Cricketing days of bright summer, the early-morning dew sparkling in the tall grasses. 6.30am on a Sunday, hangover squalling between eye sockets and front lobe, stomach dissipating and then rolling back, like an estuary tide, probably smelling much the same. The dog walkers are out. Beds left for the morning stroll, canines-a-plenty, off leads, gambolling, sniffing tail-wagging shaggy friends. The owners cajole and threaten as they wander too near the river. Too late in two cases. Mud-encrusted and dripping, they emerge for a jolly good telling-off and raised-eyebrow expressions from blokes dressed in sloppy shorts and sleeveless vests. I had a vague sense of nausea. Not from the dogs or their owners. From the one-drink-too-many-in-the-boozer last night. The pub telly showed the Euro highlights and speculated on poor Christian Eriksen. The Spurs fans were quiet, listening. Tel told a brief story about his friend Dave who "'ad a clutcher while 'e was on the khazi once". "Wife farnd'im wiv 'is 'ead back on the cistun, gave'im the kiss'o'life, only she blew a bit 'ard and was sick in 'is marf. That bought 'im back quick". I don't personally know Dave. I asked if he was OK now. "Yeah, well....divorced inn'ee? Lives in Spain, Costa Brava. Me'n'the missus went an' stayed wiv 'im back in the nineties. Lost touch now though". The pub was a sea of St George's flags, bunting and plastic table covers. They'd even hung bunting in the gents. Blokes tripped over the hastily-tied string as they went for a slash. Jamie's also got ping-pong balls in the urinals in the colours of England and Croatia, so you can play piss-pong and 'score' a goal by jetting one of them to your co-pisser's end of the trough. My aim, alas, and my piss stream were more Stephen Ward than Ryan Giggs. Tel hasn't played yet. He thinks it's a trick to let your opponent feast his eyes on your John Thomas. He now uses the traps for micturition. Since I was last with you, nothing except excitement over Ipswich's signings and the weather has changed much. I must confess, I'm enjoying the prospective Town signings more than the Euro's. We missed the Italy game on Friday because we had a curry. We missed the afternoon games yesterday because Tel had to go into Colchester for a new dishwasher and I was out shopping in Ipswich. We watched the Belgium game half-heartedly in the pub with five other folk, all sipping reflectively on lager tops and scratching their sunburn. We went home at eleven, dropped by a newly-hairdoed Mrs Tel, dressed in black denim pedal-pushers and a rolled-sleeve 'Pretenders' T-Shirt. We were both drunk. The pub, in a concession to those of us who have more than one tastebud, has started doing a range of real ales on draught for the 'happy-hour' price of a fiver for two. So we both drank loads of Crouch Vale. Then moved on to Southern Comfort and ice. So I'm back down there in a mo. 12.30pm. We've reserved the table nearest the screen in the beer garden. We're having the carvery lunch. Another new thing of Jamie's. A joint of beef carved by him at his stainless steel serving table, then big tureens filled with crispy, greasy roast spuds, carrots, broccoli, cauliflower cheese and Yorkies the size of the footballs they used to play with in the 1930's. Gravy, horseradish sauce and mustard. Tomato ketchup and brown sauce for the heathens. So come on England! Make my likely indigestion and heat stroke seem irrelevant. Make Tel proud (that's a harder job). Lessen my social awkwardness around new folks that only Tel knows and who he's invited down the pub with us to 'enjoy' the match and the provender, and cuss at every stray pass or misplaced shot, and arrive in their new England shirts (£70) and their St George's tattoos on hairy arms and legs, and their insistence that they'd have picked Lindgard over Henderson 'cos 'e's 'ad a right result at West'Am this season, inn'ee?'. Oh and a few more signings for Ipswich this week would be nice. Just to give me a bit more of a buzz. |  |