In The Guardian ... so it must be true

I submitted three of Spike's photos of our trips to games at the Asian Cup which were posted on the Guardian Witness web site here.  A journalist from The Guardian, Tom Stevens, wrote to me with questions about our experiences at the tournament.  I rushed off answers before jumping in the car last Friday to drive to Sydney for the Quarter Final and Semi Final games last weekend.  Never thought any more about it.

Iraq v Palestine, 21 January. Pic: Spike Deane

I received an e.mail from Tom earlier today with a link to his article in The Guardian today, here.  Spike's photos are republished and extracts from my answers to Tom's questions were turned into quotes for his article. 

Lifelong Guardian reader that I am, I couldn't be more chuffed to appear in its virtual pages.  And - ageing Leftie, as I am also - I'm very pleased that my references to the broadcasting deal struck by the Football Federation Australia were quoted ... almost as I wrote them.  Tom wrote,

"Another interesting point our readers have made hinges on the Australian TV coverage of the event, or lack of. Dougie suggests that Football Federation Australia sold its soul too cheaply by signing the rights to the group stages over to Foxtel. “FFA missed the opportunity to open the tournament up to casual viewers through free to air broadcasting. It might be a long time until Australia host a football tournament of similar stature, and rather than being ‘dazzled by cash’ FFA could have looked at this tournament as an opportunity of building a long term future for the game.”

Happy camper.  Off to the final tomorrow.

Another day, another game with the Iraq team

Iraq fans, Lidcombe station, 26 January pic: Matt Herd

It's the knock-out stages of the Asian Cup and this time we're in Sydney for the semi final between Korea and Iraq. Noisier and busier than Canberra from the getgo, as was clear from the queue at Lidcombe railway station.

Stadium Australia, 26 January. pic: Spike Deane

My nephew Matt joined Spike, her dad and I on a very wet Australia Day at Stadium Australia with 40,000 others. It was supposed to be Australia versus some other team on Australia Day in Stadium Australia with 85,000 happy Aussies but that's not how it worked out in the end because the Socceroos didn't come top of their group. Ho hum. There are bigger disappointments in life.

Rain did not stop play. Pic: Matt Herd

We had seen both teams in Canberra during the group stage so we knew we'd be in for an exciting game. Endless noise from beginning to end. Tea, chips, Krispy Kreme donuts and the best seats in the house ... almost the best. Spike's dad and I sat in the wheelchair area. The stewards moved Matt and Spike into the comfy, pay extra for the privilege seats behind us.

Roll on the final.

To A Mouse on Burns Night ... which arrives in Scotland 11 hours later

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
What makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell -
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me;
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects dreaer!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

More football

Tonight saw the last of my five games at the Canberra Stadium.  Iraq versus Palestine.  Now there is a contest I would never have imagined previously I'd be watching.  But there we were, Spike and I plus somewhere in the region of 8,000 to 10,000 enthusiastic (not to say fanatical) supporters, mostly Iraqui nationals.  The man with the big drum was but one of many drummers who were unceasing in their desire to make themselves heard.  They succeeded.  

The game was enjoyable but the result was never in doubt.  How could it have been?  This is Palestine's first official tournament.  Five members of the squad were prevented from travelling because of visa restrictions.  The team gave their all but a victory was always going to be beyond their capabilities ... this time.  Their supporters didn't seem to mind too much.  They cheered on their team with the same passion as any bunch of avid fans but by half time it was pretty clear the night belonged to Iraq.  Unpeturbed, the Palestine supporters - some expatriots plus a bunch of Aussie supporters politically of the emergent nation settled for a flag-waving, drum-beating procession around the stadium.  Everyone in the ground seemed pleased they were there.  Sometimes that's enough; a victory in its own right.

The evening was marred a little by an argument I got into with an Iraqi supporter who refused to vacate the seat next to the wheelchair spot I was occupying.  He and his mates had been standing up, crowding the space as their team took the field, which is when Spike and I arrived.  Most of the guys moved so I could take the wheelchair spot.  One guy sat down next to me.  I asked him to move so Spike could join me.  He declined, telling me he was recovering from a broken ankle.  The ding dong commenced.  He refused my request to prove the seat was his by showing me his ticket.  He refused the same request from stewards and armed police officers.  Our ding dong continued.  In the end his mates persuaded him the fight was not worth the prize.  They moved away but not too far away.  They stood througout the match, jumping for joy when Iraq scored, as you would if you were an Iraqi.  Broken ankle entirely healed it would seem.

