Champions League-a-phobe

For the second year running, I slipped off to meet a friend for a few drinks rather than watch the Champions League final. Not particularly macho. But hey, that’s me all over. We went to Art of Tea on the edge of the Badlands, aka Didsbury Village. As I walked there, I passed a car full of teenagers blazing pot, and it stank. The Champions League commentary drifted from open windows in every house. Every so often, a wailing police van passed me. Kids eh? I arrived early, sat at an outside table, and pretended not to overhear two oh-so-liberal ladies gasping at inequality of Dubai. A teenager walked past swearing loudly.