If Carlsberg did great footie weeks.....well, we'd all be drinking Skol out of the can, warm, muttering about how it only happens at other clubs and not ours.
A great week on and off the pitch, memorable for two early morning walks when I saw my first badger in the wild and then my first coypu. The former was a shock. It scurried, low to the ground, like a long-haired terrier, only with something cat-like about it. In fact I was convinced it was a cat. Deep in the woods of Lawford, I saw a cat. It didn't feel like a story I could tell, breathlessly, in the pub to awed Terry-like audiences.
The only reason I know it was a badger was when it stopped and turned to look where I was, lest I be armed with snarling lurchers and a spade. I forgive Alfred Bestall a lot; he was a childhood hero from my old Rupert annuals. But Bill Badger wore a suit, and this looked like a grey Dougal from the Magic Roundabout, only someone (Zebedee perhaps?) had been let loose with tins of black and white paint which they'd adorned his head in, liberally, like Mel Gibson playing William Wallace. It definitely wasn't a cat by then.
The coypu was, I thought, one of those pesky toy dogs that tarty women tend to carry in handbags, possibly let loose amongst the riverbank to sniff and slink away from the presence of other people with those odd protuberant eyes. But careful inspection revealed a small beaver with teeth the colour of Johnny Rotten's hair in the mid-to-late seventies. It reminded me that I needed a good brush and floss.
So, cheered by the glimpses of exotic wildlife in the otherwise slightly chilly early morn gloom, I returned home by foot, my Tesco shopping bag filled with Burford Brown eggs and Olde English sausages. I've attempted McMuffins this week. Put off by a bad experience with McDonalds, and anxious to see if I could do better, I skinned four sausages and patted the meat into vague circles before frying it. I then poached two eggs in a flat round poacher dish and toasted two English muffins and buttered the cut side and carefully, as though baptising a new born child, eased the fried discs of sausage meat and the eggs between the sides of muffin.
They were jolly nice. Jolly nice. Not as greasy as McD's, which tend to make the brown paper bag look like you're transporting unpackaged lard. Easier than a bacon butty, with all the ensuring the rind gets crispy before the bacon turns black. I wished I had some of those cheap lurid orange cheese slices to add, but it was probably better without. No tommy k either! I can't usually eat a bacon sarnie without a bit of HP or tommy k. These didn't need it.
The takeover news was exciting. Now I just want it done. Even if the yanks are worse owners than Evans, it'll at least be a novelty for a few months. A new manager as well would be good; someone who can get promotion and play a good bit of football would be perfect.
Tel said much the same on Friday. I might have known he wouldn't be impressed with the badger and coypu. Guess what I saw on my morning walk? I mistakenly said. We went through the gamut of serious answers; from an alien, to a leprechaun and finishing with a jogging Christine Bleakley, her bouncing breasts thinly covered by diaphanous material. No said I, still smug. When I told him, he said 'Oh right" disinterestedly. Then he said "Could've been a pair'o'cats?".
Tel has also had some good news this week. His solicitor from the sale of the shop rang him to say they'd miscalculated the funds and were sending him a cheque for just over five thousand quid. Plus he's had his first vaccine. "Surgery rang me on Choosdy. Went yesterdy, Colchester General, me'n'the wife although they aren't doin 'er yet. Me asthma. Underlyin' elf condishun like". He smiled and showed me the non-mark on his left arm near the shoulder. "Lumpy innit?" he said. Yes I nodded. About as lumpy as an ironing board.
So Tel was the first of us to get his jab, a fact he rubbed in until, bored, I pointed out he was older than me and in a vulnerable group. His face dropped a bit, but he got the point. I did notice he made a pantomime of carrying the takeaway curry bag when we left the Indian. "Jus' 'ad the corona jab" he grimaced to the unsmiling waiter. He might as well have told the fake potted plant in the waiting room.
He's thinking of investing the five grand so we had a debate on the best investments. I asked him facetiously if he was one of the backers for the Town takeover, but he didn't get the joke, so obviously he's not been keeping up to date with his Ipswich news. When I explained it, he was surprised, then pleased, then angry that Marcus Evans had let things slide for so long. "Bleedin' rubbish he's been" said Tel, bitterly, snapping at his samosa with pent-up aggression and making peas and bits of potato fall on my kitchen floor.
We talked investments until ten when Mrs Tel appeared in the car to collect him. She looked a bit careworn; her hair was bushier than usual and she wore a blue Blondie t-shirt under a black puffa Gilet and stonewash blue jeans. She got out of the car to greet me with a hug and peck on the cheek. "Orlrite luv?" she husked as we held each other. "Nearly back ter normal" she added as we released each other. "Nearly? There's still a good munf and a bit to go before we can all start jarring it darn the local" said Tel, the bitter edge from the Evans talk still apparent in his voice. Mrs Tel raised her eyebrows at me, as if to say "Look wot I've got ter take 'one wiv me, this bleedin' wet blanket". But she didn't say anything, just smiled a goodbye at me and got back in the driver's seat.
Tel came round yesterday at 2.30pm to watch the Doncaster game on I follow, so I paid another tenner and regretted drunkenly inviting him on Friday. It was a fairly good game, and Tel was impressed by Judge's free kick, even if he did think "the keeper should've 'ad that. I'd've saved that an' I'm a nightmare in goal". "Yer needs a decent wedge wiv that lot" he said as we clung on in the last ten minutes. "Five quality players, a better 'keeper, a better right back, a play-maker in midfield 'oo can run quick, a lightening striker an' sell Dozzell an' replace 'im wiv someone 'oo can win a ball in midfield, bit like Matt 'Olland used ter". He sat back, cheered by the final whistle as he'd backed a Town win on Ladbrokes and a quick check showed we'd won another £270.
He left at five, driving himself so he drank lager shandy during the game. The roads were dead and the afternoon a warm delight, perfect for another walk. The nights are drawing out, slowly, and the ground is drying, so the perfume of daffodils and snowdrops scented the pre-Spring air. No badgers or coypus, but I did see a heron. I sweated a bit on the walk home and then enjoyed a cool pint of Guinness as I cooked salmon to go with my salad.
The world feels like an awakening at last. So does the football club. Awakening from a dystopian nightmare of neglect and disinterest. Two wins against top six sides in a week and a new owner with, hopefully, fairly deep pockets and impatience. Game on.
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