Not Today Boy

Andy Rivers

THE NEWS

The consultant was one of those softly spoken types who probably held patients’ hands for a living. He kept glancing at the screen like it was personally upsetting him.

“I’m sorry Andy. The cancer has… spread significantly. We’re talking… weeks. A month at most.”

I let the words settle. They didn’t sting. Didn’t even land really. Instead, I just felt a wave of calm rolled through us. Weird really, like a strange kind of peace.

“Aye?” I said. “Whey I suppose we’ve all got to clock out sometime eh?”

The doctor just blinked, expecting us to cry or go mad, he was caught off guard I think. Outside, the hospital car park was bright and cold. Diesel fumes, a bus wheezing to a stop, a woman shouting at a toddler. The real world rolling on, indifferent. I felt for the tabs in me pocket and lit one with shaking fingers. I don’t fear dying, not really, but I am scared of dying their way: piss bag, grey sheets, body wasting away while nurses pretended not to mind the smell.

Nah. Fuck that.

And as I took the first drag, that old voice — gravelly, weathered even — slid into me thoughts.

Not today, boy.

And the past cracked open.

FIRST MATCH

I was a skinny little thing back then — all ribs and hopeful eyes — wearing a hand-me-down shirt two sizes too big. The older lads outside the boozer had decided they were bored enough to start pushing us about.

“Away wi’ ye, ya skinny little prick,” one of them laughed, shoving us so I bounced off a wall.

I tried to square up, but me voice shook and me bottle was nowhere to be seen.

“Leave us alone, man…”

“Oooh, he’s a hard lad now!” The biggest one flicked me ear. “The little Byker bastard. Show us some tricks ya dad learnt yer eh Supermac. Earn ya place.”

I clenched me fists, heart hammering, they knew I didn’t have a dad. Everyone fucking knew. Then the pub door slammed open.

Uncle Charlie stepped out, squinting at the daylight like it offended him. Wiry but durable looking, forearms like fucking railway sleepers.

“What the fuck’s this?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.

The bullies shit theirselves. Charlie had that look about him that just screamed divvent fuck with me and round here you learned from an early age to give lads with that look a wide berth. He walked right into their space, eyes dark and breathing slow. Turned to the biggest fucker.

“Not today, boy,”

And that was that. They scattered. Fast.

Then he ruffled me hair.

“Howay daft lad. Kick off’s in ten minutes and we’re not missing it over gobshites like that. One day the whole world’s ganna know who you are and those divvies will still be sat on their mother’s settee waiting for their dole money”

Inside the ground, sat on a concrete barrier with a packet of crisps, everything felt safe.

STINKING THINKING

Strolling back through town from the hospital towards the Tyne Bridge me face showed nothing. The thoughts were fucking pinging round me nappa like a sweatshop sewing machine on overtime though – rat tat tat!

What about the dog? Poor Otis won’t know where I’ve gone.

He’d understand though, the little fucker loves me more than life itself and he wouldn’t want to watch us deteriorate into a drugged up, befuddled skeleton. A shadow of the bloke who’d took him on adventures up the coast all them years.

Some poor bastard will have to fish us out an all…then there’s the witnesses, they’ll be fucking traumatised.

Aye but they’ll soon forget, I’ll just be a story down the pub on a Friday night won’t I? And that won’t even last long, everyone’s forgotten after two generations anyway.

And then Charlie would be right after all – everyone would finally be talking about us!

But what if it’s a kid who watches us do it? Horrible for them that and it’s hard enough being a kid innit?

It’s fucking shit having morals like, can’t even just off meself without agonising about it.

Then I saw the lads hanging round the street corner. Couple of cans and sharing a joint. Not bothering no-one, not in anyone’s way just mates cackling and laughing like the world was theirs and having a great time. What do they call it now? Living their best life? Fucking right. Have it lads, enjoy every day.

Jesus, looking at them takes us back mind.

BYKER NIGHTS

Fifteen, pissed on cheap cider that burned the throat and made you bold. Me and the lads — Doggo, Stevey-Two-Beds, Ricky — all leaning against a shuttered shop front, laughing too loud. Shields Road glowed its usual sickly orange under the streetlights and drizzle. Somewhere, a siren wailed. Somewhere else, further down the road, there was shouting.

Then a group of older lads slid out of a side alley. Pale faces. Darting eyes. One had a knife, small but sharp enough to end ya night. I recognised them from the bottom end of the estate. We’d ran from them before.

“What you doing on our patch you pricks?” The knife-boy hissed. “You’d best empty out ya pockets sharpish or things are ganna get messy.”

Me mates backed off instantly and all I could hear was me own pulse thumping in me ears. The knife glinted as the lad stepped closer. I was fucking frozen to the spot.

Then.

Bootsteps. Slow. Purposeful.

Uncle Charlie.

Hands in pockets. Chewing a toothpick. Two of his cronies behind him — Big Daz (who once bit a man’s ear off) and Nipper (so called because he’d stabbed someone with garden shears). Charlie looked the knife-boy up and down with pure contempt.

“Put that shite away, sunshine,” he said. “Yer hand’s shaking.”

The twat faltered.

Charlie leaned in, voice low.

“Not today, boy.”

