The Socialist Adventures of Giggsy

Episode Two: Revolving Turnstiles Politics

TSAoG Episode Two, as it appeared in BonusCupped fanzine issue Three

It was hardly an ideal time to be preoccupied with something other than football. Mere minutes before the kick off of a Champions League Semi Final against Arsenal and Giggsy couldn’t shake the boiling anger coursing through his redder than red veins. It had finally happened: the worst recession since 1929. New Labour, obsessed with turning Britain into a global financial centre had torn down the walls of financial rationality and opened a Pandora’s shit storm of outsider self interest all over the Houses of Westminster.  The clear water that should separate corporate greed and democratic integrity had grown putrid, muddied by New Labours ceaseless pandering to the wealthy. That was the problem, the rot within, the filthy, conniving…

“Giggsy! Why the hell are ya lips moovin’? You prayin’ o soomthin’?” The gaffer’s gruff Scottish accent cut through Giggsy’s inner rage. The other players surreptitiously giggled or shot worried glances at Giggsy, their nerves made worse by the thought of the team’s spiritual leader losing his head. “Pull yourself together. Arll of yous get yous heeds in gear! This is the biggest garm of the seasan soor far. We nid every boy on his beest. Arsenal aren’t challenging for the league coop so they’s going all out for the Europe, you give an inch and they’ll teek a hat treak from oonder ya nooses!”

But Giggsy couldn’t think of anything beyond his own political indignation. Consequently, his concentration was all over the place. His passes missed their target, his forward runs were of no use to the players behind him and his corners wouldn’t have troubled the defence of Watford’s B team. He wasn’t surprised when he was taken off mid-way through the first half. He avoided what he knew must have been the disappointed stare of the Gaff, let down by one of his old guard stalwarts.

Back home that evening, sitting despondently in his TV room, Giggsy flicked through the books, articles and fliers he’d collected over the years. In the background the commentary from ITV’s Champions League highlight show exacerbated his already foul mood.

            “He’s had his fair share of the good times at United, a player needs to realise when his time is up,”             waffled the charlatan pundit.

            “The leader of a party created to give voice to the most oppressed was attempting to confer political power on the wealthy for no other reason than that they had the financial means to keep him in power,” informed Robert Peston from the pages of Who Runs Britain?

            “He’s – what – 36? – He’s a spent force. He contributed to United’s loss tonight” the other pundit agreed.

            “The new super-rich have the means through the financing of political parties, the funding of think tanks and the ownership of the media to shape government policies or to deter reform of a status qou that suits them.” Replied Peston.

            Giggsy knew he was committing the mental self-harm so many of his fellow Leftists resorted to when they felt not just the battle but the war itself was lost. Labour had handed the reigns of power and influence to his ideological enemies, parliament was now their plaything to manipulate however they wished. Investment bankers in The City, taking advantage of Blair’s lack of backbone, had demanded banking de-regulation and low taxes, or they’d leave and take their taxes with them – as if they paid UK tax anyway from those offshore accounts! And now, as usual, it was the hard working, disenfranchised people that were suffering. The interests of those the government was supposed to serve had been cast aside in favour of a small minority. What was the use in trying to fight it?

            Giggsy slumped backwards, letting Peston’s book fall across his face. He drifted off to sleep.

With a grunt he lurched forwards, waking suddenly with dribble on his chin and his lips conjoined to the pages of Peston’s book by a long slither of spittle. He got up and sleepily stumbled off to take a piss. In the darkness he slipped on a laminated Socialist Workers’ Party flier. He groped at the bookshelf for balance, grabbed it, and pulled the whole structure down on top of him. He laughed at his unintentional slapstick routine and pulled off the book that had landed across his face. His eyes gradually focused on the words: “If just shouting about it isn’t enough anymore isn’t it time we created a real alternative?” It was an advert for 924 Gilman Street, printed in the book documenting the infamous DIY, volunteer run punk club in Berkley California. The club had become a tangible example of kids taking their lives into their own hands and refusing to work within a capitalist framework that had neglected their interests. These youths had succeeded in making the alternative work, and here was Giggsy, wallowing in despair instead of doing what he knew best and acting!

            With renewed vitality Giggsy stood up and immediately began racking his brains for ideas, kicking a football that had been resting on the bookshelf before his serendipitous accident against his wall. As he did so a yellowed political flier began attaching itself to the ball, sticking to it through the adhesive qualities of an old piece of qourn dropped on the carpet.  Giggsy stopped and stared at the ball for a moment, the cogs in his brain processing new possibilities. He’d need an excuse to be in London. The second leg against Arsenal! It was only a couple of weeks away! He’d need a crowd and a ton of footballs. The first thing would require a quick phone call…

“Hi, Mark? Sorry to disturb you so late.”

