Shrimps 1 Iron 1

I went to only the second football match in my life yesterday with my old Uni pal, who's from Scunthorpe. His town's team, "the iron", were playing local team Morecambe, "the shrimps". Being a man of sensitivity and refinement, and a coward, I told Simon that at the first sign of any argy-bargy, I'd be off.

Simon's a driving instructor and his girlfriend inherited several hundred thousand pounds last year. As I climbed into his dual control car, I said "So how come you're still slogging away on the driving instructor game when your girlfriend's a millionaire?" He said that she wants him to keep working and that he's happy to do so. I think she's keeping her money to herself and concealing her avarice with a superfically reasonable injunction to Simon that he should be autonomous and self-reliant. She describes herself on her website as a "writer". Yeah, well, she has a published book out which has earned her a few thousand, and she does a bit of work with a literary festival. But she can only do that because she's always had money behind her. "Well, not how I would handle 900K," I said, aware that I mustn't spoil the day, "but everyone's different."

At the ground, I wandered into the terraces with my drink, naively assuming that one could drink whilst watching the match, as you can at the cricket. "No," said the steward, barring my way. "We have a rule that you cannot see any grass while you've got a drink in your hand." I quaffed a difficult pint of commercial cider before rejoining Simon on the terraces. We chatted skittishly and Morecambe equalised in the 95th minute.

Football in real life is completely different to how it is on the telly. I left with two things--a new respect for referees and linesmen, who have to react to fast-moving partisan limbs, and a most unexpected high. It was quite exhilarating. I understood how you'd feel like beating someone up.

Simon had to get away so he dropped me off at the pub and I met Kev, who flattened my mood with his talk about the car accident which killed his girlfriend, and how the Procurator Fiscal in Aberdeen had "not entirely dismissed" his egotistical suggestion of helping with the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder, lack of forensic certainty, he couldn't hear the people in court, no markings on the road so they can't tell how fast the car was going, we don't know when she was on her mobile, it could have been when she was parked up, the Procurator Fiscal told me 'I know that you're not anyone but Liv's boyfriend', I'd like to meet your friend Simon again, he was a good bloke, I think I could help him train young drivers, yeah anyway you've got his details, so maybe...

Glassy sunlight and gloom were colliding. I wanted to be away, to soar on this high I was feeling, which, unusually, had nothing to do with chemicals or music. I nodded and yessed through Kev's monologue, looking at the long hair poking out from his nostril, and planned my lie. "So what are we? Quarter to seven? Right then Kev I've got to be off because Melanie's coming back from Harrogate at 7ish so I'd like to be there to meet her. Alright then--see you soon." An over-elaborate farewell of saying how nice it's been and on and on.

The way he looked, as I got up, as he realised that the receptacle for his incontinent speech was leaving--his little boy-ish face picturing a mixture of loss, and wonder as to why I would withdraw my favours.