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Thread | The Warky Championship Report: Scum (A)
at 10:34 7 Apr 2024
Welcome back. It's been a difficult few weeks and I'm sorry but I haven't had time and all that.
First the housekeeping news. Mrs Tel is in hospital. Nothing too serious, needed another operation so has paid privately and she's currently in The Oaks, having had it last Thursday. I don't honestly know what she's had done but Tel intimated somewhere south with his eyes when I last saw him a week ago for a pint. Or was it Monday? Must have been Monday. We'd gone to PR for that classic Southampton match. He can't make Wednesday because he refuses to drive and, by proxy, not have a drink.
He's fine as well. I say 'fine'; he can't operate the washing machine so has resorted to using a local laundrette, where he chucks them a black bin bag full of clothing and bed sheets and thirty quid and they return them to him a week later ironed (not the sheets. Who irons bed sheets? Mind you, he asked the woman in there anyway). They asked him which powder he'd prefer. He didn't know. Their default is Persil. So he opted for that. He then complained of itchiness on Monday.
We tried to get tickets for Carrow Road yesterday. Tried quite hard. But it was hopeless. And anyway, he couldn't then make it as he was visiting Mrs Tel, and we lost and played hopelessly. More in a mo. So at least we get the mild comfort of not having forked out to join the knotted band of blue at the home of crapness, Partridge and the sort of people you'd half expect to see in some random backwaters in the Fens, your car doors locked and you bumping over unmade roads as you desperately scan the horizon for a glimpse of Ely Cathedral.
My, how the Southampton drama spoilt the derby. Visions of Chaplin whipping in a thirty-yarder, of Omari torturing Gibson and that other thug they play at the back, of Sargeant's curly ginger head in his hands, they were the stuff of dreams in the last few days. And it all went bang like a balloon landing on a holly bush, stifled by our poor play and their cheating and time-wasting, and gloating. At least our local had the good sense to switch off the moment the ref blew for time. I was worrying about the longevity of the pool table and the back bar chairs. They weren't happy, our drinking ITFC contingent. Neither was I, but several pints and a few shorts lessened the immediate gnashing and need to destroy inanimate objects.
I feel sorry for folk who have to work with scum fans this next week. I'll run the usual whining from the Coventry fans who did us a favour yesterday and might have expected one in return. Still, they're convinced they will be play-off bound. I was the same until Leeds lost.
In other news. Paula is being evicted from her house in Heybridge and is moving back to Harwich. She did ask if I'd take her in, baby included, for a few months (?) just so she could work weekends and try and save up for a deposit on a rental. Then she asked for a few grand as a loan so she could take up the offer of a rental with one of her friends in Colchester. I had to refuse both. I'm sorry, but I did. My spare bedroom is a mess and I need to be up at the crack of dawn for work. Plus she never repaid the two grand I lent her in January. And I'm not a bank. My resources are finite. Sorry and all that. So she's moving in with her sister in Harwich while she looks for somewhere locally.
It's getting better. Weather-wise as well as promotion-wise. I'm not convinced we'll do automatic but then some days I am. It just feels like one of those seasons. Like last season when we just kept going. Yesterday, like Cardiff, was a blip but this is a difficult league.
Tel texted me last night. "Ball. Dindnt sea the game onle hilites hateem scum" For a second, I thought he was learning arabic. So I rang him. The sounds of people walking around were in evidence as he answered and he whispered, which for Tel was an effort. 'Hiya mate, sorry, I'm in The Oaks with the missus, she's just 'aving 'er tea, so I came art forra bref like". We briefly discussed the game and he moaned and said he wouldn't have played Tuanzebe and we missed Burns. Then he said "Lissen, wife'll be art on Mondy so she should be OK for next Saturdy, fancy comin' over for a chinky?" and I said yes, making sure that Mrs Tel would be alright first as I never like the feeling of obligation. So he rang off. And that was that.
So I might not be around for another week or two. Sorry to everyone. But I'll try and write something anyway. I can't remember if we're at home (hang on, I can check on here can't I? Yes, Middlesbrough. He'll be going to that, Must remind him) but it'll be nice to catch up with them both.
Losing 1-0. It might seem a lot to a team twenty-odd points behind us. Would've been nice to win it and get the bragging rights. But what the hell. Hopefully we'll be in different divisions again next season. They don't seem to matter as much as they used to. That fifteen year thing, it only exists in the minds of Sky TV and their supporters. Who cares? It's not that important. It's only a game after all. Let them get some semblance of joy in their benighted lives.
Bastards.
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Thread | The Warky Championship Report: Plymouth Argyle (A)
at 20:48 3 Mar 2024
There's a strange dress code operating around these parts at the moment. Shorts. The wearing of them to walk your dog, or in Tesco picking up a loaf and a four-pinter and whatever other commercial pap they sell which seems to please the far-North Essex palate.
Shorts in winter sounds like one of those stories your Grandad told you when you were a nipper. That and rickets and school caps and hop-picking holidays and the lack of medical care. The days when beer was tuppence a pint and everyone had jobs, and lager was considered a girl's drink. My own grandfathers were similarly anecdotal in those moments during Christmas, while merry on rum or ginger wine, when they actually told me about the 1930's and 40's, Christmases being a time for drunken reflection on lives that weren't necessarily lived but just happened. Like osmosis.
Shorts were a popular topic, as was frost on the inside of bedroom windows and outside lavatories and how the 1930's were, in many ways, better than the 1990's. Bare knees were the badge of pride in schoolboys. Whether they should be similar in modern-day hairy-kneed men whose creamy calves resemble tree trunks is a moot point. Paired with knackered Reeboks and those half-socks, it all smacks of desperation for the summer.
I didn't attempt Plymouth yesterday. To be honest, I've never been there. My South West begins and ends in Oxford and the Cotswolds. I've only been to Cheltenham for the horse-racing. It's all very nice countryside and that, but you can have enough of nice countryside anywhere. I bet Kier Starmer thought that yesterday, forced as he was to watch the scum narrowly beat a fading Sunderland at home. That should ensure at least twenty thousand less Labour supporters come the election. It won't of course. The current government are so bad that even The Liberals should be licking their lips.
It's been a strange weekend, really. No Terry. He went to London with Mrs Tel and the in-laws to see Jersey Boys and eat dinner in Chinatown. They had an hotel, the Marriott, and "a rearly good deal, like" which he bragged about. I wished him well of it. Sounded nice. Not my cup of tea, but each to their own. He still hasn't come back home. They were staying tonight as well. He was hoping to have next week off to catch up, which, since his employer is also his brother-in-law, is less a hope and more an expectation. He breezily mentioned a meeting on Friday for dinner at our local Indian but I'm busy. That's not mere churlishness on my part. I've got a Friday nighter in Birmingham again. I took the opportunity as we're away in Wales at 12.30pm next Saturday. I would have gone to that, only I fear my hangover would be too great to contemplate the trip.
The household chores are sorted and next week's shirts ironed. The shopping, diminishing by the day, sits in the fridge and the larder and the beer gets colder. Lager, A girl's drink, my Grandfather once said. He liked mild and bitter. Although the one time he tried a lager, back in the 80's on a hot afternoon when my dad offered one, he rather liked it.
2-0 away and second. Life's sweetened by our form. It's too early to boast and I for one won't be carried away until we're sure of promotion, but it's looking good. Tuesday night should be a cracker under the lights. I've taken a half-day already. Just to be sure. Perhaps Sir Kier might be in attendance? Just in the interests of balance? Who can say? If he is, I pity the poor sod who gets to sit behind him. That hairdo is more Mister Softee than Mr Brylcreem. You might just have to stand up to see.
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Thread | The Warky Championship Report: Birmingham City (H)
at 12:12 25 Feb 2024
Frost on the ground, a tracing of rooks on the path from the hedgerow, feet like a scaly serpent, tracks rimed and clawed. A dead coot, eyes plucked and tiny red beak askew, lay like a child's stuffed toy in a freezer.
Harsh realities on a stroll. It was meant to be a stroll. Normal people would've referred to it as an early-morning freshener. It's supposed to be keeping the fatty weight off the bones, a chance for toning and stopping that old familiar bulge in the midriff from expanding until I go bang.
Dogs, unleashed and on leads, rummaged around, breath curling in the morning air, noses bent on pissy smells or whatever it is they sniff to distraction. They ignored the lone walker and I trudged on, breathing slightly heavy as the crests sloped up. My left knee gives the sort of pain you get when you secretly fear dislocation with the next step.
Home with a bag for life. No, I've not married since you were last with. I never remember to take a bag with me on a walk, yet always call into the local Tesco for supplies on the way home. Yesterday morning, I fancied milky porridge oats with a drop of runny honey on top, not too much. And I'd run out of milk. And porridge oats. And honey. And practically everything in between, save three bottles of champagne I can't find the appetite for, and a bit of soapy cheddar and some granary bread. I cleared the fridge last night, straight into food recycling. It broke the heart and resolved the wallet not to go mad on a weekly shop and only buy stuff I'd eat.
Porridge stirred and extra milk floated so it looked as waterlogged as the local fields after the recent rains. Honey drizzled from the squeezy bottle. A cafetière of decent coffee from Guntons in Colchester, the shop that transcends time and feels like the 1950's. It genuinely wouldn't surprise to find Googie Withers behind the deli counter, crisp white coat, offering samples of Mushrooms a la Grecque.
Tel came round just as I was finishing scrubbing the porridge pan. I'll have to get non-stick eventually. Even with Jif and two scourers, it was the sort of job they'd have cruelly given to Sisyphus. He came in the back door and wiped his feet with ostentation, as though we'd a recent outbreak of foot'n'mouth. Birmingham at home, 3pm on a Saturday for the first time in ages. We intended a day of drink and joyous laughter before three. Tel showed me his football bet on his phone. We've not done too badly recently, what with a few winning horses on the side. He spent a tenner on five results, wins for Arsenal, Palace, Sheffield Wednesday, Bristol Rovers and Mansfield. No Town. He hates jinxing it. Given the terrors he went through on Tuesday night when he and not I (working) attended the Rotherham game, he was also a little trepidatious. "Bleedin' free-one up and we let 'em back" he said, still slightly cowed by the experience.
We left at 11am, having had a beer each in my kitchen as an early loosener. We nearly got the 11.13, except he had a lace problem so it was coming in as we entered the station and, not too inclined to move faster than a brisk walk, we watched it pull out and settled for a Guinness apiece in the Station Cafe. We did manage the 11.28. Ipswich wasn't that busy when we pulled in. No Birmingham fans on the train, which was a bit odd as they'd usually be there in droves. The usual London-bound commuters dressed like Scott of the Antarctic despite it being slightly warmer than early morning.
