"Bleedin' Broadstairs" said Tel. As quotations go, it wasn't quite King George V's famous "B*gger Bognor" but the sentiments seemed alike.
Mid-September, the weather still as warm as August when the footy season traditionally returns, and here I was, helping to load a 4x4 with suitcases and folding chairs. It was Friday. I was meant to be working from home, but I somehow skived off to see the Terry's on their way for a week in Kent.
Mrs Tel gave me a set of keys to their bungalow, on a keyring shaped like a bull made up of the letters of ESPANA. The little accent over the N was the ring through the bull's nose. "Got it in Marbella larse year" said Mrs Tel as I studied it. I think it's made of some plate metal. "Iss silver" said Mrs Tel. I didn't argue. It's definitely not though.
I've got the keys "Jus' in case". In case of what, I never knew. In the event of sudden atomic war, I'd be comfier in my own bed than I would in their bedroom wardrobe, although the distractions of looking through their drawers would pass the time better. They haven't got any pot plants that need a water and they don't have pets, so my presence in their house whilst they're away isn't immediately clear. Perhaps it's a generational thing? My parents used to leave a set of keys with our neighbour when we went on holiday. Until my dad mischievously said, as we were flying over the channel, that he thought our neighbour was a bit of a pervert and he'd probably spend the fortnight emptying our fridge wearing my mum's bra on his head.
They went, their exhaust smoking, a lone hairy arm waving goodbye out the driver's side window. I went for a lonesome pint in the pub, reading the Times in a relaxed, gloriously wasteful lunchtime session. I had three and a pate ploughmans, the cheddar milder than a vicar's rebuke, the pate a lump of rich meaty mulch.
Welcome back footy. Shame Saturday was so hot. I'd have stayed in and watched the Arsenal game but I needed a walk and some fresh air and another few pints. I wanted to time it so I arrived for the Liverpool v Leeds game at 5.30pm and, in fairness, I did well. The walk, along the Stour to Flatford then across the cow-pats and fields to Dedham, was popular with the type of ramblers who ignored social distancing and tucked their walking socks into their cords. You know the type. Rucksacks, stout sticks, the air of Geography teacher, Pathfinder maps which they unfurled and then furled back into messy rectangles, binoculars swinging from the neck on mock-leather straps. I outpaced them all, pausing only to wipe the cowsh*t from my shoes. The pubs in Dedham were busy but I found a seat and enjoyed the refreshment. The walk back was amusingly wobbly.
The Liverpool game was good. So was the beer in the local. I don't think they were supposed to be showing it, but they did. I left at 9pm and bought a takeaway kebab and chips and got a cab home.
Football came home at 11.55am this morning. They read out the teams and I groaned. No Downes. No KVY. Nsiala, who looked dodgier than Arthur Daley at the back last season. 55 year old Luke Chambers. Wilson. No Woolfy, No Jackson, No Skusey, Norwood made the bench with Hawkins. Wigan started better as well. Their defender missed the sort of header that is easier to score with. Then we took a surprise quick free-kick and Bish squatted like he was having a dump in the woods and the ball flew in to the top right corner and the lads were all over him in joy.
It got better. Wigan threw a few half-arsed attacks forward, then Dozzell and Bish got a hold of midfield and we looked better. Bish had one finger tipped on to the post. Dozzell, like a will'o' the wisp, drifted in and out, threading spectacular passes and not tackling. Even Judge looked quite good. We should have been three up at the break, but Wigan should have had a couple as well. Garner, all strange bald head and ginger beard (for one moment I thought they'd signed Collins to play up front) hit the bar with an overhead that he went through in jerky stages while Toto watched.
I'll be honest here. We need Woolfy back. We need KVY. Toto tries and he's good at cutting out high balls but when it's at his feet, you worry. Wilson's passing repertoire seems to consist of two settings; low hoof and massive hoof. Chambers looks as outpaced by middle paced strikers as I would if I played in his position. The positives for me were Ward, Drinan, Bishop and Edwards when he came on. Freddie shouldn't take free kicks. I'd rather Toto had a go with power than see those cheeky little toe-pokes drift aimlessly over the bar.
Norwood looked unfit in the second. His hair flapped like a Bobby Charlton combover. We did better with Drinan, who chased and harried and looked more threatening. All in all though, a fair start. Wigan were better than I expected and will be among the upper mid-table lot once they find their scoring boots.
I watched at my parents. We had a barbecue for their friends and a couple of mine this afternoon. A few came and watched the game, but the absence of a throaty SBRL and the generally ponderous football on show soon had people drifting away to stand in pairs chatting in the kitchen about the virus and their kids and the other mundanities one expects from such occasions. Soon it was me on my own. My dad was cooking, my mum chatting with her neighbours and refilling glasses. No one could hear me scream.
The barbie was OK. The sausages looked like charred fingers but the fish kebabs came up well, as did the fresh burgers and the baked potatoes. The showstopper was Mum's sherry trifle. She'd had a pouring accident with the cream sherry. The bottom was like neat booze. It went quick.
No tel for a week then. Still, he's back on Monday week. I'll be at work for that. No homecoming party. But I guess he'll want his keys back? |  |
By continuing to use the site, you agree to our use of cookies and to abide by our Terms and Conditions.
