We arrive at the village pub, to find a famous footballer occupying the best table. I amble to the bar, and am soon joined by my excited father. His interest in football is not great enough that he can name the famous footballer, or that he knows any of the details of the famous footballer’s career, but he recognises the face of a celebrity and that is reason enough to be excited. When I mention the famous footballer’s name to him, he seems faintly aware that the famous footballer has recently signed for one of the local football teams but we still take a while establishing that the famous footballer and Rio Ferdinand are not the same person. My father seems unable to stop looking over his shoulder to stare at the famous footballer, much to my embarrassment. I cannot even interest him in dropping pennies through the grate of the deep well which sits in the middle of the village pub.
My dad doesn’t get to see celebrities often, so I try to excuse his over enthusiasm; I remember him excitedly pointing at a quizzical Jeffrey Archer on a trip to London once. Nor for that matter does the village pub often see many Girard-Perregaux watch wearing patrons clad in Versace shirts unbuttoned to the waist, exposing a muscled and waxed chest covered only by a sizeable silver crucifix. It’s just not a very farmer-like look
A 13-year-old boy clocks the famous footballer, and begins to excitedly point. I move my dad round the other side of the bar, before he joins him.
4 weeks ago