Mrs Tel is due into hospital in Chelmsford in a few weeks, just for tests, overnight stay, that sort of thing. We discussed it; Terry quite concerned despite the studied indifference of his speech. Ladies things. Or at least that was how I interpreted it. He never quite said what, but the intimation was fairly clear. He himself has started working again, just a few hours a week, with Tony on a development his firm are building near Great Leighs. "Great for the racin'" enthused Tel. "Been twice already - 'ad three winners the first time". Then the subject moved away from Mrs Tel and onto horses. The mood lightened as a result.
We briefly touched on Paula and her new baby. She's now separated from the bloke who fathered it. "Gorn back ter 'is missus" said Tel dismissively and with a world of menace in his tone. I gathered he was helping her financially still. "Lent 'er a few quid" he said with a face that told the familiar refrain of "Won't be seeing THAT again". I didn't put my house on the market after all that. Couldn't be bothered. So that potential source of income has dwindled, and with it any interest she may have in me. I haven't seen or heard from her since before Christmas. It's for the best.
We drank steadily, the empty glasses piling on the table until a bored barman came and retrieved them with a sour smile. By two, I felt the familiar swimming feeling when I walked out for a cigarette. Tel started slurring a bit and telling funny tales about Tony and his handling of their new work experience lad, who I felt sympathy for. "Can't do the basics, like" said Tel, expanding on his theme with examples of the lad's stupidity and naivety. I sat and nodded, a world away. My watch suddenly said it was two-forty and we ordered one last short "for the road' and downed it at the bar before making our descent through the town, past a group of lads riding bikes and performing daring wheelies in traffic. It reminded me of me when I was their age. We had BMX's though.
The ground, whirring with seagulls chasing scraps and blokes clad in jeans and anoraks queuing outside SBRL, was riven with an air of hope. I'd missed Leeds v Leicester the previous night as I was out with friends. Apparently Leeds were lucky. Still, a win is a win and we needed the same to keep track.
We left on the full-time whistle, sated by Omari's late goal (again) and a competent, if slightly weary performance. The Birmingham fans we met seemed satisfied that we hadn't run riot and they'd performed fairly well. Opinion was divided on their subs. I've always liked Sirike Dembele from his days when he used to regularly crucify us for Peterborough. They thought he was terrible. Funny how opinions differ?
Tel was happy with the win; happier still that 'The Axe' as he calls Tuanzebe had a really good game for us. The train was a crush and we alighted at a grey Manningtree with the lightness of step that belies a good result. The walk to the pub was lit by re-enactment of the goals and key moments. The pub itself showed the late Arsenal game to a clutch of Arsenal fans in their JVC away tops. The beer was refreshing after the walk.
The curry was great. Tel opted for chicken shashlik with chillis and the tandoori lamb chops, then had a King Prawn Vindaloo with plain rice and a chapati. I had the combination starter of Prawn Puri and lamb sheek with mint chutney and then Chicken Biryani with some of Tel's vindaloo sauce (they always drench their curries in sauce) and a keema naan. My guts bubbled like the porridge pot on the way back home, but it was tasty and a good end to a good day all round.
Mrs Tel arrived at 11.30pm for the long drive back to Braintree. She was clad all in black, bomber jacket, jeans and plain black sweatshirt. We kissed greetings and Tel fell into the passenger seat and lo, they were gone. So back in I went, locking doors behind me and reaching for the brandy bottle and glasses to watch the recorded EFL highlights before bed.
My cherry tree has started budding. Spring's not far away. Will it be the denouement to a great season we all hope will end with Premier ambitions? Dunno. I was mighty glad Southampton lost though.... |
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Thread | The Warky FA Cup Report: Maidstone United (H)
at 13:09 28 Jan 2024
Ever circling, upwards, like the buzzards soaring through the grey skies on the walk yesterday. Wings spread, tips pointing to the stars. It wasn't a particularly memorable morning, either. Dog walkers still followed lead-less labs and lurchers. Joggers still stretched their lycra long-johns and flecked mud on their Reeboks. An occasional walker, like me but with socks tucked into the bottoms of jeans and North Face anoraks to profess intent. They didn't carry Ordnance Survey maps or binoculars. They walked briskly, a circuit away from cars parked on muddy verges. Everyone loves the Stour round here. Constable country innit? A rural Disneyland without the rides. The only rip-offs here are the price of afternoon teas.
I didn't fancy the Cup. It's become a farrago. We used to watch the cup final faithfully up to the early 1990's, then the same teams kept making it and it all seemed a bit of a falsehood, a competition geared up to the have-it-all's, the so-called 'romance' confined to the very early rounds when non-leaguers took chances on meeting Man U in the third round and the telly cameras and Alan Hansen in a wool coat were shoe-horned between the mobile hot-dogs and the khasi.
Terry went. He paid his tenner. I'm still officially in mourning. It's the funeral next week. I've got the black suit out of the dry-cleaners and I've polished the black shoes and learnt my lines. 30 minutes. That's the length of the service. Making it meaningful has been the hardest job I've ever had to do. Everyone says Dad and I 'will feel better' after the funeral. I've smiled and thanked them, for people are well-meaning and it is a comfort, of sorts, but left to your own devices, the memories flood back like a tsunami off Walton. It washes up the gold as well as the detritus. It's all part of life's rich pageant. I'm sorry if I used a much-liked REM album title as well. It doesn't demean my Mum though.
So we watched the game at home instead. BBC. My dad had checked Sky Sports five times in a sort of measured annoyance. "It's not on at 12.30" he said, accusingly. I told him to try the Beeb and lo! the seas parted and Alex Scott's dropped aitches fell like molten magma onto the lush green PR pitch.
I missed the first ten minutes. Dad had washing to do and, despite countless instructions about how to use the washing machine without making everything pink or smell just like it did before he washed it (forgot the powder), he needed a hand. So we sorted whites and darks into piles like a washing apartheid, and reached for the funny jelly-like tabs he bought two-for-a-tenner in Waitrose. These were Fairy. I checked, lest he'd bought the stuff you put in dishwashers again, but these were fine. Then I added a few Lenor beads in the drum and a quick glug of fabric conditioner in the tray. Bingo. An hour and ten minutes of peace.
By this time, Town had hit the post and were passing it freely around the edge of the Sir Alf box. "I like that Hutchinson and him you got on loan from....wassit? Sarmento?" said Dad. He was disappointed there was no Chappers or Liefers or Burnsy. But we looked like scoring every time we came forward. Then didn't, obviously.
Then they meandered up our end and looked briefly threatening but it fizzled out. Just as I'd made two mugs of tea and bought the biscuit tin tucked under my arm (Hob Nobs, Rich Tea, Lemon Puffs and stem ginger cookies from Marks 'cos Dad likes a variety) bloody Maidstone scored. And it was remarked upon like that "Bloody Maidstone have scored" said Dad, the surprise and the suspicion of a smirk etched on his wide-eyed pronouncement. They replayed it from every known angle. Martin Keown sounded smug. It was that type of goal.
One-nil at half-time was embarrassing. I went upstairs and hoovered Dad's landing. The dust bobbed languorously away from the nozzle like driftwood in a western. I did everywhere, under the carpet, around the stolid pot plant, around the occasional table, being careful not to disturb the ornaments, which got a dusting, lest they resemble Miss Haversham's personal effects.
I came down to a cry. Thinking Dad might have had a clutcher, and then remembering that I'd read of someone dying after falling down stairs when they tripped on a hoover pipe, so moderating my pace, I puffed the hoover back downstairs and peeped in the lounge. "One-all, son, lucky that was" said Dad, sipping his tea and wondering quizzically why I had half a hoover nozzle snaking around my right leg. He'd made me a tea. It was just the hot side of tepid. I downed it like the first pint of the night. The undissolved sugar hit my teeth. Lovely.
Then they went 2-1 up and, despite the pressure, this time we couldn't get it back. The full-time whistle bought jeers and the excited amazement of Alex Scott, she of the dropped aitches and former women's football, watched in the UK by less people than those who watch non-league. Proper non-league as well. Why's she's become the new Alan Shearer or Mark Lawrenson, god knows. These are strange days. They might as well have offered it to Davina McCall.
So that was that. The off button was pressed. I couldn't be arsed with the three-o-clock's. The shame and the rage and the slight disassociation with anything Town related started. I'd probably laugh along with everyone at work on Monday. But I feel let down, yet shouldn't. It's only the bloody cup as Dad said. Bigger and better things await. If only I could really believe that.
And Tel? He was indifferent when we met later in the local. Actually, he'd gone back down the pub when it went 2-1. "Couldn't be bovvered" he said, and then we discussed Paula's new daughter, Candice, and what a stupid name she'd chosen, and how much he'd lent her, and suddenly everything fell back into its' rightful place, like when it did when I dropped my mate's Operation board game and all the bits went back correctly. Isn't that just like life?
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Thread | The Warky Report: Mum
at 17:00 3 Jan 2024
She didn't like most football. We took her to Portman Road once, for the Man United FA Cup home game in 1988, sat with the United supporters in the away end as you couldn't get a home ticket for love nor money.
It was a Sunday afternoon, I think, live on the Beeb. We lost 2-1. Mich D'Avray, middling at the best of times yet strangely Mariner-esque in the own goal he somehow diverted past Hallworth from a pumped Bryan Robson free-kick, scored the first for United. "Ooh" said Mum as Mancunians dressed in all-in-one denim celebrated around us. "Should he have done that?".
She was a Jonah for telly football games. That long spell on Sky when we didn't win once? Mum watched a bit of every game. She had a soft spot for the Town, largely because I did, but she was never a fan in the truest sense. Given the choice between a televised game or another repeated episode of "Escape to the Country", she'd immediately plump for watching some couple from Croydon not buy a house in Cornwall.
She'd moan when the World Cup or Euros came around. "A bloody year of wall-to-wall football, no escape". A nil-nil led to accusations of "waste of your time". When I forgot to do maths homework so I could stay up and watch highlights on Sportsnight in the 80's, she punished me by making me stay up until midnight doing it. No Sportsnight. I've always disliked maths ever since.
