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Imagine losing at home to a side like Peterborough? Trouble is, I could. Through the navel-gazing and sitting at home all day breathing in the same fumes and titillating the same old bits of brain that wallow and drift, like a rotting water lily on a stagnant pond. There are no shocks. Just apathetic consent.
Work has become a bore. Spark up the old laptop at 8.30am, pretend to do something for eight hours, leave unfulfilled for regular fag breaks on the patio or to make more tea, distract the mind with bird watching (they've grown by the way. Not like Pterodactyls grow. They're not the Warky winged warriors yet. I'm no Brian Blessed in Flash Gordon). They still evince fright at my approach. I held this romantic notion that I'd train one, a blackbird or a thrush, to sit on my shoulder Long John Silver-style. To this end, I experimented by putting seed on my shoulder one frosty morn, to see if, like the pigeons at Trafalgar Square, they'd flock and sit happily pecking. Do they heck. They just look a bit like the neighbours do, fearful that the fat nutter is going to erupt from that patinated chair with murder in his eyes. So that was a failure. Another one.
Strange times these are. I said this much to Tel on Wednesday when he appeared at five, emerging from the gloom of a cold evening in the family car, driven by an increasingly wild-looking Mrs Tel, who resembles an ageing Viv Albertine, all punk-style comfy clothes in black, velour-style top, black jeans and black slip on pumps, her hair as bushy as my pyrocanthus without the berries. She waved. I went over. She recoiled a bit and then wound down her window by the touch of a button. I didn't get too close. She blew a kiss at me and said she'd been talking to Sandy, her sister-in-law, via Zoom. She said Sandy sounded like Weed from Bill and Ben. That's an unfortunate side effect of the virus, I guess.
Tel came in and had a beer. "Gotta go at six firty, she's talkin' ter Tone an' she's rubbish on compooters". He sipped his beer and looked around critically for dust or dirt. The house is cleansed every evening, a habit that has become something akin to OCD. My shopping basket now consists of lime cordial, fizzy water and cleaning products. I've got two Ambi-Pur plug in fresheners in every room. My house smells like the Yardley scent counter in Debenhams.
"Carnt bleedin' wait til we can nip darn the boozer again an' 'ave a curry or a Thai" reflected Tel as I got the Bombay Mix and the lesser-flavoured Walkers I don't like in a bowl (mostly Tomato Ketchup and Prawn Cocktail, which taste very similar). He ate the Bombay Mix and most of the crisps. I made a lime'n'soda with ice from the implement on the front of the fridge. This is also clean (Milton).
The bets have gone south. We keep picking 'definite' teams who don't then deliver. Liverpool mainly. And Chelsea. "Bleedin' FA Cup this weekend' said Tel with antipathy. We decided to risk a tenner each from our dwindling funds. I chose Villa, Derby, West Ham and Peterborough. "Going' against the Town then?" said Tel, surprised. Yeah. "Posh aint good away though. That'll be a 0-0. All your strikers are injured'n'all". It didn't matter. I just thought Posh would do us again.
So I won, as I learned from the paper this morning. Tel didn't. He went for value. Still, he was unlucky. OK, Pompey were crap, and so were Colchester, but he had four from six. I wondered how much we'd won from mine. Think it's about £400. The comeback is on.
Tel then discussed the 'Tone and Sandy' issue a bit. "They've 'ad Corona, right. Wife wants ter go darn there to stay an' 'elp 'em all, sorta home help wiv a mask on. I says to 'er 'yer carnt go ketchen' that bleedin' virus; issa killer according ter the nooze. But she says she wants to 'elp an' they aint 'fectious after free weeks or summink. Well, I put me foot darn an' said no. So she gets the 'ump an' I end up settin' 'er up on that Zoom fing ter help 'er speak to 'em evry day like. So now thass what she does. An' Sandy specially says 'we need 'elp in the 'ouse' so she's usin' sorta emoshunal blackmail like. Thass wass 'appenin' at ours at the mo".
