We weren’t much impressed, Tel & !. The day started well but the football just got in the way. As has been customary lately.
Welcome back. To be honest, I’m not sure why you’ve come? I can write of stuff to take minds off impending relegation, but we’re all realists at heart. We still hurt or are angry. Perhaps we all need a soothing bout of escapism? There used to be a children’s TV programme called ‘Let’s Pretend’ when I was a nipper. It comprised of a slinky looking worm on two sticks that made synthesised noises. It wasn’t Roobarb, or Camberwick Green, or Mr Benn and I could usually foment better pretends than it ever dreamed of, my nine-year-old self being used to solitary imagination by then. Only child, you see. We got good at being in our own company.
I used to pretend I was Paul Cooper in the playground or when playing for my primary school football team. This was useful when in goal, but soon became wearisome when required to play any other position, usually goal-hanger or somewhere vaguely on the wing, chatting to spectators and generally avoiding the worst of the action, which was a ‘Benny Hill’ style chase of kids with too-tight shorts running after a slightly sturdier kid who had the ball. Even the ‘Yakkity Sax’ theme tune made sense. Trouble was, I didn’t respond to being Steve McCall or Kevin O’Callaghan. Steve was a strange looking bloke. Kev deliberately volunteered to have his arm broken in ‘Escape to Victory’. They weren’t the best role models. I was more than capable of breaking my own arm, as happened twice, once on the swings when we attempted jumps from daft heights and once when roller-skating. On concrete. Very hard concrete.
Terry told me a story of a kid who had to be taken to hospital in 1971 after he jumped off the coal-shed roof and landed on his head. He exaggerated, of course. I highly doubt the blood looked like the scene in the Shining when the lift doors opened. He’d have been dead, rather than a retired executive now ensconced in the Canaries. “Blood bleedin’ everywhere” said Tel, in awe. “They ‘ad to clean it up wiv a big mop and sluice it down with Jeyes”. He also knew a young lad who ripped his scrotum on a barbed wire fence, but I won’t bother telling you that one. It evinced ooh’s and winces despite being over fifty years ago.
He arrived early yesterday; Mrs Tel had a Zumba class and then a pool exercise thing at The Lifehouse Spa. Then she and Sandy were lunching in Frinton-on-Sea. They got back OK from Turkey and are off to Marbella in April. I got a big box of authentic Turkish Delight and a bottle of vintage champagne. And four hundred cigarettes, which I paid for as they were very cheap. He moaned about the weather a lot, but was otherwise happy. They had steak or fish in the restaurants and he liked the salads and the hummus and the kebabs. Mrs Tel looked a bit taut in her T-shirt. “Got bigger blinking muscles than me” said Tel, grudgingly. She looked the fittest I’ve seen her for while and her kiss and hug were certainly firmer than I’ve previously had.
We had a pre-train ride pint in the Station Cafe at ten. Tel had a bacon’n’egg bloomer with Daddies brown sauce. I can’t eat much at the moment. I had food poisoning last week. Some friends invited me for fish and chips last Wednesday and I had the old galloping guts on Thursday. Both ends. In fact four holes if you count both nostrils. So I stuck to Guinness. Good food replacement, is Guinness. Better than those Complan things you buy in Boots. Kept me hydrated as well. Not fizzy like lager. Full of iron. That’s probably enough of that.
We did the football bet on his phone. We didn’t win. We had Ipswich in as a home victory, convinced. Tel thought it’d be 3-1. I said 2-0. It’s Southampton for god’s sake. What could possibly go wrong?
The train arrived at 11am and off we went, clutching plastic pint pots still half-full of our third pints from the Cafe. We got seats easily. There was hardly anyone about. The Town was as quiet as I’d seen it since we came up to these rarified heights. This was no Newcastle or Chelsea. It was chilly, but the rain stayed away.
The pub was eerily quiet. I got served in ten seconds flat at the bar. We retired to darker recesses for a continuation of the chat. Tel put a tenner in the fruit machine and won twenty back. It stayed like this up until about twelve thirty, when people suddenly appeared like Kling-ons in Star Trek. Whoomp and there they were. We shared some chicken wings and nachos, him eating the majority, me picking here and there, conscious of the old recent gastric trouble, one eye fixed on the bogs in case of lurching.
Left at 2.45pm. The walk to the ground was quick. I was drunk. The world swooned and wheeled like the seagulls over my head. A good omen for a nice, easy game. “Delap’ll score” drawled Tel, his own intake a happy blend of world lagers and a few glasses of adequate brandy. I thought Hutch would score first. In fact, I was surprised it was still goalless after ten minutes. Plenty of time I reassured myself.
What happened next was a travesty. A blind man’s labrador could’ve predicted we’d concede one, especially as Muric was playing. It was crap, not to put too finer point. Broadhead touched it about as many time as I would. We lacked bite in midfield. Even so, when Southampton scored a tap in that Muric should’ve saved, I regretted not signing Ramsdale in the Saints net; time waster though he was. My half-time chat to Luke, fresh from Delap’s brilliant finish, was tempered by the thought that we’d surely play better after the break. Hope Chloe’s still OK by the way, Lukey. He’s about to become a first-time father for those unacquainted. You’ll remember Luke if you ever played the TWTD Xpert Eleven game. He’s grown up since then!
Second half and well. I’ve seen League One teams play better than Southampton. And we were just as bad if not worse. It brought a certain chill to the late afternoon. This was the realisation that perhaps we weren’t as good as we all thought? I left on 90 minutes, fed up with the constant waiting for something to happen at the SBR end, disgusted by their winner, deflated, prepared to argue the toss with anyone, angry that I’d wasted a perfectly good Saturday watching us lumber to another home defeat. Everyone, the players and Kieron especially, should be ashamed at that performance. Here I was, husky of voice, sore of spirit, walking back to the train station in a funk of embarrassed, prurient defeat at the hands of a team so bad, even Lineker laughs on MOTD.
And that was it. We’ll be back for Spurs. Tel trailed me miserably on the walk back, too browbeaten to offer a reasoned argument. I’ve noticed that these home games are no longer about the pleasure of watching Town. They’re socials for us. Perhaps we should have just stayed in the pub? After a game like that, I certainly wondered.
Mrs Tel collected us at Manningtree Rail and we drove back. She’d enjoyed her day. Swimming, fitness, lunch, a few diet cokes, the very antithesis of ours. And that’s the irony. It never begets a guarantee of a performance on the pitch. Oh well. Another week of head-shaking disbelief from Wolves fans in Birmingham, along with the tongue-lolling enjoyment of their 2-0 win over the Villa. They, at least, can be cocky next week. |  |
By continuing to use the site, you agree to our use of cookies and to abide by our Terms and Conditions.
