| The Warky Summer Report: Number Four (h) 08:43 - Jul 28 with 595 views | Warkystache |
If this column were a metaphor for the summer,, I'd be wandering the promenade at Clacton with rolled-up trouser legs and a knotted hanky on my head, licking a quick-melting ice cream with it dribbling down my arms. In the winter months, in the dark mornings, in the cold and rain and the gloom, I dream of summer with fondness. Yet it never seems to meet expectations once here. The heat is too hot. The dryness is too dry. The pre-season friendlies are too pre-season.
Life carries on as ever down here, albeit with adjustments for heat. Terry and I are still going for curries. He's still drinking pink wine. We're both still working; early starts and early evening finishes. The shop is now officially 'on the market' and he's had three potential non-time-waster enquiries. Two of them want it as a non-going concern. The other one, I suspect, is gauging a long-held romantic dream of running their own shop. Tel likes her the most, but she's offering the least money.
It was Paula's wedding last Saturday. Suits, ties, polished shoes, ennui. We started at 8am having breakfast in the local caff, still hungover from the night before, Mrs Tel dropping us both with a look of distaste at the premises before heading over to her local hair salon for a new coating of cherry red peroxide. Tel sat sniffing (hay fever) and watching the other natives, a mug of tea in his hand. "Get back an' 'ave anuvver shower a'rter this" he said. Plates piled with breakfast foods arrived. His was called 'The Morning Mega'. The beans swam dangerously close to the rim. It was like archaeology. He found his fried egg by digging out the bacon.
Breakfast done, we wiped mouths with insubstantial paper napkins and drained our tea. We went outside to wait for Mrs Tel. "She'll be anuvver 'our" muttered Tel as we sat at the metal tables outside. But she came along and dropped me back at home with a promise to be back at 12.30 for the drive to the church. Her hair glistened redly, like a ripe morello. "Looks a darker stain that" said Tel in the car, inadvisably. Mrs Tel hates social gatherings.
I smelt of fried stuff, so I had another shower and washed my hair. I sat in my dressing gown until 11, reading the papers and drinking coffee. By 12, the suit went on and the wrestling of the Windsor knot was over. I waited for the car hooter outside, the breakfast repeating on me.
We arrived at 1.15, the third car in the church car park, scrunching to a stop in the gravel. The other two cars eyed us suspiciously. They were full of people in smartish dress who we didn't recognise. "Blake's lot" said Tel dismissively, and wound a window down via the electric button to let in more air. No-one moved to make contact and we continued to try and pretend the other cars weren't there.
Another car screeched in, a convertible Merc, driven by two men who looked like thinner Blues Brothers. This was Blake, driven by his brother Glenn. The two men were laughing about something as they exited the vehicle, stretching and smoothing the creases in their suits. We were the furthest away so they went to the other two cars first, kissing occupants and having their hair ruffled by old grannies. The other occupants got out, as though safe in the knowledge they'd got the right venue after all.
Blake came alone to us and framed himself in Tel's open window. "'Ullo" he said lugubriously. Mrs Tel got out of the driver's seat on the other side and kissed him. Tel pumped his hand and joked with him. I felt like a spare prick.
We wandered to the church and were greeted by the vicar, a man who made Mick McCarthy seem shy and retiring. He boomed when he spoke. He was facetious. He remarked on the absence of other guests and said something about had he known, he'd've booked his garden shed and saved them a bit of money. This met with a few titters and a pained look from Tel.
Other guests arrived, flowery summer dresses teamed with inappropriately flowery hats, old women in chiffon and organza, younger ones in strapless vibrants with shoulder and back tattooes on display. Paula's mum Carol arrived, driven by her female friend Julie who asked for help to get her wheelchair out the back. I'd never met Paula's mum, so, once she was comfortably ensconced, Tel introduced me. She'd clearly once been a bit of a looker, but a combination of MS and life had hardened the looks. She sat in white long cotton trousers and a peachy coloured top. She hand rolled a fag as we chatted.
Paula's estranged dad was giving her away. He came with the bride in the hired vintage Merc. A tall bloke with a five o'clock shadow you could sand walls with. His suit was hired; it bunched around his shoulders a bit. He had a tattoo on his neck, a small one that I couldn't make out. The wedding march started and we all rose. The bride wore pink satin. She looked lovely. Even Tel's sardonic humour was checked as she made her entrance.
Blake grinned through the service. You couldn't hear his vows from where we sat. Paula and he kissed when requested, then (a new one on me) both held hands and turned to the congregation in salute, like Rocky when he makes it up those steps.
They did the register and all of that, then the organist played "2 becomes 1" by the Spice Girls as we all exited. Back in the daylight, we lobbed confetti and watched the photographers fussing around the bride and groom and immediate family. The bride and groom sat on either arm of the bride's mum's wheelchair for their one. The bride's estranged father took a call on his mobile and reached for a Players.
The wedding feast was painful. I shouldn't have been there. Everyone looked at me, wondering why I was. It felt like a place had been given up that someone who knew the bride and groom could've had. Tel, unconscious to all of this, tucked into his melon and parma ham starter and reached for the bottle of Pinot rose he'd ordered from the bar. The pub regulars were shepherded into the other side as we took over the saloon. I went for a jimmy and found Paula's dad playing the fruitie with the air of a man for whom this was a natural part of life. Dunno if he won though.
The meal ended with plasticky profiteroles in a chocolate pool. I skipped it. Tel and I had a brandy instead. Then another. They did speeches. Then at about six o'clock, other people dressed up arrived for the reception party. The pub closed its doors to non-wedding folk and the DJ, a bloke in a black shirt with a big gold chain and tight leather slacks, arrived to set up his decks and his amps and his lights, self-conscious, sunglasses on even indoors. A hiatus. The queue at the bar became longer. People paid by debit card and headed for the beer garden, sunglasses perched amidst coiffeurs, bottles of Budweiser frothing.
Paula and Blake danced to "Viva Forever" by the Spice Girls. Then we had a medly of crap from the 00's; B'witched and S Club and Beyonce. Then he started "catering for the older generation" and we had a Grease megamix, a bit of Saturday Night Fever and something from Donna Summer. Nearly everyone got up for these. Then, incongruously, he played "Whole Lotta Love" by Led Zeppelin, and got a brief nod from Paula's dad.
Blake's parents were introduced. They were still married. He inherited his snake eyes from his mum. His dad, Geoff, was five years older than me. He was a Spurs season ticket holder. We chatted about Spurs. He asked me who I supported so I told him. He smirked and then said "Yer'll 'ave a good season darn there tho'". This brought Blake's brother in. He's a Southend supporter. He thought we'd win the league outright. "You lot'll be too good fer us". He thought we'd just had a really bad season last time out. He could be right.
We left at 12, Tel and I. The taxi came early. He'd ordered it for 12.30. Mrs Tel went after the meal, citing recent illness and tiredness. It was handy because she took the car with her, having drunk J2O. I got in at 1am, Tel dropping me with a curt "See'yer termorra". Strange day.
Still, the footy season's nearly here......
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| The Warky Summer Report: Number Four (h) on 09:01 - Jul 28 with 536 views | Ftnfwest |
Very good, was mildly chuckling but then you got me with the ‘medley of crap’ bit! Hope the other writing’s progressing |  | | |
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