A Cockney's Journey (29 page)

    During the next few weeks, my chores on site included trowelling and floating helicopter ports. Nobody, and I mean nobody, seemed to care if Angus was around or not; even the management, and other office workers never questioned anyone about his disappearance, which I found completely strange. The guys on site assumed he’d gone back to Scotland.
    Now, for some unknown reason, the main bosses got the idea that I used to play semi-pro football. It’s funny really how chatting amongst guys on site and during recreation time about my football achievements suddenly resulted in my comments being completely taken out of context. All I said was that I’d played a couple of games for Dulwich Hamlet and Fisher Athletic; unofficially, if you get my drift. This distorted information fell on Sheik Mohammed Khalid’s ears. The sheik owned Arincon Construction lock, stock and barrel. He was a complete soccer fan and loved the English game; his knowledge on all the top sides was phenomenal, especially Chelsea and Liverpool. So, it was inevitable that Yours Truly got summoned to the sheik’s office after work, on a blistering hot Thursday afternoon. On entering the sheik’s air-conditioned office, I was beckoned to sit down. He leant back in his chair, stretching his arms and then cupping both hands around the back of his neck.
    “Ah, so you’re Eddie?” he said smiling and showing off his gold teeth.
    “Yes, sir, can I ask why you’ve sent for me?” I quietly asked.
    “Surely you must have an inkling as to why you’re here?” the sheik said in his rather pleasant accent.
    “Well vaguely, I think, but then I could be wrong,” I said, looking at him with a puzzled expression.
    “Would you like a cold drink before we begin. There’s lemonade or orange?” He released his arms from behind his head and lit up a King Corona cigar; taking a long drag, he blew out a large cloud of smoke.
    “Lemonade, please,” I said, trying not to choke on the heavy cigar smoke that filled my nostrils. The sheik stood up, with his cigar hanging from his lips, and opened a small drinks fridge. He pulled out two cans of Sprite and, offering me one, he sat back down.
    “Right, it’s like this, Eddie. Arincon is a well-established and very respected construction company here in Saudi Arabia. All over the country we have many projects on the go and my brothers and I own the lot. There are a lot of Arab-owned companies here and a lot of foreign-based firms and every single one of them have football teams who play in the Riyadh league, except Arincon. That’s where you come in, Eddie. I want you to form a team from our employees. You’ve got eight weeks before the season starts. Anything you want is yours; money is not the object here. The object is to produce a quality side to compete with the best in this country. If you agree to be Arincon’s football manager, you’ll never work on site again. In fact, I’ll pay you an extra five thousand riyals a week on top of your normal wage,” the sheik said, looking at me for a reaction.
    “Well, I’m flattered. How can I refuse?” I said smiling, thinking someone is definitely looking after me.
    “Is there anything you can think of right now that you’ll need to kick this off, Eddie? he asked.
    “Yeah, portable flood-lights, bibs and footballs, and the lads would have to train at night when it’s not so hot and humid,” I told him.
    “Give me forty-eight hours and your equipment will be here,” the sheik assured me.
    After leaving the office, I set about my plan to inform all the employees when training would start. I posted notices all around the canteen and billets, explaining where and when training would commence. True to his word, the equipment turned up just in time for our first training session on Sunday night. I stood wide-eyed in amazement. Right in front of me, jumping up and down on the spot, were at least sixty guys raring to go.
Bloody hell, I’ve gotta whittle this lot down to at least fifteen,
I thought. I decided the quickest way was get everyone in groups of seven so they could roll on and off every ten minutes. That way I could get an idea about what I had. The first pair of sevens kicked off. I stood staring in disbelief at the lack of ability and even brains that the first fourteen showed.
This is gonna be a long night,
I thought. The second set of sevens was just as bad, if not worse. I’ve never seen so many fouls committed in the space of ten minutes. There were guys with bleeding chins and kneecaps, guys limping off the pitch and near the end a massive brawl. I was beginning to feel despondent when the third group of sevens took to the field. To my surprise, there were at least five decent players and a really good keeper. At the end of training, I had eighteen names in my notebook. Over the next two weeks, we trained nearly every night. In my mind I had the first eleven selected. Now all I needed was for the sheik to arrange a friendly so I could see how the team would shape up. Upon entering his office, Sheik Mohammad looked at me with a glint in his eyes.
