| The Warky Lg 1 Report: Plymouth Argyle (a) 14:02 - Dec 6 with 1311 views | Warkystache |
It's funny how you look back on your formative years and think "What was I doing when I was ten?".
At ten, I was attending Portman Road for a first-ever game, buying an Ipswich replica shirt and scarf as a birthday treat from the shop on Portman Road where the away fans now sit. The shop was all cheap panelling and racks of shirts in 1984. We got there at 11am, Dad and me. I had birthday money from doting grandparents burning a hole in my C&A jeans. It seemed like a fortune then. Dad made me put £20 in my Junior Savers account at Barclays. They gave me a printed receipt and a smile. That was probably the last smile I ever got out of Barclays.
Shirt bought, I changed outside, exposing my hairless, pudgy little frame to the world as I put on my first replica shirt, the nylon blend sticking to rib and sinew, the label in the back tickling my neck. The "Pioneer" sponsors iron-on on the front came off after three washes. My mum's Hotpoint top loader was notorious for that. Spiderman's face, The Incredible Hulk's left arm, my nan's home knitted 'A Team' jumper, all went the same way.
Now, thirty-six years on, I remember the excitement of the game, the crowds, the pipe smoke, the Pizza Hut we had before the game in Ipswich, the novelty of choosing your own salad and going heavy on the potato salad and thousand island dressing, so that it looked less an appetising meal and more like something George the Hippo in Rainbow had shat on the studio floor before filming. Dad and I shared a little glass bottle of 7-up in the ground. He kept it in his coat pocket. It was like drinking warm lemony piss.
We were happy. I certainly was. Russell Osman played a blinder and scored. Eric Gates' locks glinted in the April sunshine. The crowd in the North Stand rippled and swayed forward like the tide at Walton. A 1-0 win. Back to the car with my Ipswich Town carrier bag and a swagger in my step.
It made me think of those days, this week. I have cancelled my season ticket DD. I'd've bitten your arm off for a season ticket when I was ten. Literally chewed flesh just for the opportunity. We lived a long way from Ipswich back then. It was a bit of a drive from home, down the A12, my dad moaning about the traffic at the Belstead turn-off. I can trace my life and loves through Ipswich home games. First hangovers, first girlfriend, first marriage, divorce, self-doubts, jobs. Now here I am, at that crossroads, my support tested to the limit, the sadness at something that has been an ever-present throughout those thirty-odd years suddenly waning.
It's been a week of this, funnily enough. Tel has turned down the opportunity to work with his brother-in-law as a plasterer. It didn't sound like a serious offer, and I think he's disappointed and his pride has kicked in as a result. "Told 'im nah" he said, dismissively as the poppadoms arrived and the obsequious waiter went back for the metal server of chutneys and chopped raw onion. Tier two meant a return to the Indian on Friday night. We ate substantially and they brought us beer in scratched Kingfisher pint glasses, the bird missing a beak or a wing. I wondered if their dishwasher was a Hotpoint.
Tel was in fair spirits. He was glad he turned down the invitation of a week's plastering in January. "Din't need all tha'" he repeated as we ordered, the plastic xmas tree twinkling in the corner and the plain gold and silver decorations on the walls belying the time of year. The tree looked good from afar, all alternating lights and sparkly globs of silver tinsel. When I got up for a slash, I walked past it and noticed it needed a dust. Still, you couldn't see that from where we sat.
Tel went over the plans for Christmas with me, his black Bic hovering over a scrap of paper. He's paying out the bet money next weekend. £2450 each. 'It could be more'o'course; we've still got the weekend footy bet and we've 'ad a tip fer a race on Wens'dy. Could easily be anuvver ton each". He sipped his beer reflectively. "Still, aint bad".