He breathed and sipped his beer. I made conciliatory noises and he raised his hand. "Yer, 'eard 'em all mate, save yer bref. Ya just using' all the logic arguments ah used wiv 'er. An' she comes back with 'they're family, Terry, wot am I s'posed ter do, jus' sit 'ere an' ignore 'em?". I can't argue wiv that. Frustrates the 'ell out of me. But there we go".
We chatted on, aimlessly, til six twenty when a loud 'beep' outside reintroduced Mrs Tel, now clad in a grey wool coat in the driving seat. Tel rinsed the beer bottle at the sink and lobbed it into my recycling box. "Blimey, this used ter be full of yer empties. Looked like the back of Wevverspoons it did. Ya doing OK?" I nodded. He raised an eyebrow, Roger Moore style. I didn't know he could do that. I imagined him practising it in the bathroom every morning.
"Well, see yer nex' week" he said and we went out. It was dark and cold. The water in the puddles in the road were rippling like a windy tide at Walton after they'd gone.
I had an 'incident' on my walk on Friday. I found a wedding ring on a footpath. A gold one. It glinted when I turned my phone torchlight on to gauge the depth of a puddle. I took it home and then to the police in Colchester as our local station is unmanned all day. They received it without enthusiasm and I left my details with a dyslexic desk copper who spelt my name wrong and then proceeded to spell my address wrong as well. They'll have a laugh when someone collects it. Especially as 'Walford' (his spelling of Lawford) is the fictional borough of London for popular moan fest Eastenders. As if Grant Mitchell would spend his time strolling the back way to Flatford.
Yesterday was cold. No abandoned wedding rings or people hunting furtively for them with torches. Just dog walkers with Staffies and Black Labs and Collies, all sniffing tree trunks for a quick leg-cock, and splashing through puddles and looking for rabbits in copses. It was a freezing walk. The puddles had semi-formed ice crusts. The churned bits of mud were like iron. I came home to warmth and light and made a fry up, sausage, bacon, beans, scrambled egg, toast and HP, big pot of tea, the Times, a quick fag on the patio while I waited for the sausages. The birds like bacon rind and bits of sausage. I even chopped them up for them. I spoil the little b*ggers. Yet they're still afraid of me.
I didn't watch the football. I watched a cup game on BT Sports instead. Then I switched to Sky and Jeff Stelling for the results. We'd lost 0-1. No longer a ST Holder, I can't get Ifollow codes any more so I don't bother. McGuinness OG it said.
I had caesar salad and chicken for tea. My homemade caesar dressing was a wow. Moreish, spicy from the mustard powder and anchovies, poured over a deconstructed little gem lettuce. I can still taste garlic when I belch this morning.
Another week nearer February. But February isn't March. It's still winter. It's still lockdown. It's still.
It was still better than our home game against them last season which was a even bigger joke.
Then again we had non-league Norris in goal for that one, a man who had played the majority of career at Royston and Cambridge when they weren't even in the football league.
He must have the same agent as Richard Wright now to be getting the gigs he does.
Football League First Division / Premier League
Champions (1): 1961—62 - Runners-up (2): 1980—81, 1981—82
Football League Second Division / EFL Championship
Champions (3): 1960—61, 1967—68, 1991—92 - Play-off winners (1): 1999—2000
Football League Third Division / EFL League One Champions (2): 1953—54, 1956—57 - Southern League Champions (1): 1936—37
FA Cup Winners (1): 1977—78 - Texaco Cup Winners (1): 1972—73
UEFA Cup / UEFA Europa League Winners (1): 1980—81
The Warky League 1 Report: Peterborough (H) on 13:03 - Jan 24 by Warkystache
Probably. But no, he's definitely still London. Mrs Tel is broader London; at least he's got a slight 'oi' twang.
Another dream bites the dust....I had hoped that some distant relationship to Rommers was going to be revealed in the future. To be fair, the North of Essex should just be added on to Suffolk.
"They break our legs and tell us to be grateful when they offer us crutches."
You’re right, February isn’t March... However, at least February isn’t January!... And we’ll be into 9hrs+ of daylight!!... Onwards & upwards my old friend!!!
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The Warky League 1 Report: Peterborough (H) on 18:40 - Jan 25 with 604 views
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