For two solid minutes, a man is doing circuits of the pub on an electric scooter. As he whirrs past the pool table and banks sharply to his right, shaving the pillar that takes him into the main bar, he mimics the sound of rubber tyres screaming for mercy. Nobody asks why and nobody intervenes, but for a little while this incongruous, hazardous, indoor Grand Prix offers a distraction and, perhaps because of that, nobody complains, either.
Advertisement They have made an effort at the Kings Gate — “Premium Brands, Great Value, All the Great Sporting Action,” — with England pennants hanging from the ceiling and the bar staff wearing white. There are plenty of screens and the volume is turned up to minor ear damage, so we can all hear as well as see how bad things are. A young girl in full three lions strip is kicking a ball around, dodging the scooter, but if this implies joviality, the implication is a lie.
This is a game to get drunk to, much in the way you might drink to obliterate the futility of ever having experienced living. Wearing shorts and baseball cap, nursing two inches of lager in a Carlsberg glass, Jason looks tempted. Whatever emotion lies one dimension beyond despair, he appears to have found it.
“We are so f****** bad,” says Jason, who is 25 and works in retail. “I’m sick of it. We’ve got unbelievable players.
It’s all on Southgate. There’s no excuse for this s***.” And this , in fact, Southgate.
Not Gareth, the head coach, but Southgat.
