Man Friday: The First Half: The Life and Times of Robin Friday, #1

By Stuart Kane

Robin Friday dreams of being a professional footballer: rejection, drugs, borstal, and a near-fatal industrial accident won't stop him. 

 

In early 1974, Reading's manager, Charlie Hurley, signs Friday. After three games, it is plain to see that he's a very special talent, but it's also clear to Charlie Hurley that he has an untameable spirit on his hands. This fact-based fiction takes the reader into the nerve endings of Friday's character, into the smaller moments, and brings him back to life and finishes in the summer of 1976. It is a story of love, crime, disloyalty, friendship, humour, and some battling football scenes. 

 

Reviews

 

'A clearly well-researched novelistic depiction of the life of a talented but troubled sporting individual. Kane captures the fluidity of a football match with lilting rhythms and riffs that illuminate Friday's skill on the field, but also the perpetual pressures Friday faced off it too. Without doubt, one of the finest football novels you'll read.' Ashley Hickson-Lovence, author, The 392, YOUR SHOW (The Uriah Rennie Story - Faber Spring 2022) 

 

'I am enjoying the book immensely, it has brought back Robin and his time at Elm Park back to life for me.' David Downs, Reading FC Historian, and author of Biscuits & Royals.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Helpston Fuller
• Release date: May 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781838026912

Stuart Kane

Stuart Kane is a novelist, researcher, and teacher who was born in Birmingham. Kane holds an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Birmingham. He had trials at Aston Villa as a youngster and was on the books at Walsall FC but wasn't offered YTS forms. He then turned his focus to rugby, where he played rugby league for Ireland Students in the mid-nineties. He has been published academically as a co-author of Conversations with Biographical Novelists: Truthful Fictions across the Globe (Bloomsbury 2019).  Stuart's passion for football and biographical fiction combined to create Man Friday (The Life and Times of Robin Friday). 'I wanted to bring Robin Friday back to life and tell his story more authentically.'

Book preview

First published in 2020

by Helpston Fuller

45 Tamworth Road

Sutton Coldfield

Birmingham B75 6EB

Copyright © Stuart Kane, 2020

All rights reserved.

The right of Stuart Kane to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The author has made all reasonable attempts to contact copyright-holders for permissions. Any omissions will be corrected at the earliest opportunity.

Photo credits: Mirrorpix

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for the print version of this book is available

on request from the British Library.

ISBN 978-1-8380269-1-2

In loving memory of

Lynne Lawrence

(1947 – 2014)

&

Matt Tune

(1976 – 2015)

‘As a striker I take a lot of stick, so I give it out as well. On the pitch I hate all opponents. I don’t give a damn about anyone. People think I’m mad, a lunatic. I am a winner.’

Robin Friday, South Wales Echo

Author’s Preface

This is the first part in a tale of two halves about Robin Friday, it is a fictional account of his life but is laced with fact. The depictions of real people in this book are purely the work of my imagination, informed by research and interpretation.

Man Friday: the first half, along with its sequel, has taken almost five years of intense study, writing and revisions. I have tried to leave no stone unturned and believe that I have stayed true to the spirit of Robin Friday. I have included the games he played as they are part of Robin’s history, and each one tells its own story.

What I have produced in this novel is a written portrait of Robin Friday, woven into the rich tapestry of his life. I have had to make judgements about what to include and what not to include. After all, so many of the stories surrounding him have been embellished over the years. Some have been played down or even made up, whilst others have been hidden for decades. I have really tried to capture the essence of his being, in a way that stays authentic to his unique character and the challenges and uncertainties he faced during his life.

So without much ado, hold onto your hat, and take a step back in time as a boy is waiting for you: his name is Robin Friday.

PART ONE

GROWING UP FAST –

FROM A BOY TO 1973

Sunday 27 July 1952

Robin Friday comes into the world kicking and screaming.

*

The ball bounces and Robin hears it. He can hear a ball bounce from miles away. The council green, surrounded by council houses, but not today. Today this is Wembley. The houses are the terraces and they’re cheering for Robin. His dad, and twin brother, Tony, make up the numbers. They play, they run, they score, they cry, they cheer. They play for years and years, and their shadows grow taller.