She was with me though when I bought my first Town shirt, the Pioneer pinstripe in '81. She, my dad and my maternal grandparents went to PR in the off-season, around June time. There's a grainy Kodak photo of me standing proudly outside the club shop (used to be near Churchmans where the temporary ticket office is now in Portman Road) dressed in my new shirt and shorts and a pair of wellies (don't ask. I had a thing for wellies as a kid). She washed that shirt, even after the Adidas badge came off. I still have that shirt. It's now bobblier than a cheap sweater.
She enjoyed our triumphs. She'd have loved Wembley in 2000. She was chuffed when we won promotion last April, the hot sun, the crowds, the hoarseness of my voice. Her first loves were art and dress and Tudor events and codewords and her family. But she also loved new experiences, just being with my Dad and casual rides in the car to view the sea, perhaps stop for a drink and a bite on the way. Her life may have become less as she became ill, and she wasn't able to enjoy as much as she had before, but it was a pleasure just to hear her laugh at my tales, or Bob Mortimer on 'Gone Fishing', or at my peculiar attempts at wrapping pressies.
She's gone and I still can't quite believe it, but she's never forgotten. Rest in peace, Mum, and know that you were very much loved. Thanks folks for reading. Many thanks for all of your kind regards and sympathy.
Warky JANUARY 2024
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Thread | Merry Christmas from Warky
at 08:50 25 Dec 2023
Sorry there's no report - my mum sadly passed away yesterday so it's a funny old time.
Warky xxx |
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Thread | The Warky Championship Report: Scum (H)
at 13:02 19 Dec 2023
The week before the great festivities and it's all gone flat over here in Warky World. Mum's in hospital in Colchester. The rain patters on my french doors and the lawn looks like a cheap, very limited Maldon mud race. The pools of water gather and I've even had two coots and a duck near the garden shed.
I've had to change plans for Christmas. Originally, I'd meant to spend them in Halstead with the Terries, who invited me to their Christmas Eve takeaway bonanza and 'made up' the spare room for a stay until the 27th, after we'd been down the local pub to watch the Leicester game on Boxing Day since neither fancied driving. Now, with mum in hospital and unlikely to be out before New Year, and my dad going to visit her every afternoon, with me in tow, it's all changed.
Hospital visiting doesn't bring out the best, I have to admit. The ward, warm beyond the point of hasty coat removal, smells of cheap gravy and wet dog. The meals they serve, from a stainless steel trolley, look like the stuff Meals on Wheels had left on the back seat after a day driving all over Colchester. Pudding is a tub of ice cream and a plastic thing of Jelly. I mistook it for a sputum pot on the first day I visited and thought "Christ, she's definitely not well".
So my dad, whose commitment to elderly neighbours extended to inviting them for a Christmas Day lunch before mum was admitted and whose culinary skills are more Egg-on-toast than Egon Ronay, and to whom it would be more courteous to confirm the arrangement when they asked him if he wanted to cancel, needs help. So I'm cooking them lunch after a Xmas Day morn spent driving him to and from the hospital ward and seeing my mum. We're ignoring Christmas apart from that. The pressies, we've agreed, can wait until she's home again. The trouble is, they've not been opened following their delivery by Amazon, so we don't actually know what's what.
Saturday was that type of day; a present you wished you'd not opened yet. Tel arrived at 8am, a shock to the system but one that, since his days as a newsagent, he has been well used to. Indeed he was perky, bemoaning my slight but insistent hangover from the night before, itchy-footed as he waited for me to switch off the blinky tree lights and find my trainers.
We walked down to the railway, him complaining of the puddles and the damp grass. "Bleedin' aint walkin' back" he kept muttering, oblivious to our plans to catch the two-fifty train home and head to the pub where Mrs Tel, all leather jacket and black Monsoon scarf and the image of a guitar-smashing Simonon from London Calling fluttering between the two, would collect him later. Post-Indian, which we could walk to as it was just across the road in Manningtree.
There was a smattering of Town at 8.45am. Most were in the steamy confines of the Station Cafe, which was doing a roaring trade in bacon baps and Guinness. Tel and I had a quick pint while we waited for the 9.14. Sat outside, me smoking, him moaning as an occasional waft passed within a foot. "Bleedin' vapes 'ave been invented yer knarr?" he said pointedly. "Should'a stopped by now, nearly fifty you, prime age fer that CO-OP fing int'cher?" I joked that I hadn't been in the Co-Op since they charged me nearly seventeen quid a packet. He didn't get it.
We caught the train. It was full-ish. One middle-aged lady and her husband sported Scum scarves, hers looking like something my mum used to wear as the local Avon Lady in the early '80's. The bloke had a strange light browny yellow Colman's scarf, possibly in the hope he'd be mistaken for a Werthers Original. Tel played up to them, until they smiled politely and moved to another pair of seats further up the coach. When I say he 'played up', I mean he clumsily chafed them, casually mentioning burning down stands and how "Delia Smiff's ruined yer, aint'she?". It was a very one-sided conversation.
The expected police were much in evidence as we alighted. The station resembled "Line of Duty". All that was missing were the tactical armed response units. Tel said a cheery "Mornin'" to the pockets of Suffolk's finest and they smiled and replied in kind. Until we walked over the bridge and saw the merry band of Scummers in the Station Beer Garden, looking like late daffodils as they swayed and made Nescafe signs in the breeze.
The pub was murder, but we found a seat and did the app thingy to order beers and breakfast, which were delivered quite quickly. Later on in the morning, the complaints started from folk who were anxious to get down to PR for the coach meeting and still hadn't received their lukewarm triple egg and sausage butties. We carried on drinking when they departed. Tel couldn't be arsed with the parade. We probably drank a bit too much, to be honest. I definitely saw forty four players on the pitch later. Perhaps that was why we only drew?
You must have seen the game, right? Yeah, Me too. And Terry. We picked it apart afterwards, to the extent that it now feels like we played it yonks ago. For his part, Tel bemoaned the missed chances, the mis-placed passes and the general flatness at the end, plus the pointlessness of making us walk halfway round Cardinals Park after. I couldn't disagree. It felt anti-climactic. We ran the gauntlet of stupid Norwich City fans celebrating and taunting, their big match of the season over and they'd somehow managed a point. Tel, like everyone, wants away-day revenge. He mentioned the Carrow Road rematch. I said it was likelier to find Rocking Horse sh*t than tickets. He went away vowing to get a pair. We'll see.
Back to the pub, a familiar haunt, the gloom of the interior slightly improved by the speckly bands of fairy lights everywhere, the bog urinals full of slowly-draining Lucozade-coloured wee, and the attempts at festive warmth from the faux fire. The bloke at the bar nursed his scratched pint glass of IPA along with his grudges. The bar maids wore Xmas jumpers which accentuated their enormous bosoms but clashed incongruously with their leather mini-skirts and plastic antlers on their heads. Tel attempted a chat-up ("D'you grow horns anywhere else then?") before retiring with that pervy smirk he seems to keep for these occasions.
We drank til seven, keeping an eye on the footy, bemused by the late Burnley game. Then, after a round of double pub brandies and the faces we made as we downed them, we left for curry. I had a starter of mixed tandoor meats and salad. Tel had the lamb chops. By the time we'd finished, the world seemed slightly brighter, if not the weather. Back to the pub for an aperitif, then along came Mrs Tel at ten-thirty and he decanted into their SUV and was away, promising Christmas delights which I've now, sadly, had to postpone for another year.
It's all a shame. Never mind. Perhaps we'll do Leeds away instead? Watch out for the Warky Christmas Report on Christmas Eve. And remember me, and feel glad.
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Thread | The Warky Championship Report: Middlesbrough (A)
at 11:05 10 Dec 2023
The jazzy intro to the EFL highlights on ITV, a tuneful raised-leg fart from a sax, is music to the ears at present. I think I might have missed the Town goals yesterday though. They're on to QPR as I speak.
Paula's mum was cremated on Tuesday. Or maybe not? I never know if they do it there and then or if they wait, maybe having a crafty fag out the back of the ovens, waiting for the mourners to depart. I didn't go. Tel told me the news. It sounded like the usual; funeral service, bit of Buble, quick prayer, the vicar (who she never met apparently) saying a few personal words of comfort to the congregation. Tel said a few came dressed like Mickey out of 'Only Fools'. Cheap leather jackets, shiny suits, pencil-thin black ties, pork pie hats. Paula looked very pregnant, as befits someone who is due in January. The stalls were inched forward by degrees as she entered the pews. She couldn't kneel down for the prayer.
She later approached him to say thanks for organising the after-service tea. He paid. Paula's mum left nothing except for the sort of jewellery seen in H Samuel windows marked for discount. People accepted tea from her chipped Beryl teacups, hoping for something stronger perhaps. He had them covered. Several found themselves accepting nips of brandy in their cups. "'Ave to at a funeral, 's'as important as egg sarnies, booze is" he explained to me on the phone afterwards, a note of guilt in his voice lest he be accused of getting the mourners legless. He also provided cream sherry, but none took him up on the kind offer. He's giving it to next door as a Christmas present instead.
He's lent her more money. She approached him after the last person had departed. He didn't say how much but it necessitated a trip to the bank so I reckon it ended in three zeroes. Not that I should really be involved or need to know. He mentioned to her that I was thinking of moving away and selling the house, so lo, I received a text on Thursday saying Hi, just to keep her hand in should I be inclined to give her any of the proceeds. Perhaps that's harsh. Perhaps I should delete that last sentence? No. She's shown no inclination to ask after my health for a few months now.
I worked yesterday. It was a good excuse to meet up with friends in Brum and still claim my travel expenses. Cynical? Moi? The office was drab on a grey, windy and wet day, the Christmas decorations they put up last week glinted opaquely under the strip lighting. It felt like December 29th, that day when you itch to take everything down again. It's a long old week between Christmas and new year. I remember as a kid helping to light the fire in the lounge while watching cheap US cartoons, perhaps a Looney Tunes or an episode of Scooby Doo. The batteries ran low on Christmas toys and it was too wet to ride my new bike.
We had the early kick-off, the Liverpool game, on the telly, on mute in the background as we pretended to draw up meeting plans and project stats. We ordered pizza and dough balls from Dominoes via Just Eat and drank mineral water from bottles. We went for a quick beer at two, just the one, the local in Broad Street, writhing with the Villa before their home game with Arsenal at 5.30pm. They had the end of the Palace v Liverpool game on. Their Christmas decorations were inspired. It was only later that I realised they were in the same colours as the Palestinian flag. No escape, is there?
