| The Warky Off-Season Report: Never liked Elvis (H) 21:52 - Jun 13 with 844 views | Warkystache |
The early, still-wet days of summer. Fat folks in shorts and baggy sleeveless vests sit at pub garden tables imbibing from glass chalices filled with weakly amber nourishment. Beer the colour of straw and that first piss to break the seal during a session, glugging it down like fish swimming open-mouthed near the sewerage pipes.
From some crackly jukebox, Roy Orbison, all dulcet yank, sings about candy-coloured clowns called the sandman. The bloke whose pound coin regaled us comes out, self-conscious then not self-conscious, to take the pissed congrats from a table of like-minded old blokes. Roy sings about dreams in falsetto country style. When he fades away, on comes something by Slade. Or is it Golden Earring? That gives way to Mungo Jerry's only known hit "In the Summertime"; the blokes blow into their empty Bud bottles, playing along. It was a waste of a quid for me. Tel quite liked it.
It rained for a bit. Sort of light, drizzling, mithering rain that stays a moment and then goes off to torment someone's fete or Jubilee tea. We retired to the smoking shelter, until one of the blokes at the table who'd counted their jukebox-loving mate among their number, sparked up a Dunhill. Tel was out like a scalded cat. He hates cigarette smoke. He'd rather have the rain.
Mrs Tel is in hospital by the way. Not sure I told you before. She had a routine check-up but was then referred back for tests. These showed something called 'adhesions' in her women's bits, so she's been admitted for surgery as they were creating a sort of hernia. She's had the operation (last Wednesday to be exact) and is now recovering. She's not allowed visitors other than Tel. At least, that's what he reckons. I haven't pressed him because I hate visiting people in hospital. The combination of the smell of boiled cabbage, the various instruments of torture and the lack of conversation (once you've done the 'And how are you?" bit, it becomes tricky) and my unfailing ability to sit on what I think is a chair only to realise from the smell that it's actually the commode, all these things add up to make my hospital visiting miserable for me and the patient.
People who say I'm such a wag and how great I'd be as a hospital visitor don't get it. I was told by a bemused parent that my maternal grandfather needed 'cheering up' so I tried it and made him laugh mildly enough to pop sutures. I knocked my Nan's beloved flower vase off her bedside thing whilst trying to make her comfortable, and smashed it. I gave my then recently womb-less aunt a wheelchair ride out the back of Broomfield for a fag and got told off by some holier-than-thou nurse for it. I once interrupted a surgeon on his house rounds, seeing my uncle who'd just had his bum grapes shrunk or whatever, with a joyous cry of "Did they shove 'em in a pot for you to take home?".
My mate once asked for some magazines when he had his appendix out. I took him a selection of all the top shelf grumble Tel had. It included a magazine called "Barely legal and foaming". The look on his face when the nurses saw it....mind, he's never forgotten or, worse, forgiven.
So I've not been in to see Mrs Tel. Paula and I sent flowers to her ward, but Tel had to bring them home, because they 'don't allow 'em do they? Bleedin' Covid or whatever. Still, she sed fanks. She'd like some magazines (my ears pricked up) but I'll sorttem. People's Friend and 'Allo and summink called Soaps or whatever. She's payin' four quid a day for her telly. Costin' a fortune, wot wiv that an' me nipping to Marks for sarnies for her cos she dun't like the food". He broke off to swallow his beer. He's enjoying it on his own. We've eaten out every night last week, takeaways round his when Paula was seeing her mum or working, the odd pub lunch which became a pub afternoon and then a pub night. So much for saving for our holidays in September. We'll be living on cereal in San Francisco at this rate.
Paula's looking forward to the holiday. Our calendar looks like an Alcatraz cell wall with all the five-bar gates. She's bought her holiday clothes already (or I have, on my newly £0 balance credit card, which took me two years to pay off). We've also had a happy discovery recently. Her mum took an ISA out for her when she turned 18 and it's recently matured. £12k. So we're now both solvent, which is nice. Her overdraft was starting to worry me a bit. She couldn't see what I was concerned about.
Time slides by slowly. Consumed mainly with walks, pints with Tel, the odd bit of sex with Paula, working and eating. I've lost a bit more weight. Paula didn't notice. It hurt briefly, until I went clothes shopping for me on Saturday and found I've decreased to a 38inch waist trouser. I've not sprouted up though sadly. Still a 29inch leg.......
