‘Porta-Pat!’ comes in stereo from either side. They laugh. ‘Your turn!’ To get the beers in, they mean. They’re already drunk as twin skunks. They really mean it. Porta-Pat. Supposed to be my new nickname, they decided earlier. They think it’s funny. I make a move. It really is my turn. 

I shouldn’t have told them earlier, should have waited till tomorrow at least, till after the headache. I went to uni too actually, history and sport studies, dropped out right at the beginning but then I started again, information technology, but only one semester. Then nothing and now I’m a builder’s mate, been doing it for years now. It’s a good job, easy and clear, hard and good. It’s just the bloody Porta-Potties I can’t stand. The heat in summer, the flies, the sticky floors, the stink, ammonia that drives tears to your eyes. Ice cold in winter, drafts all round the edges. Pubes everywhere and bogies on the walls; how’s anyone supposed to take a crap? The holes burnt into the plastic, the scribbles – Here I sit, broken hearted, came to shit but only farted. I have nightmares about it now. About taking a shit in a plastic cabin. 

And I really shouldn’t have told them that. Not on a Saturday and not before the football. They almost fell over, they laughed so hard. Porta-Pat here, Porta-Pat there, ha ha ha. I buy three beers in plastic glasses, don’t have to queue for long. The game’s kicking off any minute. We’re in with the ultras. They’re going on a raid today, so we’ve heard, off to steal the Frankfurt fence flag. We don’t steal no flags, we knock heads: Porta-Pat, Bonobo, and Kappelmann. We’re not ultras; we’re hooligans.

I’m actually not like Bonobo and Kappelmann; they’re sharp-dressing hooligans in Armani suits, Lacoste and Carlo Colucci. My holy relic is my cap, genuine Burberry, a legend, an icon, they don’t make them any more. Apart from that jeans, apart from that beer, apart from that college jacket. I’m not one for clever slogans. I’m a builder’s mate, that’s enough for me; books are too dead for me, women are too much hard work, ambitions are too disappointing. I see what comes along, I do what I can. The lads reckon I’m the thinking kind cause I don’t talk much, reckon I’m the consistent kind cause I’ve never gone in for women or a career, cause there’s no one expecting me back for dinner at seven. They laugh at me, but they admire me. We three used to be old pals and we still are on a Saturday. 

Bonobo the yuppie and Kappelmann the part-time psycho. If you saw them on a Monday or a Tuesday you’d never believe what they do on a Saturday. People believe it of me, I look the part. I don’t just have a skinhead on the weekend, I’m tattooed up to my neck and my nose is small and punched into my skull. Could be I’m ugly – I’m not interested in mirrors. 

I see the two of them standing behind the front row and swaying, arms around each other and yelling something even they don’t understand. They can drink themselves that stupid. 

I come towards them, plastic beers in hand, elbows out and straight through the other shit-for-brains. It’s not easy balancing the beers, what with the masses of people here. I’m a few yards away from them still and I bawl out an ‘Oi,’ and they see me and shout ‘Porta-Pat, hand over the beers!’ laughing their idiotic laughs. And that’s when the stupid bastard next to me turns round, jogs me, and spills my beer. He’ll get a kicking for that, that’s the rules. We’re not in a court of law, this is the terraces, there’s no changing that. The kid doesn’t look like he came here to feed our fists, he hasn’t even got a scarf, probably just came along with someone else. Kappelmann doesn’t blink an eye though, he rams his bony knee in the kid’s balls and pours his whole plastic beer down the back of his shirt. 

‘Beer-spilling motherfucker,’ he says. His crap really gets on my nerves – he’ll want to drink our beer any minute now. He’s always pouring his beer out and then wondering where it is, and then he says he just wants a sip and downs half your glass. 

Kappelmann, a wig-wearer, a connoisseur of violence, a lawyer, and a hooligan. ‘No probs,’ he’s always saying. On a Saturday morning, whenever we see him, his first words are always: ‘No probs, no probs.’ He yells it all day long, whether it fits or not. 

We always meet at my place on a Saturday; the two of them come to pay the working class a visit. Kappelmann doesn’t even put on his goldilocks wig that cost the price of a Ford Focus, he doesn’t have his muesli for breakfast, doesn’t drink his freshly squeezed orange juice, doesn’t shake hands and read laws and writes all day long. On a Saturday, Kappelmann has two pints for breakfast and pays a visit to his old pal Röber. Then it’s loud music and pogo and beers. Once, the old fart from downstairs came up to complain. He only came the once. We get warmed up, a few stretching exercises for later, for a round of physical chess. 

