Dickie Williams

I am not sure if I heard it first or if I felt it. The impact was certainly violent as I was thrust forward with so much force it made the restraining seat belt punch my chest with the force of a boxing world champion. My head lurched forward then whiplashed back against the heard restraint. I waited for the airbags to deploy but they remained secure within their special compartments.

I had seen the red car in my rear view mirror as it weaved its way up the busy motorway using all three lanes to pass whatever and whoever was in front. It’s driver arrogantly and impatiently headed towards his destination without any regard for fellow motorists. But then when you can afford a car like that I guess arrogance comes as standard. I flashed my indicator to move into the centre lane and allow him to pass just at the precise same moment he decided to overtake me on the inside. The impact spun me round through ninety degrees and brought the motorway behind us to a complete standstill.

Things moved into slow motion and only when normal timing resumed did I shaken and bruised get out to survey the situation. I don’t know if I recognised him or not, perhaps I was too much in shock. Of course I knew who he was but I can’t remember if I knew then or if the realisation descended later. I should have known who it was, those unique boyish looks and shoulder length blond hair which smile out from newspapers, magazines, television and every marketing tool his team could find to lever more money out of our pockets and into his.

A tirade of anger and abuse ripped my way as I was blamed for the accident. I tried to respond but he wasn’t listening and certainly wasn’t interested. Other motorists had left their vehicles but just stood watching the scene. I suppose the fact that neither of us were hurt prevented them rushing forward, perhaps they were reluctant to get involved in our argument or perhaps they were stunned when they saw who it was standing their in flesh and blood hurling forth his venom to myself. Then I remembered nothing, my mid went blank, my eyes closed and I crumpled to the floor. I don’t even remember hitting the warm dusty tarmac.

I awoke in the ambulance but did not fully regain my senses until I was in hospital. There I was eventually told that I was alright, nothing broken and no sign of any internal injuries. I had been lucky. The conclusion was that I had passed out in shock and they would keep me in for twenty-four hours observation.

“You are famous,” the smiling nurse giggled. “Not everyone gets to be involved in a car smash with Richard Williams ! He asked me – yes ME – to call him as soon as you can receive visitors. Just think Dickie Williams is coming to our ward ! It makes me quite dizzy !”

“I don’t know if I want to see him.”

“Don’t say that !”

“He’s written my car off and nearly killed me.”

“Oh please let him some to see you, he gave me his number and asked me to call him. Let me ring him now so he will be here before my shift is over.”

How could I refuse her ? I smiled and her heart beat double time with excitement.

He slipped into the ward very quietly and stood by the nurses station where an excited young lady brought him over to the side of my bed. Making every excuse she could find not to leave us she finally drew the screening curtains and left us alone.

“Hello,” he said softly.

“Hello.”

“I really don’t know what to say to you. I was born a prat and have been working hard ever since to perfect it. I guess sorry really isn’t enough but I am sorry. And my outburst is without excuse. So – sorry !”

I didn’t know what to say. I just looked at him. I suppose he was just like any other person but how could anyone so famous be ordinary ?

He sat on the edge of my bed. “I really am sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I found myself saying. “I’m not hurt, I’m going home tomorrow. Don’t worry.”

“But your car ?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Was I really talking to the icon Richard Williams ? Football star, fashion guru and a guy who would record the odd number one hit now and then ? It was so surreal.

Then he reached his hand, placed it on top of mine making my flesh tingle and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “I really am sorry, I really am.”

“Consider yourself forgiven,” I replied then winked an eye.

“Thank you. Thank you.”

I had presumed that second encounter with the celebrated Richard (Dickie) Williams but I was wrong. Two days later I was at home, chilling out and contemplating a return to work when the front door bell rang. I wasn’t expecting anyone and was tempted to ignore it. Probably a double glazing salesman or the Jehovah’s Witnesses. It rang again and then again. I stirred myself to see who it was.

“I hope you don’t mind me coming round,” he said somewhat nervously. “I mean I hope I am not disturbing you.”

“Richard ! No, not at all.”

We stood momentarily looking at one another.

“I brought you something. Something to try and show that I am sorry.” He half turned and waved a hand towards the car parked on the road.

I looked at the car and must have shown confusion.