We're seeing the new Elvis biopic in a few weeks in London, on a day trip/weekend city break/dirty weekend (delete as appropriate, although if you need a clue, Paula says we 'won't be staying in the hotel room too much"). She loves Elvis. I don't. Oh well. You have to compromise. When questioned on her 'love' for Elvis, she cites "A Little Less Conversation" as a fave as it reminds her of starting work in Tel's newsagent. She didn't know any other songs. Apart from 'Wooden Heart". But then she thought that was Cliff Richard.
Still, we're bobbing along. My walks have become more interesting as the trees foliate and the grass stops being mud, just before it parches and turns brown. No dog walkers any more. They're as rare as rocking-horse sh*t these days. Perhaps I'm too early, or too late? I came home in the rain last week, jeans soaked from the knee down, rustling cagoule and three day's worth of five 'o'clock shadow on my chin. I looked like an East German Stasi informant. Maybe it was a trick of the light? Perhaps I'm putting the dog-walkers off?
I'll let you know about Mrs Tel. She's due out this week, but as ever, Tel keeps persuading her to make sure she's well enough before they let her come home. We discussed this down the pub one night, but we'd both drunk a lot by then and I don't recall what conclusions we made, other than the brandy seemed to slip down very easily and he could still taste that steak when he burped. I hope he looks after her well. I think he will. He'll probably become a skivvy for her. Despite his Trump-like bravado and bluster, he loves her deeply. He's hidden his worry behind a laissez-faire attitude of "well wot can I do abart it?". But he forgets I know him too well. I can see through that bombastic bull like a laser-eyed Superman.
Roll on another transfer or something. Getting bored now. The cricket's not absorbing enough and the Nations League may as well be played on the local rec given the lack of atmosphere. Summer's a right pain sometimes. |  |
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| The Warky Off-Season Report: Never liked Elvis (H) on 23:03 - Jun 13 with 738 views | factual_blue |
True Elvis Presley story.
Back in the 1980s when the DHSS was first setting up a computerised database of everybody with a National Insurance number, I was taken to see it in action. They told us 'everybody who has changed their name by deed poll has an asterisk denoting it's not their birth name. To illustrate this they did a search for all the people called Elvis Aaron Presley. Sure enough, a long list of people called Elvis Aaron Presley appeared. All had an asterisk by their name. Except one. There was (and possibly still is) somebody in the UK named Elvis Aaron Presley at birth. And no, they weren't given the name by a Presley-worshipping parent. This Elvis was born in 1941, only a few years after the Tennessee Elvis.
I've always thought that a bit spooky. |  |
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| The Warky Off-Season Report: Never liked Elvis (H) on 23:32 - Jun 13 with 701 views | Guthrum |
| The Warky Off-Season Report: Never liked Elvis (H) on 23:03 - Jun 13 by factual_blue |
True Elvis Presley story.
Back in the 1980s when the DHSS was first setting up a computerised database of everybody with a National Insurance number, I was taken to see it in action. They told us 'everybody who has changed their name by deed poll has an asterisk denoting it's not their birth name. To illustrate this they did a search for all the people called Elvis Aaron Presley. Sure enough, a long list of people called Elvis Aaron Presley appeared. All had an asterisk by their name. Except one. There was (and possibly still is) somebody in the UK named Elvis Aaron Presley at birth. And no, they weren't given the name by a Presley-worshipping parent. This Elvis was born in 1941, only a few years after the Tennessee Elvis.
I've always thought that a bit spooky. |
Did he work in a chip shop? |  |
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| The Warky Off-Season Report: Never liked Elvis (H) on 00:02 - Jun 14 with 682 views | factual_blue |
| The Warky Off-Season Report: Never liked Elvis (H) on 23:32 - Jun 13 by Guthrum |
Did he work in a chip shop? |
Obviously I can't answer that.
Official secrets,
The computerised NI records of certain groups of people are protected. If the records of people in witness protection, the intelligence community or those of transexuals are accessed by a member of staff, an alarm bell sounds in an office in A Northern City. | |
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| The Warky Off-Season Report: Never liked Elvis (H) on 07:42 - Jun 14 with 524 views | SaleAway |
cracking read.... although have to disagree about the cricket.... |  |
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