‘Hey, Porta-Pat.’ Bonobo whacks me on the shoulder and I spill a bit more beer. Bonobo doesn’t get a kicking. That’s the rules as well. ‘Hey, Porta-Patty,’ Bonobo can’t stop laughing and he can’t talk straight any more in the first place. ‘We’ve thought something up for you, a therapeutic approach for your shitting problem. How to get your Porta-Potty dreams out of your head.’ From Sundays to Fridays, Bonobo’s called Christian Weber and runs a furniture shop with twenty-five employees. And twice a year he organizes a Free Jazz evening at a bar; his girlfriend calls him Teddy Bear. He’s standing there swaying and laughing at his own joke: ‘Hey, Porta-Pat, the next guy we kick in, you can put his head down a Porta-Potty.’ Am I supposed to say thanks for all his sympathy? I imagine Bonobo in glasses, drawing up shift schedules and selling chipboard sideboards to young couples for their starter homes. He might end up selling the beer-spiller a fitted kitchen for his first flat next week, who knows? 

Starting whistle. You can hardly see anything from here anyway. Kick-off, Renner’s injured, Gonzo’s been in good form the last few games but I don’t bet any more now, it makes the game too important and then I can’t concentrate on the main attraction. Kappelmann rubs away nervously at his shorn weekend scalp, tries to spot something on the pitch, and Bonobo says quietly in my other ear, ‘Hey, Röber, I have to tell you something later.’ I wait a moment in case it’s supposed to be another joke, but Bonobo doesn’t laugh and then I realize he called me by my proper name. 

I look at him and say, ‘Half-time.’ And he nods. I can guess what it’s about. His girlfriend, who he calls ‘Amber’– a thick brown lump with insects in – and laughs about on a Saturday, she’s been getting on his nerves since they moved in together, about mid-May it was, three and a half months it’s been now. He used to be really into her. Now he’s living with her, surrounded by furniture he used to sell to other people. Now he’s ended up where he never wanted to be, so he hits all the harder on a Saturday. But then he always wants to talk at some point. Always on a Saturday. 

‘No probs,’ I say. 

‘What’s no probs?’ Kappelmann asks and turns around to us. That’s his catchphrase. Kappelmann grins and brings his fist down on the head of the old man in front of us. Just because. That’s the rules as well: Kappelmann’s allowed. Kappelmann’s a giant, and his skinhead sure as hell makes an impression. The old man doesn’t even dare turn around, leaves his place without a word and disappears. I think: idiot – and I mean the old guy. I wanted to see his face, at least. 

It’s still nil-nil; the losers from Frankfurt are taking a throw-in. Not much has happened yet and there’s only fifteen more minutes left of the first half. 

In the break, Kappelmann gets the beers in. That’s usually funny and fast so I wouldn’t mind going with him, but I have to stay put with Bonobo cause he has to talk to me. Kappelmann pushes through the crowd with a yell. Now and then someone says hello and Kappelmann grunts back. I don’t think anyone likes him, they just don’t want to get in his bad books, cause Kappelmann’s a real animal on a Saturday. He doesn’t give a shit about anything on a Saturday. No probs. He’s not scared someone will break his collarbone or smash his teeth in or knife him in the belly. He’s tanked up and ready to go; Kappelmann knows no inhibitions. A lawyer from Monday to Friday, commercial law. On a Saturday a dipshit, an animal, and never scared of ending up in jail for really messing someone up by accident. Four noses he’s broken this year, so far. ‘It goes snap,’ he says and laughs. He likes it; I like it too. Snap, funny, and absurd. That’s what he’s like, Kappelmann. He doesn’t talk much, he breaks noses and slams his fist down on old men’s heads. 

I don’t know what Kappelmann does on a Sunday, even though I’ve known him since we were seventeen. Bonobo too, who really is talking about his girlfriend. I don’t really listen until he puts his hand on my shoulder. He’s only got tears in his eyes, hasn’t he? 

‘Hey, Röber, man, I can tell you: I’m shitting myself.’ Bonobo really pisses me off when he’s like this. I’m not some agony aunt just because I don’t grind my teeth. He can tell me – what’s that supposed to mean, eh? I stare at him, don’t know what kind of a face I’ve got on. 

‘Anna’s pregnant,’ he shouts in my ear, and I say, ‘Huh?’

Bonobo nods.


‘No kidding,’ he yells – it’s bloody loud on the terraces – ‘she really is.’ 

