On the day that I opened the first window of my 'Cheeses of Britain' advent calendar (a piece of Wensleydale with some sort of candied peel in it and a picture of the farm that produced it, in miniature, the workers wearing festive tinsel round their white hats and blue gloves), and struggled with unravelling the outside Christmas lights, we went to Birmingham for a Cup second round match.
I didn't. There was cursory talk of a ticket with the spotty, Coventry-loving work experience kid at our office in Brum, who was more enthused about me coming than I was. In the end his mate Keith couldn't find a spare, so I pleaded tiredness and somehow got out of the Sunday lunch meet in the local in Broad Street at 11am. Which was just as well. I'm back there again tomorrow morning. Two unnecessary journeys up the A14/M6 the day before a necessary one felt like punishment. I don't drive for a living like Tel.
I missed the Wycombe game due to work. We should have won. By rights, we should have won today as well. We've had more draws than a branch of M&S lately.
Back to Tel. He's 'reigned in' the driving work lately. Mrs Tel isn't well. She's had a relapse in her 'wimmin's things' department and was taken to see her quack the other day, who then referred her to the hospital. They've given her medication and told her to refrain from "energetic sexual activity" until she sees her gynaecologist in twelve days. "Energe'ic sex" muttered Tel. "Chance'd be a fine fing".
As he doesn't need to work financially, he agreed a period of furlough with his contractor until New Year, just to ensure he can be on hand to drive her to appointments when needed, and do all the heavy lifting around the house. So he's been delivering to Felixstowe docks this week and that's it. It means he has time to come down the pub and for meals, like we did on Friday after he got back from the chemist getting the medications.
The Indian was half full, people messing up the starched tablecloths with strangely brown stains, like a genteel dirty protest. It was mostly couples, talking quietly between courses and making the odd amused 'wow!' face as tastebuds came into contact with spices. The sitar music jingle-jangled in the backround; Ravi Shankar next to the door to the bogs. Occasionally, some woman sang, in the tones Tel always describes, with a brief smirk at his own wit, as sounding "lark a bird bein' done wiv a dildo tied to the bisnis end of a noomatic drill".
We ordered Kingfishers on draught, a new introduction at our restaurant, which previously only had Carlsberg on draught. The pump still had the same plastic Carlsberg thing it had in the eighties. They brought them, informing us they still had 'plenty Cobra in the fridge', presumably in case the draught ran out. We sank our pints and ordered more.
Tel asked me about Christmas. He and the wife are spending it in Braintree, at a restaurant booked by Tony on Xmas Day "but we'll be 'ome for boxin' day, jers wondered if yer fancied coming over when we get back from the game?". I said yes. He's also kindly invited my parents, but they've got guests on Boxing Day afternoon for dinner, so they kindly declined.
They're out on Xmas Eve, so we arranged for me to come over on Monday 23rd evening for a chinese and to pass the pressies. That came as a bit of a shock as I thought we'd agreed not to bother this year. So i tentatively asked what they'd like. "A new gusset for the missus" said Tel, dabbing the stray crumbs from his poppadom off the tablecloth with a moistened finger.
We ate, and drank, and chatted, mostly about the perils of Christmasses past, two Scrooges comparing kipping on sofas 'cos your grandparents have commandeered your bed, uncles getting drunk during 'Carols from Kings' on Christmas Eve afternoon, the constantly occupied bathrooms and the snoring during the big film on Christmas Day afternoon. "I once set me nan's farts alight" said Tel, unconcernedly. This was the best one yet. "What happened?" I asked. "Well, me nan was seventy-six in 1969 an' gawd blesser, she couldn't digest sprouts proper. Gave 'er right old colic, they did. Well, me fambly all in the livin'room, 'arfer'em soundo, the ovver arf gettin' there, an' I get bored and start lookin' at some chemistry kit me uncle got me, right weirdo 'e woz, always 'opin' 'e'd make a stoodent out'o'me. So this kits got some book in it, an' in the book it tells yer about mefane an' 'ow it's flammable. It says yer can light it. So I goes an' gets me dad's lighter, sits under me nan's chair, and wait for her to let one go, an' I flick the lighter on near the seat. Well...." (dramatic pause as he forks a bit of chicken tikka masala into his mouth) "it scorched a bleedin' hole in the seat. Everyone who woke up later wondered what that burnin' smell was. I sed the fire spat on the carpet. Me mum 'ad to chuck the chair in the summer. Said she'd nevver seen burn marks like it. Me dad got the blame for fallin' asleep in it wiv a lit fag. He denied it until he died".
We had a nightcap in the pub. It was quiet for a Friday night, the landlord blaming Black Friday for keeping folk at home on their tablets, ordering stuff. We drank doubles and sat watching the pool leaguers lose another tie against local pub rivals. Our lot are rubbish. They talk the talk and walk the walk when they're in there with their mates, but in matchplay conditions they fold quicker than an IKEA bed. Tel gave them encouragement. "I bet Jimmy White's cacking 'imself" and "yer couldn't have missed that one more if you'd deliberately missed it". They were grateful when we left.
Yesterday was walk day, and I went for one in Oakley, down to the little beach through the fields, the skies threatening rain and the ships gliding into Felixstowe. I drove back and got showered and redressed for a night out with other friends. I drove so didn't drink. It was nice not having a Sunday hangover.
I forgot we kicked off at two, so got engrossed in the grand prix and then briefly saw the start of the second half of the scum game before I remembered and switched over to the Beeb just as Keane scored. I was hoping Norwich'd get a pasting from the Arse, but it never came, so I kept it on BBC1, shuddering at Dion Dublin's wisecracks and Jon Walters' accent. Just as I had visions of us drawing Norwich at home in Round 3, Coventry equalised. Their bloke did well, but christ, what crap defending! So we're in the hat tomorrow night, for a competition we never seem to bother with, following a replay we don't really need.
Oh well......
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