"Anuvver bleedin' Paul" pointed out Tel on Friday, a wry smile etched on his visage, reflecting on a tumultuous week at Portman Road. "Least this'un's got a bit of the ole knowhow. Stop us gaddin' abart in this league like we belong 'ere or summink. Better than ole Lambert managed anyway". He snaffled another twiglet from the serving bowl and crunched it like he was eating coal. "Aven't 'ad one'o' these for years" he muttered after he swallowed, not with any complimentary vein, it has to be said.
Yes, Tel was back, moaning about Meghan Markle and Prince Harry and their forthcoming whinges on CBS. More in a mo. First, it was a week of work, walks and w*nking, not all at once lest I be arrested for lewd behaviour just as lockdown relaxes a bit. The work was plentiful and dutifully dull. I understood where Harry and Meghan were coming from when they said they wanted time away from opening supermarkets and the old flesh press. I wrote two reports this week, both with the sort of dullard detail that makes me switch off when I read others' efforts. These reports are my escape. Hope you're still awake?
The walks were same, but with the hope of seeing more wildlife, following the badger and coypu episodes the week before. Sadly, as the milky sun penetrated the darkness of the woods, the animals sodded off back to bed, and all I saw were the usual suspects; pheasants, wood pigeons, the odd bunch of partridges'a'pecking. Early mornings were a bit warmer and less wet and the dog walkers traded their North Face puffas for fleeces and hoodies.
I saw Des, the old boy I last met over Christmas, out walking his staffie Missy and self-consciously keeping his distance as per the Covid regs. We had a somewhat raised voice conversation from afar, the sort where the other participant doesn't understand a word and you end up shouting like the Town have just scored to make them understand. Then Des gave up and came closer. "Orlroite?" he said, concerned. Yes. Just couldn't make you understand the word 'busier'. "Oh" he said, looking at me askew like I might have had a mental episode. "Yer, well, gets busier this time'or'year dunnett? Not rainin' innert? These people love'rt when it aint rainen' dun'ey?". No wonder he didn't understand me from afar. I barely understood him nearby. We said farewells and Missy nosed my wedding tackle in her own inimitable goodbye.
On Friday, I had the King of unintelligible conversation himself, for an evening of takeaway chinese food and beer and desultory chat. The first hour was much like I'd imagine the Oprah interview will be on Monday; blatant attempts at getting gossip from me, followed by his own 'news' told as cynically as possible. He arrived driven by Mrs Tel, who now drops him at the top of my road so she can hasten back to savour the hours out of his company. At least that's what I suspect.
Before that, I had an email from my boss on Thursday, asking if I fancied a bit of overtime yesterday, just a "few hours, say nine to four thirty to catch us up on the current Hansen project (don't ask - it involves using crap spreadsheets on Excel which need updating to form the basis of an online presentation due next Wednesday) and ensure we're fully up to speed on the budget guidance for business enterprise after April 12th". It made me think joylessly about the things I do to keep myself in fags and Waitrose grub.
So Tel came round, clinking bottles in a Tesco bag for life, dressed in slim-fit Ben Sherman blue check shirt, black Levis and bomber jacket, wearing his new black Converse Chuck Yeager Hi-tops he bought online recently. He looked like an extra from 'Happy Days'.
He decanted the bottles on my kitchen table; one full brandy, two Singha's and a Moretti. He stuck the beers in my fridge, noting the bottles of Asahi and Peroni I picked up in Waitrose earlier in the day. "Gone off Asahi" he said, ungenerously. "Too bleedin' fizzy, makes me burp all evenin'". Fair enough. All the more for me. He had a Peroni, cold from the fridge, flipping the top with his bottle opener. I had a Guinness. The widget rattled in the can as I poured. "That stuff turns my muck black, fought I 'ad gut bleedin' last time I was on an Irish bender" The mind boggled for a few seconds. But he didn't smile at my smirk.
