WERRRLD CUP

England have actually managed to score a goal. It’s all the city needs in order to poison itself further than it needs to, and every street corner is being propped up by a bleary eyed disheveled football fan pissing on his own shoes.

A weak retaliation to World Cup events features the involvement of taping bin bags to windows like a teen goth blotting out the World, and projecting a movie onto a white sheet in the office until all the unpleasantness outside dies down.

Which is doesn’t. Obviously. It’s England, for fuck sake, and as thus everyone decided to skive off work early, get on the bevvies mid afternoon and watch some overpaid ignoramus’ boot a ball around a bit of grass in a bleak fit of faux-patriot flag waving.

We’re in a noodle bar. 10pm. A pissed up scouse couple bounds in addressing each other with slurs and the kind of volleying pent up insults which must develop months into a relationship with a person who thinks a noodle ‘is like spaghetti but with, like, chinese stuff on it’. Christ.

The waiter approaches them, he talks in broken English - as do they - but for very different reasons.

The only comprehensible part of the exchange is that they want two beers.

No beer. Ran out. Have tea. Water.

YER’VE RAN OUT OF BEER?

Yes. All gone. Sorry.

YER SERIOUS?

Yis.

ALRIGHT THEN. FUCKIN’ELL. WE’LL HAVE TWO...WHAT DID YOU SAY YOU HAD? FANTAS? WE’LL HAVE THEM.

He brings over two generous glasses of tap water, and returns to the counter with a look of worry on his face.

Eh love, what the fucksthis?

FANTA. ALL THEY HAD.

Why’s it see through, like?

MAYBE ITS ‘OW THEY MAKE IT OVER THERE.

Over where?

YOU KNOW. CHINA LIKE...

The waiter is passed a tray from the kitchen. I busy myself with a mountain of noodles, pretending to have some control over chop sticks, but two pints in and I’m inexplicably bloody drunk. There’s soy sauce everywhere. I want to turn around to watch, but fear getting a glass of ‘china-fanta’ thrown over me head.

I hear him put the tray down.

WHATS THIS LOVE?

Starter. Sea-weed.

OH RIGHT. YER. TAAA....

They dig into it with cluttering, clattering, cutlery which sounds like it’s being used by a donkey wearing boxing gloves.

The waiter hasn’t even got back to the counter when...

WHAT THE FUCKS THIS? EH! WAITERRR!

His shoulders drop and he returns to the table. The noodle bar is silent.

THIS SPINACH IS DEAAD SALTY, LAD.

Seaweed. Dish are seaweed, not spinach.

YER WHA?? SEA WHAT? IT’S FUCKING SALTY.

It normal. Seaweed salty.

IT’S FUCKING DISGUSTIN’ MATE. TAKE IT AWAY, THAT IS FUCKIN - UUURGGH - VILE, THAT.

He returns it to the counter. There’s a hubbub about in the kitchen. Someone is shouting.

Back at the table, the couple are fighting again.

WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOUR FUCKIN FACE?

My face? What’s wrong with your fuckin face? Pyaar sour mug on you, gerrl.

FUCK OFF. IM TEXTING SOMEONE.

Who? Who yer fucking texting at this hour?

NONE OF YER BUSINESS, IS IT? GET YER GRID OUT OF ME FUCKIN FACE.

Shut the fuck up. Yer doing me head in tonight.

I’M DOIN YOUR FUCKIN HEAD IN? YOU’RE THE ONE THAT PISSED ON YOUR FUCKING SHOES EARLIER, YER GOBSHITE.

The waiter returns, sheepishly.

You leave now, sorry.

YER WHA?

You leave. No charge. Just go, please.

YOU ARE NOT FUCKIN KICKING US OUT!?

Please, no swear. Go now.

He opens the door. The girl stumbles up, sways for a while, swallows a small bit of vomit by the looks of it and looks at her boyfriend who’s attempting to tie his laces for the journey outside.

FUCK OFF. WHATS A FUCKIN NOODLE ANYWAY? WOULDN’T WANT TO EAT ‘ERE. CMON BABES, LET’S FUCKIN GO.

She slides out of the place in a diagonal motion - her head closer to the floor than her fucking shoulders.

Her boyfriend finally staggers up. He shakes the waiters hand and pats him on the back.

Alright lerd, alright. Going now.

A fork falls out of his pocket.

Shit.

Him and the waiter stare it at for a good five seconds, then stare at each other, and then back to the fork, all in complete silence. The man surveys the rest of the gawping customers in the restaurant and then stares back at the fork. He picks it up and puts it back in his pocket as though no-one can see him.

I’ll just take me fork, and leave, lad.

The door slams after him like a forced applause following a bad joke.

The waiter does a small victory dance behind the counter and smiles at everyone.

Fuck England.