|You're The One That I Want|
Written by SE1blue on Sunday, 28th Jul 2013 17:40
Where was I when Mick McCarthy donned a pair of skin-tight leather pants, stubbed out a cigarette out with his foot and wiggled his tooshie at a mesmerised Sir Bobby Robson Stand? Talk about summer loving, we’re all hopelessly devoted again.
If only all love was so easy to understand.
In 1986, I already knew that I loved Ipswich Town, my leather hacky sack, Scaletrix and Co-op sausages, but as spring turned to summer, there was a new kind of love stirring in my C&A underpants.
As we drove back along the A134 from another Town defeat I stared at my Dad thoughtfully. Despite his crazy eyebrows and penchant for corduroy trousers he had bagged himself a wife, 20 years of marriage and three kids.
I had been alive for 13 years and only been kissed by Cathy Spencer in a game of Spin the Bottle – something that took a whole 17 minutes to materialise as she argued with everyone involved that the bottle wasn’t actually pointing at me.
More importantly, I should have been kissed by Lisa Clarke, but she had an asthma attack shortly after the bottle stopped turning and spent the rest of the day in the school medical room.
Within a couple of minutes of me locking my pupils onto him, my Dad sensed my unwavering glare and quizzically raised the fuzzy bush above the eye closest to me.
I took a deep breath and asked “What is love?” before preparing myself for some life changing advice.
What followed was the longest sigh I’ve ever heard. He blew out more than enough air to fill a space hopper and then everything on him dropped.
It started with the hairy inquisitive eyebrow, then the lines on his face, followed by his head and ended with his shoulders. He looked like he had been popped with a pin. He barely had enough left in him to pull the car into a gravel lay-by just outside Hadleigh.
You don’t need to be Hercule Poirot to realise that I didn’t learn anything about love that afternoon, but I did finally find out what was locked in the glove box and the effects it has on driving a Vauxhall Carlton estate.
Fortunately, a lot of time (and therapy) has passed since then though and I’ve discovered that love does not have to be based on “a dead end job, a ridiculous mortgage and three flippin’ mistakes”.
I’ve seen enough of life to know that love can happen for many different reasons; physical attraction, mutual interests, shared humour, the need for a work visa, a potential inheritance, a two-bed council flat and “I clicked the mouse and the next thing she was here. Honest”. There are many other heart-warming reasons for love.
So why have we fallen for Mick?
I read over the summer a number of TWTD posters writing ‘In Mick We Trust’ and this got me thinking about who I trust in my life.
I needn’t have worried about the notepad, or the sharpener, because after three and a half hours of sucking on an HB pencil all I had was a small case of graphite poisoning and these names on my list.
1. Mick McCarthy
2. Dr Kibuko (not one problem with a repeat prescription in 22 years)
3. Noel Edmonds (he really doesn’t know what’s inside the boxes).
So, what is it about Mick McCarthy? Why do we trust him?
It’s because if Mick McCarthy were the girl next door, he would be Sandy from Grease – loyal, sensible, intelligent and most importantly, normal.
If a close friend said they had met a new woman and that woman was Mick McCarthy, you’d be whacking the kettle on, putting your feet up and waving away an empty train to Worriesville.
We’ve all been there, when a loved one says they’ve met someone new and you just know it’s not right.
Your sister is dating the guy you sell ‘those’ magazines to during your shift at the all-night garage. Your brother is stepping out with the waitress from the Thai restaurant. You know, the one with the really big hands and what looks like an Adam’s apple, but the photos you secretly take on your phone are always blurred.
Your best mate is seeing the cross-eyed woman with the mono-brow that he met next to the fish counter in Sainsburys. Your team has employed a moody, brooding Irishman whose best friend is a dog.
But what can you do? Nothing. You just have to wait for love to take its natural course or suffer a 1-0 defeat at Nottingham Forest.
So, it’s no surprise to me that, although we’ve not kicked a competitive ball since May, our love for Mick has grown.
After that troublesome dance with Cha-Cha (I mean, Keane), we’ve finally got our Sandy (I mean, Mick), and you could say that we go together like shoo bop shoo wadda wadda yipitty boom de boom.
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