“Oh hiya Giggsy mate? What can I do you for?”

“A need to rent a crowd of protestors off you.” Mark Thomas was one of the few people who knew Giggsy’s political orientation. While other activists often had a bubble of unapproachable angst about them the semi-famous comedian/activist Mark Thomas seemed grounded enough to confide in. He also came in very handy for the kind of stunt Giggsy had in mind, the kind he knew Mark loved. Giggsy explained his plan.

            “Right, so you want anyone who thinks the government’s full of money grubbers and has working legs. No probs, I’ll put something on the website, get the word out.”

After his own failings the night before no one seemed surprised when Giggsy opted to stay behind after training the next day. Under the guise that he wanted to get in some extra free kick and corner taking practice he convinced the groundsman to hand him the key to the training storage building, saying that he’d put away the balls and cones himself and would return the key at tomorrow’s training. Giggsy stuck to his word to some extent, thrashing in some free kicks until he was sure everyone had left the training ground. He collected up all the balls and headed to the storage room. Afterwards, instead of heading for the exit, Giggsy slipped into the next-door room: the Equipment and Training Manager’s office.

It took nearly a half hour of rifling through filing cabinets but eventually he found it; the away games equipment sign-out sheet. Predictably for such an extravagant football franchise like United the order was excessive; 200 footballs to arrive at a North London training ground for the day before the semi final second leg.  He rooted through the desk draws until he found a tip-ex pen. He used the white strips to erase the address the balls would head to and wrote ‘Parliament Square’ over the top. Just for good measure he changed the number to 300.

The next phase was tedious but risk free. He rooted through numerous government websites, books, news reports and editorials putting names to various financial institutions. After a brief trip to an art shop for some sticky backed paper (he was boycotting WHSmith for their contribution to the homogenisation of the UK high street) it was no time at all before he had laid out in front of him numerous individual stickers each citing the name of a politician along with whichever company they were profiteering from. One for instance read “William Hague: private equity group Terra Firma”. Another read “Kenneth Clarke: private equity firm AgCapita Partners”. Others were simply paired with whatever corruption charge they’d had levied against them, for instance the four Labour peers recently caught up in the cash-for-influence scandal. Giggsy’s favourite was the Shadow Children’s Minister Tim Loughton, whose security firm sold surveillance equipment to schools. Or possibly Alan Milburn, former Secretary of State for Health, who earned 25, 000 pounds a year from Pepsico. David Blunkett was now earning large sums of cash from employment company A4e, who presumably now have no trouble winning government contracts from the Department of Work and Pensions now said department’s former Secretary of State works for them.  “For a blind man he really knows how to work a revolving door!” Giggsy chuckled to himself.

However excited he was about the all-important Wednesday evening he didn’t have much time to dwell on the subject. The hard training regime continued and Giggsy was called up twice as a substitute in the two Premiership games in-between. His inability to reclaim his starting position meant once again no one thought it suspicious that he was staying on for another couple of hours ‘training’. The Tuesday evening was spent attaching a sticker to every football, then putting them back in their carrying nets, and in turn the cardboard boxes in which they’d be transported to London.

The next day saw Giggsy pelting down the motorway in his merc (he was test driving a new one was his excuse for not riding South in the team bus with the rest of the lads.) He checked his watch nervously every two or three minutes. To keep his adrenalin levels up he pumped some Dead Kennedys from the car stereo. Finally he arrived in the capital, parked up in the training ground the balls were meant to go to, and then got the tube down to Westminster.

            He’d devised a perfect way to walk around in public without being recognised; simply wearing a Liverpool shirt meant that whenever someone took a double take thinking they’d just spotted a famous footballer they instantly dismissed the idea under the impression that a United player would never wear the shirt of their traditional rivals. He also donned a baseball cap to make sure.

            As he arrived in Parliament Square there were already a few punks, hippies, anarchists and other trappings of the British political left milling around, confused as to exactly what they were doing here.

            Giggsy felt a hand on his shoulder. “I think your delivery’s arrived Giggsy boy.” Giggsy spun round terrified his cover was blown, only to find himself staring into Mark’s face.

            “Great he said,” spotting the truck pulling up “Let’s get going then.”

