I don't usually bother with England internationals except during World Cup finals or Euro Championships. They're mainly dull, charmless matches played with all the urgency of an over-70's crown bowls festival.
That I should be used to this as an Ipswich ST holder is the sort of crap joke relations tell me during visits, usually accompanied by a gormless chuckle and an elbow in the ribs. They're all glory hunters, the Spurs/Man U/West Ham/Arsenal supporting plastics who never go to a game themselves but, just because they've got Sky telly, feel they can share a joke about your team being in the Championship (crap, kick'n'rush stuff and all the teams are 'boracic flint') and worse, being sh*t. No wonder so many murders are committed by family members.
So last Monday's England match v Slovakia (a country Tel doesn't even know exists) held no appeal whatsoever. I couldn't have given a flying f*ck. Until 12pm last Monday, it was all set to be 'Movie Night' at Warky Towers, a plethora of sh*t 80's movies DVD's that I'd ordered for pence from Ebay arriving in the post that morning. I'm on leave from work all week, so no dilemma about whether to start watching 'Rambo: First Blood' at 11pm or catch up on sleep for Birmingham in the morn. Sorted. Sad, but sorted.
Then my mobile bleeped at 12pm as I drank another coffee and fingered the plastic cover of 'Blade Runner- the Director's Cut' with longing. It was Tel, and his dulcet tones put paid to my evening's entertainment. "'Ullo mate, listen, England are playing' ternite and the wife's out starting Slimmin' World wiv Sandy and her mate Tina. They'll be out till 11 at least. Fancy a few darn the boozer wiv us? It'll be me, me mate Rob and 'is bruvver Glen. We'll 'ave a few and 'ave a laugh. Aint seen yer proply since the 'oliday, be nice for a catch up'n'that".
7pm in our local was clearly 'witching hour'. Heavily made-up women wearing clothes they were several decades too old to get away with sat sipping bright blue cocktails through straws or modest glasses of white wine and cackling. Whole tables of them, their highlights glinting like bleach on a Wolves home shirt, drinking and cackling and talking in too-loud voices. The telly, with two hardy menfolk sat in front watching the build-up between nips of Stella, was out in the back bar behind the pool table. Another two blokes were playing 'see how long we can go without potting' on the table, the occasional 'b*llocks' and 'f*ckin' 'ell' belying their presence as they missed again.
Tel arrived just as the teams were coming out. He let out his displeasure at the women in the other bar ('Bleedin' ell, is it a WI meetin' or what?) and bought me a top up and himself a fresh pint. The blokes at the pool table smiled when he made his quip and, evidently assured of where the loyalties of his audience lay, he carried on. "Some poor bleeder's not 'ad 'is tea then?" was swiftly followed by "My missus should come darn 'ere next time she wants company at Slimmin' World". This was a bit unfair. Most of the blokes in the room could've benefited from weight loss programmes, including me.
Rob came alone just as Slovakia scored. The two incidents combined to cause Tel pain. "Bl**dy'ell Rashford, you're rubbish" was then followed by "Alright Rob, where's Glen? 'As 'e let us darn again?" Rob nodded, his elbows on the bar, waiting for his Guinness. He took a swig as it was finally passed over, and walked over sucking his top lip to rid it of the froth. "E's 'ad ter take his littl'un ternight, she's out at some dance class in Colchester". Tel furthered his campaign for equal rights by replying "Gawd, anuvver doormat! Wass the world coming' to? They're takin' over".
The football was rubbish. Tel nudged me in the ribs and said "You'll be used to this, you will" and then explained to Rob that I was an Ipswich season-ticket holder. Rob chortled, mid-mouthful, spraying little white flecks of head over the scrubbed pine table. Then Tel told him about his holiday in Malaga (bleedin' expensive, don't think we'll be goin' back, we like Marbella more) and a few tales about good food in restaurants and how nice the pool was at their villa. England equalised, and no-one raised more than a feeble cheer. Then it was half-time.
"Where's Jim Razzmatazz?" asked Tel as the half-time ITV panel came up.
So it continued. We drank a few more pints and then, for some reason, we switched to JD and coke. England scored again through the formerly berated Rashford and Tel revised his opinion. "Great strike that - 'e's a good striker, got 'Im in me dream team in The Sun". Then Rob left ("gotta work at 5am tomorrow boys, better be off, take care") and the game ended and we had an even worse game of pool together, making the last two blokes look like Davis v Hendry such was our incompetence. And then I walked home (2 miles) and Tel rang the missus asking for a lift. He lives miles from me and I needed the fresh air.
As I walked, I thought just how much I disliked England games. They disrupt the domestic season. They leave you at the mercy of Leagues 1 & 2, or worse, non-league. They make even the least regular footie fan have an excuse for getting you down the pub, away from your pleasant little evening watching '80's sh*tfest films and drinking stuff you like. I might join Mrs Tel next time. |  |
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