We've left Urquhart Castle and returned to Inverness via a meandering bus ride. I spy The Keg. I nipped into this unassuming little pub down a sidestreet in Inverness for a wee-heavy, while my wife was kitsch-shopping up the avenue a bit. No sooner had I purchased my half 80, then in comes my wife with a look of avid concern on her face. It seems that the proprietor of the shop up the street had warned her against the "unsavoury types" that frequented the Keg. My belief? I think the proprietor just wasn't an
Inverness Thistle Football Club fan. In the upper left corner of the photo, next to a security camera, you can see a sign proudly proclaiming that this was the Inverness Thistle FC Social Club. On the look, it appears that the "Social Club" is next door, but that's not the reality. Now I don't support any particular Scottish Football team, other than the national, of course, and I certainly was not about to go into a pub wearing the "colours" of another team. Thus, I walked in with no fear, ordered by half-pint and sat to enjoy a spot of local culture. Now along comes my wife with this near-angry, half-mad look, so I downed my libation quickly and left. It wasn't until we got out into the alley that she explained what was going on. I s'pose I'll never fully be able to explain to her, that footy fans are the same the world-over; that is, we're just fans. Sure there are a few hooligans out there that try to wreck the fun for the rest of us, but most of us just want to watch our boys run around the pitch while drinking with our fellow supporters, hollering at the stupidity or brilliance of our team & cussing at the offical; all from the sanctity of our pub (social club). I guess if there had been a game on (we were there in off-season, so there wasn't), she might have understood it a little, but she doesn't quite get the rabidity with which we approach the world's game.
So, I left with her on my arm, and nary a look back.
Wastrel On!
(Listening To: Frankenstein by Aimee Mann)
7.11.05
The Keg & Inverness Thistle Football Club
We've left Urquhart Castle and returned to Inverness via a meandering bus ride. I spy The Keg. I nipped into this unassuming little pub down a sidestreet in Inverness for a wee-heavy, while my wife was kitsch-shopping up the avenue a bit. No sooner had I purchased my half 80, then in comes my wife with a look of avid concern on her face. It seems that the proprietor of the shop up the street had warned her against the "unsavoury types" that frequented the Keg. My belief? I think the proprietor just wasn't an
Inverness Thistle Football Club fan. In the upper left corner of the photo, next to a security camera, you can see a sign proudly proclaiming that this was the Inverness Thistle FC Social Club. On the look, it appears that the "Social Club" is next door, but that's not the reality. Now I don't support any particular Scottish Football team, other than the national, of course, and I certainly was not about to go into a pub wearing the "colours" of another team. Thus, I walked in with no fear, ordered by half-pint and sat to enjoy a spot of local culture. Now along comes my wife with this near-angry, half-mad look, so I downed my libation quickly and left. It wasn't until we got out into the alley that she explained what was going on. I s'pose I'll never fully be able to explain to her, that footy fans are the same the world-over; that is, we're just fans. Sure there are a few hooligans out there that try to wreck the fun for the rest of us, but most of us just want to watch our boys run around the pitch while drinking with our fellow supporters, hollering at the stupidity or brilliance of our team & cussing at the offical; all from the sanctity of our pub (social club). I guess if there had been a game on (we were there in off-season, so there wasn't), she might have understood it a little, but she doesn't quite get the rabidity with which we approach the world's game.
So, I left with her on my arm, and nary a look back.
Wastrel On!
(Listening To: Frankenstein by Aimee Mann)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment