Bubbles were blowing. Tel, reminded of his early life in East London, running his dad's empire of news outlets, delivery companies (noos-papers'n'assorted rubbish) and hard-selling, dressed in tank tops and bell-bottom jeans, reiterated his hatred of the 'ammers and their cockney barra-boy followers.
He's off to Greece in a week, small island, 40 degree June, retsina, all the mod cons except British-owned expat boozers and ham, egg and chips for lunch. It'll be Sandy, he said. For a moment I thought he meant the beaches, but I'd not let him finish. It'll be Sandy and Tony with them. Tony has now officially retired from the building game, although he still keeps ownership of the company he founded so takes a not-inconsiderable amount of money for his troubles. The jobs are done by contractors he pays. They sound like the sort of people you wouldn't particularly like to be let into your home.
Sunday 4pm kick-off saw us comfortably ensconced in an Ipswich pub by 12, me on the Pepsi Max as I decided to drive in, not trusting the trains. I collected Tel at 10 and we hammered the A12, encountering the odd claret and blue car sticker en-route. With relegation confirmed a month ago, we were sanguine about chances of a final win to overhaul Leicester for that third-bottom spot. West Ham had good players. We both acknowledged the fact in the car. Then Tel said "Why'd ya drive by the way? Can't 'ave a drink now ya wally" and I made something up on the spur of the moment, not yet willing to admit that I've had enough of the drink as my latest blood test showed liver deficiencies of the type that I'd have laughed at thirty years ago.
Parked up and paid, we retreated to the pub, him to savour a pint of lager, me to sip with distaste the too-sweet and sparkly by half glass of diet chemicals plonked in front of me. I later changed to Guinness 0.0, which was a bit better.
Greece was the main topic. Mrs Tel had already started the ironing. He needed a trip to Colchester for sundries; another pair of tailored shorts, a new plug for his charger. They haven't been to Greece for years, preferring Spain with its myriads of seafood, drinkable lager and less fierce sun. They fly to Chania from Stansted on Monday 2nd and return on Thursday 12th. Tone was driving so I haven't been asked. I was meant to be joining them on the 2nd as I'd booked a week off but then I thought about it and decided to have a week at home, catching up on odd-jobs and taking Dad for his doctor's appointment, that sort of thing. You can have too much of Terry after a while and it's nice to be the master of your own ship now and then.
Besides, we're off to Marbella before the kids break up in July, me, him and Mrs Tel, hotel booked and flights sorted. That'll be an interesting week. I've booked two weeks off after it to use up my leave for the year, more in mind of restfulness than any other reason.
3.45 came around all too quickly and we left to the sound of a raucous "Bubbles" from somewhere in the town. Just like their dreams, it died a quick death. I heard West Ham fans moaning that we 'wasn't Landan" in the small knots we met as we strolled. Some had found the pub prices a bit steep in Isaacs, which was staggering considering I was charged £8 for a pint of Guinness in a pub in Stratford.
The game, well. We tried. Ultimately we weren't good enough and Tel agitated to meet me outside for the drive home long before the players exited and then came back out for a lap of cheering and polite applause. Tel thinks he knows how many won't be there next season, counting them off on his fingers as we negotiated the Wherstead Road and out, back into familiar country all the way to Brantham. He said Luongo (obvious), Chaplin, Delap, Hutchinson, O'Shea, Burgess, Cajuste, Morsy, Phillips, Enciso and Tuanzebe. He thought we'd keep Broady. He hoped we'd keep him, anyway. Nearly a whole team. It led to a bit of depression. Surely we'd keep Chappers unless he's really not good enough? The rest, well, apart from Hutch and Morsy, I'd not be too bothered about, frankly.
And that was that. Not too bothered. Which, given the ending of the two previous seasons, is as anti-climactic as a BBC drama you'd engaged with. No open-top buses this summer, and parties in Christchurch and summers spent idly wondering who we were signing, just back to the punch and the grit of the Championship, with its winnable games and its unconventional results and low-block teams.
We're looking forward already, although, as the saying goes, you never know your luck in that league. It'll be interesting to see how we strengthen and progress. For surely we will. KM wouldn't be saying all the right things publicly if we weren't.
Have a great off-season, see you all soon.
Warky - May 2025 |  |
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