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Gloomy weather. Essex to be put in Tier three so the pubs and restaurants shut. The Town. Sigh. It's been a difficult week. The weather hasn't helped; recent walks becoming a mini Maldon mud run, with me coming back home looking suspiciously like I've been roaming the nearby fields interfering with the livestock. "Ooh, Gerald, 'e's not 'ad a girlfriend fer a while, eiver, the dirty b*gger". The neighbourhood net curtains twitched. My washing machine shook like a sh*tting dog on the spin cycle.
At least my neighbours have entered into the general Xmas spirit. Most of the bungalows are lit like the Griswolds, with sparkling blue icicles and cheery multicoloured lights and little white lights in hedges and trees. Either they get up bloody early in these parts or they leave them on all night; either way I bet the electricity companies are rubbing their hands together with glee.
Tel has paid out our joint bet winnings, which is just as well considering my feathered friends are eating like gannets and costing me a small fortune in seed and pink briquettes of flavoured suet. I've got the fattest tits since Katie Price became Jordan. I'm amazed they can fly. Their fluttering wings sound like an emergency helicopter raid during Vietnam. I'd back them against sparrowhawks in a ruck.
So Tel paid the winnings, in fresh twenties all neatly stacked and then casually lobbed into a manila envelope which he gave me as we alighted at the restaurant, lest other diners suspected we were drug dealers. "Five fousand six 'undred'n'ateyfree quid and 67 pence total" he said proudly, businesslike. So we got two fousand'n' seven'undred each 'cos I cou'nt be bovvered wiv the spare two eighty free, an' we'll need a bit left in the account fer the King George and the boxing day footie". He smiled and became confidential. "The missus finks we're 'having a quiet Chrissmuss this year. 'Aven't told 'er yet. I'm treatin' 'er to a noo free-piece sweet. She's picked it out already in John Lewis. Leavver. Real Leavver'n'all" he added quickly as a small grin alighted on my face.
The envelope felt heavy in my hands. I transferred it to the inside pocket of my coat. "Don' get yer coat nicked or nuffink" said Tel, anxiously. I promised him I wouldn't. "D'yer want me to 'ang to it?". No I said. I've got a zip on the pocket. It'll be fine. Reassured, yet slightly twitchy, he led me into the Thai restaurant we'd chosen. I noticed with amusement that he insisted on putting my coat on its own chair, folding it neatly and then guarding it with his life when I left the table for a slash. He'd make a good security guard. Perhaps that's another future career move?
We ordered beers and they bought little bowls of hot-spiced nuts and prawn crackers with them. The waiter took our starters order, all smiling and friendly. "Probly knows yer've got the bigger part of free grand in cash in that coat" said Tel, paranoia automatically making the formal politeness seem sinister. He only relaxed when we left.
The prawn satay skewers came with fresh pineapple and a finely-sliced guava salad. "Good prawns these" said Tel, sticking the whole skewer in his mouth like a sword swallower and then pursing his lips on the end to remove the prawns in one. He looked like Dizzy Gillespie playing a rousting solo.
We had little pork pancakes, filled with a very spicy pork mix and garnished with chopped spring onions. We then had a small dish of sticky rice with spicy beef and bok choi and radishes grated on it. Tel despatched all and then despatched his bottle of Singha and ordered two more. He also ordered two more servings of the prawn skewers. He took it for granted that I'd want another couple. By the time we'd finished the starters, I was less sure I needed a main.
Tel's Pad Thai looked lovely. I had the Nasi Goreng with bang-bang cauliflower, which sounded like a Thai sex act but was actually florets of cauliflower covered in a light batter and deep fried with a fiery chilli sauce on the side. Tel started singing "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" when I ordered it. He made it sound slightly seedy. I don't think I can watch that film again, despite it being a childhood staple.
