| Right...The Warky Report: Crewe (H) for Miss Bankster with love 20:18 - Nov 28 with 1084 views | Warkystache |
It's been a bitter-sweet sort of week, what with two defeats on the pitch and the subsequent 'Cook out' calls, which I happen to agree with, if only that we're bound to find the right one eventually if we keep twisting.
There appears to be a vague feeling of 'on-field' blasé, a sort of nagging worry that teams have found us easy to play against and, therefore, just as easy to beat. It's a debate I had with Luke at half-time today, while those around me disappeared for a piddle and a pie and returned, roseate-cheeked, sipping plastic cups of Bovril and flapping frozen hands. The queue for Marcus Stewart gloves in Planet Blue should have been longer than a Toto hurried clearance today. At least it spared us rain.
Back to Luke in a mo. The morning walks have also become chillier, with me now taking the stance that nearly all the dog-walkers have since I started and resolutely plodding on over the iron ground with only so much as a fuzzy, murmured 'G'mornin"' to my fellow man, said through layers of polyester scarf and grunted, much like Piltdown Man on side 2 of Mike Oldfield's classic "Tubular Bells". To be fair, no-one has stopped to talk/moan/ask me what I said again. They just nod the hoods of their anoraks and follow in the wake of their dogs.
The early morn mists in the fields look like phantoms in some cobwebbed haunted house. The pheasants clucked and sounded like those old motor horns. A fox appeared briefly, coat glistening like Liberace in Vegas, snout transfixed by a scent no-one else could fathom. On I plodded, painfully remembering the warmth of Paula's nakedness snuggled against me under my duvet, wishing I was back there and not here, wiping a bit of dog poo off the toe of my boot on the grass verge and liberally soaking my toes in cold. Exercise. It's the curse of the bonking classes.
We have both developed a taste for porridge for breakfast. Scotts Porage Oats, the proper stuff, with the bloke in his kilt doing his shot-put on some grassy knoll. I usually use a pint of milk making porridge. That's how we both like it. She likes honey in hers. I like fruit. It's great until ten a.m when it suddenly goes rogue and makes me fart. Still, work are used to that by now. I've got me own office. I can pass the smell off as 'pot-plant' issues.
Paula's fine. She's been promoted at work actually, so she's more than just 'fine', she's smug and pleased and all those things I resent when they happen to other people. She's set to become 'Manager' of some store in mid-Essex, dunno where yet, probably Maldon or somewhere like that. Neither of us know 'when' yet either, although it's likeliest in the new year. She's still not pregnant and, being honest, I think it's for the best and she agrees. She's back on contraception. It was a decision she made with a heavy heart. But we'll try again soon. Unless I get some random appointment at the dick hospital to check whether my swimmers have drowned of course.
Tel, well. He's seldom around these days. He spending the weekend in Braintree with his in-laws and niece and nephew, probably out buying Christmas pressies or, at least, pretending to. He's off tomorrow as is P so I'm chucking a sickie and joining him for lunch in Colchester with P and her news. I haven't had a sickie since August. It's definitely due.
He texted me today just as I was on the train home after the game. "Bleddy lucky ol Town - just ad lunch me, wife, Tone'n'Sandee I had stake". I rang him but his phone went straight to GiffGaff answer, with that stoned northern bloke telling me that 'the person yer callin' in't there, probably out on't moor exercising' thy whippets an' getting stock in't peat bog". I left a voicemail. People looked at me on the train as I did it, so I kept it brief, all self-conscious and worried he'd call me back immediately. But he didn't, and I've still not heard back. Not even a text. Must be some lunch, that.
The game was cold. Even wrapped like an arctic Michelin man, the cold wind still penetrated and cut and chilled. Even with three pints of Guinness and three large ruby ports and a whisky in me. I lit a cigarette and then couldn't tell what was smoke and what was breath when I exhaled.
The seagulls wheeled round the bins and the burger vans as I made my way to SBR lower. I was greeted by Town being 1-0 up and loads of bits of whitish-grey plastic round my seat, making it look like they'd just had it delivered from Argos. The 1-0 was sort of expected. I'd heard the cheers as I puffed on my ciggie near the blue metal fence that divides Sir Alf car park from the road. Bloody great I thought. Then prayed it wouldn't end up a boring 1-0 win. Yeah. Chance'd be a fine thing eh?
