I went. To a cup game. Through the wet, the lights reflected as though the first boatman saw the Titanic and then the bodies, lifeless, floating towards the turnstiles. The burger vans weren't doing much, so I guessed it wasn't a league game. In fact, had I already not known we were playing a village in the Peaks, I'd've thought it was a reserve fixture.
FA Cup games must be a disappointment for the local boozers at least. Mine, the regular spot, was a quarter full, mainly people who seemed to have gone Christmas shopping and then decided on a swift half before they went home for dinner. Bags from Boots and Marks and HMV and The Body Shop, filled with pre-wrapped shiny rolls of paper and that Brut gift-set for Grandad, perhaps some drawer-liners for Granny or a box of cheap chocolate selections, the cardboard a greater ingredient than cocoa. I'm sorry. I should like Christmas more, but I try, and I don't.
Needless to add, Terry went to Braintree. They saw some flick at Freeport last night. He texted this morning, back tomorrow, might've found another house they like, wife's fine. He didn't spell it like that, of course. But it made a certain sense when read aloud in the manner of Mike Reid.
I didn't bother getting him a ticket. I also fancied Spain v Germany on the telly, but then the soporific apathy got to me at lunch time and I decided to drive in, just have a Coke and a late lunch in the Ipswich local. So I did. Paula was working, although she's off next weekend so we're going Christmas shopping ourselves. I can't make Friday now. One of our joint Xmas works do's, hers at Maldon and she's already asked for a lift home. I'm taking her to Maldon at 6.30pm and then picking her up at 1am. I don't know what Maldon nightlife is like; last time I went it was all shopping centres and quiet sobriety.
I got to the ground at 4.45pm. All I could hear were the Buxton fans and they seemed a jolly lot. I met a few in town beforehand and they were saying what a good trip they'd had down. One bloke said he'd make it back in time to get to bed before work in the morning. I wished I had commitment like that. Mine's slowly flaked like white paint on an old gate.
I didn't get my usual seat, but plumped for Sir Alf lower and sat with a knot of supporters who came from Hadleigh and had brought their own picnic, judging by the cling-film wrapped sarnies and Blue Ribands the mother kept pulling from her rucksack. Still, their enthusiasm was a nice change to the usual drink-fuelled mealy-mouthed pithy comments we usually get for a league game in Sir Bobby Lower. The son, a lad of around ten, was clearly attending his first 'live' game at PR and drank in his surroundings, admiring the greenness of the grass and the electric advertising boards and the pomp of Stephen Foster's match announcements. I remembered back to my first game. 1984. Sunderland at home. I too was ten. I envied him the freshness of it all, but then I remembered the times when I wished I'd been anywhere but the game and I sympathised a bit as well.
It was a dead atmosphere and for large parts you could converse happily in your everyday voice. Chaplin smashed a beauty and then someone floated a cross over and the Gas Man paid back a fraction of the £200k we spent on him by stabbing it over the line. Half-time. 2-0. Off for a Bovril.
We scored once more and looked far, far superior to Buxton, although they had a few moments. I left before the final whistle and walked back to the car which I'd parked by the Maltings for a quick getaway. BBC Radio Suffolk jagged on as I drove away and they were still playing, but it sounded like we'd notched a fourth. Then the final whistle blew as I got under the railway bridge on the Whersted Road and I switched over to Greatest Hits Gold and they played Smooth Operator by Sade and then Self-Control by Laura Brannigan, and I headed home humming.
I was glad I went. It made a nice break despite the weather and the shopping hordes. Tel rang me as I got into Brantham and said he'd had "a rearly nice weekend, like, Tone and me went down 'is local for a few on Sat'dy arternoon and we went into Freeport for a film. That was tosh by the way. summink about a Menu wiv 'im 'oo played the baddie in 'Arry Pottah. Still, Sandy'n'the missus liked it. Fink we might've farnd somewhere'n'all, Great Notley, bungalow wiv two bedrooms on a private estate, godda outdoor pool in the garden an' a 'ot tub fingy. Godda go, mate. Be callin' yer in the week fer Friday, fancy a curry an' a few, tell yer all abart it".
He rang off as I got to the top of our road. Paula was home, her car in the drive. I let myself in with my key and she was in the kitchen preparing a ploughman's supper for us both (french bread, pate, pickled onions, bit of cheddar, few grapes) and texting someone, a friend from the store she's working at called Milly who sounds like a bit of a party animal (she's 25 and apparently has her own Cabriolet and a flat in Grays and goes out about twenty times a month on the lash - I rolled my eyes at this a bit. Surely Paula's getting too old for 'friends' like that?) and then I nearly said something that sounded like my dad used to say to me when I was that age and up for a few nights out, and I bit my tongue and smiled as P related all this, and then felt like I was 70. And she's gone to bed already to watch her Netflix shows she likes (Emily in Paris?) leaving me down here typing this and sipping a whisky and wondering.
Back to work on Monday then. Set the alarm for 5am and I've already ironed my shirts for the week and got my phone on charge ready. And the needle hits the groove and the same old songs play on, like an ear worm, and nothing changes or will change unless I do the changing and I just can't at the moment. Can't raise the enthusiasm or the necessary words. But it'll happen one day soon. I can't carry on like this. I can feel something in me slowly starting to die but it never shows itself, so I can't look at it and do the necessary resuscitation.
See you soon. |  |
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