Oscar and Harry

Oscar and Harry had been friends since their first day at school. Four-year-old Harry was afflicted by runny nostrils which gave him two permanent snot slicks on his upper lip. For some years he bore the nickname ‘Eleven.’ Oscar turned up clinging to his mother’s skirts and wearing a full-face helmet, an unaccountable disguise which went on for the entire first term. When he returned after the autumn break, no one knew who he was.

And so it came about that Eleven and Evel Knievel formed their unbreakable bond.

Well, the years turn. Nowadays, although Harry is married and Oscar is not, they still make time for each other once a week. On an alternating basis, they chose which event or activity the other friend will join him in. Oscar’s last three turns have seen him taking Harry to the gay bars and nightclubs around town. Harry is one of those upstanding men who believes firmly and unequivocally that a deal’s a deal, and so he goes along and sits in a corner with a pint and a sudoku. He scratches the numbers in with those little blue pens he steals from the betting shops which are always next door to gay clubs.

There are only so many times, however, that a man can be subjected to ABBA and an ailing Judy Garland struggling to get over that rainbow, before the novelty wears thin.

*****

The Match: In an effort to turn Oscar towards more manly pursuits, one chilly Saturday afternoon saw them heading off to a rugby match. Oscar fiercely resisted until Harry reminded him about the thousand pounds his friend owed him.

‘Right now,’ he said, ‘you’re my bitch.’

And so here they are, walking down the road towards the pub by the stadium. Harry is snugly wearing the team’s scarf and Oscar is already looking pale, frost-bitten and unaffiliated. Harry also wears an inscrutable smile, which Oscar nonetheless manages to translate. All those years, you see. Harry is enjoying his friend’s extreme discomfort, which he views as interest on the loan.

‘So explain it to me again,’ said Oscar. ‘Explain the game.’

‘The sport,’ said Harry. ‘Tiddlywinks is a game.’

‘Explain the sport.’

‘There are fifteen players on each side, plus a referee, of course. Rugby referees are the Baron Von Richthofen’s of all sporting umpires. It requires a certain degree of reckless lunacy.’

‘That’s a lot of people on the lawn, Harry.’

‘Indeed, Oscar. It is a lot of people on the pitch. In each team there are eight forwards and seven backs. The backs are generally smaller than the forwards. In any pack of backs, there is usually one much smaller again. Maybe as ridiculously tiny as 5’11.” He’s usually the secret weapon. Like a mosquito, he reaches those parts that others cannot reach. It’s a simple fact of physics.’

‘I see, Harry,’ said Oscar. ‘And what do the fronts do?’

‘The forwards’ job is to surge straight through the middle of the pitch, by sheer bulk and determination which usually involves the cranial bones in the head. It is not entirely dissimilar to American football, without the shoulders and the helmets. At the moment when the forward is about to be crushed under the collective weight of the opposition, he passes, always backwards - because a forward pass is a penalty offence - to one of the smaller backs, who has more speed and agility. The purpose is to put the oval shaped ball behind the try line. It must be firmly in the hand when this occurs. If the ball bounces before it lands, it is not a try. A try is worth five points. After the try, the kicker, usually one of the backs, tries to get the same oval ball between the tall, H-shaped goalposts. That is called a conversion, which is worth two points. Therefore, a converted try is worth seven points.’

‘I see,’ said Oscar. ‘Anything else I should know?’

‘Yes. The players engage in various manoeuvres called rucks, mauls and scrummages. This involves a lot of 22 stone men rubbing their ears against the backsides of the forwards in front of them, who will all have their arses in the air at this point. You will note the forwards usually lack ears as a result of the friction. These are generally known as cauliflower ears, and the players themselves become known as orcs. But not to their faces. Oh! And a penalty kick, driven through the H-shaped goalpost, is worth three points.’

‘Did we play this at school?’ asked Oscar.

‘I did, but you always had a verruca,’ said Harry.

The way to the pub was long and winding. Aside from the flocks of fans all heading in the same direction at varying degrees of pace, Harry had a habit of stopping when he was talking, as though the two activities were incompatible. And it was only after Harry had stopped walking that he noticed, with a side-eyed glance, that Oscar was mincing away from him, unaware that his friend had stopped.

‘Why are you mincing?’ he asked, catching up. ‘You’re just gay. You don’t need to mince.’

‘I’m not!’ said Oscar, all wide-eyed and innocent.

Harry stopped again. ‘Do you remember that wedding I was invited to? The one you couldn’t go to because they invited my wife instead? Grant and Craig’s wedding?’

‘Well no, Harry. I don’t remember it because I wasn’t bloody there. I missed out on the naked butlers.’

‘It might surprise you to know, Oscar, that my wife also wanted to see the naked butlers. It’s not an exclusive club.’