The Villa fans were complimentary about the Town. One or two even thought we could be them in a few seasons. I wished them well. I know the two clubs have had distinctly average periods in the past. I still can't forget 1981, even though I was only seven. The excitement, the hope, the crystal-fine dreams about a top four finish and Champions League qualification, all resonated. We were back at the office by 2.45pm. It seemed a shame.
I worked until 6pm and then went and secured my room at the local Travelodge (£33 for one night) and dumped my overnight bag on the single bed and wondered how, if they still swung cats in this enlightened day and age, they'd manage to miss the bed and the widescreen telly in one.
To bed at 3am, then woke at eight and helped myself to complimentary cornflakes, ice-cold milk and lightly browned toast with a pot of honey so small it wouldn't accept a table knife or a teaspoon. So I took five and left them draining upside down on the buttered toast slices. I'm back in the room on my laptop as I type. I'm making a move about twelve. The hangover has lessened and the traffic should be easier.
2-0 away. I never expected much from Middlesbrough.They are one of those teams we never seem to be able to do consistently well at, even back to Ayresome Park. I saw the goals prior to leaving for the bars and eateries of Brindleyplace last night. I'll be saving again in New Year. I checked my credit card balance this morning and it's beginning to look at lot like Christmas every day.
The scum next week. You all know what that means. The Rozzers everywhere, congregating yellow and green home shirts in that garden bit of the Station Pub, making Nescafe hand signals to the blue-shirts walking over the bridge. Mounted police, one way in and out of Portman Road, the detour for the home fans taking in parts of Whitton and Stowmarket. Early morn hangovers appeased by medicinal pints of Guinness in the pubs that open. Bacon rolls, songs about Delia and poor little budgies ringing out around the town, the communal trains on the way back, the jostling and the old Bill managing it all by proxy. The gnashed teeth of regret at the 1-1 draw. Well, it's been that in the past. Hopefully we'll be happier come two-forty-five next Saturday.
Let's wait and see eh? It'll be the next report so gird your loins and get those singing voices warmed up ready. Push those butterflies back down the old gullet. Yes, I've had them too. Derby day. You never can really tell.... |
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Thread | The Warky Championship Report: Sent to Coventry (H)
at 18:14 3 Dec 2023
Welcome back again. Sorry, it's been a hectic few weeks.
Some sad news to begin. Paula's mum has passed away. She was hospitalised for a week with respiratory problems, which turned out to be pleurisy. She came home and then got worse, and, according to Tel, who knows these things because I've not heard anything from Paula for ages, she died two weeks ago. Heart issues suspected although no autopsy yet. Sad news. I never really warmed to her, but nonetheless she became kinder to me as our time together went on. Her funeral is on Tuesday but I can't make it. That isn't due to cowardice at not wanting to see Paula again either. I just can't take more time off work.
I've been attending the Saturday home games but have found it harder to make midweek ones due to meetings and stuff, so wasn't there for Millwall (much to Terry's disgust) and yesterday was my first since the International break. Terry and I had a brief falling out, mainly over his belief that I've become unsociable. It's true, in part. I now have a very good and dependable bunch of friends in Birmingham. They're not all rival footie fans either. We met at work and have enjoyed several nights out in Brum with me either lodged in various Premier Inns and Travelodges around that fine city, the cheaper the better. Often, just a bed between the small hours and seven a.m when I wake, the hangover still mottling the world as viewed from bloodshot peepers, the standard faux wooden desks and chairs and the 57 inch telly staring silently back in the soup of a dark dawn.
The showers at these places soak the cheap tiled bathroom floor. I've never got the hang of draping the cold plastic curtains inside the bath as I try and maximise the furtive dribble of lukewarm, then boiling water from the shower head over my ample frame. The unguents they give you free all smell the same, that plastic mini bottle of gel and the soap and the complimentary after-shave. It's a strange twilight world, beloved of travellers and salespeople, conducted in a solitary and slightly chastening way. Sat at breakfast on my own, plundering the tubs of Rice Krispies and waiting for quarter-done toast to flop from the mechanical toasting conveyer thing. People-watching. That fat northern bloke in the cheap Burton's suit; surely he'll go for the overcooked bacon rashers and the big vat of baked beans steaming and congealing in the corner? It was fascinating, until the novelty wore off.
Tel thought I was abandoning him, my hometown, the odd fragments of friends I have locally. They are now busy with lives involving children and elderly parents and, viewed from the Facebook accounts and the odd postings they make, pride in minor achievement from competing in walks to lunching at posh London eateries and providing pictures of the food. Nothing screams "ordinary" quite like Facebook pride. I used to be jealous of such things. Now they're just what everyone else does.
So we had an argument. One Friday, during the international break, when he came over and we went to the pub and I admitted I'd rather have been at home, catching up on sleep. And he raged and asked if I was mental or words to that effect and I found myself browbeaten and accused of selfishness when I'm really not guilty. And that was it.
Of course, these things get settled and we all succumb to the mutual sorries and promise faithfully we'll do better. And for a while, it worked and I'd meet up with him and even went to Halstead for a dinner with them both, and smiled a lot and looked like I'd enjoyed it. But the truth is, I've mentally moved on. Paula's mum dying has bought home not the faux sadness or desire to help arrange the funeral as Tel is doing, but the apathy and numbness I feel. Sure, it's sad. But I don't owe her anything. I don't owe Paula anything more. She owes me, but I'll take that if it means I'm free. Her pregnancy sounds difficult and her "boyfriend" a prick, but I can only sympathise. Tel thinks I should be rallying round to help. Nah. Her life, isn't it?
So yesterday was a bit of a trial, despite the win. We drank the beer and chatted and one of us wished he'd accepted the invitation to come to Birmingham, enjoy a night out with the lads and lasses and plunge a few more quid on the old credit card. But I didn't. I am partly glad today. Great performance, brilliant Burns goal, that familiar drunken feeling and the cheers and the hoarse voices and a morning spent cleaning and washing in perdition to the Gods who have deigned in their wisdom that I should be strangely cheerless on a wet cold Sunday three weeks before Xmas.
So I decorated the house with my lights and tinsel and the stuff Paula bought from a local garden centre last year, back when we were happy. And in amongst the decorations, I found a note she'd penned, mostly about the replacements lights and where to find them, as a sort of reminder. At the bottom she'd written "Xmas 22, love u x" and suddenly the tears came. And I felt like a silly old fool, and had to go and pour myself a stiff brandy, and the sadness slowly evaporated like rain on a warm pavement.
Perhaps I'm cracking? But I can't. It's two weeks to Norwich at home after all. Surely we'll do them by at least four? Tel and I are having a liquid breakfast in readiness. Life's great FFS!
Ah well, folks. Sorry it's a dour sort this week. I'm sure I'll be back to high spirits again soon. |
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Thread | The Warky Championship Report: Plymouth Argyle (H)
at 09:42 29 Oct 2023
It didn't rain after all, despite the predictions from BBC Weather (which wouldn't last a week doing Tel's football bet). The early morning walk yesterday was, at least, dry, which wasn't the case during that Storm Babet. Roads like paddling pools. Lanes impassable. Fields so sodden they could've swallowed sheep whole.
A badly-needed good week apart from all that. We beat Brizzle City 1-0, despite the crap red button camera which made the players appear as blurs and the Broady goal, which I thought he'd missed on first view, be celebrated matter-of-factly by the bloke who "commentated".
Tel watched in his local in Halstead, declining the offer to drive to mine. "Too far'way an' can't 'ave a drink then". He invited me to Halstead but I had work in the morning and had to refuse, citing the same reasons he did. We'd be meeting for Plymouth on the Saturday. Mrs Tel would be getting him to mine early. We'd have time for a bacon roll and a Guinness in the Station Caff at Manningtree. Happy days.
So I walked extra early, before dawn even, feeling self-conscious as 'that nutter 'oo walks in the dark" as I suspect the locals who live en route may think. That way obviously leads to paranoia, and I therefore tread lightly around houses, lest I awaken dogs and then households at six in the morning on a Saturday. I strongly suspect that, should a dead body ever be found dumped in these environs, I'd be the lead suspect.
I'd barely finished the Times crossword when the familiar beep of Mrs Tel's 4x4 could be evinced as it drove round the corner. Out he hopped, casually dressed in black cotton jeans, a 'distressed' denim jacket from Levi Strauss, a royal blue and white scarf he wears on home game days, blue Fred Perry polo and black Vans. Mrs Tel stopped long enough to kiss me from the driver's seat. She smelt of Anais Anais as ever. She was more conservatively dressed in open-necked pink shirt, black Levis and her leather coat. "She's off ter London wiv Sandy" explained Tel. That explained her hair. It was newly coloured, red and auburn and hints of blonde at the tips. She wore make-up.
He stepped in and had a cup from the coffee pot, grimacing as he added milk and two sugars. "Blimey, 'ad that brewin' a while aintcher?". He sat in my kitchen, looking around him as if judging the standards of my cleanliness at home, trying to find stray curled-up bacon rinds or perhaps a few toast crumbs. He found nothing, of course. I'd cleaned when I came in from the walk.
We set off at ten, my tummy rumbling from lack of breakfast as we'd be eating at the railway. He walks slowly these days and we had to skip past a few puddles. We got there at 10.20am and the orders flew in; bacon rolls, Guinnesses, the odd hash brown. People stood buying newspapers and take-away cardboard cups of coffee for imbibing on the London-bound train. Except it stopped at Ingatestone. We sat and watched them, Tel occasionally roused to comment quietly at 'manners've gone darn'ill int they?" and "That bird in the mac. If I 'ad an arse that big, I wunt've worn pink trousers".
We drank and ate up and caught the 11.25 to Ipswich. It was quiet. Normally you'd expect a fair few away fans and a load of home ones, but they all seemed content drinking at the Station Cafe or had already gone. The journey was the usual, although we saw a buzzard soaring over the fields near Wherstead and the Stour tide was out, revealing egrets dabbling amongst the rivulets. The odd group of home shirts, supping lager from tins and laughing about something we couldn't hear.
The walk to the pub. He was quicker this time. Anxious to be seated in the corner, supping. We'd booked Trongs for later so had a quick excursion past, just to check the menu even though we knew what we'd be having. A mix of stuff. His turn to pay.
The pub was busy without being packed. More Guinness, just to settle the old tummy, then straight into the lager. He's changed to Angelo Poretti at home, likes it. They didn't have any here so he settled for San Miguel on draught.
He's been to see Paula in Heybridge or wherever she's now living. She's due to give birth next month and texted both him and I because her partner has left her and she can't afford the rent. I didn't answer. I felt bad for a bit but it was deliberate. I can't come running every time. Sorry if that sounds heartless, but she's caused me enough financial turmoil already.
