| The Warky Report: Cambridge United (H) I guess that's why they call it the blues 12:56 - Apr 3 with 1066 views | Warkystache |
I mean, what wasn't there to like? A nice, bright day. Foaming pints, good(ish) company, a home game where we needed a win to keep up the pressure for that final play-off berth. Home life improving. Tel's football bets all seemingly coming off for another Saturday. Yet the feeling in the Chinese after was all Scooby-Doo villain. If it wasn't for those pesky kids....
Yep, welcome back. A week off spent relaxing, walking in the blizzards of polystyrene and slush, nose redder then Rudolph. The promising spring warmth gave way to chill, winds, overcast skies, the novel image of snow pinging off the roof and landing somehow in the bird baths where it accumulated like small marshmallows in a mug of hot choccy. I had P with me on Thursday and Friday and We Did Something. Went for lunch and shopping in London, I mean. Not THAT something. Oh no. She's no more pregnant than I am. Although people do wonder if I am, sometimes.
Hampstead was nice in the sun. A bit chilly though. I took her for lunch in my favourite pub, The Spaniards. We had steak and chips, artfully plated with roast tomatoes on the vine and green stuff gently wilted and a béarnaise sauce so rich it could've bought Chelsea. Then, £150 lighter in the wallet and infinitely lighter in the head from two pints of Guinness and a shared bottle of £40 red, we strolled down to Hampstead tube and went to Covent Garden, where she bought things. Clothes mainly. Some Neals Yard smellies (not cheese, no, this was some botanic hair stuff and skin stuff). Then home on the 8.01pm. All smiles and repeated homilies about the last time she went to London (for an interview and training event) and how she'd never been to Hampstead before, but liked it.
My reward came that evening. It was a good reward as well. I should stop calling sex a reward. Sex with additional blow-job though? Is that a reward? Considering Tesco have a rewards card which gets you about two quid off your shopping, I thought it did. Their offer doesn't include oral sex. I'd end up queuing for the old girl with a face like Rosa Klebb chewing a nettle, knowing my luck. And she'd only swipe it.
No Friday night curry then. We were meeting, Tel and I for the football the next day so it didn't seem appropriate. So we had a day in London which probably cost me a lot more than a Chicken Dopiaza and rice, but was infinitely better. We look like a couple. We even walked snuggled, like those endless pap shots of C list slebs you get in the Mail, so-and-so with his/her other half on the streets of Hampstead. She claims she saw Jude Law in a pub we nipped in so she could ostensibly have a wee and me a glass of something warming and strongly alcoholic. She came back all excited. I had a look. F**k me. If it was the darling of Swiss Cottage, he's an ugly b*stard in real life. Which made me think it wasn't him. Just some weasel-faced early-fifties bloke in a crumpled suit sipping a quiet G&T. And wondering why that bird who went for a piss was eyeing him all agog. We left before he could venture over to whisper "How Much?" in Paula's ear.
Saturday. Yesterday. Well she was back at work so I was unjustly woken from exotic dreams about foursomes with Jude Law and Sienna Miller at 6.30am to find the other side of the bed gaping and the sound of shower water. I thought about joining her, but she was out before the thought fomented and, towel-wrapped, began choosing the tights and the blouse she'd wear for work. It was stock taking day so it meant organising a rabble of students and old fogies doing a part-time job into action. She dressed in front of me, un-self-consciously. I still struggle with that in front of her. No-one wants to see me stepping into my undies and tucking the old chap and his two purple hairy mates into the front.
I love the way women adopt tights. These were rolled into a ball, then feet in and slowly unravelled up legs like a condom. Her bum clenched as she bent over to pull them straight round her ankles. I got a bit of a tumescence but fought it back savagely by thinking of the old girl in Tesco, taking her false teeth out and puckering up. I've tried that type of thing before (not the old girl) and, whilst nice, she always jokily moans that it delays her.
She kissed me, open mouthed, tongues, goodbye and then breathlessly left, lightly stepping down the stairs. She was seeing her mum after work ended so I'd see her again much later. I watched out of the front window in my dressing gown as she reversed and drove off, waving and blowing kisses at each other. And I've got problems in the relationship? You're probably thinking that. No I haven't any more. It's stabilised.
Tel met me at eleven, driven by Mrs Tel who dropped us at Manningtree rail and then sped off, Tel wincing as she narrowly rushed two cars parking. "Bleedin' accident jus' waitin' ter 'appen, she is sometimes" he muttered. We went for a pint at the Station Cafe. We both went for a Guinness. We sat next to a small knot of established Town fans supping pints and eating bacon baps. Everyone remarked on how we owed Cambridge one for the 2-2 at their place. Some thought it'd be a walkover for us. I'd heard that before.
The train came. We jumped on. Tel exclaimed how nice the Stour looked and how bad the remnants of the ICI factory behind it were. We discussed Trongs, our chinese restaurant post-match which he'd booked for 7pm. We arrived in Ipswich, through the tunnel that Tel always calls the time-tunnel, since he thinks it transports us back thirty years when the train finally comes to a halt at the platform. He's not very complimentary about Ipswich. On the walk into the town, he kept pointing out litter and building work as though these issues were unheard of in North Essex. "Town looks scruffy" he said. I pointed out it looked better than Colchester, which really has fallen on hard times if the litter and general lack of care were anything to go by. He smiled. He knows I don't like Colchester.