Harry put a finger to his lips when Oscar bristled. ‘Shush, dear,’ he said. ‘The point is that Grant and Craig don’t mince. Grant is actually a rugby referee and in his free time Craig is a magistrate of the lock-em-up varietal. You met them once, and you didn’t even realise they were gay. Your gaydar literally sucks.’

‘That’s not a point. It’s an observation.’

‘My point is that they are both perfectly delighted to be gay and don’t need to walk like air cabin crew to prove it. In addition, just lately I’ve noticed you do that floppy thing with your wrists, and occasionally your voice becomes all drawly, like some weird parody of a female I hope I never have to meet. In short, my friend, you’re turning camp. I put it to you that you are suggestible.’

‘Nooooo, no! no!’ said Oscar. ‘I’m just being me.’

‘Nope, you’re not,’ argued Harry. ‘The only other people who waft around like that are fashion designers and compères. Last time I checked you work for the council, doing a job which really ought to be explained to the taxpayers because we're all just dying to know. In short, you’re not Alexander McQueen, and nor are you a presenter on Supermarket Sweep. And the floppy wrists thing? Do you know what that is?’

‘Enlighten me, wise one.’

‘It’s what insipid rich people do to proclaim to the world that they have so much money they don’t need to close the Limo door themselves. Hell, they don’t even need to wipe their own backsides. Rich people don’t need hands, and so they become useless floppy appendages.’

They walked on in silence until they reached the pub.

‘Don’t worry, Oscar,’ said Harry by way of an olive branch. ‘Above all else, rugby is very homo-erotic. At half-time, they measure each other’s erections.’

*****

While Harry struggled to get served at the bar, Oscar reflected on the nature of rugby supporters. Both rival teams were mingling in the same place and rubbing along nicely. Although Oscar knew as much about football as he did about rugby, he did know that a rival football club would probably suffer a cultish slaughter if they were to do the same. With rugby, Oscar mused, the violence comes not from the stands but from the players themselves. The common spectator, his bloodlust sated like a Roman prole, is free to practice bonhomie elsewhere.

But beyond Oscar’s thoughts, mixed with anticipation and resentment just the same, he also has time to consider a much wider problem that was plaguing him. Gambling. It began, like all addictions, at the basecamp of Everest, where everyone mingles in a state of giddy excitement, but still has time to claim a family emergency and leave. It began with a little flutter here and a little deposit there. Nothing to see here at all.

And then you begin the ascent, where there is still time for a kindly-disposed sherpa to guide you back down. Oscar’s particular addiction has reached the midway point, where the air is thinning and the view back to basecamp is more alarming than the obscured view of the summit.

There is still time, but like the oxygen, it is running out.

And Harry wants his money back.

Oscar is more of an unfortunate gambler than a reckless one. He generally bets on 50/50 odds: boxing matches, table tennis matches, and who might be the next president of the Galapagos Islands. Even so, he generally picks the losing side. He is sensible enough to put his rent money away, but if Harry wants repayment then Oscar is living on noodles for the rest of the month. Faced with this stark reality, Oscar decides to give up gambling; to climb down that mountain and get back to basecamp. But just before he does …

*****

The stands were packed, but Harry, a season ticket holder, had bought a panoramic view. Within five minutes, the opposing team scored a try and the Bears were 7-0 down. He had told Oscar that the local side were the favourites to win, and Oscar had an irritating habit of reminding Harry, sometimes decades later, of all the things he had ever been wrong about. For this reason alone, Harry prayed for a reversal of fortune.

‘How many minutes in each half, Harry?’

‘Bored already, Oscar?’

‘Not at all, dear heart. I am so very riveted. How many minutes in each half?’

‘Forty.’

‘So a bit less than football?’

‘It’s more knackering than football. Go and get me one of those plastic pints if you’re bored.’

‘Will do, Harry. What’s the name of our team again?’

‘The Bears.’

Oscar snorted. ‘Because we get a lot of grizzlies around here. And the other side?’

‘They’re called the Pirates.’

‘That’s not a sight you see every day.’

‘Oscar, fuck off and get us a couple of those wobbly pints. And hold them tightly. No floppy wrists, no mincing. A good beer is worth more than a gay parade. Got it?’

‘Got it, darling.’

Harry watched his friend go with a great deal of affection. He looked so out of place in this stadium of ruddy-faced men and women. But in his absence, which was long, the Bears replied with three converted tries, and so by the time Oscar returned with the drinks, the home team were 21-7 up. Harry began to hope that Oscar would disappear in the second half too.

But he didn’t. Although Oscar was mostly engaged with reading the Pink News on his phone, he did occasionally look up and cheer at what he felt were intuitive moments.

****

When the final whistle blew, the conversation between the two friends was curtailed by the overwhelming irritation felt when you are forced to shuffle along in a sea of flabby backs and elbows in order to funnel through a child-sized turnstile one at a time.

