There was a small, drunk Scotsman in the toilets of the pub. He was leaning in close to a tall man standing at the urinal.
‘See, Rangers is a part of life where I’m from.’
The tall man turned away and buttoned up his flies.
‘I am from Estonia,’ he said. ‘I do not give a shit about football.’
‘Think about all the fans, man. They cannae let Rangers go under.’
‘Please understand. I don’t care,’ the Estonian said and walked out.
The Scotsman looked around and spotted me at the sink. ‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Sorry, no English,’ I replied.
The Olympic Spirit
The Olympic torch was carried by the local milkman. The customers that he rarely sees lined the streets to cheer him on.
Ahead of him there were floats and lorries from Coca-Cola, Lloyds Bank, Samsung and McDonalds. Big screens showed adverts and people handed out flags with company logos on. When our milkman ran past, it was difficult to see him behind the squadron of bodyguards dressed in uniform grey running gear.
In the middle of that there might have been something good, something capable of bringing people together, but it was utterly lost behind the corporate sponsorship and security.
Like this: