I told Oscar to wait outside and I went in and said to the barman: ‘Would it be all right if my grandson came in to watch the football?’ ‘Of course,’ he said. My notion that children aren’t allowed in pubs must be a quaint one because his harassed, hardworking face creased into a bemused smile and a man seated at the bar laughed.
We had four screens of various sizes to choose from: one behind the bar, one above the pool table, one above the fireplace and one fixed to the wall at the end of the bar. About a dozen customers were half paying attention to the screens above the fireplace and devoting the other half to obscenity-laden conversation. The swearing in this intensely local bar was unselfconscious, unemphatic and universal. Yet there was a civility and a welcoming warmth, I felt, in the polite manner with which we were ignored. Perhaps love of football was credential enough.
Vaguely conscious of one of life’s landmarks, I ordered a Coke for Oscar and a pint of lager for myself. The lager was served in a tall branded glass. I passed on the change (from a £10 note) to Oscar, who received it with such modest grace that I gave him all the money I had in my trouser pockets and all the cash I had in my wallet. Then, after a small hesitation, I gave him the wallet as well. Real snakeskin, it was; made in Italy.
We chose an empty table seven feet away from the screen fixed to the wall at the end of the bar, sat down and immediately devoted our attention to the game, which had been going for 20 minutes. Nil-nil still. It was a scrappy, frenetic game with little goalmouth action.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in