Anglophilia has hit this corner of North East Essex. I'm not sure it ever really left. St George's flags adorn windows and hedges around these parts; oft accompanied by the Estuary-English cry of "Come on Ingerland". Dog walkers wear the three lions with pride. The current vogue for the 80's Admiral red and blue epaulettes has hit people too tight to part with seventy quid for a new shirt. But these look new and so incongruous in their turn. It reminds me of folk at the Town who still wear their Fisons home shirts thirty-odd years after they were fashionable.
The only people immune are the regulars; the old dears in their blue macs and shopping trolleys on wheels, the older drinkers sat at the bar reflecting on lives through the foam of a pint of best, their vest, shirt and tie combo still de rigeur since their days of National Service and conformism. And Tel and I. We don't do football tops. I haven't worn one since the mid '90's, and that was the much-hated bleach-look home one that even Taricco couldn't make sexy. Tel has an England t-shirt he bought cheap from JD Sports in Clacton Factory Village after we exited the 2014 World Cup. It rarely makes an appearance these days. "I've worn it in bed once or twice" he admitted to me a while back. Mental images of he and Mrs Tel 'at it' while he wears it have impinged my mind a few times since.
After the high of the Ukraine game, we pre-planned our semi-final with the intricacy of D-Day. Pub table booked, food pre-ordered for 6pm, even the planned assault on the pub quiz machine which Jamie the Landlord has thoughtfully switched back on so that mugs like us can hammer it with loose change. The pub quiz machine is becoming a relic in itself; its "Who wants to be a Millionaire" still features Chris Tarrant, and it pretends Anne Robinson hasn't set foot near Countdown and is still doing "The Weakest Link". The newest game, 'The Chase', is harder than many Mensa tests once you start talking money.
I arrived on Wednesday at 5pm as pre-arranged with Tel, who was absent. I ordered the first pint, relieved to see our table with a metal 'Reserved' sign on it, the one furthest from the big screen where, as experience told us from Saturday, the beer-throwers tended to congregate.
Pint in hand and the top inch supped, I wandered over to the quiz machine, lonely as a cloud, the Tel-less state still holding fast. I slipped two pound coins in and they didn't immediately fall through the coin slot. A firm, but respectable bang with flat of hand on the slot and an empty-sounding clank and we were in business. As in most episodes of 'Who wants to be a Millionaire', the early rounds were piss-easy. Soon I was heading to the money, the £32000 question which winked the promise of a quid. I knew the answer. Then I guessed on the £640000 for two quid and guessed correctly. Then the £1250000 for three quid flashed up 'What was the name of the Inn the pilgrims left from in The Canterbury Tales?" and I knew it was the Tabard, having been deeply bored writing a thesis on The Knight's Tale at University. Three quid!
Then something happened. Something stupid. I collected the three quid. Then realised I knew the answer to the £250000 question after all. For a fiver. A fiver. The Angel Falls were in Venezuela. Not South Africa. Not Peru. Not Brazil.
Chastened, I switched WWTBAM off and lost the other quid playing The Chase, which took me to within two questions of a quid then asked me about battles in the American Civil War.
Tel arrived as I returned to our table, the three quid nefariously jangling in my pocket along with house keys and assorted bits of loose change. "Orlrite?" he said in greeting. "Sorry ah'm late like, wife 'ad ter nip ter Tesco on the way". I ordered him a pint and me another and paid using the tainted three quid and a dirty crumpled fiver I found buried deep in the clefts of my pocket. He stood at the bar in his face-mask, doing muffled innuendo with the visored bar maid.
The telly was switched on at 6pm for the build-up. The sound was muted, a relief as Roy Keane gurned and scowled, his mouth moving aimlessly. Tel sank his first pint and was up at the bar before I'd managed half of mine. He returned, amid jolly laughter and a wink at Cheryl the barmaid. The old boy in the corner smirking. Two England-shirted younger lads sharing a good belly laugh. He was still smiling enigmatically like the Mona Lisa as he rejoined me. "Bleedin' sods them lads" was all he said by way of explanation.
