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I moaned about Ashley Young yesterday as he gave a bad ball away second half but can accept he played well.
My MOTM was Matusiwa. Great performance, bustling, bringing the ball out and winning it back. I also thought Jack Clarke looked better on the left.
Chappers didn't offer much and seems to have lost a bit of belief in himself. Philogene had some nice touches but never seemed to get us anywhere. Hirst looked out-of-sorts. McAteer needs five touches when one would probably suffice but he's a nuisance on the right. Can't wait to see Egeli and Nunez added to this team - think we'll have better balance with them in.
A good week, one in which we've caused endless upset on Scum forums and with their (obvious) supporters - Mike Liggins, the former head of Look East sports section with his banal, chubby observations warning us it was "ill-advised" to take the piss out of the North Anglian sector. A plethora of signings. Surely we'd round it off with a convincing home win against Derby County? After all, Coventry beat them 5-3 recently.
It was a happy start. An early morning walk, the sun just peeping through the clouds of a Constable sky. Early walkers rounding the bend by Lawford church and marching, unfurled Ordinance Survey maps and thermos flasks of tea in North Face knapsacks and cargo shorts and anoraks and wooly socks of bright colours and dusty boots. They kick up motes as they pass, the dust briefly sparkling in the sun and then dappling back to the floor. Dog walkers passed, their pets on varying missions, they dressed more casually in stuff you sort of expect they wore in bed just a few minutes earlier.
I bought milk and Lurpak spreadable and the papers and some more coffee filters for my cafetière and marvelled that it was amazing what you can pick up in a local Tesco at 7am. Breakfast was a freshly ground cafetière of a coffee I bought in Selfridges in Brum on Friday. It was expensive, but I drank an unheard of four mugs. I buzzed like the bees on my hollyhocks outside. Then had a brief spell of diarrhoea. Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose.
Terence arrived at 10.15, just as the washing clicked over to spin and the machine made that more urgent growling noise. He helped me hang it over the clothes horse. Pants and a few shirts and socks. Then we strolled down to the station, him making the usual banter conversation about my Jockey underwear and how I should "treat yerself to some noo undies, noticed a bit of wear on them".
We weren't worried about Derby County. Travis and Carlton Morris and that bloke they picked up from Sheffield United who used to play for Liverpool, Brewster, who's been tried and failed in multiple Championship strike forces over the years, that was all we'd heard of. Tel even said, over our pints of Guinness in the Station Buffet, that he thought we'd win four-nil. Clearly any lessons to be learnt from the previous week's disappointment at Preston would be overcome by simple ergonomics this afternoon. Namely we were the better team.
The train was unexpectedly crowded with day-trippers as it stopped at Manningtree. Several alighted, clearly dressed for Constable Country and questioning where the footpath was, which we told them. The doors beeped shut and we were off. We'd managed to smuggle the rest of our pints on the train. Tel (again) pointed out the bit in Brantham where the mad bloke murdered that poor lady out walking her dog. Then the open country rolled past and he settled back to drink his plastic pot of Guinness. The white creamy head had a yellow tinge. Like a scum away shirt.
Out and off at Ipswich, over the bridge and down to the town, into the pub, corner table with the used plates and dog-eared food and beverage menus. Once cleared, and if you ignored the crumbs of someone's breakfast on the floor near the stools and gulped your pint back, it was almost perfect.
By twelve, it became busier and we moved over to the Wise Monkeys, in search of edible food and more expensive beer. We had hot dogs for lunch, with fries and chicken wings and a moderately hot sauce. Tel thinks the world is collapsing. He tried proving this theory with a run-through of prices on the menu. "Bleedin' used ter pay 'alf a tenner for that!" he said, eyeing our feast dispassionately as the bones from the wings glinted obscenely in the lights.
