5th May 2002
I am the first to admit there are certain advantages to living where I do. There is, of course, the glorious sunshine, the palm trees and the 7 hours a week I have to work. But it is not good for everything. For example, were I hypothetically to want to watch the FA Cup final, I would have to overcome some serious obstacles. The mathematicians among you may be able to work out that due to the 8 hour time difference, games starting at 3pm somewhere in Cardiff would start at 7am here. Those among you with an interest in the heady world of broadcasting rights may also know that this years Cup Final was not shown on cable here without shelling out some further cash in advance. The thought has just occurred to me that we could actually have called up and got the pay-per-view, but that appears to have been well beyond our cognitive capacities at the time.

Our small band of ex-patriots vigorously debated the various options available. Someone even suggested driving up to San Francisco to watch the game live at 7am on a Saturday morning. The plus side of this would be that we could then spend the entire day in the pub. The down side would be that we would then spend the entire day in the pub. Then someone pointed out that it would mean getting up at 5:30am Saturday morning and the plan was abandoned.

We eventually decided to watch a replay of the game at midday at a local English pub. The building had apparently been dismantled and shipped over from England in the early 80's. The wallpaper was testament to the truth of this claim. A new challenge now awaited us. How far through the game could we get without finding out who'd won? Somewhat unsurprisingly, anyone guessing a number of minutes greater than zero would have been wildly optimistic. We have partly ourselves to blame, as one person was wearing an Arsenal top. As soon as we came into view of the group in the beer garden, a fat bloke in an Arsenal top stood up and started cheering. A skinny bloke in a Chelsea top swore quietly into his beer. My training in psychology goes only so far, but I think it's fair to say that as we walked in we had a fair inkling of who'd won (though I can't speak for the guy in the geography department).

Now the quest was how far through the game we could get before finding out the score. On this matter, we were benefited by the barmaid helpfully telling the drunken fools outside that we didn't know the score. So we got stuck into breakfast as the game started, stopping eating only to stare at the occasional appearance of an Arsenal top in the bar, desperately hoping that they he say anything as he looked at the screen, and breathing a silent sigh of relief as he walked outside with beer in hand. But it's never wise to trust people to not be pricks. Especially when they are. In fairness, it wasn't the guy in the Arsenal shirt that caused the problem - although it was him who revealed what the score was. We slyly deduced it when he walked into the bar in the 66th minute shouting "2-0 to the Arsenal!"

Pretty damn irritating I grant you, but he was drunk and he was deeply apologetic when he realised his mistake. Getting to the 66th minute wasn't bad. The real Chieftain of Prickville was his friend who I can only imagine must have been christened Dilbert Doofus Dwibley the third. As Arsenal Shirt is apologizing, Dilbert looks at the screen and says, "2 goals to go!"

Now I ask you, why would anybody say that? Not only is it a sentence that ends with an exclamation mark, it is in this case a totally redundant one. My less diplomatic friend from Newcastle communicated his annoyance, which Dilbert either didn't hear or ignored.

A few minutes later Parlour had scored his goal. Watching the replay, Arsenal Shirt comments to us something about the swerve on the ball. "Yes‚" pipes up Dilbert, "Ljunberg's goal was kind of similar". At this point, it's too much for my friend from Newcastle. He gets up, grabs his beer and glasses our last surviving relic of the aristocracy. Relieved as I was, I was a little concerned about the possible legal and personal ramifications such an action might have for my friend. I needn't have worried. It turns out that as the pub had been shipped over from England, it was technically British land. And we simply had to remind the State police of the 1976 bill making the glassing of dickheads in pubs compulsory. We may have been pissed (off), but at least Dilbert has 13 stitches and vision in one eye.