Football Crazy by Terry Ravenscroft, Ravenscroft Page B

you mean you don't bloody need surveillance cameras?”
    “ Well it would just be a waste of money,” explained George. “As we never have any trouble at Frogley Town.”
    If George had left it there he might have escaped the next five minutes. But he didn't. He followed it up by saying: “In fact I can't ever remember seeing a football hooligan at a Frogley match.”
    So for the next three hundred mind-numbing seconds he was treated to Screwer's views on football hooliganism in general, and exactly what he intended to do about it in particular. To his wife, later that day, George likened the experience to being attacked by a madman with a flamethrower. Certainly he was left in no doubt whatsoever as to Screwer's feelings on the subject.
    When the police chief had satisfied himself that George had well and truly got the message he carried on: “Eight surveillance cameras represent an absolute minimum requirement. One each centrally positioned at each side of the ground. One each mounted on the floodlight towers, above the gun turrets.”
    George suddenly stopped being concerned and started to get alarmed. “Gun turrets?”
    Screwer enlarged. “For the police marksmen.”
    George made another attempt at putting Screwer right. “Superintendent there really isn't any need for any of this. This is Frogley, not Jalalabad. The north west of England not the North West Frontier. We are an insignificant little team in the Coca-Cola League Two. Just. And, like I said, we don't have any football hooligans.”
    Screwer was unabashed. “You won't have any once they've got wind of the police marksmen, that's for sure.” He gave George the benefit of a smile that wouldn't have looked out of place on an undertaker viewing a multiple motorway pile-up, then carried on. “Whereabouts is the Police Operations Centre?”
    “ We don't have one.”
    Screwer's head was about to shoot back again but, remembering the painful encounter with the wall the last time he affected surprise, he just managed to stop himself in time.
    “ I could get you a portakabin, I suppose,” George offered. “Or a caravan maybe.”
    “ A caravan?” Screwer almost shrieked it. “I'm a police officer, not Gipsy fucking Petulengro! Or perhaps you'd like me to start telling fucking fortunes at half time?”
    George tried to pacify the police chief. “They can be quite roomy, caravans.”
    Screwer fixed George with a baleful glare. This man was even more stupid than he looked. “It isn't the room I am concerned about, it is the construction. It takes more than a bit of plywood to contain drug-crazed hooligans.” Fortunately he had just the thing for such contingencies. “I'll use one of our mobile armour-plated jobs until you've had time to build something proper out of reinforced concrete.” He referred to his list. “I've priced some barbed wire. That razor stuff they use for cattle.”
    George didn't really want to ask but forced himself. “What for?”
    “ Round the perimeter fence, of course.” Christ he might be the secretary of a football club but he wouldn't last five minutes in the police force. “You haven't got any on it. Unless some has suddenly rooted and flowered while I've been in here with you finding out all about your non-existent ways of dealing with football hooligans and informing you what you're going to have to do about it.”
    “ We don’t have any hooli....” George stopped himself. What was the point?
    “ It'll cost you two thousand two hundred pounds,” Screwer went on. “If you go through me.” He explained. “As a regular and long time valued customer I can get you a good discount. All completely above board, this isn’t graft. You'll have to erect it though. To my specifications of course.”
    At this point George decided he had no alternative than to pass the buck, the only option that seemed open to him under the circumstances, and one he wished he had thought of doing ten minutes earlier. “Look, I'm not at