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All part of the fun, I reckon. Start with a long, jeering chorus about Nunez and then remind them that they've never won anything except a few Mickey Mouse bits.
I saw the tree that Marc Bolan's girlfriend drove into on Barnes Common years ago. I grew up with T-Rex, especially his earlier stuff like Ride a White Swan. He'd be a year older than my dad so 77 now. One of those people never destined to be old. Like Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin. But yet his music lives on.
Oh Steve! I had a ticket for the first leg but then my little Honda Civic gave up the ghost and I'd left it too late to book travel and couldn't afford the train.
Leg 2 was memorable for that Swedish bloke we'd got on loan scoring a leveller (Gudmunsson?) and the roof came off all four stands. Sedgeley as well - can't remember what his role was but we yanked him out to Wolves shortly after and got Veno in return.
They were drunken days. 23 years old. Used to do the ITFC pub crawl - started at the Plough, then up to the Robert Ransome and ended in all the pubs on the way, finishing in the Tiles, where that cow of a landlady refused to serve us because we were a bit merry.
Sorry. Shouldn't have called them Scumfield now, should I? Let bygones be bygones and all that, as my late Grandad used to say about the Germans (but not the Japanese).
For those of us unfortunate enough to be in their early to mid twenties in 1997 and holding a ticket in lower Churchmans for the play-off semi-final against Howard Kendall's Blades (you don't get football managers like Howard any more. Short, widow's peak, pinched face, Burton's suit), it was obvious. Forgive and forget? Never. I'd still like to have seen Treacle deck Jan Aage Fjortoft at the end when he sneered in our hero's face. True, they weren't "kick 'em in the air" like Bolton under Fat old Allardyce. But it was a game we should've won and we didn't and it hurt. Like hell. Forget Charlton, they were better than us a bit on the night. Forget Bob Anderson the year after. The first one always hurts the most.
What made it worse was the fact that I encountered the Sheffield United team coach about 6pm driving from Hintlesham Hall, on that bit of back road between Hintlesham and Washbrook. My mate took a detour as the A12 around the ToysRUs was a bit busier than normal and we didn't fancy waiting ten minutes in a queue. We made the obligatory Gareth Hunt Nescafe signs at the smoked glass windows. Then, on an impulse I've fortunately not had since, I leaned out the back passenger window and made a sign pointing down. Three or four of their players immediately came to the front of the coach shaking their heads defiantly. Perhaps they'd had a plan all along? Can't help thinking I might have Jonah'd us that night. I still think I might.
I'm now that bit older and greyer, but somehow Sheffield United still make my insides pucker. You never know what you'll get. Premier League yo-yo club as they were (and something we're hoping to emulate this season), they have nevertheless got a fair smattering of talent. I can never understand why we didn't go for Gus Hamer once we knew Hackney was a no last summer. I quite like that Sydie bloke they have in midfield. Michael Cooper is an upgrade on Palmer (or so I thought before the game. Later I'd think differently) and Tyrese Campbell scores a fair few. They're no mugs.
I was sitting next to Tel in Sir Alf Upper. His SAR neighbour was in Crete and had (magnanimously) given Tel his season ticket. A game watched with Tel is never dull, not that my usual standing perch in SBR Lower isn't, but it's the stuff he randomly says and shouts that entertains. A bloke in the away end declared war early by giving us the old middle finger as Sheffield attacked. Tel then 'watched' him for the duration. "Bleedin' ugly innee? Looks like he's just been fisted by Edward Scissor'ands".
I got a great view of Philo's first, banged very hard into the corner past the despairing Cooper. The rest were all at my usual end so the view was a bit less and, once again, I sort of regretted the move. Tel was in hug mode by 3-0. He smelt strongly of a mix of Spanish lager and Yves St Laurent cologne. His stubble rubbed a sore spot on my nose. Still, 5-0. And we got to see Nunez and Tel raved about Furlong and Azon.
The beers in the local afterwards went down like silk. Mrs Tel was arriving at 11pm after an evening spent watching a screening of the new Downton Abbey movie with Sandy in Freeport. Tel regards Downton Abbey like Crossroads and never watched an entire episode once, even when forced. He always managed to find something more interesting. As a result, he takes the pee out of it. He calls it "Upstairs Downton" and wonders aloud during screenings where Mr Hudson is and why Lady Mary manages to score so many lovers when she's got "Tits like two fried eggs on an ironing board".
Still, Mrs Tel was good enough to offer me a lift home and take his nibs back to Halstead at 11.20pm on a Friday so she's more than entitled to her pleasures. Safely back indoors, that Friday night tang of Chinese food and a lot of beer still rolling in my mouth, I fetched the brandy bottle and a glass. On went the computer and into Youtube looking for the highlights. I never knew George Hirst put it cheekily between Cooper's legs for the third. After the previous no-shows of the last couple of home games, this was like accidentally finding porn whilst looking for a David Attenborough wildlife programme.
The weekend tasted all the better for it. And now I'm off for a few days, having a mini-break in an AirB'n'B in Castleton, ready for a few walks amongst the High Peaks. Packed and leaving at twelve as my accommodation isn't ready until four and it's apparently wet up there. See you for the Blackburn reaction next Sunday!
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?
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