The perma-raging zombie. There are few things funnier than watching them trying to behave in public, doing their utmost to stop the mask from slipping and revealing their inner-hun to a loved one, work-mates, family etc.
As captured superbly in this post by Sandman on the CQN blog recently . . .
Scruffy’s – yep, Irish bar fifty yards down on opposite corner. Good Tims. Decent shop, not seen any trouble in it. Yet.
In fact – memory jolt – only trouble I ever saw was of the amusing anecdote kind three or four years ago between Xmas and NY – the Joe Ledley winner game v Huns.
I was in there, stood in a packed crowd with some mates and an American fella over visiting relatives;. His first game, fascinated by the atmosphere and even the tension in the pub which was about 70-30% Tims.
Table between us and the TV is a bunch of hairdressers on a night out, had a meal, sitting about, and some of the younger girls’ boyfriends come in. Big lad, grim looking scowl sits down, hairdresser girl sits on his knee and he’s watching the game throwing out mild expletives because his Hun idols are getting hounded.
He’s sitting right in front of me, can hear me adding ‘commentary’ right above him, but he’s being polite enough, obviously for his girls’ company’s sake.
Until it gets to the wire and the tension rises. Bouncer lets in a few stragglers (pub packed 1-in-1-out). One of them’s a late fifty-something auld Hun, bladdered. He stands beside us, blabbing away about hating Celtic in general, urging on the Huns. Big lad is getting brave with this Steptoe addition and he’s raising the volume a bit, too.
Then, into injury time, ball goes out of play, to Lenny at side. Camera’s on him, and old bastard beside us shouts at telly, ‘Gie the f’ck’n ball back! Ya dirty fenian!’
Daftie gets shouted down but big lad is exploding with Hun perma-rage too and is tipped over by the auld boy and the sight of Lenny. He bellows out – ‘Aye get the ba’ ya dirty f…’ ..and he catches himself because of his company, then switches to..
‘Dirty GINGER bastard!’
Wham! A flurry of shocking violent activity – his burd jumps off his lap, smashes him a right hook bang on the temple, knocks him off his seat and she barges out past us.
A momentary beat of stunned shock as bouncer looks at me, we look around at big fella, who rises, bundles his way out pub chasing her, rubbing his sore heid and mouthing obscenities and apologies in equal meaure.
Then someone points out the error – his burd was a ginger!
Missed the final whistle laughing tears and the American lad reckoned it was the best sporting entertainment he’d seen outside WWF.
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lssue 2 of The Shamrock – Celtic Retro fanzine.
More fun than a Charles Green bedside press conference; more bite than a Manchester police dug: