SAVING A LIFE II

Now there were a bunch of Turkish lads who frequented the joint – more for the fact that they are semi-pro punters and the bookies was right next door – as opposed to just having a mere healthy love of the beautiful game. So full of life, they are.

Yet to say that this group were temperamental will be a grand understatement. Matchday with them was synonymous with drama. For instance, the typical missed sitter by say a Gabriel Agbonlahor or a Jozy Altidore (and thank goodness these "strikers" no longer steal a living in the Premier League) and my Turkish cousins will cuss out the TV shaking their balled fist in fury. You did not have to be a language expert to tell that they were swearing but what was being said, only Lord knows. And from their conduct, I wouldn't be overly shocked if they didn't know what they were saying themselves.

Occasionally, a team that they had bet against will score a nice little goal and an innocent glass or bottle had to have it ala Arsene Wenger. A bottle will be smashed to the ground so dramatically that its contents will respond by splashing out in cinematic slow motion. I was cool with them. C'mon, I'm cool with everyone. Yet, as much as they provided entertainment sort of, you could sense unease amongst staff every time the Turk squad swaggered in. Especially when Farouq* was about. You know within every clique, there’s the dim one who always takes things a tad too far? You know the one who looks in the mirror and sees Joe Pesci? Yes, that was Farouq.

                                                               

                                                                MATCHDAY

So Farouq saunters in and orders something he can barely pronounce. Two sips or so later – and within minutes of entering – he slams both fists on his table in apparent anger over something only he knows. But we are familiar with him and we pay him no mind. 

But Sally* (staff) is not in the mood for buffoonery and approaches him. Few words are exchanged and he is politely asked to leave. Farouq is beside himself with rage and at this point, it is difficult to tell if it’s being told to his face to leave that is peeing him off or the fact that it’s Sally telling him. He bangs his fists a few times more and then we hear an unmistakable sound – the sound of someone spitting.

No prize, my dear friends, for guessing the culprit and the poor victim. Of all people, only one person, can be solely culpable of such an act. And it is him – Farouq. He had spat on Sally. A thick, phlegm-laden, semi-solid Turkish spit. Not even Joe Pesci himself will go that far. If she is shocked, Sally does not show it. There is something subtly disturbing about her calm she is.

There is a roar of disapproval from everyone present but after a few moments all eyes revert to the TV screens. Back to football. Unbelievable. Am I the only person appalled?

No because within minutes, Antoine* a regular, confronts Farouq quite angrily. I don’t want this to turn into a mini war so I play peace-maker (as you’d expect from your favourite uncle) and persuade Farouq to apologise to Sally. But the coward is happy to apologise to Antoine and I but not Sally. How does that even work?

Then amidst all the hullabaloo, Sally looks Farouq dead in the eyes and says calmly; “do not go anywhere please. You are a big man yes? You think you're bad? Just wait right here…”

TO BE CONT…