| The Warky Report: Sheffield Wednesday (h) 20:42 - Feb 3 with 966 views | Warkystache |
I was woken by the Saturday morning radio playing "The Time is Now" by Moloko. I'm getting old. Not only did I not remember the song or who it was by, I didn't recall switching the radio on before I slept. Perhaps Town-supporting mice, bored of raiding my fridge for leftover lasagne, had recognised the half-truth for their footy team and switched it on at 6.30am so it could permeate that dream I was having about looking for a toilet in Kersey, accompanied by a sulking ex, mountain ranges visible in the distance?
Wearily I rose and turned it off, feet freezing on the bare wooden floor. I went for a piss and stood for a full five minutes as it trickled like a gentle stream, doing sumptuous raised-leg farts which warmed the gusset of my boxers. A coughing fit, a stumble in the dark downstairs, a stubbed toe, an angered shout of 'C*NT, a quick search for the keys to the french doors, out onto the patio in bare feet, the bitter wet of the lawn a shock. I creaked the metal chair back and sat, the damp soaking through my dressing gown. The birds were starting, the night lightening.
Coffee was soured by the lack of milk. The drop I had left smelled like when I scratch my arse in bed. It slithered down the plughole in the sink like a noisome creamy slug. Black coffee. Sipped with the same look of abject distaste I usually reserve for indigestion tinctures or Lemsip. I'd have to go to Tel's soon for a paper and some more milk. I ignored the shower and pulled on a pair of jogging pants and a jumper.
The shop was lit when I parked, but the lack of custom was reassuring. Tel stood behind the counter, his bifocals perched on his nose like pince-nez, reading something in the Mail. He effected surprise as I walked in, past the "nee-nah" sound that greets all punters to his establishment. I didn't even bother a quick sneak at the porn mags on his top shelf. Mainly 'cos I can't reach 'em.
"Blimey, wet the bed or summink?" he asked. He wouldn't have said 'sh*t' anyway, but it's the best known phrase. I grunted and went to the fridge for milk. He only had skimmed. "Where's your milk?" I asked. "Oh gawd, don't ask" he said, then "deliveries cummin' at 8, when Mickey's bin ter Asda for it. Won't be Asda milk though" added quickly, as if I was checking and might report him for selling unlicensed produce. "Nah, told 'er ter get that Craven stuff". Images of John Craven, in his brown and orange tank-top, squatting over a big white plastic bottle and grunting, filled my head.
He was actually reading the football bit in the EADT. "Big game terday" he said, half-mockingly. The Eighties radio station he keeps on in the back room, as though commandeered by the same mice in my house, began playing "The Only Way is Up" by Yazz. I wondered if I was still dreaming. Bad news if so. I'd surely pissed the bed for one thing.
Tel wittered on about formations and Lambert and new signings "'ardly stellar them" and then we got on to the holiday in Spain, through torturous references to "remember Pablo? Loved 'im I did. 'E'd be better than any of this rubbish they call a team these days. Oh by the way, free weeks til we're in Marbella, got loads ter do before it". Yazz faded and was replaced by "I'm going slightly mad" by Freddie Mercury. I paid for my Times and wished I still smoked.
Home via Asda, where I bought a two pinter and picked up some danish pastries and croissants, the put them back and picked up some bacon and a fresh loaf and some eggs instead. My (doubtless already sky-high) cholesterol levels groaned in my veins. But my hangover rejoiced. Two bottles of red wine and three large whiskies last night with friends. Then we found the tequila and the Cointreau and the rest of the vodka and someone nipped out for a bottle of Bacardi and we made potent Long Island Ice Teas. I nearly razzed in the taxi home.
The week was short and easy. Tel was absent on Monday, back grumbling on Tuesday ("startin' to 'ate this life again, I am" he snarled as I enquired if the pained look on his face was caused by sickness) and then full of the joys on Wednesday when he had a tax rebate of £560. "Blimmin' miricle tha'" he enthused, and proceeded to fill out the footy bet, "feelin' lucky terday". Thursday saw him back on form, ticking off Mickey in mock severity for failing to add twenty-eight and forty-nine successfully and then compounding her error by smoking out the back door and leaving it open. "Blinkin' ell, not only carn't yer do kids sums, yer determinned ter kill me wiv passif bleedin' smoke an'all".
