| The Warky 2020Euro Report: Ukraine (A) and the Germans (H) 12:13 - Jul 4 with 784 views | Warkystache |
"E's playin' Rice again" said Tel with all the inflected bitterness of a woman scorned.
Tuesday night, Chez Terry, takeaway on order for delivery at seven thirty when the game finished; the menus scattered on the table for the local pizza place ("never fancy pizza, iss like cheese on wet car'board innit?"), the local Indian ("their chicken's like bleedin' sparra. Their Vindaloo aint hot eiver") and the eventual winner, the local kebabery, whose menu had pictures, glorious, dripping fat pictures, of kebabs and something called a 'treble top burger' which came 'topped with your choice of three extras: chilli,bacon, montarey (sic) jack, onion ring, hash brown, chedder (again, sic), donor meat (who the donor was we never knew) or something called shashlik. If the food tasted as good as the spelling, we expected to be sat on the bog with a bucket in our laps for the 8pm game.
We won 2-0. I expect you knew that already. Tel knocked back beer in between general slaggings of the German team, their country and the two world wars. He veered from WW2 Government propaganda posters ("can't never trust 'em, the krauts, take over merchants. Thass why we left the EU") to outright slander ("Merkel means 'mucker' in German, betchoo never noo that?").
Mrs Tel came in to watch sporadically, then found something better to do, like clean the kitchen floor or put some Chinese starters in the oven. She joined me in a cigarette at half-time, pinny on (map of Marbella with the words Hola Marbella written in slanting text across the middle) and clutching an official Coke glass filled with a pinkish-tinted liquid which turned out to be cherry lemonade. She exhaled the smoke from her nostrils and sat in one of the easy chairs on the patio, tapping her ash into the flowerpots and remarking that the football was "a bit borin'". She wore stonewash Levis and a blue gingham check shirt. She told me about Sandy and Tony, her brother-in-law. "Goin' ter Portugal in September, jus' the two of 'em" she said wistfully. "Asked us to join 'em, like, but 'e (here she jerked her head in the direction of the lounge) won' go. Said 'e wants us ter go back ter Spain nex' year instead". The sigh in her voice was reflective of her disappointment.
Tel said later that he "din't like Porchoogall". He said it dismissively, without confirming or denying Mrs Tel's earlier claims. He said it in conjunction with the commentator on the telly saying that all of the 'Group of Death' participants were now out of the competition: The Germans, the French and of course Portugal. He wasn't ecstatic as the final whistle confirmed an English victory over the old enemy, but he did smile and clench a fist. The doorbell went as we were talking about which side we'd fancy in the Quarters. The swarthy bloke with the heated pouch on the doorstep took Tel's thirty quid and decanted polystyrene boxes full of lukewarm french fries, Greek salad, large rubbery-looking, sweaty kebabs and Tel's double bacon cheeseburger, the fried onions spilling down the sides like rocks in a landslide.
That was Tuesday. I survived the sheek kebab and fries. They'd killed any likely bacterium by loading it with chilli sauce. It tasted like rubber strips in lava. The raw onion just added to the mix.
On Friday we went for a Chinese. Tel had crispy seaweed and spare ribs as his starter. He looked like the bastard child of the Creature from the Black Lagoon when he'd finished; wispy strands of seaweed adhering to red spare rib sauce waved around his chin and moustache line. The peking duck arrived and with it the straw basket of pancakes and the platter of cucumber, spring onion and hoi sin sauce. He distracted me by asking whether I thought the Town would sign more players, as we'd talked about the rumours earlier in the evening. My answer meant I lost out on the majority of the pancakes and best bits of the duck. Still, I quite like the skin and the wobblier bits.
We ended in the non-local; that is to say the pub we're not so keen on as it a) doesn't have a telly and b) caters for the middle-class gravy eaters and the primly dressed bar staff discourage the non-booker. We scorned the beer for brandies and the odd Southern Comfort apiece. Each came in a twee little tumbler with a rounded bottom and the pub name etched on the glass. I thought Tel would scream and leg it, but he never said a thing. Normally, he hates pubs like this. The smell of recent roast-and-gravy dinners interspersed with the occasional tings of cutlery on plates and the genteel murmurs of conversation from the dining tables as folks tucked into banana split puds and sipped their filter coffees.
