Crying foul
When your son assumes the role of referee, there can only be one winner
Own goals didn’t count – a pity, I felt, given that an own hat-trick is a rare and special occurrence
As our garden isn’t big enough for real football, the boy and I have taken to playing table football instead. He loves it. Mainly because the first time we played, he beat me. And from the boy’s point of view, the ability to beat Dada is the crucial factor in any game’s appeal.
Our inaugural encounter took place on Saturday. In the absence of a referee, the boy assumed the role himself, his first key intervention being that own goals didn’t count – a decision possibly influenced by the fact that someone had managed to score three of them in the opening minute. A pity, I felt, given that an own hat-trick is a rare and special occurrence, but the referee’s decision was final.
From then on, though, I was powerless to resist the wave upon wave of attacks engulfing my defence, and the boy’s team ran out handsome winners, 9-6. As the final goal flew in, he leapt up and charged round the living room, cheering. The crowd, aka Mama, rose to its feet in acclaim.
Once the celebrations had eventually died down, the victor cordially invited me to an immediate rematch. Or, as he put it: “Dada, let’s play another game. I need to boss you again.”
This time, in an upset that will have sent shock waves through the table footballing world, I won. To my disappointment, the result was subsequently declared void, on the grounds that it was “not fair”. In a display of great magnanimity, however, the boy has consented to play me again in future.
If only because the sole other person to play against is When pubs do reopen, they’ll need to enforce social distancing. Which will mean fewer customers in the bar at any one time. Which in turn will mean lower takings. A serious problem, given that many pubs were barely breaking even in the first place. I can see only one solution. Minimum drinking limits. To stand any chance of survival, pubs will need each customer to pull his weight. Casual drinkers will be no use to them. Only committed booze-hounds will do. People prepared to put in the hard yards, and drink as much, and as fast, as possible, to make up the shortfall in takings. Say, six pints each an hour. Fail to keep up the pace, and you’re out the door. (“Sorry, sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’ve had nowhere near enough.”)
Naturally, it won’t be easy. But drinkers with lower stamina could join forces to form relay teams: the first member racing in to down a pint, then racing back out to be replaced by the next member, and so on.
Save your local pub. Please drink irresponsibly.