The driver was understandably perplexed but was brought round by some impressive blagging from Mark. Together they spilled the balls out of the nets and watched them bounce around, some landing at the feet of activists, who, not fully comprehending the plan, simply glanced at the names on the balls, then started gingerly playing keepy-ups or passing it to a friend.

            “Looks like they need a little encouragement” Mark suggested. Giggsy picked up a ball, studied the sticker (“Francis Maude; Barclay’s bank advisor”) then punted it towards the House of Commons. The ball arched elegantly towards the ancient building, bouncing off a window’s reinforced glass with a satisfying slap. Some of the activists laughed, and, realising their role and the potential for fun, began hoofing more balls at the Parliament building. Within seconds there was a chaotic barrage of footballs raining down like soft, giant hailstones against Parliament. The faces of politicians began appearing at the window, some looking indignant others darn right terrified.

            It was a marvellous sight; a jumble of different people from different cultures united in a semi organised attack against a democratic institution that was failing in its role. Even some cleaners from inside parliament building came out to join in, along with, amazingly, the odd Lib Dem politician! Who would have thought a man like Vince Cable had such an impressive right foot! Meanwhile journalists were milling around, interviewing people in-between having a few kicks themselves. Giggsy was pleased to see most people were studying the information on the balls before they hoofed them, channelling their righteous indignation into their feet and slamming the ball further probably than they ever thought they could. Sadly, the onset of evening meant it was time for Giggsy to head north, to the Emirates Stadium for tonight’s game.

            “You off then mate?” asked Mark, panting and slightly sweating from his enthusiastic excursions.

            “Yeah, seems a shame but I’d best make tracks – hang about…” Giggsy had spotted a familiar figure scurrying rat like out of the Parliament Building parking ramp. It was Peter Mandelson. There were so many crimes against the name of the Secretary of State for Business, Innovation and Skills that Giggsy had had trouble choosing which to put on the sticker. In the end he’d settled on Mandy’s apparent close friendship with the Russian aluminium tycoon Oleg Deripaska, on whose yacht Lord Mandelson had once spent a night indulging in the oligarch’s extreme wealth. Suspiciously, European aluminium tariffs had dropped sharply only a short time before the minister’s little sea faring jaunt. Giggsy slammed a ball in Mandy’s direction, missing his head but hitting the doorframe of the luxury car he was just about to get into. The ball ricocheted back and smacked the minister right on the schnoz, breaking it and showering the car’s upholstery in blood.  The crowd cheered in sadistic pleasure. “Right, well I’m definitely leaving now!” said a smiling Giggsy as he began running towards the tube.

It was a successful day; the originality of the plan and the large numbers of journalists present meant soon the issue of the revolving door between corporate Britain and Parliament was a major talking point.  Giggsy had long ago learnt though that popular indignation does not necessarily lead to change. A million had marched against the war in Iraq but eight years later the country was still smouldering. The culture of greed ingrained in the banking sector was indisputably a major factor in the near collapse of the financial system, but bankers were still being paid excessive salaries and bonuses. Giggsy knew he had to keep on his toes, both on and off the pitch.

The Socialist Adventures of Giggsy

TSAoG, as seen in BonusCupped fanzine issue 2

Episode One: PFI cleared off the line

“Mr Giggs, sir? Please you tie my laces of boots?”

With a disgruntled sigh Giggsy rolled up January’s copy of The Guardian disguised as Nuts and shoved it into his personalised MUFC bag.

“Ok Ronny, but this has to be the last time, you have to learn to do it yourself. If the press find out you can’t even tie your own laces the gaffer’ll get a bender in the balls.”

“Yes Sir Mr Giggs” He may have been worth 80 million quid but even the cockiest of the young internationals gave Giggsy the respect he deserved. Annoyed his reading of the latest Seumas Milne editorial had been interrupted Giggsy knelt down and tied the Portuguese’s Adidas Predator boots. He stood up and took in the familiar scene unfolding around him. His fellow team mates, in various states of dress, exhibited in their faces the usual array of pre-match mind frames; nerves, excitement  - and for the more experienced player such as himself - nonchalance. For the likes of him and ‘keeper Eddy this was all in a Saturday afternoon’s work, only the colour of the changing rooms differed according to whether they were home or away. 

“Right then ma’ wee laddies!” The gaffer had burst in with the gusto one would expect from a middle aged Scot. “It should na be too tough today, Wigan are a nervous lot, both wingers out with injuries and their gaffer with a fookin’ anvil hanging over his head cos they’s doin’ so shit like. Just get oot and play like we normally do.”

