Snowbound. My garden looks like the last scenes in 'The Shining'. When I fed the birds this morning, I half-expected to see a dead, deep frozen Jack Nicholson, his head resting against the bird table, his features a rictus, evil grin of fulfilment. I didn't of course. All was quiet on the eastern front, save for a few cracks as the branches tumbled under the weight.
My morning walk was through a blizzard, driven by a gusty wind which blew crystals into my hair and eyebrows. Underfoot was treachery of the muddy churned kind, slippery with ice, still wet enough to create slurping fart noises as I trudged. The dog walkers slipped past ghost-like, not stopping for anything but a muffled 'Mornin' greeting, hands gloved, heads bowed, leads visible in coat pockets. Their pets bounded and sniffed, unencumbered by manners or accepted behaviours, snow flecked on backs and heads, expressions of unbridled joy that you don't see from their human counterparts, except those aged under ten. "Snow!!" they seemed to exclaim as they ran past. It was different to wet. Excitably different.
Yesterday was a good day for a change. Tel came over in the afternoon, his cold now a recent memory, his packets of paper Kleenex now used mostly to wipe his top lip free from beer foam or to mop up spills from my table. He came because he thought I could still get Ifollow for free on my laptop and he fancied watching the Blackpool game. In the end, I took pity and paid a tenner.
"Din't knar you'd stopped payin' fer yer season ticket?" he asked, a little vein of cantanker in his voice. He did know. I told him back around Christmas or possibly before it. He just doesn't absorb information. "Blimey, fings geddin' that bad at ole Ipswich then, are they?". I didn't answer, just clicked the button to pay and got the screen up. I turned the volume to 'High' and we sat listening to Graham at BBC Suffolk discussing the rugby.
"Never liked rugby" said Tel. "All that public school communal barfs and joking abart each ovvers John Thomases". He enlarged on his theme after a sip of lager. "Stickin' their 'eads up each ovvers nevvers'n'all that". He winced, distastefully, and shuddered at the homo-erotic pictures he'd evinced. "Nah. Awful game. Middle class people like it though, so.....". He trailed off and drank more beer from the bottle. His mouth separated from the top with a pop like the plug coming out of a full bath.
I heated the snacks I'd prepared the day before; mainly little filo pastries filled with grated cheddar cheese, little Yorkshire puds filled with shop-bought roast beef and horseradish sauce and the remains of the takeaway chinese starters I ordered on Friday night when I fancied a takeaway. 'Just Eat' don't deliver round my way so I drove to collect, fully masked and coated against the drizzle. I over-ordered as usual, unable to ever get to grips with the 'eyes bigger than belly' homily my parents banged on about when I was a child.
I drank Guinness. Yes. I'm drinking again. Furtively, and rather nervously, and with alcohol I'd've scorned before Christmas. I never drank Guinness before. It used to make me wince, and then it'd rumble around in my guts like a thunderstorm. It was Tel who convinced me. I'd done a month on the wagon when he suddenly came over last Tuesday with four cans of draft Guinness he'd been given by a neighbour as a reward for washing their car. "Carnt stand the bleedin' stuff" he said, handing them to me with a sour look. I drank one to be polite. It's reported to be full of iron and I'd been feeling a bit faint recently. Blood count's probably low. It tasted OK. Perhaps the makers have sweetened it a bit for the Brits?
Now I'm hooked. A convert. But I discipline myself to two cans every now and then. Both poured into one of the myriad of pint glasses I've collected since I was about fifteen and never used. I had to wash the dust out of one before I could pour the black stuff into it. Very cold, it's divine. Less gassy than beer, more flavoursome than lime'n'soda. I've missed enjoying a drink. Perhaps that was the problem; enjoying it rather than just gulping it down and moving on to the next?
So back to yesterday, anyway. Tel ate the nibbles. He particularly liked the Yorkies with roast beef. "Get the missus ter do these. They're luvly as a snack". We talked about Mrs Tel, now safely back from the In-laws. "They told 'er ter go back. They're all fine an' Sandy likes fings done 'er way in the 'ouse, so fink it was causing a bit of frickshun". He smiled at a memory and told me it. "She came in once an' told the wife not to 'oover the chairs 'cos it was causin' the velour to get all rucked up. Well, red rag to a bull, that. Talk abart earache. She won't shut up abart it. I fink she'd made 'er mind up ter come 'ome after that. Don' like bein' dictated to". He drank and then said, quietly "Even by me".
The game started, Tel making snide quips about the picture quality ("Looks like that film Cloverfield, an''ere comes the big ole monster" he said as Lambert waddled up the touchline) and wondered why we were getting a personal commentary from Brenner and Mick Mills. That's what a tenner gets you, I joked. "Blimey, so fer twenny notes do yer get Terry Baxter and Matt 'olland, like?". Yes I said, just able to keep a straight face. Then he said "'Ang on, this is the BBC Sufferk commentry innit?". Is it? I replied. Then he lightly cuffed the side of my head.
The first half was actually really good and we were enjoying the game, between debates on whether Terry Butcher was better than The Beat at the back or, a favourite, if we had a DeLorean capable of time travel, who'd we bring back to compliment the current crop. Tel favoured Paul Mariner. But he then changed his mind and said "Terry Butcher, 'cos that defence looks lightweight". Then we scored through Judge, who Tel had called "bleedin' useless" only moments before. We cheered and then smiled at each other self-consciously. "'E' still a waster" said Tel, maintaining his dignity on Alan Judge.
We won 2-0. "Shoulda been six, easy" said Tel as the players hugged at the end and Mick Mills started his ditchwater-dull summary. I switched off and we watched Sky for the other results. Tel stayed for the drab 0-0 between Fulham and West Ham. "Glad I weren't ever an 'Ammer. All my mates were. Them an' Orient. Went and wotched West 'Am in the seventies, wiv me mates, sorta fing yer did then, in yer Bay City Roller flared jeans and scarf tied rand yer wrist. Bleedin' borin' except fer the rucks an' the crowd. West 'Am ad players what looked like yer pervy old uncle in them days, Pop Robson, ole Trevvah Brookin'. One o' me uncles looked lark Trevvah. Right ole pervert 'e was. Sort that used ter watch the porn flicks in cinemas and get caught tuggin' one off by the girl who came rand wiv the ice cream tubs. 'E's dead now. Went blind". I must've looked shocked because he grinned. "Yeah, 'it by a number four'een bus 'e never saw cos of all the 'and shandies".
He left at eight, collected by Mrs Tel. The first sleet was falling and he warned me that we'd be snowed in tomorrow morning. I must have smiled because he gave me his serious face and then nodded, to show he was telling the truth. Our football bets paid £124 for a twenty outlay, which was satisfactory. "Ope we can make a couple grand this year an'all" said Tel, prothesising gloomily.
Mrs Tel waved. She wore a honey-coloured zip-up faux wool coat and blue Versace jeans, probably knock-offs she'd bought from Freeport in Braintree. She was driving in carpet slippers, grey ones with a blue lining. She didn't get out but did wind her window down. We chatted for a bit and then, conscious of it being cold and wet, they drove off. I waved from the drive and went back in. I fancied a curry takeaway, but made do with the jacket spuds and tinned tuna I'd bought and not eaten.
I resisted the temptation to wash it down with a Guinness though. I'm getting good at discipline. So is our team. Mind you, like me with the drink, it probably won't last too long, so make the most of it. |  |
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