A Chippy

I'm sitting alone at a little table in my favourite Chippy in Benidorm, waiting for my cod and chips to arrive and vaguely watching Sky news on one of the small dirty TV sets they have perching on old wooden crates. What a dump this place is, badly furnished and decorated, run-down, smelly even – there must be a sewer opening somewhere - and yet what surprisingly good fish and chips they make. Probably the best I've found since I left England thirty years ago.

The news on Sky is boring as hell, and repetitive: some aged celebrity accused of assault in an Indian restaurant, the race to find a candidate to run against Gordon Brown, the search for poor little Madeleine... Then they announce that some guy, the manager of Wigan Athletic Football Club, is leaving. Big deal! I think. What a huge event for national news! Wigan Athletic. Wigan! Who on earth is this guy, and so what if he's stepping down, or being fired, or whatever it is? I start musing on the amazing sorts of things that interest people. This is like hearing that the coach of some Saskatchewan minor hockey club has quit, or left his wife, or gone into municipal politics. No but really, who cares? On the other hand, I think, always reasonable, there must be people in England for whom this really is a big deal. Wigan supporters, of course, all the tens of thousands of Wiganians, but probably others too. Wigan must be in what, the third division?

As I'm musing thus, a very large man with red arms and fat legs the same thickness all the way up, in shorts and moving with difficulty, grasping a thick colourful cane, gets up heavily from a nearby table and for some reason chooses me to tower over and address in a loud voice. Did they say Paul Jewell was leaving? From Wigan? I ask, not sure of the guy's name or his position. Yeah. Yes, I think that's what they said. Bloody hell! He stares intently at me as if I should be overcome with grief or pain or astonishment and must communicate the depth of my feelings to him without delay. He waits a little for some reaction, staring stupidly. Couldn't hear much, I say, gesturing towards the tv set. Lots of noise.

Bloody hell, he says again, and he just stopped them from going down. He stares at me with aggressive, bloodshot eyes, unsteady, balancing on his cane, and I worry he might fall on top of me. I can't think of anything to say. Bloody hell, he says again. Bloody hell, and mercifully hobbles off back to his wife, casting at me a final reproachful backward glance. As he sits down, they're giving out the same news item again. Jewell, he's called, that's right, Paul Jewell, and he just helped Wigan to stay in the Premier League.