The game was a buggery for the Flint boys on the pitch from start to finish; the local chavs in the stands taking their attention to getting their own with the Sculley supporters off it.
Pete damn near lost his voice as they rained down boos on the players as they did a lap for the fans after the full time whistle.
'Hey, Wazza, you played shitter than your mother was in bed,' Collings, up on the rails said.
'What a fucking cock-up that was.'
'Bunch of muppets.'
'Get down you tosser.'
'It's the fucking owner, man.'
'Get your hands offa me, ya cunt.'
'Fuck the manager right back off to nordland, or wherever the fuck he is—'
'Marler, what'd you do, leave your left foot at home, you useless dickhead,' Collings continued.
It kicked off amongst the supporters but Pete was in no headspace to get in there. He picked up a half filled, discarded beer, downed it and blended in with those making for the exits singing 'FUFC' as if the match were about to begin. He felt like a pinball the way he rode the momentum of the crowd and the bodies that stood up to his heft, and he already at a loss for control for he had no fucks left to give but for the pain of a loss to the skirtboys from Sculley that allowed him to ride the bumps and lead the chorus of chanting.
'Carey's a bottler
A fucking waste of space
Cause when you get him in front of goal
He fucks off without a trace
Somehow he made it through and determined to make it to last call at The Piper.