C.M.

Taylor grew up in Yorkshire and Suffolk, and has

lived in India, Belgium and Spain. He now makes his
home in Oxford with his wife and daughter.

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 PREMIERSHIP
PSYCHO

C.M. Taylor

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 Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com

First published in the UK by Corsair,

an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd., 2011

Copyright © C.M. Taylor 2011

The right of C.M. Taylor to be identified as the author of this

work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition

that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold,
hired out or otherwise circulated 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.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in

Publication data is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-1-84901-594-3

Printed and bound in the EU

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

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 To Our Lad, the Maldini of Cambourne.
And to Mum and Dad, for whom every day is Wednesday.

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 Part One

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 landmark translucent atrium

‘The paps just red-handed me muffing out the Captain’s wife in

the Bentley.’
‘Fuck. Kev. What? Calm down. From the beginning.’
It seemed pretty clear to me: paparazzi; forbidden quim;
twelve-cylinder Bentley Continental GT with twin elliptical
exhausts. I pull my triband Nokia 8800 Arte away from my ear
and stare at it. Did this tit, my agent, not understand the
Queen’s?
I’m shouting now. ‘The Captain’s wife. The red-tops just
snapped me going down on her.’
‘Who was it?’
‘I forget her name. Jane or something. Some girl’s name.’
‘No, not the girl. The pap. Who was the pap?’
‘I don’t know his name. Know his face. Super Soar-Away or
something. Mirror. News of the Screws. Seen him around.’
‘Where are you?’
‘M4.’
‘You’d better come over.’
I kill the line and accelerate. The six-speed 2F automatic
transmission with Tiptronic override obeys my injured foot and
the Bentley noses out towards Berkshire. Royal Berkshire.
I notch up the Acura ELS surround sound and flip to Radio
5 Live.

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 C.M. TAYLOR

Ex-England manager Terry Venables rejects the Newcastle job.

Verbal pugilist Joe Kinnear instead the surprise appointment.
Reports of Gazza’s death untrue.
Merseyside derby. Steven Gerrard on ninety-nine Liverpool
goals.
The multi-link air suspension sits me on a cushion. Of. Air.
Fucking foot, should be playing today, owning the 08-09
season. Should be scoring. But this foot, this dirty foot’s keeping
me out. I am the fucking daddy. I can play all over the park.
Off the M4 towards Maidenhead, then nail the A4130 towards
Henley. Excellent local amenities. Exceptionally secluded plots.
Buzz down the window and ring the intercom. Gated
residence. Ironwork swings open and the Bentley crunches the
gravel. Substantial detached home, finished to exemplary
standards. Stone embellishments. Six bedrooms. Five receptions.
Show-home condition.
The door opens and Colly steps out and walks towards the car.
He’s wearing an Allesandro Dell’Acqua single-button casual
jacket with checked Etro trousers and a Tim Hamilton gingham
shirt. He’s got taste, Colly, and he’s doing very well, as this gaff
attests, although handsomeness-wise, he’s not a patch on me,
due to his weirdly large head and the sort of clumpy, shanky
hands that you might find hulking from a butcher’s sleeves. Still,
agenting-wise, Colly’s got some of the Prem’s top boys under his
wing. Not that he has a wing.
I step out and dink the Bentley locked.
‘Was it worth it, Kev?’
‘What?’
‘Was she worth it?’
‘The skirt? Don’t know yet. Depends if I get away with it. And
that depends on you.’
Colly looks a bit wired. Could be the situation. Or it could be
the bugle he’s no doubt been hammering all morning. Because
he does like the high life, the boy. Has done all the time I’ve been
with him; all the seven years he’s been looking after me. First

