I wandered amongst the throng of Superdry jackets and Debenhams bags, past the market stalls selling new age tat and veg, pausing to soak up the smells of the Hot Sausage stand, the fried onions tempting the old tastebuds to a foot-long beast in a bun, except I knew the ketchup would squirt at the first bite and drench me, Ted Bundy-like, in crimson stains. So I waited until we got to Yates' for my £4.99 chicken wings instead. Yes, it was match day in Ipswich. It felt like rebirth.
The rain we'd been promised didn't really happen and the big coat just made me sweaty. The obvious downside to a game in late November is the Christmas tat. Shops glimmered with cheap tinsel and market stall holders wore Father Christmas hats and proffered goods in Mr Bumble bellows. A choir, mainly comprising middle-aged women, sang 'While Shepherds Watched' by the Cornhill. They were backed by what looked like The Sally Army (unless a few of them had just come from a funeral?). They were a welcome diversion for many who were on their way to Marks' to get Great Aunt Norah's bath salts.
Still, that was later. The week began with cold. Tel's man-flu, affirmed by the packets of Kleenex he secreted in the various pockets of his cargo pants and pulled out frequently to sneeze into and then blow a rasping, honking nostril on, was caught from his brother-in-law's kids. At least, that's who he blamed. The alcoholic fix was a non-starter as he had deliveries to far-flung corners of Norfolk and Cambs. "Ah'm in sum place called Prickwillow on Wensdy, near Ely" he sniffed, reaching absently for his paper hankies. "Then ah'm in Heacham, then Yarmuff on Fursday. Might 'ave a go on the muzzies in Yarmuff if we get time".
He was at my place to say he couldn't make Friday night. "A deliv'ry in Harlow; they wann it for five in the afternoon so I'm taking the missus an' we'll go on to Braintree to see Sandy and the kids after'n' we're 'avin' a Pizza Express". I didn't mind in the slightest. He was going to Fakenham on Saturday to deliver a hot-tub, so he wouldn't have been drinking, and, as you know, Tel without drink is a lesser beast.
I haven't seen him since that brief encounter on Tuesday. So no tales of getting lost trying to find Prickwillow, no 'Scooby-Doo' themed stories of driving through the fens half-convinced you'll see one-eyed ogres or be tied to trees after stopping to ask directions and b*ggered senseless by bands of whooping local farmers at shotgun length, like in 'Deliverance'. It might even have happened. He might, even now, be sitting uncomfortably in the driving seat of his Daf, the rest of his Kleenex stuffed up his arse. You never know.
Friday evening was spent cleaning and washing. I get paid next week, so couldn't see the point in bankruptcy by arranging a night out. Besides, we were at home for two massive games in a week, and the associated drinks and grub and fares would probably account for what was modestly left in my account. I needed clean shirts anyway.
I did manage a quick one in the local at nine. Rob, one of Tel's mates was in there, sipping decorously at his pint of Ghost Ship. He regaled me with tales of Christmas shopping in Norwich (it's the best shopping place round 'ere, better than London for some stuff). Tel told me a long time ago that Rob once bought his wife a new ironing board for Christmas. 'E's practical lark that' I remember him saying. I asked Rob what he'd found so far. "Well, the missus wants one of them Dyson 'airdryers but they're about free hundred quid. So I noticed she needed a new iron....".
Saturday saw me awake and showered by 7.30am, the dawn breaking bluey-grey pastels like an OAP jacket. No hangover. I went to Tesco for papers and wholemeal bread and spreadable butter and milk, and picked up some fatballs for my feathered chums, who would be expecting the fatty rinds from my bacon sarnie as well. They were in luck. I made two bacon sangers, both with HP and a big pot of tea. I watched the sparrows and goldfinches peck at the fatballs and then the starlings arrived for the rinds, fighting amongst themselves on the bird table. It's dog eat dog round here.
I left for the station at ten thirty. Joined the few early town shirts on the train, all chattering about team and formation, all seemingly confused about who'd be in today and who'd miss out. We pulled in to Ipswich and trooped off up the stairs. It wasn't raining. I walked into town and to The Cricketers where I was meeting my mates. We've stopped eating in there, despite the cheap'n'cheerful grub they provide to soak up the cheap'n'cheery booze. Their food has lost its appeal. Particularly the curry.
We fancied catching the West Ham game so sojourned to Yates Wine Lodge, which was packed. We found a spare table near the big screen and slewed our pints as the 'Ammers were torn apart. It was joyful. I don't like West Ham.
At 2.40, we arose, the detritus of chicken wings strewn with napkins around the table, the empty pint glasses stacked by the kindly waitress, ready for the washer and then the evening shift when the football kicked out and folk fancied Man City v Chelsea. Gentle belches, a quick readjustment of jeans around the wedding tackle area and we were off, braving the afternoon shoppers and the strains of Shakey singing 'Merry Christmas Everyone' from the major retailers. Folks walked, rosy-cheeked like a Danish milkmaid, their carriers rustling as they trailed in their wake, looking for the bargains and the offers.
Portman Road was busy. Busier than I'd seen it for a while. Then I remembered. I hadn't seen it for a while. The same old faces, the same old burger sellers and EADT stands with their giant plastic bags (perhaps Attenborough should do a documentary?). The same people standing by the railings in Sir Alf, having one last fag before their enforced 120 minutes of nicotine-less rigour. The same turnstile operators swiping my season ticket, the same stewards, the same 'last-minuters' supping overpriced pints at the foot of the stairs.
The game was a strange, hybrid mix of misplaced passing and expectation. We scored a tap in, then let them have a go and they scored an easy one, our defence trying to get back to prevent it, the look of panic on Chambers' face as he knew he'd failed to keep tabs on their scorer. Half-time, and the school kids took penalties and some were good but the proportion made Gus Uhlenbeek look proficient. No Rob Chandler, I noticed. The bloke who was doing the PA sounded like he'd been recruited from British Rail announcements.
We drew 2-2. Should've won. We both had penalties of our own. Their's never was. Well, might not have been. I didn't really see it. Ours was nailed on. Their defender caught it like a netball game. One cleared off the line that looked in. One Judge flick that nearly went in. And then the whistle went and we filed out, back into the night, frustrated it was just a point.
The train was packed like sardine cans. I alighted at Manningtree and walked home via the local to watch Man City. Then home at half-time to do my home-made Lamb Vindaloo with spices and curry leaves and vinegar and ghee that had been marinating in my fridge since nine that morning. It beat a takeaway. Served with poppadoms and a Peshwari Naan and yoghurt. And two bottles of Cobra.
And that was that. See you Tuesday!
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