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| THE FINAL SCORE | |
| By IPFaulkner | ||||||||
| 21 May 2006 | ||||||||
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Another of the few I've finished and it was a couple of years ago. The only health warning is its a bit colourful and I hope no-one thinks it masoginistic. It was a story told to me as true and develooped into this. It was an experiment to see if would work and I don't think it really does: its an elongated joke in poor taste really. But I was told it as a true story! IP THE FINAL SCORE I finish work and the sun is shining. Summer finally arrives late that afternoon and the heat keeps me from my second storey flat. I creep into a couple of pubs and scan the generally empty bars for a familiar face. I see no-one I know. After a third pint in various bars I persuade myself to stop, before I find myself drinking heavily alone. I drag myself away and convince myself not to take a double or quits gamble in another bar. A mental challenge I have failed on numerous times in the past. It’s time to give up and go home. Feeling friendless I walk away and head to the flat. I try to read a book but the alcohol makes me restless; my eyes skim over the words, their meaning lost – a force field of beer deflecting the details of the plot. Its 1994 and “World Cup USA” has been occupying my spare hours. A further excuse to spend time in the pub - the games acting as a soundtrack to many drinking sessions. We make the appropriate gestures; we rock back on our heels, our pints protected at our chest, at a near miss; we draw in our breath and bend our knees, as if ducking the ball, at mistimed tackles. Like drinking, football is group activity, considered sinister if carried to excess at home alone. Today though I am abandoned. I toss the book aside and, instead, try to focus on the Quarter Final game being transmitted live from Dallas. Holland are playing Brazil. It bores me. By half time the score remains goalless. I consider my options. At the bottom of the street there’s a pub. It has probably changed little from its 60’s heyday. A traditional corner street pub, serving the local community it has sprung from. It makes no effort to entice anyone other than the faithful group of regulars. When required it can emit almost a smell of hostility to strangers who do not, by appearance, age or class, share its values. I look back across my room; a half read book, a two day old newspaper, the second half. I consider practical options; the only alternative seems to be a trip to the launderette. I toss the old news aside, grasp my coat by the sleeve and feel for the cash in my jeans pocket. The door swings shut behind me - my washing will have to wait. The pub has two bars. Both are small and conversations are often held across them, chaired by the barman on quiet days. A door connects them and a thin wall separates them. The floor is wooden and the furniture and walls are regulation red burgundy leather. There are perhaps half a dozen small wooden tables each surrounded by two or three chairs in the half I enter. Two men in their forties are sitting under the TV. Their chairs have been moved to the front of the table and they reach back occasionally for a drink of their pints. A newspaper – clearly having spent the day in a back pocket – lies on the table along with the remains of a packet of crisps. They are discussing the cost of bathroom tiles for some reason and are waiting for the second half to start. The one nearest the bar stands up says “Same again?” and heads for the toilet. Perhaps it is only in a British pub that such a transaction could take place without alarm. The bar itself is occupied by a tallish man with black hair and a leather jacket. His foot is on the rung at the bottom of the bar and he is looking partly at the TV and mainly at his cigarette packet. He does not look well. A half finished pint of Guinness lies near his packet of B & H. He is hunched over the bar. As I walk closer I see he is playing with a beer mat and there is a slight tremour to his hand and beads of sweat lining his forehead. A hangover. And still causing devilment at this time. I walk to the bar and order a pint. The second half kicks off as my beer is placed in front of me. The barman nods at Tileman as he re-appears and asks for two lagers. The hum of their chat mixes with the hiss of the crowd coming from the TV above us. I look up and through to the other bar. I stop the pint on its way to my mouth – struck dumb by the ferocious look I receive from the only occupant of the other bar. I look down embarrassed and uncomfortable, certain I have never seen the woman before. I risk a second look and am slain for a second time. The sender is perhaps in her mid 40’s. She is wearing a lot of make-up - but tastefully and could pass for younger. She is not unattractive but looks overdressed for a midweek night in a local bar. I tentatively search my most sensitive memory bank – the one marked ‘Encounters (sexual)’ and gently search the names and faces in my mental rolodex. I take another glance at the woman and am even more certain I do not know her. I am no Romeo and I am sure any inevitably clumsy pass would result in a gracious and hearty laugh and some condescending comment about wee boys. The outcome of any such attempt would have been a humiliation burned on my memory. I would remember. I know I have done nothing to offend the woman. A noise – combination of a wheeze and a sigh comes from my left and the Hangover moves his foot from the metal rail and walks behind me toward the toilets to my right. The woman’s lips tighten and her head aggressively follows. She noisily grabs a cigarette from her purse on the bar and stage whispers “prick”. The timing is perfect. It is uttered as he turns to the barman on his way from the bar to order a pint. The bar falls silent as if a cuecard has been lifted and the expletive looks like it’s fallen from his own mouth. The order for a refreshment dies on his lips. He turns and limps to the toilet in absolute retreat. I breathe a sigh of relief. I am not the target of the venom and, given the armory on show, am even happier to be out of danger. I speculate momentarily on what could have caused the disagreement and then turn to the TV. Bebato plays Romario in and Brazil are a goal ahead after 