I’m in the pub before the first match of the new Premiership season, a pint of lager in each hand, and I’m thinking here we go again, another nine months of the same old overpriced, overhyped rubbish. The same old faces are pushing their way into the packed bar — though some are browner than when I last saw them back in May — and ordering pints from the same old bar staff. Out in the beer garden, the same old groups of mates face each other in convivial circles, pints in hand, beer bellies straining against the shiny material of their replica shirts.
I’m out in the beer garden, standing with my lot. Six are here already, one more on the way. I went through secondary school with three of them, so it feels like the beginning of term. Finally, Ted, we’ll call him, arrives. He very solemnly offers around his limp hand, as though he’s just popped in to say goodbye because he’s about to be taken away and shot. He looks haggard. The skin around his pate and temples is tight with worry.
To Brian he says, ‘Did you see me on Wednesday night?’ Brian tugs at his chin and says, yes, he thinks he did. It must have been around closing time. ‘Was I drunk?’ asks Ted. Brian shrugs. ‘We all were,’ he says. ‘But was I really out of it?’ insists Ted.
No worse than usual, says Brian. But that was last Wednesday and this was Saturday. Why was he still raking over the dim and distant past? ‘I’ve been in police custody wearing a paper suit ever since,’ says Ted. ‘They let me out on bail this morning.
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