Sock

He drinks cups of tea on a Sunday morning, not because he’s hung over but because he simply does. A bag of Yorkshire Tea is dropped, the boiling water is poured in soon afterwards followed by two or three spoons of sugar and then comes the milk. He likes it milky and sweet and can’t quite understand how tea would taste nice without these ingredients. Having run out of food, the tea compensates for an empty stomach. Pasta won’t make you a breakfast, nor will Chicken Tonight Spanish Chicken Flavour sauce or Colman’s (of Norwich) Creamy Cheese & Bacon Pasta sauce mix. Tea will do, tea is the Englishman’s drink, and it is a fact that every single person residing within England will drink at least one cup of tea every single day without fail. The caffeine content in tea is an added blessing to him; it fits well in the spectrum, somewhere between ectasy and horse tranquillisers.
On this day, he’s looking for his sock. Living on the cheap side, he only has a single pair and so now one. He can’t remember where he left the other. He’s checked his house twice and both times nothing was found, with the exception of a gone-off chocolate bar. He ate that hurriedly. The shoes slip on his half-socked feet, they’re still tied from his last outing. His front door shuts behind him unlocked, he continues his search in the outside world.
The stone pavements seem cheerier today, the sun shines down on them, a warm yellow feeling remains. Blue skies can do their best to improve a mood; he smiles. Bins are checked along the way, occasionally the tenants of the bin take to shouting at him. ‘‘Oi!’’ The lid quickly drops, his walking pace increases. Gradually he begins again to take a few peeks; these rubbish bins didn’t have what he was after. A sock can be a dear friend when you rely on it solely; blisters are a pain.
The pub in his area is a sort of melting pot for the eccentrics. The nearer he comes, the more characters he meets. The first to cross his path would be pseudo-political guy or ‘Pete’ for short.
‘‘Heya man’’
‘‘Hi Pete’’
‘‘What yer been up to mate?’’
‘‘Trying to find my sock’’
‘‘Ah socks, they can be a hassle, course you used’t have loads round here, I’m sure they made ‘em at one of these old mills before they shut down, bloody Thatcher’’
‘‘Yes, Pete, yes, but that’s in the past, plus I’d hardly go holding up a textile mill shouting ‘I want a sock or she gets it’ ’’
‘‘She?’’
‘‘The imaginary woman in my imagination’’
‘‘I see, I see, hmmm, you could have tried it, commodity requisition, stick it to them fat cats’’
‘‘Well, we’re not all Marxists’’
‘‘I know man, I know, but it’s the government, they’re the bastards, bloody fascists!’’
‘‘I’ll see you later Pete’’
‘‘What, where you going?’’
‘‘Finding my sock’’
‘‘Oh yeah… oh wait, one last thing. There’s been rumours of a BNP demonstration in this area, thought you should know, if you wanna stay out of trouble’’
‘‘I spose you’ll be fighting ‘em tooth and nail then?’’
‘‘Course man, of course, gotta let ‘em know they’re not wanted’’
‘‘I agree with the sentiments, but I just want to avoid confrontations right now, thanks for the news anyway’’
‘‘No problem mate, see ya around’’
‘‘Tarrah’’
The two part in their opposite directions, one towards the pub, Pete walking away from it. Pete had his heart in the right place and his sentiments were truly felt, but he usually lacked the sort of brains to make a coherent argument; pretty much amounting to the whole ‘down with the government’ motto. He checks the back alleys, bog-laden and unkempt places where children play. A few play now, their hands become handguns and one directs his piece at the unknown stranger still looking for his sock.
‘‘Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! You’re dead, you’re dead!’’
‘‘Ah, you got me’’
‘‘You’re not dead!’’
‘‘Well what more do you want?’’
The child doesn’t answer, his confusion winds and unwinds, and after much deliberation he continues his onslaught.
‘‘Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!’’
‘‘Yeah, I’ll get you for assault,’’ whispers under his breath.
After exiting the back alley, he returns to the street where the local’s now in sight. ‘The Red Lion’. Pub titles couldn’t come more uniform, there was always a lack of originality in the naming of pubs, half a million Dog and Partridge’s here, a couple of Queens Arms there and a barrage of Wetherspoon pseudo-pubs everywhere. The Dog tied up on a leash comes as a familiar sight outside the pub; his owner drank here often. He walks up to the dog.