He thought we'd play Furlong and Azon and possibly Akpom today and was therefore disappointed when the team news was confirmed on my phone and we had the same old, same old, no Clarke but Chappers and Hirst and Cajuste and Philo on the wing. He thought it looked a bit lightweight. I thought it was a decent team. It's funny how your preconceptions colour everything, isn't it?
2.45 came along as I was joining the queue outside the SBRL. The EADT stall had clearly done a roaring trade as had the club shop. There's money to be made at ITFC, clearly.
The game took place. You all know the story. People moaned around me. No defence worthy of the name, what was O'Shea doing? Philo contributed nothing. Chappers looked more likely to be loaned than played in that deep-lying 10 position. Szmodics was just as bad when he entered. Jack Clarke tried taking the whole of Derby on. 1-0 lead, then 2-1 down in a blink of a second-half spent going through the motions by the team in blue. An inordinate amount of added time, which I left on 97 minutes following a text from Tel which just said 'Leafing now bloddy crap" and, because we'd booked a table at the curry house at 7.30pm and fancied a few watching Leeds v Newcastle, we discussed making the 5.12 train back.
I was just outside the fire station when the cheers erupted. 3-1 Derby, I thought. Pressed on, depressed and anxious not to encounter white-shirted away supporters milling out for the train and celebrating. Caught Tel up by the old nightclub on the back end of the bridge. "Bleedin' free-one" he muttered, disconsolately. Reached the station, sat on the train, several fans joined us and one said "Bloody lucky to get that equaliser" and, upon the sort of 'desultory' chat the Spanish Inquisition probably employed, we learned we'd been saved by a late, late Jack Clarke penalty.
Manningtree station, the local pub, the West Ham fans and, among them, the rotund claret-shirted presence of Jimmy, supping Carling top and squabbling with the pool players in the back. He clapped his piggy eyes on us and said "Lucky ole Ipswich!" and we kept quiet about the equaliser we hadn't seen, lest he launch into one of his favourite bugbears about 'so called fans 'oo leave games early", despite him telling me, several times, in hushed tones, that he'd been back at Stratford as early as the 70th minute when the Irons were getting stuffed.
Several more pints and a boring game of Leeds v Newcastle and we were set for a curry. The rubber plant at the entrance looked in need of a dusting, but that aside the aromas were delicious and the first round of lagers (Kingfisher on draught) were cold and gassy. The poppadoms came out with the antique metal serving trays of pickles, chutneys and raw chopped onions. The napkins, deep red but slightly burnished by continual laundry and the sound of hot towels pinging somewhere in a microwave oven.
I went veggie. I often do that these days. Saving the planet as Tel calls it, but no, I just like curry house veg. So to his tandoori lamb chops and King Prawn butterflies and Chicken Madras, I went for paneer puri, vegetable biryani and cauliflower bhaji with veg paratha. And lo! I've woken this morning with no burbling guts or trapped wind.
We ate and drank until 10.30 when Mrs Tel brought the car round to the car park and came in for a diet coke with ice and a long-winded story about her day swimming, dining with Sandy in some Italian in Colchester and then meeting us.
Lift home with the Terries and they dropped me at my drive, Tel making hasty arrangements to meet on Friday 12th before the Sheffield United game, perhaps we'd have a chinese in Trongs? Must remember to book it for 5.30pm. Then off they went, the sounds of 'Shout' by Tears for Fears coming from the stereo in their car, the haste back to Halstead, their efforts at moving from that fine town still hampered and delayed.
A brandy in a newly-washed glass and a cursory watch of Match of the Day before bed. 2-2 against Derby. Will the apathy never end?
I read the various threads on the Pink 'Un forum for a laugh - one reckons Manning won't even make the derby in October. Jolly good. Especially as they don't know who they'd want in, apart from Warnock temporarily 'to sort this lot out and tell us who's worth keeping'.
I'll take losing out on Hayden Hackney to this....
Righto Dubs - mine's a mish-mash of others on here.
