It wasn't just that I fancied a pint of lager, Spurs were losing 3-0 to some dubiously-sounding Swiss team that, for some reason that I could probably wikipediup, call themselves Young Boys, which doesn't sound particularly Swiss (whatever language they choose to use) and I felt that, as your typically emotional Spurs fan, I ought to turn up at the local and support the mighty Spurs.
The two blokes were slouched in front of the TV, one Scandinavian and one about as English as a bacon butty. "Any of you Spurs fans?" I asked. The Scandinavian looked at me like I was some jerk who had stuffed a ton of junk mail through his door. I hadn't, why would I pick a square-jawed Scandinavian at random and stuff some crap through his door? He said nothing so I said nothing, it was a mutual statement of zero, pointless in the grand scheme of things but decisive in the social context.
"I am," said the Englishman, and we entered into a lively discussion of the Spurs greats, Ossie Ardiles, Lineker, Gazza, why Lennon wasn't playing and why Pav was, and before we knew it, the Scandinavian had gone, vanished into the night, and Pav had scored a cracking goal.
"Seen that bloke before?" I said.
"Nope," he replied, "Scandinavian?"