52 minutes. The Tileman pulls a slip from his shirt pocket, rolls it into a ball and places it into the ashtray. The game has improved. The Man in Black returns from the bathroom and, timorously and noisily, his friend from across the bar heads to the Ladies. She tosses one contemptuous look across at him on her way. Another direct hit. He grips the bar for balance. “For fucks sake” he mutters and looks across at me with a mixture of embarrassment and mockery in his thin smile. Now a yard from him I can see he is perhaps 35 years of age and looks in need of a nights sleep. “You’ll a’ noticed a’ that no doubt” he says and his head nods across to the empty bar stool across the divide. I nod and mutter that I thought I it was me. “Aye, well, come in here more than three times and likely you will” he says. His posture improves – his health quickening with companionship and at my confusion. “See the dame givin’ me the looks, very ‘popular’ shall we say in these parts. Familiar to many a drunken man late on she is.” As the door to the Ladies swings open my companion orders another pint and notices less the bombardment coming over the no-mans land of the bar. However, in direct contrast my discomfort increases as I begin to receive a volley or two myself. We look momentarily at our pints and glance at the TV and watch the game for several minutes. We share some football small talk – the Brazil 1970 side, English commentators and Van Basten’s goal in 1988. Everyman ice-breakers. “Oh fuck I feel rough today” he eventually says. I hear this to my left as I watch the TV to the right. As I turn to acknowledge the comment Brazil score a second goal – this time Bebeto. We both watch the replay in silence. “Well that puts the tin lid on that” says Friend of Tileman. Tileman nods sagaciously. I turn to my friend and ask about the cause of the hangover. My voice carries over the bar and the response is a contemptuous laugh. I hear “Fuck all” and something I don’t catch from the woman with the grudge. “Jesus fuck man” he says and stares into his Guinness. After a minute he continues. “As I was sayin’. The woman yonder has a reputation. And not unearned. But for my part – I drink here a lot – I have shown no interest. Not for me any of that.” He waved his hand grandly in the air and gave a broad regal smile that turned into a friendly and open laugh. “Until last night.” The game had kicked off again and as expected Holland passed the ball around – aimlessly – accepting defeat. Suddenly Bergkamp contrived to score. My colleague was now interested in the game – only two minutes had passed since Brazil’s second. I felt frustrated – what had happened? It had the sound of being far more interesting than the game. There was a chance that ‘Until last night’ was an enigmatic ending to the story, from which I was to nod knowingly and leave the rest to my imagination. Instinct told me this was not the case – something far more unconventional than a drunken grope had taken place and I wanted to know what it was. The pace of the game was picking up. Holland had Brazil on the back foot. We watched in silence as the Tiling experts in front of us traded hackneyed clichés and occasionally made direct recommendations to the players. It would appear that standing to do this reduced the 3000 miles to hearing distance. After an hour and a quarter Brazil made a substitution. The pause returned us to our previous topic. “Aye, so last night I had an absolute skinfool. Nae reason, you understand, just did. The way it comes on you sometimes. Unexpected like.” I bought us both a pint. I understood. “So she’s in here and were chatting away like and you know, its there for you. I’ve always thought no – not for me. But last night – well it seemed a good idea. So. That was it.” At this moment laughter and cheering from the experts before us. We glance up to see Winter reeling away from goal and toward Overmars. 2-2. “Got to fancy the Dutch the noo” says Tileman knowingly. “Och aye, aye” nods his friend. “Jeso” says the old romantic but before he has time to sink back to the comfort of the match I blurt “so you shagged her then.” He looks at me – taken aback – and I feel stupid. He glances over the bar but she did n’t hear. He breathes out a sigh and goes on. “So we leave the boozer and head toward her flat up the road. But the cold air hits me, I feel fuckin’ blootered man and, at the same time, sober. I think what the fuck… na – a’m no for this. But its totally a done deal. We’ve signed the contract and that what is fucking well happening.” I laugh, and glance down to my pint. “Aye well, you can laugh.” He says, with a chuckle. “It was n’t you at 12.30am staggering about tryin’ to explain why you needed to tie your laces. Again.” “So we head up the close.” (Brazil make another attack – they pass the halfway line) “Her key’s in the door and turning the lock. We’re in the hall.” (FOUL shouts Tileman and friend – outside the penalty box. Chance for Brazil) “I waited for the offer of coffee – I planned to feign passing out on the sofa. Not a fucking chance. She goes straight to the bedroom.” (The ref gives the freekick and the Dutch remonstrate but, according to Tileman, “they can have nae complaints”) “So I spot the record collection on the sitting room floor – all vinyl like and, acceptin’ the inevitable I say, ‘what d’you wanna here’. (Branco places the freekick and steps back six paces. It’s a long way out but we’re in the last couple of minutes.) “’Your balls slapping off my arse’ she barked from the bedroom.” (Branco hits a rocket and the winner. What a goal! The two wise men agree that Brazil always looked the stronger team but they’ll be hard pushed to beat the Italians.) “Jesus. That was is for me. I left. Fuck knows how long she was there waiting for me” he said with a smile. “She should be glad, mind, I spent 40 minutes huggin’ the porcelin when I got home. I was in nae state.” After a couple of minutes and a pointless substitution by Brazil the game is over. We laughed – he for the first time since the night before. We decided a few more drinks were needed somewhere less hostile. We made for the door and a load cry of “fucking faggots” was again, expertly stage whispered as we left. Now, though, I realized it was not the result of anger but humiliation.
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