“It’s yours, I want you to have it – a gift.”

How much could it have cost ? A fortune. A Porsche Boxter – god only knows.

“But –“

“Please don’t embarrass me. I wrecked your car so I’ve replaced it. It’s no big deal it’s only a day’s wages for me. It would make me happy if you would accept it.”

He held out the set of keys and I took them. What a gift ! “Thank you.”

He smiled and his eyes sparkled the way I had seen them in so many of his promotional pictures on television, on bill ho0ardings and magazine covers. But this was the real thing, Dickie Williams standing outside my very own front door.

“Would you like to come in ?” I asked. “I mean can I offer you a coffee or something ?”

Shit my little flat wasn’t tidy – it never was – and I had just asked a world-famous icon into it.

“That would be nice Nigel,” Richard’s smile broadened, “but what I would really like is if you would come out and have a drink with me. Just to let me say I am sorry.”

“But you said sorry back in the hospital, have repeated it so many times and the car - !”

“I know but I would like to spend some time with you to show you I am sorry. Please. You drive.”

My new car was a dream. I could feel heads turning to look as we drove past. They would have turned again had they seen who was seated inside. I felt warm and was happy to be spending some time with Richard, I had a sense that we were going to become friends. I hoped beyond dare that we would become good friends.

“Where are we going ?” I asked seeking directions.

“Nigel, please don’t take this the wrong way but would you mind if we went to a gay pub I know.”

I didn’t mind but did not have the chance to say so as Richard tried hard to give his explanation.

“I mean if I go to an ordinary pub people will never leave me alone, it isn’t easy being who I am you know. But there is this bar I use where people just leave me alone and accept me. If you don’t mind it’s quite cool. I hope you will like it.”

“Fine by me.”

“Oh thanks. I didn’t know how to put it. I didn’t want you to be offended.”

“No, not at all. So are you gay ?” I asked then immediately added, “Sorry I shouldn’t have asked that. Forgive me.”

“Not a problem, you have a right to know.”

I did not see that I had such a right but sensing Richard wanted me to have an answer asked the question again.

“I guess so,” he said. “Well I think so. I don’t have a boyfriend or anything like that but I suppose in all honesty I am.”

I just smiled.

“You don’t mind ?”

I didn’t.

“You haven’t realised have you ?” I said.

“Realised what ?”

“You think you are gay, I know that I am.”

Richard blushed then burst into loud and uncontrollable laughter saying, “I told you I was born a prat and have been trying ever since to perfect it.

Richard was right about the way people treated him in the bar, the atmosphere was warn and friendly. Some guys would nod in our direction and others speak briefly saying: Hi Rich how are you today ? or Nice game last week mate. None were intrusive and I felt very comfortable sitting there with my new friend.

“So tell me about yourself Nigel.”

“There’s not much to tell, I’m not talented or famous like you are. I’m twenty-seven, lived with my mother until two years ago. I now live in a flat I can’t afford and have a job I hate.”

“What is you job mate ?”

“I’m assistant sales manager in a branch of Woolworth’s.”

“Cool.”

“You wouldn’t think so if you had to work there.”

“I’ll swop placed with you.”

I laughed.

“No seriously I would. I have a manager who thinks he owns my soul and fans who know they do. I can’t walk down the street without being recognised and live the live of a phoney.”

“But you are famous and you make lots of money.”

“Money yeah but I don’t have the privacy to spend it. I am suspicious of everyone who tries to make friends with me and in all honesty I am lonely. Nigel I think you are different, It’s a strange way to introduce yourself to anyone but smashing my car into you on the motorway could be destiny. I sense that you are different and if you will forgive the chat up line I would like it if we kind of became friends.

I think I blushed before answering, “I’d like that.”

We chatted a little and drank a lot, more than we should have done and certainly far too much for me to drive.

“Call a taxi,” Richard said. “You do it because they’ll never believe me if I give my name. They’ll think it’s a wind up.”

“Perhaps you should start to use an alias.” I suggested. “Like that woman did in Notting Hill, you know the film.”

“Yeah, what should I call myself ? I wonder. Perhaps I should use your name – Nigel – it’s a nice name.”

The mini cab pulled up outside the pub and the driver sounded the horn loud and long.