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 Premiership Psycho

player to sign with him, I was, and even now, when he’s got
more than a few internationals on his roster, we’re still close, me
and Colly. Thick as thieves.
‘Nice house I bought you, Colly.’
He just laughs. ‘Come in.’
We walk into the outstanding split-level reception area and
down the marbled hallway to the architect-designed leisure
complex. Sauna. Steam room. Gym space. Infinity pool. A
nosed-up bimbo’s giggling in the hot tub. She looks over. She
recognizes me. Course she does. I am Kevin King … The
Enforcer.
The likes of your Gerrards, your Lampards, your Kevin Kings …
The likes of your Kevin Kings.
‘Give us a minute,’ Colly tells the girl and she scowls but stands
and bikinis out towards the hallway.
You would. I probably will.
‘Take a seat, Kev.’
Colly gestures towards the Tropitone Cabana Club modular
stainless-steel armchairs and we walk over and sit down, facing
each other.
‘You really don’t know who the pap was?’
I shrug.
‘Describe him, Kev.’
‘Twat with a camera.’
‘C’mon, make an effort.’
‘Don’t know his name, do I? Told you that.’
‘Look, Kev. If these snaps get splashed, you’ll have to leave.
The transfer window’s closed. Where will you go? You can’t fuck
around with the Captain’s holster and expect to stay at the
club.’
‘I should be the fucking Captain.’
‘That’s not the point, Kev. Look, describe this pap to me.
Maybe we can work out who it is, get the pictures off him.
Anyway, you sure he got the photos? You’ve got tinted
windows.’

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 C.M. TAYLOR

‘Colly, I’m sure. I looked up from between her legs and saw a
fucking lens.’
‘You had the window open?’
‘We were dogging.’
‘How did he know you were there, Kev?’
‘Maybe he’s a dogger. Maybe he followed me from Nan’s …
Give a shit. He’s got the snaps.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Tall. Dark hair. Scruffy cunt.’
‘Sounds like Taff. Was it Taffy?’
‘You deaf?’
‘I’m gonna call Taff, see if he knows anything.’
Colly pulls out his T-Mobile G-1 Android phone and pisses
about with his menus. He finds Taff’s number, calls it, and flips
the phone on to speaker, holding it out so I can hear. The ringing
stops and a voice climbs out from the Android.
‘Colly. Thought I might hear from you.’
‘It was you then.’
‘Was me what?’
‘You know, Taff. Anyway, can I buy you lunch?’
‘Yeah, Colly, you can buy me lunch. The Fat Duck?’
‘Cheeky cunt. That’s two hundred quid a throw.’
‘Thought you might want to treat me, in the circumstances.’
‘All right, Taffy. See you in an hour?’
‘Fine.’
‘And Taffy, don’t forget your camera.’
‘And Colly, don’t forget your chequebook.’
Colly thumbs the call closed and we look at each other.
‘Wanker,’ we both say.
‘Can you really get a table at the Duck?’ I ask Colly.
‘No problem. Know Heston.’
He knows Heston Blumenthal. TV chef. Three Michelin stars.
Colly knows him, the flash bastard. Wouldn’t have done, a while
back, no way. But now Colly’s virtually a sleb in his own right.
They get him on sport radio, now and again, to give his opinion.

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 Premiership Psycho

Been on the goggle, also. Talking head. State of the game. That
kind of shit. Building an empire, Colly is. Like the Romans.
Except without the viaducts. Presumably.
Colly’s already speed-dialling the Duck. He don’t hang about.
‘Hi. Table for today … Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re full. As
always. Tell Heston it’s Colly, right. He’ll find me a spot.’
Cocky fucker. There’s a wait and Colly leans down and rubs a
mark from his black Cesare Paciotti shoes. I listen to the hum of
the infinity pool and then the phone monkey must be back on
because Colly says, ‘Good. Thought so. One hour. Table for
two.’
The call ends and Colly tosses the G-1 Android phone on to
the low Tropitone modular table.
‘Table for two, Colly?’
‘Yeah. Me, one. Taff, two.’
‘And what about me?’
‘You come, Kev, and your mouth’ll double the cost of the
pictures.’
‘It’ll be worth it.’
‘Last year, the year before, Kev, when you were on proper
Premiership cash, maybe it’d be worth it to you. But not on
Championship wages.’
Championship wages. Listen to him, the wanker. I may be on
Champs cash now, but I know – and every fucker who’s seen me
knows, every fucker who really understands the game, that is –
that I’m Prem quality.
Made for the Premiership, I am. Made of it, almost. If you like.
Yet now I am exiled, adrift in the Bermuda Triangle of the lower
leagues. But one day I will return triumphant, passing adored
once more through the gates of the Prem, riding an enormous
footballing horse, or somesuch. And when I do return, I will win
everything. I simply will.
I, Kev King, will merely amass silverware. That is a given. It
is my goal, my driving ambition. Though I do have other goals,
such as upholding consumer rights, which is crucial. And

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 C.M. TAYLOR

getting my nuts in, clearly. Obviously.

