I wrote this at the airport during the second leg of the Champions League Quarter Final between Manchester City (0) and Liverpool FC (3), a match I couldn’t watch but desperately wanted to.
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I'd been blocked from watching it because it was cheaper to fly on this day and at this time and from this terminal with this airline.
My brother had tried to remember his log in details to allow me access but neither combination of username password worked and I found myself blocked out of the channel until some further unknown time. So I retreated to the Oriel Brasserie, the port of so many other of my journeys and ordered a Bloody Mary and some frites (more commonly known as: fries).
"You'll Never Walk Alone" was replaced by a cover of "The Girl From Ipanema" and the fevered anxiety of match day nerves was replaced by lounge calm, my change of heart palpitation? beat? caused by the mellow intoxication of the conjugal reunion of the vodka and Worcestershire sauce and tomato juice.
I ordered another with some baked emmental cheese sticks and tapped my foot to "Love & Happiness", thinking about my love and the happiness that a victory or draw (or loss of only 2-0) would bring to my day. But I wasn't thinking about that. I was thinking of my love, and my drink, and the fact that the barman could make a Mary Verte and replace the El Blanco tequila with the vodka of my current wave. I didn't want to land far east with a hangover, however mild it might be.
I'd finally settled down and away from a blue arena, where I hoped a flurry of red was dizzying and dazzling, to leave a Purple Rain descending over green grass. But no sooner had I delved into a chapter from my past, All-India Radio beaming in my eyes, I heard an almight, "OHHH!!! Come on ref!! That's a card!!" and in an instant, my heart palpitations? beats? went from Burt Bacarach to Art Blakey. I took a gulp from my green drink - all vodka and coriander and pineapple and spicy jalepeno and no subtle tomato juice or Worcestershire sauce - settled it back on its coaster and began to sweat.
"Did they say Mané or Sané?" Not again! Surely... I thought.
Were their accents like the thick scouse I'd heard so many times on the terraces and the Kop of Anfield Road or different?
Listen closer man, LISTEN!
Red mist descends and my green drink has turned purpley-brown. My heart is rattling away like an old steam engine and my armpits pour with sweat, the smell of anxiety infesting my nostrils.
I remembered past scores. Comfortable near victories which ended title runs in tears outside pubs bearing the name of divine creatures as crumbling Palaces resurrected right in front of my eyes! Slips and trips! Sendings offs and 5-0 thumpings. Armani suits and scuffed goals by lauded villans. The other stuff, miracles and last gasp goals of the season, records being smashed, out of this world comebacks, all failed to appear in my memories.
Just the darkness. Dark reds. Like a bruise; dull thumping pain. That's all I could see and hear.
I couldn't hold it together! I jumped to my feet, the Oriel's ambience shattered in my panic!
"What's the score??", I scream!
"0-0. But Cardiff should have had a man sent off!"
I settled down, sunk the contents of my glass and ordered a proper drink; closed my eyes for a moment and focused on the darkness.