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The Warky League 1 Report: Portsmouth (a) 16:42 - Mar 21 with 821 viewsWarkystache

Shivers from the past. Under normal circumstances, I'd have gone to Portsmouth. My ex-in-laws are all Skates, living in their semi in Southsea, mean both of spirit and provender. My ex escaped deepest Hampshire in 1991. To the best of my knowledge, she doesn't go back too often. It was like a less salubrious Felixstowe, was Southsea. Even the Amusement Arcades looked like charity shops.

In the event, I'm glad the virus prevented me from going. They'd have loved a 2-1 win over my beloved Town. I have a feeling they quite enjoyed our demise as a couple. I heard not a jot from them after our split; not that I particularly wanted to but a card or an email or text would have been nice. Nothing. I relived moments in their company to try and second guess what I'd done to offend them and found nothing as well. I even came in useful when they preferred to use my wallet to pay for 'unexpected' costs when we visited. Like shopping, or meals out.

Tel has this theory that he calls "swings'n'roundabarts' but is in essence more widely known as 'Karma'. In his own words, it is "summink 'appens ten someone 'oo deserves a bit'o' sand in their sarnie". It happened to Tony, his brother-in-law, back when they were in their respective youth. "Caught a dose off a gel 'e was seein'" snickered Tel, enjoying it. "Ended up takin' 'im darn the Queen Middlesex for stuff ter be painted on 'is john thomas. 'E was givin' it a right ole waft o'air when 'e came out. You'd'er fought 'is pants were on bleedin' fire".

This is an older anecdote, one dredged from memory as he didn't mention Tony or anything about knob rot on Friday when he came over. He was jubilant. We passed the £1500 mark on our online bets last Friday, Minella Indo winning the Cheltenham Gold Cup at 12/1 with fifty quid of our hard won on him. "Seven'undred notes we won" said Tel with oily satisfaction. It was a tip, of course. "Can't beat Reg, known 'im since the early days in the shop". The fact Reg also tipped Envoi Allen was conveniently overlooked. Tel also won on The Flooring Porter on Thursday. This wan't a Reg tip though. He rang me to say he liked the name. I had an incautious twenty on it as well. Apart from that, our joint efforts were worse. This was mainly due to Tel's innate distrust of women jockeys; something I didn't share. Rachael Blackmore more or less kept my bank balance in the 'looking good' stakes last week.

Tel arrived with a recovered Mrs Tel driving him, her outfit of Givenchy jeans, leather jacket and blue and red Stranglers T-shirt topped with her Dior sunglasses a bit exotic for muddy, dank Lawford. Her hair was bushier and the highlights dripped down it like the butter from a hot crumpet. I kissed her and asked after her health. She nodded, glasses impenetrable, and said "Ah'm fine now love, bit muzzy but the 'eadaches went larse Sundy". Tel patted her on the arse and said something conciliatory about 'not bein' late' but she didn't mind. I think part of the cure is to spend time away from his ministrations, if I'm honest. I'd hate him around if I felt less than top notch. He'd make me feel worse.

He bought a new bottle of brandy with him, which was a relief considering I'd half-inched the last one he'd brought. He didn't mention this either. I provided the lagers, which he drank with due brevity and enjoyed. I brought his new favourite, Grolsch, in bottles. He popped the tops with a guffaw and enjoyed them.

The Indian we brought back was delicious. True, the bloke in the takeaway remained an enigma, his impeccable manners strangely at odds with his cold stare and his lack of conversation. They gave us an extra, unpaid for Bombay Potato and an extra Keema Naan and a Shami kebab we hadn't even ordered. The butterfly king prawn was light and crunchy. The mains, all Vindaloo or Madras this time, made us sweat like chicken in clingfilm. We munched and dropped bits and commented with gasps at the sauces and the heat and the sheer, dirty glory of it.

We got drunk watching Top of the Pops 1986 and 1987 on catch-up via my Sky Q Silver. Tel reminisced at the songs. ""ad this on constant play when we brought the shop, on me ghetto blaster, JVC it was, right bit'o' equipment that" he said as the woh-woh-woh-woh rhythm of Bon Jovi's Living on a Prayer kicked in. He also remembered 'Hourglass' by Squeeze, and "Reet Petite" by Jackie Wilson and the Housemartins and Curiosity Killed the Cat's 'Down to Earth' ("missus loved that. Bought the single in Dovercourt"). It was like a modern history lesson of reminiscences, all eighties boom and boom, Tel dressed in YSL, the modern news vendor, making good money just by flicking the 'Open' sign and stocking debatable porn mags.

We drank brandy as 1986 became 1987 and the synths morphed into Morrissey. "Every day weren't like Sundy, the miserable sod" said Tel. "'E even made it sarnd like 'Arwich, walkin' slowly over wet sand and greased tea an' that. I 'ate the Smiffs. Navel gazin' at nuffink. Life was good in the 80's". I didn't add that life was only good because we lived in the South and that, just maybe, the north copped it worse during Thatcher's decade of South-centricism.

He went at eleven, called out by a mix of Mrs Tel's insistent beeps and the dregs of the brandy bottle. He went for 'a quick Jimmy' in my downstairs toilet and then emerged from the front door much as I'd imagine Elvis did on the stage at Las Vegas. Mrs Tel had shod her sunglasses and sat, amused expression, hair still bushy, as we hugged and he got into the passenger side. "Orlright my darlin'?" she said to me. "You've bofe obviously enjoyed yourselves". We kissed goodbye through the driver's window and Tel gave me a cheeky royal wave as they departed. The house seemed electrified by his presence. Then it diminished and I went to bed, drunk, drunker than I'd been in a while. The merry-go-round started but it eased when sleep finally came.

I didn't pay the tenner for Pompey away yesterday I had a very long walk near the coast instead, at old Harwich. I even stopped in a little corner shop on the way back to the car and brought four cold cans of draught Guinness and sat, drinking one, looking out to sea and remembering the days when I was taken on the beach as a kid and played with the behemoth of Felixstowe port behind me, the big ships churning the surf and the sound of hammering back in the eighties when the whole area was boomtown. And we didn't expect worldwide pandemics, or multi-channel telly, or internet or change. They filmed Hi-de-Hi just down the road. The chippy did buttered rolls with the cod and large. They pulled pickled eggs from a big plastic jar on the counter. My 50p a week pocket money bought a white-paper-bag wealth of cheap chewy sweeties.

And, much like the Town, it all slowly diminished until it became insignificant, a speck in the past, the roseate memories replaced by the modern-day altruism that all was sh*te because it wasn't recent. It wasn't. We still breathed air, we still got on, we still were. The Town were still better, even when Bobby Ferguson took the reins. That side would hammer today's herberts.

The pain of our present makes us long for the pleasures of the past. It's self-defeating, you know? We're not that important any more, except to each other and ourselves. Swings'n Roundabouts? No. This was surely never our fate?





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The Warky League 1 Report: Portsmouth (a) on 17:49 - Mar 21 with 731 viewsEdwardStone

Excellent, as always

Many thanks
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The Warky League 1 Report: Portsmouth (a) on 22:55 - Mar 22 with 467 viewsEireannach_gorm

Great stuff as usual Warky. Love the way you linked thoughts of your ex in-laws to knob rot! The last two paragraphs are proof that you can't divorce your football club.
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