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The Warky Report: Christmas Eve (H) 15:51 - Dec 24 with 1153 views

So here it is. Pure Harwich. The Alma pub at 12pm. Lunch. We grazed. I had several pints of Adnams Suffolk Bitter. She had a diet Coke. She drove, I hasten to add, just in case the Old Bill are reading.

We had the seafood plate as a sharing platter. Prawns, oysters, deep-fried whitebait, scallops, crab claws, seafood sauce so pink it should have been in Atomic Kitten, a better tartare which I coveted. Onion rings, a sh*tload of fries that we didn't finish, the ghosts clamouring from the 17th century bar as incongruous as the background tinkle of George Michael singing gently about giving you his heart but the very next day as the shadows lengthened and the feeling of being very happy crept like a black widow into hearts and minds.

Harwich is the best sort of place for this. Old pubs with nooks and crannies which scream smugglers and flagons and mistrust of strangers. You need to speak olde Essex to get on in these parts. Forget the scummy cheapness of Dovercourt; old Harwich is where the spirit burns brightest. Who needs Cornwall and its hatred of non-locals and London prices and smug, self-satisfied pricks? I even had a large Woods and Black for dessert. I still can't feel my teeth.

The Terries have gone to Braintree. We exchanged pressies and he paid out on the Ladbrokes account last night. Â£1377 each, in new-feeling twenties and tens and the odd golden pound coin. We got a load of bits for the house; mainly Moulton Brown and Jo Malone scented stuff, with a bottle of Casamigos Tequila for me and a litre of Archers for her. We gave them an antique original Stranglers T-shirt for Mrs T and some smellies and a new pair of black Levis and a Dyson hair dryer. I did Tel. He got a new Ben Sherman shirt, blue and black check, and a jumper from Fenwicks in Colchester (Barbour) and a bottle of very decent brandy and one of my mum's sloe gin, decanted into a Victorian-era stoppered bottle and labelled with her house name and year. He was chuffed with this. More chuffed than with the Barbour jumper, one suspects.

We had a Chinese takeaway delivered, enough for about seven, full of favourites including the biggest deep-fried seaweed carton known to man and spare ribs which accounted for about six pigs.
The sweet and sour pork balls could be counted in the tens. Still we did a fair job. I was hungry. Then I was very drunk indeed.

Tel was barman for the night. "My 'ouse, my rules" he said as he poured the champagne and the wine and the post-dinner brandy like separate waterfalls on a Yorkshire moor. I was glad we'd ordered a cab. I doubted if I'd even crack a smile by eleven. I gave up caring by twelve. Paula drank seven large Archers and Lemonades. Then she had six Vodka Red Bulls with Mrs T. Just when I wondered how they'd even manage to make Marks Tey, let alone Braintree, they admitted that Tone was "nippin' over ter collect us bofe at ten tomorra". No room at the in-law's drive for another vehicle now their niece can drive and owns an Audi A6. Brag, brag. They both want Braintree. I fear it'll happen in 2023, despite them taking the bungalow off the market at present because they want to do more work to make it more attractive. Hey-ho.

Talk of ghosts. Christmas Eve is made for nostalgia and melancholia. The old world intrudes more when you're half-cut and aware of the shadows flitting and watching. The landlord of the Alma told us a few stories of things that go bump in his cellars and back dining rooms. We came home and lit the church candles we bought to save on the electric. They flicker and pulsate as I type, a glass of wine at my elbow, the odd cigarette emboldening me to step into late afternoon murk, careful not to stub toes on the patio furniture. This feels very Regency, and I like it a lot. We should do it more often. P wants to watch The Snowman when it comes on. I want to watch the lights from the candles create memories on the back wall of our lounge.

Merry Christmas to you, my readers. I hope you too rediscover the true meaning of the Yule. It isn't about material things. It's memories and hope and romance and discovery. And a lot of booze. But then one leads to the other, in my experience.

I must go. We're having Bollinger in bed tomorrow morning and I've forgotten to chill it first. I hope Father Christmas brings me more of this feeling tomorrow. I strongly suspect he might....

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The Warky Report: Christmas Eve (H) on 16:53 - Dec 24 with 998 views

Ftnfwest

Merry Xmas sir, still have plenty of brum visits so we’ll do a blind meet up in 2023 if you’re up for it? Most of a bottle of red in me already with plenty of broadside and tally-ho to come (which in a Tel type way I refer to as my ‘Little Darlins). We’re all well but the original 7 for Xmas has dwindled to 3 or 4 due to covid and flu etc. 3 if F jnr goes to her boyfriends tomorrow although think she’ll stay loyal!