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I’m late, they’ve started already. The pub is packed full of the usual suspects - the big drinkers and the students, the football fanatics and a few old geezers. Glad I texted Paul to save me a seat. Up to the bar quick-sharp – at least it’s clear, everyone else got their beers in before kick off.
“Pint of Stella please mate”
I watch the glass fill with amber magic and lick my lips in anticipation. I glance at the TV as I wait for it to pour, squinting at the clock in the corner to see I’ve only missed the first few seconds.
I pay the man and grab my pint. I raise the glass to my lips and take a satisfying gulp. It hits the back of my throat and I realise it’s just what I needed after a hard day – a few pints and the big match.
As I approach my spot in the corner I look up at the TV again. I freeze as the ball is launched into the box.
Was it in?
It was, it’s gone in!
One nil! First minute!
A smile stretches from ear to ear, and I tip my head back and laugh. What a start – and to think I’d been so pessimistic about our chances tonight. I throw my hands in the air, Stella sloshing out of the glass and running down one arm. Who cares? There’s plenty more beer, but there’s only one United! Write us off at your peril! We’re gonna thrash them, humiliate them! We’re gonna win the league – do the double – the treble! Hell, we’ll take the ‘Carling Cup’ too and be the first team in history to do the quadruple because we’re that damn good!
I loudly cheer as I put my beer down on the table and slap Paul on the back.
“Come on you Reds!” I sing in his face, my fists clenched in absolute joy.
But his face tells a story and it’s not the same one I’ve heard. He’s gone white, his mouth hangs open and his eyes are glazed. I look up at the screen and watch the replay and all of the joy rushes out replaced by a feeling of complete dejection and a face that matches Paul’s.
“Steve you t****r, get your eyes tested” he says with a look of sheer mortification, “we’re playing in white.”
I drop into the seat and hold my head in my hands. Paul has just about stopped swearing at me when we go two-nil down.
I knew we’d struggle this season.
“Pint of Stella please mate”
I watch the glass fill with amber magic and lick my lips in anticipation. I glance at the TV as I wait for it to pour, squinting at the clock in the corner to see I’ve only missed the first few seconds.
I pay the man and grab my pint. I raise the glass to my lips and take a satisfying gulp. It hits the back of my throat and I realise it’s just what I needed after a hard day – a few pints and the big match.
As I approach my spot in the corner I look up at the TV again. I freeze as the ball is launched into the box.
Was it in?
It was, it’s gone in!
One nil! First minute!
A smile stretches from ear to ear, and I tip my head back and laugh. What a start – and to think I’d been so pessimistic about our chances tonight. I throw my hands in the air, Stella sloshing out of the glass and running down one arm. Who cares? There’s plenty more beer, but there’s only one United! Write us off at your peril! We’re gonna thrash them, humiliate them! We’re gonna win the league – do the double – the treble! Hell, we’ll take the ‘Carling Cup’ too and be the first team in history to do the quadruple because we’re that damn good!
I loudly cheer as I put my beer down on the table and slap Paul on the back.
“Come on you Reds!” I sing in his face, my fists clenched in absolute joy.
But his face tells a story and it’s not the same one I’ve heard. He’s gone white, his mouth hangs open and his eyes are glazed. I look up at the screen and watch the replay and all of the joy rushes out replaced by a feeling of complete dejection and a face that matches Paul’s.
“Steve you t****r, get your eyes tested” he says with a look of sheer mortification, “we’re playing in white.”
I drop into the seat and hold my head in my hands. Paul has just about stopped swearing at me when we go two-nil down.
I knew we’d struggle this season.
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Nice, nice, nice. Not grim and with a nice clean refreshing feel to it. Easy, effective and simple.
I’m late, they’ve started already. The pub is packed full of the usual suspects - the big drinkers and the students, the football fanatics and a few old geezers. Glad I texted Paul to save me a seat. Up to the bar quick-sharp – at least it’s clear, everyone else got their beers in before kick off.
“Pint of Stella please mate”
I watch the glass fill with amber magic and lick my lips in anticipation. I glance at the TV as I wait for it to pour, squinting at the clock in the corner to see I’ve only missed the first few seconds.
I pay the man and grab my pint. I raise the glass to my lips and take a satisfying gulp. It hits the back of my throat and I realise it’s just what I needed after a hard day – a few pints and the big match.
As I approach my spot in the corner I look up at the TV again. I freeze as the ball is launched into the box.
Was it in?
It was, it’s gone in!
One nil! First minute!
A smile stretches from ear to ear, and I tip my head back and laugh. What a start – and to think I’d been so pessimistic about our chances tonight. I throw my hands in the air, Stella sloshing out of the glass and running down one arm. Who cares? There’s plenty more beer, but there’s only one United! Write us off at your peril! We’re gonna thrash them, humiliate them! We’re gonna win the league – do the double – the treble! Hell, we’ll take the ‘Carling Cup’ too and be the first team in history to do the quadruple because we’re that damn good!
I loudly cheer as I put my beer down on the table and slap Paul on the back.
“Come on you Reds!” I sing in his face, my fists clenched in absolute joy.
But his face tells a story and it’s not the same one I’ve heard. He’s gone white, his mouth hangs open and his eyes are glazed. I look up at the screen and watch the replay and all of the joy rushes out replaced by a feeling of complete dejection and a face that matches Paul’s.
“Steve you t****r, get your eyes tested” he says with a look of sheer mortification, “we’re playing in white.”
I drop into the seat and hold my head in my hands. Paul has just about stopped swearing at me when we go two-nil down.
I knew we’d struggle this season.
“Pint of Stella please mate”
I watch the glass fill with amber magic and lick my lips in anticipation. I glance at the TV as I wait for it to pour, squinting at the clock in the corner to see I’ve only missed the first few seconds.
I pay the man and grab my pint. I raise the glass to my lips and take a satisfying gulp. It hits the back of my throat and I realise it’s just what I needed after a hard day – a few pints and the big match.
As I approach my spot in the corner I look up at the TV again. I freeze as the ball is launched into the box.
Was it in?
It was, it’s gone in!
One nil! First minute!
A smile stretches from ear to ear, and I tip my head back and laugh. What a start – and to think I’d been so pessimistic about our chances tonight. I throw my hands in the air, Stella sloshing out of the glass and running down one arm. Who cares? There’s plenty more beer, but there’s only one United! Write us off at your peril! We’re gonna thrash them, humiliate them! We’re gonna win the league – do the double – the treble! Hell, we’ll take the ‘Carling Cup’ too and be the first team in history to do the quadruple because we’re that damn good!
I loudly cheer as I put my beer down on the table and slap Paul on the back.
“Come on you Reds!” I sing in his face, my fists clenched in absolute joy.
But his face tells a story and it’s not the same one I’ve heard. He’s gone white, his mouth hangs open and his eyes are glazed. I look up at the screen and watch the replay and all of the joy rushes out replaced by a feeling of complete dejection and a face that matches Paul’s.
“Steve you t****r, get your eyes tested” he says with a look of sheer mortification, “we’re playing in white.”
I drop into the seat and hold my head in my hands. Paul has just about stopped swearing at me when we go two-nil down.
I knew we’d struggle this season.
Page: