| A Warky Summer: If we get through for two minutes only, it will be a start 11:40 - May 19 with 772 views | Warkystache |
Welcome back.
The dust settles. The choking blue flares, the acquiescence of scum failure, languid mornings spent debating line-ups over plastic pint pots in a dusty pub, the digital fruit machines blinking, the queues for service, the terrible-looking food served on chipped blue plates, no more for a while, replaced by pre-season boredom and gardening and days which promise but seldom deliver the heat that many around here dressed for.
Terry and I sat in the beer garden yesterday. It wasn't particularly salubrious. It puts in mind the 80's TV series 'The Day of the Triffids', perhaps crossed with a bit of Withnail and then with a soupçon of 'Robin of Sherwood' chucked askance. I think it might be the beards and the return of the mullet. Maid Marian sports full sleeve tattoos and slurps Kopparberg from the bottle. The nettles loom menacingly. The language is estuary, a bit of broad Jamaicanesque London chucked here and there, The days of Gertcha and dropped aitches replaced as inexorably as the Harwich/Sufferk burr has been diluted. Tel thought he saw an ant. It turned out to be a very small spider.
The Terries fly to Turkey in a week. Heat, five-star all inclusion, a nice room with a balcony overlooking the sizeable pool which has a swim-to bar. All viewed on his phone, along with the booking-in code and the breakfast buffet times. He swilled his Estrella and boasted about how they were flying business class there and back, despite the journey taking four hours. Bit of a waste just for a few glasses of complimentary Piper Heidsieck and an uncomfortable-looking double berth set up. I didn't say anything though. He patted himself on the back, even though Tony has done all the bookings.
We both attended on the fourth. Huddersfield at home, the nerves jangling, the pub crowded. Have I done a report about that? I'll have to check. Anyway, you probably all went so remember the occasion. We went down the pub after the game, getting out of Ipswich at five to continue drinking in slightly more comfort in Manningtree, the headaches just starting to bite. Celebrations are grand but they're also a bit taxing when you're barely used to one in a decade, let alone two in two years.
"Niver fugget that" said Tel yesterday, two weeks on from the glory. I nodded. We'd been reflecting on the team's fortunes, sharing reminiscences of Mick McCarthy and Paul Lambert, the days when you needed to be pissed before the game to stand a chance of suffering it. Then the memories became personal; Tel harked back to the shop and Paula and Mickey and the days before them when he and the wife ran it all and never had a holiday. Of the customers he'd come to know, me included, and the days when he'd worried so much about his finances that he'd been forced to expand. We laughed a lot, even though he admitted it wasn't very funny at the time.
Now, well, things have changed for the better. He's wealthy. He can afford not to work, to take up golf or some costly hobby (even though he rates golf slightly lower than he rates Norwich's chances of promotion next season). We've lost contact with a few. Paula is now the seldom-seen kid. She's de-friended me on Facebook. She doesn't contact Terry any more. It may be embarrassment over the money he's lent her which he hasn't received back. He treats this with unconcern. "Coupl'a'fousand" he said, dismissing the subject with a raised eyebrow and a slurp of beer.
I haven't heard from Paula since March when she was living in Harwich with her sister. But I saw her sister in the pub in late April and she told me, after an initially frosty start, that Paula had moved to a place in South Ockendon to live with a friend and she hadn't been heard of since. The baby was fine. Ironically, her ex, Blake, has just announced the birth of his first child, a son, with his partner on Terry's WhatsApp. "E's callin' 'im Spike" said Tel. Blake now lives in Bishops Stortford. Good for him.
So we had a curry and then went back to the pub for a nightcap and he was picked up by Mrs Tel (Ramones T-shirt, blue denim bomber jacket, black jeans, blue Skechers slip-on's, enough Anais Anais to re-coat the saloon bar) and he waved goodbye for three weeks and promised to remember that we were meeting in Halstead for a drink on June 8th to finalise our Euro 2024 watching plans. And with that, he was gone. I hope he likes Turkey.
I'm thinking of quitting smoking again. This cough's getting on my wick. So's the constant entreaties from colleagues, friends and family to see the doctor. I'll probably make an appointment soon enough. When I've got time, and that.
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