| The Warky Super League 1 Report: Erm..fingy Athletic (a) 10:37 - Apr 20 with 473 views | Warkystache |
The most important highlight of the last two weeks, aside from losing heavily at Wimbledon and the vanity of calling your barber to book a stupid time for that long-awaited trim on the old Barnet, was that pubs were allowed to reopen. Well, I say 'pubs'. Sitting on a cracked wooden bench sipping a chalice filled with foaming, pricey amber refreshment and repeatedly checking your trainers for dogsh*t sounds less pub than a 'picnic with cans' in some litter-strewn brownfield. Still, we went. It was a novelty last week.
Tel was cautiously optimistic. Our local pub garden is about as child-friendly as Pennywise the Clown. The grass is long, and wet. The brambles snaggle and trail, minor triffids that devour fences and the odd unguarded finger. The wooden benches are splinter-inducing, carelessly varnished, uncomfortable to sit at, the Coke umbrellas as stained as a sixty-a-day smoker's teeth. The sand pit, an attempt at attracting the very young and their inebriated parents is now a khazi for all the local strays.
In this idyll, people with varying stages of cheap full arm tattooing sit mournfully, inspecting pints before committing to the sip, just in case a wasp decided to swim in it unchecked. The staff all look like Bane from Batman, especially the women. Tel slurped his pint of Estrella ("ooh, 'Strella on tap, never seen that artside Spain, like") and munched on a plastic bowl full of curly fries and chicken wings. It all felt like ennui. The weather was nice enough though. We sat in light summer coats and felt ne'er a clout, except when it started drizzling. Then we 'retired to the snug', a canvas lean-to which brought to mind early '80's childhood camping holidays in Cromer and that smell you got when you walked into the tent from the heat outside. It was roomy enough for 6 people to stand watching the rain subside while sipping pints and talking b*llocks. The fag ends accumulated on the barbecue patio, flicked by people with tufts of smoke erupting from nostrils.
Tel was in his element, which slightly disappointed me. Like a horse freed from the reins and the bridle, he snorted and rolled and cavorted, pint in hand, the beer buzz kicking in. "Shoulda done this a year ago" he kept saying, which was odd because pubs were open a year ago and you could sit in the relative comfort of the saloon bar rather than the great English outdoors. People nodded in agreement, blindly, perhaps stupefied by the heady mix of lager from a glass and food they didn't have to microwave themselves.
We switched from ale to brandy and the artifice of the seasoned piss-head became complete. The ice tinkled and rattled with each sip and the world became mellow. "Might get me Qualcast up 'ere for a mow" said Tel with a jaundiced look at the ankle high grass. "You still got that strimmer?" he said to me. I nodded, dumbly, wondering when the reality had finally kicked in after months spent romanticising this very moment; the pubs reopening and the fun we'd have.
Last Wednesday was a bit of a downer. We agreed to meet in the pub at 6.30pm after I'd finished work for the day at home. Tel had seen the AFC Wimbledon score the night before. He now backs Town to draw on his betting slip, so the result made him moan a bit more than usual. "Free-Bleeding' Nil to tha' lot" he said with scorn. The anticipated end-of-season clear out can't come quickly enough.
The pub was packed and we had to stand out the front, self-consciously, away from the passing traffic. Jamie the landlord bought out a table and two chairs from the pub and sat us near the car park entrance, below the dying potted plants and behind the gate to the car park. It looked like an afterthought and felt like it as well. We drank desultory early pints and discussed the Friday night takeaway. Tel fancied curry. He always does when he hasn't had one for a while. He thought a chicken vindaloo and extra keema naan were in order for a stomach that had become used to the wife's home cooking.
I had my hair cut last Saturday. The great tufts I left as I dismounted the chair were alarming. They brought to mind a charity head-shave we'd once had in the office. The barbers watched wall-to-wall coverage of the Duke of Edinburgh's funeral as they snipped and shaved. Gone are the days of polite conversation about holidays booked and was the wife alright? Or the new motor they'd considered putting a deposit down for. This was done in near silence, the face mask a convenient aide to the cessation of inanities. Huw Edwards' voice was the only discord, framed by shots of men in Military garb doing what looked suspiciously like goose-steps as they blew tuneful fart-like noises on trumpets and bugles and the odd tuba.
Tel admired my hair cut on Saturday evening in the pub. He stopped short of slapsies on my naked head, but his remark of "Blimey, get it glued back. I can see yer now" was met with the disdain it deserved. He went for his last week. It looked good, admittedly. "Sadie, the wife 'ad 'er in ter do 'er 'ighlights an' she 'ad a spare five minutes so she agreed to do mine". It looked sleek and glossy. I tried to ruffle it, in an attempt at jocularity, but he was too quick and his retort of "bleedin' wotch it" was too near the truth to be thought jocular.
Friday night was a curry fest. That's all I can say. We over-ordered (I paid, it was my turn so he was in charge of the ordering) and they threw in free extras so I had loads left over for Saturday morning breakfast. I like cold curry. The Naan's were a bit stale and the poppadoms had lost their crunch but it was lovely nonetheless. We drank beer and brandy and Southern Comfort with ice and Mrs Tel arrived to collect her ward at eleven and we embraced and I admired her newly-blonded tips and the cherry and teak coloured strands which wove through her hair. It was shorter and more shapely than during lockdown, almost an elfin bob. She's lost weight, I noticed, as she climbed back into the driving seat and started the engine. She looked good for it.
I didn't watch the Charlton game. To be honest, I probably won't bother now. We're a pale imitation of the team that at least tried last season and the earlier part of this. Just counting down the days to the releases/sales and the new influx, as surely it must be, despite Paul Cook's blandishments of enjoying watching that load of underachievers draw 0-0 again.
Going through the motions, we are. In all walks of life. Even the universal outrage over the ESL thing in the media is blasé. Football, in this house, died a death years ago. Even the local Spurs fans won't be watching the EFL Final on Sunday in the pub garden, despite Jamie trying to get the 70" telly out there. Bigger fish to fry. It'll be cans at home in the relative warmth and security without the face masks or the dogsh*t. Some lockdown behaviours aren't as easy to change.
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| The Warky Super League 1 Report: Erm..fingy Athletic (a) on 09:32 - May 1 with 239 views | BanksterDebtSlave |
Been catching up....just read 3 in a row to Miss Slave!
Loved this...
"People nodded in agreement, blindly, perhaps stupefied by the heady mix of lager from a glass and food they didn't have to microwave themselves." |  |
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