And I woke up and realised I was the weird son of Revie, Clough, Mourinho. I remembered that I’d been everywhere – was I there laughing at Cruyff in ’94? Did Eddie Gray run past me whilst I sat smoking in a field?
Probably not, after all I’m only 25. But last night’s call up had to be real, dinner too; I still have this strange taste of weed and fish, odd bits of crap in the teeth.
Actually, I managed not to mention my dental hygiene once, and I barely mentioned Denis Irwin – perhaps I said nothing the entire time. Still, I felt I’d given a fairly good account of myself when I returned home.
They had chosen a great table for us, very discreet, so I could’ve relaxed into some horrible theories and ramblings – I could’ve undone all the good work that put me there. For once an anxious tension came to my aid – I think – at the other side of my eyes there's a lasting memory of disgusting grins nodding simultaneously.
I had really begun to like red wine. At some point though the scales tipped, which probably explains the silence, and I felt I was no longer leading the circus. The alcohol was doing some odd things to my stomach, no food all day then this feast – with each small plate they were dropping little bites into the tank from above – the cone on the journey there meant that I lacked the sharpness to really grasp this at the time. In a way, alcohol can help with this; it sort of sped me up to a point where I could get outside of this situation and see it for what it was.
It wasn’t really important anyway – we had the job. I could see that would remain the case no matter what happened. Yet there was an odd mood after the third or fourth round of small dishes, I couldn’t concentrate on the names or the origins of the plates, the grapes, the sauces – and these suits barely mentioned the sport once, possibly out of modesty. I had the voice of my no. 2 stuck going through his speeches, before I left he was deep in the hole with his stack of videos.
What meal was he on? Everything was in a bowl when he ate. Sit down here he said, look... Andy Gray is charging around, yapping, leaping and spinning, it’s Everton against Bayern Munich ’85, half an hour gone.
I remember seeing the game before, it almost convinced me I like the pass back; it reminds me of resetting a cannon. I can see the Everton team at the walls of Constantinople huddled around the Basilica.
There is so much violence and aerial bombardment taking place that I don’t notice my partner is chewing through something strange and haranguing me about Søren Lerby’s legs being a shin pad free zone. He wipes his finger along the screen and rubs the Gladys End, pointing out “his seat” to me, come on relax a while, he says, Bayern are still winning. I looked in my pocket for a lighter and told him to fuck off. You were born in Belgium, in ’95.
I sat down anyway. Fine, I wasn’t there. Stay for the second half though, you’ve got ages. It would be weird to leave with disappointment of trailing at half time.
All of our work gets done in this way; ritualistically, rolling, two desks and two screens, music and football – a lot of faith is put into these dualities. The bowl and the spoon, sticking in milk, and the little flies which hang around – I generously apply The Conduct to our working environment and decide it’s alright.
I remember reading somewhere that we were The Beating Heart – all of us – but Scouts live in their own world.



Where better for a rebel than a football pitch?
It's a team game! And yet…
Look at the #10’s sulking, the goalies that make a simple save look spectacular…
Trying to assert their individuality on the game
Is it professional or personal, their dignity?
It is a game of expression in each moment
Not a frontline
People say it is beautiful but not really
It is a frustrated soul being prodded
-”realised”
Last week i ran from halfway, dropped round the gk and laid the ball into the goal, we lost 7-3
Tell me i didn’t create something
Like everything in life, football is everywhere.
The best are the best are the best…
The highest paid
The most watched
Who says where real events take place, stamps them, grades them, projects them back in front of my eyes?
Who takes away my legitimacy?
Every time i check my phone again i convince myself that i take part in reality
-“I know what’s happening”
I don't know a single thing outside of myself
I don't intend to mean anything, or to persuade, or agitate..
Just to open my eyes to human relations without any promises
22 referees, 22 coaches, 22 rebels


I am in my hotel room. Outside, across a huge mound of rubble, is a burned block of flats.
I know I have a meeting soon, obviously a game at 3pm. When to smoke?
Pre-meeting would be a bit weird. Only so many people believe that hotel shampoo reddens the eyes to that extent.
Afterwards. Back to my room to my small pile of things. I can’t impose myself on this room enough.
I feel so much greyness in England, sunny Brighton - not now its October.
Every time a different hotel, i say on the seafront and I am always at the back, looking down at the chefs smoking outside the kitchen, the outside staircase wet with steam - i have no reason to stare at the sea.
I just keep lying here. I can’t be fucked for meeting this agent at all.
Good sounds good, great sounds great - very well, fantastic
I have to say so many things
I wish i had time to get under the duvet and smoke and fall asleep
If i stand up then that’s half the battle won, here i am, looking out at this grey stack, wondering if it’s on its way up or down. I can see some bits of pasta left in the pan from last night.
-he’s a special talent
I hate leaving all my smoking stuff, shoved into my rucksack at the back of the wardrobe -
This must be the most uptight country on earth.
Why do i have to feel so shit, I just want to walk around the block and smoke freely?
Everything is a personal affront to english people.
Get on with it, fucking hell
I’m in for some of that downstairs
This fucker probably got here early just to have something to moan about
-me? Oh no, I’m always early.. No problem…
-could you speak up?

