"'Ope iss gonna be werf all this" muttered Tel ominously as we negotiated the traffic on the Whersted Road. Mrs Tel at the wheel, now fully recovered and as anxious to decant us into the town centre as we were to get out and in the pub. It was 11.30am. The traffic, rail-less and therefore slightly heavier than on normal match days, loomed silvery and glinting in what little opaque sun filtered down. God, it was warm though.
Tel, dressed in cargo shorts and a YSL blue short-sleeved check shirt, his knees and lower legs a hairy mass, was coming to his first opening day fixture since we lost to Preston in the Championship. That day, it rained, a drizzly soul-sapping rain that we both got soaked by. He'd sat in the Sir Alf back then. Today, he sat in the old Pioneer (Magnus? "Could bleedin' do with a Magnum right now" he joked as he unfurled his online ticket from his pocket, another 'quick check' to ensure it was still part of his ensemble). We alighted at the traffic lights near the Willis building. Mrs Tel, thanked only by me although Tel muttered something that sounded like 'Cheers love', but may have been an obscenity (He'd asked her to drop us in St Nicholas Street so we could walk to the Thomas Wolsey. In the end, we went to Three Wise Monkeys), sped away, like the eponymous cover of Bat out of Hell by Meatloaf, only in a car.
The walk to the pub, via a diversion to Barclays for financial sustenance, was warm and I deigned sweat on the Terry brow despite him being a lot thinner than me. "Could murder a pint of East Coast" he breathed as we mounted the steps in the Cornhill. Those around us who weren't shopping (and there seemed very few of these - perhaps the closures and the general tattiness has finally caught up with Ipswich town centre?) were clad in new blue home shirts, walking with mates or family members, clutching bags and sporting shorts. I wore my jeans. I regretted it. But no-one rates my legs. Even Paula says I look bloody awful in shorts.
Drinks were ordered and sunk quick, to be replaced by new drinks. Tel eyed the menu. We luxuriated in the a/c. It wasn't that busy and we sat at a table meant for four. The staff looked at us hopefully, knowing that two thirsty blokes will probably consume more beer and nachos than that family who order cokes.
We left as it got busy at 1.30pm. Tel called in Corals for a horse bet result. I nipped in the tobacconists down near Lloyds Bank for a cigar. It's a ritual on a match day, although I'm not sure why. In the 1980's, when my dad accompanied me to games and smoked a pipe, he'd always use the tobacconist for pipe baccy and a cigar, just one, usually a Corona, which he'd smoke in the car on the way home, elbow out the window to let the cigar smoke drift. My mum never came with us to football. Indeed, she views sport in much the same way that I do knitting, or gardening, or collecting teapots. He never smoked a cigar otherwise, even at Christmas. But whenever I'm up that part of town, I always remember and do the same. Cost me £15 but boy, was it nice.
We walked to Mannings for a couple of pints and then, at 2.35 prompt, left for the ground. I didn't have my cigar. I kept it for later, a post-match celebration of what I hoped would be a win. Tel sniffed the burger vans with their alluring oniony and meaty fumes filling the senses. He had a hot dog. I had a cigarette. He dumped the bun after three bites but ate the sausage (with fingers smeared in ketchup) and the onions that hadn't adhered to the bun. We parted at my turnstile in the SBR. He made for the Magnus. Sorry, Pioneer stand. I'm old-school. Rebranding doesn't cut it for me.
The teams were coming out as I walked the steps. Flags waved and the start of Hey Jude rumbled down Section 5. Familiar faces were back in my row and in front and behind. We greeted each other as I'd imagine Mallory's Everest conquerors did back at base camp. Newish songs about having Wolf at the back and Ladapo in attack and how we were going up started, simmered for a bit then died. I wished I'd bought a bottle of water. My throat was untrained after months of disuse. The songs made it dry.
We huddled on the pitch and then we were away. Bolton looked sharp. A lot of the play seemed focussed at our end as they attacked. We looked to hit on the break. It was all a bit cagey. Then one of their blokes went down following intervention by Davis, and the ref pointed at the spot. Balls. Memories of that 5-2 defeat to these resurfaced. They scored the penalty. Walton looked like he might have saved it for a brief moment but then the ball swished into the corner.