We sat together in the back and I gave the driver my address. “When we get there my friend will tell you where he needs to go.”

“OK mate,” the driver said looking in his mirror. “Hey, has anyone ever told you that you look just like Dickie Williams ?”

“Only my mother,” Richard giggled.

The driver looked again. “You are Dickie Williams aren’t you ?”

“That’s me.”

After that he didn’t stop talking all the way:

Wait ‘til the guys hear who I had in my car –

What’s it like being a star –

Do you ever drink in my local, The Admiral’s Head –

What’s the best goal you’ve ever scored –

Is it best being a football star or a pop star –

On and on and on. I couldn’t wait to get home.

When we did get there Richard asked the car to wait and walked with me to the door.

“Take this. It’s my personal mobile number – very few people have it and I always answer. You can call me any time.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t forget to go back and pick up the car.”

“I won’t.”

“Thank you for today.”

“Thank you and thank you for the car.”

We were both hesitating, neither wanting to leave the other’s company. Eventually Richard threw his arms about me and looked into my eyes. Our mouths met and we kissed very deeply.

“Call me.”

“I will.”

“Promise ?”

“I promise.”

We called each other every day and several times a day for the rest of the week. We talked for hours saying nothing and I knew I was falling in love with Richard Williams.

Are you gay ? I had asked him.

I guess so, well I think so, had been his answer.

Then my reaction, telling him I was gay myself. Why had I done that ? I had never been with a guy although the desire was never far away. That had been my fist visit to a gay pub and then the kiss – my first gay kiss. So was I gay ?

I had always been curious and certainly found guys attractive. But I always found it hard to admit this to myself, I mean I never even discussed it in my own mind. No I knew for certain I was gay, 100% gay. And I wanted Richard, I wanted him with a passion so hard it hurt. I felt sure that he also wanted me.

The next few days were very full for us both. I returned to work and Richard was involved in a long series of meetings negotiating his endorsing a range of sportswear. The advertising agent was trying to tie it all up with Richard releasing a new single which would be used as the music for an intensive TV advertising run.

Richard was a good singer with a voice as golden as his beautiful flowing hair. As a singer he was kind of different to the commercialised manufactured sounds which tend to make up the bulk of the pop music industry. His songs were all covers of hits from decade ago. His latest, a remix of Cliff Richard’s On The Beach had only just slipped out of the charts. We had sold hundreds, if not thousands, of CD’s in our store alone.

To top that crazy week of activity, just a few days before I knew my friend only as an icon of sport, fashion and music who brought profit to my small part of the retail industry, Richard was playing in the quarter final of the FA Cup. He pleaded with me to come and watch but it was my Saturday as duty manager for the store and there was no way I could possibly get out of it.

“Let’s meet up afterwards,” I said, “then we can celebrate your victory.”

“Or commiserate when we lose.”

“Be positive,” I laughed. “Come round after and I’ll cook us a special meal.”

One of the very first things I did that Saturday was to tune every TV in the electrical department to the station that would carry live the vital cup tie.

The store ran like clockwork all morning but just ten minutes into the game the pa system called out its words: Call thirty-three for the Duty Manager. Duty Manager thirty-three !

SHIT ! Call thirty-three meant a shoplifter had been apprehended by security and I would have to be present when the police arrived.

Four minutes before half time I dashed back to the electrical department.

“What’s the score ?” I demanded of some poor assistant.

“Two nil.”

“To who ?”

“City.”

“Who scored ?”

“Dickie Williams, both of them.”

A warm glow invaded my whole body and I wiped away a tear.

“Duty Manager to Customer Services please.” 

SOD THAT PA !

This time it was a customer with a faulty video tape.

“Just replace it,” I snapped.

“But we don’t sell this brand,” the confused assistant tried to explain. “Tesco had these on offer last week, it must be one of theirs.”

“Replace it,” I said again.

“But –“

“Just watch my lips will you. REPLACE it.”

I turned on my heels and strode back to a television screen. I arrived just in time to see Richard’s picture fill the camera and listen to the voice describing what was happening.