This Is Where I Leave You

I watched the movie This Is Where I Leave You today.  Ho hum.  It would be nice to be more enthusiastic about the film, not least because of its talented cast, but you can see the joins.  It creaks a bit, I'm afraid; not sure if that's the fault of the screenplay or the direction.  It's not awful but it probably had potential to be better.

As the final, foreseeable scene closed the movie some not-entirely surprising tune (uplifting, hopeful but moderately open-ended nevertheless) kicked-in while the screen faded to black.  I thought, this must have started out as someone's partially autobiographical novel.  And so it proved to be.  

A quick Google search told me it's the fifth novel (of six so far) of an American author I've not heard of before, Jonathan Tropper who was born in 1970.  Three of his novels have been optioned as movies, one linked to J J Abrams (coming after Star Wars, one assumes).  My guess is the novels occupy much the same emotional territory as This Is Where I Leave You.

I was, however, particularly struck by one comment on Jonthan Tropper's wiki entry (which, one assumes, he oversees).  It read, "he spent eight years running a Manhattan-based company that manufactured displays for jewelry companies. He wrote at night and on weekends, ultimately publishing his first novel, Plan B, which attracted the attention of an agent, allowing him to leave his job and become a full-time writer." 

He wrote at night and weekends ...

 The journey has to start somewhere, somehow.  Where it leads depends on setting out.  It's not rocket science, Douglas.

China versus North Korea

It was game five at the Canberra Stadium tonight (my fourth thanks to a puzzling attack last Tuesday of what doctors don't call 'the wobblies').  The traffic queued for a couple of kilometres ahead of the parking sites as we turned off the highway at Belconnen, confirming that tonight's game would be best attended of the group stage games in the nation's capital.  I reckon it's likely to be the best attended game of Canberra's contribution to the Asian Cup. As we made our way to the entrance, where many hopeful ticket buyers were arrayed in lines before the box office, a voice announced - a little forlornly - that only 30 tickets remained.  When, maybe a minute later, the same voice announced all tickets had been sold no one in the lines seemed inclined to believe her and move.  

Inside the ground, packed with thousands of the most polite football spectators I've ever encountered, the game was seven minutes old and China one goal ahead by the time we reached our spots.  We were surrounded by Chinese Australians most of whom were wearing what looked like the same one-size-fits-all red T-shirt bearing the legend - in English and hanji characters - GO CHINA.  Looking around the stadium it was clear someone was doing good business that night.  There were thousands of people wearing t-shirts.

The game ended in a victory for China, which pleased the vast majority of the 20,000 spectators.  North Korea gave the opposition a run for its money in the second half and only the woodwork denied the Koreans the draw they probably deserved.  I have one more game to go here in Canberra, which is Iraq v Palestine next Tuesday then it's up to Sydney on Friday for the first of the knock-out games that lead to the final.  

Go Socceroos, although after the loss to South Korea I hae ma doots ... as we say in the old country, where we know everything there is to know about snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.

See how Spike's garden grows

Spike, cat and corn

It has been a while since I was anywhere near Spike's veggie plot so I was hugely impressed when Spike and the cat gave me a guided tour today.  We - which is the Royal We - have corn, beans, chillies, capsicum, shallots and rhubarb growing strong in the small space at the back of the garden Spike cleared earlier in the year.  We shall eat well by the time summer draws to a close.  

Had we moved to Geelong this harvest would not now be in the making.  All sorts of signals confirm the rightness of that decision.

American Sniper

I watched Clint Eastwood's American Sniper last night.  Woke up this morning to read it has been nominated in the Best Picture category of this year's Oscars.  How fond of Clint the members of the Academy must be to go that far off track.  