With his usual resentful stare at the Nike emblem in the top left, a symbol of Capitalist exploitation if ever there was one, Giggsy pulled on his red United shirt and lined up with the rest of the team.

All too easy. 3-0. Goals courtesy of Roon, Scholesy and Tevs. In recent years Giggsy’s relative old age gave him the excuse he needed to take things a little easier. While in his youth he had based his game round his dribbling and pace team mates, pundits and more importantly the manager, seemed to think it understandable that he no longer exert himself too much. He now took on a simpler midfield lynch-pin role; defenders would pick him out and he’d deliver a perfectly weighted through ball or lofted pass to the forwards. With his exquisite left footed touch he also made himself available for corners and free kicks. This suited Giggsy fine; his less active role gave him the time he needed to ponder the issues of his beloved Socialist politics. He was especially grateful for this week’s easy opposition as he had a lot of thoughts in his head that needed processing. Unsurprisingly it revolved around another New Labour betrayal.

Two days earlier and Giggsy is doing another school visit, a chore for the majority of spoilt premiership players but a joy for Giggsy, who relished the chance to mould young minds. He delivered his usual schpeel to the kids, making sure to please the slimy club reps and local corporate press photographers in attendance. He also dropped a few Socialist hints to the kids, such as encouraging them to use public land for kick-abouts. He finished up his speech to much cheering and whistling.

Whilst he pulled on his black dumpstered jacket Giggsy chatted to the bearded, bespectacled teacher who’d guided him around the school before the talk.

“It’s not so good Mr Giggs, the walls are crumbling and the ventilation system’s always playing up. It’s a PFI school you see, they’re all rotting wrecks.”

“PFIs?” asked Giggsy dumbly. Of course he knew all about Private Finance Initiatives, the New Labour scheme whereby public buildings were partly financed and built by private companies, but he had to play the fool so as not to arouse suspicion.

“Basically rich people offer to build our schools then cut corners so they can make profit off of the government contract” said Mr Mackay despondently “the sort of corporate influence I thought we’d escaped from after 1997, but it’s Blair Mr Giggs, he’s a massive sell out you see.” 

Giggsy wanted to discuss the issue further, comparing other New Labour privatisation deals and how so many countries who had stuck with nationalisation of their infrastructure had benefited, such as Germany and their excellent train service. Alas, he could only give an oafish shrug. Mr Mackay carried on unthinkingly “it’s what they’ve done all over the world of course, let businesses do what they want and pretend it’s for the benefit of everyone. Damn neoliberalists. Oh I am sorry, here’s me rambling on about stupid politic when you must have other appointments to get to. Cheerio.”

Giggsy sat for a while in his Merc (he preferred to ride his bike but the public expected players to drive these lamentable vanity wagons) annoyed that capitalism had affected so negatively the hard working children of Britain, forced to work in cardboard walled dumps. He cursed Tony Blair and his deceitful goons as he flung in anger across the car a copy of The Manchester Afternoon News. As it struck the windshield he noticed a story on the fifth page. A celebration! To commemorate the impending construction of a PFI hospital! The CEO of GrotCorps, the company who’d won the contract, would give an insincere speech about how his corporation was contributing positively to shaping an effective health service. Giggsy knew it was up to him to stop the construction.

During the game and after a couple of post match interviews Giggsy had devised a plan to scupper the exploitative private enterprise. On the coach back to Manchester he pretended to listen to some music on his iPod so as not to be disturbed while in his head he wrote a speech of his own. Arriving back at Old Trafford he humoured the shallow witterings of his fellow players in the car park for a while, before making his excuses, jumping in his Merc and heading home. As he pulled out of the car park he pumped some deceiving Akon out of the car stereo, before switching it for his Bragg vs. Dylan mix CD as soon as he’d past the first bend. 

Once home he got straight to work transferring what he’d mentally noted onto his laptop. It would have to be a good speech if the plan he’d devised succeeded to the point where it would be necessary, equal in quality to that of a corporate PR professional. Giggsy cursed the false ambitions of today’s gifted students, who offer their skills to unscrupulous companies instead of unselfishly devoted their talents to promoting the cause of their fellow man.

After a few false starts which he screwed up and tossed into the recycling bin he finally had a speech he felt was of good enough quality. He searched the internet for authentic GrotCorp documents, finally finding the relevant PDFs thanks to someone else’s freedom of information request. After a good hour fiddling around with graphics on InDesign his own speech looked just like any other document the GrotCorp communication team might have produced. He carefully filed it away.

