Midnight pints

A dodgy kick off time for England pierces the veil between worlds

I am not a blood and thunder type of football fan. I usually go quiet, pensive and reflective rather than wearing my heart on sleeve. I find it quite fascinating that in so many areas of my life I am this close to popping off at the slightest provocation, but when it comes to the people’s game, and indeed the vent for so many of my peers, I don’t get ramped up - everything just internalises¹.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t get swept up in it all. Mere weeks after writing about how I was done with this World Cup, I found myself wandering to a local watering hole while the world slumbered, intent on watching England play Mexico.

Photo by Agustin Claus on Unsplash

I blame my buddy Hank. When the draw for the last 16 fell I quickly resigned myself to watching at home on my sofa. 1am. Quiet, alone, not having any fun with it. No way I’d actually go out in the world, on a Sunday night, to watch England do their usual meek capitulation.

Cue Hank.

Mr Holmes. What are your plans for the Mexico game? By a stroke of luck I have Monday off.

That last sentence was all the encouragement I needed. I made some enquiries and found us an oasis.

The Star is your quintessential locals’ boozer. I pop in there occasionally to the point I know faces and names, and am in turn recognised as an all round good egg.

On this very special Sunday night, the comfy confines seemed tilted on their axis. This was my usual hostelry viewed through a hall of mirrors.

The whole endeavour was skewed from the off. I napped like a cat throughout Sunday, knowing that I’d be up for the bones of the wee small hours - something I’m entirely out of practice doing. I set my alarm for 11:30pm and crammed in another couple of hours.

I woke up just as the rest of the country was going to bed, feeling a little bit like I was going on holiday. With The Muse sleeping soundly and my two faithful hounds, Peanut and Lola, looking at me like I was off my rocker, I ducked out of the house and into the warm night air.

Strolling to the pub, I encountered a small group of boisterous England fans, walking down the middle of the road like a pasty, rotund gang that The Warriors might have encountered on their long odyssey home. “It’s the Soccer Lads, Swan. Don’t sweat it, we can outrun ‘em.”

I walked the same route I walk to go and watch my beloved Brentford, pausing for my usual pre-football selfie. I don’t know why, call it superstition. But of course it wasn’t usual, because I was twelve hours out from when I normally perform that little ritual.

Midnight. This is mental.

Wandering into that familiar juicer at the stroke of midnight like a mockney Norm Peterson was less Cheers and more Last Chance Saloon. The air was hot and stuffy, with an edge of uncertainty that doesn’t normally pervade. Happily Hank was at the bar, so I ordered a round and we got comfy.

“Kick off’s been delayed by an hour,” announced one of our hosts, her smile fraying around the edges.

“Let’s go outside,” said Hank. “It’s too hot in here.”

The outside area was full. A few local faces I recognised; a lot of people I’d never seen before. A small man who looked like a young Danny Devito. A couple of lads in Metallica t-shirts, reliving the London Stadium gig they’d just attended. A group of teenagers skulked in the corner; one of them, a lanky punk with a ginger mullet and dress sense I could never even dream of attempting, was talking at a notably raised volume compared to his two pals.

Time crawled by. The small hours definitely drag more than their more respectable peers. We’re conditioned to be asleep at that time. Even with lovely cold beer flowing, I felt like I was participating in a weird social experiment.

Being proud Englishmen-and-women, the main topic of conversation inevitably shifted to the weather. Namely, how fucking hot we all were, and would rain ruin our fun?

True, the rain was 5,558 miles away in Mexico City, but if the storm over the Azteca persisted, would kick off be delayed further? Could we hold out until 3am? Would they have to close the bar? Your correspondent got a smattering of laughter out of suggesting the bar staff run out at 5am to get McMuffins for all.

The storm passed and as the clock ticked past 1am, people started to take their seats. Literally, in the case of the young Danny Devito lookalike. He went around the room asking everyone if random barstools were taken, before collecting up a little nest of three and moving them to a corner of the bar. Mate, if there’s no one on it, a barstool is fair game.

Hank and I found ourselves next to the Metallica lads. They were sound and we all ended up comparing war stories from past gigs.

“Wait, so when did you start toda- yesterday then?” Hank asked.

“Three o’clock,” one of them replied.

“You’re on for a fourteen hour session?”

“Yep,” Metallica #1 beamed. Metallica #2 seemed slightly less enthused.

Half an hour before kick off, The Queen of Faded Dreams walked in. She was dressed in knee high boots, skintight jeans and an England t-shirt. She had flags painted on her cheeks and a medal around her neck. I know not what she won it for. She wore tired glamour like I wear weary cynicism. I suspect she used to turn heads a long time ago.

She walked through the room, past dozens of people, all of whom were looking at five giant screens adorned with Wayne Rooney squeaking vapid opinions, and approached the bar.

“Hi,” she said. “Are you showing the football?”

All credit to the bar staff, they answered with a straight face.

She ordered herself a lime and soda and perched on the other side of the Metallica lads.

2am eventually arrived. The anthems played. The energy in the room amped up like Victor Frankenstein had thrown a lever. Tiredness evaporated and I was suddenly the most alive I had been in a long time.

Here we go.

With ten minutes gone, the lanky punk with the ginger mullet bolted for the gents. He emerged several minutes later, ashen faced. I was young once so no judgment from me, but it was all too clear what had happened: Joseph and the Technicolour Dreamcoat had gone too hard, too quick. He closed his eyes, threw up a curtain. One of his pals called him an Uber and walked him gently outside.

Jude Bellingham scored England’s first goal on thirty-six minutes. It was just past half two in the morning and that poky little suburban gaff popped off like Ministry of Sound. Ninety seconds later, Bellingham scored again and the place erupted like Coachella.

