This Is Our Now by A J Becker

This Is Our Now by AJ Becker

“This looks promising”, spoke the voice of Clive Tyldesley, as the room stood in anticipation. “Played into the box…Anderton…YES!” Whatever the commentator next uttered was drowned out by the eruption of the hotel bar. Bellowing, screeching, jumping for joy, banging on tables, smashing glasses; the most emphatic epitome of mayhem. No coming back. Golden Goal. Hosts England were into the final of Euro 96’. But Finn’s thoughts were already elsewhere. Room 109 to be exact.

The England players went on a lap of honour, and Tyldesley could barely control himself: “Well, it’s hard to think of anything quite as special as this, certainly in living memory. I don’t know if you’d made plans on Sunday night, but if you had, it’s time to cancel them, as England will be back here at Wembley, where the Czech Republic – Pavel Nedved and co – stand between Terry Venables’ side and glory. Bring it on!” Finn allowed himself a few celebratory drinks, and joined in with the spine-tingling rendition of Three Lions, led by the hotel manager, then all roads led to the lift. He steadied himself.

Finn entered room 109 and to his surprise, saw an excessive amount of Euros-related decorations on the tables and Esther Rantzen on the television, a late-night repeat of her daytime talk show in full swing. Craig was sat on the bed, spaced out to the point of semi-consciousness, a blood stain just below his nose, mouth slightly agape, eyes the size of tennis balls.

“Yo, how you feeling?”

“Get me off the ceiling, bro!”

“I know! You’re high as f**k and we’re in the final.”

“Innit. I just want some more!”

“Well, that’s why I’m here…”

“Aw, you legend!”

Esther continued undiminished in front of the 19-year-olds, as Craig enthusiastically accepted the bag of cocaine proffered to him. Finn grinned at his best friend, who was now several days into what could only be described as a no-holds-barred drug rampage: coke, MDMA, speed, LSD, mephedrone; you name it, he was on it, all seasoned with cans of Hofmeister lager, glasses of Sunny Delight and cups of instant coffee from the machine in the corridor. Each and every thought that entered his head during the highs would be documented in his pocket-sized black notebook, which rested on the wooden table and was the visual depiction of a troubled maverick’s psyche. Freedom from reality assured.

As they began to paint the early part of Thursday a vivid shade of hedonism, Finn and Craig chatted about the course of events that led them to this point. Craig had been sent ‘home’ from the annual residential trip to Eastfield Manor following a series of incidents, beginning with trenchant complaints about the food, activities and travel, which did not go down well with the trip manager, Mr de Sheller, a man with an ego the size of Jupiter. His monotone lectures, where one cliché sure enough followed another, bored most of Craig’s fellow architecture students, and the countless tours of the ancient building could also be filed under ‘mind the enjoyment gap’, yet all else were too far sucked into the de Sheller grinder to mount any kind of demurral.

Craig, however, had always a disinclination to genuflect to propriety, and de Sheller’s special fusion of arrogance and ignorance meant his deeply felt gripes were not listened to, let alone acted upon. It all climaxed in Craig flagrantly setting off a fire extinguisher during the England vs Spain quarter-final (which de Sheller wouldn’t let them watch), resulting in many pounds of damage and Craig being sent ‘home’, only for Finn to intercede, using his influence to successfully persuade de Sheller not to disqualify Craig from his apprenticeship, as “he regrets it very much and his parents are disciplining him as we speak”.

Of course, neither was true, and Craig’s second-to-last-chance-saloon was the hotel in which he was keeping the lowest of profiles. By the time Finn brought in a homemade feast of falafel kebabs with salad and sauce, BBC Learning Zone was being broadcast: GCSE Chemistry. Far from being educated about molecules and atoms or indeed falafel flavours, Craig was beyond any rational conversation.

“Hey, have my special falafel, it’ll help ya”

“Uhhhh…I’ll try…Thanks”

“Mate, you need to get off the gear at some point”

“Errrrr…whatever…I just wanna f**k up de Sheller”

“It’s not gonna help you, bro”

“He’s a w**kstain”

“Look, forget fucking de Sheller for a minute. Let me talk to the principal and see if I can sort out a transfer for—”

“But I only want to do architecture!”

