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The Warky Report: Lincoln (A) 12:32 - Sep 19 with 850 views

Sweet September. The month of misty morns and late summer days, ripening hard fruit, schools reopening, milky sun on backs and necks, the propitious chill in the air of a winter on the way. 5-2 home thrashings. Doubts sown and left to propagate, thick tendrils everywhere, on message boards and forums alike, all laden with gloom and demands for change. That feeling of depression, the curse of modern times when all seems feted to be sh*t.

I didn't bother with notes last week. Nothing really to say. Most of you went last Saturday. Most of you have eyes and ears to augment the pity and the incompetence. Most saw KVY have a horror twenty minutes. Most saw their centre-forward plunder us, like the Vikings plundered us over two thousand years before, wearing a clown's hat in celebration.

With Terry working full-time and therefore meetings at a premium, and me working full-time and missing him, it was a disheartening last weekend. The midweek defeat in the Pizza thing to West Ham's kids was just the blow upon the bruise. We finally met last Sunday for a carvery lunch, the sort where they hand you sliced meat on a platter and you join the throng queuing for overcooked veg and head-sized Yorkshire puds, all silver-surfers with their kids and grandchildren, eschewing the greener of the veg for the beige delights of cauliflower and gravy poured like a viscous moat.

We sat on our own at a table for two which scarcely let the plates sit and had Tel moving the cruet and the wooden box full of sauce sachets. People put HP sauce on their roasts. The f**king heathens.

I drank a pint of Fullers. London Pride. It goes well with roast beef and gammon. I had both. You could choose two meats. They had a sort of mutated turkey joint, the beef, the gammon or a strange veggie nut thing that reminded me of the stuff they put in coconut halves to feed the birds. Tel had extra beef. I went before him and didn't realise you could have extras. I kicked myself mentally as we decided on the veg. We took two big Yorkies each and both had the cauliflower, carrots, peas and curly kale. He was more liberal with the gravy, I with the English mustard and the horseradish.

Tel had lager, then a Coke (driving job the next day "dun wanna go mad"). We sat and ate and discussed Paula. This is the new big topic.

The next table were onto their ice cream before Tel got to the point. By the way, ice-cream with profiteroles? With popping candy on the top? And these were adults. Bloody hell.

Back to Paula. She's divorcing Blake. He has now vacated their rented home in Loughton to move in with some Polish woman in her flat in Cheshunt. Tel had a brave go at pronouncing her name. Malgorzata. He said it like he'd sneezed.

The divorce is in the early stages; the petition form has been done and she's paid the Â£550. She is going back to the rental property to "clear it out, the lot, everyfing" said Tel, overstating the point. ""E's payin' off the rent and they've given the landlord their deposit". "Yer don' wanna get involved, like, but issa'rd one ter take for me. Treated 'em bofe like family, I did. The wife's well upset. She likes Paula".

Signs were apparent that things weren't great long before. These were signs I knew nothing about. I was surprised Tel did. Then I wondered how often he'd been meeting Paula for coffee since her return. He seemed very 'up-to-date' with all of her news.

"She 'ad 'er daarts a year ago just a'rter lockdown ended. "E'd come 'ome from work late, even when she noo 'e was working local, like. Said she noticed 'im keepin' 'is phone private an' on silent. 'Is bruvver started not comin' rand ter see 'erm. Told 'er 'e din't wanna get involved. An' 'e used ter go rand a lot.

We broke for the dessert menu. Tel tossed it aside. Not a sweet tooth. I had the creme brÃ»lÃ©e with berry sauce. When it came, it had a sparkler studded in one of the strawberries, and looked like it had been casually adorned with gratings of Milky Bar. I didn't eat much of it. Even Tel didn't fancy the remnants.

We talked some more. It seems Paula is looking to transfer to a nearer store and may get offered Little Clacton. She's also looking at rental properties in Clacton. "Don't blame 'er" said Tel. "Ah couldn't live wiv 'er muvver eiver". He moved the barely-touched brÃ»lÃ©e to another vacant table so we had room for our elbows.

We remained there until four, when Mrs Tel picked us up. She looked dazzling in a white cotton shirt undone at the start of cleavage, jeans and Gucci loafers. She wore her Oakleys to drive in. She smelt of Anais Anais and Lenor fabric conditioner. I smelt like a fag-fumed roast. She still kissed me.

We're meeting again at four today for the Spurs game in the pub. They're expecting a fair few, given that Spurs and Chelsea are the primary-supported teams in our local. It's role-reversal tonight. I'm the one who can't drink, courtesy of Birmingham in the morning. It'll be mineral waters and looks from Tel, who is off tomorrow having worked Saturday.

And we won. 1-0 at Lincoln, our bogey team in recent years. I watched Soccer Saturday after the shopping and the cleaning. They were as surprised as me. I expected at least a late, cruel equaliser.

So that was me. The morning walk was sweet and warm and my trainers got wet in the long grasses. Saw a muntjac and a squirrel and two buzzards in a field. Not the same field. This wasn't Christmas Critters. Their eyes didn't glow red and force me to die, messily, on the towpath. No dog walkers. Perhaps I beat them? Or perhaps they still had eyes like 'piss-drops in the snow' at 6.30am on a Sunday? Breakfast assuaged my recent porridge bloating. Bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes, fried bread and beans. Champion.

Hope we win next Saturday. Tel's coming to it again.......