I read Peter Bradshaw's two-star review of the film in today's Guardian.  I didn't agree with all of the Guardian critic's analysis although I do think his two-star rating is much nearer the mark than an Oscar nomination.  As often happens I felt compelled to comment on the views of someone writing in my favourite newspaper.  

Should I be worried that I'm one of those people who leave below the line comments in response to newspaper articles?  Probably.  But at least I don't rant.  Here's my attempt at a measured and reasoned response to Mr Bradshaw's original review.

I may be in a minority on this one but here goes. There are huge problems with the movie but not, I think, those Peter Bradshaw describes.

I didn't think it was dull (at least when it's in Iraq) but it certainly is derivative. We have a SEAL training camp straight out of An Officer And A Gentleman, a wedding dance from The Deer Hunter, a touch of Hurt Locker here, a bit of Zero Dark Thirty there. I think too that Bradley Cooper does well with the raw material he was given and I quite took to Sienna Miller's return to centre stage. Overall it struck me as a technically competent but pretty average American war movie of a very old and completely illusory type.

The super-size failures, however, are the script and directorial choices that led to the creation of this sanitised, delusional fantasy. Mr Eastwood's team has given us Chris Kyle's ghost written autobiography as some kind of cinema verite. I've no doubt that Kyle was a brave - if self-declared "redneck" - soldier of the type Republicans cherish. But there's not a hint anywhere in the movie of the more complex reality we can find behind the words of any unreliable, first-person narrator including Chris Kyle. That means, for instance, verifiable facts such as spending nights locked up in jail or trouble with booze or the legal dispute with Jesse Ventura don't feature anywhere in the movie to spoil the director's picture of a righteous warrior; not to mention Mr Eastwood's re-imaginings of events in Iraq e.g. the first kill in the movie has a boy added that doesn't even feature in Kyle's own autobiography presumably to give the film character's arc the contrast the movie needs via the incident with another boy and a rocket launcher later on.

And the truly fascinating, genuinely interesting and more complex reality of Mr Kyle's life and death - on American soil and not at the hands of the Iraqi "savages" he disliked so much but murdered by a fellow American at a gun range - gets reduced to one line of white text as the screen fades to black at the end of more than two hours of historical revisionism.

There's an interesting movie to be made about that Hellish American tragedy but American Sniper isn't that movie. It's Green Berets for the 21st Century - more subtle in its assertion of American exceptionalism, more nuanced in its story telling, more aware of the forces reigned against such simplistic readings of events but just as deeply delusional.

Fortunately, no one will watch American Sniper in two years time and five years from now no one but the cast and crew will remember it was made.

14 seconds is all it takes

I attended game 13 of the Asian Cup tonight accompanied by Colin Tulley, an associate of Spike's father and dedicated supporter of Glasgow Celtic FC.  When I first saw Colin approaching my car from the other side of the Glassworks car park in Canberra I knew it would be him.  Who else that evening would be wearing the green and white hoops of a Celtic strip?

Oddly enough, when we were seated in the Canberra Stadium waiting for the match between United Arab Emirates and Bahrain to kick off, Colin introduced me to a few of his football-loving friends who were also present.  I was suddenly surrouded by a sea of Glasgow accents, friendly men of my age and their adolescent or twentysomething children.  All diehard Celtic fans.  Any one of them could have been dressed like Colin.  Naturally, in the spirit of footbll bantering males, each was advised I am a supporter of Partick Thistle.  None laughed openly but there was an expression on their faces somewhere between jocular pity and sympathy for the terminal illness from which I was suffering.

There was no rain tonight.  It was a perfect evening for playing and watching football: blue sky, warm sunshine, decent crowd reported to us as 7,992 people.  

The UAE took all of 14 seconds to score the first of their 2 match winning goals.  Blink and you'd have missed it.  Lots of fun.  Looking forward to my next match.  China v North Korea.  Never done that pairing before.

Gone Girl

I watched David Fincher's Gone Girl today.  It has left me more than a little flummoxed.  Principally, I guess, I'm wondering what my reaction - broadly unimpressed by the content, alienated by the story's implausibility and irritated by the clunky, hole-ridden plot - tells me about my tastes (or lack thereof).

