| The Warky Report: Accrington (H), Wimbledon (A), Sheff Weds (A) 13:27 - Jan 30 with 1017 views | Warkystache |
Jesus. Three matches all in one. Apologies for the lack of a report last week, 'things' happened (not sexual or anything like it, sadly, so if you've come on here hoping to masturbate, I'd wait a bit if I were you).
So last Saturday. Week at work, Paula working all weekend, getting home at seven-thirty, the usual. She nearly beat me home as well. Got to Manningtree station at eleven-forty to catch the 11.49 into Ipswich only to see a double decker bus going back up Cox's Hill rammed with blokes in Town coats and scarfs and bobble-hats. 'Big crowd today', I thought. Accrington as well. Seemed odd. Didn't connect it until the fat controller at Manningtree station met me in the ticket hall to say the next bus to Ipswich was at 12.05pm. "An' it'll take 45 minits to an 'our ter get there" added in a faux apologist style which masked the obvious delight at my slapped-arse face of dejection. I'd be in town by 1pm at the earliest? One and three-quarter hours for at least four pints? Me with my bowels?
When the bus arrived, it went on a kind of Beatle-esque Magical Mystery Tour, back through Lawford past the road leading to my house, back up through Ardleigh, where you always half-expect to see mythical one-eyed creatures cavorting nakedly by bonfires, encouraged on by witches. Even in daylight hours. Then, ominously, through one -track country roads, where every passenger shifted uneasily in their seat, lest the driver should suddenly brake and stop in a gladed clearing and, at gunpoint, order everyone off and then breathlessly b*gger all the men he could comfortably catch against trees.
We had a full tour of Langham as we attempted to find the slip road for the A12, then eased ourselves onto it as cars and lorries furiously beeped us and shot into the fast lane at 100mph to avoid a collision. We looked to be getting a tour of Stratford St Mary as well, until the driver realised he'd left his left-sided indicator on and we spluttered on past the Talbooth, that strange burning smell getting slowly more noticeable for those of us stuck at the back of the bus.
We joined the hordes of traffic at Copdock and then down London Road, crawling past Chantry Park and the red-light district like a regular punter on the lookout, before eventually pulling out in front of oncoming traffic as the lights turned yellow into Ranelagh Road and thence to the station, where, after a few false stops which nearly jolted everyone desperate to get off to their knees, we parked and the doors wooshed open. Forget beer. I needed a stiff brandy.
We won 2-1. I wasn't nearly drunk enough to 'enjoy' the long, dull passages of Accrington hoofing it clear. Deciding that it'd be a rail replacement bus back, I nipped down the Swan for a post-match enlivener or five. Then, nicely steaming, paid £25 for a taxi back to my house. It took half an hour but was probably the best £25 I've ever spent. No 'Summer Holiday' like tours of the Essex border villages.
Saturday night ended limply. Paula was tired after a day at work, and, with another the next day (fortunately only 10am-4.30pm) she ate my lovingly cooked supper monosyllabically and with a permanent yawn. True, we snuggled on the sofa to half-watch some rubbish while indulging in the sort of sweet, innocent little kisses that at least show a bit of willing. I'd recently purloined a bit of marijuana, nothing massive (we're not talking nine-bars or anything; this would've made a Kevin Keegan-style wig for a mouse) and I spent ten minutes rearranging the cupboard-under-the-stairs searching for the bong I once ill-advisedly bought at a folk festival in 1999. Once found and fitted with a bit of bacofoil to hold the grass, I lit it and inhaled and passed it to Paula, who giggled and then had a laughing fit at Foyles War or whatever we'd accidentally switched to at 9pm.
By 11pm, we were talking nonsense and laughing, slit-eyed in stupor. She took my hand and tried to stand up and then fell on me. I laughed at the time (though I've still got a bruise the size of a saucer on my thigh) and then she reached for my belt and fly-zip and I staggered up and led her upstairs, oblivious to the telly still burbling away. She sat on the bed to remove her Morrisons blue skirt and then her tights (laddering one in the process on her nails, for which she turned the air blue momentarily whilst rushing to dress the next morning).
She then invited me to watch her remove her draws, laying back on the bed coquettishly and slipping her finger tips under the cotton hem, drawing them tight around her pudenda and then whisking them off in one flourish, like the magician with the table-cloth. And then, just as I was lifting her legs onto the bed and pulling the duvet back, nearly groin-strained with erection, she fell sound asleep. So that was that.
And Sunday morning we both woke late and she showered and dressed in a blur and raced from the house without even kissing me goodbye. And I took out my pent-up frustration on the house. The bong went straight in the bin. The glass was stained with burn marks and the living room smelt like a cheap doss. I cleaned it all in maniacal fury, even mopping the kitchen floor and changing our bed.
We won again on Tuesday night. I was in Birmingham. A colleague's leaving do. Night in an hotel on my credit card, which is slowly recovering from Christmas. No Paula. It felt strangely like freedom, even though I rang her three times before retiring at 2am in a haze of alcohol and funny sort of heartburny burps. The bed seemed a lot roomier. I spread out like a starfish and woke refreshed at 7am to stand naked in the bath/shower and get peed on by a trickle of hot water, remembering to put the shower curtain inside the tub first lest the floor become sodden.
