A new three-novella collection of uncensored, unapologetic tales for our conservative conformist times, The View From Poacher’s Hill is the second instalment in an ongoing collaboration between the authors Alan Warner, Irvine Welsh and John King. Following The Seal Club, published at the end of 2020, Poacher’s Hill features Warner’s ‘Migration’, Welsh’s ‘In Real Life’ and King’s ‘Grand Union’. And kicking off the last of these stories is Skinheads’ own Nutty Ray English, fresh from King’s new novel London Country. Set in the autumn of 2021, Grand Union finds Ray at peace with the world. But trouble is on its way…
We publish below an exclusive excerpt from King’s story, ‘Grand Union’.
The View From Poacher’s Hill is published this week, on August 12th, by London
Books.
https://www.london-books.co.uk/
https://www.john-king-author.co.uk/
Autumn, 2021
Ray didn’t appreciate Stan’s use of the Nutter tag, but took the comment in his stride, knew the younger man was just excited hearing 40 Years Untamed for the first time. And who could blame him given the line-up? Ray was the one who’d told him to hurry up and listen to the album in the first place so could live with the ‘Nutter class’ rating. It was meant as a compliment, and his irritation turned to a warm respect for Stan and his love of Oi. No words were required. Quiet or otherwise. Whispered into his shell-like or barked with a glare. Ray was a different person these days, and while there had been one or two wobbles along the way, the distant echo of fist and boot, the skinhead was solidly on the straight and narrow. He was loved up and living with Priscilla. Running the firm. Had never felt happier.
With Terry and Angie in Jamaica, these last two weeks had been his big test. After years as a driver, he’d served his apprenticeship on the management side as well now, and while he knew Estuary Cars inside out, this was the first time he’d been left in sole charge. Nervous in the build-up to their departure, he’d driven home after dropping them off at Heathrow sure he was going to muck up, but things had gone better than even he’d hoped, and no way was he going to pull up one of the boys over a stray comment. Good leadership was built on mutual respect. He was at peace with the world. And so Friday afternoon rolled into early evening at a leisurely pace in the Union Jack Club, Ray enjoying a light ale with some of the chaps, and by a light ale he meant a Light Ale, the bottles ordered direct from Young’s by barman Buster.
– Have you seen this? Stan asked, turning his phone towards Ray.
Taking the Samsung, he recognised Merlin from the England games. Born and bred in Birmingham. A lorry driver by trade. Supported Aston Villa. He was wearing his blue Levi’s jacket with the Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath and Slade patches. Never wore anything else. He was football mad. Watched the Villa youth as well as the first team. When he wasn’t away working. Ray remembered him raving about a youngster called Jack Grealish. How England had to stop Ireland getting hold of him as they risked losing a special talent the same as they’d lost Ryan Giggs to Wales. Jack was playing for the full England side now, thank God. About time as well. Gareth Southgate didn’t seem to fancy him as much as the supporters, who were desperate for an injection of flair.
It was the same with Declan Rice. Another near miss. Chelsea had already fucked that one up letting him go to West Ham as a kid, even though it was only a matter of time before he came home. It was going to cost the club a fortune, but Ray wished Roman would get his finger out before Pep or Klopp stepped in. With Rice and Mason Mount bossing the midfield, Chelsea were going to win the lot. They should try Conor Gallagher in there as well. But then what did you do about Kanté, Kovačić and Jorginho? Mount, Rice and Gallagher were the future. That’s what Ray reckoned. He wouldn’t want to lose Kanté, though. Kovačić wasn’t bad either. He didn’t mind if Jorginho left. Not after Italy had beaten England in the final of the Euros.
– It’s Merlin, Stan said.
Grealish might have looked like something out of Peaky Blinders, but the Brummie headbanger had been right. Jack was a rare, maverick talent. Transported from the 1970s. An Alan Hudson for the 2020s. From back when football was still the people’s game. And men were men. He couldn’t imagine Peter Osgood wearing rainbow laces in his boots as Chelsea welcomed West Ham to the Bridge. Or Chopper Harris taking the knee at White Hart Lane. Or Charlie Cooke diving and trying to con the referee into giving a penalty. Not against Man United with George Best and Bobby Charlton on the pitch. No chance. Ray hadn’t seen these players in person, but knew all about them from his Uncle Terry. The same standards applied to those who’d followed in their footsteps and entertained Ray. Kerry Dixon, Joey Jones, Pat Nevin.
– I know. Who else could it be?
The Villa man was another maverick. Always on the road. Haulage or football. He had probably eaten in every caff and diner in Britain, slept in every lay-by and drunk in most of the pubs. He had criss-crossed Europe as well, been to cities as far apart as Helsinki, Lisbon and Istanbul, but whether it was one of the more glamorous locations or a grim industrial town or a remote trading estate, Merlin always had an adventure. He had a knack for finding the best local restaurants and bars when abroad, and despite his scruffy appearance seemed to attract the ladies. It wasn’t all eating, drinking and romancing, though, as he made sure he saw the more traditional sights. He particularly enjoyed visiting the homes of writers and painters, locations that featured in their novels and pictures, museums and buildings dedicated to their work.
Franz Kafka, Hans Fallada and Albert Camus were three of the writers he had told Ray about after an England away in Warsaw, late at night in the hotel bar when the police had reclaimed control of the nearby streets. Ray was an Orwell man and had mentioned Nineteen Eighty-Four for some reason, started Merlin talking about the European writers he admired. And artists like Picasso and Matisse. He had dropped a load off outside Nice. Slept in his cab for two nights. Spent a day in Antibes and two hours in Château Grimaldi. Another in Vence with an hour at the Matisse Chapel. He had shown Ray the photos on his phone. Added a few words of French.
– What’s he up to? Ray asked.
Merlin had also been to every ground in the top four English divisions, keeping his membership of the 92 Club up to date as fast as he could after a new side arrived. But he wasn’t at a match or in his lorry in this particular shot. He was sitting at the front of a barge.
– Have a look at the next ones, Stan urged.
Ray flicked through several more photos of Merlin and the barge, wasn’t sure why he was looking at so many that were more or less the same, but then he did a double-take as the man became a goat. He brought the phone closer to his face to make sure. It was definitely a goat. He looked at Stan, who had been waiting for his reaction.
– Keep going.
Ray moved to the next picture. Merlin and the goat were standing by the side of a canal. Somewhere industrial. Dirty, depressing, dramatic. Northern. Thousands of bricks rose up behind them. A factory wall. Another photo showed Merlin crouching down so their heads were level. There was an iron bridge in the background. Black. Bolted together. With the height advantage removed, the goat seemed bigger and stronger, and the idea that it was smarter made Ray grin. Maybe it was in charge. The captain. There was a picture taken next to a lock. The flash had gone off and lit up the animal’s eyes. Ray felt a childish chill run across his skin. But only for a split second. He handed the phone back.
– What’s Merlin doing with a goat?
Photo: Alan Warner, John King and Irvine Welsh at Rebellion 2023. Taken by Blueblagger
Creases Like Knives 