the colour orange

THE COLOUR ORANGE

He’s on telly again. The man with the permanent suntan, funny accent, white teeth and shiny face. Often seen on TV bending spoons with his mind, like some sort of bastard child of Magneto and the Tubular Bells guy, dangerously mixed with that suspect cheery disposition that I only ever see in travelling Christian theatre companies, bouncing around my school stage, singing it in the valleys and shouting from the mountain tops.

The spoon bender is now enticing me to touch a big orange spot on my screen. This strange man seems to be smeared all over television, like the Oxy 10 I apply badly to my face each morning before school, looking in the mirror too scared to pop spots and wondering who Adam is and why he’s stuck an apple in my throat. Each time I swallow it looks like a satsuma’s being slipped down the inside of a snake.

The man with the permanent suntan, funny accent, white teeth and shiny face is making yet another TV appearance, on the special edition of the Baddiel and Skinner Fantasy Football show, which I’m watching, sat in the living room, on the well-worn settee, on my own.

Apparently, if I touch this big orange spot, the man with the permanent suntan, funny accent, white teeth and shiny face will become like a SCART lead and channel all that positive energy from televisions around the nation towards the England football team. It’s Euro 96; they’re playing Scotland the very next day! My grandpa, from Dad’s side, is from Scotland. My older brother supports Scotland, he doesn’t support England, he supports the other team when England play, and that really gets on my nerves! There’s a lot at stake for this game.

I sink down onto the floral-patterned badly faded settee like a fence, watching the screen, picking splinters from my spleen. I roll my eyes up to the lopsided white wooden shelf on the back wall, on which sits a small collection of my thirteenth birthday cards, which have now managed to last for three days. They all seem to have the same picture, of a hand-drawn school locker with loads of sports equipment spilling out. Stood next to the cards in a permanent place is a small statue of the Virgin Mary from Lourdes. It contains some holy water and two decorative plates, which stand upright like shields and have pictures of both Glasgow and Belfast. Belfast is where my grandad comes from, on Mum’s side. Underneath the lopsided white wooden shelf is the TV: a fourteen-inch black Philips box which doesn’t have a remote, and sometimes the buttons get stuck and don’t work.

Like a top gun fighter pilot, target in sight, my eyes lock back on to the big orange spot on the screen. The man with the permanent suntan, funny accent, white teeth and shiny face is enticing me. Touch faith, that song says.

I’m not sure what to believe, but I’m willing to give it a go. Mum and Dad probably won’t like it, as I’m sure it goes against the teachings of the church, but so far God hasn’t answered any of my prayers about girls and I’ve only just got a Sega Mega Drive; it’s 1996! My best friend Rich has already got rid of his and now has a Sega Saturn. And, as for my teeth, I must be at the back of the longest queue in NHS history because I haven’t seen an orthodontist yet, my teeth still look like Stonehenge and Richard calls me goofy. I slowly rise, walk towards the telly and stick my sweaty little palm on the static of the glass. Right on the orange spot. I’m doing it for England. I want England to win.

It’s the following day and I’m now at Richard’s house. He’s got a much bigger TV; it’s massive. He also has Sky; the satellite dish is outside his bedroom on the wall and apparently, at nightime, for ten minutes, there’s a secret channel where you get to see naked women! He also watches WWF. I have to make do with WCW on ITV. His parents actually like football and on Sunday they take him to games and watch him play, they don’t go to church. He has barbecues in his garden, holidays to Florida and places in Spain where they have outdoor water parks that Richard reckons are way better than the Croydon Water Palace. My family sit round playing guitars and other weird instruments with strings and sing silly-sounding songs in Irish accents.

I rode my brand-new bike which I got for my birthday up to Richard’s. I say new; it’s second-hand, but it’s my first ever mountain bike. It’s got Shimano gears and Rhino horns. Richard’s got two mountain bikes; he keeps one spare.

We’re both lying on our bellies in his living room, eyes fixed on his massive TV, waiting for the two arch-enemies to commence battle. I’m nervous. I want England to win. I didn’t want to watch the game at home, as I knew my older brother would be there, in his Celtic shirt and Scotland scarf, and my dad, who doesn’t really like football but will still watch the big games without taking sides. When a player rolls around the floor pretending to be injured, he’ll go ‘achhh’ just like my grandpa does. I needed to be amongst my own, I want England to win.

The first forty-five fly by with turbulence. At half time, it’s nil-nil and it’s tense. The commentator is telling us that Jamie Redknapp is coming on from the bench; his instructions are to keep hold of the ball in midfield so the full backs can get forward. Richard and I erupt when Gary Neville swings in a cross from the right flank which Alan Shearer heads into the net to put England one-nil up! Rolling round on the floor, Rich trying to put me in the headlock and punch me!

Minutes later, out of nowhere, Scotland suddenly get a penalty! Gary McAllister steps up and places the ball on the spot, an expert executioner if ever there was one. I’m nervous. As he takes the few paces just before he strikes, something very strange happens: the ball moves ever so slightly, and when he connects, he hits it hard but Seaman saves and we erupt all over again! It’s still one-nil and I’m trying to put Richard in the headlock now, rolling round on the carpet!

Now, apparently, at this very moment, hovering above Wembley in a helicopter, holding one of Bobby Moore’s England caps, is the man with the permanent suntan, funny accent, white teeth and shiny face! The one who told me to touch the orange spot! It must have been him that moved the ball! And when Jamie Redknapp plays a sweeping pass, flicked on by Darren Anderton into the path of an advancing Paul Gascoigne, who in two amazing moves deftly clips the ball over Colin Hendry’s head and slams it into the back of the net, Richard and I explode and go running round his garden, shouting our heads off!

The game’s finished now, England won! I’m getting on my bike and all I can think about is claiming those rare bragging rights when I get home, as I know my brother was watching it. I start riding, cars in the street are beeping, I can hear people singing everywhere, that Baddiel and Skinner song, ‘Football’s Coming Home’. Displayed all over the place is the white and red flag of St George, which until Euro 96 I’d not really seen before, but now it’s on almost every house. It’s a good day to be English.

I ride my brand-new-second-hand bike back home. I can’t wait to see my brother’s face! I put my bike in the shed and come in through the back door into the kitchen. I can hear my dad on the phone, probably to Grandpa. I hear a few ‘achhh’s, which more or less confirms my suspicions. Grandpa normally rings around this time on a Saturday, just before Mum and Dad go to church.

My brother is sat in the living room, still wearing his Celtic shirt and Scotland scarf, sunk so low into the settee I can barely see his body. He’s watching the news. Gazza’s goal is doing a loop-the-loop. I pause by the door. He looks dejected and I suddenly feel like I’ve said something to upset someone, except I haven’t said anything yet. I feel bad, so I decide not to gloat. I try to make light of it, by telling him how I touched the orange spot on the telly the night before and that man with the permanent suntan, funny accent, white teeth and shiny face was hovering in a helicopter above Wembley and must have made Gary McAllister miss his penalty. My brother doesn’t look at me; he stays slumped on the settee, looking at the telly, and mumbles some words about the orange spot, something about church and Mum and Dad. He then says something I don’t really understand but I know it’s bad, about Belfast, Grandpa, Grandad, marches and some people called loyalists.

I can hear my dad calling me from the hall to go and speak to Grandpa. I remind myself that my new bike has got Shimano gears and Rhino horns and that it was four miles to Richard’s house, so that’s eight miles in total that I rode today, and I tell myself that it’s probably best that I don’t mention the score.