| The Warky Report: Portsmouth but no (H) for Tel 13:48 - Oct 2 with 904 views | Warkystache |
Hurricane Ian was the reason. A severe weather phenomenon named after a faceless clerk in a provincial bank. I don't have any friends called Ian. It's an antiquated name in today's plethora of Dans, Wills and Toms. It's a fact that my dad has more friends called Ian than me (three). But then, my dad has more friends full stop. He cultivates people. I don't.
I had a tetchy text on Friday. "Flite delyed, now Sat at 09.30, sorry m8 wont make game or chink". It was accompanied by a smilie that was meant to portray sadness but actually was an accurate portrayal of constipation. Senokot should use it in adverts. All it needs is the rest of the body drawn and a cistern.
He called on Saturday as I was asleep, dreaming of strange things. "Wotcher" said the voice as I finally found my phone on the bedside table and Paula turned back over to sleep. What time was it? I rubbed my eyes and checked on the Vegas illumination that was my switched on mobile. 4.10am. Hello. "We're jus' waitin' ter go, fought I'd let yer knar. Bak at 'Eafro' at 5.50pm your time. We're stayin' in Braintree wiv Tone ternite, gedda chinese takeaway, share a cab'n'that. Sorry 'bout the footie'n'that, still be back on Mundee, catch up then, might do the Cambridge game eh?". Then something American was announced, booming in the background and he said 'Godder go, like, 'ope we beat Pompey" and he was gone. The silence was English and profound. I switched off (the glare drove my eyes to distraction) and tried nestling next to P. Then she snored open mouthed, and I found a cold spot on the sheet under the duvet and relaxed back into it.
I finally woke at eight. Paula had showered and dressed and was doing that thing women do before they leave; checking phone and handbag for keys and adjusting clothing and pursing her lips together to perfect her lipstick. I laid back on the pillows and muttered platitudes and found I was laying on my mobile and it had adhered to one of the cheeks of my arse. It came off with a small sucking noise. Then she bent down and kissed me and trotted away gaily like a small satisfied horse. The front door banged and her car started and reversed with a spritz of wheels and she was away. I got up and waved at her out of our spare room window but she never saw me.
Dressed quickly in joggers and rugby shirt and washed up the glasses from Friday night's quiet night in. We'd had late night vodkas with orange juice. We'd drunk a 2 litre carton of Tropicana smooth. I could taste it in my belches. A walk. A good, leg burning, dog-walker interacting walk. And Tesco. We were out of bread and spreadable butter and anything to put on toast unless I fancied strawberry jam, which I didn't.
In the end, the walk was less satisfactory. I met several dog-walkers and the odd jogger, but none were pausing for anything beyond a half-stifled 'Morning'. No wildlife, unless you count the fussing blackbird skittishly bobbing in the hedge or the seagulls braying their screeches from overhead. And I don't. They're always around. The walk made me pant a bit as well as I did the hill near Tesco. I got in the store feeling distinctly unfit, florid of face and generally achey. Perhaps it's a symptom of middle-age?
The woman who served me in Tesco didn't seem to notice my general care worn appearance; she just swiped my bread and bit of Cathedral City extra mature and butter and plastic pack of dutch tomatoes and Yorkshire Gold teabags (we bought Morrison's own last week and they're horrible. The tea tastes like it's been filtered through a used Always). She reached for my cigarettes without comment. She charged me 10p for a bag, with a smile that chastised that I should've bought my own. I paid by card and wandered out. Then wandered back when I got 100 yards and realised I'd forgotten a newspaper.
I got the 10.45 train into Ipswich. It felt too early for the festivities. It felt a bit like when I was a kid and we used to be allowed to open one Christmas prezzie when we got back from church at 6pm. It tarnished a bit of the magic. Still, lovely day. The pub opened and I sat awaiting my pint, the smell that their hoovers make still in the air. No Tel, so I was Billy No Mates for a while but then I met a few of the guys I meet up with before most home matches and soon he wasn't missed.
We drank far too much as usual. I'm often surprised I'm allowed in at the SBRL. The people on the entrance doors never notice, or mind. My general drunken greetings, the smell of it on my breath, must grate for folk who probably man those narrow booths for hours. Lot of people milling around in SAR Way. Big crowd. The burger vans did brisk business and the litter was piled neatly on the ground around the overflowing bin.
You saw the game, didn't you? Didn't you? Bad luck if not. It was the best game I've seen yet. We attacked the white shirted Pompey lot like hungry sharks around a dead tuna. Intricacies of passing, great chances that were missed, a lot of songs, a sore throat and choking back the phlegm as we attacked with Burns and Harness and Davis and Pompey blocked and hacked away desperately. We were good value for the Harness opener. I half expected him not to celebrate, but he did, joyfully, stopping short of V-signing the massed away support.
It wasn't a penalty for them, I thought. Walton came out, the bloke pushed the ball wide and then ran into his shoulder. Woolfie should've cleared it long before though. The bloke behind me hissed in frustration as Walton dived over Bishop's spot kick. We thought he'd got it. More heroics after last Sunday's final seconds header. Bishop did the slow swagger and the ear cup though.
Half-time chat with Lukey, who now grows more middle-aged than myself despite me having a good twenty years on him. They came back out as we finished.
The Ladapo goal was a beauty. Another penalty, one which my friend in the SAR later confirmed was 'never a f**kin' penalty, the ref was a c**t' as though that was accepted wisdom. I couldn't see it clearly. Then, just as the dissatisfaction began to grow crystals of another 2-2 draw when we'd deserved so much more, a swift attack, the sprinting sub Edwards beating his man and bearing down on the touchline, a deflected wafty cross that flew like a released, half-inflated helium balloon at a child's garden party and came gently down to earth right on Wes' head as he waited on the goalline. Happy. Delirious. Jumpy, jumpy, shouty, shouty, huggy, huggy happiness.
3-2. Taxi back to Lawford (£26) but I didn't even mind. Chinese takeaway menu located ready for P's return at 6.30pm. We 'Just Eat' ed it and they arrived at 7.45pm, an Asian bloke in a blue windcheater holding three white plastic bags full of sweet-smelling delights. I opened that bottle of Moet we were keeping in the fridge for special. It was that type of celebration.
Tel texted again in the evening. "bak at Brtree, justas chinky, 3-2 good up the Tow". And he's calling later. So even a little taste is still better than nowt. Which reminds me. I need to get him a Cambridge ticket for Tuesday....
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| The Warky Report: Portsmouth but no (H) for Tel on 18:05 - Oct 2 with 714 views | BanksterDebtSlave |
Excellent Warky.
 "Then she bent down and kissed me and trotted away gaily like a small satisfied horse." got a chuckle from me.
BTW, Wes says it landed on his face and went in!! Gotta love a 3-2. |  |
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| The Warky Report: Portsmouth but no (H) for Tel on 20:38 - Oct 2 with 626 views | XYZ |
Radio 4 should bin off The Archers and commission "Warky and Tel". |  | | |
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