"In a right ole two'n'eight" said Tel. He didn't sound accusatory as he has done when he's been imparting Paula news to me. "I lent her a grand, well, say lent but I doubt ah'll see it again". I nodded, now feeling distinctly impartial. She's not our problem, really isn't. Yet, there's still a hold as far as Tel's concerned. "I told 'er to claim that Universal Credit, like, git her rent sorted before she's due. Size of 'ouse she is. Bloke she was wiv did a right old job on 'er". I didn't know if he meant in getting her pregnant or in b*ggering off. I'm hoping it was the latter.
Tel thinks her partner will come back. "E's got free kids already, prob'ly just went 'ome ter see 'em although she reckons they aint been getting on well". He sniffed and took a swig of his pint. "Reckons they aint 'ad sex for a month. The pregnancy put 'im off".
We drank on, somewhat sombrely, for a while and then thing brightened and, by the time we were ready to walk to PR, we were almost jocular. The town whizzed by as it always does when inebriated. We stopped at Ladbrokes for the footy bet and each had twenty quid on two lines of a tenner each. He won again, I didn't. I thought Burnley would beat Bournemouth. I also thought Chelsea would beat Brentford. He ignored the Premier and Championship and did Leagues 1 and 2. Five selections on each line, only one let him down for a win. £790 back. He's working out the total we can share for Christmas as I speak but reckons it should be at least two grand each. I might give a bit to Paula, if she calls me again. I'm undecided. It seems the right thing to do, although she still owes me three thousand for all the loans she's had off me.
You all saw the game. Plymouth played well. We looked a bit sluggish although there wasn't much anyone could do about Whittaker's opener for them. The equaliser was scrappy, but George's second half shot for 2-1 restored the status quo and the third was a lovely move. I just wish we defended better. We need four Brandon Williams at the back. He was immense, as was Hladders in goal.
Trongs was busy when we got there after a few post-match drinks. Tel thought we'd been lucky in the first half. He was still moaning about Leif Davis and his positioning even after three Town fans had disagreed with him.
Train home at 11pm, stuffed with peking duck and pancakes and crispy chilli beef and fried rice and noodles. Mrs Tel was waiting at Manningtree Rail, her headlights dipped after her day in London, Tel berating her for wasting the battery. They dropped me home and roared away, to meet again for the Swansea home game on the 11th as we both hadn't bothered with Fulham in the cup (work for me and he's got a meeting with some bloke to look at their hot tub). He slapped me on the back as they drove off, Mrs Tel giving me a peck on the cheek and kindly ignoring the various beer and chinese fumes that emitted from my mouth. A quick beep and they were round the corner and away.
Head's bad this morning. Still, another decent walk and an extra hour to read the papers at leisure. Have a good Sunday everyone. Speak soon. |
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Thread | The Warky Championship Report: Preston North End (H)
at 10:58 8 Oct 2023
Wahey! We're back again. And this time, it's personal.
I make as many appearances as Ed Sheeran, albeit not in the Executive Box seat, sipping on beer and munching sushi as half-time comes, neither a multi-millionaire nor a particularly great singer, although to be fair, neither is Ed sometimes.
A recent severe chesty cold thing laid me low. I even packed the fags in. When every inhalation rattles and produces coughs so phlegmy that people nearby vividly shrink away, lest they catch the covid or the old consumption from the tubby bloke, you know it's time to take matters seriously.
The test for the voice was a home game where we'd score four goals and the ref let blatant shoves and ankle swipes from the opposition go unpunished. Preston were every bit as dirty as the SBRL claimed. I managed four bars of Edward Ebeneezer and most of Hey Jude at the start without croaking. It was the new one, supposedly an update on the Super Kieron McKenna, naming Massimo and Chaplin, which had me faltering.
Tel was there as well. He couldn't miss the last home game before the international break. A recent sojourn in Spain has left him looking vaguely rusty rather than tanned and it was probably hotter on the Costa Del Town yesterday than in the Bravas. We drank Guinness and admired the hoardes boarding London-bound trains at Manningtree Cafe yesterday morning. They don't know what they missed.
A brief catch-up. The Terries enjoyed Spain, although he moaned at the cost of everything and therefore my "little" pressie of Casamigos Tequila and Grey Goose Vodka made me feel guilty, especially as he said it'd increased since their last trip. Still, the bastardised version of Long Island Iced Tea I made last night tasted very nice. He's now saving for their May trip to California next year, a road trip he and the missus are planning, involving brief stops in Vegas and Malibu. He's asked me along but I can't get the required month off work at the moment.
Paula contacted me last week. Needs money. It figures. Her on-off relationship with the bloke whose child she is carrying is in an off-stage again and he's moved out, leaving her to cover November's rent on her own. Sadly, owing to a moment of weakness, I acquiesced and lent her seven hundred quid. She gives birth in a month. I couldn't be that heartless. She wanted five grand but this would've reduced my savings to mere perfunctory levels, and I need my savings account to grow a bit, at least back to the pre-Paula days. So I said no. She accepted the seven hundred without grace or gratitude. It's a shame when people's lives fall apart so badly.
Tel couldn't stay for a post-match meal as they were off to Braintree for dinner in some Italian place, so we had a quick couple and then Mrs Tel collected him from the local at seven for the drive to Braintree for eight. He was impressed by the win and performance yesterday although he moaned about the defence and the clear handball for Preston's first. "Bleedin' saw that from space" he muttered as we crammed into the train.
We'd both had a few by then. The Guinness turned into draft San Miguel and then we drifted to the Three Wise Monkeys and had East Coast IPA with our hot wings. We discussed Paula as we drank. I didn't say anything to Tel about her financial or domestic issues, but he seemed better informed than me and already knew. It seems he's helping her a bit as well. I don't know if it's just financial and he was cagey as he discussed it, but then I mentioned she'd approached me and he relaxed and said he'd "give 'er five 'undred, jus' ter 'elp 'er out, like" and I wondered if this was the plan, to play us off against each other. So I mentioned I'd helped a bit as well, and he eyed me with suspicion and said "thass not wot i've 'eard" so then the whole thing tumbled out, more a means of defence than idle gossip. And it certainly hardened the old heart. For both. "We should leave it" he said, as if final. I nodded. It doesn't seem to help.
And the football was fantastic and the weather warm and we both had hoarse voices at the end, and we stayed for a couple and it was almost like old times for a while, him and me, joshing and jousting together, the smiles never far away from our faces. And then Mrs Tel pulled in at the local car park and Tel said, almost sadly, "Gotta go" and wished me luck and I waved them off. And then it became back to me, sitting on my own finishing a pint, the revelry behind me. Things could've worked better, I thought. Perhaps it was always me?
Still life. The scenes of Chaplin jumping on Tuesday night, the game I missed and then cursed myself for the folly of illness. Yet the folly is being remedied. I'm changing my life. I've begun writing seriously. I may have a publisher. It' not about Ipswich or Terry or anything familiar really. It's more a new world. Easy to embrace and slip into unnoticed, like Marty McFly. No life preservers needed. Another facet, another side of the coin. It all lives in my noggin. This isn't reality like Tel.
The international break. Oh well. Perhaps a good moment to reflect and to enjoy these better times. As Luke said to me at half-time yesterday, you need the bad to enjoy the good. It's not always true in everything but I know what he meant. I think I'd rather be tortured than endure Mick'n'the'Pauls'n'Marcus again. That all seems so long ago. It can stay there as well. |
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Thread | The Warky Championship Report: Sheffield Wednesday (A)
at 08:31 17 Sep 2023
I was pleased that we beat Sheffield Wednesday yesterday. Of course, I hear you think. You're a Town fan. Any win against the opposition should delight. This, though, felt strangely cathartic.
The international fortnight, once a chance to showcase our league one club on the telly and in the papers because it was the only footy that Sky could promote, besides Great British union qualifiers which didn't include England and therefore seemed purposeless to those who didn't sport Scotch or Welsh accents, was suddenly back to being an irritant. A chance for our better players to suffer injury in the fruitless pursuit of qualification points. Thank God it was a warm weekend.
The early morning mist hung in boughs around the fields, dampening the longer grasses and adding crystals to spider webs. The trees were slowly turning; like kebab spits in a recently opened takeaway window. The leaves crisped and curled and fell gracefully, spinning in the air. I saw my exhaled breath in plumes, shimmering as it dissolved. The air promised heat, but this was probably the very last of it before autumn proper kicked in and the nippiness started, along with the darker morns and nights and the cheap Halloween masks and the wasteful fireworks.
Sheffield Wednesday are a reminder of the dark days. In a league where, after 4 years of slumming it, every Championship regular feels like a novelty, Wednesday are the anachronism. A team who we should've beaten in League One but drew with twice, once unluckily away last season, once fortuitously (although that's arguable) at home. They are the anachronism because they have well-known but old players; yer Barry Bannans and yer Josh Windasses and yer Callum Patersons. Players who inhabit that dusky world of the once decent but now getting on a bit, still capable of causing pain but you wouldn't have them at Town. No way. At their age? Might as well have kept Emyr Huws and Freddie Sears.
Wednesday are starting to realise this as well. A summer recruitment campaign that resembled a game of 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey' ended with former Watford blink-and-you'd-missed-him stalwart Xisco Munoz selecting several cheapish foreign imports with the zeal of a child being let loose in Poundland with a fiver and told to buy treats. Their owner, Dejphon Chansiri, always a laugh when asked to do press conferences as much for his pidgin grasp of the King's English as for his latent narcissism, seems to be hard-pushed on the financial front. Perhaps he never really wanted promotion? His side certainly did their best to arse it up for him last season.
So they've started appallingly. But it's still a nasty trip. A stadium which resembles the Queen Mary ship, abandoned, rusting, but magnificent if you enjoy Edwardian architecture and pay your homage to the ghosts of the 96 from '89 (RIP) in the much-changed Leppings Lane away end. They still bite up here. There's still a banana skin ready to slip on for the over-confident or the unwary. Fortunately, we were neither yesterday.
Terry couldn't make it. He can't make Hull on an early October Tuesday either so is 'lookin' inter tradin' me ticket in, like'. He flies to the Spanish sun on the 29th for a fortnight. We've booked Trongs for Blackburn next Saturday. Hopefully we won't be cancelling this time. I've grown very fond of their crispy chilli beef.
