| The Warky Report: New Year, Tel and Millwall (h) 21:27 - Jan 1 with 671 views | Warkystache |
Happy New Year to everyone on here!
Unseasonably warm days spent idling amongst the greener sites in Essex/Suffolk have been harshly replaced with 'getting back to work'. My suits lay at the dry cleaners from Saturday 22nd December. They were picked up on Sunday 30th, clad in plastic wrappers, smelling of chemicals and not of crotches. I've washed and ironed five shirts, forgetting it's not Saturday today. Work looms like Steve Morison at a soft Millwall free-kick. I can't get pissed again tonight. Not that I want to, but it's nice to have the option.
Christmas done and packed away for another year. Tel spent yesterday removing all the fairy lights in the shop, winding them round empty toilet rolls till they resembled sticks of withered sprouts. "I ain't one fer Noo Year" he repeated as he did the footy bet yesterday morning. "'Ate it if I'm 'onest, loadsa stoopid people getting 'ammered in expensif boozers....." He paused to berate Mickey and Kaylee under his breath as he noticed he'd smashed a lot of the lightbulbs in the twinkly lights he bought in B&Q cheap. "Sod it" he muttered and chucked the whole string in the bin.
I'd thanked him profusely for his Xmas party so often that it bored me. He still found minor scandals to gossip about; things that mainly happened (conveniently) after I'd left. It seems all the minor players, including his neighbours and the bakery two, and me, had missed a veritable orgy of drunkenness and dissolution not seen since it was painted by Hogarth. "That Blake" said Tel, half admiringly, "'e got blotto on the red we opened and tried lighting 'is farts". I admired that as well. Last time I got blotto on red wine, I got the sh*ts shortly after. Imagine trying to light that?
It seems that Blake is 'orlright' in Tel's book, despite attempted demonstrations of combustible flatus. He and Paula have been back to take Mrs Tel some flowers after Xmas, they stayed to help clear up after the party, she gave Mrs Tel a huge bottle of Anais Anais and bought Tel a polypin of San Miguel. He waffled on about how proud he was of Paula getting so far and 'turnin' 'er life ararnd'. He respects Blake for his work ethic (apparently, he's a ground worker for some fencing company) and his manners. He hasn't seen the shark look in his eyes yet. I don't think he'd be bothered if he did.
The post-Xmas Friday night curry was cancelled as the Sri Lankan chef at the pub has gone home to Bogota for a few days, so we were back to good old overcooked veg and everything with chips. We met on Friday afternoon, as the sky was turning into night, for a few jars and a natter. Tony joined us, now back from the marital home where he'd enjoyed separate bedrooms and his son locking himself in his room in protest at the divorce all over Christmas. "Bought 'im some PS4 games and a new Gucci hoodie and tha's the thanks I got. Still, he came down when we 'ad lunch and for a drop o' me lager". Tony wants to take the kids to Spain for half-term in February. He and Tel decided on Valencia. "There'll be loads to do there" said Tel, the spittle-legged, pasty Judith Chalmers of the boozer.
We had steak. I asked for rare and got medium. Tel asked for medium and got grey. Still, he was happy with that. We then drank too much, joined in the karaoke in the back room (Enola Gay by OMD and then, because it was easy to mangle without too many noticing and Tel and Tony knew the words, Pretty Vacant by the Sex Pistols) and ended up departing at closing, boisterously singing the full words to "Frigging in the Rigging" and stopping for a 'quick jimmy' at the most inopportune places, like in the gutter of roads and in litter bins as folk walked past. Tel and Tony parted with me at his bungalow, a light in the porch showing Mrs Tel was in bed, Tel 'shushing' us and flobbing over us as he did it, then not being able to get his key in the door and loudly moaning to Tony "Iss the wrong bleedin' 'arse". Neighbours' curtains twitched. I b*ggered off sharpish.
So that was Christmas. New Year was spent at a friend's fancy dress party. I went as Rod Stewart, but people accused me of coming as Jimmy Saville so I took it off before I got lynched. We drank and laughed and watched Jools Holland count down the last seconds of 2018.
I had a bad head this morning. I didn't fancy the footy. Tel was in the shop at 8am, putting the final touches to his spring clean, clad in one of Mrs Tel's less floral pinnies and a pair of yellow marigolds. The Coke fridge got a good going over. He knew I was Ipswich bound, and he sympathised and hoped it'd be better than of late. It must be serious if even he's stopped taking the piss out of it. I asked him if he fancied coming with me and he looked momentarily alarmed and then said "Nah, too much ter do, fanks for the offer though". He was meeting Paula and Blake in the pub when he closed at two. I felt a twinge of envy. Then I remembered it was Blake and was glad I was going to the game.
No buses, so I panted down to the pub, had a few pints and a bite, sat consoling gloomy mates who had hangovers and had agreed to come and watch. They were even gloomier on the train home.
We scored early. Big mistake number one. Then we didn't score again despite dominating the first half. Another big mistake. Then they brought on Morison, and our defence decided it didn't fancy 45 minutes of direct running, flailing elbows and being outjumped, and we bottled it. Chalobah, our brightest spark, went off. Lankester, who'd looked like a slight Messi, suddenly didn't and that was it. I'd left before the Jackson consoler on 89. It just stank of relegation, of hopes dashed and good play soured. It was like watching a team low on confidence and ability and finesse compete against neanderthals who kicked anything that moved and got the breaks. The ref was singled out, and yes he was poor, but we just let them have it.
Their fans on the train home slapped each other on the backs. It must have made a nice change from opposition fans' faces. The consolation was knowing they'd take hours to get back to London, with 'coaches from Shenfield'. My season ticket is in disgrace. I might offer it to Tel. To take the crud off the bottom of his milk fridge.
Happy New Year, as I said at the start. Let's hope 2019 sees an upturn in Marcus' cheque book. |  |
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