“That’s a long ball,” the commentator said calmly. Then with an air of mild excitement, “and it finds Williams. He’s on his own – watch this – could it be a third for Williams ? He’s on his own, yards ahead of anyone marking him, this man is brilliant. He’s on a run, could this be his third ? He’s in a good position. He’s past one defender, a second and he shoots. It’s there ! A goad. A third goal for City and a third goal for the truly brilliant Dickie Williams. Is it any wonder he is the king of the Premier League ? A hat trix for Dickie Williams.”

The camera cut away to show Sven, the England Coach, sitting in the crowd and smiling contentedly.

I was totally, totally choked with emotion.

“I love you Dickie Williams,” I said softly to myself. “I guess millions of your fans love you as well but I know that you also love me.”

Richard turned to face the camera as he trotted back to his position for play to restart. He winked an eye to camera and I knew that it was me he was winking at. I cried. I was totally, totally choked with emotion. As play continued nearer and nearer the final whistle my flesh tingled with so much excitement. Then the referee blew and City were through. I watched the scenes of jubilation, the crowd was cheering Dickie’s name with enthusiasm and vigour. I was so proud.

From out of nowhere Richard was handed a microphone while loud speakers all round the stadium boomed out the introduction bars of his last hit, that Cliff Richard oldie On The Beach. The atmosphere rose to a new height of celebration as Dickie entertained all with a free concert. He sang all those silly party songs we all knew when we were kids. The like of Agadoo and Simon Says. Tens of thousands of fans delighted in waving their arms to copy actions to the words. A camera cut away to show England Coach Sven-Goran Eriksson partying with everyone else. His face displayed a broad grin and undoubtedly he was having a ball. Dickie was already secure in the England Squad and had played many times for his country and I began to wonder if the captaincy was still safe with Beckham or if my Dickie was not the heir apparent.

A small group of shoppers had gathered round the televisions in the electrical department and were enjoying the show.

“He’s good isn’t he ?” One said.

“Makes you want to reach out and kiss him.”

I had kissed him and would be kissing him again in just a few short hours time.

Dickie was drawing things to a close with that old disco hit Hey Ho Silver Lining. He took a bow and prepared to return to the dressing room but the crowd frantically called for more.

“What’s the matter ?” Dickie said. “Don’t you have homes to go to ?”

More – more – encore…………..

“OK then just one more time then I really have to go. I’ve got some special celebrations waiting for me.”

Again he sang Hey Ho Silver Lining.

His own celebrations to go to – I could contain myself no longer. I went to my office, closed the door and sat alone.

While I can cook I am by no extent a chef. All I ever do is to prepare simple meals for myself but this had to be special. I raced home and began the preparation. Things were going well when the door bell rang. My heart beat with the heavy thunder of a giant drum and my body quivered in excited anticipation.

Dickie was dancing on my door step and singing away to himself. He had a large bottle of champagne in each hand and was waving them about before flinging his arms about me allowing the bottles to chink together behind my head.

“Well done,” I said. “You were brilliant.”

“I know,” he giggled. “But not half as brilliant as I intend to be in the next few hours !”

I may not have been an international football star and IO did not have a string of number one hits to my name, neither would any manufacturer ever consider asking me to endorse so much as a patent mouse trap but I loved Dickie Williams with a passion nobody else could ever match.

“Welcome to my home,” I said a little embarrassed at its modest composition. “I’m afraid it is not much.”

Richard smiled. “Do you know where I live ?”

I didn’t.

“As far as the paparazzi and the fans are concerned I have a suite in a city hotel but I seldom ever stay there. In truth I live with my mother. Twenty-four years old and yet to fly the nest ! She looks after me, I still need looking after, and I like her cooking. Talking of cooking there is a delicious smell here.”

“It won’t be long.”

“Fantastic.”

“You got a couple of glasses ?”

I produced two and Richard popped the cork of the first bottle before catching the foaming champagne.

“Cheers !”

“Cheers !”

It was truly wonderful, sparkling and sweet.

“Mr Eriksson gave it to me,” Dickie explained. “He brought it down to the dressing room himself.”

“Really.”

“The guys wanted me to open the bottles but I told them I had somewhere special to go and someone special to share it with.”

I looked into his deep blue eyes and tried to use a sixth sense to tell him how much I cared for him. I am sure it worked for I myself felt a sensation where I knew so very well what was in his heart.