We've booked a better restaurant next Saturday night. Tel's Ladbrokes account pays him within 4 hours of a withdrawal, so he'll go to the bank to withdraw on Friday. I don't need to worry about Christmas this year. Or the new year. He's in Braintree for New Year's Eve and Day. "Tone wants us darn there fer champers and nibbles an' that. He's not one to bear a grudge. 'E knows I can't plaster professional-like". I'm working New Years Eve and then I'm at a friend's for the night.
Mrs Tel picked us up at ten, her hair gleaming brown and blonde tips, her Christmas sweater an angora froth of reindeer and gold bells. She was playing a "Now that's what I call Christmas" CD in the car, so we got the last thrashings of The Darkness and then the Moog synths of Paul McCartney leadenly lumped in. The Moon was bright and the spirits up. We'd had a brandy or two each. Tel switched the play track over and said "Always loved this'un, me' and we got a warble-sounding Bing Crosby doing "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas". It had done that morning. It snowed. I know. I was walking in it.
My walk covered a few woods and a slushy pathway. It was cold, dark, snowing, silent except for the odd pheasant clucking and an unidentified bird howling in a tree, possibly a barn owl, possibly a pterodactyl. I slipped twice. Didn't go over, but aquaplaned a bit. My knees creaked like the doors in a haunted house movie. I had a fry up when I got home. My hair dripped cold water and my trousers slowly dried.
The Terry's dropped me at home and then, for a change, came in to admire my decorations. I gave Mrs Tel a glass bottle of Diet Coke and Tel a large brandy. I switched the tree lights on and they invested the living room with a warm glow. "Blimey, done a treat 'ere innee?" said Tel. They've had theirs up for a week. I've not seen them yet. Tel said to come round next week so I will.
Mrs Tel and I had a fag on my patio. I dried the metal chairs with a tea towel and then shoved it in the washer. It was cold, slightly wet but not raining and the smoke drifted over next door and dissipated. She shivered and pulled her lambswool jacket closer around her. We sat and chatted about Tel and turning down that job with Tony. "Ah don' mind" she said. "E's never liked DIY. Madness 'im even finkin' abart it". She tapped the ash from her fag on to the grass near her chair. She eyed me candidly. "D'you ever fink 'o' remarryin'?" she asked. Surprised, I said no, not lately. My last amour was ages ago; it faded because I'm not really sure what I want any more. She nodded and smiled. "Yer better off wivout I fink sometimes". I nodded back and smiled. Then she stubbed out and I stubbed out and we went back inside.
Tel was reorganising the baubles on my tree. He twiddled with another and then stood back, critically examining his work. "Looks bedder that" he said, triumphantly. I said thanks and he smiled fatuously. "Do all ours at 'ome. Ah've just got this eye ferrit". He winked and bent down to switch the lights on. It did look better. Less clumpy. The lights caught the sparkly bits on the baubles as they twirled and made the room look like a cheap discotheque in Romford. I made a mental note to move them back when he'd gone.
They left at eleven. I finished off the brandy bottle and went to bed.
Yesterday was up early, papers, breakfast, tea, walk, shopping, pub lunch. I got back at three. Came on here. 1-0 down. No surprise. Just a blow upon a bruise. I switched off and went for a tidy up. Switched Sky Sports on at 4.30pm and we were winning 2-1. Blimey. Plymouth had someone sent off. Oh. It all became clear. Someone obviously important. We held on. I felt no twinge of happiness. Surprised at this, I looked for other scores. Scum won. Forest lost. Sunderland lost at home to Wigan. And then I just couldn't be bothered any more. Lassitude overcame me and I reached for the Sky remote and the red wine and sat supping and watching the West Ham game.
And, deep inside, something that has remained with me for more than thirty years, something small but important and a part of me that could still feel, and hope, and dream, mourned. And I told it, wait. This isn't my fault. It's something else. Someone or something has led to this happening. And it sighed and turned away, sad-eyed. But it hasn't left. It's still there, waiting. |  |
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| The Warky Lg 1 Report: Plymouth Argyle (a) on 14:27 - Dec 6 with 1238 views | StochesStotasBlewe |
Genuinely just burst out laughing at George the Hippo.