‘Look, go home, Kev. I’ll call you when it’s a done deal with
Taffy. Go back to the flat. Watch some games. Put that knacked
foot up and relax. I’ll get you out of this.’
Colly stands and walks out from the leisure complex and I
follow. His Paciottis squeak across the hallway’s marble and he
bellows, ‘Off out,’ up the stairs, then we head through the door.
I slide into my four-seater coupé and watch the nearest door of
Colly’s quadruple garage hum open. He emerges in a 4.2 litre
super-charged V8 Jaguar XKR-S. Not a bad little motor. But if
Colly had done a proper spec reccy he’d have seen that his 420
bhp is dwarfed by the Bentley’s 552.
I watch Colly back out, spin round and turn left out of his drive
and I nestle within the Bents for a while, musing on returning
inside and bopping his playmate. But I don’t. Not the right time.
I turn the coupé over then hang right out of the drive, heading
back to the flat.
There’s some countryside or something and then I hit the
outskirts of town. Not London. The gaffer won’t let me live in the
proper city. Part of the deal when I signed with this tinpot and
recently relegated club was that I had to live near the stadium,
near the training ground. Could have taken a spanking,
out-of-town exec ranch like Colly, but I’ve been nailed drink
driving too many times to risk the ride home from the town’s
bars. So I took a flat in town.
Sophisticated living in a secure location. Concierge and lifestyle
management services. Enviable and privileged settings.
The coupé dips into the underground parking and snugs into
my parking spot, ‘King. Penthouse’, painted on the concrete in
its centre. Up to the flat. Superb specifications. Generous living
space. Elegant and stunning.
I toss the car keys and hunt the remote and the BeoVision
7 forty-inch LCD TV with tilt and turn functionality hums
alive. I twist the Venetians open and the BeoVision’s
VisionClear technology adjusts to the new light levels, altering

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 Premiership Psycho

the screen’s abundant light output and contrast levels.

I press play on the built-in DVD and last night’s porn churns
through the advanced digital surround sound processors and
climbs from the speech-optimized optional BeoLab 7-4 vertical
central speaker with acoustic lens technology. A variety of women
are displayed in frame-by-frame dynamic contrast. From a variety
of positions they climb variously to a variety of climaxes and I
relax. I scan to 5 Live on the Nokia 8800.
Merseyside derby. Early kick-off.
Liverpool two up. Torres double.
Fucking Torres. He’s nothing. A nothing player. Like to see
him dazzle once I’ve been through the back of him, raked my
studs down his fucking calves.
I flip to the Championship scores. My muppets aren’t playing
yet.
Three o’clock kick-off. Half an hour to go.
I sit down and do some porn then I call Colly to see how he’s
doing with the pap but he doesn’t take me. The afternoon
stretches out like a fucker in front of me. Pop over and see
Nan?
No, not yet. I’ve got a test to do.
In the bathroom I take out an eyeliner pencil and look at myself
in the mirror. I draw a black line from the centre of the bottom of
my nose downwards to touch my top lip, then I pick that line up
underneath my bottom lip and continue it down, over my chin,
then under it and down over my Adam’s apple.
I have split my face in two halves. It is a face of two halves.
I take out my scientifically formulated Elemis ice-cool foaming
shave gel and lather up. Having applied the software of shaving,
I reach for the hardware.
From the bathroom cabinet I take out the King of Shaves Azor
hybrid synergy system razor and place it on the left-hand side of
the sink. Then from the same cabinet, I take out a Wilkinson
Sword Quattro Titanium Precision razor, placing it on the
right-hand side of the sink.