‘‘Ah, long time no see my friend’’
‘‘Michael, how you doing of late?’’
‘‘A bit down at the moment, my stocks haven’t been doing so well’’
‘‘That’s the markets for yer’’
‘‘You got that right, I can’t even afford pedigree, it’s so low brow’’
‘‘You’re telling me, what else do you buy with the money?’’
‘‘Oh I don’t know, a new bone made of plastic, a chewy toy, maybe a new basket’’
‘‘It’s a dog’s life’’
‘‘Oh God’’
‘‘Sorry’’
‘‘You should be’’
‘‘Yes’’
‘‘You entering the Public House then now?’’
‘‘Yeah, in a bit, but I don’t spose you’ve seen a sock anywhere lying around?’’
‘‘A sock? No, no sorry. Why? It dear to you?’’
‘‘Yes, very much so’’
‘‘Well I’ll tell you if I see it’’
‘‘Thanks Mike’’
‘‘It’s Michael’’
‘‘Sorry Michael’’
‘‘That’s better’’
‘‘See yer in a bit’’
‘‘Bye’’
Michael was quite an entrepreneurial character and had an eye for the stock markets. As far as things go, he was doing quite well in the business world, his other love being his dog, who he bought many a luxury. They walked off; it seemed, happily, the dog’s thoughts possibly on what went on in that building where so many people frequented.
In the pub sat quite a few patrons, some talking, some buying drinks, some simply staring. He advances to the bar.
‘‘What can I get yer mate?’’
‘‘Erm… I don’t spose you’ve seen a sock about?’’
‘‘Yer What?’’
‘‘A sock by any chance?’’
‘‘You tryin’t be funny mate?’’
‘‘No, I’m looking for my sock’’
‘‘You come to the bar to order drinks or packets of crisps and the like, if you’re not, move aside’’
‘‘Oh sorry, a pint of bitter then please… So you definitely haven’t seen my sock?’’
The barman ignores him and with a short stare tells him to shut up.
‘‘That’ll be £1.50 mate…cheers…hey wait a sec, I best be telling yer, there’s gonna be some BNP supporters and members in here later on, it’s part of this ‘unannounced parade’ they’ve got going around here.’’
‘‘Yeah, I heard, you know anything else?’’
‘‘They’re keeping pretty much stum about it, I’ve heard only from rumours, but they’ll definitely be in here later, so if I were you, I’d stop asking about your sock or you’re asking for a punch’’
‘‘You really think they’d…’’
‘‘They’re the BNP’’
‘‘Good point’’
He sits down to drink his pint, quite frothy and dark brown beneath. The time passes quickly as the hours match the pints, a game of football plays its length, and the pint consumption reaches five. The atmosphere seems generally friendly; the usuals inhabit their usual places, a few have had a little too much for this time of the day, just making 6 O’clock with the sun not yet set. From across the room walks the resident drunk, he could be found in here any given day; to say he had somewhat of a dependency on the stuff would be somewhat of an understatement.
‘‘Hey up mate, how yer doin’?’’
‘‘Hello Joe, not too bad at all, you?’’
‘‘I’m drunk’’
‘‘Ah, thought you might be’’
‘‘Heheh, I’m an alcoholic’’
‘‘No you’re Joe, Joe’’
‘‘Precisely mate, precisely…You heard about these skinheads? Wanna make trouble and that.’’
‘‘The BNP?’’
‘‘That’s the one, that’s the one’’
‘‘Yeah, something ‘bout a parade, but I haven’t seen anything’’
‘‘Won’t be yet mate, won’t be yet, they’re gonna wait till it’s dark’’
‘‘Why’s that?’’
‘‘Make more trouble when it’s dark can’t they?’’
‘‘Yeah, I guess…though I heard they were coming here’’
‘‘Soon, very soon, but I’ll catch yer later, gonna get another beer’’
‘‘Wait, you wouldn’t happen to have seen a sock about would yer?’’
‘‘ No I wouldn’t happen to have seen, since when ‘ave you got so lardy dar?’’
‘‘I’ll see yer later Joe’’
Joe’s words came as oddly prophetic, when about five minutes later three burly men walked through the door, followed by another three, less strong than the first. It wasn’t hard to tell who these were. The Union Jack was marked on their person at least once, sometimes twice. The barman gave them uneasy looks and shot a quick glance to who he’d know as the sock man.
