Blue Moon's trip around the UK

I’ll have to admit to being a bit chuffed arriving in St Mary’s, it is after all quite a journey off to the far west, and it is famously rocky and tricky sailing around here. It being April the visitors’ moorings only had half a dozen boats on them and the harbour guys were stil fresh and enthusiastic enough to come over and say hello and ask if I needed anything (for some reason they didn’t want any money until tomorrow).

I was a bit surprised by the driver’s opening question: “are you a City fan, then?” he enquired, but then I saw he was looking at the name of the boat. I have known this moment was coming ever since I bought her, but even non-sailors know about the risks involved in changing a boat’s name. “Au contraire” I replied, but not in those terms. Best not to alienate the harbourmaster before you’ve paid. I explained that I was about as far from being a Man City fan as it was possible to be, and he took the news graciously, even remarking that although he was a lifelong City fan (I doubt this, I always assume City fans use the word ‘lifelong’ to mean ‘since Sheikh Mansour’) he wouldn’t mind Arsenal winning the title as it would be good for the Premier League. I am so fed up with hearing this patronising if well-meant comment, we’re a big title-winning club with a slight recent hiccup, not Leicester or Wrexham.

“Anyway”, he carried on, “your best bet for tonight is The Scillonian Club, they’re showing the match and there’ll be some Arsenal fans there.” So off I went, the pilot book having mentioned that they welcome visitors and serve the best value and monumentally large fish and chips on the island.

The evening, as football following readers willl already know, did not go too well, and not just because of the result. I had wandered past various fish and chip outlets all looking delcious (and so they should be here) and several with long queues of locals. Then I found a mobile phone on a bench and spent 20 minutes tracking its owner (successfully, halo polished thank you) and another 20 getting some coins to operate the shower in the harbour office, so it was shortly before kick off that I presented myself at the bar and asked if I could join them for the evening. “As long as you’re a Gooner” replied the barman instantly. “Where are you from?” “Just up the road from The Emirates” I batted back confidently. He gave me a look that suggested I might as well have said New York. “I grew up on Gillespie Road” he replied, proudly, poured me a pint and indicated a group of supposedly sympathetic fishermen types that I could sit with. “By the way,” he added, “we’re not doing food tonight, but you’re welcome to get your own”.

I legged it back to the nearest chippie. Closed. The next: closed. The van in the car park: closed. Desperate now into the takeaway that turned out to be a deli and was still bustling. They laughed. “Everywhere closes at 7.30”, she explained, “we’re just having a cheese and wine party for our friends. Your best bet is the Co-op.”

So it was that I ended up watching my team throw away the title in the company of two dozen grizzled fishing types, few of whom had any genuine sympathy, whilst eating two Co-op scotch eggs and a packet of peanuts.

“You’ve gone all Spursey” one of them leaned over to me and roared with laughter. I couldn’t have put the evening better myself.