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The Last Warky Summer Report: Cos Boogie Nights are always the best in Town (H) 10:39 - Jul 24 with 723 viewsWarkystache

A bit of Heatwave. Houses catch fire in unknown bits of East London and heaths smoulder. The air conditioning in the car made the trip to work a joy on Monday and Tuesday. Stepping out to pay for petrol or even winding down a window to accept the bottle of cool water and iced cup drink from the drive-thru in McDonalds at Kettering, flashing my debit card at the hand-held reader and politely thanking the pretty girl who wished me a safe journey, even that was like swimming in a bowl of soup.

Work was a never-ending promenade of sweat patches on shirt underarms and that smell made by vacuum cleaners. Still, we did it. I'm off for all of next week, a holiday I sort of pencilled in when we were asked to give annual leave requests back in dreary, dank November of last year. I dunno why I chose a week when the kids are off school though. I didn't even know we'd be back playing at the end of it. Wishful thinking?

Tel treated the heat like he was a cast member in "It Aint 'Alf Hot Mum". He'd have been called Nobby or something. We met on the Tuesday when I managed to cock something up at work and, rather than spend a few hours redoing it, left at three and thought I'd try again the next day. I was home by six, opening all our doors and windows and switching on all the fans. Paula had promised her mum she'd nip round after work. It was just as I was contemplating salad for dinner that my mobile went off. "Alrar mate" said a huskily familiar voice. "The wife's wotchin Eastenders in a tic an' we've jus' 'ad dinner, well, salad an' a bit of meat, like" (here the voice ranged to contempt briefly) "'few can call that dinner, anyways, I've got a froat like a bleedin' nun's minge so I wondered if'yer fancid a quick couple darn the local?"

I must have breathed quietly for a few seconds as I contemplated closing and switching off everything that I'd spent twenty minutes opening and switching on, and he jumped into the breach by saying, conciliatorily "S'alright, i'm takin' the car so won't be more'n'two, bit of proper grub maybe" I grunted assent and the voice at the other end brightened "Grate, be rarnd ter pick yer up in ten minits". Then he rang off.

I switched off and closed everything again and wrote a note for P, just in case she wondered where I was if she came home within the next hour, which was likely. She loves her mum dearly, but even she finds spending more than a couple of hours in her company after a day at work a bit too much. It only occurred to me that I could have just sent a text later, when we were sat in the boozer. I'm old-school. I never even thought about it.

We're doing grand, P and I. We've had a pregnancy scare, although 'scare' is the wrong word and we were both genuinely disappointed when the test showed negative, especially after she'd complained of sore nipples. I've even succumbed to 'tests' myself, just a quick 'sample' in a sterile pot and then take it to the now-open-as-if-nothing-covid-ever-happened GP surgery. I worried that the contents could be seen, and potentially laughed at, by the female reception staff, so wrapped it in a bit of kitchen roll. As it turned out, they just added it into a funny looking polystyrene package without comment. I was left holding the bit of kitchen roll. Paula 'helped' me do the sample. It was her fingers and wrist which provided it and captured it in the bottle before it wobbled off down the bathroom cupboard front. It was the first sample I'd ever provided which was fun.

Tel was dressed like Gunner "La-di-dah" Graham when he collected me. Tailored cream shorts, sockless Converse and a khaki-coloured t-shirt from YSL. "Keeps yer cooler" he muttered as I cast an asperse eye. I hadn't bothered changing from work. Had he not have called, I'd have probably worn shorts and my work shirt or, better still, greeted Paula in my boxers and work shirt. But hey-ho. The pub was a quarter-full but the beer garden was rammed with people in singlets and shorts, the women hitching back bra straps as they came into the relative cool of the bar to order shots or JD'n'Cokes.

We sat at the back, out of the way. Tel bought the first round. I ordered and paid for the grub. He had the boneless chicken tenders with chips and barbecue sauces. I had gammon steak with pineapple, coleslaw and chips. And a fried egg as they asked if I fancied one. I'd not had any lunch before you start thinking "Fat bastard!". When it came, I wondered if they'd started employing J2 as the short-order cook. The fried egg was crustier than Tel's chicken. Still, the pineapple slices helped wash it down a bit.

"The wife's geddin better anyways" said Tel without prompting from me. "She's back wiv Sandy in Braintree termorra, shoppin' probly, they're gonna 'ave lunch in Freeport". He sniffed and resumed the assault on the loose bits of batter that had fallen from his tenders. "Ah'm not goin', no point, Tone's workin' in Brentwood and me nephew's in Jockland wiv 'is mate from college". He looked momentarily put out. "I'll be doin' some 'ousework, might revarnish the deckin' in the garden cos it'll dry quicker in this". He took a long, reflective sip of beer and polished off the last of his chips. "Its your rarnd by the way, another San Miguel 'ere".

I told him about Paula and he snorted. "Don' go geddin' 'er up the duff before yer go to San Fran in September" he cautioned. "That'll be a nightmare, travel insurance fer that". He then remembered the old days, back in the shop with Paula helping him/running the place. "She woz a good girl in them days. Yer could rely on 'er for everyfing, geddin' the place open early, cash-ups. Iss funny 'ow fings pan out. Oo'd have fought you an' 'er'd end up marrid?" I reminded him that we weren't yet, that marriage was next year's big event, that we were "living in sin" as it were, enjoying the sort of relationship that we both wanted, free of all that stupid non-commitment on my part and her longing for a child. The difference now is that we'd both like one. Even a holiday of a lifetime won't matter if it happens. We're not that shallow.

He smiled and patted me on the shoulder, the closest he gets to male-to-male fellowship. "Yer right 'o' course. I did worry abart yer bofe fer a while. The missus did especially. She fought you weren't in love'n'that. It was all too quick, like. Still, we gave yer some room an' yer came froo, din'yer?". Here he smiled like a benevolent parent and then we clinked glasses and finished pints and were off back out into the milder heat of the night.

So the first game of the new season. Seems too early. They're only just finishing the Tour de France for christ's sake. But we'll both be there next Saturday, ready for the crowds dressed in shorts and the glare from the pitch and the few before and after. Tel's actually looking forward to an Ipswich game for the first time in ages. We're restarting the official footy bet. Tel showed me the app on his phone - £13876.49 in his account, which, split between the two of us when we finally leave these shores in September, should mean a decent £7k spending money, or a less good £3K spending money if we decide to put £4k in the wedding pot, as Paula would like to. My current account is looking better and better; a result of the lack of Friday night dinners and drinks and the general 'cutting back' on our weekly shop, which is now done in Morrisons rather than Waitrose as she gets 25% off the bill.

Yep, things are definitely looking up. But as ever, there's always something that throws a spanner. Or at least, there's the feeling of it. I've not had my test results back yet. Perhaps I'm a jaffa? Or that home game with Bolton, having spent the summer convinced we're finally promotion material. What if we lose 5-2 again? Such is the life of a Town fan, a committed worrier and a potentially thwarted father. Neurotic as ever.

See you all on Saturday. I'll probably be drunk. Nothing new.

Poll: If we were guaranteed promotion next season, how would you celebrate?
Blog: [Blog] It's Time the Club Pushed On

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The Last Warky Summer Report: Cos Boogie Nights are always the best in Town (H) on 11:23 - Jul 24 with 625 viewsBanksterDebtSlave

Great stuff Warky.

"They break our legs and tell us to be grateful when they offer us crutches."
Poll: If the choice is Moore or no more.

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