Jaws - into triple digits - can quote the script all the way through. "What's your name again?", "Chrissie", "Where are we going?", "Swimming!".
Goodfellas - First saw it aged 17 in Leicester Square Empire in 1991. See it at least once a year. There are bits you miss.
The Empire Strikes Back - my favourite of the original trilogy (although Episode 4 A New Hope is very good as well). Seen it over 200 times.
Local Hero - everyone should see it at least once. Best British film of the 1980's and it's up against some good ones (Gregory's Girl by the same director, Bill Forsyth). Great soundtrack by Mark Knopfler.
Dirty Harry - My dad first saw it at the Cramphorn Theatre in Chelmsford in 1972. It's our pre-or post-Christmas treat together. Screw National Lampoons or that Culkin thing. This is a Christmas movie in our household. Scorpio the killer was based on the Zodiac killer then (as now) not caught by SFPD.
One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest - Jack Nicholson's best movie. Worth revisiting just for Louise Fletcher's inner rage and nastiness as Nurse Ratched. Only about four of the 'inmates' were actually certifiable and the bloke who constantly dances in the film wasn't one of them.
Apocalypse Now - I never thought I'd revisit this again and again as it's not really a film you should go back to once seen. Worth it for Robert Duvall's famously weird Colonel Kilgore and Martin Sheen's wide-eyed wonderment at the scenes he witnesses on that boat.
There's Something About Mary - you want a cheap laugh, a bit of easy entertainment, you've got it here. From spunk in hair, to dogs on speed, to Lee Evans pratfalls, this made oi laugh for years.
The Bourne Trilogy - what James Bond wishes it was. Paul Greengrass doesn't mess about with the action and they're constantly repeated on ITV4/X/Dave whatever. My favourite modern movie collection. Car chases, realistic hand-to-hand combat that makes you wince and a hero who is monosyllabic to the point that it's impressive.
There's a few others: The Shawshank Redemption but even I'm tiring of the nonsensically romantic ending. Back to the Future - the first one's still the best. I didn't think much of the Wild West one. The Godfather - but it's not even Coppola's best film. The French Connection - still a great film, superbly acted. A few horror ones: The Witch, The Conjuring, The Exorcist, Get Out, Saw. But you don't set out to rewatch them.
Out of the interminable different films Disney have made since they got their hands on the Star Wars franchise, one of the best (and arguably better than anything George Lucas made since the original trilogy) is Rogue One.
Gareth Edwards made a better film than any JJ Abrams spin-offs.
The Joys. Waking at 6.30am on a Sunday, alarm clock piping, dawn barely broken and pigeons on the patio cooing and pooing. Last Sunday, 12pm kick-off, the heat of the day a distant Ashton promise. The sun would come, by private jet, and then take six weeks to integrate. If you can put up with Jack Taylor for now.....
The coolness of the walk along the Stour, mind fretting on line-up and lack of transfer activities. True, we had Cajuste, although how fit he'd be was a moot point. Compared to the dogs that gambolled free around my legs, he was the snuffling bulldog, led on a lead, wheezing to the end when we needed the border collies and black labs of energy.
Breakfast was two pints of Guinness in the Station Cafe at 9.30am, accompanied by a fried Terry in a bun, his deep blue YSL short-sleeve untucked, showing black patchy bodily hair in obscene tufts which sprouted like ivy from his exposed neck and stomach. His shorts were grey adidas. His trainers were white adidas with a scuffed toe and deep blue stripes. His sunglasses were Ray Ban and were as black as the eyes of a nutter.
Is there anything more unjust than a 12pm kick-off in a nothing league when you've a hangover worse than an ancient mariner curse? Nope. Belching from the first sips of my pint, I eyed the greasy bacon and egg buttie thing Tel was carefully adding brown sauce to and winced. A distant autumnal chill crept down my back. I wondered if I'd manage to down the inky depths of my beer.
