| The Final Warky Report of the season: Fleetwood (A) 10:31 - May 8 with 1214 views | Warkystache |
The end has cometh. A long, visceral season, full of gut-wrenching lows and several, enjoyable highs. Promoted from a division full of portakabins for club shops, and humility of the type seldom seen in the leagues above. I'll miss League One for this and this alone. Even the 'big' clubs; the Sheffield Wednesdays and the Portsmouths and the Barnsleys, clubs for whom twenty thousand fans are, by large, the norm and winning is the be-all, even these have learned that nothing betters team spirit and endeavour and good ownership.
I didn't make Fleetwood. It all felt a bit 'after the Lord Mayor's Show' which was really last Saturday and the home game with Exeter; ironic as we did indeed Exit her Gently, if not with a few sore heads and scenes of carnage in home dressing rooms.
The Coronation of the new kings was supposed to be at 3pm on Sunday but instead it was interrupted by The Wurzels with their pasties and scrumpy and team that cost less than Nathan Broadhead. Never mind. I never believed we were actually gonna win the f**king league anyway, even with Woolfie at the back and Ladapo in attack. Fat Jack Marriott, he of the occasional sub appearance and reminiscences of Neil Gregory in both goalscoring prowess and girth notched two and probably pissed himself celebrating both. Ex-players have a habit of haunting one.
I watched the actual Coronation on the telly, as I suspect did many. The girlfriend fancied going up to London and joining the throng but even she, less ardent monarchist, more FOMO, recognised that this was probably not a good idea. So we lay in bed watching, supping my strong Pimms and discreetly gobbing bits of cucumber back into the glass (well, I did. I never have liked Pimms for this reason. It's like sweet lemonade with a fruit cocktail poured in it). Her bedroom telly was the perfect height to watch and drink in comfort without spilling half the contents down bare chest and picking bits of strawberry out of chest hair.
Today, the bank holiday, I shall ignore the party in Christchurch Park with its abstemious rules and endless screaming kids and will do housework ready for the rest of the working week. I didn't get back from Huntingdon until 6pm last night as she's working today, so the goodness of a bank holiday Monday, watching the clamour of the Championship play-off race, will be spent in ironing and toilet cleaning.
The Terry two are nicely settled in Halstead. Tel was meant to be meeting me last Friday for our Coronation curry, but excused himself on Thursday during a late call, citing "bleedin' 'ave ter do stuff to the spare room, like, DIY fings'n'that". We have arranged a definite meet on Friday night at a restaurant in Colchester instead (halfway house as it were). His reluctance to join me in our old haunts is noticeable. I guess he's moved on more than metaphorically.
The call on Thursday was half-congratulatory on the Town and half-breathless reeling off of jobs he'd found to do and redecorating he'd need to address. "She wants the barfroom done in blue tiles an' white floor an' a noo shower stall'n' toilet, 'cos she found black mould in the shower" he said, nonchalantly. "So I've got a plummer, bloke from Braintree, Tone recommended 'im, name's Steve, Braintree Town supporter, got their badge on 'is truck. 'E's also a Hammer, season ticket 'older though he don't go that often these days, too busy i'nnee?". He paused, breathless in the new news he had to impart. "Tone's got cataracks, needs 'is left eye peeled, waitin' fern appointment at Broomfield". Oh I said. "Ow's life in Tendrin' then? Missin' us already?" I said I hadn't had time. "Paula's bin round ter see us, 'er new bloke came wivver, 'e's a bit wet". He said this with meaning in his voice and I must have sounded blasé because he then dismissed the subject. I didn't ask him how she was. She has ceased contact with me. Possibly, or more likely probably, because I refused to be guarantor for her mortgage. Yes, she has the nerve to ask. She still expects me to sell up, I guess.
The walks are still happening. This morning's was the usual, along the church road and down to the Stour, meandering its merry way to Flatford and Dedham and beyond. Three cormorants, two grebes and a dead badger on the road as I wended my way to Tesco for fags, papers and milk. The church bells tolled a distance away and the traffic was sparse. Yesterday was warm and overcast, this morning belied the warmth by being chilly and grey. Still, the shadows crept when the sun came out and the grasses were dewy and be-webbed. Not a dog walker in sight. The puddles were chocolate-coloured and the boots squelched.
So that's all for now. A successful, well-earned promotion back to the land of the hopeful and hopeless, back to the main pages of the sports sections rather than a cursory nod from the results bit. Back to the Watfords and the Hulls and the Scums and, hopefully, a bit of exotica from the likes of Everton or Leicester City. No more three thousand crowds and corrugated iron away ends and fans who come in taxis at PR. Goodbyes to teams who lump it aimlessly and agricultural fouls and poor referees and pertinent offsides ignored. This is hardcore. This is the self-proclaimed 'hardest league to get out of'. Well, let's wait and see, eh? Even with hungover players at Fleetwood, we're still of quality and goalscoring competence. A few decent additions and we're ready for August.
This is where the really hard work starts. Roll on those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer, with fixture lists to be pored over and pre-season friendlies to begin. Roll on those heat-maddened days of wasps-in-drinks and pub gardens and brown grass and hosepipe bans and the excitement of new signings. Of heat-beating early morning strolls and sunburn-treating, of the odd sighting of Kingfishers at the river's edge and memories of weddings that were and were meant to be but didn't. Of cold beers and warm bedrooms and deckchairs in gardens and light evenings and expectancy from The Town.
Bring it on. I'm sure I'll do the odd update or two during it all. Just to keep my hand in, you understand?
Have a good one
Warky - May 2023. |  |
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| The Final Warky Report of the season: Fleetwood (A) on 10:44 - May 8 with 1150 views | StochesStotasBlewe |
Thanks Warky.
Your reports are the highlight of the week.
Bring on the Championship. |  |
| We have no village green, or a shop.
It's very, very quiet.
I can walk to the pub. |
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| The Final Warky Report of the season: Fleetwood (A) on 10:51 - May 8 with 1131 views | Westover |
Nice one Warky ðŸ‘👠I always look forward to reading them, roll on August I'm expecting us to finish top ten maybe higher with the right signings. |  | | |
| The Final Warky Report of the season: Fleetwood (A) on 19:17 - May 8 with 893 views | BanksterDebtSlave |
Thanks Warky from me and Miss Slave. Enjoy your Summer.....if it ever arrives! |  |
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