Dan Kay and his fellow members of London’s only non-league football firm, the Wingate Wide Boys, have scraped together their savings and have gone to France to support England at the 'Alternative Euro's'. Here is his fifth diary entry:
Me and the lads were in Marseille the day of the England Russia game to meet one of Dave's 'French Connections' who could get us some touted tickets. But it turned out he was on the Met's travel ban list so he was stuck in Dover.
Dave said we didn't need tickets anyway, as we were there to represent non-league Firms and 'fuck shit up'. Dave was more agitated then normal and when Trev tried to stop him lobbing a Euro at a refugee beggar because we wouldn't find a Burger King, Dave called him a 'spiv-fuck', which he only normally calls me.
"Don't worry, Dan, I think you're still 'spiv-fuck,'" Trev said with his arm over my shoulder. "Dave's just keen to impress the Millwall lot."
I knew how important it was to Dave for the Wide Boy's to put in a good show on the European stage and I was eager to impress him and the rest of the lads. So the night before the Eurostar I soaked my fists in vinegar. It worked on Jon Stone's conkers in primary school, so I thought it would work on my fists now. Those conkers of his were unbeatable.
"Jon, it's not fair," we'd say, but Jon was his own man and so whenever you tried to stop him using his vinegar soaked conkers he'd just throw you to the ground then swing those conkers at your face while he sat on you. He'd always get to play in the end, and he'd always smash our non-vinegar conkers to bits.
But when I submerged my fists in the tub of Morrison's own brand 4l vinegar, the sudden burning sensation was too much for me and I could only keep my fists in there for 27 seconds. I hoped it would be enough to give me an advantage.
We walked around Marseille for a few hours, trying to find the rest of the English Firms. Whenever Dave got a text from his Dover trapped connection telling us what bar the Firms were in, by the time we got there, they were gone.
"Do you think they're avoiding us, Dave?" Billy B asked, but Dave just threw his can of Stella at him and stormed off. It was the first time I had ever seen Dave waste a Stella.
"When's Big T meeting us?" I asked Wazza.
"He's not coming," Wazza replied, "he's daughter's got a fencing championship in Edinburgh."
I had never been to Edinburgh before. I thought about catching a train back to Paris, then the Eurostar back to London, then getting a train up to Scotland. Me and Big T could go to up to the castle and take in all the culture and history that Edinburgh had to offer, but I didn't have much money left, and I thought that the time I had got there, the fencing championship would probably be over.
Just then the Russian's rushed us. They were wearing scarfs over their faces and were holding bottles. Dave was nowhere in sight. It was 150 Russian Ultra's against four Wingate Wide Boys - it was time for us to make a name for ourselves.
"Let's get em' boys!" I yelled and charged into the crowd, my vinegar toughened fists out in front of me. But as I ran toward a shirtless Russian with picnic pattern shorts I saw in the reflection of the coffee shop window Trev, Wazza and Billy B run the other way. Then a bottle hit me on the back of the head and I hit the ground.
As I lay on the floor, curled up into the ball with Russian legs slamming into my ribs, back and butt, I thought about Big T's daughter's fencing championship. If I had a daughter, I might be in Scotland too and not in France protecting my face at the expensive of my vital organs.
In primary school, if you started crying Jon Stone would stop flinging vinegar toughened conkers at your head. I guess the Russians couldn't hear my sobs over all the kicking.
