Mrs Tel put on her car stereo as we pulled away from my street. We hit the main road to the strains of the Pet Shop Boys. "Sometimes you're better off dead..." rapped Neil Tennant in clipped Northern English. He must have been watching an England group game as well.
If most England supporters were to admit it, we've never been that great in Group matches. Even under Sir Bob, memories of draws with the Republic of Ireland and other luminary nations where the camels outnumber the population are etched on the psyche. This was a 'could win' game. The win would've been nice, if only to secure home advantage and stop the far northern hordes from crowing. Plus we were in the 'lucky' pub.
The 'lucky' pub owes its' name to a fortuitous series of football-related and non-football related events in our combined lives. Whether it deserves the moniker is another question; certainly any pub which proclaims on its advertising blackboard out in the car park that former Chelsea 'keeper Petr Cech has his own Republic is nothing if not dubious in European antecedents. The fact he could raise an international footie team from amongst his citizens was only commented on by me and no-one in the car laughed at my observation. Possibly because they'd have spelt 'Czech' the same way.
Any pub considered 'lucky' would, you'd have thought, deserve at least a monthly pilgrimage, much like Lourdes or Walsingham, but the truth is, Tel doesn't like their lager. They have three on draught; the ubiquitous Carling, Fosters or Stella. All have a slightly metallic twang. They also have Becks and San Miguel in bottles but these are pricey. Tel settled for a bottle of the latter, grumbling despite himself about "bleedin' beer in 'ere don't get any betta".
They also serve food. I say 'food' with a slight misgiving. They do the sort of food you'd find in any greasy spoon, only 'ponced abart' (again Tel), with bits of drooping parsley and sliced raw onion adorning sausage sarnies and chips. We had the pub burger. It looked like one of those burger kits they sell in Asda, with buns, cheese slices and a too-sweet chutney. It came with a hefty slop of mayo and some green stuff plugged into gaps to make it look more substantial. Tel picked the little bits of coriander the chef had clearly mistaken for parsley off his chips with a sigh. At least the chips were nice.
It's a 'lucky' pub because it was here in 2000 that we watched the Bolton v Ipswich play-off game on the telly, getting ready to leave when Bolton went 2-0 up, but staying because we'd just ordered another pint. I never actually even tasted that pint. It went all over the table when Marcus Stewart hit that sublime half volley. It was joined by another in the second half when the same Town god rounded Jaaskelainen twice before somehow squeezing it in with a rising finish past two back-pedalling Bolton defenders. The landlord at the time moaned about beer on the floor and threatened us with eviction. But there was more than just us who were cheering the Town on that afternoon. He later found the pool table in the back (alas now a memory to make room for more tables) awash with an inch of the amber nectar.
Tel once found a £20 note on the floor in the bogs. He was honest and told the landlord, but was advised to keep it. Another year we were in there when my now ex-wife texted me to say she'd finally procured a solicitor for the divorce and wouldn't be taking the house. The final claim to the pub's luck was made back in 2018 when we watched England beat Sweden 2-0 in the World Cup. Tel moaned about the beer then as well.
So we took our seats in anticipatory mood. It was almost a foregone conclusion. The wattle and daub walls seemed to swell at the magnanimous performance England were about to deliver, to quiet those creeping doubts after the 0-0 with Jocks.
And when Grealish lobbed one up to the back stick and Kane missed the header, there was Raheem, running free to nod us in front. No beer spillage this time. Just a palpable sense of relief amongst the watching few in their £70 replica shirts.
True, the rest was like watching paint solidify in the bogs just after someone had evacuated a week's worth of sh*t, but we looked fairly comfortable, despite the odd Czech foray, and the final whistle was greeted with more relief, particularly from Tel who had discovered the only choices of brandy were Three Barrels or Hennessy. So we graduated to Southern Comfort once more.
Mrs Tel came early. I never thought I'd write that sentence, but it was true. She was sat in the car in the car park. The faint hum of her 80's Greatest Hits CD showed we'd moved on from PSB and now Boy George was crooning 'Heavenly loving in your eyes you know you make my life so sweet' and, yet again, it was as if the musical angels had guided the very tracks from my thoughts.
"Bleedin' crap that" said Tel, settling himself into the passenger seat. Then he reached down to the CD track changer button and we drove off to Huey Lewis warbling "Yes it's true. I'm so happy to be stuck with you". And one of us in the car smiled.
|  |
By continuing to use the site, you agree to our use of cookies and to abide by our Terms and Conditions.
