Ah perfidious Albion. The grassy slopes and the asphalt walkways. How much have I trampled thy scenic underbelly.
In truth, I had walked a lot lately. Alongside rivers, through parting brambles, the smell of the local sewerage farm anointing the old nostrils. Walking with the middle-aged, past groups of kids idling on their bikes in half-term holidays, playing games of pretend that meant they barely saw me. Being a kid today can't be easy, not with the incipient threats of disappearing haunts, consumed by new housing estates and a general lack of accessibility. We used to bike for miles when I was a kid. Our Raleighs would be clattered home with more mud up the guards than was actually on the country roads. Off-roading wasn't a thing in 1982, but we recognised it. We rode through woods, coppices, fields, had to practically stand on the pedals when the farmer had ploughed. We fell off more regularly. I often returned home sporting clothing which was either ripped or muddied beyond recognition. That's why you never wore anything decent. Not like kids today with their designer togs and £100 trainers. £100 for a pair of trainers? I would have been too scared to wear 'em.
I saw a water vole. At least I think I did. Unless it was a lost sewer rat. I'm not as good as identifying water mammals as I am birds. Kestrels, buzzards, a plethora of wood pigeons, the odd jay. I'm turning into a sort of benign Bill Oddie.
Tel was back last week, albeit with a head cold which he gloomily predicted was Covid and then even more gloomily said was 'jus' a cold, bleedin' Tone 'ad one last weekend'. He very nearly came to Forest Green Rovers with me, except, on the morning of the game, the phone message said "Sorry made, gotta stinkin' bleedin' cold now, nose feels like iss blocked wiv slurry. Beddah not go wotchin' fooddy feelin' like this". He coughed several times to emphasise the point. Then he did a weird sort of 'Bob Fleming-off-the Fast Show' throat clear and said he'd meet me down the pub at eight for whiskies. He departed the call blowing Miles Davis-like honks on his nose.
We'd not bothered on Friday. I was late home. He had his cold. Mrs Tel was at swimming in Braintree. He'd bought two DVD's to enjoy, cheap bargain-bucket ones he'd found in HMV. I was surprised when he read the titles to me and declared he'd never even heard of either. I mean, who hasn't seen The Departed? Or There Will Be Blood? He asked my opinion on them after I'd, somewhat surprised, said I'd seen both, multiple times and enjoyed both a lot. I told him to watch The Departed first. "De Caperio innit?" he said. "An' that bloke out of Noo Kids on the Block". I was tempted to argue, but didn't.
Paula has rented a one-bedroom place in Tiptree. True, it's a lot nearer Maldon, but not as near as I suspect she wanted. It was cheapish though. I relented and helped her with the deposit and first two months rent. It's left me a bit brassic until I get paid next week, but hey, she's sort of happy for now. I can't say any more because we no longer have regular contact, which I suspect suits us both.
So to the game yesterday. Woke up at seven with a suspiciously blocked nose, cursed Tel roundly, then went for a walk, finishing in Tesco where I bought bread, yoghurt, milk, some reduced strawberries from Peru or somewhere, reduced from £3 to £1.89 because the use-by date was Tuesday next week and a couple were just starting to go mushy, and the papers and some fags. Came home, pot of tea, toast with marmalade, yoghurt with strawberries and a bit of melon I bought in Marks on Friday night and then didn't fancy.
Did the washing, and changed the bed and had a shower. Left home at 10.30am, got to Ipswich by 11.20am, walked into town, past the shoppers and the buggy-pushers, past the litter outside the old Drum and Monkey and the homeless begging for spare change on the Cornhill. The pub was open and I found my friends and we sat, in the morning gloom of the interior, comparing notes from the last week and trying to get BT Sports on our phones so we could watch the Arsenal game. That rules out a few pubs in town. Yes. I don't like Yates. The Plough gets too busy on match days. I wouldn't take payment to urinate in Mannings.
By the time the beer had done it's job and the shorts were chugged back and the world, in all its sunless cloudy early afternoon bonhomie had swirled like a tablespoon of blackcurrant jam in rice pud, it was two-forty and time to walk briskly to PR. The fervour of the fellow fan was of expectation. We'd had a few weeks of draws and disappointment. This was the afternoon we'd put it all right again.
The seagulls wheeled and chased errant chips as I queued (yes, QUEUED! What is this club turning into?) to enter SBRL. The teams came out. Stephen Foster said something about Bobby Robson, we all applauded and then Hey Jude started.
Forest Green Rovers were terrible, admittedly, but we did a pro job. I liked Broadhead yet again and admired Clarke at right back, but we missed a midfield presence without Evans.
I left on 90 minutes, just before Leif Davis should've scored again. He was unlucky yesterday. Train home, packed and standing room only, dropped at Manningtree, walked home up the hill. My legs eat gradients like a kid with a finger of fudge. I've even noticed muscle development, which was unknown for me even in my twenties.
An evening in the pub with Tel, him coughing and spluttering and his voice a coagulated, straining croak of Old Kent Road phlegm. We drank indiscreetly and laughed at the Chelsea fans, albeit not to their faces, after their horror at the one-nil home defeat to Southampton. I'd hate to be Graham Potter, I think, although the multi-million payout might soften things a bit.
Tel wheezed "Iss good ter be back 'ere 'aving a larf wiv yer" and sounded oddly content. He's not in Braintree next weekend so we're considering a Friday meal. This place is like Hotel California. You can check out any time but you can never leave. Or, if you do, you wish you hadn't. That's my excuse for staying, anyway.
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