One of my first thoughts after watching the movie all the way through to its self-satisfied ending was the sentiment summed up best, in my opinion, by Charles Rennie McIntosh who wrote, "there is hope in honest error; none in the icy perfections of the mere stylist".  That sense of (my own) nagging doubt was strengthened by the conclusion to the generally supportive and positive review of the film by Xian Brooks in The Guardian.  He wrote, 

"Gone Girl, finally, may be no more than a storm in a teacup. But what an elegant, bone-china teacup this is. And what a fearsome force-10 gale we have brewing inside."

I enjoyed enormously (if that's not an odd term) David Fincher's Seven, so what is it, I wonder, bothers me about his latest film?  Not its moral ambiguity.  That much I'm sure of.  And not its fabrication, for sure.  It's about as well constructed a film as I've seen in a long time - beautifully shot (albeit in cool and alienating tones), well acted by a well-cast crew of actors (the stars are very good but the supporting cast adds real depth - Tyler Perry is revelatory, Kim Dickens as the lead investigator is excellent and the two television 'journalists' are delicious).  It's well directed.  

So what don't I like?  

It feels hollow and heartless.  I have never been a fan of nihilism and this movie has a cynical misanthropy that reaches all the way to the core of its being.  I worry too that it's predicated on a world view that asks us to believe most people are either stupid, gullible or fatally indifferent to reality.  I get that it's a satirical look at marriage in modern America.  At least I think that's what I'm being offered.  But I don't rally want to buy into that world view.  

I can see the roots of Hitchcock that support this modern dystopian fable.  And it's no great surprise to read that some of the team that brought us Gone Girl intend to re-make Strangers On A Train.  But, I just think, no thanks.  It's not simply that I don't want to live in their world. I'm not even interested in visiting. 

A storm and a tea cup

I submitted one of Spike's photographs of our visit to the first game of the Asian Cup to the Guardian's "Witness" section of  'were you there?' photo albums.  My favourite newspaper added me to the (admittedly small) mix today.  Fame at last.  Or not, as the case may be.  But I like Spike's photo, I enjoyed the experience of being at the game and - as anyone who knows me would not be surprised to read - I'm very pleased with the smart arse caption / title I gave to the photo (repeated as the title of this post).  The Guardian asked for a description which I've added below.  I've corrected my original typing mistakes ... vanity, vanity - thy name is Douglas.

"Huge thunderstorm hit Canberra just before Asian Cup game between South Korea and Oman. No shelter for most of the 12,552 spectators. Emergency panchos, umbrellas and for this Scottish resident of Australia's capital a Panama hat bought in Curitiba, Brazil during last year's FIFA World Cup. South Korea deserved winners of good game. Dougie Herd drinking tea. Photo by Spike Deane. Stylish pink poncho NOT by Armani."

And ... action

The true extent to which I am an unapologetic movie tragic is this admission of guilty pleasure - that I sought out and followed live updates of the mildly ridiculous - maybe much more than "mildly" ridiculous - Golden Globes ceremony.  I follow it liveevery year. Hell, I even sometimes enjoy the speeches (although, to be honest, there were fewer gems this year than in years gone bye.)

It strikes me as a bit odd of me that I have opinions about which people or films ought to win.  I mean - in the first and most obvious instance - frankly my dear, [the universe] don't give a damn 'bout what you think Douglas.  And secondly, ever mindful of how Joaquim Phoenix was so brilliantly pinned for pomposity by the hosts, the whole idea of awards ceremonies is so absurd ... and yet.  No less absurdly - one cares.  It's satisfying to me - even though I have nothing whatsoever to do with its making - that The Grand Budapest Hotel was recognised.  I would have liked Ralph Feinnes to have won Best Actor award even though I've not yet seen the winning performance by Michael Keaton in Birdman (and I have very little doubt that when I do see it I shall be no less captivated than were the voters of the Hollywood Foreign Press Association).  Silly, silly Douglas.  No less absurd than the event itself, perhaps more so.