*

School happens. He sits at the back of the class, does not listen, but he has other ideas. He scratches his initials on desks: RF leaves his mark. The straight lines and right angles of Faraday School’s buildings appear to him to be part of the system, part of the idea of hemming you in: follow the straight lines. Robin will not follow the straight lines unless they are white on green turf. He gets into trouble and learns very little. The only time he really feels alive is when the bell goes and he heads out the school gates with a ball glued to his feet.

*

On a Sunday afternoon, he sits at the kitchen table in Acton, his mother busy over the hot stove preparing dinner. The smell of a chicken roasting in a dish fills the room and sticks to his clothes. A rare treat. Robin scours the back pages of the newspapers and his eyes fall on a photograph of George Best. Best in full control of his ball, his arms outstretched, his right foot turned inwards, ready to coax the ball around the oncoming defenders. Best in perfect motion for Northern Ireland. The England defenders George Cohen and Jack Charlton look clumsy and wrong-footed in their eager attempts to get Best’s ball back.

Robin picks up his pencil and pad, stares at George, and starts to sketch him in fine detail. He draws him again, then again, over and over, trying to capture some of George’s magic, that special spark.

*

Robin gets picked to play for the district at under-12s, under-13s, under-14s. Dad pens a letter to Chelsea, asking for a trial, on Robin’s behalf, like. He works hard and makes the youth team. The mighty blue of Chelsea, the history of Stamford Bridge. Jimmy Greaves, a Chelsea great, one of Robin’s favourite players, scores goal after goal. Robin tries to emulate his hero. Jimmy Greaves leaves Chelsea.

*

Saturday 20 May 1967

Chelsea make it to the 1967 FA Cup Final, and Robin is asked along with all the other youth players as part of the matchday entourage; he is almost fifteen years old. Robin has made it to Wembley, his childhood dream, but not to sit as a wallflower. Jimmy Greaves has made it to Wembley too, with Spurs. Robin soaks up the atmosphere but wants to be on that pitch scoring the goals. Chelsea lose the 1967 FA Cup final 2–1 to Spurs. London rivals. Jimmy Greaves.

*

The season draws to a close and Robin is called into the youth team manager’s office after training one morning. The walls are covered with pictures of former youth team players, past and present. He notices one, once black and white, now faded to yellow. Robin guesses at where that player is now and thinks that the lad probably doesn’t get toothache any more. The manager asks Robin to take a seat. Robin is expectant. He knows he’s worked hard on his game. ‘Thanks for your time here, son...’

He doesn’t need to say any more, but he does. The talk is of Robin being too much of an individual. That he should develop his game on a team level, to play the easy ball when called for and not hold onto it for too long. Robin tries to speak, but it’s no use, this man’s mind is made up. Robin shakes hands and fights back the tears. He leaves the room and closes the door behind him. Robin walks down the corridor. He goes through the double doors and out into the car park. There is no looking back. Fuck Chelsea; fuck football. Robin jumps on a red bus home.

That night, he twists and turns, and sleep comes late into the night. Robin dreams of playing at Wembley, actually playing there, under those Twin Towers. Jimmy Greaves and Robin Friday. He tells his mum and dad in the morning, and they smile. That’s the dream to have, he thinks.

*

Robin plays in the parks for a while, enjoying the freedom of the game again. He scores hat-tricks, scores six, scores seven. It seems to him that football is a simple game, made complicated by cunts.

*

The local newspapers report that thefts around Acton are on the rise. In the dark evenings, bicycles go missing and cars are broken into.

*

Skin popping —

He pulls up his shirt, looks down at his stomach, and with a gentle pinch he pulls at a piece of skin between his thumb and index finger and holds it still. He holds the syringe upright and presses to expel the air bubbles. Guiding the needle down towards his stomach, he presses the needle in, just under the skin. He feels the scratch of the needle and then pushes on the syringe – watching the methadone wash into him. He flops back with a grin on his face.

*

February 1969 is a miserable month. Blues (speed pills) make for wretched comedowns. Highs and lows. Days drift.