I only went because someone I know couldn't and therefore I handed over the best part of forty quid for my first away trip of the campaign. It helps to know other fans this season, especially the ones who can't make a game. Tel reckons he might have a contact for the Middlesbrough game in December. It seemed easier to just buy two when they're out, but neither of us are away-gamers and the novelty hasn't worn off yet.
I left the house at 6.45am and did the usual drive to Huntingdon (she's no longer living there, my former beau) and joined the A1, which was nice and quiet for a major motorway. The sky was the colour of a wood pigeon's belly and the McDonalds drive-thru I stopped at dispensed food the colour of army khaki. The egg in my Sausage McMuffin looked like a witch's tit, but it was tasty, as most fast food can be at eight on a Saturday morning. The less said about the hash brown, the better, but the pancakes I greedily ordered on a whim were fluffy.
I entered Yorkshire via a detour around Doncaster and then up to Sheffield. Parked, paid a tenner for their all-day option, went for coffee. Just after 10.30am. Four and a half hours to kick off, no prospect of a pre-match pint. Coffee was the order. That and a cursory look around the city centre, particularly Waterstones in the Orchard Square. Bookshops suit me. I know it's not a library, but everyone treats it as such, unless you're only in for a few greetings cards.
I managed to wear out a whole three hours thus absorbed. By 1.30pm, I fancied another coffee and a fag so sat on the outside tables at a nearby coffee shop and ignored the temptation of a Cinnamon Bun with my milky-foamed Americano. The caffeine left me feeling like I used to feel on the old Vodka Red Bulls when Paula and I went out clubbing, back in the days when the old love life was certain, if a little daunting and before it all headed south with the rapidity of a Wes Burns run. The memory made me a bit sadder, albeit in a light-headed energised way.
Hillsborough loomed in the afternoon haze. The seats were a bit crap but the view was alright. The home supporters weren't happy. A bad start, combined with a few mutterings in 'Last of the Summer Wine' accents of bad ownership and worse managers who they couldn't abide. Still, they genuinely thought they'd win yesterday. "Enternational brayyke should've sorted os" said one I met as I walked, an older chap sporting a wind cheater and smoking a rollie, carrying what looked like a thermos wrapped in a Morrisons bag. His son (?) nodded mutely, eyeing my southern yokel accent with uncertainty as I wasn't wearing colours. "Are ya Ipswich" asked his father as we parted. I nodded. "Aye, well wunt wish yer look or owt, probably won't need it cos yer a decent team". I nodded thanks as he dismissed me at the traffic lights, his son still mutely eyeing me with perplexed menace.
The game? Well, we won. Should've won by quite a bit more than one goal, but this was a minor disappointment on an otherwise great afternoon. Wes played well, as did Chappers and Massimo and George Hirst should've scored at least two. Man of the Match was Leif, who sadly suffered an injury. He was immense on the left. True, they let him go several times but the space he exploited was mind-blowing in it's ineptness from the home defence. Wednesday will be making a return to the doldrums of League One based on yesterday. A team who just went through the motions without ever appearing a threat in any way. Still, Munoz must be used to quick sackings. His last job in this country was at Watford.
I arrived back home at just before nine. Got the Glenmorangie out and battered it further. It was an evening for a whisky. Phone checked for messages, none apparent, so relax and watch MOTD with my smelly feet not annoying or causing remark from a beloved. A good end to a good day. Now for the housework, after I've demolished the sunday papers and had a slice of toast. Perhaps a pub lunch later when I've done the washing?
Enjoy folks. At least we're not Wednesday, eh? |
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Thread | The Warky Championship Report: Cardiff City (H)
at 11:22 3 Sep 2023
The sun was a light satsuma, the distant glow in a pebble-coloured sky. Walking in a sweatshirt and old, grubby jog pants, my legs whiter than the pint bottles in a milkman's crate. You never see that any more. Milk vans. Their solo-pedalled electric-powered flummoxy, driven by a bloke in a white pelmet and peaked cap, whistling long-forgotten tunes and clattering crates, the glass tinkling and the noise waking up the denizens as he left two silver-capped pints on your doorstep for the blue tits to peck and get the cream off the very top layer.
We had a local milkman in my youth. Tom he was called, all nicotine-coloured fingers and the sort of laugh that dislodged decades of phlegm. He left milk, and the occasional four pack of Twixes when he had them and my mum had the money. He flirted with all the housewives, but harmlessly. Called them 'darlin' and 'my sweet', safe in the knowledge that husbands were already absent at work. He wasn't the postman (bloke in a red jacket and nylon trousers, pseudo-intellect called Ralph who was once an extra on the telly series Brideshead Revisited where he played an undergraduate in a pub scene and later shared with my mum, who loved the series, that Jeremy Irons was a bit of an oddball) and he definitely wasn't the newspaper boy (spotty youth on a Raleigh racing bike, liked a tip at Christmas, often knocked on the door rather than use the letterbox, which used to drive my dad spare at weekends).
Those were the days. Days when the most my mum ever had in her purse were two one pound notes, days when 50p seemed a fortune, and shops sold bread unadorned by wrappings, except a brown paper bag you carried it home in, and sold cakes the size of bus wheels and buns covered in icing and currants and glace cherries the colour of aniseed cubes, and no-one cared about such nannying as seat belts or germs or artificial additives, and Lilt was the colour of nuclear waste, and Corona delivered bottles of pop from a truck.
I note all this because Catcheys, the fruit and veg purveyor, clearly have Town fans as employees judging by the two trucks they always seem to have parked in the PR car park on match days. It reminded me that Tom the Milkman was a Town fan. He waxed lyrical about Frans Thijssen and Eric Gates and Trevor Whymark. "Wunt born boi if yewwaint seen ole Trevor up front" he'd say in his Suffolk accent (he was actually from Edwardstone, near Sudbury) whenever I'd casually mention the delights of Dozzell and Ian Atkins and 'Ugly" Kev Wilson.
He wouldn't come to a game, despite my dad inviting him. It was all a bit 'After the Lord Mayor's show' for Tom. He'd seen the greatest Town would possibly ever produce already and it was gone, a fart in the wind as they said when Andy Dufresne escaped his cell in Shawshank. I know this is a digression but it was the memory of this that occurred when I saw the Catcheys trucks again. Would Tom have driven up in his milk float had he agreed? I'll never know, alas. He died in 1992. We'd long stopped having a milkman by then.
No Terry yesterday. He's in Yarmouth, on a lads weekend with Tone and a few others celebrating Tone's twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Mrs Tel and Sandy were in London, a posh hotel, weekender trip to go shopping and have their nails done and that sort of thing. Afternoon tea at the Ritz and cocktails in the Savoy. You know the sort. Or you can guess. We cancelled, or rather he cancelled, Trongs last week as it was sprung on him. He didn't sound happy. We're not at home again until 3 weeks time. Then he's off to Spain for two weeks in October.
He missed a good game. I wore a coat, but ditched it to hang loosely from my seat as it turned warm in the ground. It looked stormy earlier so, having been caught in late summer rain at the footy, I played it safe. I got into Town late so only had time for a few pints and a snack, but made up for it by having a few shorts in between pints. I was buzzing nicely when 2.45pm came. Cardiff weren't Leeds, so the old bill were less conspicuous and the Cardiff fraternity were few and far between. They looked more in the ground though.
We were a bit one-dimensional in the first half. The old bloke behind me moaned loudly about misplaced Burgess passes and Harry Clarke's tackling. I though Conor Chaplin had a bad one by his normally high standards. Why he keeps drifting out to the right wing, god alone knows. Perhaps in search of the ball? But he kept getting in Burns' way and then he and Broady looked to be stifling each other. There's something for Kmac to work his magic on in the two-week break.
Hirsty limped off again. I hope that's not going to be a constant. I wasn't the only one who muttered dark thoughts when Freddy was named as his replacement. The same Freddy who I'd hoped would be away the day before, perhaps for a bit of money we could use on someone who didn't look as languid or unfussed as he sometimes can. Those thoughts bit back later, I can promise you.
A soft 1-0 deficit became two in the second half, and I considered catching the early train home, perhaps for a consolatory few in the local watching Brighton. But then Broady caught a beauty and the hope came flooding back, especially when Freddy made a poor corner look great with a flick of his foot. 2-2 and the belief roared in the SBR. Cue Freddy with a deflection off his chest following a great Omari cross. Happiness. They missed a trick by not playing that at the end. Ken Dodd. Get to it, Mark.
I felt for the Cardiff support as it trooped dejectedly away from the Cobbold. A few supporters tried the old goading but it always seems trite and mendacious when you've just narrowly beaten another team. Back on the reduced train service, the strike barely noticeable apart from the rail replacement buses for those backwaters unreached by the mainline. I texted Tel "Missed a good one. Freddie scored two" and he texted back "In the spoons, no tellie. Niceone". He rang later, ostensibly to apologise again for missing the match and asking for a blow-by-blow account of the goals, plus other results for his bet. It was as if Yarmouth was off the old internet for the day. It later occurred to me that he had probably done his bets on his phone so surely would be able to access his account to check progress? Still, some habits die hard.
And that was that. Two weeks of England matches and Leagues One and Two. I used to quite enjoy international breaks cos it meant we'd take precedence. Now I'm back hating them again. Still, Tom would have enjoyed yesterday, I reckon. Or would he? I dunno. He'd have been used to the regal Town who never stooped so low as be pleased by a two-goal deficit. That's the difference. Nostalgia always seems better than real life. Especially when you've been spoilt.
See you in a few weeks. I'm not going to Sheffield, so it'll be Blackburn at home. Another tricky one. Still, we've got the spirit engaged, eh? |
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Thread | The Warky Championship Report: Dirty Leeds (H)
at 11:42 27 Aug 2023
Or lucky ole Leeds, as Tel would later reflect on the train back. I'm still not sure he was right in that. They had better strikers and we defended like muppets in the first half, moths attracted to a night light, fluttering aimlessly around the white shirts.
Welcome back. Apologies for the lack of a report last week, a lucky-ish 1-0 away win at QPR. I didn't go and neither did Tel. Getting home tickets these days is bad enough. Away tickets is like an Indiana Jones movie where he searches for the Ark. Still, it leaves those casual floaters in doubt. A number of my work colleagues, especially the Villains, would have willingly made the trip yesterday but lack of availability prevented them.
Terry was away with the wife somewhere banal, probably shopping in Freeport or meeting the in-laws, or lunching in some rural pub where he had the quiche and salad and a home-made coleslaw with pineapple and orange in it. "Thass not a bleedin' cold saw eever" he later lamented, his grasp of the English language still more estuary than that bit of the Stour near Cattawade.