Kick-off again, and this time they go for it. Gonzo takes the opening pass, quick switch, on his toes. ‘Bonobo,’ I say, ‘if it’s a boy we’ll make a real primate out of him. I’ll let him have my cap. And if it’s a girl…’ I shrug and turn around. Well, what if it’s a girl? Robbel straight past two defenders right to the young French guy they got before the start of the season, Büschohn or whatever his name is, but the frog gets his legs in a twist and loses the ball. Breakaway for the Frankfurters. ‘Then I’ll keep my cap, not the end of the world,’ I say, and Reinhart – he had his day but he’s just too old now, and we still haven’t got anyone better – Reinhart’s way too far in front of the goal, and some Frankfurt cunt just shoots and scores. Look how happy the bastard is! Runs all the way to the corner flag and throws himself down on his chest, slides up to the stands. We whistle and yell as loud as we can and push and shove, I kick the father of the little boy in front of me, he falls one row forward into a group of students and knocks one of them over, Domino Day. The boy stares at me, he’s pissing his pants and steaming up his glasses, not exactly a primate. ‘Don’t look at me, you dickwad,’ I say. One-nil behind, which is crap of course but at least it’s brought a bit of life into the game. Suddenly Kappelmann’s back and he yells right in my ear, ‘What’s Reinhart playing for anyway, they should give him a mercy killing, that cripple, what idiot put him up to play?’ Now my left ear starts to whistle and my right ear’s a little bit pregnant. 

The manager sends on an amateur, some guy I don’t know, never heard of him, but he’s black and we’re hopeful, sometimes you get these real magical African guys, raw diamonds. Maybe it’s our time to get lucky in the colonial football lottery. It’s round about the seventieth minute, so Kappelmann’s starting to look around for a target. Bonobo’s got a grip on himself now, or he’s acting like it, and he holds out the pills for us, we take them and we know they’ll send us flying any minute now: ‘Ready to knock a few heads, Porta-Pat?’

And Kappelmann yells, ‘Oi, oi, oi,’ like some kind of imbecile.‘Oi, oi, oi.’ 

He’s in battle-cry mode again. He’s always like that from the seventieth minute or so. I didn’t make the rules. Kappelmann taps some guy two rows ahead of us, almost gently, some guy with short black hair, athletic looking, guaranteed a Russian. Fair play, I think. Kappelmann stares at the guy and the Russian stares back. Then Kappelmann says, ‘Oi, I know your mum, she stands round the back of the station and lets me piss on her for ten cents.’ 

Charming, that’s Kappelmann. The Russian turns back round, can’t be arsed with a fight. ‘She barks when a bell rings,’ Kappelmann shouts, but the Russian stares straight ahead at the pitch and then yells something. Penalty for Frankfurt, I didn’t see why, but Kappelmann uses the distraction and the yelling to punch the Russian in the head, and the guy grabs him by the throat quick as a flash, and that gets Kappelmann going, I can see it in his eyes, all the civilized lights going out at once. He’s coming up already, totally edgy and moving much too fast. He bats the Russian’s arm away and shouts or laughs; it’s a weird noise and his jaw looks out of joint, you can see every tendon, every vein really clearly. 

‘I’m gonna smash you up right after the game. I’ll smash your head in,’ Kappelmann grunts more to himself than the Russian, who’s just turned back round and moved a bit closer to the fence. Kappelmann just about keeps a lid on it so he doesn’t get in trouble with the stewards. The lawyer doesn’t want anyone pressing charges. 

Two nil for the bloody Frankfurters. I don’t give a shit. Kappelmann helps himself to my plastic beer and downs it all. He’s shaking like he’s about to shoot his load; he’s gagging for a fight. It’s a Saturday. Ninety minutes over, four minutes’ extra time. We head for the exit to wait for the Russian. As we leave, Kappelmann gives him a kick in the back between the rows, shouts ‘Kiddy fucker,’ and shows him his teeth. The Russian puts on a mean look, ruffles his feathers a bit, but he hasn’t got the guts for more than that. You can tell he knows what’s coming next, the fear’s lit up in his eyes. I see it every Saturday, I’ve got an eye for it. Holding his ground, the Russian, but he won’t last long. 

Final whistle, ruckus, shouting, and growling, I can feel myself getting twitchy, like on fast-forward, everything’s much faster on a Saturday after the final whistle, the girls and the fans start howling, nothing hurts much, bottles fly, fists land, bones break. ‘Patty,’ Bonobo yells and pulls me over to him. ‘He’s over there.’ Kappelmann’s got the Russian in his sights and now we’re on his tail. Shit, I think, he’s got his girlfriend with him. Not good. When you’re out to destroy, in war mode, there’s nothing as annoying as a woman screaming and crying and worrying. You’re inside yourself, you don’t think, you keep an eye on the gap and when you can get a punch in you get one in, fist to skull, two hits a second, kinetic meditation, that’s what Kappelmann says. A woman’s another world, no one wants that on a Saturday. 