We sat in the bar supping pints of amber foam and munching dry-roast peanuts. The town was semi-busy, mostly with people in blue home shirts and hoodies. The pub was warm and the beer acceptable. We had a light lunch; chicken wings with barbecue sauce and fries. Tel asked for coleslaw and they brought out a small pot of what looked like yoghurt. They'd overdone the mayonnaise. Still, the carrots and cabbage and onion were nice when you found them.
We left at 2.40pm, walking with the stragglers as they attempted to put one foot in front of the other, dazed and slurry from the beer and the other alcoholic "treats" Tel chided me to try, which never happens normally on a pub night. These included Drambuie, Grey Goose Vodka and Lime cordial and Grand Marnier. He quantified this behaviour by explaining he didn't trust the brandy in these places.
We separated at the car park, him to walk to the Sir Alf, me to have a fag outside the SBR. He raised a clenched fist in farewell and said "'F'we're losing heavy like at 'arf time, see yer back in the boozer at four". He smiled at his own wit. Even he didn't think we'd lose to Cambridge United at home....
In the end, I met him in the pub at five-thirty. I was surprised I didn't see him walking up into Town on the way and wondered how long he'd been in there, comfortably ensconced with a pint of San Miguel in an angular glass and another bag of dry-roasted from which he nipped the odd handful. "Rubbish wernit?" he said, dismissively. "Bleedin' Carroll couldn't find his own arse with bofe 'ands". He sniffed and then reached for a hanky. I ordered a pint and left him, fishing in his pockets and then bringing out a bit of rolled up kitchen roll for the purpose.
He warmed to his theme. "Burns was right off it. So was that Donut bloke at right back. Morsy was decent, but that Chaplin, bleeding' ell, Charlie could've played better". He checked his phone and then let out a gruff cry of joy which made the people round us look at him. "Geddin!! Liverpool won, so did Derby an' Swansea an' Fulham an' Mansfield. Five outta five, 'ave a look". He passed the phone. I had a look. £1229.63 we'd won. He withdraws our winnings into a bank account he created for the purpose last year ("Need the int'rest on our winnin's don' we?") and, at my bequest, he checked the account. "Wiv terday's thass twelve fousand six 'undered odd" he said, smiling. "Nice Xmas that'll be this year". Mine's going on the wedding.
We had the chinese. Very very good. Trongs is one of the best in the area. Nice Peking roast duck (we had a whole one as he loves this the most), good starters platter, great fried pork belly with greens and rice. We left, burping lightly and picking bits of rice out of our teeth with a fingernail, inebriated, and got in the taxi home. It dropped me at ten. He carried on to his place in Dovercourt. I needed a slash. I got the keys in the lock first time. The house was in darkness. Paula was due in at eleven. She'd taken her mum and sister for dinner at The Pier in Harwich.
I had a decent brandy and watched MOTD, slumped in my chair, my belly gurgling from the chinese and the assault of alcohol. I must have dozed off, because then I heard the door key again and in came P, looking glamorous in her new Coven Garden jeans and her leather jacket. She came over for a kiss and I asked her how work went and about her mum. She fixed herself a Bacardi and Coke and sat on the sofa next to me, easing off her heels and then her jeans to perch her bum on me as we spoke. Suddenly, Brighton v Norwich got switched off and I felt myself sink into a kissing sesh. Well, you can guess how that ended.....
Only two more home games, one of which I can't make as I'm bloody working that Saturday. I know. Didn't check when I agreed and all that. Still, with the season done and nothing much to occupy me over the summer (apart from South Africa and that looks like it'll be September if at all), I'm settling into a whole new world. It feels great as well. No play-off dramas, no nerves about winning at Wemberlee, just sunlight, warmth and fun to come. Bring it on.
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| The Warky Report: Cambridge United (H) I guess that's why they call it the blues on 13:34 - Apr 3 with 957 views | StochesStotasBlewe |
Marvellous  |  |
| We have no village green, or a shop.
It's very, very quiet.
I can walk to the pub. |
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| The Warky Report: Cambridge United (H) I guess that's why they call it the blues on 16:49 - Apr 3 with 835 views | peterleeblue |
Happy Days. |  | | |
| The Warky Report: Cambridge United (H) I guess that's why they call it the blues on 18:29 - Apr 3 with 767 views | BanksterDebtSlave |
Good stuff, glad the days are working out....one at a time.
What were the bet odds btw? |  |
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| The Warky Report: Cambridge United (H) I guess that's why they call it the blues on 18:57 - Apr 3 with 732 views | SitfcB |
Can I join in with your bets please haha |  |
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| The Warky Report: Cambridge United (H) I guess that's why they call it the blues on 19:29 - Apr 3 with 685 views | hype313 |
Sounds like a perfect day, apart from the main theme. |  |
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| The Warky Report: Cambridge United (H) I guess that's why they call it the blues on 07:25 - Apr 4 with 508 views | witchdoctor |
great stuff as always Warky….how’s your novel progressing?…you haven’t mentioned it in a while… |  | | |
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