I felt better by 11.45am as we walked to the ground. Not great, but better. The sun was warm and the assorted other beers we'd managed were taking the edge off. The crowds were anticipatory and the queue for SBR a mere bagatelle of mixed folk in summer dress. Exactly a year ago, we'd been eagerly anticipating Liverpool. Now, a desultory and frustratingly inept year later, here we were, shorn of Hutch, Morsy and Mass, Burgess and Broady and with the threat of the Woolf asking to go.
We drew 1-1. I thought we were the better team but, Sammie's post smasher aside, we looked a bit anodyne. Still, I thought as Tel muttered on about playing Jack Clarke on the left and 'wot the bleeding 'ell was Phillo doin' wiv that over'ead fing?' and drawing breath to say Cajuste looked unfit, at least we didn't lose. That thought consoled me during a week when I wanted furious transfer activity and instead saw us overpay by at least £5 million for Kasey McAteer. Still, he's always looked OK whenever I saw Leicester.
Yesterday. The start of a glorious bank holiday weekend, marred only by the slightly chilly overcast weather and a large split I found in the sole of my favourite walking shoes, which means a trip out to Mountain Warehouse or some such retailer for a new pair next week. Could go today but there's plenty of jobs need doing. The Birmingham store has a sale on as well.
So I spent the Saturday as you should spend a Saturday, drinking in the pub, spot of lunch, unhindered by Terry who was taking his wife to Freeport and would be back next Saturday at the more amicable time of 10.30am to collect me for Derby County at home. The pub opened at 11am and I was first in, which probably marks me in several eyes locally as an alkie. Triumphant order of a pint, settling into the nook near the wood burner of seldom use and at a table comfortably for one although they put two beer mats on it and an extra stool. Optimistic by them. Two of you would be a squeeze even if you both had similar builds to Stan Laurel.
By twelve, I'd been joined by a few old folk, Jimmy the local geezer in his burberry cap and sunnies and with his customary foul mouth. "F***in' Potter" he growled as he laid eyes on me. I nearly took offence, but then realised he'd had tickets for West Ham v Chelsea last night. He popped over for a quick natter/diatribe about last night's match. He sounded like a cockney Walter Sobchak out of The Big Lebowski. All he needed was someone like Donny to berate.
God help us if West Ham get relegated this season. As funny as everyone else would find it, you don't have Jimmy as a regular in your local. He'd probably trash the place.
He went to join the two young lads playing pool and the computerised fruities in the back room. I could still hear him bemoaning West Ham's first team, especially James Ward Prowse who was now renamed W**khouse. I smiled and studied the lunch menu, opting between the rack of ribs with chips and 'slaw, the Quarter Pounder with cheese, bacon, avocado (spelt advocadoe) and chips or the Hunters Chicken with chips and onion rings. I had the ribs. It was easier.
By 2.50pm, the tide was out and boats were up on sandbanks. The Man City game was still quietening in the back room, the Spurs fans winding up Jimmy, who came out for another Carling and returned with death writ large on his beetroot-coloured mush. Then they all went down the next pub as they have some special satellite thingy which means you can watch 3pm Prem kick-offs in Turkish or Punjabi and all was peace again.
I was glad they'd gone, especially as we went 1-0 down and that Scum supporter they've got on Soccer Saturday who usually loves it when we lose looked all happy again. Despite the fact his team also lost, eventually.
We never clawed it back. I left at 5pm, anticipating the Arsenal fans imminence and wanting to pick up a take-away curry before the town became busy. I walked it home, the King Prawn Jalfrezi with two chapatis and an Aloo Gobi and mint sauce. Bunged it in the oven for a quick reheat, got a beer from the fridge and settled back to enjoy at my dining table in the kitchen, watching Gary Eats on Youtube.
Another winless match. i hope those that travelled saw something positive. I've gone from hope to secretly fearing next Saturday. Still, we should beat Derby County?
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