THE OIL MERCHANT
'The bloods thicker than the mud, it's a family affair,' was sung by the legendary Sly Stone. It’s a great lyric, that’s for sure. It summarises the positive aspect of family relations. For me, it also summarises the negative impact that family relations can have on your life.
Like it or not, your family are you family and your fucking stuck with them, whether you like it or not.
I have many happy childhood memories. They are hazy memories, brief snapshots of happiness and the nineteen eighties. I can remember Ice cream vans, parks with dangerously high climbing frames that have transformed with the onset of the health and safety brigade. I can remember when a can of coke cost twenty pence. I can remember sticker books and the ninja turtles. I can remember playing kiss chase and spin the bottle. I can remember the grim onset of adulthood as I progressed through my teenage years. The thing I remember the most are people faces. I remember people faces changing through my life, some for better, some for worse.
Back around the time Tottenham bought Ricardo Rocha, I bumped into two old faces from my past. It was a Saturday and I was hung over badly. Feeling sorry for myself I headed out into miserable, rainy day. I needed food, quickly. I felt as if I had a bleeding bullet wound. There was a greasy burger bar in Kilburn that had what I needed- oily food.
Walking into the burger bar, I saw an old fella. He nodded at me and I gave him the nod back. With my head stinging like crazy from the previous night’s tequila and brandy shots, I couldn’t put a face to the name, but I knew him from somewhere. I ordered my food regardless and looked for a place to sit down. It was just my luck as always, the place was fucking packed. The only seat available was a table next to the old fella who had acknowledged me as I walked in.
'How ya doing Jason? Looking a bit worse for wear,' the old fella said in a thick Irish brogue.
'Yeah, had too much to drink last night,' I said trying to remember where I had seen him before.
'Ahh, it does ya good to have a few drinks. It’s the payback in the morning dat kills ya,' he said laughing and coughing at the same time. There was another guy sitting across from him. I recognised him also. He was plump with greying hair and he was slumped over his tray, shovelling chips into his gob. He looked up at me and back at his food. It took around ten seconds for me to put a name to the face.
'Danny?' I said out loud, not thinking were I was. The drink had really scrambled my brain that morning. Danny looked up from his tray and then back down again. I turned the old man.
'Crikey Pat! Sorry mate, it’s been a while. How the devil are you?'
'I could see you piecing it all together in yer head. You really had a skinful last night boy,' he said giving that throaty laugh again.
I knew Danny and Pat from years ago. My dad used to go to a local social club that was a make shift pub with cheap hooch. It was for Irish immigrants in London and it was next to a church. I can remember Pat drinking with my father and I can remember Danny. I could never figure out what was wrong with Danny. He was either autistic or mentally retarded, but either way was he was slightly different from the rest of us. He was also around ten years older and a big fella to match. He had a brother which I vaguely remembered, but his face and name were a blur.
'Danny! Say hello to Jason. D'yer not remember Jason and his father?' Pat said, nudging eldest son. Danny looked up at me and back down at his tray again.
'Danny fer fucks sake! Stop shovelling fooking chips inta yer gob and say hello ter Jason. Yer being fooking rude!'
The woman on the next table covered her daughter ears to block out the bad language.
'Tottenham,' Danny said with a mouthful of chips.
What?.. What are yer fooking talking about Danny?' Pat said, rubbing his glasses on his shirt.
'Tottenham. Jason supports Spurs,' he said pointing at my shirt.
'What’s dat got ter do with anything Danny?' Pat was rolling his eyes in exasperation.
'Arsenal. We support Arsenal. They-are-the-enemy!' Danny said in a stage whisper, pointing at his AFC shirt.
'Yer stupid bollocks. It’s Jason. Willies boy. Yer remember him? From der club?'
Pat looked defeated. He asked how the family were and we talked about pubs, old faces from the club and football.
'He has a Cockerel on his shirt dad. It’s a cockerel. There are no other clubs with a cockerel on the badge. He's a Spurs supporter dad. They are our enemies’ dad. Tottenham from White Hart lane,' Danny said, looking pleadingly at his father.
'Danny, stop being an eidjit and finish yer burger!'
Pat looked at me and shook his head.
'Who's your favourite player Danny?' I addressed him, intrigued what his response would be.
‘I don't have a favourite Spurs player. I support Arsenal!'
'Danny yer eidjit! He means yer favourite Arsenal player!' the old man roared, exasperated.
Me and Danny talked. He told me Gary Mabbutt and Darren Anderton were the most underrated Spurs players. He told me Jurgen Klinnsmen was the messiah for Tottenham and Alan Sugar was an idiot. He was right. He also told me Thierry Henry and Ian Wright were the greatest players Arsenal had ever seen.
'We will always be the kings of North London Jason,' he said looking at me, waiting for a response.
'That can change at any game Danny. You’re only as good as your last game,' I said, smirking at Pat.
'We play you next week in the Carling cup semi-final!' Danny shouted, spitting burger on the table, his eyes wide as dinner plates.
'Yeah, I can't wait Danny. It’s gonna be a blinder. We're gonna win Danny.'
'No you’re not. No you’re not. No you’re not. No you’re not,' Danny repeated. Making his point.
'He's pulling yer chain Danny,' Pat laughed in his thick Dublin tone.
'His shirt is made by Puma. Mine is by Nike. Tottenham is Puma, Arsenal is Nike,' Danny said, pointing a greasy finger at his shirt.
'What’s the shirt got to do with