Harry was excited for his birthday night out at the weekend. He and his friends and family would be heading into Manchester city-centre for a bit of a pub crawl, a few drinks and maybe a bite to eat somewhere. 

It would be such a great night, always good to go out with everyone. On the Wednesday before the big night out there was a football game on television. England were playing Netherlands in the semi-final of the European championship. Not that Harry was interested. Football, and sport in general, just wasn’t his thing. 

Harry always got more enjoyment from books, films and music, than he did from sport. When the big competitions were going on and the whole country was going crazy for the games, Harry would feel like a visitor from a foreign planet. He often attracted comments from friends and colleagues, calling him strange and odd for not being into football. But he honestly just didn’t get it. The thought of watching a 90 minute football game just bored him to tears and he really didn’t know how people found so much to say about it. All day Monday the chat in the office would be about the weekend’s football results, who had beat who, which referee was unfit, and who was still in the running for the title. And Harry didn’t have a clue what they were talking about. 

Later that evening, he made himself a cup of tea, and caught the late night news bulletin on TV. The main headline was that England had beaten Netherlands and would be playing in the final at the weekend. The match would be played at eight o’clock on the evening of his birthday. Harry stared at the television screen, the images of England fans cheering and throwing beer in the air. Everyone looked elated, but Harry felt far from happy. 

The last thing he wanted was England playing on his birthday. For some of his friends, providing the result went the right way, then the thought of England playing in a final, would be the perfect birthday evening. Harry felt sick about it all. Football and sport took over so much as it was. The amount of times their plans were scuppered or had to be changed because of the football, was just ridiculous. And now his birthday would be ruined by the so-called big match.

The next afternoon, he messaged friends and family, just checking they were still up for his big birthday night out at weekend. He clicked send and then waited. Sure enough, there was a flurry of replies. Some made excuses, saying they had double-booked and would be going out with other friends instead. Harry sensed that these other friends would be fellow-football fans and the evening would involve staring at a big screen and drinking pints of lager, of course, these drinks would be thrown up into the air should England score. 

As the week went on, more and more of his family and friends cancelled on him. Some said they couldn’t make his birthday night out, as they’d be going out with the lads for the match. Some asked if he would be watching the match somewhere. Harry says hopefully not, and he would be picking venues that won’t be showing the game. It’s my birthday, I want to have a nice night out, not have it completely taken over by the football, he thought. Inevitably the response to that was negative. 

By the time his birthday came around, there wasn’t a single person up for a few drinks and a pub crawl. Everyone, he thought, in the whole flaming country would be glued to screens watching a boring game of football. Harry decided he would still go out. He wouldn’t let his flaky friends and their obsession with a game of football ruin his birthday. He would have a few pints around town, selecting the bars and pubs that were not showing the game. 

During the day he had lots of calls and texts from people wishing him happy birthday. He played the game and made the right noises and agreed when they said they’d go out another time for his birthday. And he didn’t actually admit that he would be spending the evening on his own. When they told him to have a good evening, he said he was sure he would.

Harry stepped off the tram to find the city-centre streets were bustling. Manchester was crammed with people in England shirts and hats, lots of faces painted red and white. It was the kind of thing that he saw on the TV news, these revellers going out to soak up the atmosphere.

He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Time for a few quiet pints away from the football. He pushed his way through the crowds of people, a lot of them waving the red and white England flag. As he passed one pub, he spotted a barman setting out tables and chairs in a beer-garden. 

‘Excuse me, are you showing the game?’ Harry asked.

‘Oh yes, we’ve got big screens on and two-for-one on cocktails until the first goal.’ He said.

‘Thanks anyway, I think I’ll leave it.’ Harry said, and walked away leaving the confused barman to sorting his tables and chairs out.

There were a few book shops in the city that opened late at the weekend. Harry often popped in while on a night out. It was just perfect, a few pints, and then treat himself to a paperback book. A perfect evening. He crossed the road and headed to one bookshop, Greta’s. As he neared he spotted the staff pulling the door shut, and locking up.

‘Are you closing now?’ Harry asked.

The shop worker, looked up at him from over her glasses.

‘Yes, we’re closing early because of the football. We’re open from nine o’clock tomorrow morning, though.’ She said.

Harry simply nodded and walked away.

The other book shop he tried was already closed up, lights off, shutters down, with a notice pinned to the front declaring, Closed for the football, come on England. Harry shook his head in disgust. Not everybody was into football. He couldn’t be the only person, surely. 

He tried his luck in a pub called the Nag’s Head. The nice little old-fashioned pub was usually a cracking place for a few quiet drinks, a lovely change from the swanky bars. As he went in, his ears rang with the chatter of commentary from the big screen televisions, brought in especially for the game. The pub crowd talked loudly to be heard over the television sets. 

Harry stopped long enough to have a pint of beer, before leaving to search for a pub that was not showing the game.

Thirty minutes later, having found the pubs and bars were either closed or showing the game and full of football fans, he cut down a side-street on his way to the tram stop. Maybe he had been naïve in thinking he could come in to Manchester on the day of a big football match and have a quiet drink somewhere and avoid the football. The whole city seemed to be crammed with fans eager for the game. 

There was a pub tucked away down the side-street. Lights glowed from inside. The pub was open at least. One last try, he decided. If this pub was full of football fans and had the game on ridiculously big TV sets, then he would head for home. He would treat himself to a kebab on the way in and have a few beers on the sofa with a film. 

He yanked open the door and went inside. The pub was empty of customers. 90’s indie music played over the speakers. Harry couldn’t see a television set. A woman in her thirties, about the same age as him, was sitting behind the bar, reading a paperback book. She sighed when she saw him and placed down her book and removed her reading glasses.

‘Sorry, love, we’re not showing the game.’ She said.

‘Fantastic,’ Harry said. ‘in that case, I’ll have a pint of bitter.’

She looked puzzled for a moment, before reaching for a pint glass. As she pulled his drink she spoke.

‘You’re not bothered about the England game?’ 

‘I can’t stand football. I honestly don’t know what all the fuss is about.’ Harry said. 

‘I thought it was just me,’ she said. ‘even my parents are watching it tonight. I happily volunteered to work.’ 

‘I have been all over town looking for a pub not showing the football. It’s chaos out there. I was just about to paint my face red and white and start singing about how it’s coming home.’ He said.

‘You never were?’

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I was just gonna go home.’ 

‘And you’ll never guess what my full name is.’ Harry said.

‘Go on.’

‘It’s Harry Caine. What are the chances?’

‘I don’t get it.’ She said.

‘Like the footballer, Harry Kane, never mind.’ Harry said. ‘What time is last orders tonight?’

‘The landlord has told me I can lock up and go home, if nobody comes in.’ She said.

‘Well, in that case, as it’s my birthday today, how about you come around to this side of the bar and I buy you a drink?’ Harry asked.

‘Deal, but the first round is my treat, as it’s your birthday.’ She said.

Harry smiled and dragged over a stool. This birthday night out was suddenly looking alright after all.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom