Photos: Theo McInnes
Words: Charlie Hood
It's Summer, 2002. I'm 17. England V Argentina, in Sapporo, Japan, is kicking off at 12.30.
It's about 11 am: I'm in school uniform. "You can't come in in your uniform, pal", says a thick-necked bouncer in a bomber jacket. "Do you think I'd be daft enough to try if I wasn't 18?" I reply. That seems to satisfy him. Door people were a lot more lenient then. In I march, for a pint of Grolsch, or Becks, or Fosters, or whatever was pouring back then. The pub fills - tension mounts. We had a great squad! 44 minutes in. Must win. Penalty England. "Oh, fack off Beckham", a lad shouts at the back, as Becks steps up. Otherwise, silence. 200 or so people crammed into the Grand Hotel in Leigh-on-Sea: a towering Victorian beauty, built back when the railways turned a sleepy seaside village into a holiday spot. Most of them are pissed at 1:14 PM. Tradesmen, teachers, girls, boys, people who've called in sick, and a handful of idiots in school uniform. You can hear a pin drop, bar the odd murmuring about Beckham, Simeone, 1998, red cards... pure tension. He's going to bottle it. They'll be burning effigies of the boy, again, at Upton Park. He puts the ball on the spot and takes two steps back. "Hold the cups and the glasses back home", shouts the inimitable John Motson. Two more steps back.
An eternity. Bottom right, the keeper goes the wrong way. Motson: “You can smash them now”. Pure elation. Pints are flying everywhere. One lad shouts "FOOTBALL" and his beer goes over the projector, shorting it. The screen goes black: confusion and carnage. No matter, we rush to the other bar, en masse; it's as good as halftime. Everyone piles out for a ciggy, the early afternoon sun shining. Singing, tops off, laughing, shouting. A ball comes out of nowhere and starts getting pinged around the car park. I've never felt happier.
Fast forward to 2020. FA Cup final day. It's COVID, I'm off to the Gun, on Well Street (now, recently, sadly closed), and we've booked a table, and we're sitting one metre apart. For now. Getting up and going to the bar in masks, and all that. My team, Arsenal, are taking on Chelsea, and we don't hold out much hope. Emily Sandé sings Abide With Me to nobody. A bit sad - poignant, maybe. We're drinking something a bit fancier nowadays, like Camden Hells. Pulisic puts them one-nil up 5 minutes in. It's gonna be a rout. They have a lot of the ball, but Arsenal cling on. The game turns around after half time, and eventually Arsenal take a 2-1 lead through a Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang brace. A bit less shouting, less "FOOTBALL", and the floor stays more or less dry, this time. Second yellow for Kovacic, and it feels done. It is. There are fewer people there, and there's a lot less hugging, but we're buzzing. We're 35-odd now, with jobs and mortgages and kids, but after a few months of isolation, COVID, and all that, we're buzzing. We ride to Highbury as the pubs fall out, and it’s carnage - flares, singing, hugging, dancing, celebrating. A beautiful, joyous summer evening in Highbury, north London: everyone's finally letting loose.
I love watching football in pubs. Nothing comes close. The exoticism of knowing it's happening somewhere far off. Sure, it would be nice to be there. And that's a beautiful experience too. Different though: you're here, with your people. The pints flow. You can have one (or two, or three) during the game, and it's not from a plastic cup. You don't have an hour or more to trudge back home. You can go to the loo without having to queue. You can get a cab after, the world's your oyster. Popping in for one to watch the game but staying for eight. You can nip out and get a kebab at halftime. Or eat a bag of Wheat Crunchies. If it's dull, you can have a little chat with your pals. If it's good, you can have a chat with your pals about how good so and so is, or how shit their player is. Might get a Gin and Tonic. It'll have lime and ice in it. A game of pool, while the game's on. There's another game after.
Now, it's 2024. The opening game of the Euros, Germany, at home, Formidable, takes on Scotland. Biiiiiiig underdogs. I'm watching at The Volley, Old Street, where I have an eyelash, for full disclosure. Mark, one of the co-owners, is a Scotland fan, and he's coaxed every London Scottish down, it seems, who's not in Berlin for the game. "We'll be coming, we'll be coming..." They sing nonstop for the hour or so before kick-off. I've never seen so much tartan in a pub. The Tennents flows. Kick-off. A tackle on the edge of the Scotland box is celebrated like a goal. 1-0 Germany. Still in it. Still singing. Still Tennents. 2-0. Pull one back and you never know. More pints. Penalty Germany, red card. 3-0. Game over. I'm clearing glasses now, pulling my weight. Half-time: a perfect excuse for another round. 4-0. Christ, it’s done. But they keep singing. Still electric. Eighty-seven minutes. A goal! Scotland!! Pure elation, again - electrifying. I've never seen scenes like it. Not at 1-4, anyway. Get the pints in. "We'll be coming, we'll be coming...". Can they do it? The Miracle in Berlin? No. They can't. Emre Can, though, and it’s 5-1. Still, let’s have some more pints.
Nothing beats football in pubs. You can keep your Boxparks and your FanZones. The people, the pints, the mayhem. Long live The Gun. Long live pubs.
