| The Warky Premier Report: Bournemuff (H) 20:25 - Dec 9 with 954 views | Warkystache |
It’s been a while. I’m sorry and all that but it wasn’t really my fault. Or it was, but it was also circumstances.
People who know me said “Why are you writing a book?” and I said I didn’t know. It’s the easiest of all the easy responses. Lest you be shanghaied into then explaining plot and characterisation and the amount of shagging in it. I can’t do that. There’s no shagging. Or if there is, I haven’t written it yet. I can’t give anything away because there isn’t much to give.
Fortunately, there’s not any football in it, which is handy because I’ve been maudlin enough lately. The win against Spurs seems a long, long time ago. The draw against Man United should’ve been a win. We all know it. Yesterday should have been our third win, except that may be pushing it. Bournemouth played quite well second half.
So, book-writing. In between working full-time, housework, shopping, Ipswich Town FC and Terry and the other plethora of social functions. Emboldened by Christmas, people throw functions around like confetti. Dinner here, a concert there, a few drinks shoe-horned in for luck. It’s not that I’m a miserable anti-social outcast. But as I age, the joys of Christmas escape further out the back door and run to my neighbours. Even the Octogenarians festoon their bungalows in twinkly blue lights and fake icicles.
My neighbour (82 although she still goes for a perm every week and she won’t be needing her winter fuel payment any time soon, judging by her twice-weekly delivery from Waitrose) is shortly off to Paignton to spend Christmas with her daughter, son-in-law and grandkids and great grandkids. They’re collecting her a week on Saturday, the 21st, our home game v Newcastle. I was summoned to be asked to accept her spare housekeys so I can keep an eye on her hydrangeas and various other plants she pointed at as we toured her abode. Some need watering. She did say which ones, but I’ve forgotten. Which means they’ll all get a bit of a soaking regardless.
She’s done the local WI Tinsel’n’Turkey bonanza. That was in November. Their Xmas jumble sale and mince pie spectacular is next Saturday. She invited me; and the knowing look she gave as she did made me feel both ancient and humbug. It’s 10 til 3. I’m currently sporting a poster advertising the fact in my front window. “Might get some cheap Christmas presents for your dad” she said, kindly. Although what he’d do with a 10,000 piece jigsaw of pastoral bunnies, or a set of velour pyjamas is anyone’s guess. Still. Might send Terry. He’s the older woman’s bit of rough, after all.
Book-writing. It’s hard. Brain drain completed, it’s now a case of chronological timings and the odd funny bit which, when read back, seems less funny than intended. So out comes the faithful red marker. I wish I could do it on some of these, but I find these easier to write on Apple Mac. The book is handwritten, because that’s how it started. Too much brandy one evening and a couple of big reporter’s A4 sized notepads and a working biro and away we went.
It makes plotting easier. I mean, like a lot of things in life, they’re not really spontaneous. They suffer if they are. I can’t imagine McKenna just pointing the team at the pitch and saying “go on lads”, it wouldn’t work. They need training and set-pieces and other stuff I used to do in my early twenties when I played at the basic amateur level and then only got to be the sub. Usually because I had the biggest hangover. Being the sub isn’t so bad though. You can have a fag. You can nip off early to use up all the hot water in the showers. You can gently knead the old hamstrings and sit listening to your manager having his weekly anger explosion at misplaced passes or players going in two-footed on the little bloke on the wing and then costing the club a fiver in fines. On cold, wet Sunday afternoons, when the only thing that hurts more than getting the ball smacked into your chubby thighs is running out of cigarettes and having to run the five hundred-odd yards to the local shop for forty more (“oh and get us a can’o’ Irn Bru and two twixes while you’re there, here’s a twenty, I want change mind”) it was nice just to sit and idly watch others get muddy in the pursuit of manliness.
So it’s difficult. Not as difficult as some jobs I’ve had, though. Terry thinks all writers are gay. Except Andy McNab. And Jeremy Clarkson. Although he’s convinced the latter doesn’t actually write his own books.
Oh, Terry. Well, that’s been the light of days when Ipswich have drawn or lost and we’ve come out of Portman Road with that aggressive sense of belligerence that denotes frustration around these parts. He has the knack of voicing what you’re thinking, albeit you’d never actually voice because it all seems so obvious. So for weeks we’ve spent the train journey back debating two up front and “ah’d drop Sammie, me. Bleedin’ ineffective” or “That Muric needs a good kick up the jacksie. Bleedin’ ‘ell. Tellin’ me thass a Premier bleeding league keeper? We ‘ad a kid wiv that falidomide at primary school and ‘e’d’ve saved that”.
So it was again versus Bournemouth yesterday. A nice few drinks while we watched the trees do the Agadoo and then the YMCA outside; Tel sat in the window asking why we were playing Chaplin when it was obvious we needed someone taller than a dwarf up front to counter the wind. As the empty plastic glasses grew, so did his opinions. He’s had further contact from Paula. She’s moved to Colchester. Living with a bloke. Working as a temporary Assistant Manager at some crap supermarket. Her new bloke’s mum looks after the baby. Could he lend her five hundred quid for next month’s rent? Have I sold my house yet? What, not even on the market? Is he not moving then? Why? Tell ‘Im not to forget about me if he does. Blah, blah bleedin’ blah as Tel ended the tale. Still, he gave her the £500. Mug I said. “Eh?” he retorted. But he hadn’t quite heard so I kept quiet. He’s not the greatest person to argue against.
The game came and went, as did we. Mrs Tel collected him from Manningtree station and dropped me home. They wouldn’t come in. She’d been to Thorpe for her spa day at the Lighthouse there. She glowed, and smelt faintly of flower-scented creams and salves. Dressed in her so-called ‘slob sundy” stuff, she still looked almost immaculate; dark blue Clash T-shirt, pale blue leather jacket, black jeans, moccasins. She’s ageing gracefully. She’s actually sixty-one early next year. Ageless. Except for the crow’s feet and the wrinkly backs of her hands.
I’ll try to make these more regular in future. I really will. I promise, sort of. |  |
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| The Warky Premier Report: Bournemuff (H) on 20:53 - Dec 9 with 903 views | FullerFlavour |
Good to see you yesterday mate on the way from Manningtree. Reminiscing over our dearly departed friend evoked some great memories. |  | | |
| The Warky Premier Report: Bournemuff (H) on 21:04 - Dec 9 with 837 views | BanksterDebtSlave |
You're back and Miss Slave has a smile on her vizog again, " not too football heavy." |  |
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