We equalised just as my neighbour was telling me a convoluted story about his journey from Bildeston. A shot corner. Chaplin looked like he'd mis-hit it and the first groans were stifled as Evans pounced and belted it in. We cheered and embraced and then he carried on with the tale. Something about being stuck behind a combine for four miles. He'd parked in Norwich Road. The walk back was warm. I nodded, dumbly. You don't get conversations like that in Lawford.
We should have won it after that. Half-time was spent chatting to Luke and his girlfriend Chloe about stuff they and I had done since we last saw each other in April. Everyone else took advantage of the break to have a slash or buy a pie. I didn't need water. My throat was finally opening again.
I stayed to the final whistle, hoping for a late winner, disappointed a bit that it never came. We'd played well enough to warrant it. I met Tel by the Beattie statue. He was ambivalent about the performance though he said we'd deserved a winner as well. We walked back to the Three Wise Monkeys. The town filled with throaty roars of 'Blue Army'. The Bolton fans were conspicuous by their absence.
We stayed in the pub til 7pm and then walked to Trongs. I was a bit half-cut. He slurred on about "bleedin' Leaf Davis was crap, weren't he? A millyun for that? They need a striker n'all. Someone 'oo can finish a chance".
We ate in Trongs. Starters, mains, duck, white wine and beer. It came to £80 each. It was well worth it. Tel rang for the taxi back to collect at 11pm. He'd dropped hoi sin sauce down his shirt. We ended on double brandies with ice.
The cab home was warm and the cabbie, a North African from Algeria, was chatty and supported Liverpool. He was pleased they'd won the charridee shield. We'd forgotten it was on. "Could'a found a pub an' watched that" moaned Tel. Still, the Three Wise Monkeys did a job.
We pulled up at my place first, the driver eyeing this strange part of North Essex like he'd followed the Yellow Brick Road to Oz. No flying monkeys, but a few twitching neighbours' curtains. Tel and I embraced as he moved to the front seat from the back. He still had globs of hoi sin on his YSL. He sat back and accepted the £30 I thrust at him. "Meet up nex' Fridee for a curry" he said as we stood outside the cab. "Ah'll tex' yer". We'd thought about meeting today for the England women's game, but Tel is proud of the fact he hasn't watched a second of the Women's Euro's, and he eyed my plaintive suggestion with the look he'd have given me had I suggested an all night Love Island-athon, perhaps dressed in Mankinis.
The cab went, barrelling away, a bare forearm waving from the window as it rounded the corner. I couldn't get the key in the front door lock. I managed it on the fourth attempt. Paula had gone to bed. Working today. Up at 7am. I thought about waking her for a bit of the old beast with the two backs, but then heard her snoring and thought "nah". It's cruel for one thing. She's never in the mood when you do it, for another.
So that was that. A fair old opening day match. Are we good enough to go up? Probably. Just need a goalscorer. Dare I say it, midfield looks better as well, although the defence still gives the odd heart flutter. We need another striker though. And for players to get accustomed. Tel said of Marcus Harness "'E woz all 'air and no end product, wern 'e" and I found myself agreeing. But it'll come.
Final word to the Bankster. Tel wondered if he'd managed the walk. "Ow'dya know 'im then?" he asked casually as we sat rolling pancakes into brief resemblances of cigars and getting cucumber shards ripping through them. I said I'd known him for years. He snickered and said 'Yev never menshunned 'im before, is 'e a mate of anyone I know?" And I made something up about him being the ex-boyfriend of my ex-wife and Tel said "oh" disappointedly and then wanted his tenner back. So I said, no, he was alright, knowing how Tel hates any context with my ex-wife and, appeased and knowing it was for Macmillan, he relented. So, if you and Tel ever meet, Jules, remember this as your story, eh? She was a rubbish shag, so feel free to embellish from there. Identity on here saved for another day. Phew!
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