Saturday afternoon came and I went into Norwich city to meet Ricky.
Norwich is like Dublin: It’s more of a big village than a small city. And like Dublin, Norwich is beautiful. It’s an ancient medieval city with old soot-stained yellow and black churches, winding cobblestone alleys, and Tudor-style buildings with thatched roofs. Norwich also has beautiful cathedrals with tall spires and an old castle on top of a hill that overlooks the entire city. There’s also a stunning canal with colorful barges. Rosie and Jim buzz. In short, Norwich is very beautiful. Cambridge and Oxford vibes.
Like any English town, Norwich is also full of old pubs that have been around longer than electricity. They all have names like The Beehive, The Red Lion, and The Lord Nelson. These old pubs have dark wooden walls, low roofs, good food, friendly lifelong landlords and great local ales. Ricky didn’t want to meet in one of these pubs.
He sent me the address of the pub he was in. I followed Google Maps. Ricky’s pub was on the wrong side of the river; The ugly part of Norwich. Pound shops, Polish supermarkets and charity stores. Scruffy fed-up men smoking in the doorways of bookies. Random shopping trolleys lying on their sides. Old bikes with no tires chained to poles. Every path paved with cracked tiles and dark chewing gum.
I went into the pub Ricky had chosen. It was a kip, and more of a rugby club type bar than a pub; Red carpets, pale fake wooden tables and the smell of farts and yesterday’s beer. It was huge too. There was at least ten dart boards, five pool tables and countless fruit and slot machines. Crumpled copies of The Sun and The Daily Express lay on the bar, the back pages open. Carling and Tennants were on tap. Every wall had a TV playing different sport. There wasn’t a woman in sight. Bald men with rolls of neck fat and blue fading forearm tattoos sat alone drinking flat beer. Brexit: The Pub.
I found Ricky at a table directly in front of a screen and projector. He was wearing the same clothes as when I last saw him. He sat staring at the screen with a sad face, his chin resting on his hand as if someone had just given him bad news. He was watching football highlights but looked like he was watching a tragedy like 9/11 unfold live on Sky News. There was a pint of water on the table beside him. As soon as I said his name, Ricky immediately perked up and jumped out of his chair with a smile to shake my hand enthusiastically.
“Hail, Hail!” he said, tugging on his jersey as if he’d just scored the winner in the Old Firm Derby at Celtic Park.
I asked Ricky if he wanted a pint. He shook his head, looking at the ground, as if he was guilty of something. I took the hint: he didn’t drink anymore.
We watched the Celtic game. Ricky sang at the screen as if he was in the stadium. He talked about all things Celtic, in between jumping up at half-chances and applauding strong tackles. Whenever he spoke, he would lean forward, his hands on the table and his chest on his arms like he was telling me a secret. Whenever he mentioned a player or past game, I just nodded along, faking knowledge. I stuck to old reliables.
“Henrik Larsson, what a man! Remember his dreadlocks? And what a player John Hartson was – the passion – like Scott Brown. Kieran Tierney is a baller.”
But then Ricky would say something like, “Aye, I was at that game where you know who scored the brace and so and so got sent off. Remember?” He often winked after these mentions, because what he said was assumed to be common knowledge between us. Whenever he spoke like that I kept my mouth closed, pursed my lips and exhaled a laugh out my nostrils, pretending to reminisce.
Sometimes I just nodded my head when he spoke because I actually didn’t know what he was saying. I’ve a good ear for Scottish accents, but if people came with an option for subtitles I’d have turned it on for Ricky.
I noticed that whenever Ricky spoke about Rangers fans there was no hatred about what he said. He spoke about them as if they were a strange friend and their choice of Rangers over Celtic was some sort of anomaly that he didn’t understand, like when someone says they don’t watch Game of Thrones. Rangers boys were just unfortunate to have been born on the blue side of the city, he said with a chuckle.
I just couldn’t admit I wasn’t a real Celtic fan though, because I could tell how much fun Ricky was having talking about them. He seemed to savour every minute of our conversations, as if it was the last one he would ever have. He smiled and nodded at everything I said. He kept asking if I agreed that the pub we were in was great. I’d look around the pub – at the cast of The Royle Family – and look down at my two pound pint of flat piss lager and say, yes, it was a great pub.
I’ve never met someone who loved anything as much as Ricky loved Celtic. He spoke about them like a proud parent tells you about their kid’s school play. He claimed to have been to every away European game since the mid 80s, and asked me if I wanted to join him for the next one, or was I already booked to go with someone else?
Ricky said he had been to every country in Europe, many times. He knew European cities not by their names, but by their football clubs. Partisan Belgrade. Dynamo Zagreb. Hertha Berlin.
When the game was over, and Ricky and I had high-fived to another three points for the mighty Celts, I asked him what had brought him to Norwich. His mood changed again, like when he refused the pint earlier.
That’s when he told me he had spent a lot of time homeless. He said he’d been signed on for most of life as well. And he used to be a drinker. I asked how he afforded to travel to Celtic away games all the time. He winked and said there was always a way – sometimes he only ate once a day or not at all to save for the trips. And he said the Celtic community, as I knew, always looked after their faithful.
“Best bunch of boys there ever was.”
Ricky said he came to Norwich because he heard there was work here and cheap rent, and the shelters and hospitals were far better here than Glasgow. But I got the sense there was something or someone back home in Glasgow that wanted him gone.
When I asked about his family he said he didn’t speak to them. And then he tried to change the subject.
I told Ricky about my Scottish family. He reminded me of the town names in Glasgow whenever I paused and tried to remember.
“Aye, I know Pollokshields. Your family are posh so. Ah, am only joking.”
A lull in conversation came. Ricky put his hand out and said thank you, looking me in the eyes. I shook his hand, snorting a chuckle, and asked what he was thanking me for.
“You know. For coming out today. Made my week.”
I didn’t know what to say. I told him I enjoyed the game with him. He asked if I’d like to meet up again on Tuesday night. We could watch the Champions League together. He suggested we watch it at his “men’s shed.” He wanted to bring me to meet some of his friends at his “men’s shed.”
I had no idea what a men’s shed was. I’d never heard of one before. At first I thought it was just some nickname he had for his flat. Like how people have “man caves.”
But then I remembered Ricky telling me that he rented a small single bedroom. And that he didn’t have many friends at all. And that nobody ever really spoke to him, and that people tended to avoid him. So who were these friends? And what was a “men’s shed”? I told Ricky I’d like to meet up on Tuesday and go to his men’s shed.
We shook hands goodbye and Ricky thanked me again for coming out. When I left the pub I took my phone out and googled “men’s shed.” After reading what they were, I wanted to go even more, because I was curious. I’d never known these sort of places existed – men’s sheds. I wanted to see one for myself.
Aaron500 