By Friday he was back down sufficiently to be morose. "Carn't make drinkees ternight" he informed me with a hang-dog expression. "Me an' the wife's off ter see The Faverit at the pictures in Ipswich". He asked me what it was about, and I made up some rubbish about horse-racing to wind him up, knowing that he's never successfully sat through a period drama in his life. He only watched Pride and Prejudice because a regular told him it was the same actress as in The Camomile Lawn and she 'took 'er kit orf innit, lovely knockers she 'ad, bit like Jane Tompkins darn our road in Barkin' in the seven'ies'. Apologies Jane, if you're reading. Still, Tel never ''ad' you, so be grateful for small mercies.
So our drinks were off, and I made other arrangements and it cost a small fortune but was eminently successful. And Tel fixed me with a solemn eye and said "The Faverit weren't about 'orse racin'" but that he'd quite enjoyed it nonetheless. "Lesbos" he muttered under his breath as I cocked an eyebrow. Surely he wasn't changing to Greece this late in the day? "Nah, Lezzers, yer kna', Royal Fambly doin' the old tuppence lickin' stuff". The mind boggled. But he'd enjoyed it, sort of.
After the shock of the Saturday morning paper'n'milk run, the day improved. My bacon'n'egg'n'brown sauce sarnie stank the kitchen out and made me feel (and smell) grubby but was lovely. At eleven, and showered, dressed and smelling sweet, I made my way to Manningtree station for the train, half hopeful of a win to start the Great Escape, thirsty for ale and inconsequential chatter about normal stuff. The pub was rammed, and we found a table at the back. The ale flowed, then did the gin and the obligatory Disaronno, served in a dirty little glass and drunk quickly in case anyone else noticed.
I weaved to the ground, unfed (the bacon sarnie was repeating on me and the burgers were tainted as a result), then fed as I sneaked a burger at 2.55pm from the one in the little car park behind Sir Alf. I even managed to smuggle it in the ground, past the old boy on the turnstile, who checked my ST card with the perfunctory attention he normally gives to blowing his nose.
The Wednesday fans were full and in good voice in the pub earlier. In the ground, they were largely silent until they scored in the last minute. The game was very open up to then, and we more than matched them, although without troubling Westwood in their goal. Knowing we had bigger fish next Sunday, we stood anticipating a goal from the breaks we kept fashioning, but Quaner was hopeless as a lone striker and it was, frankly, a relief to see him pulled for Keane, who instantly made us look more menacing.
An honourable mention for Luke's girlfriend and her mates, who I was coerced to greet at half-time, declining their kind offers of Mini-Eggs and listening to embarrassed chat from Luke, acutely wary of my presence in his courtship, happily managing to refrain from lengthy tonsil-sucking snogs or indecent 'touches' as I stood by him, drunkenly nattering b*llocks. Nice to see you all. Hope you're all as enthused for League One come August.
I left when they scored, gutted, worried about Sunday and more humiliation on Sky in front of hordes of inbred piss-taking, sister-worrying heathens in yellow. Orks dressed in casual clobber and vomit shirts. Shots of Delia in her director's box, yellow and green scarf flapping, a smug smile on her lips as the sixth goes in, her mum a fossil dug from someone's cess-pit, not knowing where she is or what that noise is. That smug, complacent grin should be on our dressing room walls this week. That sound as hundreds of yokels invade their pitch and taunt us, the long-suffering, should fill the training pitches and the coach up. I want fight. I want respect. I want blood.
Plus I'm watching it in the pub with Tel. And if anyone's gonna take the piss, well........ |  |
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| The Warky Report: Sheffield Wednesday (h) on 20:57 - Feb 3 with 906 views | Ftnfwest |
Looking forward to tel’s take on the ‘sooperbowl’ if he’s noticed it’s on |  | | |
| The Warky Report: Sheffield Wednesday (h) on 20:59 - Feb 3 with 898 views | Warkystache |
| The Warky Report: Sheffield Wednesday (h) on 20:57 - Feb 3 by Ftnfwest |
Looking forward to tel’s take on the ‘sooperbowl’ if he’s noticed it’s on |
The what?
No, he'll be in bed by then. Plus, like a lot of us, he despises all Yank sport, except boxing. And when we beat them in the Ryder Cup | |
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| The Warky Report: Sheffield Wednesday (h) on 07:51 - Feb 4 with 711 views | Benters2 |
Great stuff Warks. |  | | |
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