Of all the games I've ever reported on, this one felt more like that Perry Como standard "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas".
True, the candy canes and five and tens (whatever the f*** they are) were absent, but the train journey in past the dappled frosty glades and the silver lanes a-glistening in the frost (not snow yet, oh no, but it's in the post apparently, along with all those second-class cards we sent to friends and distant family that the Royal Mail can't be arsed delivering 'cos they're on strike) and the unexpected sight of a herd of deer, breath foaming around their heads at Tattingstone was indeed splendid.
Truth as well; the train was filled with young blokes sporting unshaven hairy chins and wearing Superdry puffas and Helly Hanson bobble hats and Adidas trainers who smuggled tins of Brew Dog which they supped from intermittently and then with expressions which cemented their seeming naivety about beer flavoured with exotica. Guava and Mangoes are fruits of an after-blow-out Christmas dinner, perhaps gently grilled with brandy and then tossed in a salad to be eaten with a light helping of cream, not brewed into lager-style train aperitifs.
Still, I wished I'd had one. The pints of Guinness laced with port that I'd snaffled at Manningtree station, the so-called breakfast club where you feel illicit and a bit seedy when London-bound commuters hit the take-away coffee and eye you like the alcoholic you probably are, were slowly digesting, along with the Station Cafe's famous bacon and egg bap. 12.30 kick-off's bring out the scarfer in me. Terry was the same. We'd reached the station at ten. While he didn't fancy the Guinness yesterday ("might 'ave one in the pub, but they got London Pride on tap, goes narcely wiv a bacon sanger that").
Tel was dressed like a country-style Mafiosa Don. He wore his black leather coat, a thick YSL jumper and white Ralph Lauren shirt, suede boots and his aviator Ray Bans to keep the frisky sunlight from burning his eyes. Mrs Tel dropped him and me at the station at 9.50am sharp. She's much better. She was on her way to Braintree to go shopping with Sandy and, perhaps, have a healthy festive luncheon with her in some chain restaurant in Freeport. They played the radio as we drove the shortish distance from mine to the station; Badly Drawn Boy came on with 'Once Around the Block" and I whistled along. The traffic was light and the morning chill. Perfect footy day, apart from the indecency of the kick-off time.
Ipswich was full of police. Transport police, normal police, vans of police, the odd smattering on the bridge from the station. We wondered if the Posh support had been infiltrated by Scummers. We saw nary a Posh fan as we walked. True, their badge looks a bit like the ole Punch from a distance, but no massed banks of London overspill clad in Stone Island chanting 'Boro' assaulted our eyes and ears. Tel was a bit disappointed.
The pub opens at 08.30am for 'breakfast', which meant more surreptitious pints away from such banalities as licensing hours. Tel had a Doom Bar. I continued with the Guinness and port combo. It takes the bitter edge off it. An old Irishman taught me that, years ago, when I frequented a pub in Tooting as a student, an old Irish pub with draughty bars and peeling wallpaper. It turns the froth on top a festive sort of red as well. God knows what it does for your liver. Still, life's for living innit? as Tel often tells me when we do something a bit OTT.
We didn't bother eating any more although Wetherspoons, to their credit, do a fairly nice looking breakfast on blue plates. Sadly, that's about all you can say for Wetherspoons. The trip to the bogs still resembles the walk through the wardrobe into Narnia. The bar staff congregate around the food hatch and 'don't see you' for a good ten minutes as you stand waiting for more beverages to be clattered in front of you. It beats Mannings though. Cheaper.
We left at 12.15pm. Tel started getting itchy feet at 11.50am, constantly checking his watch and eyeing me with reproof as I returned from the bar with more sustenance. Neat Sailor Jack rums to keep out the chill, despatched with a quick tilt of the arm and a slight grimace. He bought one more round, two large brandies for the road, no ice as it was cold enough. The christmas shoppers in the town swayed pleasantly as we hit the road. Past the ice rink for the kids and the carollers and the M&S bags for life and the fish stall outside Lloyds which smelt marine and offered Mersea Oysters and Ocean Pinks. It was all a modern Edwardian vista, dressed in fur-rimmed hoods and Levis, the candle lamps replaced by glowing vapes, the be-whiskered town crier now a bloke shouting foive-for-a-powend apples from the fruit stall.
It was all hands to the eyes for the first half, the high sun causing havoc watching the intricacies of play on the pitch if you, like me, watch from SBRL. I wished I'd worn my sunnies, or a peaked cap. Still, Christian Walton managed without either and he only let one in, a header from an ex-Colchester player, at his back post when it seemed the danger was over. Conor C had, of course, added his own headed tribute some ten minutes earlier, a peach of a header into the bottom corner which had my row hugging in ecstasy.
Thankfully, the sun sank in the second half and we were treated to Conor C smashing high into the net for 2-1. Then Freddie scored a tap-in which was flagged and then we looked comfortable-ish until full-time, when the whistle went and we all celebrated being top for two hours.
Tel was pleased we'd won. "Not a Jonah then" were his words as we met outside Sir Alf. He'd taken his sunnies off and they were safely back in their case in his coat pocket. "Din't need em" he said, diffidently. I smiled a small grin back.
We trudged back to the station, ignoring the intermittent shouts of "Blue Army" and the Posh fans, all deflated and heading home to their Fen dwellings.
Manningtree. Three pm. Four hours until England. Both peckish. The local was doing a buffet for the England game, pay £15 and get a choice of chinese, indian, pizza, ribs, wings, chips, onion rings and anything else they could justly serve that didn't require knife and fork to eat. They'd thoughtfully provided tablespoons for the curry and chinese. But this wasn't now, and we had three hours to kill before the buffey would be loaded, so we went and had a light bite in one of the other pubs which wasn't showing the game and served food all day.
We came back for 5.30. We'd booked a table for two in the dining area as this is nearer the big screen but not too near so you don't get drenched with beer when England score. The buffey came out at six on the nose and we stood in line to help ourselves from tin trays and foil platters.
I won't remind you of the game. We all saw it. Much like the Ipswich one. I was kind of placated that the Town had won even though my interest in this World Cup (which was never all that anyway) has now pretty much ended. Sure, i'll cheer on Croatia and Morocco next week, but now we can concentrate on the proper footy, the promotion run and Wycombe away.
We got the shared cab home in a fairly reflective mood, not pandering to the sort of anti-french hostilities they were succumbing to in the pool room after the game. The cabbie, a scot, said "Och well yer oot then" and Tel didn't even mention how Sturgeon would drag them into a new dark ages and the only chance they'd ever have of making a World Cup finals was hosting it. Even though I saw the thoughts furrow his brow. No, shame and all that, but we've got bigger fish now.
Paula said the same. Which is probably why I love her. She'll probably end up killing me though, if last night was anything to go by. Still. You don't want to know about that, do you?
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