A tough week at work. They're definitely leaning towards redundancies in the senior manager bracket. A "expression of interest" letter did the rounds on Wednesday, but sadly, not for me as I would cost a lot to make compulsorily redundant and have no interest in the thin gruel of voluntary. Not that they offered it anyway. A few 60-ish year old managers became briefly excited, imagining a mortgage free early retirement with the wife, possibly a bit of Spanish or Greek sun in October. Their ready reckoners compiled and the six-figure payouts with high five-figure pensions rubbing salt into the wounds of younger colleagues who'd not been working when dinosaurs roamed the earth or, at least, T-Rex were Number One.
So Saturday came. No Friday night curry as I'm saving money for a decent holiday next year and Tel "carnt jus' make it at the drop of'n'at, needs plannin' that sorter fing, the wife likes 'er fish'n'chips on a Friday n'all an' I'm miles from you now". We were driven by the ever-patient Mrs Tel at 10am yesterday, from my house to Manningtree Station, a journey of five minutes in the car. I know several have said they miss Mrs Tel so a brief hiatus from the report: She's fine. Yesterday she wore a Stranglers T-Shirt, vintage cherry red DM's, black Levis and her leather bomber jacket. She reminded me of Alice Cooper, but then I think her mascara smudged somewhere between home and Lawford. She was playing 'Hong Kong Garden' by Siouxsie and the Banshees as she rolled into my driveway. Tel switched it off. When we left, we had Greatest Hits Radio and Kyrie by Mr Mister. Her face at this travesty put me in mind of the girl in The Ring.
We kissed farewell and she roared off to do some sort of fitness thing with Sandy in Wakes Colne, promising to be back at 11pm to collect Tel, winsomely mentioning to him on the way that there were such things as taxis should he not have heard of them. "Finks she's funny" said Tel, dismissively as she went. "Still, ordered a cab for next' Satdee after Cardiff 'cos she's off for a dinner wiv Sandy and Tone in London so we might as well book Trongs again". We did. They had a free table.
The pub was busy but not too busy at 11am. It smelled of Paco Rabanne and old hoovers. Tel had a Guinness, which they took an age to pour and the four leaf clover they attempted looked like the Manx badge of the Isle of Man. He asked for a shot of ruby port to add to his pint. It made the foam look like the scrapings off a used sanitary pad. Still, he drank it appreciatively. "Port makes it taste less bitter" he mumbled, wiping the strawberry foam from his top lip with the back of his hand.
We had chicken wings with a devilishly hot sauce which make me hiccup and him resort to regular long sips of his next pint of lager. The pub attendance swelled until they were queuing for service three-deep at the bar. We sat at our table reflecting on the popularity of Ipswich Town FC these days, when we've long since left the disappointment and pessimism behind us. We did a footy bet and he even included us to win (luckily, my line came in, Man Utd, Wolves, Birmingham, Leicester, West Brom and Derby all doing the business for £2.50, earning a nice return which I'll pick up from Birmingham on Tuesday in cash).
We left at 2.40. Quick call in Ladbrokes for our customary bet on the game. We did first goalscorer (b*gger) and half-time/full-time (double b*gger). He'd snorted at the inclusion of Kayden Jackson ("Bleedin' pony, can only run quick an' thass it) but I noticed his choice of first goalscorer was Nathan Broadhead. He loves Nathan Broadhead, does Tel. I went for Rutter (unlucky eh?) and he snorted again, only because he thought he was called Georgina.
Portman Road was athrong with people carrying Ipswich bags and munching on hot dogs. We separated at the car park, him to make his trip to Sir Alf, me to navigate that Fruit and Veg van that seems a permanent addition to the car park on match days. A brief pause in the shop for a look at the orange away shirt (3xl, yes, I'm that fat) and deciding whether the retro 1981 one might be better. Then past the turnstiles, into my seat up the stairs and out they came.
Well. Unbeaten run gone by 5.00pm. Good last goal by Chaplin though, although I saw it from the Portman Road entrance to the Cobbold as I'd long since left and walked round by 97 minutes. In fact, I was nearly at the car park entrance when I heard the crowd inhale excitedly and just made it back to see the ball in the net and Chappers doing his "oh well" celebration. I'd had time to leave, have a fag and wonder if we'd be in for another defender by Thursday before he got our third. In truth, Leeds were better at attacking and we were poorer at defending than we've looked for ages. We seemed to let their players do what they wanted in the first half. Burgess looked dodgy. Funnily enough, that was the first thing Tel said when we met again. Then he did his usual bit about Jackson. Then we were in the pub and ordering.
We caught the 7pm train back. There were a few stragglers, mostly Town, the odd Leeds fan on their way back to London. Cab to the local, Jamie moaning that the West Ham fans amongst his clientele had chosen one of the other pubs to watch their team batter Brighton, despite him laying on three screens on the off chance. He turned two of them off, so we just had the occasional waft of "Bubbles' as we sat drinking. Tel, despite being from that manor, hates West Ham. He's not keen on the Orient either. Or Arsenal. The old boy supping his pint of IPA from his own tankard at the bar asked what the Town score was. He laughed when I told him. It's the usual reaction from old boys at the bar, I find.
We got very drunk indeed. I slept well last night. Today, the occasional murmurings from the gut and the rancid taste in the mouth belie the drinking feats of fifteen hours ago. Mrs Tel arrived promptly, even early, at 10.30pm and we invited her in for a diet coke and she came and tutted as Tel slurred and attempted a dance to 'Never Too Much' that was playing in the bar by then. He sat in the passenger seat, a wraith clad in dark blue YSL checked shirt and jeans, a smile that indicated drunkenness adorning the fizzog, a stammered, repeated sentence slobbered in my ear that "We'll do Cardiff nex' week, you jus' wait" before I kissed Mrs Tel a brandy fumed peck and they were gone, gone back to deepest Mid-Essex, no longer resident of these parts, no more the late-night ones for the road on their heated patio, listening to the ramblings of a cockney sixty-something, his five o'clock shadow darker than the night.
Sometimes, just sometimes, I miss the old camaraderie when I buy the morning papers. Nowadays, it's sterile and served by teenagers who chew gum and grunt at you before flinging your change back. The old days. The days when Paula was just a gym-slip in her grubby pink trackie, and the Coke machine gurgled like my guts. Days of plastic binders strewn on the floor and his Town mug sloshed tea and his sausage and egg bap left yellow snail trails over the counter. But they've gone. Embrace the future. Move on. Don't let one result fool you into thinking we're mid-table. Well play worse and win. Even Tel's convinced and, let me tell you, he's a hard nut to crack when it comes to it.
Onto Cardiff. Next time.
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Thread | The Warky Championship Report: Stoke City (H)
at 15:18 13 Aug 2023
"Ah'm right up fer this" growled Tel, appreciatively, as his wife kindly dropped us at Manningtree Rail at 10am. An indecent time of a Saturday morning to be thinking of a pint, admittedly, with the game five hours away and the London-bound fun-seekers, their sunglasses hinting at Italian design and their glad rags showing clefts of ample peachy arse (and that was just the women. The blokes looked manicured by Beckham, all trimmed beards and Grealish hair and indecipherable inks on bare arms under YSL polos - we didn't admire their arses, just in case you wondered).
We were the only Guinness partakers. Everyone else chose takeaway cups of latte. The coffee machine sputtered and hissed and raised foam and steam. In contrast, the Guinness pump was reassuringly quiet and smooth. The barman waited on our pints, moving off to take change from a punter and to sip from the bottle of water he'd neglected. This was thirsty work.
The little sectioned-off area next to the cafe is usually a magnet for blue-shirted home supporters, but this was too early yet. This was greasy back bacon in a bap early. I lit a fag, the first of many that day, and Tel winced and said "Fought you'd give it up?" in tones of pained bemusement. He then told me a variation on a true story, of one of his late customers who died in 1998 of lung cancer and he was only thirty-eight. I say 'variation' because he trots it out every time I light the first one up in his company. He always neglects the truth in it; the bloke concerned smoked sixty a day and actually died of bowel cancer. It started there and spread to his lung later. A sad story nonetheless but Tel always tells it to my detriment and never gets it right, indeed embellishes it to the extent that you'd never leave the house, or breathe in.
We caught the 10.38 and were surprised there weren't more Town on the train. Only a few exited at Ipswich station. We admired the scenery en route; the classic view of the Stour overlooking Manningtree and Mistley, the wheaten fields between Brantham and Tattingstone, the strangely commercial sprawl of additions that now graces Jimmy's Farm. It changes so little, apart from the seasons, that any additions are critically assessed. "Makin' a bleedin' fortune that Jimmy" said Tel as he surveyed his grounds and the man-made ponds and bouncy castles for the kids. It did seem like a rustic Disneyland.
We'd imagined a plethora of police for Stoke, who, although not Lids or the Scum, nonetheless have a fairly murky hooligan past. But all was quiet at the station, and the Station Bar was seemingly empty. We walked into the town, Tel stopping now and then to massage his calf and complain of what he likes to think is the onset of arthritis. A brief hiatus at Ladbrokes near the Giles statue for his weekender footy bet (he now only gambles when with me, he said) and a tenner spent on four £2.50 lines, one of which we got perfect but he's probably only won about fifty quid (wins for Arsenal, Rangers, Brighton, Leicester and Bradford, who were playing Colchester and so were the first to be picked as Tel thinks Col U are heading to non-league).
Into the pub just after 11, the first two pints of amber nectar cost me nigh on a tenner. East Coast IPA followed, and then we made for the Cricketers. Lunch outside, a burger for him, chicken in a basket for me. Several pints followed, then JD and Cokes and then brandies. By 2.30pm, when we decided to stroll back to PR leisurely, I was nearly three sheets to the wind. He slurred a bit. We separated at the Willis building crossing, him to walk into the new Sir Alf entrance and me too SBR. He wanted me to walk to Sir Alf as he wasn't sure how it worked, but we split regardless. He said he'd text me from Beatties if we were four down by half-time. Clearly, he never did.
Everywhere looked spiffy and new outside SBR. The usual rubbish overflowing from bins was absent, as was the half-eaten burger buns and slippery fried onions adhering to the pavement like dying slugs. No queues to get in. The Sir Bob denizens warmed up voices within. The seagulls swooped and flitted. It was like a normal home game, only with more people and sort of cleaner.