Robin walks the streets looking at the cars, aware of noises and movement. Curtains twitch. The road is punctuated by orbs of street light, and he looks for a gap, a gap in the light. A good car sits under a poorly functioning street lamp; its weak yellow haze looks dirty across the white of the Ford Capri. He knows this one will have a good radio. He slows down and opens a packet of John Player cigarettes. He takes out a fag and sparks it up with his Bryant & May matches. The scratch, followed by the fizzing sulphur, seems to light up the whole street. The smell of the match is comforting. Curtains seem to twitch again. The tobacco glows orange as Robin pulls on it. The tobacco soothes him. Looking steadily around, up and down the street he scans. He reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a fist-sized garden stone. Moving quickly, like a pro, one sure smack of the stone in his hand shatters the driver’s side window. The sound of glass crashing down and onto the floor, into the car and onto the road, seems to echo down the street. He reaches in, pulls up the lock and opens the door. Robin jumps straight into the driver’s seat. He takes out a transparent yellow-handled screwdriver from inside his jacket and goes for the radio. He prods, pulls, twists and turns; he rips its guts out. Wires spread out from behind the radio, and he pulls hard. The radio that was not his is now his. He pushes the car door open and steps out.

‘Oi, you!’ someone shouts.

Robin feels the panic well up inside; his heart beats faster and adrenaline charges through him. He starts to run, jelly legged, down the street, away, away from here. Robin knows these streets, but now they blur with unkindness. A panda car’s siren wails: ne-nah, ne-nah, ne-nah, ne-nah, ne-nah, ne-nah, ne-nah...

Turning right at the corner of the street he runs, between cars, into the middle of the road. In madness, he runs. The panda car is closer now and bares down upon him: ne-nah, ne-nah. He remembers the radio in his arms, still clutching it tight to his chest, but Robin changes his mind, he doesn’t want it any more. They can have it back. He launches it high into the sky and behind him. Brakes screech and there is a thud.

He runs harder now. In the street ahead he sees another panda car, and this time it’s got two coppers, sitting smiling, arms folded, their arses leaning on the bonnet.

‘You’re nicked, sunshine!’ the clichéd cunts chirp out in unison.

I’m fucked, thinks Robin, grinding to a halt.

*

To Feltham Borstal —

The doors slam and keys rattle. He is now in Feltham amongst fellow thieves and others with ‘substance problems’. There are arsonists, nonces, and some twenty-two-carat nutjobs. This is the ‘Nutter’s Borstal’. Robin gets clean, gets strong. Behaves himself and receives special consent to play for Reading’s youth team. After fourteen months he gets the fuck out of Feltham, eager not to return.

*

Tuesday 8 September 1970

Robin marries his childhood sweetheart, Maxine, an intelligent, beautiful black girl. His father does not attend. Family blessings are few and far between. There are no rivers of blood for Robin, only streams of happiness.

*

In March 1971, Robin joins Walthamstow, but only on a tenner a week, like. They play in the Isthmian League: decent amateurs. Some of the lads sort him out with a job on the asphalt, on the building sites. Up on the roofs. He works on the sites. Not a bad number, he thinks. Beautiful in the summer, but not so good in the winter – cold, you know. He likes to hide and have a laugh with the other lads.

On the football field, Robin keeps scoring; he can’t stop. Scoring goals is like an orgasm, and sometimes it’s actually better, simple, and without the mess.

*

Robin plays against Hayes one Saturday, and Walthamstow do them. Robin scores two.

The Hayes’ manager, Bob Gibbs, taps Robin up. Thirty quid a week is the offer, and travel expenses on top too. Hayes is near Acton, his home. For Robin, it’s a no-brainer. Thirty quid a week on top of his asphalting money. He tells Bob Gibbs, yes, and they shake hands. The registration forms are signed and he’s in. Walthamstow’s loss is Hayes’ gain. Robin is as happy as Larry, and this calls for a celebration. Off to the pub: beer, beer, short, beer, beer and chaser, beer, chaser, beer. Fuck. Sleep. Hangover and back to work on the site. Robin only thinks of tits and his next game of football, but not at the same time, like.

