanium Precision razor, placing it on the

right-hand side of the sink.


C.M. TAYLOR

10

I begin with the Azor, weighing its ecoptimized body in my

palm. I peer at the product, enjoying the tuning-fork-shaped

polypropylene twin-shot blade holder. I place the Endurium-

coated blade to my skin, high up on my cheek, and move the

razor slowly down towards my jaw.

The touch skin technology snugs pleasantly to my face. The

product handles well. The lo-fi aesthetic of the razor’s

componentry synergizes with the Endurium glide of the blade,

and as I remove the scrub from my chin, I muse that the razor

combines the unfussiness of the disposable with the high-end

technique of the multi-use.

The King of Shaves Azor, I feel sure, will establish itself in a

difficult market, dominated, at this particular moment in consumer

history, by the Gillette/Wilkinson duopoly.

The Azor has pleased me. But let’s see how it goes head-

to-head with the Quattro’s quadruple titanium-coated blades.

Again, I start from high up on my cheek and move down towards

my jaw. The aloe vera, vitamin E and Pro B5-impregnated

lubricating strip offers a glide, which, in the opinion of this

consumer, is at least equal to that of the Azor’s touch skin

technology. The skin comfort, if anything, is marginally better.

The single, AAA battery, enclosed in the body of the Quattro,

offers a surprisingly powerful motor for the multi-length trim

functionality, and the pulse it gives seems – from memory at least

– distinctly less vicious than that of the Mach 3 Turbo.

I rinse the Quattro under the tap and feel no anxiety about the

battery coming into contact with water. Wilkinson have long

been known for the quality of their product seals.

I flip the Quattro and guide the back-mounted edging blade

towards the smaller hairs in the difficult-to-reach area beneath

my nose. I come away pleased with the well-positioned nimbleness

of the edging system. I undo my fly and withdraw my almost-full

erection, resting it on the curved front ledge of the sink.

The low friction technology of the Quattro Titanium Precision

has moved me, and that, combined with compact motor, edging


Premiership Psycho

11

blade and multiple trim levels, puts it perhaps even slightly ahead

of the elegant and dextrous Azor.

I lean forward and wash the remnants of the Elemis ice-cool

foaming shave gel from my face, then curl my finger and glide it

down each of my cheeks.

Nice. And. Smooth.

The Azor? The Quattro? It’s very close.

I have some real thinking to do. I pull an Elemis recovery mask

from the bathroom cabinet and apply. Which is it to be?

The differences are minute at this level.

A single mistake can turn a game.

I lift the Azor and it rinses easily beneath the running tap.

Good. But as I lift the Quattro, I spy a darkness pinned beneath

the blades, which on closer inspection reveals itself as a residue

of facial hair. The tap water struggles to run behind the closely

packed blade head and some tenacious beard clog holds on.

The Azor edges by the Quattro.

The King of Shaves brand has a future, providing it continues

to innovate its product design while keeping it tight at the back.

The Azor’s qualified for the next round. Quattro’s limped out

on pens.

I wash the recovery mask from my face and slip into a Tïsseron

aprés bath robe and leave the bathroom. In the split-level leisure

area, the porn’s still porning. I call Colly but he does not take

me.

A text comes in from my Wag in Dubai, but I do not reply.

The Nokia tells me that the three o’clocks have kicked off.

Should be out there.

Box-to-box player. Terrific engine.

Technique. Power. Pace. The full package.

I walk over to the penthouse’s window and look down across

the river towards the award-winning retail and leisure complex

on the far side of the water. I peer out to the retro-modern

storefronts, the granite, stadium-style external seating, the

landmark translucent atrium.


C.M. TAYLOR

12

It’s not a bad place. For the sticks, that is. A reasonable

combination of big-name retailers, and a higher end of

merchandise mix than you might expect: Hobbs, H&M, French

Connection.

It’s all right. Don’t get me wrong. Vital consumer needs are

addressed.

But it’s not boutique. It’s not me.

I am Premiership quality and this retail and leisure complex is

Championship. I mean, they’ve got a Zara in there. They’ve got

a fucking Burtons.

I’m better than this place. I want truly high end. But right now

I’m stuck. Frozen within the lower leagues.

Radio 5 Live tells me we’re already one down.

Missing that bit of quality in the centre of the park.


Alex

Stamp

Alex

Stamp

http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/book/9781849015943/Premiership-Psycho


Premiership Psycho - C.M. Taylor

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