Evenin' all, as the jocular bobby Dixon would have said, perhaps under an old-fashioned lamppost, the pea-souper swirling behind him, his helmet at a funny angle.
It's been a while (this is me talking now btw, not Dixon - he wouldn't have been that familiar, unless you're a teddy boy about to slash some poor streetwalker up a rank alley near the Roxy) and I found a window of opportunity, so went for it. Saves making up Ipswich players as root veg or talking politics on here. I had Sam Parsnipkin for the former. I'm too thick and Tory for the latter.
The book's coming on. In roughly the same way my ex used to come on; with tetchiness, followed by a week of all-out aggression where crockery mysteriously shattered and I was, by all accounts, the biggest c*nt walking. Apologies for the language there. Hers, not mine. I was all meekness and wanting to please. And then she'd slowly simmer and that'd be that, and we could get back to a semblance of normal life and I'd mark it in the old brain cells and regurgitate it for complete strangers on a football forum.
Still, you wanna know about Terry, don't you? I shouldn't be bothering you all with this, really. He's the star of these, after all. Well, he's fine. So's Mrs Tel. It's his brother-in-law, Tony, who is the least OK. Remember he and his wife and their 'trial separation'? It's now become a full one.
It was a few weeks ago that I went into the shop one mild morning, whistling "Starman" by Bowie, badly as it happens as Tel said "Blimey, ain't 'eard Kaiser Bill's Bat Man whistled since we 'ad a milkman in the seven'ees". He folded my Times for me and (a habit he can't seem to break) turned to open the fag cupboard, before remembering and pretending to face up a packet of Superkings.
"Tone's marriage's up the pole" he muttered, winking at me. My mind went blank for a few seconds, then I remembered. "Ah" I said, trying to sound neutral, looking for clues. "Nah, 'is own fort, tried to keep 'imself young for 'is young family, couldn't do it".
Tel's agony aunt is possibly the worst there has ever been. Wife cheated on you? It's your fault. You weren't strict enough. Rows during marriage? Your fault. You've indulged her too much. I once heard him tell a customer who complained about her flu jab making her ill, that it was her fault because she 'fell for all that guverment flannel abart a dose'o'flu killin' yer'. He is to sympathy what Paul Hurst is to Championship football management.
So Tony and his wife Sandy are now fully separated and divorcing, although the lawyers still seem to be circling the mess from above. "Cost 'im all that dough from the 'ouse, that will" said Tel grimly, but with a discernible sparkle in his eye. I asked about his access to their children, but Tel didn't know. "Yer'd 'ave to arsk the missus abart tha', I ain't privee ter all that" he said. He meant it wasn't interesting enough to divert him. I asked after Sandy and he snorted and said "SHE'LL be orlright. Attractive, still only firty-five, tits ain't rand 'er knees like a lot of wimmin who 'ave kids early". He looked wistfully at the sausage bap on his counter and reached to take a lazy bite, chewing on one corner of his mouth like a cow.
We meet occasionally for a curry now, ever since he got acid reflux from the lamb vindaloo he had towards the end of October. He now only 'does' a balti or a tikka masala. Often he prefers not to come at all, and texts me on a Friday lunchtime, illegible texts that have to be read aloud for understanding. We've started meeting on a Sunday lunchtime instead, for the usual small slices of beef in gravy and microwaved veg, with a Yorkshire pud the size of a small child balancing on the side. He prefers this. "Proppah grub" he smiled at me, spreading Colman's on his plate like a yellow slick, monopolising the salt cellar.
It was at one of these pub lunches that Tel solemnly informed me that Tony was living with them 'fer a bit, jus' gettin' 'is 'ead sorted, like. Big fing, divorss like that. Kids involved, 'is son's started piddling the bed again, iss the girl's exam year, them GSE fings" He snorted and stabbed a bit of broccoli with his fork. It wilted like the skin on a rice pud. "They need 'im in their lives, big changes an' they won't be able ter cope. Thass why we need ter sort 'im out". I noticed 'sorting 'im out' didn't run to inviting him down the pub to join us, but Tel foresaw that one. "'E's gotter sort stuff out at Braintree so 'e drives there every Sundy mornin'". He picked the beef up between knife and fork to look at the underside of the slice, just in case it was harbouring other food he hadn't yet seen.
We got a bit drunk that Sunday. It was the one before Guy Fawkes Night, and they had a few cheap fireworks at six for the locals and their kids; stuff they hadn't bothered with on the proper pub fireworks night the evening before. We stood out the back sipping boiling mulled wine, which tasted like melted boiled sweets and watching sh*t fireworks pop and fizzle over the car park.
Apart from that, no changes. The shop in Spain was sold, much to my relief. There's no news on any other, and when I asked Tel, he dismissed it out of hand. "Aint intrested" he said, curtly. I wondered if this was the result of him and his wife having a chat? I've not asked. If I get drunk enough on our Xmas Eve chinese meal and karaoke round their place, I might do. He seems to be accepting that he won't be going, even talking about taking on a second shop somewhere else, selling other stuff, possibly a retro music store. "At least you've made a start on stock with that Wham CD" I joked. He nodded and smiled. I still think of him boogying to Club Tropicana when no-one's looking.
See you at Christmas. Potentially on Boxing Day for the Christmas Eve one (If I don't go to QPR) and possibly New Year's Day if I'm not recovering from my mate's fancy dress party. I'm going as Tweety Pie. The costume fits (the trousers for the Mr Blobby one went right up my arse) and it hides a multitude of sins. The fact it's yellow is a big minus, but the last one I hired, I had to pay to have cleaned anyway so it won't stay yellow for long.
Take care
Warky |  |
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