Scott Stinson: This year, I'm grateful for a chance encounter in a pub

Allan said his wife was Catholic, and that he loved her. He stared at his pint for a bit. The unsaid “but” hung in the air between us. We had literally just met.

Every year at Christmas time, The Line runs a series of articles about things we should be thankful for — just like we’re thankful for you. Happy holidays from your friends at The Line.

By: Scott Stinson

My friend Mark and I found ourselves with an evening to kill in Preston, England, last April.

Why were we in Preston, you ask? Fine question. It is not exactly a tourist hotspot. But we were in the northwest of England to watch football, or what we Canadians might call soccer, and the big games on our bucket-list trip, in Liverpool and Manchester, weren’t for a few days.

So, we had tickets to watch Preston North End, a team in England’s second tier, on Saturday afternoon. They even had a Canadian in the squad. (He didn’t play due to injury; sad face emoji.)

After a perfectly fine dinner at a pub, we wandered around the quiet streets. Perhaps there are times when Preston is bustling, but this was not one of those times. Which was fine. We’d flown to England overnight and were doing that thing where you try to stay up to a normal local hour to beat jet lag. A couple of pints and we’d tuck in for the night. Nice and responsible.

We came across a place called Vinyl Tap. Obviously, you cannot skip having a drink at somewhere called Vinyl Tap. In England. What would Nigel Tufnel and Derek Smalls think of us if we did that?

It was quiet. Mostly empty. A couple of guys at the bar. The music came from a turntable and speaker, and there was a catalog of vinyl records from which patrons could select what would be played next. The selection tended toward heavy metal, but Mark eagerly picked something out. Probably The Clash. I don’t recall, exactly, for reasons that will become evident later.

We ordered a round of pints, sat and happily chatted about our week ahead. I went to get refills, and saw they had a deal on gin and tonics. When in Rome, et cetera. They were served in what could have been fishbowls. This was possibly a mistake on my part.

The low-key evening continued and we ended up in conversation with those two guys at the bar. They were from Glasgow, in town doing some work. Mark asked them which football team they supported and the guys recoiled slightly. In many parts of the world, “Which team do you support” is basically, “Do we have to fight now?“ Including Glasgow, where the Protestants support Rangers and the Catholics support Celtic and really there is no grey area.

Mark clarified that we had no dog in that particular fight and were just making small talk. Laughs were had. They supported Rangers. They were mystified that a couple of Canadians were in Preston to watch football.

They bought us a round of pints. We invited them to sit at our table. Allan and Gordon introduced themselves.

And, honestly, I could barely understand a word they were saying.

This is unfair to Gordon, actually. I could mostly comprehend what he said. Allan was another story. He would lean in, hand on my shoulder, and tell me something in what sounded like sincere confidence, and I was completely lost in his thick accent. I desperately needed subtitles.

I’d ask him to repeat himself, and sometimes that would work but sometimes not at all. Gordon sat next to him, sometimes translating, sometimes laughing at his friend who was unable to communicate with someone who speaks the very same language. My face hurt from laughing.

It carried on like that for a while. Allan showed me photos of the HVAC work he had been doing, like a proud father. I had no idea what I was looking at, but told him that was some first-rate craftsmanship. A few more drinks in, Allan asked us if we were Rangers or Celtic. We emphasized our neutrality on that front, and Allan said you could either support Rangers or support pedophiles. That seemed a touch harsh, we said. Yes, the Roman Catholic church had made some mistakes, but surely that didn’t extend all the way to the football club in Glasgow that wasn’t even associated with the Church?

Allan pulled out his phone again, insistent that there had been a recent incident of coverup at the club itself. Heaven knows what his “Celtic FC pedophiles” search turned up, but we were able to change the subject.

Unfortunately, the subject became politics. Allan had some thoughts. I don’t think it would be doing him a disservice to say he was Scottish nationalist. He sure didn’t care for the English. At some point the subject of Ireland came up, and I cheerily assumed he would have a kinship with the Irish, as people both subjugated at times by the English. Nope. He seemed to like the Irish even less. He talked about the Fenians, practically spitting as he said it.

Amazingly, amid the blunt talk about Catholics, Allan said his wife was, in fact, Catholic. “And I love her,” he said, and stared at his pint for a bit. The unsaid “but” hung in the air between us.

I will reiterate here that we had literally just met. I’m of partial Irish decent! (I didn’t mention that.) But he really wanted to discuss weighty things, or at least opine on weighty things, which was made all the more difficult by the fact that I frequently didn’t know what the hell he just said. You didn’t want to nod politely when he might have just declared that we ought to assassinate the King.

Allan, amazingly, thought my accent was hilarious. He asked me to say his name. “Allan,” I said. He giggled. “Allan?,” I tried again. He guffawed. I asked what I was doing wrong. He said his name in a way that sounded to me like Ollon, a couple octaves deeper. I tried again. He laughed at, presumably, the weirdness of this idiot Canadian.

The thing about that night is it’s an encounter that feels increasingly rare these days. We spend so much time on screens, on phones and laptops, and in virtual meetings and conferences, that going out in the world and meeting random strangers was an unplanned delight. I’m grateful to have been reminded that sometimes talking to people is better than scrolling.

Before we left, a little wobbly, Allan and Gordon insisted that Mark and I should plan our next football trip to Glasgow. They would be happy to show us around. Allan took my phone and put himself into my contacts.

After his name, he entered: “Scottish.”

Like I would forget.

Scott Stinson is a journalist in suburban Toronto, and an honest broker on matters of British soccer rivalries.

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