We had the foullest brandies known to man for dessert. Then we had a glass of Chivas Regal each to banish the taste. Then we had another. Then they brought the bill. Two hundred and forty quid. I reached for the pocket of my jacket but Tel made a wide-eyed prolonged head shake, like he was in the throes of epilepsy, and paid with his credit card. "Don' wannem seein' that!" he whispered violently as the waiter departed for the card reader. "Keep tha' under wraps fer gawd's sake! Never knar oo's wotchin' yer in 'ere". He looked at me like my dad used to when, as a kid, I'd messed something vital up. He did it when he heard my A level results back in 1992. And I got an A and two B's. Mind, it screwed up my place at Oxbridge.
We left and waited on the pavement for Mrs Tel. Terry was sucking on the chocolate minty thing they gave us with the receipt. "Nice choc'late" he muttered through sucks. "Tastes like a classy After Eight, this".
Mrs Tel eventually arrived and we piled in. I bent forward from the rear seat to give her a peck on the cheek, nearly herniating something as the gravitational force from the wad of notes pulled me like I was attached to a length of chain. "Nice meal?" asked Mrs Tel. Yes I said. "Ah paid, it was my turn" said Tel. "Good" said Mrs Tel, emphatically. "'E deserves a treat. Don'tchoo love?". I smiled and said a formal thank you to Tel and Mrs Tel. They both smiled back. There was a glint of a message in Tel's face as he turned to smile at me. It said "Don't you dare mention that cash to 'er". I nodded briefly at it and he relaxed again and launched into a paean of joy about his meal.
They dropped me at home. The Christmas lights had haloes round them, a sure sign I'd drunk a bit too much. I went and saw the Terries' Xmas decs the day before. I had a few beers and brandies with them and then got a lift home from Mrs Tel on her own. She needed to pop to Tesco for some more Diet Coke and a lemonade to make Snowballs. We talked on the way, the sort of derisory chat friends have when they're being polite. She asked me what I thought of their decorations and I was suitably complimentary, until she said, with a trace of asperity, "Terry diddem". Oh I said. "So you can be as 'onest as yer like" she said. I said they were very full-on, but he'd done the tree well. "Ah did the tree" she said, smiling. I felt like a small, trapped animal. So I shut up. She seemed disappointed by this. Or maybe embarrassed, like she'd said, or asked, too much. I've never been so glad to see the top of my street.
"I'm pleased yer comin' fer Chrissmuss, love" she smiled as I thanked her and exited the car. "Livens it up a bit fer me". I gave her the last four of the fags in my packet, knowing I'd got more indoors and my spare lighter. She took them gratefully. "They don' do tens no more" she said, apologetically. I noticed she was smoking one as she pulled away. Then I gave up the psychological struggle and went inside, much perplexed by the encounter.
Portsmouth on Ifollow. It needed booze, lots of booze. The single can of Estrella I'd laid next to the laptop seemed laughably inadequate. We were sh*t awful, the sort of crap that most Sunday League teams would only put on if they'd been out celebrating someone's birthday the night before. Pompey barely broke sweat. The small plugs of masked supporters in the stand booed at all the salient moments and otherwise were quieter than the cardboard representatives in the SBR.
I clicked off before full-time, tired of the strain of watching us go through the motions. To be honest, I never meant to give another chance. I'm as daft as the rest of you. I care for the careless and the feckless and the meaningless platitudes that the owner fobs us off with when he feels he has to. It's all gone so wrong yet again. Nobody learns anything here. So why bother?
And yet.....I'm an Ipswich Town supporter. I've been here before. I should be used to disappointment and futility. I've had plenty of practice. So why now? Why again? I don't know. I never know. But I do care. Stupid, isn't it?
I've thought for a while there's been a bubbling undercurrant to the Warky/Mrs Tel story but this is the most blatant. Be careful. You're heading for danger.
The Warky League 1 Report: Portsmouth (h) on 20:51 - Dec 13 by J2BLUE
I've thought for a while there's been a bubbling undercurrant to the Warky/Mrs Tel story but this is the most blatant. Be careful. You're heading for danger.
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