A good week, one in which we've caused endless upset on Scum forums and with their (obvious) supporters - Mike Liggins, the former head of Look East sports section with his banal, chubby observations warning us it was "ill-advised" to take the piss out of the North Anglian sector. A plethora of signings. Surely we'd round it off with a convincing home win against Derby County? After all, Coventry beat them 5-3 recently.
It was a happy start. An early morning walk, the sun just peeping through the clouds of a Constable sky. Early walkers rounding the bend by Lawford church and marching, unfurled Ordinance Survey maps and thermos flasks of tea in North Face knapsacks and cargo shorts and anoraks and wooly socks of bright colours and dusty boots. They kick up motes as they pass, the dust briefly sparkling in the sun and then dappling back to the floor. Dog walkers passed, their pets on varying missions, they dressed more casually in stuff you sort of expect they wore in bed just a few minutes earlier.
I bought milk and Lurpak spreadable and the papers and some more coffee filters for my cafetière and marvelled that it was amazing what you can pick up in a local Tesco at 7am. Breakfast was a freshly ground cafetière of a coffee I bought in Selfridges in Brum on Friday. It was expensive, but I drank an unheard of four mugs. I buzzed like the bees on my hollyhocks outside. Then had a brief spell of diarrhoea. Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose.
Terence arrived at 10.15, just as the washing clicked over to spin and the machine made that more urgent growling noise. He helped me hang it over the clothes horse. Pants and a few shirts and socks. Then we strolled down to the station, him making the usual banter conversation about my Jockey underwear and how I should "treat yerself to some noo undies, noticed a bit of wear on them".
We weren't worried about Derby County. Travis and Carlton Morris and that bloke they picked up from Sheffield United who used to play for Liverpool, Brewster, who's been tried and failed in multiple Championship strike forces over the years, that was all we'd heard of. Tel even said, over our pints of Guinness in the Station Buffet, that he thought we'd win four-nil. Clearly any lessons to be learnt from the previous week's disappointment at Preston would be overcome by simple ergonomics this afternoon. Namely we were the better team.
The train was unexpectedly crowded with day-trippers as it stopped at Manningtree. Several alighted, clearly dressed for Constable Country and questioning where the footpath was, which we told them. The doors beeped shut and we were off. We'd managed to smuggle the rest of our pints on the train. Tel (again) pointed out the bit in Brantham where the mad bloke murdered that poor lady out walking her dog. Then the open country rolled past and he settled back to drink his plastic pot of Guinness. The white creamy head had a yellow tinge. Like a scum away shirt.
Out and off at Ipswich, over the bridge and down to the town, into the pub, corner table with the used plates and dog-eared food and beverage menus. Once cleared, and if you ignored the crumbs of someone's breakfast on the floor near the stools and gulped your pint back, it was almost perfect.
By twelve, it became busier and we moved over to the Wise Monkeys, in search of edible food and more expensive beer. We had hot dogs for lunch, with fries and chicken wings and a moderately hot sauce. Tel thinks the world is collapsing. He tried proving this theory with a run-through of prices on the menu. "Bleedin' used ter pay 'alf a tenner for that!" he said, eyeing our feast dispassionately as the bones from the wings glinted obscenely in the lights.
He thought we'd play Furlong and Azon and possibly Akpom today and was therefore disappointed when the team news was confirmed on my phone and we had the same old, same old, no Clarke but Chappers and Hirst and Cajuste and Philo on the wing. He thought it looked a bit lightweight. I thought it was a decent team. It's funny how your preconceptions colour everything, isn't it?
2.45 came along as I was joining the queue outside the SBRL. The EADT stall had clearly done a roaring trade as had the club shop. There's money to be made at ITFC, clearly.
The game took place. You all know the story. People moaned around me. No defence worthy of the name, what was O'Shea doing? Philo contributed nothing. Chappers looked more likely to be loaned than played in that deep-lying 10 position. Szmodics was just as bad when he entered. Jack Clarke tried taking the whole of Derby on. 1-0 lead, then 2-1 down in a blink of a second-half spent going through the motions by the team in blue. An inordinate amount of added time, which I left on 97 minutes following a text from Tel which just said 'Leafing now bloddy crap" and, because we'd booked a table at the curry house at 7.30pm and fancied a few watching Leeds v Newcastle, we discussed making the 5.12 train back.
I was just outside the fire station when the cheers erupted. 3-1 Derby, I thought. Pressed on, depressed and anxious not to encounter white-shirted away supporters milling out for the train and celebrating. Caught Tel up by the old nightclub on the back end of the bridge. "Bleedin' free-one" he muttered, disconsolately. Reached the station, sat on the train, several fans joined us and one said "Bloody lucky to get that equaliser" and, upon the sort of 'desultory' chat the Spanish Inquisition probably employed, we learned we'd been saved by a late, late Jack Clarke penalty.
Manningtree station, the local pub, the West Ham fans and, among them, the rotund claret-shirted presence of Jimmy, supping Carling top and squabbling with the pool players in the back. He clapped his piggy eyes on us and said "Lucky ole Ipswich!" and we kept quiet about the equaliser we hadn't seen, lest he launch into one of his favourite bugbears about 'so called fans 'oo leave games early", despite him telling me, several times, in hushed tones, that he'd been back at Stratford as early as the 70th minute when the Irons were getting stuffed.
Several more pints and a boring game of Leeds v Newcastle and we were set for a curry. The rubber plant at the entrance looked in need of a dusting, but that aside the aromas were delicious and the first round of lagers (Kingfisher on draught) were cold and gassy. The poppadoms came out with the antique metal serving trays of pickles, chutneys and raw chopped onions. The napkins, deep red but slightly burnished by continual laundry and the sound of hot towels pinging somewhere in a microwave oven.
I went veggie. I often do that these days. Saving the planet as Tel calls it, but no, I just like curry house veg. So to his tandoori lamb chops and King Prawn butterflies and Chicken Madras, I went for paneer puri, vegetable biryani and cauliflower bhaji with veg paratha. And lo! I've woken this morning with no burbling guts or trapped wind.
We ate and drank until 10.30 when Mrs Tel brought the car round to the car park and came in for a diet coke with ice and a long-winded story about her day swimming, dining with Sandy in some Italian in Colchester and then meeting us.
Lift home with the Terries and they dropped me at my drive, Tel making hasty arrangements to meet on Friday 12th before the Sheffield United game, perhaps we'd have a chinese in Trongs? Must remember to book it for 5.30pm. Then off they went, the sounds of 'Shout' by Tears for Fears coming from the stereo in their car, the haste back to Halstead, their efforts at moving from that fine town still hampered and delayed.
A brandy in a newly-washed glass and a cursory watch of Match of the Day before bed. 2-2 against Derby. Will the apathy never end?
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