*

The beauty of the July sun of 1972 wraps Robin in its warmth —

On the rooftop, in the skies. Lambeth sits below. The building site bustles. The smell of bitumen wafts through the air. The banging, clinking, hammering echoes all around. Robin smokes, laughs, and jokes. He likes the idea of work, of hard graft, but just the idea though, and the money of course. He sees the hoist rope moving through from below with a fresh bucket of hot, steaming asphalt. The rope snags on the scaffolding. Robin moves forward towards the edge of the scaffold. He reaches down but can’t quite get there, so he stretches out his arm. As he reaches out, almost touching the rope, his foot slides on the scaffolding. He slips and falls backwards. Fuuucckkk! He sees the sky and prepares for the end. His mind speeds: Max and Nicola, Mum and Dad, Tony; fags, booze, parties, drugs and sex. Football. He crashes to the ground. A steel footing stake pierces his right buttock and follows through into his stomach. His mouth is open but there’s no sound. Wide-eyed he stares. Strong as an ox, he pushes up from his hands and feet. He heaves. He strains. The steel stake slides out from his arse. He stumbles forward, jelly legged, clutching his stomach. He hears the cries and sees his mates, their arms waving, hands outstretched. They surround him – a fuzziness appears before his eyes. Static crackles. Blackness draws him to its centre, and Death’s cloak is rough against Robin’s limp body.

*

BLEEP. He lies there prostrate. BLEEP. The light shines down on him. BLEEP. The mutterings, of which he hears nothing, come from those in white coats. BLEEP. Masked, they pull, they tug, they cut, they sew. Death frowns. BLEEP. They move him, they turn him, they roll him. BLEEP. For six bloody hours he is nothing but a fleshy piece of putty. BLEEP. This is not the theatre of dreams he had in mind. BLEEP. Death shrugs and leaves the room.

*

Fuzziness welcomes him. Robin is encapsulated in an anaesthetic glow. He is on a trolley. He doesn’t feel like talking. The white glow of the light draws him to its centre.

*

On the bed he wakes. On the bed he lies. Mum, Dad, and Tony sit at his bedside. Maxine stands at the foot of the bed. They smile at him. They comfort him. ‘The doctor says you’re very lucky, Robin. They say that spike went through your backside, then your stomach, and missed your heart and lungs by inches,’ says Mum.

‘Where am I?’

‘St Thomas’s Hospital, behind the Houses of Parliament,’ she says with a smile.

*

Days come and go, and boredom welcomes Robin. Consultants come, consultants go. Nurses come, nurses go. Family come, family go. Mates come, mates go. For six weeks he lies, he eats, and he shits in the same room. Robin grows stronger. Robin starts to move, and at last he can go free. The comforts of home help him recuperate.

*

Within three months he’s back on that pitch.

*

Robin plays well at Hayes. They do well in the league, but he wants more. He wants to play at a higher level. There is some interest from professional clubs, but it always goes quiet. Hayes’ boys are no mugs, like. They work hard and play hard. Robin is doing very well, and the boss is pleased with his performances on the pitch. Robin needs a bigger stage though.

*

Hayes manage to qualify for the FA Cup first round proper. They draw Bristol Rovers: The Gas. A strong Division Three side, and the Watney Cup Winners of 1972. Hayes get home advantage.

The Daily Mirror contact Robin through Hayes; they pay him a fiver for wearing a Newcastle Brown T-shirt. The camera click, click, clicks at him as he juggles the ball with his feet, head, and knees. They come to his home and take photographs of Robin, Maxine, and their daughter Nicola. ‘Monday night with the Fridays’ it says in the article – his name journalistic gold. Robin is the talk of Acton, but he laughs, plays it down – stays cool.

*

Saturday 18 November 1972

The Saturday he’s been waiting for finally comes, and it’s been a long fucking wait. It feels worse than waiting for Christmas when you’re a kid. On the day of the match, Robin puts his football boots in a white plastic bag and turns up at the ground. He’s early for once; he wants to soak up the atmosphere. It’s the busiest the ground has ever been. The Rovers’ fans and players arrive in their buses. Fans hustle, bustle, cheer and take the piss. Robin grins wide. He fucking loves this. The magic of the game.

