There are several things which, in my old age, still warm the old cockles.
From semi-tame robins in the garden approaching me for scraps of bacon rind and old digestives,, to winning bets on the football, via giving someone a present they really want and the cats snuggling up to me in bed, purring contentedly. Set to a soundtrack including ‘Wonderful, Wonderful Day” sung by Jane Powell and something delicate by Nick Drake, perhaps a smidgeon of Kate Bush or a soupçon of Sandy Denny. I’m a simple soul. Sit me in a late afternoon pub with a pint of something foamy in front of me, ply me with a bag of dry-roasted or the occasional naughty pork scratchings and I’m in heaven. And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak. Although that might be wind. Or the scratchings.
Take last night. We got into Ipswich at 4pm, throats drier than the Sahara, Tel moaning that he’d bought about £300 worth of food for his party last Sunday and chucked about £150 of it in his food recycling. “Wife won’t touch it if it goes beyond the bleedin’ sell-by date so we just get shot” he mithered, absently kicking a stone into the road where it narrowly missed an oncoming vehicle. He should be in Ed Miliband’s lot. He thinks Net Zero is something to do with fishing.
We got into the pub, which was a quarter-full and therefore finding a table was simpler than it was when we played Newcastle. “Liverpool Street’s shut” said Tel. “Wun’t expect many from bleedin’ Chelsea ternight”, He said this with a certain relish as, like a lot of Londoners who migrate away from the Metropolis, he hates Chelsea. And West Ham. And Spurs. He’s antipathetic over Arsenal, but I think loyalties may be tested in that. One of his friends from London is a season-ticket holder at the Emirates and can get him seats now and then. There’s a limit to hatred when there’s freebies to consider.
We drank the first draught almost in one, a trick he’s perfected over the years and one which I, admittedly, still find difficult to accomplish without belching like a fat frog. Its definitely easier when you drink Guinness or a real ale. Lager’s the test.
We did all the usual pleasantries about Christmas. Tel showed me his new Calvin Klein jumper I’d bought him, with a self-consciousness that I usually deployed when my grandma used to give me a hand-knitted effort she’d made. She’d have made a sh*t fishing trawlerman. The holes in her knitting would’ve seen Great Whites escaping. I did check Tel’s jumper for length, but he’s a lot shorter than my dad, who was the original recipient, so the end comfortably swiped the top of his arse.
Tony and Sandy gave Mrs Tel and he a garden ornament. “Stachoo, that sorta fing. Italian. From Italy, like. Woman. Small tits. Not that she’s gottem on show or nuffing. Wearin’ one of them fings wot Romans wore”. A Toga? I asked. “Bless you” he said perfunctorily, without a smile. Then “Blimey you’ve got a funny sneeze incher? Wouldn’t go sneezin’ like that. Mate of Tone’s ‘ad a ‘eart attack keepin’ it in like that”.
We drank on. Mrs Tel and he are off to Turkey on the 7th, Antalya, the Megasaray Hotel. He calls it the Megasaurus. He’ll certainly be doing about as much as a fossil when he’s there, judging by his itinerary. This involves drinking, sunbathing and the odd trip into the Town for supplies. Plus eating. There’ll be plenty of that. Meat mainly.
This is why, when we broached the menu and made our choices, he went conservative and had the chicken wings in chipotle mayonnaise with a side of fries. “Carnt eat too much meat, savin’ myself for the ‘oliday” he murmured. I had the steak. He sneered at it when it came. “Get a proppah steak in Turkey” he said, self-satisfied.
He showed me his football bet from Sunday. He’d done wins for Liverpool, Man City, Leeds, Oxford, Swansea and Preston. All won. He’d won about £750. Our annual bet hasn’t been paid yet but we’re on for about £3k each he reckons. He’s paying it on Friday, which is good, as at least I’ll be able to pay my credit card off in full this month and have extra left over when I go to see us play Villa away on the 15th Feb. Decent Hotel ahoy.
We drunk up at 7.30pm and made our way through the cold and the breeze to a floodlit PR. The queues outside Sir Bobby Lower were huge. I made it in for the teams coming out, amazed we’d gone for Walton in goal and Broady on the left. Poor Sammy, I thought. But then Broady deserves his chance, I reasoned. The smell from the burger vans made me hungry again. I readied myself mentally for another Newcastle going-over. It never came.
True, Chelsea were less good than I thought, but we played like Gods, especially Delap and Walton, who looked a heck of a lot better than Muric, to the extent that several around me extolled him as the regular number one. I have to say I agree. We looked a lot different as a defensive unit and Christian brought that added stability and confidence. It reminded me of our League One days.
At the end, I tested my already-hoarse voice with a yelled celebration of K Mac. I braved the throngs of Chelsea supporters as we headed for the station. They didn’t say much to be fair. There really wasn’t much for them to say, after all.
Home with Terrance by 10.45pm, Mrs Tel collected and thanked me for her presents (she wore the Alarm vintage t-shirt I bought her paired with flat-fronted slacks and a new powder-blue blazer. Very nice. She’s lost a bit of weight as well. Must be the Lifehouse Spa, or perhaps she’s not eating. She barely ate anything at their party, you know? I was a bit worried) and drove me home and just now I’m sat here typing before getting ready for my friend’s NYE dinner party in Dedham, where the conversation will probably flow like the wine and I’ll be lumbered with his sister, who I’m sure he’s trying to matchmake me with. He did at the last NYE party two years ago. She’s nice and all that, but she’s got three kids, all aged between seventeen and twelve. Not sure I fancy playing stepdad. Still….?
Have a really happy new year folks. Here’s to Town staying alive in 2025!! |  |
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