When they finally made it out, Oscar exhaled deeply and said, ‘Never ask me to go to a rugby game with you again, Harry.’

‘Consider it done, muchacho. And I never want to go to a gay club with you again.’

‘Hmmm, then we must consider our compromises,’ said Oscar. ‘How about the ballet?’

‘How about it,’ said Harry.

‘Anyway,’ Oscar resumed. ‘Don’t you just love it when a plan comes together?’

‘Burger?’ Suggested Harry as they walked past a van.

‘Is it real meat?’

‘The bread is made of meat, the burger is made of bread, and the cheese is made of linoleum off-cuts,’ said Harry. ‘Want one or not?’

‘Oh yes!’

They leaned against a wall in the weak and dying light of the day, munching on the expensive food, which, however nasty, somehow conspired to taste delicious.

‘

OK,’ said Harry. ‘What was that plan of yours that came together?’

‘I can’t keep secrets from you Harry,’ said Oscar. ‘I have to unburden myself.’

‘I keep plenty of secrets from you, pal, on account of your big, gossiping mouth.’

‘Nice,’ said Oscar. ‘But true. However, it’s time to admit that I’ve been gambling, and it’s getting worse.’

‘I see,’ said Harry. ‘You need to do something about that, Oscar. Cancel your accounts for starters. Listen, if this is about that thousand pounds, it can wait until next month —’

‘That’s the thing!’ said Oscar, rolling the burger’s greaseproof wrapping and tossing it towards a nearby bin, missing by a country mile. ‘That’s the thing! You can have it right now! It’s still going to be tight, but I gambled your grand on a win for our team. The odds weren’t great - I mean as you said yourself, they were the favourites. But a thousand on a win earned me an extra £300 quid, which if I add to the £250 I had left to live on this month, I can add meatballs to my noodles. I promise you, Harry, I’m giving up right now. No more of it!’

‘Glad to hear it, Oscar.’ Harry wiped his mouth and also threw his greaseproof towards the bin, where it landed dead centre. ‘But as I said, pal, you can pay me next month.’

‘Nope! I want to do it now. My detox journey will go a lot smoother if I haven’t got the debt hanging over me.’

Oscar looked at his phone. ‘They haven’t paid out yet. Must be busy. Soon as it comes through, I’ll make the transfer.’

Harry lit a rare cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring in the lifeless air.

‘They won’t pay out, Oscar,’ he said, watching his friend’s bare head stooping towards his phone.

‘Of course they will. I placed it before the match, when you were at the bar. I formulated a plan because you said they’d win. And they did!’

Oscar twirled an imaginary moustache.

Harry looked at him with an expression of risible pity. ’They wont pay out, Oscar, because we didn’t win.’

‘Wait! wait! wait! I didn’t watch much of the second bit, but we were still scoring. The crowd were excited.’

‘The Pirates supporters, yes,’ said Harry. ‘Not so much the Bears.’

‘Are you sure, Harry?’

‘Yes Oscar. Now three things are running through my thoughts, and I need to shake them out. Mind if I share them with you?’

‘Not at all,’ said Oscar.

‘OK, so here’s the first. A home team’s score always appears on the left of the scoreboard. So if the final score is 24-27, like today, it means that the home team lost by three points.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ Oscar conceded.

‘The second is that both teams wear different jerseys. So you see, the team you saw converting three tries in the first half were wearing blue and white stripes.’ Harry pointed to his scarf. ‘However, the team that scored two tries and two penalties in the second half were wearing yellow and black diamonds. I hope you can understand the essence of this very important distinction, Oscar. They were both completely different teams.’

‘I don’t know why I didn’t notice that, Harry. I was just looking where you told me to look before .. before I got the wobbly beer.’

‘Which brings me to my third point, Oscar, and I can hardly believe that I am forming the words which are about to come out of my mouth.’

‘Go on, Harry. Better out than in.’

Harry took a deep breath. ‘OK, OK. Oscar, dear friend —’

‘Yes, Harry.’

‘You do know, don’t you, that at half-time the teams switch sides?’

Oscar looked at his phone once more, and then turned it off.

‘No, Oscar. I didn’t know that.’

*****

The Post-Match Report: Oscar gave up gambling on the day of the match, and has not been tempted since. Harry offered a financial arrangement which did not involve noodles. Shortly after this, Oscar found himself a partner. This partner goes to the rugby with Harry while Oscar stays home and makes linguini.

Harry has kept his word regarding that rugby match. Of course, certain conditions must be met. Oscar must never gamble again, and nor will he mince or flop his wrists in Harry’s presence.

As long as those conditions are observed, Oscar will not become a meme. It seems a fair price to pay for the ballet.