Crisp Packets
Years ago, right, I worked in a sports shop. I mostly worked in the football boot bit. One day, this guy came in with his wee boy. The wee boy must’ve been about 7 or 8. They pick a pair of boots and I go and get them for them. I come back out and the wee boy says to his da, ‘Da, see in the old days, did players wear football boots?’ I gave a wee laugh. It was a funny thing for a wee boy to say. But his da didn’t even crack a smile. I thought maybe he was annoyed at me for laughing at his wee boy asking a daft question but then he winked at me.
‘Naw son,’ the da said. ‘They just had to wear empty crisp packets on their feet.’
‘Aye,’ I chimed in. It was my time to shine. I loved having a bit of patter with customers. ‘See back in the day, see that wall there with all the football boots on it? That was just empty packets of crisps. Monster Munch, Quavers, Skips, you name it, wee man.’
The wee boy nodded along then looked at his da for reassurance. ‘See, it’s true. Listen to the man,’ the da said. The wee boy shrugged and tried on his new boots.
I said cheerio to them on their way out the door and the da gave me another wink and a daft smile as if to say, ‘Weans, eh?’
I served that guy and the his boy a few more times over the years up until I left. The last I’d heard, the wee boy was playing with the under 16s at Hamilton Accies. I never got his name though, I always regretted not asking. I could’ve kept a look out for him, followed his career, if he ever did make it as a professional that is.
Over the years, the guy and his wee boy slipped from my memory. I’d completely forgotten all about them. Right up until the other day that is. It’s been twenty odd year since I last served that wee boy and I found out the other day that he did make it as a professional! Can you believe that? He’s only just retired and he’s doing a bit of media work, being a pundit talking about Scottish football on the BBC. Know how I know it was that wee boy I served all those years ago? Because the poor cunt made an absolute tit of himself on the telly and, to be honest, I’ve got to take the blame for it. He’s on waffling about some young Celtic player who’s just made the breakthrough into the first team. Cracking player. Old fashioned kind of winger, no tricks or frills just speed and agility, dancing by defenders. He reminds me of Paddy McCourt a wee bit. Anyway this poor cunt working as a pundit goes like that: ‘He’s a brilliant young talent. He’s a real throwback, isn’t he?’ He looks to his colleagues for reassurance. They nod along in agreement.
‘Like something from the 60s, eh?’ another pundit, Michael Stewart says.
‘Exactly,’ says this poor cunt, ‘Back from when players wore crisp packets on their feet.’ He looks for approval from the other guys in the studio. The other guys just look at each other and then at the camera, wee smirks on their faces.
‘Um, what do you mean, mate?’ The host, Jonathan Sutherland, asks him.
‘Like,’ the poor cunt’s face is all red, ‘like, back in the day, before football boots were, um,’ he gulps, ‘invented. They wore crisp packets on their feet. I… I thought everybody knew that?’
‘Who told you that?’ Michael Stewart enquires.
‘My da. Think a guy in a shop said it as well.’
That was me away man. Fucking hooting and hollering, roaring and greeting. Amazing! Poor daft bastard.
My first collection of short stories ‘Hings’ is available now, published by 404Ink.