Stick that up your Azteca, I thought.

“Well, I’m awake now!” said Metallica #1. The Queen of Faded Dreams trilled a laugh and gazed at him like he was Lenny Bruce.

Dammit, I thought. ‘Stick that up your Azteca’ is much funnier than that. Vocalise your thoughts, Holmes.

Mexico pulled one back and we went into halftime with the game delicately poised.

I jumped to my feet and started pacing the room.

“Nervous?” asked Metallica #2.

“No,” I replied. “It’s nearly 3am. I need to get the blood pumping or I’m gonna fall asleep.”

Metallica #2 hopped up and we both went outside to do a few quick laps of the smoking area. He was a smoker and I was tempted to cadge a fag for the first time in years - they are genuinely invigorating when the night is darkest.

I returned to my seat and gave my face a few brisk slaps for good measure. You might think that excessive but I once fell asleep in the middle of a Spiritualised gig, I know what I’m capable of when I need zeds.

Of course, England never do things easily and Jarell Quansah got himself sent off ten minutes into the second half. A slim lead and a man down for at least forty minutes.

“Shit the bed!” exclaimed Metallica #1, prompting The Queen of Faded Dreams to laugh uproariously, like she was sat next to prime Richard Pryor.

Despite Harry Kane and Raul Jimenez’s penalties, for about twenty minutes I was running on nothing more than adrenaline, Moretti and pure hope. My circadian rhythms were in the toilet. At the second hydration break, while I myself was in the actual toilet, conversation turned to England’s chances.

Englishmen try to avoid talking whilst addressing a urinal, but any slight activity was energising at this point. “We can’t hold out under the Mexican assault, can we?” “Well, yeah, l but Jimenez is rubbish and we’ve got to stay positive.” “I know, but the ref is a total homer².”

“Cartels,” crooned a mellifluous voice from the cubicle. The line of knackered supporters at the urinals fell silent.

“The fucking cartels have this ref’s family under a blade.” The voice was dark, threatening, oddly alluring - like Pennywise the Dancing Clown had departed Derry and set up in Surrey.

Everyone at a urinal zipped up and hastily left the room.

Twenty minutes before full time, Hank refused a beer. I ordered one for myself and loudly pointed out that our round had changed because he was weak.

“Did you just say I was weak?” asked Hank incredulously.

“Nope,” I replied. “I shouted it so everyone could here me.”

That got a big laugh from the whole room. At least I’m still funny in the witching hour. Back in your box, Metallica #1.

In Mexico, the fourth official flashes up eleven minutes of stoppage time. I cackled wild laughter like I’d been in solitary confinement for a week. An eleven minute onslaught was coming our way.

Hyperfocus suddenly kicks in and I am aware of everything. We’re in the endgame now.

“You fackin’ slag!” someone bellows, giving it full on Danny Dyer in Football Factory.

I hear that mellifluous voice talking about cartels again. I scan the room. No malevolent clown. No one looked like they owned that menacing, seductive voice. Maybe there was a secret MI5 agent in our midst? Surely I couldn’t spot a spy?

On ninety-four mins, the Queen of Faded Dreams suddenly loses the plot and becomes possessed by Ben Kingsley in Sexy Beast. "No no no no no!" she barks. “No no no no no! Blow the whistle, ref! Blow the fucking whistle!”

“There’s seven minutes left,” I utter wearily. “At least.” Seven minutes, seven hours, seven years. Time is an abstract concept in the upside down.

On the pitch it’s backs to the wall stuff. Agincourt. Trafalgar. Rourke’s Drift. Bodies flying in to clear the ball, Dan Burn heading crosses away like a magnificent sentient tree.

In the pub the tension is unbearable. Most people have lost the ability to speak; communicating only in pained grunts and anguished moans. The Metallica lads are clinging to each other like lost orphans in a sinister forest. Hank bites a chunk out of the table in frustration; I crush my bag of Scampi Fries impotently. Everyone focuses intently on a TV screen, willing this seemingly endless torment to end.

The whistle goes and bedlam erupts. I am suddenly gripped in a sweaty triple decker Hank and Metallica lads sandwich. It’s the best group hug ever. The Queen of Faded Dreams slumps on the bar in quiet worship. Danny Devito falls off his collection of barstools. The legends behind the jump, unsung heroes who’ve been on their feet for six hours when they should’ve been sleeping, give everyone ten more minutes to grab a celebratory pint.

My hyperfocus dissipates.

The intense, all consuming angst of those last few minutes suddenly gave way to a warm, post-euphoric glow. The atmosphere changed from The Alamo to a blissed out hookah den. I gave my old mate a knowing look.

“One for the road?”

“No bud,” said Hank. “It’s home time.”

I looked at my watch. It was 4:15am. He was absolutely right.

We bimbled out the front door and found ourselves in the pre-dawn. I’m not a hugger, but I bid my partner in crime farewell with a big old bearhug and set off home.

Half-cut and exhausted. Totally worth it.

To the east the sky was already light, but the street was busier than it would normally be at that time. Quite a few people had seemingly pulled an all-nighter for this one; punch-drunk football zombies wandered hither and yon, sloppy grins on their boats³.

I got back to the homestead and slipped quietly through the front door. I contemplated a celebratory breakfast beer, before remembering that I am much closer to fifty than I am eighteen. I popped the kettle on, made a cup of tea, and sat down to start the first draft of this tale.

I fell asleep after approximately four minutes in front of my laptop, and that’s where The Muse found me two hours later.

4:30 am. Ish.

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1. Seriously, what’s wrong with me?

2. A ‘homer’ is a ref who overly favours the home side.

3. Boat race = face.