Yesterday, I was walking through Paisley when I bumped into Hammy outside a pub. I have known Hammy for about 18 years, though not actually long enough to know what his real name is. When we were teenagers he used to come to our village to play in 7 hour long games of football in the crazy hazy days of summer. My five-a-side team also used to play against his until a few a years ago.
Hammy: "awright Paddy, how's gaun?"
Me: "no bad"
Hammy: "you no playin fitba the day?"
Me: "aye, we've already played this mornin"
Hammy: "whit division yese in noo?"
Me: "Division wan. Wur second in the league! You could take that as us suddenly gettin good, or the league gettin pish"
Hammy: "is it pish noo, aye?"
Me: "aye hauf the time there's only 5 teams in it".
Hammy: "I played therr on Thursday night - jist a kickaboot - there's hardly any leagues any mair"
And so the football discussion continued. As you can see, when discussing football I naturally return to talking the way I did when I was 15, where any attempt at the Queen's English would instantly mark you out as vulnerable to attack and in all likelihood, gay. A certain gruffness is required if you are going to go in for a shoulder tackle after all.
Hammy: "So whit ye up tae the day?"
Suddenly my two worlds collided.
I'm going to take photies of tulips!"
Me: "what can I say, Ah'm an artist!"
Hammy: "eh, good luck wae that!"
I could see in his eyes the moment that it happened. the moment that my 25 yard header into the postage stamp in 1992 faded from his memory. the moment that Paddy, midfield dynamo, Defender of The Proletariat, was forgotten forever. To be replaced for time immemorial with the vision of a grown man taking photos of tulips.
Listening to: Leonard Cohen
Reading: 1941 The Battle of Moscow
Watching: Peep Show (it's comedy!)
Eating: hmmmm good question...