    “Well, how are they? Good or bad?” he asked, looking rather pensive. “I’ve heard some disturbing rumours that the lads are not very good. I’ve even been told that they couldn’t win a two-legged camel race,” he added with a sigh.
    “Well, Sheik Mohammad, I don’t know who your spies are, but they obviously don’t know anything about football. The team I’ve got look very useful. In fact we’re ready for our first friendly!” I said confidently. “That’s why I’m here, to ask you to arrange it for me.”
    “Are you serious, Eddie? All the teams around here are extremely good. Yours have only been together for a couple of weeks. Are you sure you are ready to take them on and do yourself justice?” His tone was disbelieving.
    “Absolutely. Bring ’em on! We’ll show you and the rest of the doubters how good we are,” I said nonchalantly. “You asked me to get a good team together, which I have, so please do me the honour of arranging a friendly for us.”
    “Fine. If you’re that confident, I can’t refuse. However, I still think it’s too soon, but nonetheless, I’ll get on to it today,” the sheik assured me.
    Later that day, Sheik Mohammad called me into his office to confirm Saturday’s friendly with FC Anaiza at their ground near Riyadh. He also arranged for a coach to take the players and ordered a yellow and blue football kit from Athens in Greece. Apparently this team, FC Anaiza, hadn’t lost a game at home in three years and won the Riyadh League last season by a record ten points. What I didn’t know was what the standard of football was like over here. So it came as a pleasant surprise when I did find out! Saturday came round quickly; we arrived at Anaiza an hour before kick-off. The ground was quite impressive and the changing room facilities were immaculate. The stands were full of Arabs, blowing whistles and hooters and waving red and white flags. The chanting and singing had to be heard to be believed. Ten minutes into the game, it was completely obvious who were the better team. Anaiza were being torn apart by Arincon’s two wingers and after fifteen minutes we deservedly took the lead from a twenty yard free kick. By half time, Arincon were 3-0 up and cruising. During the half-time break, Sheik Mohammad came into the dressing room, beaming.
    “Fantastic first-half performance, lads,” he said, while walking around the dressing room, patting all the players individually on their backs and congratulating the keeper on two brilliant one-handed saves.
    The second half started like the first, with Arincon dominating the play. During the opening ten minutes of the second half, Arincon rattled the post and bar before Yours Truly added the fourth goal: a superb, ten-yard strike in off the post. To their credit, Anaiza never gave up and pulled a goal back twenty minutes from the end. Arincon started to fade rapidly and were being over-run, as the heat started to take its toll. The fluent football had gone and the Arincon players, including myself, were dead on their feet. Anaiza scored again from a defensive slip-up and, with seven minutes to go, scored another from the penalty spot. Leading 4-3, we played out the last five minutes with our backs against the wall, defending stoutly and resolutely like mad men, unable to get out of our own half. When the final whistle blew, we all dropped to the floor, exhausted and dehydrated. The crowd actually applauded our performance and the opposition manager congratulated us on our victory.
    Arincon’s next four friendly games ended the same way; dominating and out-classing their opposition for over an hour, then running out of puff and holding on for victory. I would only use my substitutes in the last ten minutes of every game. Needless to say, they were always defenders or strong-minded midfield players. We were now unbeaten in five games.
    I recall one very hot and humid Friday morning, when I borrowed the site’s minibus and drove to Jeddah. Accompanying me were Al, James and six other guys. I was one of the few who the sheik would trust to drive Arincon’s vehicles. This privilege was gained through my exploits as team manager. I drove down the motorway, noticing the minibus was low on juice.
Bloody hell, I’ll have to stop and fill up,
I thought. I dreaded going into any petrol station in Saudi. The minibus bumped off the motorway tarmac, onto what I can only describe as a dirt track. This was common practice everywhere in Jeddah. Motorways and roads were unfinished, due to contractors going bust or falling out with the local authorities.
    After a few miles, I approached this dilapidated old petrol station. Pulling up on the opposite side of the road, the minibus was evacuated a bit lively by my passengers. As usual, I drove into the station on my jack, feeling extremely nervous and worried.
    “Fill it up, effendi,” I said, moving swiftly away from the vehicle. The young attendant splashed his way through six inches of petrol that covered the entire forecourt. He advanced to the back of the minibus, puffing on a large cigar and proceeded to fill it up. I stood, watching in total disbelief and horror; my mind stricken with images of being blown to oblivion.