Saturday was better. I got up early and had a walk, a brisk six-miler with the early promise of a humid day, the sun peeking through Constable skies. No dog walkers. Probably still a-bed at seven am, their dogs restlessly pacing the kitchen for a stroll and a gambol. No hikers either, that curious breed of cagouled, rustling, trouser-leg-in-sock and Karrimor rucksacked non-conversationalist. No brand-new looking walking sticks or long pauses in the middle of footpaths to unfurl OS maps. Just me, the birds wheeling across the fields and the river and the breezes riffling the grasses and the trees.
Shopping at two after the housework. Spent eighty quid of my hard-earned on groceries and cleaning products and shower products and beer. Home at five, put away the shopping, had a beer and watched the Spanish progress to a tricky semi-final with the Italians. Then I left for the pub at seven.
Tel was already in situ. We'd drawn the short straw, the table near the faux wooden beams, so that we both had to sit at the far end to see the telly or risk severe back contortions to see the left hand side of the pitch. We ordered pints and a bowl of chips and chicken to share. The teams entered the Roman gladiatorial stadium just as the waitress was settling down the chicken platter, wings, drumsticks, popcorn bits and what looked like Table Mountain but was in fact breast meat cut finely, all covered in their hot sauce. Tel spluttered as the national anthem of the Ukraine was played but this was less jingoism, more a case of too much hot sauce. He drank half his pint in penance.
"Playin' crap again..." he started to point out, just as Sterling chipped a lovely ball in to Kane and BOOM, 1-0, eruptions from the England retro shirts near the big screen out the back and the occasional quick fizzle of thrown lager top as it arched in the air. We were sat too far from the action to be covered, but Tel tutted and said something about "'S'only the bleedin' Russia wannabees". Half time came and he carried on muttering as he joined the scrum for the bogs. "Only one bleedin' nil innit?" he said to anyone listening.
The second half started just as we'd moved on to the shorts. "Too much gas in the beer 'ere" said Tel belching lightly after swilling his fourth pint back. We had large brandies on the rocks, Courvoisier, a name Tel can never say, so he contents himself by ordering 'Curvesee brandy'. To be fair to the bar staff, they get it.
We went from one to three quite quickly. "'Ope the Yookrankies defend better against the Russians" said Tel, drawing a brief guffaw from the table next door. Then Hendo notched a fourth and then everything went back to backwards, sideways, tippy-tappy English possession and our minds wandered and we discussed Mrs Tel's hopes of Portguese Getaways in September. And Tel said "nope, told 'er I dun like Porchoogal an' I don't fancy two weeks win Tone and Sandy eiver, we'd be walkin' round every tourist trap known ter man". And that was the last, definitive word. Still, he's happy to take Mrs Tel to Spain when allowed. "Marbella' he said, beaming. "Or possibly Costa Brava, dunno yet".
And we looked at our respective mobiles and swallowed our drinks until the ice hit our front teeth, and we soaked up the celebratory atmosphere as man-boys in their England shirts, big drips of spilt or thrown lager down the front, took selfies of them and their mates in front of the big screen with the score behind them or started the Three Lions chant, or generally jumped in huddles in the middle of the beer garden. Then Tel said "nex' games Wensdy, down 'ere again is it?" and I nodded, and thought I'd take a Gaviscon or two before I tackled the chicken combo again.
We're looking to sign Celina as well. What a day!!
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| The Warky 2020Euro Report: Ukraine (A) and the Germans (H) on 12:37 - Jul 4 with 717 views | Westover |
Excellent as always ðŸ‘ðŸ‘ðŸ‘👠|  | | |
| The Warky 2020Euro Report: Ukraine (A) and the Germans (H) on 13:46 - Jul 4 with 651 views | Ftnfwest |
Tel? Moustache line? Is that just a line or an actual moustache? I’m sort of seeing him as an older version of walker the spiv from dads army! |  | | |
| The Warky 2020Euro Report: Ukraine (A) and the Germans (H) on 14:45 - Jul 4 with 594 views | Warkystache |
| The Warky 2020Euro Report: Ukraine (A) and the Germans (H) on 13:46 - Jul 4 by Ftnfwest |
Tel? Moustache line? Is that just a line or an actual moustache? I’m sort of seeing him as an older version of walker the spiv from dads army! |
He's got heavy five o'clock shadow on his top lip. Think he's more a less grey Michael Barrymore, same eyes, almost the same hairline. | |
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