“Alright. Promise me you’ll stop after this line and I’ll have another chat with him, make sure he’s not on your case anymore”

Craig grinned and rubbed his mate’s shoulders affectionately. He knew Finn would lay it all on the line to help him, as he had so often before.  At times, their relationship was the only sane response to an insane world, as they manipulated real time events to deal with their emotions and consolidate their bond. Yet beneath the camaraderie lay the unspoken hope that Finn would somehow figure out a way to persuade Craig to renew himself once and for all.

In terms of ability, Craig surpassed almost everyone else on the architecture course with ease, but a coalescence of his narcotic inclinations, mercurial conduct and vitriol towards de Sheller (who was always living rent-free in his head) meant he was struggling even to stay on the course. Conformity was to him a foreign country, a place of outright mystery, and he was always no more than a few days away from self-destruction.

As Finn conducted the ‘racking up’ of coke lines using his Makro membership card (and cut his pocketed straws into quarters), Craig was playing Minesweeper on the computer to keep himself amused. He had flung himself into a pool of continuous carnage that he could no longer completely escape, and no way was this the end of the line. Finn knew full well that the whole saga had some miles left in it.

The long march of substances through Craig’s body chambers continued as Finn telephoned the principal from the foyer, reassuring him that his mate was not a lost cause and that renewal was only a matter of time. The principal – a bland ringmaster in a circus of vacuity – listened and then proposed a deal to be put to Craig. Finn vowed to pass it on.

As the hours spun by, Craig continued his surreal existence away from reality, plundering his own supply of gear with a brazenness born of his desire to take it to extremes. In such a state of being, thoughts came and went in incongruous profusion, matters of great complexity – such as the principal’s deal – somehow required minimal understanding. By the time Saturday’s Pages from Ceefax came on in the placid environment of Room 109, there was no stopping him.

“Yes…its hitting me now!!!”

The presence of Finn and the potency of MDMA handed him an unassailable paradigm of emotion. And they knew what each other felt, without a single word needing to be spoken.

“Brucie!!!”

The charismatic entertainer appeared on screen, hosting his eponymous gameshow Bruce’s Price is Right, and it genuinely felt as though he was in the room with the boys.

“Look, forget the Euros, forget the sodding residential trip, forget the whole of reality. This is our reality. This is our now!”

Their ‘now’ continued with that bulletproof aura of confidence, frenetically playing on the Sega Mega Drive with sweaty palms and accelerated heartbeats, until Finn remembered his bet. The Ataka acca!

Alongside the Euros in June came about the group stage of the Intertoto Cup, on which Finn had placed several bets as an accumulator: Nantes of France, then Linz of Austria, through to Luzern of Switzerland, along with Karlsruher of Germany, taking in Groningen of the Netherlands, not forgetting Jaro of Finland, and finishing with FC Ataka Minsk of Belarus (hence the bet’s appellation), whose improbable away win netted him some £20,000. It read like an itinerary for some sort of continental tour, yet it was rather an ambitious act of gambling, which had now paid off, and some.

Finn could not believe his oversized eyes in the bookmakers, as Ceefax page 316 told the story. Maleyev, 85 minutes. The final piece. The difference between 20 grand and nothing. His whole body shook with exhilaration. 20 grand – that’s 250 grams of the good stuff, he thought. Could this week get any better?! Finn practically skipped and danced his way back to the hotel, pondering how to tell his closest companion, and whether Craig could comprehend it all.

Inside room 109, the latest Michael Barrymore game show was playing and the Mega Drive was asking Craig to strike any key when ready. The maverick, however, was unable to do so. He had taken his fascination with drugs to its logical conclusion, and as England walked out at Wembley on Sunday night for the Euro 96’ final, he would be watching from another place.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright AJ Becker 2026

Image Source: Dey from Fictom.com