On Valentine’s Day I took a young lady out on a date. She was so young that the forms of address that she used in the brief flurry of emails leading up to the big day were entirely new to me and I had to Google them to find out what she meant. She called me ‘biatch’, for example, which I now know is the latest all-purpose variant of the African-American slang word ‘bitch’ — a term of endearment for one’s girlfriend. I was very excited and even a little nervous as I hadn’t been out with a young lady for a long time. Fortunately, the swollen half of my face, the visible result of an infected root canal, was starting to subside, thanks to the 500 mg amoxicillin capsules thrice daily prescribed by the emergency dentist.
I took her to an evening football match, West Ham United versus Southampton. Before anyone accuses me of a chauvinistic lack of imagination, can I just say that she is a daughter of that great sporting nation Australia, and likes nothing better, she also assured me via email, than ‘getting rotten with the blokes at Aussie Rules’. And in any case it was high time, she said, that she ‘popped her cherry’ at one of our famous ‘footie’ matches.
We caught an underground train from central London. At West Ham underground station we changed platforms to go one more stop. This second platform was six-deep with football supporters. Each train that came in was already jam-packed, and only a very few at a time could squeeze on. The sight of a small man bearing a beautiful mixed bouquet of flowers, 50 quids’-worth at least, waiting devotedly for a slightly less-packed carriage in which he might risk his flowers, we found amusing.
The pub before the game was also rammed. My pals were there before us, and in convivial mood. At first they pretended not to recognise my swollen face. One of them had fought his way to the bar and was ordering drinks. My Valentine said she’d have a pint of cider, which immediately created a favourable impression: covert nods of approval all round. Owing to the crush, we stood in an inward-facing circle — almost in a group hug — shouting in each other’s faces to make ourselves heard above the uproar.
I was drinking ice-cold Fosters, which, I’m sorry to say, reacted turbulently with the amoxicillin, and by the third pint I began to suffer from uncontrollable and unbelievably horrible flatulence. There was nothing I could do about it. My pals and the surrounding drinkers were appalled. I strenuously denied all responsibility, but it was useless. The fact that I was the only person engulfed in the vile miasma who appeared unconcerned by it immediately drew suspicion. Plus I have form. I was immediately convicted. When I’m at football, I’m Clarice. ‘Clarice, I’m surprised at you, son,’ said Pie and Mash Pete, flapping his hand in front of his face, ‘doing that in front of a young lady.’
We took our seats in the football ground ten minutes after kick-off, perhaps the last of the 32,875 spectators to arrive. The crowd was vociferous, the atmosphere charged. The floodlights lent drama and glamour. To reach our seats we had to squeeze in front of a row of men who were on their feet, apoplectic with anger, and screaming vile abuse at the referee. One by one, as soon as they noticed that it was a woman who was trying to pass by, they came to their senses and were humble, solicitous, even courtly, until their responsibility for her safe passage was finished, and then they resumed their angry torrent of obscenities.
We found our allocated seats and had been standing in front of them (no one was sitting down) for less than a minute when the referee awarded a penalty kick to the Hammers. A violent scuffle erupted on the pitch, culminating in the referee sending off the West Ham man. Pandemonium. The players were going mental; the manager was going mental; the crowd was going mental. I was wondering whether perhaps this was a good time to tentatively release some of the pressure on my trouser fastenings — a good time to bury bad news and all that — when my Valentine turned to me with an upraised palm, as though she was about to slap my face. How could she know? But she was laughing. She was loving it, she said. The upraised palm was a proposal for a ‘high five’ for ‘popping her football cherry’. I raised my right hand and complied. For the first time in my long and useless life, I completed a ‘high five’. Presumably everybody around us was far too busy calling the referee names to notice it. But anyone who did has probably never seen a clumsier or more pathetically mistimed one ever.
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