Oxford, bloody Oxford. The dreaming spires, the DM-booted anarchistic 18 year olds who supposedly represent the top three percent of our great land in terms of academia and intellect. I never made it. I did a bad interview for Magdalen. Then went on a brewery tour at Hook Norton and spent the train ride back pissing. It wouldn't stop, that whole 'decent beer intake/urination' thing.
The Magdalen interview was granted because I passed the entrance exam, but only just. 1992. Town were on the cusp of greatness under John Lyall and, naturally, mine and my Town supporting chums interests were based more in attending games than any academic prowess. We went home and away, from the opening day 3-3 at Brizzle Rovers to the jean-ripping climb up the tall metal fences at The Manor Ground. Great times. For those too young to have similar memories, this was our first experience of success. It brought us together, made us a fanbase of blue, in our Fisons shirts and carrying the odd inflatable banana. Folk older, who'd seen the Robson years, suddenly had a new generation to argue with. We, in turn, starved of success, too young for Sir Bob, resigned to long ball merchants and third-rate players, were ecstatic. Even the ground smelled fresh in April, like newly-mown grass and hope.
Anyway, to parental disappointment, I b*ggered up the Magdalen College interview and thenceforth my offer to study English Literature in their esteemed and hallowed sandstone citadel. My parents stopped having dreams of my befriending Sebastian Flyte, quite by chance, and summering at his ancestral home. I got ready for South-West London. Town got promoted on the day I officially became an adult and able to drink legally. That was April.
Fast Forward nearly 29 years and here we are. A club more divided than the quadrangles in Magdalen. My University alumni mostly half-remembered faces in a haze of illicit pleasures. Terry, who thinks of University students in much the same way as he regards the long-term unemployed, was impatient when I mentioned the 29 year anniversary. "So wot?" he said, scowling. "Firty four years ago, we got the shop. Now THAT woz 'ard work. None've yer bleedin' academicals or self-indulgent drug-takin' fer us. Lucky to get a beer at the end of the working week, me". He nodded curtly at me. "You try runnin' a shop open all 'ours, cleanin' it, stocking it AN' tryin' ter get yer missus up the spout at the same time".
The mind boggled once I'd pictured Tel wearing marigolds and simultaneously having Mrs Tel from behind while he sponged his magazine racks. It was like one of Bosch's paintings.
I didn't bother with Ifollow yesterday. I was there for Northampton on Tuesday and my eyes were still adjusting to the tedium. Tel couldn't make Tuesday, which was probably just as well. He couldn't make yesterday either. They were 'avin' a drive round, like, fancied a trip out, just round the coast locally sorta fing'. It was a nice day, so I had a walk. A few people were about, several in face masks, panting like Darth Vader, stentoriously as they hit inclines. Not many dog walkers. They tend to be earlier and later. Just families in Karrimoor and North Face and corduroys and those hippy hats they wear in Scandinavia. Rosy cheeks and swishing fabrics and thousand-yard stares.
Tel came over on Friday afternoon, just as I was finishing off a project for work with a written conclusion that, when read again, made very little sense. Still, a few words omitted here and there and it sounded better. He sat in my living room clutching his beer bottle, looking like the wallflower at a riotous party. "You got a load'o'birds on that table, intcher?" he said after a short watch from my french door. Yes I said. "Probly eat better'n'me" he added dispassionately. I'd provided mini cheddars and Bombay Mix and Twiglets and he'd applied himself well to all, waiting for the hour when I could collect the Indian we'd ordered, amazed at the lack of presence of 'Just Eat' in my neighbourhood.
The hour came and we both went to collect, me driving, him sitting in the passenger seat moaning at my lack of road craft and advising me to "geddin there quick before that Toyota nicks yer space". The Indian made us wait in their takeaway area, with two regular bottles of Kingfisher to while away the time and a copy of last week's Sun and a well-thumbed 'Hello' which promised us an 'Exclusive' look at Princess Beatrice's wedding plans. Tel actually read this. He was disappointed it made no mention of stocks for her dad, or the groom's plans for the wedding night. "Eyetie innee?" asked Tel. "Probly divorced by nex' year, 'im playin' around 'cos let's face it, she looks like a beaver".
The sullen waiter brought us our takeaway, all white plastic bags containing brown paper ones and tin trays and pots. Tel paid on his card and we left. They threw in an unordered Bombay Potato and two extra poppadoms. "Nice of 'em" said Tel, eating one of the extras in my car and dropping bits on the seat and footwell.
It was a better curry than usual. King prawn Madras, Chicken Vindaloo, Lamb samosas, Cauliflower bhaji, the unwanted Bombay spuds which were lovely, Mixed Starters for two, keema and peshwari naan and the poppadoms. It made my kitchen smell of grease and spice. This transferred to my toilet the next morning.
I drank Guinness. This was a bit of a mistake (see the toilet next morning above). Tel drank lager. We had two large brandies (he bought the rest of his latest bottle) each and then Mrs Tel arrived and he was off. Mrs Tel pecked me on the cheek and withdrew back into the car quick, as though the pungent curry fumes and Guinness were the very soul of Covid.
My walk was a bit flatulent yesterday but luckily no-one heard or cared, aside from my boxers, and they're used to it. It was the sort of broken wind that sounds worse than it smells, and which eases a cramping gut to the point of ecstasy. I resisted the urge to do raised-leg ones, just in case a stranger came round the bend and caught me in the act. In an unguarded moment, an elderly woman did look as one trumpeted behind her, but her look of disdain was reserved for her white-haired hubby who'd stopped to admire some daffodil shoots. Clearly he'd got form.
I came home and despaired at the 0-0 result. It seems we were better than Tuesday. That was no achievement. Lambert came out with bigger guffs than me on my walk, only everyone heard these and the looks of disdain have been apparent towards him for ages now. Does this man have any shame? Will he follow through against Hull on Tuesday? Will Marcus tire of all this sh*t? Or is it another Carry-on, with Sid James as PL and Charles Hawtrey as Stuart Taylor, Jimmy Walker played by Peter Butterworth and Kenneth Williams as Marcus Evans.
Carry on Despairing. In a major Football stadium near you right now. Shame you can't join us to see it. Oh well. Keep paying them Direct Debits, kids.
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