3) Football
June 26, 2006
A friend received a letter from her young niece recently, saying "Dear Auntie Sarah, Granny bought us goldfish on Saturday. I’ve called mine Sissy, Holly’s called hers Holly and Luke’s called his Frank Lampard."
It demonstrated one of the fundamental differences between men and women. Football.
For men, football is religion. For women, if it is on their list of favourite things at all, it is at the bottom, wedged somewhere between “pork crackling” and “wearing hats.”
It has been professed (by cynical friends) that looking for love in a bar where football is on will lead to disaster, as men will be drunk and only interested in the game. However there is a proven formula. A big game + a big screen = lots of predominantly straight men.
BUT I do need a meticulous strategy. If I stand timidly in a corner behind someone who’s 6’4" I will not find love.
I must:
1) Thoroughly scope the venue
I have chosen a cavernous pub in the West End. Male friend comes here sometimes. It has a mezzanine level. He likes to stand there looking down on the flock of girls in low cut tops, like Jesus but not so brotherly. He calls this booby heaven. This vantage point will be good for scoping.
2) Select subject and approach
I shall pretend I’ve lost a friend. I will walk around scanning the room for my “female friend,” thus getting me up close to my subject. Then I will stand near him looking neither desperate nor alarming but quietly concerned for the whereabouts of my friend.
3) Follow up with a good opening line of conversation
My dad maintains that you should always start a letter or tricky conversation with something the other person wants to hear. So "You're the best looking person in here, can I chat to you till my friend comes back from the loo?” or “Are you in a band?” seem promising.
I dress in what is known as “school teacher chic".
It is a lot like “prim secretary” but the shoes aren’t so nice, as I expect to get beer on them.
I queue and pay. The bar is heaving. The smell of lager, cigarettes and man-sweat is divine. I feel like a woman. Men part so I can get to the bar. They say hello and smile. I buy a classy Hoegaarden. Not the best choice as I had some rather spicy sausages for dinner and the gas is making me burpy.
On the way up to booby heaven, I fall in love. He is a cherub. He has curly hair framing his face. He is slightly chubby. We do one of those meet-head-on-which-side-shall-we-move-to dances. He smiles. I could make it my life’s mission to keep that smile on his face.
I stay near Cherub Man looking slightly timid and concerned for my friend’s whereabouts.
Suddenly a big fat bloke in an England vest joins me. He looks like the curry-smelling man who once sat next to me (and largely on me) during an eight -hour coach journey to Glasgow. He has one tooth at the front where most people have two. I think he says, "You're too pretty to be on your own.”
They’re my bloody tactics!
I smile because the convent taught me to be nice to everyone. Then I think he says something about Wayne Rooney.
“I’ve got legs like Wayne Rooney," I say. I’m not really sure why. It was just the first thing that came into my head.
It’s also sadly true.
A little bit of his spit lands on me as he laughs.
“So has my ex-wife,” he says
“Bollocks” I think.
The match starts. It’s quite good. How can they run so much?
I realize that one day in Heaven the angels were playing in God’s garage where He had been working on his Perfect Man Creation. The naughty angels dropped the Perfect Man Creation and down he fell to Earth where he became known as Ashley Cole. In my mind we are childhood sweethearts, parted at the moment so I can concentrate on my acting, waitressing and blogging careers and he on his football. He is only helping the pretty one from Girls Aloud as a publicity stunt to draw attention away from the facts that she is violent and can't sing a note.We will be in Tuscony together soon, with my cute younger brother, Lennon.
Suddenly my head is in big fat bloke's armpit. Someone has scored.
I must concentrate.
I get quite good at the “upward punch in the air” when a player does something well. My favourite is the “Polish waitress without a boyfriend” sulk, when someone misses a pass.
This is fun.
Half time and big fat bloke goes to the loo. I try not to picture it.
Cherub Man smiles at me. I check behind. No, definitely at me. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
“Um, he’s not my boyfriend, he’s my minder. I call him the Beast II”
He laughs!!
“No I don’t have a boyfriend and I’ve only just met him.”
“I can’t believe you don’t have a boyfriend.”
This cavernous pub in the West end is actually heaven.
“Well I’m phenomenally funny and clever so I tend to intimidate most men.”
He laughs!! I beg myself not to speak again because I know I will cock it up. I’m trying desperately hard not to belch. I look at the screen and the half time commentators. Must not look too keen.
“Would you like a drink?”
It’s the spinster’s first conquest. She shoots, she scores.
“Yes please oh thank you, I think a white wine though, this beer makes me burp.”
I’m quickly introduced to his best friend’s brother standing next to him. Beast II returns. The match starts again. We become a little dysfunctional family, sulking, punching and groaning. The boys score again. This time I land in Cherub Man’s armpit.
I love football.
The match ends. Cherub Man says he has to go back to work for an hour or so. He asks me if I would like to meet up with him and some friends later. I say that I wish I could but I can’t. He says,
“I’m moving to Australia next week so I’m quite busy, but I’d really like to see you again before I go.”
“Oh wow! That’s great! How exciting, Australia’s an amazing place.”
Bloody Australia. Everyone’s bloody well moving there.
I look at him. I wish he were staying. I give him my number. I say goodbye. I won’t see him before he goes. It would be pointless. I desperately pray that he hates it and comes home in a fortnight.
The Beast II gives me bestial hug goodbye.
The pressure causes me to release a long, satisfying, hour-long held-in burp. Bliss.
I think I feel the cavern floor shake slightly.
“Good Girl!” he says with pride. “You even sound like my ex-wife now”
I leave the pub feeling a little discombobulated.
I think I might buy a goldfish and call him Ashley Cole.
Perhaps I should get him a friend called Lucy.
| 
Book publication day post.