‘The post-match pints simply make sense’– Midweek Football: A Very British Affair

It’s 9:14pm, the air is bitterly cold and I’ve just said “sorry” for the 26th time. I know why I’m sorry; I washed down a Brick Lane bagel with a pint of Pravha 20 minutes before kickoff. Some people can do this. They can eat an undisclosed amount of salt beef and still control the tempo of a game.

I know why I’m sorry; I washed down a Brick Lane bagel with a pint of Pravha 20 minutes before kickoff.

But I can’t, I really can’t. And that’s why I keep saying sorry: for the misplaced passes, unwarranted hubris, and of course, the fact I’m quite evidently close to vomiting. Good footballing performances vary and come in many forms, but this for sure isn’t one of them.

Midweek Football is one of Britain’s most adored social affairs. PitchFinder, a website that lets you find pitches, has 50,113 pitches available for hire in England alone. Just today, Footy Addicts, a website that lets you find other footballing misfits, has 52 games available for me to join within a 10 mile radius of my home. It’s impossible to estimate just how many games truly happen on a daily basis with any sense of certainty, but you can guess it’s a lot. 

Football is brilliant, mostly because of everything that surrounds it. Midweek football is no exception. If you were to reduce the affair to simply what happened on the pitch, you’d struggle to find any science behind its popularity. These games are largely awful; beer bellies and dodgy knees don’t make for great entertainment.

The post-win Passaway. This is elation.

James, notably pleased with his performance.

It’s a social thing. The only thing more British than football is casual alcoholism, so the marriage is very plausible. The post-match pints simply make sense. A template as solid as cement – to refuse it, to look it in the eye after approximately 40 minutes of repeatedly fucking up, would be blasphemous to a British soul. A misplaced pass can be forgiven; a pint not tended to can’t. 

The only thing more British than football is casual alcoholism, so the marriage is very plausible.

Before the game got going I acquainted myself with a few of the lads playing, as is customary when soliciting games on Footy Addicts. The game’s a sort of micro-society, you see; there’s a certain amount of respect required, a social order constructed. I need them to know my name, and I need to establish myself at the bottom of the chain. This is the only way they will have the capacity to forgive.

James is here with his mate Luke. They’re home from uni and want to play football. This is a common thing for them, the pining. James says he “just loves football” and will go to great lengths to find a game. Thanks to websites such as Footy Addicts those lengths are rarely more than a few minutes on his phone and a short walk from his family home.

Around 3 minutes into the game it became clear James was the best here. He had a calm approach, rarely seems unnerved by pressure, had a quickness to his turns, and a shot that you’re sure if given enough of a service, would break the goal’s net. You can just tell he’s had stuff like “water” and didn’t eat a few hours prior as that’s the way to “not feel sick.” He told me earlier the player he thinks he most closely resembles is Bale. At the time I thought that was a bit much, although in a severely watered down form, I can see what he means; it wasn’t too ludicrous of a claim. 

James has left the majority of the opposing team red-faced a few times, but they’re still smiling. There’s something pure about playing football. And there’s something very British about finding purity in something you’re not really that good at. Luke asked after my own ability before the game. A trap when in Britain. If you’re good, you say you’re alright. If you’re bad, you say you’re good. This practice is known universally. I opt for the latter, with a smile to cheekily imply: no. I am not very good, Luke. You are about to know this fact intimately. 

Mediocrity doesn’t matter when it comes to this particular brand of football. The communal aspect of the game is an enriching thing. String more than 5 or 6 passes and resultantly find space; see a fella who’s tripped over himself all night toepunt an absolute force into the bottom left corner of the goal; take down a stinging pass with the elegance of ballerina, or let it fly off your foot straight to the opposing players, you’re elated. Whatever is happening, good or bad, involving you or not, you are totally spellbound. This is a friendly experience, and it’s really quite something.

The strangers are taking my apologies gallantly. I don’t remember their name and yet they’re more accepting of me than my own family. My mistakes, the kinks and grooves of my misjudgement and my inflated ego that, unabashedly, makes me “try things” way above my pay grade; they’re fine with it all. British politeness, I guess. 

I don’t remember their name and yet they’re more accepting of me than my own family.

Half way through the game James swaps to the other team. The score was lopsided (19-2, if you care) and some people were beginning to have less fun. Absolutely fine, we’re here to enjoy ourselves. Next week, we’ll make the teams more fair – and I won’t have a bagel beforehand. Maybe.