The whole alley suddenly changed temperature. The knife disappeared like magic.
The threat melted. The lads scuttled off, muttering excuses.

Charlie turned to us .

“You lot stink of cider,” he said. “Get home before your mams tan your hides.”

Then he kicked us up the arse.

“It’s not court report or pubwatch where I want to be reading about you son.”

SAILING

I’d sacked off the jumping off the bridge idea and headed back to Byker for a coffee in the new shiny shopping centre. The café was warm, full of pensioners and stale pastries. I sat nursing an americano that tasted burnt, thinking about me life, the universe and everything. A song played over the tinny speakers, an old tune Charlie always used to put on the jukey at The Hobby when I went to see him on a Monday. Him and his seven brothers, me other uncles, always used to sing this Rod the Mod classic when they were pissed. Listening to it I could feel a smile forming despite meself, maybe I could blow me savings on a cruise and do a Maxwell halfway round – might even make the local news.

MONDAY CLUB

By the mid-nineties I was a grown man. Heavy. Solid. Tattoos up both arms. The type of bloke people stepped aside for. I walked into The Hobby — Charlie’s local — and instantly felt tension. The air was thick enough to chew.

A massive lad — sweaty fucker, red-faced, belly straining his t-shirt — had me favourite uncle backed into a corner of the bar.

“You owe me, old man,” the big lad snarled, jabbing a sausage-finger into Charlie’s chest. “Yer time’s up.”

Charlie looked pale. Thinner. I knew he hadn’t been well but his eyes still shone like coal catching flame. As soon as he saw me walk in, his whole posture changed and he smiled. A tired smile, but real. He gave a small nod toward the big bully. Then he said it.

Quiet.

Certain.

His voice like honey drizzled over fucking gravel.

“Not today, boy.”

The big lump followed his eyes and turned, confused, and then he met the full weight of my forehead smashing through his fat, bully nose.

It was a short fight. Messy, loud, over in seconds.

Afterward, Charlie’s hands shook as he lifted his pint.

“Good lad,” he murmured.

He looked old, but proud.

“The world will talk about you one day son. I’m fucking telling yer.”

Then he gave me a wink and cadged a tenner to get the round in.

THE SHOPPING CENTRE

That was the last time I saw him and listening to the final bars of the song I could feel a bit of moisture creeping into me eyes. Draining the last of me coffee I could just imagine him laughing and calling us a fanny and it made us smile.

Then the screaming started.

A man burst into the centre’s entrance bit, all wild eyes, blade in hand, shouting gibberish, rage, nonsense. Not words. Just raw, vicious sound.

People ran. Some didn’t make it. The floor was already being streaked with red. A girl, young looking and tiny, slipped in a puddle of spilled latte and fell. The attacker saw her. Raised the machete and she screamed.

I stood up from the table. Calm. I’ve got fuck all left to lose.

I walked straight toward the girl and placed, what I hoped, was a steady hand on her shoulder. She’d wet herself and was shaking so hard it rattled her whole body.

“It’s alright, pet,” I whispered, giving her a tiny wink.

Then I stepped between her and the blade. The terrorist prick bellowed at us, hockle flying, swinging the machete in wild arcs.

I could see the armed police gathering behind the glass entrance. I only needed to stall the bastard. So I looked the evil bastard dead in his cowardly fucking eyes and smiled, slow and fearless before looking upward — to who I hoped might somehow be watching — and giving a little nod. I winked back at the terrified lass and then, turning my full attention to the arsehole with the blade I shook my head.

“Not today, boy.”

The machete slashed as I dropped the nut on him. I felt his nose and eye socket splinter even before I heard the bone crack. Pain exploded and then warmth flooded down me belly. It was agony.

But I held the fucking line.

Long enough for the police to fire. Long enough to save her.

As I collapsed the world tilted and the lass crawled to us, sobbing.

“It’s alright, pet,” I whispered again, blood bubbling at me lips.

I just felt peace.

EPILOGUE

LOCAL MAN DIES SAVING GIRL IN SHOPPING CENTRE ATTACK
Witnesses have praised the “extraordinary bravery” of local man Andy Irving who intervened during yesterday’s violent incident in Byker Cross Shopping Centre.

In an incident being reported worldwide Mr Irving suffered a fatal wound after confronting a machete-wielding attacker who had already injured several civilians. By stepping between the attacker and a young girl, he allowed armed police the crucial seconds needed to safely neutralize the threat. Paramedics revealed that Andy had recently been diagnosed with incurable cancer and had only weeks to live. His actions in saving multiple lives have provoked such a depth of feeling across the globe that memorial services in his name have already been held in numerous countries and the Prime Minister has nominated him for the George Cross.

© Andy Rivers 2026

Andy has been a Butlins barman, pretend chippie on a Spanish construction site, coach holiday rep, mobile sandwich salesman and outdoor traffic cone washer to name but a few of his eclectic ‘career’ choices. Originally from Byker in Newcastle he now lives on the Yorkshire coast where, as well as following Newcastle United around the country, he passes the time by indulging in his passion for `Professional Geordie-ism’ and drinking. With the royalties from his novels he plans on buying an Aston Martin and having a proper mid-life crisis...you can help by looking at them HERE