Uncle Hasan the Elder – Part 3: The Night Football Lost to a Soap Opera.

To help you get to know Uncle Hasan the Elder a little better, here’s a story that perfectly captures his mix of unexpected wisdom, fierce loyalty to his TV schedule, and total resistance to modern logic.

I remember it clearly , a cool autumn evening, the kind where even the breeze seems to carry the smell of stew and stories. Our entire extended family had been invited to Uncle Hasan’s house. That usually meant three things: loud conversations, more food than any human should eat, and someone arguing about which chair belonged to whom.

But that night, something else added to the excitement. Manchester United was playing Barcelona in a Champions League match, a real clash of football giants. The game was scheduled for exactly 10 PM. My cousins had already confirmed the kickoff time like it was a flight to Mars. My brother had brought his United jersey. My uncle brought snacks. People were actually early — and in our family, that’s the equivalent of a miracle.

But there was a tiny obstacle. One that stood only five foot six but radiated the stubbornness of a granite mountain. At exactly 10 PM, our local TV station was airing an episode of a dramatic, low-budget soap opera. You know the kind — fake hospitals, love triangles, dramatic music at every doorbell, and at least one person pretending to be blind.

And Uncle Hasan? He didn’t just like the show. He was emotionally invested. I once saw him get up and shake his head after a cliffhanger, muttering, “Foolish girl. Why would you believe a man who wears that much hair gel?”

So when the clock struck 10, one of my cousins casually announced, “Alright! Time to switch to Channel 3 for the match.” Uncle Hasan, without so much as looking up from his seat, raised the remote like it was a royal scepter and declared, “No switching. My show’s starting.”

Everyone laughed, assuming this was one of his classic jokes. But the remote remained aimed and the TV stayed glued to the soap opera’s hospital corridor.

Auntie, always the family diplomat, tried gently. “Hasan jan, they’re just here for the match. Let them watch — it’s a big one.”

But Uncle Hasan didn’t budge.

“What match? We invited them for dinner, not a stadium experience! They had rice. They had stew. They even took leftovers. That’s what a host does. What more do they want — season tickets?”

One of my cousins tried reasoning. “But Uncle, the match is live! Your show will re-air tomorrow.”

That’s when it happened.

Uncle Hasan slowly stood up, like a professor about to deliver a lecture that would change lives. He looked around the room with wide eyes and genuine concern.

“Live? At this hour? Are you people really that gullible?”

He turned to my younger cousin and pointed. “You — aren’t you studying engineering? And you believe this nonsense?”

Then to another: “Didn’t you get a business degree? And you’re telling me athletes are running around the pitch at ten o’clock at night? Use your brain!”

We tried to explain time zones. We even opened a world clock app. But Uncle Hasan wasn’t having it.

“Time zones? Ha! More airport lies. First, they take your toothpaste at security, now they tell you it’s tomorrow in Japan while it’s still today in our living room? Clever scam!”

At that point, we all gave up.

The TV stayed tuned to the soap opera, which that night featured a coma patient faking amnesia, a doctor in love with his patient’s twin, and a wedding that somehow involved a horse indoors.

But here’s the best part — we ended up laughing so hard that we didn’t even care about missing the game. Uncle Hasan’s logic may have been flawed, but his comedy was flawless.

And to this day, whenever someone mentions a live broadcast, someone in the family always says:

“Live? At this hour? Use your brain!”