No mention of Terry yet. He came back from his Braintree 'break' in a bad mood. His in-law's have started house-hunting for a bigger property, which set Mrs Tel off on one for them to do the same. They'd previously discussed buying somewhere big enough for all of them, but this idea thankfully bit the dust when the harsh reality kicked in. I suppose it was inevitable that Mrs Tel would like to live nearer to her brother, his wife and their kids (even though the eldest is at university in Southampton). "Likes spendin' time wivvem" he mumbled, despondently as we sat at the bar on Friday and he'd finished teasing and flirting with the new barmaid.
We didn't go for a curry. I've felt a bit bloated recently and he 'din't fancy anyfing 'ot or spicy like, jus' summink a bit normal', so we had scampi and chips in the pub. With salad. Although he discarded his on my plate with the comment "you like rabbit food duncher?".
He seems in a bit of a down-phase at the moment. He's due to go to Spain in March for two weeks but even the thought of this failed to enliven him. "S'not that I don't fancy it, jus' that me'n'the missus fink diffrent at the moment; she's all inter lookin' at bleedin' 'ouses near Braintree and sorta Halstead way an' as you knar, I'm never gonna move there willingly". He forked a lump of deep-fried into his mouth and chewed distractedly. "I ain't even got a job of work ter keep me mind off it. It's constant, all this".
We got drunk, and he suddenly roused himself and we ended up dancing to the 80's jukebox-cum-karaoke and ended up murdering 'I'm your Man' by Wham, him changing the lyrics to ones which were barely decent and making the assorted rabble by the pool table cheer. And then we won £40 on the fruity for £2 in each and we spent it on treble brandies as they rang for last orders, and Mrs Tel came to collect us at midnight in her Pretenders T-shirt and carpet slippers, a look of "oh god no" slapped across her face. And Tel said "Shame Paula cou'nt make it innit?" and I breathed a silent prayer of thanks that Friday night is her night round her mum's.
Yesterday. All my troubles seemed so far away. I walked for miles. We fell asleep on the settee, Paula and I. We did the last strands of my dope in a rather loosely-rolled joint. I woke at five am freezing to find her rolled next to me in our duvet, snoring. She woke me at seven, with a searching kiss and then placed my hand on her genitals and slowly rubbed against it. Well, it led to something else, as it naturally would, and then we retired to bed, dragging the duvet with us. Fortunately, she had yesterday and today off so we didn't have a mad dash for anything. We finally got up at nine and I went out for a paper, the marijuana still muzzying my head. I walked for miles as one does when stoned. It seemed to take a lifetime. I got back surprised it was only ten-thirty. We had a lazy brunch of eggs benedict and coffee and then showered together and decided to have a day shopping for new bedclothes in Colchester. This took a few hours; Paula also decided she fancied trying a few clothes on in Fenwicks, while I hung around the women's section feeling self-conscious and holding the bags.
We had a pub lunch at 2pm and then drove home for a Chinese takeaway and a delightful evening of The Masked Singer and all that rubbish on the telly. We're going shopping for food in a mo, so I'll leave it there. Suffice to say we lost at Sheffield Wednesday. But the result didn't really mean anything, especially seeing Sunderland got humped 6-0 at Bolton. This is a strange league. Consistency is the key. Hopefully, with McKenna, it may be the start of something beautiful. Next season, I mean. I think we've all given up on this campaign.
So there it is. Still, I'm on leave on Thursday and Friday this week before working next Saturday, so I'll miss Gillingham at home. We should win that, surely? Whatever, I'm sure I'll be back next Sunday for another report. Just hope Tel's in a slightly better mood? |  |
| |  |
| The Warky Report: Accrington (H), Wimbledon (A), Sheff Weds (A) on 15:30 - Jan 30 with 875 views | J2BLUE |
Finally! Just in time for my break. Cheers. |  |
| |
| The Warky Report: Accrington (H), Wimbledon (A), Sheff Weds (A) on 21:39 - Jan 30 with 743 views | Meadowlark |
The Swan?
What? Where? |  | | |
| The Warky Report: Accrington (H), Wimbledon (A), Sheff Weds (A) on 19:52 - Feb 3 with 506 views | SitfcB |
| The Warky Report: Accrington (H), Wimbledon (A), Sheff Weds (A) on 21:39 - Jan 30 by Meadowlark |
The Swan?
What? Where? |
Opposite the Corn Exchange, now called ‘The Swan and Hedgehog’ but everyone still calls it ‘The Swan’. |  |
| |
| The Warky Report: Accrington (H), Wimbledon (A), Sheff Weds (A) on 19:53 - Feb 3 with 501 views | SitfcB |
The few paragraphs about the bus journey had me lol’ing 
And thought you were going to say something else when you said you took your frustration out! Ooo err. | |
| |
| The Warky Report: Accrington (H), Wimbledon (A), Sheff Weds (A) on 21:09 - Feb 3 with 431 views | Meadowlark |
| The Warky Report: Accrington (H), Wimbledon (A), Sheff Weds (A) on 19:52 - Feb 3 by SitfcB |
Opposite the Corn Exchange, now called ‘The Swan and Hedgehog’ but everyone still calls it ‘The Swan’. |
Oh! Just Googled it. Not a pub I've ever noticed before! | | | |
| |
By continuing to use the site, you agree to our use of cookies and to abide by our Terms and Conditions.
