As she made her entrance into the local, there was an air of unsolicited mayhem around the woman. With a Sainsbury’s bag clutched in her hand, her eyes darted around in an almost unnerving manner. Her presence seemed like an ominous prelude to catastrophe. And that’s exactly what she turned out to be.
The said pub, preferably referred to ambiguously, was nestled close by the Central Station in Glasgow. It wasn’t an unimpressionable, franchised establishment; instead it exuded a raw city vibe that resonated with the locals. Patrons of this local often sported a greater number of tattoos than their own teeth. But the house’s generous custom of serving free pies to its imbibers was an irresistible lure to stick around.
The regulars were generally cordial, except for the occasional rowdy few. However, it was certainly not an ideal place for any journalist hoping to probe opinions on the country’s general election. Equating people’s indifference to their electoral obligation, the common refrain was: “Couldn’t give a toss, pal.”
Realising the futility of my endeavour, I rounded off my work for the day and ordered another round of brew to merge with the merriment.
On this particular Friday evening, Scotland was competing against Germany in the Euros’ opening match. The pub patrons celebrated wildly, dismissing the four-goal deficit when Scotland scored a tenuous point. Heavy-set, proud Scots, donned in their national jerseys and adorned with Saltire bowler hats, broke into a loud, profanity-laden display of sheer joy directed at the Germans via the television. I too became a part of this expansive embrace.
And into this roaring ambience of jovial pandemonium, the Sainsbury’s bag-wielding woman sauntered in, closely followed by two equally dodgy-looking men. The peace was shattered by the ruckus of a bar brawl within minutes of their arrival.
Without missing a beat, the woman squared off with a man who she seemingly had a history with. Unexpectedly, she sent him tumbling to the ground, the both of them crashing in a frenzy of fists and flying knees in the very heart of the pub.
One of her cronies leapt into the fray. As if by magic, the woman freed herself from the brawl making her way towards her other, more reticent male accomplice, coaxing him into the clash. “Jump in, you plonker,” were her grating words that I made out amidst the din. And in he plunged into the brawl.
At this point, it was unclear who was at odds with whom, given the escalating chaos. The solitary security guard, a diminutive rotund chap, initially appeared ill-suited for the situation. Yet, appearances can be misleading. He fearlessly dove into the turmoil, shooting forth an impressive display of strength against a larger adversary, whom he fastened in a firm headlock and ejected from the premises. He then stood his ground, barring the ousted ruffians from re-entering.
The burly soccer aficionados, locals loyal to this pub, abandoned their headgear and drinks in unison to take control of the situation. The final outsider was posing a challenge, gripping the legs of furniture and patrons as he was being ousted.
An elderly Scotsman in traditional garb, trapped by the door, was accidentally toppled during the commotion. Just before this madness erupted, I’d been engaged in conversation with an older duo, Joe and Jean. We came to the man’s aid, helping him back to his feet and into a chair to help him regain his equilibrium. His name was David. Despite his recent ordeal, his request was simple – one more Bacardi and Coke.
Once the rowdies were expelled, the pub’s atmosphere returned from tense to merry madness. Amidst the chaos, Scotland had lost a point to its fifth goal but it went unnoticed. The conclusion of the match coincided with the activation of disco lights in the pub and a shift into karaoke night.
David was amongst the early birds to take the stage. He performed a jovial rendition of ‘Unchained Melody’ for Jean, a Protestant and fellow fan of Rangers F.C., remarkably well for having been sprawled on the floor shortly ago.
Jean’s Catholic husband, and devout Celtic fan, Joe, roared in laughter.
The sorrow of Scotland’s defeat to Germany faded into the dark, drowned out by renditions of pop classics from bygone decades. David seemed to have recovered, though later I noticed a tangible melancholy as he fiddled with his wedding band. He murmured a heartbreaking revelation, “I lost my wife,” he disclosed, “Cancer got her. She found a small lump two years ago and that was that.”
David once more graced the stage for his final song, his concluding number in karaoke. It was a tune I wasn’t familiar with: Love is All, originally popularised by Engelbert Humperdinck.
The audience erupted with applause as David devoted every bit of himself into his performance. If only the football team from Scotland had demonstrated the same commitment.