The first half was mostly dull after that. Except for Celina's sublime lob just before half-time. 2-0. We should have been happy. But red-rimmed eyes and a noticeable queue for a piddle were the order of the half-time whistle. Luke joined me, a parka'd vision in green-brown, his thoughts still on Rotherham on Tuesday when, by all accounts, we'd been comprehensively second-best. We discussed Cook in or out and who we'd have preferred over the hesitant hoofing Toto or the perennially offside Bonne. Or the invisible Chaplin. Or the ineffective Clements. Perhaps that's harsh on young Bailey? I dunno. It's just that when teams break against us, even teams as one-dimensional as Crewe, they always manage to look dangerous.
We huffed and puffed second half, but the Crewe backline held firm and, despite wayward Edwards efforts and Bonne's channel-hugging, we never looked likely to add a third. Crewe scored the obligatory goal against, everyone got nervy, and that was that for the rest of the game.
'Cooky should go" said the mad-eyed bloke on the train, his Ipswich scarf a relic of the early 80's, his anorak the pastel-blue of those disability vehicles they used to park on the pitch near the tunnel in the same vintage. The rest raised eyes from phones, all too-briefly, and then resumed the downward stares, mute in condemnation or support. The train trundled out in the dark, past the lights from houses and then into the inky countryside.
And Paula came home while I was gone and now she's away, visiting her mum, to give her new dressing gowns and wooly jumpers and new copies of Hello and Take a Dump and the People's Friend, with Pam Ayres as the page three pin-up and Gloria Hunniford answering your problems. And though I've not written in to Gloria with a "Dear Gloria. I'm a forty-seven year old man with a twenty-eight year old girlfriend, who, f**k as much as I can without having a coronary or bursting something, I can't seem to get up the duff. Is it me. Is it (more likely I admit) her?" And receiving the reply "Begorrah my love, well ye've gone and got yerself in a pickle right enough. Ever thought it could be leprechauns stealing yer spunk in the noight, eh?", I'm certainly warming to the idea.....
Miss Bankster - this is for you. With love. Not 'that' sort of love though. Not that you'd want that sort from me anyway. I've got cum like water.......
Love Warky xxx |  |
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| Right...The Warky Report: Crewe (H) for Miss Bankster with love on 20:28 - Nov 28 with 1014 views | BanksterDebtSlave |
So this is what 'guess the handbag' gets you! She is away so I have forwarded her the link...she won't know herself! |  |
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| Right...The Warky Report: Crewe (H) for Miss Bankster with love on 20:38 - Nov 28 with 975 views | Warkystache |
| Right...The Warky Report: Crewe (H) for Miss Bankster with love on 20:28 - Nov 28 by BanksterDebtSlave |
So this is what 'guess the handbag' gets you! She is away so I have forwarded her the link...she won't know herself! |
Long as she gets it!!
Right, off to drown my sorrows before P comes back at nine-ish. Probably with a bit of backhanded compliment from her mum..... | |
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| Right...The Warky Report: Crewe (H) for Miss Bankster with love on 08:09 - Nov 30 with 738 views | BanksterDebtSlave |
Rescued from a wave of negativity in case it was missed!
 "On I plodded, painfully remembering the warmth of Paula's nakedness snuggled against me under my duvet, wishing I was back there and not here, wiping a bit of dog poo off the toe of my boot on the grass verge and liberally soaking my toes in cold." .....That's life. [Post edited 30 Nov 2021 8:13]
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| Right...The Warky Report: Crewe (H) for Miss Bankster with love on 08:21 - Nov 30 with 711 views | BanksterDebtSlave |
About your cum....Miss Slave says, stop smoking (you'll need to stick around if it starts to work properly) and zinc tablets! | |
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| Right...The Warky Report: Crewe (H) for Miss Bankster with love on 15:39 - Nov 30 with 604 views | Warkystache |
| Right...The Warky Report: Crewe (H) for Miss Bankster with love on 08:21 - Nov 30 by BanksterDebtSlave |
About your cum....Miss Slave says, stop smoking (you'll need to stick around if it starts to work properly) and zinc tablets! |
Did it work for you? | |
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| Right...The Warky Report: Crewe (H) for Miss Bankster with love on 16:47 - Nov 30 with 562 views | J2BLUE |
Holy sh1t, I seem to have missed about 10 chapters. Paula?!?! Stunning plot twist.
Nice one mate. |  |
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