My life gave me the hell of repetition
Next time. I say to myself, i will enjoy myself then, this time is not quite right.
Stupid idea, to be perfect
Perfect seat, quiet corner - I think i’m ready to enjoy myself
I said goodbye to my colleagues
I walked in the same direction, as much as i could
Only for them to miss me
How do i something for myself


Everton 5 - 2 WBA

I just woke up and started rolling
Everyone is going out
Okay… peace and quiet

Saturday morning…
I see Everton 1 - 1 WBA, I head out to smoke,
It feels like a calm day but the heat and the wind are pushing a blank noise through me
I smoke quickly to get back indoors, but it keeps ringing
The pitch is emptying
Well the manager is explaining something to the referee, arms going crazy, do your fucking job properly I’m guessing
He just sent off the left back
The two of them are stood there in the centre of the pitch, under the hot sun. Three men behind them, burning, wondering what the fuck is going on.
The glare from the advertising boards stoned my vision
The referee covers his face with his hand
All black kit sticking to his back, endless heat clinging onto him, he tried to walk away but didn’t
He looked behind at his assistants, they just shone, they were like crabs sweating under the sea, he felt thirsty and sick looking at them.
The empty stadium appears like a wave of confusion under midday sun. The odd spectator, doctor, security guard, spaced out like eagles on high cliffs.
I could tell this needed to end.
He reached for his leg and the card raised itself into the sky
For fucks sake, really?

Its 1985 in my sunny bedroom
1987 for this Everton team, sweeping aside 10 man WBA
10 years of Pink Flag
How many…. How Many…
The players are so relaxed on the bench, barely noticing the game



Burton 1 - 2 Aston Villa

Burton 1 - 0 Villa
Outside I saw the two of them, snagging a long cigarillo, laughing, snarling, they looked hungry. They sounded like a pack of geese.
Shit goal, he said before I approached
Ah fuck boss, I got pretty lost once I left the station
Well I still think Villa will do the job
Yeah Jack’s playing, he said
The guys are really out there spending every day playing football
I don’t know why I said that, knowing how fucked they were with the schedule. I just felt like I should reply.
Lawless!
-look at these weird banners.. King of caravans? Old shit init
First of all Grealish, then Watkins…
Burton 1 - 1 Villa
-what do you think of him?
-who?
-Watkins
No. 2 dug his eyes into me, pressing my answer into shape
-Yeah, i think he’s gonna be pretty good
-There are about 6 or 7 good teams in English football, on a given weekend, it’s not as good as it looks, you can really get in there
-how good?
-well…
Lawless, Edwards!
-I think without fans you can tell that every game of football is objectively equal in its merit, if not its quality. In Crystal Palace Park, Selhurst Park, Bethnal Green…
Mings!
-You can see that everybody wants to win and play a good game.
-Yeah, I reckon we’re getting there, the manager said.
-Oh no, I meant as in, with everyone…
I went and stood outside and smoked at half time. I thought about my dad watching this game, somewhere, in a hotel room, watching adverts; Human rights airlines, Darren Bent, Banking, Perfume, Being extremely normal, new phone, getting food delivered…
I wonder if he will start smoking again.
Maybe he already does.

The boss had dinner during the team talk and gave a two minute speech; We can score goals, fucking hell, come on…

Fucking hell this shit life in England
I started freezing to death. I really didn’t think it would cool off like this - shorts and t-shirt like a fucking idiot
Give me some fucking merch I said when i came back in. Load me up, club jacket, club hat
Grealish!
How long was I out there?
I only smoked two small ones and had one bag m&ms (peanut)
What a goal
-thank fuck, i really couldn’t be bothered for pens there
-Hey are you going back to London tonight? Or staying here?
-oh shit, we’ve scored again
-Really?
He was drinking a huge pint of squash and had a packet of mini sausage rolls open, smashing through them like his final meal, he just looked and shrugged
-Alright you can come with me and a couple of the other boys, Go find Henry afterwards and make sure he’s ready
-I’m gonna go and tell Jack that was a shite goal see his reaction

Then I finally see my guy
-Come on get rid of the fucking gum I’ll buy you a beer
He just kept walking and chewing
-You played alright, come on
-Ah wow really? He said
-Yeah, pretty good
-The ref was shit though, he said, they all are. Can’t you write something about that? You know Arsene used to always say the same about their standard…
-All right fucking hell, fine, I’m not a journalist at all by the way though, I can’t do anything
84 minutes you play an unreal pass, I thought about him too, and Jack, not Jack here but,
One second, let me read this