The old nerves were clanging. Tel sat, bloodshot of eye (courtesy, so he said, of "that conjunkvirus fing" but I thought he looked liverish, personally). My late Grandma used to use medical terms like that. Liverish, bilious, consumptive. They all basically added up to constipation, although why that word didn't appear in the mental medical dictionary was unknown. When someone had constipation (and Grandad was a bit of a martyr; his regular diet of slices of cut white bread spread thickly with butter, potatoes cooked every way known to man and cheap, processed meats could've blocked the Suez), she put it down to liver or bile. My Grandad outlived my Grandma by four years. He said the secret was a good sh*t every morning, a paper job, not removing buttocks from pan until the bog seat had imprinted its outline. Sorry if you're eating by the way.
Anyway, Tel has a bloodshot left eye. It makes him reminiscent of Gollum from Lord of the Rings. He's not been to the doctor yet, hence a thirst unimpeded by antibiotics. We've moved on in beer terms, having recently discovered Moretti Sale di Mare, bottles of which have been procured by Jamie the landlord in what looks suspiciously like a marketing thing. They came with glossy posters showing beautiful younger people imbibing on a terrace overlooking the Amalfi coast. But they also taste quite nice if your viewpoint is the dog-poo-and-wet-long-grass-and-faded-red-plastic-kids-slide of the pub garden.
We'd gone for lunch to start. 1.30pm on a Saturday. Regulars sat at the bar, tankards of IPA and desultory talk of when was the best time to start cutting the lawn and was Lidl cheaper than Aldi for beer. Tel sat at the furthest table lest the barmaid clock his eye and recoil in disgust. He wore his Oakleys indoors for a while. He looked like Michael Barrymore pretending to be Andy Warhol.
Everything is fine in Terry-world. The wife's out of hospital; it wasn't cancer or anything like that, but she's had polyps removed. They're Turkey bound at the end of May after the latter bank holiday. Going with Tone and Sandy for a two-week break. He showed me the brochure, some place called Fetiyhe, a five-star resort, golden sands and massive pools and sun-drenched plazas. "Din't fancy Spain" he said by way of explanation. "Tone reckoned it was lovely, one of 'is punters told 'im, all exclusive (he meant inclusive) and decent food and beer". He swigged from his bottle of Moretti. "Nah kids spoilin' it" he added. "Yer knackered if there's kids wingin' abart". He took another swig and lowered his sunglasses. "Ope this bleeder clears up before we go. Wife sed ah look like Gollom". I mentally tipped my hat to Mrs Tel.
The food came. We both went for the steak. I had mine cooked rare. Or I asked for it to be cooked rare. What came out was medium-rare at a pinch. Still, the chimichurri sauce was nice. So were the chips. Tel had medium. It looked sort of grey but he seemed happy enough. Diane sauce for him, and an extra order of onion rings and greek salad.
More beer. Tel discarded the ribbons of fat from his steak and lobbed them to Buster, the ever-willing and hungry staffie belonging to Graham, a regular who often drops in for Guinness and to watch the football. The dog consumed these morsels with relish and then came over and sat, eyeing Tel, just in case he didn't fancy the meatier bits either. He got a few scraps of what we couldn't finish (they were big sirloins) plus some odd overcooked chips and a bit of chimichurri sauce on one bit of decent-ish meat, which he wolfed. Terry doesn't think Graham feeds Buster properly. He hasn't said anything outright because he knows Graham once did a stretch inside for ABH and still looks handy. Graham used to be one of Tel's regulars when he had the shop. He thought Tel gave in too easily when he sold up. It's one of the few times I've ever heard Terry agree with this statement. He agreed with alacrity as well. Graham worries him a bit.
We didn't bother with a pud, although Tel cooed over the hot fudge vanilla sundae when someone at a nearby table ordered it and it was brought. It looked like the sort of dessert Weight Watchers advertise as the ultimate fatso evil.
"Wot time's the Tarn game start?" said Tel for the umpteenth time, playing to the gallery. "8pm" I answered curtly. "Bleedin' eight a'clock? We've gotta stay 'ere til then?". He turned a mock resignation head shake to the group of blokes at the bar. He caught one, who grinned back. "Bleedin wotchin' Colchester before that" he said, nodding towards the back bar. "An' the Town'll probly lose".
We didn't watch Colchester in the end. We went for a stroll instead. Fresh air, a quick walk to Tesco so I could replenish my cigarettes (out of sight of Tel, who looked at the magazines) and so we could have a quick one in the other pub we don't tend to use but which sells Staropramen on tap and has decent estuary views. It started to rain as we got in, the sound bouncing off their conservatory-type extension they built for diners, which was a quarter-full of people huddling around finished lunches and nearly drained bottles of wine.
Tel sat talking to the barmaid, a young-ish woman in her late twenties who displayed a venetian-looking tattoo on her nape and several piercings in her nose. I heard him say "Ull away, like but it's not on til ate" and hoped he wasn't boring her with the footie. I went for a cigarette out the front, avoiding eye contact with pedestrians who dodged the fetid smoke hazes and the incipient rain. We had two pints of Staropramen each. Tel likes a change and I think I've got him into other beers; extended his range somewhat. We left for the walk back to the local. Tel rang the wife on the way. "Eleven thirty I reckon. You wotchin' that Baby Reindeer on Netflix again? Load of old toss that was. I'd've told her where to go yonks ago. She wouldn't be geddin' a free Diet Coke off me".
Back in the bar after being away for roughly two hours. Nearly time for the late match. We were having our Indian delivered to the pub. A new concept they've recently added to the plethora of ideas to boost beer sales. They provide the plates and cutlery for £7 and also chuck in a free pint of amber nectar (not Fosters, but you can choose from Carling, John Smiths or a bottle of your choice, except Asahi or Estrella).
Tel did the Just Eat order. It looked like a lot. Poppadoms, chicken tandoori starter, keema naan, onion bhajis, chicken vindaloo and plain rice (me), King Prawn Madras and bombay potatoes (Tel) and a Sag Aloo that we didn't touch in the end (looked a bit oily).
It arrived, carried in a warm bag by a young delivery driver who Tel gave a fiver tip to. A few of the pool players in the back licked their lips at the smells emanating from our corner. Tel let them have the Sag Aloo and a cut quarter of the naan.
The telly went on at seven forty-five and the build up began. The plates and detritus cleared and new beers we actually wanted placed in front of us, we watched.
You know the rest. 1-0 up, 2-1 up, 3-2 up and we still drew. Tel blamed Hladky. "Bleedin' crap keeper. 'E'll need replacin' in the Premier". Still, a point, though disappointing as it should have been three, wasn't that bad. I always felt Hull would be the harder of the remaining three.
We moved to the pub brandy. It was as assuredly crap as ever, even with ice tinkling and diluting it. We drank three or four in quick succession and then the tell-tale lights of the Terries SUV glinted through the glass panels near the bar and Mrs Tel, clad in stone denim jacket, black jeans and a Jam 'Sound Effects" T-shirt entered the fray. Tel ordered her a large Diet Coke with ice and she sat, discussing and spoiling Baby Reindeer with me, as I haven't watched it yet. I'm still watching the latest series of Sunderland Til I Die. I keep falling asleep, that's the problem.
They left at eleven. I walked back home, slightly unbalanced by the drink and the game. It was a good point as loads of people said. Still, can't get over the feeling that three would have been perfect. Now we're relying on getting something at Coventry. The nerves are kicking again for Tuesday. I guess Saturday won't be much better. But we'll be there nonetheless.
|  |
By continuing to use the site, you agree to our use of cookies and to abide by our Terms and Conditions.