    “That’ll do, effendi, that’ll do. You can’t get anymore in the tank,” I said panicking. He looked at me smiling, while at least a gallon or two of petrol spilled onto the forecourt.
    “No problem, Johnny. Twenty riyals.” he said standing in a pool of petrol, still puffing his cigar.
    I handed him twenty riyals, my eyes fixed on the lump of ash hanging from his cigar. The attendant thanked me, while rolling the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. To my horror, I watched the ash part company with his cigar. I closed my eyes for a split-second, expecting to be incinerated. Obviously my demise wasn’t going to happen in a ball of flames in Saudi Arabia. I jumped in the minibus, stinking of petrol, taking a deep breath while closing my eyes yet again; I turned the ignition and slowly pulled out of the garage, sighing with relief.
    Arriving at Jeddah, my final obstacle was to get round the roundabout in one piece. Three sets of traffic lights were strategically placed on three separate junctions. However, there were four roads that lead onto the roundabout. The firm that fitted the lights had gone bust; consequently, the busiest approach road had no lights. Well, you can imagine the scene; the fourth road had a steady stream of traffic going around the roundabout. When the lights changed, cars and vans would attempt to outrun the oncoming traffic, causing mayhem. Then the inevitable would happen and two cars would prang each other and cause a gridlock. The second set of lights would then go green while the first set still remained on green. So you now had three lanes of traffic fighting tooth and nail to get around the roundabout. I actually witnessed drivers on the roundabout stopping their motors, and together they would roll broken down and crashed vehicles off the road out of their path. While this was going on, the third set of lights would turn green so, in the end, every approach road flooded the roundabout with oncoming vehicles. Every driver drove with one hand, while the other hand constantly held down the horn. Bloody mental aggressive drivers, the Arabs. It took me over an hour to get round without pranging the sheik’s minibus. I parked the up a narrow cobbled alleyway, opposite the Grand Hotel. Everyone split up, agreeing to meet in the souk at about 1 p.m. I crossed the road and entered the hotel, where I phoned Sue.
    “How are you and the boys getting on? Did you receive last week’s cheque?” I asked.
    “Yeah, we’re fine. The cheque came and all the bills are paid up to date,” she informed me.
    “Great. How much have we got saved in the bank now?” I asked, thinking it must be over a grand by now.
    “Fifteen hundred and eighty quid, Ed!” she said in chirpy voice.
    “Blinding! By the time I’m home we should have a few grand saved,” I said, feeling chuffed.
    “Ed, would ya mind if I bought a new fridge and toaster?” she asked. “The old one has started defrosting and only one side of the toaster works.”
    “Yeah, no problem, Tell you what, Sue, buy the boys a game each and tell them I love and miss them madly,” I said, thinking how I missed the pair of them; their laughter and loving smiles. “Listen Sue, I’ve gotta go now. I’ll ring you in a couple of days, alright, sweetheart,” I said, wishing I was home right now.
    “OK Ed, take care. Love you lots,” she said, choking back the tears.
    “Bye Sue, Speak to ya later,” I said, blowing her kisses down the phone before I hung up.
    I paid for my phone call, left the hotel and went straight to the souk. After buying fags and a couple of kaftans for Sue, I parked myself down outside my usual stall and ordered a banana and cinnamon shake, hoping the drink would quench my thirst and help cool me down a bit. While waiting, this tall dark-haired Egyptian guy came over to my table.
    “Can I join you, effendi?” he asked in a gentle low voice.
    “Help yourself, pal,” I said pointing to an empty chair.
    “My name’s Azziz, I’m from El Minya in Egypt,” he informed me.
    “Well, Azziz, nice to meet you, my name’s Eddie and I’m from London,” I said proudly.
    “Ah, London. I spent five years at Oxford, studying law and religion; very cold, but beautiful,” he smiled.
    “So you’re not selling anything, Azziz?” I asked.
    He laughed out loud. “No. Not at all, Eddie. I’m visiting family here in Jeddah.” He lit up a Marlboro cigarette.
    “Sorry. I’ve been badgered every time I come into Jeddah. To be quite honest, it has started to annoy me. I seem to tar everyone with the same brush,” I said apologetically.