After a week of Tel-less abstinence and a desperately crap stint at work, Saturday dawned cloudy and mild. The leaves on some of the trees have started turning. The morning walk was a bit chilly. It had all the ingredients of a 7.30am stroll; dog walkers out in force, still-wet puddles dotted about, slowly stagnating. The dogs were more excited than the owners. They nosed and sniffed and gambolled off the lead. The owners, dressed in Gap hoodies or Timber worker checked shirts, merely wore a bit more rubber off the soles of their Reeboks.
The audit went well last Monday and everyone seemed cautiously pleased, although we won't know the official results for another few weeks. The MD, a man of middle-aged dress and with hair the colour of salt on a turd, was given the due diligence and anonymity he clearly craved. He didn't introduce himself to the rank and file or mutter much beyond a hurried 'Morning' when he appeared, genie-like, from the bogs. Someone said he spent an hour in conference with the senior management. They had filter coffee made in the unused percolator, the one someone once pissed in at a Christmas party before the pandemic made parties a no-no. I hoped they'd given it a quick once-over with the tap.
The rest of the week dragged ever slower as the travelling and the anti-climax slowly caught up. I had Friday off as a reward for working last Saturday. It means I've had a long weekend, what with the bank holiday. I spent it doing all the housework I'd put off. Then I went for a pub lunch with the newly-in-law-free Tel. We had a pate ploughman's and a few pints and the sort of one-sided conversation you have when a friend has recently 'bin away, like' and has stories of bad wimmin' drivin' and the futility of Southwold.
"Bleedin' Sarfwold's a joke" he began after we'd ordered and were sipping the tops from our beer. "Took ages ter find a parkin' spot, then iss'all twee little craft shops and tea 'ouses full'o' posh old'n's eatin' bleedin' scons an' jam at eleven in the mornin'. I said to Tone, thass called arternoon tea for a reason. You eat it in the arternoon, dunt'cha? Not for bleedin' elevenses". He paused and sniffed derisively, as though the greed of old people enjoying comestibles before lunch was somehow a reason to sneer. "Din't manage lunch in the Sole Bay eever. Queue was art the door. Din't bovver in the end. Found anuvver boozer just up the road. Not as nice, granted, but it had seats and sold beer and grub, so..." His demeanour was one of missed opportunity. He hates second-best.
The ploughman's despatched, we had a few more pints and then Mrs Tel came by at 5pm to collect her ward and drop me home. We were going out after the game on Saturday for a curry so Friday night was all ours. Tel was "avin' fish'n'chips wiv the wife, geddem in 'Arwich in a mo, few wallies and a nice bit of bread'n'butter fer a chip sarnie, lovely". I was heading back for a homemade sausage casserole and a few brandies and a confused, dream-laden kip on the settee, drooling and probably snoring (I awoke at one a.m with a very sore throat and thought 'Sh*t, I've got corona' but it was just where I'd snored. It went the next morning).
Yesterday then. Back from the walk, bacon and the last of last night's sossies with an egg and some grilled tomatoes and a bit of toast. Pot of tea. Bacon rinds out for the birds. Washing done. Shower, sh*t and rudimentary shave. Off to meet Tel at Manningtree station at eleven. He'd moaned about coming to the game. Made his feelings clear. If it was boring, I'd find him back at the local. The train was full of scum supporters in their day-glo home shirts. It was a novelty. The old bill don't usually let us both play at home on the same Saturday. They were either from London or (more depressingly) from Essex. I think it was London. I hope it was London. Tel made disparaging remarks under his breath about "lookin' like a novelty johnny in them colours" and "sister-fingerers" but we made it to Ipswich with only the mildest of stares back from the heathen.
We departed for the pub. Comfortably ensconced at a table in the back, the lines at the bar forming like First World War sign-ups, we drank our lagers and considered the menu for lunch. The Cricketers has never been my favourite watering hole in Town but it is cheap and it does do passable food, so we went. Then we decided the queues weren't worth it and departed to the Three Wise Monkeys and had lunch there instead.
We left, following several rounds of gin'n'tonic and a bonus round of Expresso Martini, at 2.40, just as it started raining. Then it got heavier and we walked a bit quicker. I was half-cut. We briefly paused at Curve Bar for a brandy on ice each, knocked it back, got walking again. The road was hectic and Tel played a bit of 'chicken' with the oncoming cars. Then we reached PR and split; he to the Alf Ramsey for his seat, me to SBRL for mine. We agreed to meet at Ipswich station for the 5.18 back to the pub. Tel worrying that we'd miss the start of the Liverpool v Chelsea game. He'd also bet on us to win......
The game. Well, as last-minute equalisers go, that was a sickener. I won't add to the general voices of dissent on here, only to say that we look disjointed and low on confidence, despite having some clearly good players. It was good to see the regulars, Luke and his other half, the guys next to me who all sang their hearts out and then left with me as the Wombles players celebrated with the away fans in the corner in the 97th minute, outrage and frustration etched in faces and in voices.
The 5.18 was packed and some of the exuberance of the away fans joined us in the carriages. You'd have thought a last-minute draw with a bottom-four team was some kind of excuse for jubilation. Perhaps it was the drink?
Manningtree, taxi to the local (pre-ordered), get in just as the game kicked off, big Chelski contingent in their blue home shirts crowding round the two screens, table at the back with spirits in scratched glasses and an air of underwhelm. "Bleedin' fought yer'd hang on at two-nil up an' twenty minits ter go, wouldn't ya?" said Tel, bitterly. Then Chelsea scored and the roar made him irritable. "Gawd's sake, gits worse dun nit?" he muttered with rancour.
We stayed for the final whistle and then nipped off for the curry. That was a saving grace. So was Mrs Tel. She collected us at 11pm from the restaurant, Tel singing "Oh Wezzy Burns" to the tune of Danny Boy. I doubt if Paul Cook would've liked or agreed with the sentiments 'Oh Wezzy Burns, the right-back role's beyond yer, git up that pitch an' score anuvver goal" but Tel, sounding like a pissed cockney Val Doonican, was beyond redemptive analysis.
Mrs Tel wore her "Blondie/Parallel Lines" T-shirt and a cherry brown leather jacket she bought in Norfolk. Her peck on the cheek was the sweetest smelling single thing I'd experienced all day, a day filled with the scents of booze, knock-off Armani and disappointment. She wisely didn't ask about the game. She'd spent the day 'catching up' with her soaps. She'd avoided the real-life shenanigans at Portman Road. That's turning into more of a tragedy every game.
"Home at last" croaked Tel as I departed their vehicle, nearly falling out of the door. Those were his last words before they drove, waving, back to theirs. They are also the last words in 'Lord of the Rings'. Let's hope we have more success in our battles with the Orks of League One.
Bolton next. They must owe us one as well......... |  |
By continuing to use the site, you agree to our use of cookies and to abide by our Terms and Conditions.