My Club England sandwich arrived, secured by a cocktail stick, on a plate the size of a cartwheel. The french fries were plentiful and scalding hot. The ramekin of curried coleslaw rattled as the visored bar steward set it down. Tel looked critically at it. Then he nicked the biggest french fry and dipped it in the coleslaw. "Mmmm, not bad" he added after masticating. The sandwich looked like something Shaggy would knock up in 'Scooby-Doo'. To be swallowed whole, lengthways. I pulled out the cocktail stick and it collapsed like a deck of cards. "Wouldn't'a'done that" advised Tel as the bread slipped apart to reveal a car crash of meats, salad bits and various sauces which leaked and drooled over the nearest fries.
It was bloody good though. Fortunately, Tel's steak arrived before he could further assault my chips, and he snickered while pouring the pot of peppercorn sauce over the meat, a brown speckled slick. "This is wot you should'a had" he pointed out, cutting his meat with a sharp blade and admiring the pink and the bloody miasma which spilled out of the darkened crust.
We finished eating and ordered one more pint each, intending to move on to brandies once the dessert had been eaten. He chose the trio of ice creams with meringue and strawberries. I had the New York cheesecake with toffee sauce. It tasted bland and was solid. I ate a bit and then admitted defeat. Tel finished it for me, alternating between ice creams and the cheesecake.
The game started just as we were revelling in our second brandy. The cheers and the badly-sung national anthem died down as we attacked early. Then we gave away a tame free-kick and one of the Danes, a lad who looked about twelve, smashed it over Pickford and we were 1-0 down. The pub quietened. The pub was bemoaning Pickford. "Should 'ave bleedin' saved that" was the general opinion from the front.
We equalised amidst the worst of the rancour. The fears of another cheap defeat from England in a big game were slowly percolating thick minds. Then Sako beat the offside trap and crossed low and BOOM, in it went and the lagers arched in the air and landed in globby splats on the fake slate tiling and folks were covering each other in celebration. The bar staff smiled politely, probably reaching for the buckets and mops.
Half-time brought relief in the form of queues for the bogs and at the bar. Tel put a quid in the quiz machine and played "The Chase". He retired, confounded after three rounds and blamed me for not knowing who had a hit in 2005 with 'Goodies'. He went for Bill Oddie.
Second half. It was a bit dull. Loads of backwards and sideways passes and a lack of threat from the Danes who looked a bit overawed. Tel told me a story about Mrs Tel and her asking him to reconsider not going on the Portugal holiday with Tony and Sandy next month. "An' I told 'er, sorta don't be 'avin' a go now, yer knar we wunt enjoy ourselves like we do in Marbella". He sounded firm. Then he said "But ah value me life too much, yer knar? She's got 'er 'eart set on it an' she'll be a pain in the jacksy if ah keep sayin' no, so I told 'er yes an' we're goin' on the seventeenf August for a week". He smiled and winked at me. It was a craven backdown. I was surprised. "Still, she's bin all sweetness and light, like, since I told 'er" he said, slightly defensively at my reaction.
Extra time. We won a penalty that looked softer every time they replayed it from every conceivable angle. Kane took it, waited with his monobrow flexed in concentration. He missed, then he scored the rebound. The "Oh" and the "Yeeeeeeessss" erupted almost simultaneously from the now-tipsy hordes. Even we joined in the group hugs this time. I was covered in Stella Artois. I washed my shirt twice and it still smells vaguely hoppy.
So too tonight. And here's where the problem lies. Tel's in Braintree, adding his wife and he to the travel itinerary for Portugal at the travel agency, same hotel, same flights, same old. They're staying for Sunday lunch and watching the game at Tony's before retiring to their spare room and returning on Monday. He was apologetic when he told me on Friday. We'd planned a great night. But then I've got work tomorrow and a full diary, and Italy will be a different kettle of fish, and, and, and....So I'm watching it at home. Shame. But I've got a load of beer and brandy and grub in. So it's not a hardship as such.
No reserved table at the boozer tonight. Perhaps someone else will have the pleasure instead? Just don't try the quiz machine, eh? |  |
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