Seconds are never that great. Jaws 2 was pitiful compared to Jaws. My first motor was second-hand (or possibly fifth) and sounded like an emphysemic old man on a bed made of loose wood when the hospital ward's got the builders in. Sloppy seconds are never quite as satisfying as 'first come, first served'. Our fringe players are fringe for a f*cking good reason; they're not all that.
So, end of season and all blasé. We're in this league for a 16th successive time in August. As great as the win against Newcastle was, there's a sense of uncertainty: Mick's off, several players may be out of here, there's no magic £50 million hiding in the back of the boardroom sofa and the club confirmed my DD for next season's ST in the post, brutal, stark and in black. I've re-committed myself to a possible season of turmoil, struggle and underachievement. Or, if you're barking mad, a tilt at the play-off's under Steve Cotterill or Gary Megson, or that w*nker who used to manage Villa, with a glowing-red hot Diagouraga running our midfield and a few freebies from the relegated teams trying to prove a point somehow.
Terry's got shot of the remainder of his Milky Bar eggs. He 'gave' them to his paperboys as belated Easter pressies. "The little b*ggers left three of 'em in my khazi - that's the thanks I get" he brooded. I have a confession to make - I helped run his shop yesterday all day when his assistant broke her thumb on Thursday night falling down the stairs at home. I had a rare day off and was planning to spend it in second-hand book shops and pubs up in London. But Tel rang me at 9pm to say his assistant had had an accident and he needed someone at very short notice to help him organise his paperboy rounds and the shop tomorrow. And, despite all, I said Yes.
So, arrived at the shop at 6.30am, yawning and clutching a home-made packed lunch in my rucksack. Tel looked chirpy and greeted me with coffee and a quick burst of thanks. We sorted the papers out for the shop, then he gave me the paperboy lists to await the first lads due in for the morning runs at 7.
Now, when I was a paperboy in the mid-80's, I had me faithful Raleigh racing bike, me parka and jeans and a day-glo orange satchel thing which was a bit frayed and bloody heavy on a Sunday. The first kid to arrive yesterday morning walked proprietorially through the shop clad in grey hoodie, grey jogging bottoms and dirty Nikes and sniffed a lot. "'Ello Jayden" said Tel, "Nice'n'early I see, good lad". Then he whispered to me as Jayden, a thirteen year old who was nearly as tall as me and had stopped temporarily to scan one of Tel's porn mags from the shelf, "watch 'e don't nick nuffink" before he went back-of-shop to ensure Jayden's papers were all in order.
Stuck for something to say to a thirteen year old kid now intently flicking through a copy of Razzle and ignoring all-comers, I cleared my throat and said "Erm, Jayden is it? Your papers are nearly ready. Want to come and help Tel pick 'em up?". The kid sort of zoned in on me in stages, like someone recently lobotomised being asked to focus on a fly. "Urmgh" he said, reminding me of the Piltdown Man on Mike Oldfield's classic 'Tubular Bells' which I've been enjoying again recently. Then he moved towards the counter, flicking the jazz mag back on the shelf near the 'House Beautiful"s (don't worry, I moved it to its rightful place, which was on the counter covered by Daily Stars, for me to peruse later).
The next shock came when I helped Jayden out to where he'd parked his bike. "'E needs an 'and" said Tel, not moving. We got to his bike in silence, but when I saw it, the silence broke. "Have you had to nick your little brother's bike this morning? Never mind, mate" I said sympathetically, looking at this little BMX style thing that stood about ten inches high. "Nowwwww" said Jayden, his braces gleaming dully as he smiled at this middle-aged nonentity of uncoolness, "Iss me stunt bike. Cost me mum two hundred quid last birfday". I stood shocked. I couldn't imagine anyone, aside Warwick Davis, performing stunts on that.
Off he rode to confirm it was true. knees round his chin, pedalling and bunny-hopping over the kerbs with his paper bag swinging round like Pete Townshend's right arm playing guitar. "Kids today" I muttered, feeling very old and very past it.
The rest trouped in before 8, all little kids with stupid names and shaven haircuts and hoodies and speaking in that funny Jamaican-Cockney patois, even though they were whiter than Mick Hucknall's knees in winter. They all rode what Jayden rode, funny little stunt bikes like mini-BMX's. They all had little brown envelopes with twenty quid in for their routes, to be paid when they came back as it was the end of the week. When I was a kid, I got three pounds fifty for mine. It was a fortune, especially when a can of pop was 20p.
Tel was grateful. Mrs Tel was back from her mum's for this weekend, and he'd called some nineteen-year old girl to help him from then on, so I was spared a weekend of helping. I wouldn't accept payment for my six hours of work, but then Tel never offered anyway, so that was OK. He DID give me a bottle of Glenfiddich today when I called in, and I'm enjoying it now, so we're quits. I've also 'kept' the copy of Razzle, but it's not much cop. I can't imagine anyone wanting firsts, let alone seconds up these women.
Seconds out. We lost at Rotherham. Balls. Let's hope we're not tempted to play the second string next Saturday, or I fear we'll be losing a lot more to Wednesday. Ho hum. Nearly done. |  |
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