The atmosphere in the pub quietened, some left, others stayed in vigilance. The pub became an altogether different place. On his sixth pint, he began to listen in on the conversation on the nearby table; the six sat and little bits of information entered his ears.
‘‘Around eight?’’
‘‘Nah, seven, sooner rather than later, plus it’s going dark now’’
‘‘Yeah’’
‘‘Yer reckon them commie twats’ll be around?’’
‘‘Probably, I’m not scared’’
‘‘What about police?’’
‘‘We’re exercising our democratic right, heheheh’’
‘‘Haha, too right.’’
A few people in the pub came over to talk to them, generally congratulatory, murmurs and whispers about immigrants, usually a curse prefixing or suffixing the word. As if from nowhere, the 6 men got up from the table and left the pub abruptly, followed by their few supporters and then a couple of curious patrons, leaving a distance between themselves and the BNP men. After shouts and cries rose up from outside the pub, he decided to see what was going on.
‘‘Heya mate, you still looking for that sock? I found yer one’’
Joe had pulled off his sock from one of his feet; it was dirty and almost black as he was laughing in his usual aimless way.
‘‘Thanks Joe, but you keep it, I’m tryin’t find out what’s going on’’
‘‘Yeah, me too, I’m coming with yer’’
‘‘Joe, stay here, you’re drunk’’
‘‘Yes sir, no sir, three bags… how does it go again?’’
‘‘Never mind’’
The door shut behind him, Michael and his dog were good to go when they did. The street was full of violent men, rallying round with racist slogans. Cries yelled out, the word ‘paki’ flooding the scene. They’d try and blame this on the National Front, the two that make the coin, one and the same. In opposition came some members of the Anti-Nazi League, waving banners and pickets. No police sirens made their presence known.
Pete was standing in the crowd, at the forefront of the Anti-Nazi League.
‘‘Pete! Pete!’’
‘‘Hiya mate, decided to come by after all then?’’
‘‘Not by choice, I’ve had a few to drink’’
‘‘You look alright though’’
‘‘I don’t feel so good and this is not what I want’’
‘‘Don’t matter, we’ll get these racist shits’’
Pete reached into his bag, pulling out a bottle with dirty liquid inside.
‘‘Pete! Pete! What’s that?’’
‘‘This is what they know as a Molotov cocktail, comrade’’
‘‘What! Are you stupid?’’
‘‘They deserve it, bastard fascists’’
At the top of the bottle was a white bit of a fabric that Pete lit, as the flames spread.
‘‘Pete what is that? Wait, wait! That’s my sock, that’s my sock!’’
‘‘It’ll go towards a good cause’’
Pete threw the missile into the air, it’s green glass bottle spinning until it smashed open to unleash the flame from the petrol. Two BNP men immediately caught fire, got down and rolled on the street. Police sirens began to sound an all too late chorus. The situation had exploded. BNP men ran, shouting, angry, with old political Pete being their first target.
‘‘You idiot, what did you think you we’re doing?’’
‘‘Come on, we gotta run’’
They retreated down the road with men in pursuit, turning quickly into a dark back alley, BNP men running across both ends.
‘‘Don’t ever do that again’’
‘‘I gave them what they’re good for’’
‘‘Look, just shut up! Shut up!’’
‘‘Quiet!’’
A few of the BNP group had entered the alley, stalking slowly, looking around, the shadows passing over the faces of Pete and who he’d call his comrad.
‘‘There! Look!’’
‘‘Get ‘em!’’
‘‘Shit!’’
At once the men were on them. Fists pounding with not much of a fight in return. Steel toecaps kicking stomachs, mangled cries from both men. They were hitting his head against the wall, his blood painting the brickwork. He eventually fainted. Pete had been out for sometime. They were still beating him.1

He woke up sometime later in hospital, no socks, no shoes, a single garment and a bed. He had not received the worst treatment, though he had been unconscious for two days. A week later he attended Pete’s funeral, saying a few words, not mentioning the sock, not mentioning his judgements. He goes around from now on, like he did that day, a sort ritual to hold. One foot wearing a sock, the other just a shoe.