You all saw the game, right? We were much the better team and the Kayden goal down our end was justification of everything that went before. The relief and joy was palpable when he escaped his marker and side-footed in. The bloke in front of me had mock-groaned when we took off Broady for Kayden earlier. Mind, he'd also said he thought Chappers was trying too hard and that Hirsty had fed off scraps for too much of the match. Sam Morsy was roundly acclaimed to be MOTM, although I thought Janoi was decent, myself.
I met back with Tel at the far entrance to the car park and he beamed, a self-conscious smile of appreciation, which is rare in him, especially at Portman Road. His first Season-ticket game and we'd won convincingly. Back down the pub. We chose Yates. He fancied a cocktail and Vodka Revolutions never really does it for him.
We left at seven and walked to Trongs. My voice was creaking (too much singing and shouting) and I'm hoarse today. A mix of starters at a table near the back, crispy seaweed and filo pastried prawns and things in sweet and sour sauce that tasted fatal but were delicious at the same time. A bottle of white wine. Then more brandies, after peking duck and noodles and rice and sticky chilli beef and steamed bok choy in oyster sauce. A feast. Mrs Tel promised to meet us at Manningtree station at 11pm and so we walked on air back to Ipswich rail, past the scene of earlier victory. Onwards and upwards.
"Least they won" said Tel, a bit ungraciously as the train pulled away and we watched the glinting reflections of cars on the road in our window. The lights on the Stour were magically reflected on the water as we slowed to pull in at Manningtree. "Been orlrite, that" said Tel. "See ya for the Leeds" he added. We won't be eating in Trongs for that, but we have decided to do the usual indian in Manningtree. Let's hope his calves don't play him up on the walk from the station.
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Thread | The Warky Extra Report: Sunderland (A)
at 22:30 6 Aug 2023
The pub was half full with Arsenal fans and about twenty Town. We DID get the back room, but only because Jamie set the Sky Q up in there.
For the first twenty minutes, I wondered if we'd been fed a pony. Where was the attacking gusto, the neat interplay? Sunderland barely jogged but their passing was slick and we desperately held them at bay. I got nervous watching Hladky try and pass to Woolfie at the back. It all seemed very naive from us. Chappers was off it, they were on us in a flash when we tried to bring it out.
Then, slowly, it happened. A Broady run and pass, a Morsy dogged fight in the centre, a Luongo body swerve and we started to come to life. True, George was on his own up front and finding him was like trying to find Private Ryan; it came with its fair share of bullets and long, hopeful punts.
The goal came at exactly the right time. An element of fortune, perhaps, but Broady's reluctance to celebrate was class, even though the pub erupted and did it for him. 1-0 at half-time, yet it came with the lack of conviction that we'd deserved it. Perhaps it was harsh but the general feeling was one of 'got out of jail' rather than jubilation. It all seemed a bit dangerous.
Second half, beer replenished, that stupid advert Sky sneak in just before the start roundly booed, we were off. And boy, were we off! We suddenly looked like 'end-of-season-Town' again. Hirst broke clear from a sublime Broady through ball and pumped it over Patterson. This time, lager flew and I fear the cleaners might have a job tomorrow morning. 2-0 at probably the most difficult away trip of this side of Christmas. It should have been three when Chappers turned on halfway and, to a chorus of groans from those who felt he should have run with it, hit the face of the bar. As Hirst galloped in for the rebound, his right leg cocked like a Golden Lab next to a lamppost, he fell from the challenge of Ballard and we were up, screaming at the flat-screen, convinced it was a pen. We missed Broady's follow-up which caught Ballard's hip and dribbled through to Patterson.
Faces turned red when the ref turned it down. One bloke shouted something that rhymed with Blunt. But the Three wise men weren't playing, and Sunderland, grateful for the let-off, went back to their strange walk/jog passing and movement. Jack Clarke fell under challenges both real and imaginary. Roberts tried taking the whole left side on by himself. They then had a player sent off for a crude challenge on Davis as he flew past.
Aside from their goal, which someone said Luongo should've been marking, and the Alamo in the last 13 minutes of extra time, which seemed generous given we'd both made subs and JD had been down for about 4 minutes, we held on and the Mckenna song was blasted as the whistle went, forcing several jubilant Arsenal fans to enquire who the F we were singing about.
It was a funny game. Both teams looked lethargic for long periods. Perhaps fitness takes time to grow once the season starts? I don't fancy us for top 6, not unless our proposed new signings have a bit more pace about them and are good to go. A few thoughts in conclusion based on the game:
1) JD and Burgess played well, Woolfie was immense. I do worry about Hladky in goal though, despite him making some good saves.
2) Harness got involved but isn't a long-term option, not in this league. Ditto Freddie, who should have squared it to Ball for that third chance.
3) We will get better as the season progresses, but if Sunderland are the benchmark for the play-offs, I'm not convinced by them this season. We might need patience as the team finds its feet. Defensively, we look pretty good though, and we're good at counter-attacking teams.
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Thread | The Warky Report - Back to Life (A)
at 11:12 6 Aug 2023
See, this is a new take. Reporting when we haven't even kicked a ball in anger yet.
Those fools who organise the fixtures list couldn't have screwed us over better. My new black season ticket card (with the gummy blob still visible from the ITFC letter it was attached to, electronically signed by Mark Ashton, wishing me a good season and stating 'we're not going up just to make up the numbers', assertively, hopefully, in a 'surely we'll be top ten' sort of way) still sits in my wallet, unused as yet, the old one scissored to death, the brief panic when I thought it was the new one I was cutting into plastic ribbons.
Away on a Sunday, no crib for a bed. I never fancied the trip to Sunderland. Had we played them away on the final day with a shout for the play-offs, I may have thought about it. But having promised various people in the old life to be available for trips to Birmingham City, Leicester, Coventry, West Brom, Watford (with Tel) and Norwich (with Tel), another away trip would be gilding the lily.
Tel's fine. He received his new season ticket the day after mine plopped on the mat. I wound him up briefly about the delay, but then his came and the wind-up died. We're meeting for Stoke City next Saturday. Arrangements, military-style, made last weekend when I visited Halstead for a few drinks and helped him plan where the new hot-tub he's invested in should be put. They need a decent electric supply and a good drain nearby, so we tramped the muddy bit of land he owns and I tried to politely ignore that he needed to cut his grass as it dampened the bottom inch of my jeans.
He's fine, as I say. So is Mrs Tel, as far as I can see. She's always out with her sister-in-law and niece, who jacked in her University course to take a job in London, working for a popular online bank as something called a Creditor Analyst. The pay is apparently better. That's all I know. Tel clearly didn't know much more himself. "Jus' quit 'er degree, pain' back 'er stoodent loan so she's earnin' it o'course". He was neutral in tone. He's become careful when discussing family matters, I've noticed.
Paula's four months pregnant. That's all I know as well. I've not seen or heard since May. It's as if she's vanished. I sent her a text a few weeks ago as I've still got her faux leatherette settee in my garage, and I'd like it moved, preferably to the tip, but knowing it'll be the first thing she asks for if I do. No reply. Radio silence. I saw her mum and sister in Luccas a while ago, but fortunately they were sat up the back and I'd come in for a takeaway pizza, so avoided eye contact and awkward questions. Terry has given up on Paula. It's official. She didn't turn up to his housewarming and she didn't come when he and she set up a lunchtime 'date' for a chat. Left him having a solitary pint on his tod. He doesn't forgive easily. That's it. He even deleted her number from his phone, just to show that it's terminal. So, with regret, she must leave the weekly drama of these reports. I'm sorry. I'll try and find a new love interest. I don't currently have one. My Huntingdonshire beau is moving to Worcester next month so we called it a day. In truth, she called it a day. I'd have happily gone driving to Worcester. Never mind.
I'm in two minds about Tel's regular meets with me for Portman Road excitement this season. He wants to do the cup games as well. He's already paid for his ticket to Bristol Rovers on Wednesday. I can't make it. Birmingham, working late. The usual. He tried without fail to get me to agree. "Jus' leave early, like, we could be supping by free in the arternoon, take yer fer a dinner in Trongs". No. Can't make it. Don't really want to. I'd rather my first game was the Stoke City one, Saturday at 3pm, the beer cold, the food spicy and the crowd a 28k'er. No car to worry about. Meet at the Manningtree Station cafe for a Guinness gut-liner and a bacon roll at 10am. I'm a traditionalist.
The rain seems to have eased. Yesterday, with Tel having a wife weekend and going to see Tone and Sand as he calls them, making them sound like a Farrow and Ball interior emulsion, I went shopping and then, jacket pulled up over head, made a run for the pub. The interior was as dark as it is in winter, the lightly wet tread stained floorboards squeaked as my rubber soles scraped to the bar. They started doing cocktails in the summer, cheap ones that taste of nothing much but get you pissed quickly. I had the long island iced tea. It's a palaver to make. A shot from each of the green optic bottles and then a notional squeeze from the lemon juice squeezer and a top up from a glass bottle of proper Coke. It ends up looking as muddy as the Stour outside, but by God, it does a job. Five of them (at eight quid a pop) and you might just as well have downed a bottle of tequila in one gulp.
The rain flooded the bathrooms a bit so it was mop and bucket, Jamie the landlord moaning that he'd told staff to shut the doors leading to the beer garden a thousand times. He's looking old and tired. The pub trade isn't doing it for him and he's thinking of giving up the tenancy and moving back to Rochford to work with his brother's building firm. His wife and kids still live down there. He might be leaving by Christmas. Sad times. He's been a rock for me during recent upheavals. Shame he doesn't like football.
So that's all folks. Enjoy the game later. Here's hoping. I'm off for a pre-match walk in a mo, might go and see whether the rain yesterday has flooded the fields around Flatford. I could do with a stroll. Last night's dinner (home-made sushi) is sitting heavy.
Tel's not watching the Sunderland game. He's having a late lunch with the in-laws and then going to see Oppenheimer with them at Freeport. He'll catch up later, he said, like it didn't mean that much to miss the first game of a new season in a new, better league. But then he has a life, I suppose. Me, I can't wait for us to walk out at the SOL. I'll be in the pub by four. Hope the Arsenal fans don't have the Charity Shield on. But, no, they won't. Jamie promised me. There'll be a few Town in there. He's also got three tellies now, one in the pool room that is no more (the pool table died when someone jammed the coin slots with a spilt bacardi and coke, so it's been taken and replaced with more tables) and another in the saloon and then yet another in the back dining room no-one except parties ever use. We'll probably get that one.
Take care. First 'proper' report next Sunday. With Tel. Some things never change, eh?
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