The following Saturday, I’m at the pub with Nate again for the usual liquid lunch, and I’m actually watching the footie this time. Well, Manchester United are getting their arses kicked, so you would, wouldn’t you?
“Coming down the pub tonight, Nate?” I ask as the whistle blows. Berbatov’s just taken a dive, and the opposition is crowding around the ref like a bunch of teenage girls having a hissy fit.
“Nah,” Nate says, squirming in his seat a bit like he’s got worms.
“What…you got a date or something?” I ask, trying to sound like I’m not bloody astounded.
“Yeah.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“So who’s the bird, you wanker?”
He squirms again. “Cheryl.”
“You what?”
“Cheryl.”
“Cheryl at the bar?” I hesitate, and my eyes flick over to the tall figure leaning on the bar as she waits for the nex