The stars of the evening were, as we had all hoped and expected, the ever-brilliant hosts Tina Fey and Amy Poehler.  My favourite among their many perceptive jokes was their subtle, pointed but still fond dig at Hollywood with George Clooney at its centre.  Hadley Freeman references this joke in her good article in the Guardian Online here:

“George Clooney married Amal Almuddin this year. Amal is a human rights lawyer who worked on the Enron case; was an adviser to Kofi Annan regarding Syria; and was selected for a three-person UN commission investigating rules of war violations in the Gaza Strip. So tonight … her husband is getting a lifetime achievement award”

That and other observations stand in such contrast to the ways the women in the industry, who make hundreds of millions of dollars for the production and distribution companies, are scrutinised, assessed, praised or denigrated on the red carpet.  I doubt that any of the men run such a gauntlet.  But that's the point Hadley Freeman makes better than I ever could.

As absurd as the whole three ring circus may be I'll still seek out the Oscars and, if anything, care about the results more deeply.  I know that not a piece of it all - the Globes, the Oscars, the whole great caravan of movie makers, comic singers, dancers and players amounts to Humphrey Bogart's famous hill of beans (see Casablanca) but - beyond all its absurdity - in this harsh and sometimes hurtful world we live in it somehow matters more than I can say.

More fitba'

Refugee from The Beverly Hill-Billies

Asian Cup 2015.  Game 2 of my 9, United Arab Emirates versus Qatar.  Smaller crowd than yesterday but at just over 5,500 more than I expected after yesterday's rain.  There was no need for the emergency poncho today but looking at the photo of me here maybe it would have been an idea to cover up my complete lack of fashion sense or style.

The game was lively, there were five goals and the UAE ran out deserving winners by 4 goals to 1.  I'll be seeing them again on Thursday, playing against Bahrain.  Enjoying my Asian Cup so far.  And hugely indebted to Spike for keeping me company and taking on role of 'official match photographer'.

Drenched

So, it's the first of my nine games at the Asian Cup 2015.  South Korea versus Oman at the Canberra Stadium.

Another football selfie for Spike to treasure

As we drove towards north Canberra from Gilmore the sky darkened and grew more angry looking in that bruised manner which only an immanent thunderstorm can create.  As we arrived in the "VIP / Accessible Parking" area (full marks to someone for the choice of 'accessible' rather than the more usual 'disabled') the sky above opened to drop a month's worth of rain on everyone.  We were dry at that stage (not yet parked, still in the car) but the volunteers helping to direct us to the parking bay closest to the entrance were soaked to the skin.  It didn't take long for us to match them.  But we all seemed happy enough; to be there part of Australia's biggest football party ever. 

The game was good, enjoyable if you really like football and aren't too fussed that goals can be a rarity.  South Korea were in charge off the game pretty much throughout and deserved their win but Oman gave them a game of it and produced a few scares for the wacky, marvellous Korean fans who made up a very substantial part of the 12,552 members of the crowd.  We all went home wet but happy.

Heid the ba'

Kuwait v Australia 2011

My tragic footall fan is coming out to play again.  The Asian Cup kicks off (pun intended) tonight in Melbourne with Australia playing Kuwait in the competition opening match.  My first match is tomorrow.

Sports blogger Kate Cohen has an article in the Guardian today.  The article is headed "Asian Cup final four the minimum expectation for Socceroos".  I beg to deffer and wrote the thoughts below in the article's comments section.  (Not just a football tragic but a Guardian Comments tragic too.) 

FIFA Rankings are about as reliable as the bidding process to host the World Cup. Australia ranked 100 tells us nothing.

I think football is an infuriatingly, beautifully simple game. Score more goals than the other guys and you win. Forget that and you're toast.

I have my tickets for the 6 group games in Canberra (I shall cheer loudest for the team from Palestine but I don't really mind who wins here). And I have my tickets for the quarters, semi and final. They are a different kettle of fish.

When I went to Brazil last June I did not expect to see Australia at the Rio final (although there were a few minutes against Holland when getting out of the toughest group in the Cup did not seem impossible).

But please guys. This is home turf. We all expect to see you in Sydney. In the final. Winning.

Go Socceroos!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Je suis Charlie

Photograph: Marc Piasecki/Getty Images

Photograph: Thibault Camus/AP

Nothing more I can say.