Later, we stand in front of the bush and hold the Russian’s girlfriend tight so she doesn’t butt in, so Kappelmann doesn’t break her face by accident if she tries to get between them. She’s just that kind, thin and hysterical; she’d jump in and scratch and bite and kick him with her pointy tart’s shoes. And Kappelmann would swat her away like a fly to keep her out of his hair. She doesn’t understand what we do, what it’s all about. Violence, aesthetics, clarity. That’s just how it is, you pick someone out and he has to play along. I didn’t make the rules. 

The girl screeches, just a few yards ahead of us Kappelmann’s got the Russian as his punching bag; the Russian’s kicking and spitting. He’s tough, that Russian. Kappelmann’s lip’s bleeding, he grins with red teeth, but he just laughs and jumps up against the Russian like he’s a wrecking ball, he’s got him by the arse, the Russian’s in a panic, I can read that in his movements, he’s just trying to prevent the worst. Kappelmann’s still going for it, but the Russian’s not shouting. A silent Russian, just quiet slaps or an oof.

Kappelmann’s not a man of honour, not on pills he’s not, he doesn’t stop when his guy’s on the ground. We give the Russian’s girlfriend a friendly shove as we move through the shouting ultras behind the bush. We can’t see anything now, but we’re right next to them so we hear the sounds of punches and kicks raining down, punches and kicks that really bloody hurt. I can understand why she’s shrieking. But I can’t understand why Bonobo’s got a look on his face like a cocker spaniel. He’s really pissing me off today. 

‘Röber,’ he says, and I hardly hear him cause the girl’s flipping out and really loud, and I’d rather concentrate on the sounds of the blows raining down anyway. ‘Röber, mate, I think I’m in love.’ 

I can’t believe it. Someone’s winning a few yards away, I can hear it now: the dull thuds are getting more frequent. He’s out to wound now. ‘Great,’ I say. ‘Perfect. Build a house, plant a tree, start a family. Bonobo in love. Teddy Bear and Amber.’ 

He looks at me and shakes his head. The girl shouts for help. 

‘No, Röber, that’s the thing. With someone else! Girl at work, a new girl. She’s really sweet, only nineteen, a really lovely girl, smooth as a new bud. I think I don’t want to… Amber, you know. Röber, it’s a really shitty feeling. But I can’t do it, be a father, grow old with her. I wanted to fall in love, I did it on purpose. Wanted to be someone new! You get it? Just saying and doing everything differently, and she’ll believe you; she doesn’t know you, she has to.’ 

‘Mate, Bonobo, what are you on about?’ 

‘Shit, Röber, I thought you understood me. You’re the same. You’re so… free.’ 

The Russian girl bites Bonobo in the hand. He yells and lets go of her and grabs his hand like a girl. And she pulls away from me as well and burrows her way through the bush. And just at that moment, Kappelmann comes running round the outside of the bush to us with blood on his fist and his face. He holds up his left hand, all five fingers splayed. Nose number five, victory. No idea if it’s his blood or the Russian’s blood on his face. He laughs. 

‘How’d it go?’ I ask. 

And Kappelmann says, ‘No probs. Done and dusted. What was he doing wearing a red shirt in our block, eh?’ 

I hear the girl whining. 

Bonobo yells, ‘Hey, come on, Porta-Pat, mate, now you get to dunk that fucking Frankfurter in a Porta-Potty.’ 

And he’s bent over laughing again. He’s acting though, I can tell that even with all the drugs in my brain. 

‘Oi, oi, oi.’ Now Kappelmann’s started and all, putting his arms round me and smearing me with blood. Kappelmann in his brown Armani suit all covered in blood, new and old and very old; at least two years, that’s how long he’s been wearing his suit on a Saturday. Who gives a fuck? Doesn’t bother me, I don’t give a shit. If you spend all week shitting in Porta-Potties, there’s nothing can disgust you. 

‘Oi, Kappelmann, what do you do on a Sunday?’ I ask. He stops still like a tree and stares. Stares hard and firm at my face like I was a fucking Frankfurter. 

‘Porta-Pat, mate,’ he says, ‘tomorrow, we’ll kidnap Reinhart and shoot him. Put him out of his misery. It’s out of order that the fucking Frankfurters won.’ 

Bonobo gives me a light kick in the arse and Kappelmann slaps me on the shoulder. ‘Go on now!’ Bonobo yells, ‘give him a dunking. Confrontation therapy!’ They shove me through the bush and over to the Russians. She’s squatting down next to him, holding his bleeding head. Two minutes of unpadded fists leave ugly marks. ‘Porta-Pat, Porta-Pat!’ the two of them yell. They laugh like crazy, the Russian groans, his girlfriend’s crying into a phone. I think of wrestling and free fighting, of the finishing move, but actually I want an opponent, not a victim. I turn around to Bonobo and say quietly, ‘No probs.’ Then I jump off and lie flat in the air.