I wake suddenly. Not quite in a cold sweat, but
almost. I panic as I don’t immediately recognise my surroundings. It takes a
moment, and then I remember. The text from Rob, the bus to Brixton, the
impromptu night out. I peel myself off a friend of a friend’s sofa, still in my
shoes from the night before. I can’t help but laugh at myself, the state I’m
in.
Rob had text me about 9PM. My face had lit up: I’d
not seen him for weeks. He was in London. South London. Brixton: twenty minutes
away if I got the bus right then! I’d been drinking in the Peckham Pelican with
my soon to be flatmate (not my choice. The Pelican is perhaps the best example
of gentrification in South East London today. Everyone has weird facial hair,
smokes Camels and drinks £2.50 cans of Red Stripe), but the moment the text
came through I said my politest goodbyes and was marching down the road to the
bus stop and proceeded to go out on another night with some of my oldest
friends.
I manage to leave without waking anyone, thumbs
already working overtime as I send thank you texts and apology texts to my
hosts and associates in equal measure. I get the bus back to the house, trying
and failing to keep my eyes open.
My dad arrives a few hours later and we pack up my
few belongings into his boot. It’d taken me less than an hour to pack it all,
and it fits into five bags.
We’re late rushing to the pub. If you think Peckham
is all gentrification and art
students, try the Hollydale Tavern near Queens Road Station. There are pictures
of Mad Frankie Fraser drinking here not long before his death last year. I
think we were the only ones present who aren’t regulars. There’s not sawdust on
the floor, but it’s not far off. There’s a sign on the door which reads “Please feel free to watch the football on
our big screen, but please be aware that you’ll have to buy a drink for each
half, or will be asked to leave”. I can’t handle a lager in the state I’m
in though. I have a soda and lime.
I joke that we were two goals up this time last year
as we sit down, peering over at the dim projection of Goodison Park. My old man
doesn’t answer. He’s looking down at his phone, mumbling about “bombshells” and
“shit hitting the fan” at work. I gulp, knowing how easily I could be doing the
same. Come on Chels, beat these twats and give me something to smile about.
Give me an escape.
I’ve sunk pretty low in my chair by the time thirty
minutes have ticked round. Soft goals as well. And out of thin air Matic has
stuck one in the top corner from thirty yards out. No great ceremony, just
placing the ball where it needs to go. I let out a yelp and launch my arms
aloft, forgetting I’m in a pub plastered with Millwall paraphernalia. They show
the shot of the Chelsea fans going mental in the away end and I feel as if I’m
there with them, energised and floating on air. All of a sudden, Chelsea are
bossing it, hoarding all the possession and Everton can’t get out of their own
penalty area. For those brief moments I can’t stop smiling. Chelsea are going
to win 3-2 easily, it’s certain. Mourinho will smile wryly at the final
whistle, having turned around a two goal deficit, completely tactically emasculated
that mouthy Thunderbirds puppet Martinez. They’ll have to restrain John Stones from
getting on the Chelsea team bus back to London at the end of the game.
In my happy, heady daze, my mind flashes back to the
half memories of the previous night. The uncontrollable laughter, inside jokes
and the release of seeing mates you’ve not seen for months. The pretty blonde
girl at the bar, Irish accents and a snog on the dancefloor. This is South
London, Chelsea are the best team in the world and anything is possible.
___
By the time Naismith gets his hat trick the colour
has drained out of my face. My legs ache and my head spins as the last of last
night’s alcohol churns in my stomach. The drink too many, the posh prick with
dreadlocks and a nicer watch than me, the sh*ttest nightclub in Clapham.
Before
he’s even wheeled away in celebration I’ve sunk my head into my hands, my
weekend disappearing before my eyes. I can feel my phone beckoning, I dread it
in my pocket. I know it’s ready to buzz with unforeseen work commitments,
people letting me down and another miserable week ahead of me.
Just like we do at games, we wait for the final
whistle, hard as it is to watch. As soon as that whistle is blown, we burst out
into the road, blinking in the sunlight. Into the car, down the road to the new
place, up the stairs, done. We stroll to Camberwell Green and have an Italian.
As we finish our meal we both speak, exacerbated and instantaneously “what’s
the matter with Chelsea?”. I can’t help but laugh.
Next week will be better.
@JJReid13