Football daft

The Asian Cup starts here on Friday.  I've bought tickets for six group games in the nation's capital then three others in Sydney.  Football daft it would seem.

Naff video but the competition should be fun.

I’m going to the first of my 6 games being played in Canberra on Saturday – South Korea v Oman, which is not quite Argentina v Brazil but it’s still international football.  I’ve got tickets for the Quarters, Semi and Final as well but they’re up in Sydney at the end of the month.   

My highlight is looking forward to the Palestinian team play Iraq in two weeks’ time. Five of the Palestine team were not allowed to travel.  Maybe some ‘war on terror’ dickhead thought they’d suicide bomb the goalie.  I saw players interviewed by Guardian Online (here) at the Palestinian Social Club in Sydney.  It’s the first official tournament a Palestinian team has played in and the players are saying, ‘yes we’re here for our country and the people and we are proud.  But we also just want to play football.’  The world over.  A bunch of lads just want to kick a football around a pitch.

That's a lot of melon for two people

Cat with melon - getting to know one another

That, I thought, when I saw Spike approach our car parked outside the supermarket, is a big melon.  It seemed to weigh her down, as an obdurate child who did not want to leave the chocolate aisle might weigh down a mother forced to carry her reluctant four year old off the premises.

Since I first set eyes on the monster melon, however, I have been contemplating the many and varied ways it will be incorporated into our diet over the next few months ... melon juice (obviously), fruit salad with extra melon, melon on toast, deep fried melon (in honour of my Scottish culinary roots ... but even that may be a deep frier too far), melon au gratin ...

No, I don't think so either.

As for Thistle - well, she's in charge of everything so the melon (having been scrutinised carefully) was deemed to be a) not an immediate threat, b) not edible (if you're a cat with a discerning palate) and c) not really that interesting, not even as a plaything.

You lost what ...?

I'm in the middle of writing a letter to my good friend Martin Currie in Edinburgh, whose birthday it is next Monday.  I hope the missive reaches him in time. I have a tendency to ramble.  

I don't propely know what prompted the recollection below but these things do happen when you're around Martin.  Except maybe he wasn't even there.  It's simply the sort of bizarre occurence that you stumble across in any city from time to time.  So I wrote this to my mate Martin who I love dearly and miss a great deal ...

South Clerk Street, Edinburgh

Here’s a thing about South Clerk Street while I’m on the subject.  Maybe you were with me when this happened because I can’t think of any other reason to go into a pub on South Clerk Street – it was across the road from where the ABC Cinema used to be or was it the Odeon?

There was time to kill because the movie wasn’t starting for a while.  Whoever it was, we went for a drink in the pub.  Shortly after we got settled at our tables a moderately anxious looking man entered the rather deserted pub and started hunting – not quite frantically – for something he had lost.  He checked every chair, table and down the back of the red PVC (I doubt it was leather) benches running along the walls.  He clearly had no success. Running out of options he approached our little group then spoke in a quiet, secretive voice; as if was looking to buy or sell Class A drugs.

"Sorry to bother you”, he said.  “You haven’t seen a snake anywhere, have you?”

One of us said “a snake?” feigning composure, as if it was the most natural question in the world.

Another asked, “What kind was it?”

I like to dwell on the underlying assumptions of that question; as if maybe we had indeed seen a snake wandering around the pub or enjoying half a pint and a cigarette quietly in a corner, disturbing no one and we wanted to be sure the guy searching for his lost snake was genuinely connected to and could correctly identify the particular snake with which we’d been discussing the weekend’s football not half an hour before.  Or maybe we thought there might have been more than one snake in the pub – different types - and we wanted to make sure we returned the correct species to its owner.

Anyway, he said it was a” wee python”.

I’m sure he said it was a python and that it must have slipped out the carrier bag he’d brought with him into the pub.  He held up the empty pollie bag to show us.  In his mind it may have been some kind of proof.  Then he said “it must be somewhere” before heading back out the door.  I think we looked nervously around the pub, sipped our drinks casually – maybe a wee bit too casually in case any one of us thought the others suspected we were more than mildly hesitant about sitting in a pub that might have pythons of any size slithering around the furniture – then we decided it was time to drink up and make our way – early or not - to the cinema.