Bank Holiday and Weymouth: There’s can be only one outcome. A whole town wading through a fermented Saturday. Every person, all ages and circumstances, joined together as a community bladdered, and it’s only just gone six.
This is wasted Weymouth. We’re all at it, they’re all at it, and the dirty sun casts shadows through the windows of the fat grockles walking past.
“This is my table “, says Ted pointing to a sign on the table saying ‘Reserved for Ted'. “They reserve it for me…for the football. Love the football...it's God's sport aint it? Some people reckon it's cricket, but I know, I can feel it. It's football I love....One hundred and twenty grand a week he gets paid…” Ted shakes his head, his bending yellow finger pointing accusingly at Sky Sports, “…for kicking a football around. I didn’t get that in my day”
“Did you used to play football?”
“Worked on the Shop-floor mate, all my life…never any good at football. ”
And then the voice of the short bloke lost amongst his bouncing, posturing mates. “He walked past and I fucking swear to you...I fucking...I fucking swear to you he called me a wanker. So I said ’Oy you wanker did you just call me a wanker?’…fucking wanker said nothing didn’t he…wanker…so I said ’Oy you wanker did you just call me a wanker?…and he said nothing didn’t he…so I said ’Next time you call me wanker say it to my fucking face you fucking wanker’…and he said nothing didn’t he?….fucking knew he would...fucking wanker.’
They all laugh at him. He’s the funny one.
Three women past forty…(is that old anymore?)…stride into the pub…not used to their consumption…not used to a bank holiday. “Oh nooooooo….not fucking football!”
“Let’s go…come on Claire…let’s go…’ate football..” Proper women, hating football. And off the three wobble, out the exit in a confused huddle, unintentionally splitting into three directions as they leave before ten seconds later realising they’ve unintentionally split into three directions. Their briefly confused faces subside and they turn back to meet each other at the pub entrance, before triumphantly re-entering the same pub.
"Who's playing Claire?"
“Fucking Smirnoff Ice innit Shirley.”