He goes to his usual spot in the dressing room. Clothes off. Hayes’ shirt on. Shorts on. Straps up his ankles. Left sock on. Right sock on. Left boot on. Right boot on. No shin pads. The lads rub on the liniment. Robin shakes his legs; they are strong. He is strong. He goes to every player in the dressing room, touches them, each and every one, and wishes them good luck.

The boss talks the lads through the tactics and Robin listens a bit. Robin’s mind wanders back to Wembley, on the green, at the 1967 FA Cup final. He was just a wallflower back then though. The first round is a long way from Wembley, but he still dreams it, and the chances are stacked against Hayes even getting into the next round. But Robin wants it; he wants that field of grass to be his. There’s a knock at the door and it interrupts his daydreams, and the referee pops his head around the door. ‘Two minutes, lads!’

The boss eyeballs the room and says, ‘Come on, boys, do this for me, do it for the supporters who sit there in the cold and rain, year in, year out.’

If Robin could box up and sell that feeling or keep it for evermore, the feeling of running out onto the pitch at Hayes that day, he would, if he could.

A full house, standing room only. A rarity in non-league football, but this is the FA Cup, and it’s magic. It’s a wet November afternoon, with some light clouds but a bright blue sky. The clouds shimmer next to the sun, clouds with golden linings.

The whistle blows. The game starts out a bit cagey. It’s hard, and Rovers are organised. He knew they would be. Stalemate.

The whistle blows, and it’s 0–0 at half-time. The Hayes’ players march into the dressing room, their chance still open. They drink tea with plenty of sugar, and Bob Gibbs gees them up.

Hayes go harder at Rovers in the second half. The crowd, the Hayes’ crowd, sense a giant-killing. They scream; they jeer. Robin feeds on it, hungry. He plays harder. The noise moves him forward. The Rovers’ defence seems a bit weaker now, but they are organised like a Panzer regiment. Tanks. Robin takes the ball from just outside the centre circle and moves forward. He sweeps the ball with his left foot, then his right foot. One of the Rovers’ midfielders comes at Robin. Robin looks him in the eye, drops his left shoulder, and pushes off to the right. His heart skips a beat. The Rovers’ midfielder is gone. Robin sweeps across the grass like a muddy brush stroke, here and there. He goes everywhere. He looks up and pumps the ball to Bobby Hatt. Bobby takes the ball on his chest, drops it, and lets fly with a kick that sends the ball low and to the right of the Rovers’ keeper, who tries desperately to get his fingertips to it. The ball nestles into the back of the net. Hayes 1 Bristol Rovers 0. Pandemonium descends, and that’s how it finishes. Cheers. Sheer joy.

Robin has played a blinder, and so have the other Hayes’ lads. The champagne flows and the lads get well and truly pissed up, especially Robin.

In the next round, Hayes draw Reading. The Biscuitmen of the Fourth Division. Reading get home advantage at Elm Park. Robin cannot fucking wait, but he does.

*

Saturday 9 December 1972

Robin gets on the bus with his team. There is a togetherness, and adventure fills the air. They feel mighty. The bus winds its way through the roads and arrives at Elm Park. Reading sit mid-table in the Fourth Division.

The Reading manager, Charlie Hurley, is a former Sunderland great with 400 appearances for the Black Cats at centre half and 40 caps for Eire. They are at home; they have a good crowd. The Hayes’ fans are scattered in a stand; they look broken up. They seem far away.

Robin goes into the dressing room. Clothes off. Hayes’ shirt on. Shorts on. Straps up his ankles. Left sock on. Right sock on. Left boot on. Right boot on. No shin pads. The lads rub on the liniment. He shakes his legs; they are strong. He is strong. He goes to every player in the dressing room, touches them, each and every one, and wishes them good luck.

Robin wants to be in the third-round draw. He wants the chance to knock at one of the big boys. Manchester United, Liverpool or Leeds United will do just fine.

The game kicks off. The Saturday wind blows from the east. Light rain falls from the grey clouds. The ball is kicked, punched, and thrown. He kicks. He passes. He tackles. He kicks. He shoots. Death is in goal for Reading. He’s not like you imagine; he’s Steve Death, Reading’s diminutive goalkeeper. Robin winds Death