The NFL @ the Grey Horse Inn

Trying to watch a football game in Edinburgh is harder than you might think. First of all, you must remember to precede “football” with “American.” Second, you must be willing to listen to complaints about how long the game takes to play and defend the “incessant starting and stopping.” Finally, when dropping in a bar to ask if they might show the American football game, “It’s the playoffs you see,” it might be wise to not be in running shorts (33° F out) with running shirt, camel pack, hat, and wool gloves. Entering a bar in this outfit in the middle of the afternoon on a Sunday immediately labels you an outsider.

However, persistence is the key! After stopping a few folks on the street (none of whom seemed happy about this) and interrupting the football matches (aka soccer games) in three bars, having all responses similarly “I jess dunt kneow, but gut luck,” you simply can not call this the end. When my run was finished and chances of seeing a divisional playoff game fading, I decided to lengthen my usual cool down walk to explore the area. I stumbled upon a place showing the soccer game and filled with loud Scotsmen. I thought, "Why not try one more," and went in. This time there were plenty of strange looks, the conversations died down, and the dog I had to step over seemed unimpressed with my Addidas SuperNovas. (At least the dog moved his head, the other two dogs in the bar hadn’t noticed that I entered.) This barmaid must have seen some strange things in her day, because all she said was, “What can I getcha?” I smirked and said I just had a question, can I come back later and watch the American football game. She picked up the remote and began searching for it, nearly starting a riot as the soccer game was shrunk to a corner while she searched the listing. After a small conference with some men at the other end of the bar, I was told, “Aye, come back at half five.”

Half five was a little early, I didn’t want to see the British pre-game report, so I went at about half 6, maybe closer to 7. Uh oh, different gal behind the bar. I told her of my previous conversation and she simply picked up the remote and changed the channel. This was followed by a loud objection from a few men watching a soccer game, very loud complaints that it was still the first quarter and the NFL garbage would take “two weeks” to finish, and finally an 18-year-old kid punching his Da and yelling “Let him watch his precious American football.” Ten minutes later, the bar was empty save me and two men no younger than 80 who probably had been in those seats for 50 years or longer.

Every ten minutes, a man, or two men, would come in, order a beer, drink it rapidly, turn around and walk home. It was like this is what was supposed to happen on the way home.

Around halftime, two police officers entered the bar. They were looking for the older of the two old guys as his nephew had sent the police because he hadn’t heard from the old man in several days. It was sad that the nephew sent the police to a bar to find his ancient, very intoxicated uncle with a giant bandage on his head from a druken fall a few days prior.

Nearing the middle of the fourth quarter (game was essentially over, Vikes dismantling the Cowgirls) a large contingent of drunk Scottish chaps busted on the scene. There was much yelling, some whistling, and their own bottle of 7up for mixing. They knew the old guys and the old guys knew them. One of them (at least) was very drunk. He told me his name repeatedly and my responses each time were

“Doddy?....oh, davey….sorry what….dillon……uh…….man, I don’t know…..oh wait, Terry?”

That was a four minute conversation.

Scottish accent - hard to understand

Drunk Scottish accent - unintelligible

When I said "Terry," he began dancing and twirling and stumbling, and then offered to buy me a drink. I had a drink, so I politely refused. He then ordered two pints, one for him and one for the lady behind the bar. She didn’t want it either. The most sober of the crew, came over and said, “Terry, you drunk fool, you already have a pint. What are you going to do with three pints?” Terry went into the bathroom. I went in a few minutes later and saw him “sleeping” on a throne! When a friend went in to get him, I decided to leave. Terry still had three full pints on the bar.

When I told the owner of this house I’m living in, he replied, “Oh my [Gosh], you went to the Grey Horse? That’s a working man’s pub.” Apparently, I don’t look like a working man. Next week for the AFC Championship, you can find me, two old guys, and probably Terry at the Grey Horse Inn.