Thanks Warky, brilliant as always. |  |
| We have no village green, or a shop.
It's very, very quiet.
I can walk to the pub. |
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| The Warky Lg 1 Report: Plymouth Argyle (a) on 15:20 - Dec 6 with 1165 views | Seablue |
Brilliant! Turn it into a novel please. |  | | |
| The Warky Lg 1 Report: Plymouth Argyle (a) on 22:31 - Dec 6 with 1014 views | Eireannach_gorm |
Best one ever. I only wish I could give you two uppies, one for the story and one for the protest. Don't lose faith, you will wear the replica shirt again |( wash it by hand )! |  | | |
| The Warky Lg 1 Report: Plymouth Argyle (a) on 07:55 - Dec 7 with 888 views | Warkystache |
| The Warky Lg 1 Report: Plymouth Argyle (a) on 22:31 - Dec 6 by Eireannach_gorm |
Best one ever. I only wish I could give you two uppies, one for the story and one for the protest. Don't lose faith, you will wear the replica shirt again |( wash it by hand )! |
Thanks Eireannach! To be frank though, I've not owned a replica shirt since I was at university and then it was the Fisons lace-up one in about 1993/4. It surprised people on my South-West London campus. When had people from the sticks learned to read and write? That sort of thing.
We actually had three Town fans. My shirt 'outed' them. We also had one Scum fan, but they came from Attleborough, so the 'can't read and write' thing was a bit more pertinent. | |
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| The Warky Lg 1 Report: Plymouth Argyle (a) on 08:04 - Dec 7 with 874 views | Westover |
| The Warky Lg 1 Report: Plymouth Argyle (a) on 15:20 - Dec 6 by Seablue |
Brilliant! Turn it into a novel please. |
I would buy it and I don't read books 👠brilliant as always. | | | |
| The Warky Lg 1 Report: Plymouth Argyle (a) on 08:51 - Dec 7 with 838 views | hype313 |
| The Warky Lg 1 Report: Plymouth Argyle (a) on 14:27 - Dec 6 by StochesStotasBlewe |
Genuinely just burst out laughing at George the Hippo.
Thanks Warky, brilliant as always. |
That's made my morning, cheers Warky, I also feel your pain, I'm in a similar state myself with this club.
Feels like unrequited love, had a few of those over the years... [Post edited 7 Dec 2020 8:51]
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| The Warky Lg 1 Report: Plymouth Argyle (a) on 09:21 - Dec 7 with 819 views | MonkeyAlan |
I know how you feel. Win, draw or lose l have no feelings anymore. I just feel empty after 45 years of supporting Town. Sad times indeed. |  | | |
| The Warky Lg 1 Report: Plymouth Argyle (a) on 09:36 - Dec 7 with 806 views | Kitman |
Amusing domestic anecdotal account leaving the reader almost unaware that its a comment on a recent result. Hard to argue with the last para though that brings it abruptly back down to earth. Aren't we all feeling like this currently? |  |
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| The Warky Lg 1 Report: Plymouth Argyle (a) on 17:37 - Dec 7 with 688 views | strikalite |
| The Warky Lg 1 Report: Plymouth Argyle (a) on 15:20 - Dec 6 by Seablue |
Brilliant! Turn it into a novel please. |
You were writing a book weren't you Warky? I'm sure you mentioned it a while ago.. |  | | |
| The Warky Lg 1 Report: Plymouth Argyle (a) on 21:04 - Dec 7 with 605 views | The_Romford_Blue |
Brilliant stuff Warky. I too hope to be back soon but who knows. Perhaps it’ll be many years before I return. I hope not. Your first town game sounds like a fun day out though. Mine was Southend away. We won 4-1 I think.
But more importantly... Romford getting a mention in a Warky Report! These ARE The Days. |  |
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