| The Warky Report: Burton (A) 13:33 - Aug 15 with 495 views | Warkystache |
Terry's North Norfolk report sounded as dull as a cockney Michael Portillo catching trains in deepest Bolivia and successfully avoiding any locals. It's true that I have a soft spot for North Norfolk; it feels like time-travel back to the 1950's with its quaint seaside resorts and villages filled with bucolics who keep rusting farm machinery in their gardens and themselves to themselves. It's about as far from HE Bates as Trainspotting is from Walter Scott. No Pop Larkin's here, just folk with funny accents who distrust anything modern and strangers even more.
So Tel's yarns about getting stuck by oncoming vehicles on narrow lanes near Morston or drinking in stone-fronted pubs which still had "'am rolls on the counter an' yer don' see that much these days do'ya?" felt more like something from Talking Pictures TV than a fly-on-the-wall documentary. I half expected him to describe Alistair Sim and Richard Wattis downing a pint of mild and a short at the bar before donning their trilbies and driving off in the Triumph.
Still, he seemed better for the experience; he'd caught whatever sun had been about last week and was a bit more relaxed than of late. He'd actually enjoyed the company of Sandy and Tone, his in-laws. Sandy and Mrs Tel did the driving, he and Tone did the drinking. They ate cockles with white pepper at Sheringham and treated the wives to a slap-up dinner at Morston Hall, and did the amusement arcades and ate the crabs and had strolls along the rolling sea walls and spent a small fortune at Burnham Market on merino pashminas for the women.
He had little sympathy for the Town's 2-2 with Morecambe last Saturday. It cost him "fifty-bleedin' notes" on his bet slip. "Two-all against tha' lot, bleeding Morecambe, ain't even a proppah seaside town that". He sipped his pint and ruminated upon the defeats against Newport in the cup on Tuesday and Burton today (we met last night for a pint. Tel couldn't make Friday night. He was watching the Arsenal game with Tony in Braintree with a takeaway chinese). "Burton. I can't even have a pint of that Carlin' now, not that I would, tastes like piddle". Then he described the locals in Norfolk again. "Went ter Holt, bleedin' posh for that lot, all expensive clothes shops and little bakers an' caffs'n'that. Went inter this food place, Bakers'n'Larners, decent wine but you paid forrit. Bought a bottle'o'bubbly fer 'undred notes, Bollinger 1996 vintage. Din't taste vintage if you ask me. Just tasted like shampoo wiv a bit less bubbles. Tone and Sandy liked it...." (here he sniffed as though Tone and Sandy were the epitome of the big spender) ..."but 'cher know wot they're like. Anyfing pricey".
He finished his pint and I bought another round. Up at the bar, the old boy who sits there constantly caught my eye and engaged me in conversation upon the redeeming features of IPA over Best. "Oipeeayes a parnd cheaper in 'ere. I c'n drink six pints o'that an' it only costs me fourteen quid". He drank with the pace of death, small sips to make a pint last an hour. I smiled and nodded at his thriftiness. He then asked me if I "like fishin'?" and I thought of the Fast Show and nearly asked him if he'd had five pounds of tench. But he just directed me to some unknown competition off Shotley next weekend. ""Oping I'll get a few cod'n that" he smiled toothlessly. I wished him luck. He retreated back to quiet reflection over his pint. And sly looks at the barmaid's bosoms whenever she bent to get a glass.
I went back to our table. Then, to my unease, the old boy from the bar got up and came over to join us, holding his pint in front of him like a nun with a charity tin, slopping ale on the floor. Tel said ""Allo Frank" without enthusiasm. "Forgot ter tell yer" said the old boy. "That fishin' competition's by boat as well as on the beach. Needs to get there early. I'm gitting down there fer six in the mornin', git a good pitch like. Don't knar anyone win a boat do yer? Could get more wiv a boat, yer could'n'll". Tel looked at me as if I'd introduced some nutter into his midst. "Ah don' do fishin' Frank an' I don't 'ave a boat mate" he said kindly, as if this ended the conversation. Frank said "Niver mind". And to me "Ah'll keep me eye out fer yer. Be nice to 'ave someone I c'n talk to down there". And he moved back to his perch at the bar with a nod and a wink. "D'you do fishin' then?" asked Tel mildly when he'd gone. I shook my head. "Then why the bleedin' 'ell...?" and he shook his own head and looked at me like I was batchy.
The morning walk on Saturday around the Stour was muddy but cool. It didn't feel like August. That month of heat and light and scorched turf in gardens and barbecues and sweating was replaced by breezy gusts and cloud and the occasional threat of rain. I bought bacon and bread and milk and the papers and came home just as the first patters of a shower were starting. Bacon sarnies and big pots of tea in my dark kitchen were just the job, but this isn't normal for the month. I usually feel like this around October time when the leaves are turning brown and the air starts getting chilly. And Ipswich start losing. It's started early this year. My internal clock is out of kilter.
Tel's off to Southwold on Monday with the Tony's and Mrs Tel. He was looking forward to it. More familiar territory than Norfolk. I'm meeting him for a pint and to watch the Newcastle game in a tic, so I'll end the report here. 2-1 defeats at Burton Albion are a bit of an anti-climax but hopefully we'll get better as the season develops. It's all a matter of time, patience and hope. That 'easy' start is beginning to look like a poisoned chalice though. A win on Tuesday would be nice. So would a win on Saturday. We've got to reach the bank holiday in a better mood. If only to get the hope back. |  |
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