Where’s Your Caravan?: My Life on Football’s B-Roads. Chris Hargreaves
his way.
As much as we all tried to hook Chatty up while we were on a night out, I admit to stitching him up on several occasions, rather than helping him with potential girlfriends. He came up to me in a club one night absolutely buzzing, saying, ‘Greavsie, I am on fire tonight, there are about four darlings over there, and they are there really loving me, giving me the nod and allsorts.’
I said, ‘Well played mate, get yourself over there and say hello.’
He did, and after a couple of uncomfortable minutes, he came back fuming. ‘You tit, no wonder they were giggling away at me, I’ve got a fucking two-foot Dave’s Taxi’s sticker on my back, haven’t I?’
After we had all stopped laughing, I apologised, and as usual I gave him a big hug, which usually did the trick.
He did actually manage to get a date in the end, and for some bizarre reason had decided a game of tennis would be a good idea. Seizing on an opportunity we (Bernard G. Shaw was my willing accomplice) set up surveillance in some bushes near the tennis court. This was the court where, on numerous occasions, I had had the normally mild-mannered Chatty at breaking point with my ground shots and constant banter. Many a time there would be a racket sailing over the fence in anger after a bad shot, and many times it was that of the upstanding Michael Chapman.
Anyway, back to the bush, and just before the first shot was played Bernie let out a subtle ‘Miaow.’
Both Chatty and his lady-friend looked up, but suspected nothing. A few shots later, and on Chatty’s serve, I let out a, ‘Baaaaaaaaa’. Again both looked up, but didn’t investigate. They must have thought it was normal, somehow. Meanwhile we were in that bush, shaking with laughter, trying to keep silent. We were like little school kids playing a prank, laughing so much it hurt, especially when, after Bernie’s attempt at some sort of bird noise, old ‘Slipmat’ (one of the many nicknames Chatty acquired) walked over to his lady-friend and said, ‘I think it’s a squirrel nest, they’re real pests.’
Poor Chatty, over the next thirty minutes that court heard the sounds of an elephant, a donkey, a monkey and, the last straw for both players, two fighting pigs. Chatty said later that he suspected we were involved, but he couldn’t see us, and had really thought his date was a secret. Little did he know a footballer and an unemployed labourer have plenty of time on their hands to stalk potential victims. We laughed so much that day, even more so when Chatty returned and said, ‘You tossers, thanks for that. It was going badly before the noises anyway.’
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