Et in Arcadia Ego.
Trouble is, Arcadia looks more and more like Kwik-Save every day. The useless bargains stacked high and cheap, the tawdry last knockings of a football club clearly drowning in the effluvial output spilling forth into the sea of neglect. Supermarkets entice their customers to buy bakery products by wafting the delicious smells of baking around the store. My football club must have got hold of a job lot of toilet rolls.
Tel and I discussed the plight of our beloved team yesterday. It was interspersed with Oxford-shirted curry house staff bringing forth sizzling dishes from the tandoor, or the microwave, whichever got the food hot quickest. Tel is in a quandary; he's been offered the opportunity to train to do his HGV2 licence, and hence take on more work. His current job is the employment equivalent to those goldfish in plastic bags you used to win at local fairs; as likely to go tits up suddenly and float with staring protuberant eyes as it is to swim merrily on for years.
"Its two grand for the 'ole fing" said Tel, spitting flecks of stuffed paratha. "It'll be wiv Jerry'n'that lot darn at the test centre in Ipswich". He paused to breathe, and took the opportunity to swill the unleavened bread down with his beer. "Fing is, iss an ideal oppatoonity. I get trained up, drivin' trucks'n that, they get me more work an' ah'm self employed, so ah can work whenevver ah fancy it. No more little trips drivin' rand Norfuk, lookin' out for little bung'lows an' 'avin ter talk to six-toed frobacks who moan about me bein' five minits late an' 'ave big Norridge city stickers in the back of their cars".
This launched him onto one of his pet subjects; the stinginess and general curiousness of the native Norfolker. "Went ter this place in Dere'am, straight forward delivery of fence panels and posts, bloke answers the door, place looked like Norman Bates' motel, piddling wiv rain an' the wind cut yer knackers off. Annyway, 'e sais, in that farmer accent they got, 'I've 'ad ter wait in all day for this, ah was meant ter be goin' shoppin' later, ah fought yew was gonna be 'ere at nine' all accusin' like. So me'n'Callum gets the stuff out the back an' 'e goes 'take it to the shed and stack in in there'. We gets to the shed an' iss full of junk. 'E's got stuff rustin' in there that probly aint seen daylight since 1940. So we 'ad ter move a load of it, takes us about an 'our. An' no word of fanks after from ole Norman. Nah" he continued, bitterness advancing, "'e expects us ter stack it all neat. Din't even offer us a cuppa after". He broke off and angrily swilled the last of his pint down, trying to catch the waiter's eye for another.
"An' then, this is the best bit, 'e argues abart the bill wiv me. Wants a tenner off 'cos 'e reckons we were late. Well, I nearly chinned 'im. Would'a done too if Callum aint of been there". So the job is rapidly losing its lustre, hence the clamour for something else, something less customer based, preferably where he doesn't need to speak to people at all.
He sees Paula next week. She's coming back to the area to see her mum. He didn't mention Blake. I assumed he'd be joining her. Tel had a text from her last Wednesday so texted back and somehow arranged a spot of lunch next Thursday as he's off Thursday and Friday. He worked all week last week, plus a job yesterday morning in Chatteris. He was looking forward to seeing Paula. "Wonder if she's changed much" he mused, faraway look, as the remnants of his chicken tikka were cleared along with the red-stained napkin which looked like he'd slaughtered it himself at the table prior to consuming it.
We weren't surprised at the defeat at Blackpool. We've become hardened to disappointments lately with our team. Even the last minute winner evinced nothing more than a brief exclamation of despair, half-hearted, like a minor disappointment, such as a small increase in a car parking charge or your chicken tikka being more sparrow than spatchcock. Tel summed it up by saying "I did Blackpool in the bet this week. Fought we might sneak a draw though" as though this was all the encouragement one could expect.
We debated the Ipswich malaise later, in the restaurant, between the second order of beer and the rudimentary dusting of poppadom crumbs from the starched tablecloth. Tel thinks it's fate. "Never bin a lucky club, they aint" he prophesied over the mango chutney. "Course, don' 'elp when the owner's a tightwad and knows sweet FA about football". He enlarged on the theme. "Mate'o'mine at work knows one of the ground staff an' 'e reckons Evans'll be gone this time next year. I sed 'that aint soon enuff'. But 'e's gotta DO summink first. No good jus' walkin'".
We concluded the meal down the pub, with brandies and the sort of weekly news dissection that is much missed on mainstream broadcasting. "Gretter Funbags darn in Bristol" muttered Tel. "Bleedin' school kids takin' a day off just to lissen to some yumourless little kid preachin' abart the wevver. I can get that at work, from people years older an' 'oove lived a bit. Least they 'ave funny stories relatin' to it. Eunice at work, 'er old man got blown into their soakaway last week. 'Ad ter use a 'ole bottle of Jeyes on 'is wellies".
He was forthright on the coronavirus outbreak ("wouldn't stop me 'avin' oliday. Wunt be wearing a bleedin' face mask eivver"), Prince Harry ("'e's nutty. They 'ave a 'istory of that in that family. Goes froo 'em lark a stick'o'rock") and Priti Patel ("talks sense she does. Iss rare yer can say that abart a politico").
We parted at just after midnight, me to walk home, Tel to ring the wife for a lift and have "One for the road in the pub near me". It was a long, wettish walk but the local taxi service didn't have a car for an hour and I didn't mind. It gave me a chance to reflect on the disparity of our league position and the likelihood of our continued participation in League One. It all seemed superfluous. A problem I can't solve, like many of them. Even Gretter Funbags would struggle getting us a solution. Unless she knows a good carbon-neutral idiotic multi-billionaire.
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