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 C.M. TAYLOR

I begin with the Azor, weighing its ecoptimized body in my

palm. I peer at the product, enjoying the tuning-fork-shaped
polypropylene twin-shot blade holder. I place the Endurium-
coated blade to my skin, high up on my cheek, and move the
razor slowly down towards my jaw.
The touch skin technology snugs pleasantly to my face. The
product handles well. The lo-fi aesthetic of the razor’s
componentry synergizes with the Endurium glide of the blade,
and as I remove the scrub from my chin, I muse that the razor
combines the unfussiness of the disposable with the high-end
technique of the multi-use.
The King of Shaves Azor, I feel sure, will establish itself in a
difficult market, dominated, at this particular moment in consumer
history, by the Gillette/Wilkinson duopoly.
The Azor has pleased me. But let’s see how it goes head-
to-head with the Quattro’s quadruple titanium-coated blades.
Again, I start from high up on my cheek and move down towards
my jaw. The aloe vera, vitamin E and Pro B5-impregnated
lubricating strip offers a glide, which, in the opinion of this
consumer, is at least equal to that of the Azor’s touch skin
technology. The skin comfort, if anything, is marginally better.
The single, AAA battery, enclosed in the body of the Quattro,
offers a surprisingly powerful motor for the multi-length trim
functionality, and the pulse it gives seems – from memory at least
– distinctly less vicious than that of the Mach 3 Turbo.
I rinse the Quattro under the tap and feel no anxiety about the
battery coming into contact with water. Wilkinson have long
been known for the quality of their product seals.
I flip the Quattro and guide the back-mounted edging blade
towards the smaller hairs in the difficult-to-reach area beneath
my nose. I come away pleased with the well-positioned nimbleness
of the edging system. I undo my fly and withdraw my almost-full
erection, resting it on the curved front ledge of the sink.
The low friction technology of the Quattro Titanium Precision
has moved me, and that, combined with compact motor, edging

10

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 Premiership Psycho

blade and multiple trim levels, puts it perhaps even slightly ahead
of the elegant and dextrous Azor.
I lean forward and wash the remnants of the Elemis ice-cool
foaming shave gel from my face, then curl my finger and glide it
down each of my cheeks.
Nice. And. Smooth.
The Azor? The Quattro? It’s very close.
I have some real thinking to do. I pull an Elemis recovery mask
from the bathroom cabinet and apply. Which is it to be?
The differences are minute at this level.
A single mistake can turn a game.
I lift the Azor and it rinses easily beneath the running tap.
Good. But as I lift the Quattro, I spy a darkness pinned beneath
the blades, which on closer inspection reveals itself as a residue
of facial hair. The tap water struggles to run behind the closely
packed blade head and some tenacious beard clog holds on.
The Azor edges by the Quattro.
The King of Shaves brand has a future, providing it continues
to innovate its product design while keeping it tight at the back.
The Azor’s qualified for the next round. Quattro’s limped out
on pens.
I wash the recovery mask from my face and slip into a Tïsseron
aprés bath robe and leave the bathroom. In the split-level leisure
area, the porn’s still porning. I call Colly but he does not take
me.
A text comes in from my Wag in Dubai, but I do not reply.
The Nokia tells me that the three o’clocks have kicked off.
Should be out there.
Box-to-box player. Terrific engine.
Technique. Power. Pace. The full package.
I walk over to the penthouse’s window and look down across
the river towards the award-winning retail and leisure complex
on the far side of the water. I peer out to the retro-modern
storefronts, the granite, stadium-style external seating, the
landmark translucent atrium.

11

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 C.M. TAYLOR

It’s not a bad place. For the sticks, that is. A reasonable
combination of big-name retailers, and a higher end of
merchandise mix than you might expect: Hobbs, H&M, French
Connection.
It’s all right. Don’t get me wrong. Vital consumer needs are
addressed.
But it’s not boutique. It’s not me.
I am Premiership quality and this retail and leisure complex is
Championship. I mean, they’ve got a Zara in there. They’ve got
a fucking Burtons.
I’m better than this place. I want truly high end. But right now
I’m stuck. Frozen within the lower leagues.
Radio 5 Live tells me we’re already one down.
Missing that bit of quality in the centre of the park.

12

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