Still one problem remained, easily remedied though thanks to the natural sycophantic nature of the average corporate high flier. It was Saturday night and there was only one place a scoundrel like McRuddy, the CEO, would be found. Donning his best black dress shirt Giggsy headed out the door to Club Sleazers.

“Giggsy ma’ boy! How nice to see you! Withers! Get the man a Bacardi and Coke!” Damn! He’d been boycotting Coca Cola due to their despicable anti trade union activities in Columbia, and as for Barcadi and their gestures towards Cuba - Oh well, at least he wasn’t paying.

“Ma’ boy! We simply must do something together, GrotCorp could use a face like yours for some of our promotional stuff.” Slurped McRuddy.

“Well is there anything you’ve got coming up?”

“You know I think there is Giggsy, how about a public appearance on Wednesday? Some shit about hospitals.” How could he talk so frivolously about such a vital public service?

“Ok I’ll be there.”

“Fantastic. Withers, take a note.”

It was as easy as that. 

Wednesday came around and Giggsy was feeling confident. Funnily enough the event was in an Old Trafford conference room so he felt pretty much at home. He was feeling particularly pleased when the first phase of the plan went so well.

He deliberately saddled up to McRuddy while there was a sizeable gaggle of press photographers nearby. Predictably they all started asking him and McRuddy to pose for a photo.

“How about he shows me some of the speech he’s doing?” offered Giggsy.

“Great idea!” said the correspondent from Last Hours, gleefully.

While he and McRuddy performed for the cameras, Giggsy took a note of what part of McRuddy’s file the speech was filed under. The next phase of the plan relied on McRuddy’s arrogance, which did not fail Giggsy. His PR team had obviously taught him the importance of hand gestures whilst being interviewed and McRuddy had discarded the file on a chair behind him. Giggsy used all his skill and trickery he’d perfected for the football field to remove the real speech and slip in his own.

It seemed like hours but finally the time came for the speech. The crowd gathered round the microphone covered plinth, champagne flutes in hand, waiting for McRuddy to speak. Many were greedy share holders and looked particularly smug.

Just two minutes to go, thought Giggsy, whose palms were beginning to sweat worse than in the build up to the 1996 FA cup final against Liverpool. Suddenly he remembered something he’d forgotten! The PR guys for GrotCorp were here! Giggsy knew that when McRuddy began reading his speech he wouldn’t know what to do except carry on regardless and ruin his company’s changes of making a fortune; stopping and looking bewildered would not be acceptable in front of the attending press. The PR guys though were professionals; they may have a plan for such an event.

Sneaking off, Giggsy rushed down to the changing room, barged into the store cupboard and selected two footballs. He used a pump to make them as solid as possible then hurried back up and took up a position roughly 24 yards from where the pair of PR men were standing. He would, he guessed, have about 20 seconds, the time the crowd would clap for to welcome McRuddy’s arrival on stage.

“Please welcome company CEO Mr Bill McRuddy!” This was it; the crowd began clapping and Giggs majestically swung his left foot. The ball flew straight and hard into the temple of the first PR guy. One down, one more to go. In a perfect repeat of the first Giggsy slammed, free kick style, the second ball. If his target was a goal it would have broken the net, instead it knocked out cold the second PR goon. Job done.

“As you know” began McRuddy “The PFI system has been the government’s preferred method of contractual public service construction process since 1997, and GrotCorps has benefited handsomely from this scheme.” The share holders grinned at each other and clapped. For just a second a confused look crossed McRuddy’s face, but he carried on regardless, putting his faith in his now incapacitated PR men.

“So, and in a change to the proceedings you might have expected, GrotCorps is hereby announcing a change in it’s corporate strategy, boycotting the Private Finance Initiative scheme as part of a new direction in Corporate Responsibility. Tonight GrotCorps takes the corporate moral high ground and puts the welfare of Britain’s infrastructure before profits!”

A small spattering of applause. Now McRuddy really did look confused, but as Giggsy predicted he couldn’t risk losing face and carried on, looking throughout the rest of the speech as if he might cry.

The speech came to an end, or so Giggsy thought; “and to concerned shareholders I say do not worry, this act of public concern will vastly improve our public relations stature and, I’m confident, result in increased trust in AssCorps from the people of Britain.”

Touché, thought Giggsy, as he snuck out of the conference centre surprised but satisfied. McRuddy had thought on his feet and probably saved his career. No matter. In the search for Socialist justice in Britain and the world this project was small fry, Giggsy would have bigger Capitalist fish to fry in future adventures.