Ah, the first home game of Spring.
The dew stuck half my lawn to my bare feet as I opened the french doors at 7am, the sun blazing through the curtains and leaving warm spots on the carpet, lit like a church window. The birds gathered, ever hopeful of the odd crust or mouldy loaf or bacon rind. I've got the world's fattest wood pigeon, a portly beady eyed cavalier, dressed in fineries of blue and mauve and grey, waddling around the garden, inspecting the verges, pecking at nothing. He looks like Dumbo when in flight.
I took two Alka Seltzer in a glass of tap water with me. Hungover again. The house smelt musty and of the night before. Windows were opened to let the air in. I drank the noxious fizz and belched. They probably heard it next door. They probably heard it in Harwich.
Tel was annoyingly chirpy. "Luvly mornin' innit?" he greeted me as I carefully negotiated his threshold, past the racks of comestibles and the Coke fridge. "Not 'ungover agin?" he chortled. I nodded, too fragile to attempt speech. He had Absolute 80's on the radio in the backround. They were playing 'Material Girl' by Madonna, her interjecting those little hiccups she did. "'ated Madonna me" said Tel, sniffily, doing something unseen with a pile of Daily Mail magazines. "Me dad coun't stand 'er eiver. He fought she was pony. That Izzla Boneeta fing, load of old toot". The song finished and on came "Hold Me Now" by the Thompson Twins. "Gawd, two rubbish'uns in a row. You've jinxed it. They 'ad Sledge'ammer on before you came in". He found the Daily Mails and started putting the magazines in, haphazardly. "On me lonesome terday" he admitted. His bacon and egg bap stood still bagged near the till. He remembered it and took a bite, egg drooling from the freshly chomped bit. "Did I evver tell ya me dad played the joanna?" he asked. I shook my head. "Nah, well 'e did. Used ter play darn the British Legion and fer the old folk in the 'ome in Dagenham. trouble was..." and here he became confidential, "'e only knoo four chunes. That rinky-tinky one they used on Pot Black, Oh Danny Boy, Wund'ful Day from Seven Brides and Happy Birfday to you". I raised my eyebrows, wondering what he did when he'd played his repertoire. "The old girls used ter ask 'im fer Stranger on the Shore an' Summer Place'n stuff'n 'e 'ad ter pretend 'e never 'eard 'em. Right old job it was". I smiled, wondering where the story was leading. "Madonna reminded me" said Tel, lamely.
He and I are planning a curry next Friday, partly pleasure, partly picking our National horses. We didn't go out last night as he had to meet up with Paula and Blake in Colchester, and I was out round the girlfriend's. I asked after Paula and he made a face. "Tryin' to save up fer a deposit and the weddin'. She's back on the vapes, 'e's on the rollin' baccy I got him from Spain. She's tighter than a gnat's chuff; I paid fer the Nando's an' the drinks larse night. Still she's OK, don't change much, except 'er 'air an' 'er dresses. Blakey's a good bloke. 'E's doin' extra shifts ter keep 'em tickin' over. Can't be much fun, like". I nodded, thinking of the snake-eyed prick, glad to hear he was pulling his weight.
I got to Manningtree by 10.20. Lovely morning. I felt a genuine anticipation towards the game, a poor lower table Hull, us playing better and deserving more than the endless 1-1's, The omens smiled with the sun, glinting off the car roofs, sparkling the sea, shimmering the sky. A few stray gulls wheeled as I waited, screeching at each other like teenage girls, their plumage snowy against the blue sky.
Drinks, food, good company. It was turning into the sort of afternoon Bill Withers would sing about. People sat in the beer garden wearing shades, drinking amber pints and some in shorts. We couldn't lose.
Then the players came out and, being honest, I'd have rather seen the people in the beer garden playing. I thought we were past the careless possession-giving, the hopeful misplaced passes, the lack of any threat going forward. But clearly not. It was as though we were already relegated and on the beach, supping Vodka Red Bulls and toe-ending beach balls to the kids.
Two easily-given goals and a general apathy. I left on 84 minutes, strolling down Portman Road, my face as sanguine as it was two months ago, when I finally became convinced we'd be heading to Sarfend next season. It's the hope, the need to know we'll happily hammer League One next season in our flip-flops, the crying out for a barnstorming end of season run to give us optimism and sell season tickets. Anyone choosing Hull at home to get their irregular fix probably wished they'd wasted the day away picnicking in Frinton. There's positivity, and then there's Ipswich Town FC.
I got the early train home and stopped for a beer in my local. "How'd the Town do?" asked Jamie the Landlord. "Lost 2-0" I replied. "Blimey" he said. And that was that. No alarms and no surprises. Just "Blimey" said automatically, expectedly. It's what we do.
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