The Laddy Jones Story Part One


What was Laddy Jones thinking

as he watched his long hair dangling

down in the toilet bowl?

How nobody could shout down forty-thousand people. The noise propelled him home at night like a parade and his eyes opened to the lingering majesty of it in the mornings. People shouting for him over and over. For Laddy�La like a bloodfreezing war cry and Day like a cathedral going quiet when it was forty thousand of them. Then next day LADDY! ricocheting off the back page in the largest, thickest permissible type. He thanked God for the puppy souls of the football hacks. Let in after the match, sniffing all the corners, pissing in the same urinals as the athletes. Even before his first goal he had them calling him Laddy. Daddy. Then he left Liverpool like they were dropped out of an aeroplane in the 78th minute from twenty-two metres out and suddenly the hacks were like his wives, nagging him Laddy this, Laddy that. It was the sweetest music to his ears. He was the Godfather, delegating a crime that would never touch him. Sending out the message to the old streets�you people are nothin’ to me and you won’t never be nothin’ to me.

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