The conversation got on to the Sussexes. I don't know how. "They're takin' the mick if you arsk me" he growled. "Millyonaires an' they still 'ave the cheek ter be snipey. They aint done a day's 'ard work in their lives". He became the walking, talking epitome of the Daily Mail for a good few more minutes. When I got a word in edgeways, I decided to play Devil's Advocate and said how I thought they'd been under pressure to perform things they clearly didn't believe in. He snorted. "Mental bleedin' turmoil, yeah, right, try doin' a day's graft why don' they? Try doin' stuff yer hate ter pay the morgidge". He relapsed into his lager, draining the bottle. "Sides, she was only a bit-part actress in a show no-one this side of Noo York ackchully wotched. Took her opportoonity, din't she?"
We went to collect the Chinese. They had a sign in their car park, marked 'Collect Food Order' in black felt-tip on a bit of white cardboard stuck to a post and pointing at the back of the restaurant. I parked and went over. "Yassir?" said an unsmiling face. I gave my name and the code they'd given me for the order, hurriedly scrawled on a post-it note I keep by the phone at home for such occasions. The face (it was a woman, I saw, as she turned to reveal long hair in a tight bun under a chef's hat) disappeared into the murk and reappeared a few minutes later with three white plastic bags and a card reader. "Fawty free parnd fiftfour" she said. She pointed at the receipt stapled to the first bag. It had a load of chinese characters in a line and then £43.54 at the top. I did tap and go on the machine. It made a noise like on 'Family Fortunes' when the answer was wrong. "No good, try again" she said. I tried again. This time it went 'ping'. "Fankyew" she said and withdrew. I walked back to the car with my bags. They smelt good. Sort of sweet and gravy-like.
They forgot our Saucy Ribs, but we couldn't be arsed to drive back to demand them. It was a good takeaway nonetheless. We had extra pancakes with the half Peking duck and they'd also given us an extra pineapple fried rice. We ate in the kitchen, messily, dropping bits everywhere and commenting on how nice the pineapple fried rice was compared to the normal egg fried. We ate everything. No little extras for breakfast on Saturday. Then we watched Top of the Pops 1981 and Tel relived his youth a bit. "Bleedin' youf! I was nearly twenny in '81! Going' steady wiv the missus. Cor, I tell ya, we were at it like knives back in them days. I still get a bit randy when I 'ear that Night Birds by Shakatakatak or whatever they was called". Shakin' Stevens? I said. "Nah, bleedin' Shakin' Stevens,'e just did crap Elvis stuff".
Mrs Tel called at 10pm. She gave me the customary hug and peck on the cheek. She smelt of Anais Anais and Lenor. Her hair has grown up rather than out, so it looks bushier then long. Gone are the tints and feather cut lines. She'll be glad when April comes in.
They drove off, smiles and waves. Tel left the rest of the brandy, a good two thirds of it, so I had another and watched the telly. Ended up asleep in the chair. Woke at three am and there was some kind of crap casino thing on. Switched off and went to bed with a stiff neck and brandy drool in the corners of my mouth.
I didn't pay the tenner. Tel was busy yesterday. He's looking for a gardener to help him build a fountain in their garden. I was working as well. I had my lunch between 1pm and 2pm, bored with Excel spreadsheets and even more bored by the stats I had to update. We didn't sound all that great and I left it at 2pm to start work again. By the time I'd finished, we'd lost 3-1. So the new manager bounce only happens to everyone else, apparently. Oh well. On to Tuesday.
I had a walk yesterday evening, not feeling hungry and to dust away the cobwebs of work and 3-1 defeats to teams as crap as Gillingham. Evenings are better than mornings. No dog walkers and more wild things. I saw a hare, and a buzzard, and a barn owl flying, ghost-like, on the prowl for mice. It was still and fresh and slightly eerie, with the mist from the river hanging over the trees in the distance so they seemed to be floating on a rolling white sea. Had I seen ghosts, I'd've scarcely been that surprised.
The brandy has nearly all gone. Must be osmosis. |  |
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