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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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Reply | *Scans forum*
at 19:00 9 Mar 2024
Balls - Steve Martin in 'Little Shop of Horrors" |
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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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Reply | Andre Dozzell
at 12:22 25 Feb 2024
I was shocked that he was even playing when he was subbed.
All in all, he's a lot less important or as good as Hutch and Sarmy for us, and I wouldn't swap ten of him for either, despite KM's assurance of making an average player into a good one. |
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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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Reply | How can we stop Mark Murphy
at 06:48 23 Feb 2024
I'm normally too pissed to bother about Mark Murphy. The world swirls in strange tinges and the away side look like ten lollipop ladies and a prancing keeper.
The high bits of Hey Jude remove several chunks of phlegm. I'd like Thin Lizzy 'Boys are Back in Town'. |
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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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Reply | My fault is on the defence
at 14:38 27 Jan 2024
I thought Taylor and the BBC both wanted a Maidstone win. It's a conspiracy! |
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Reply | The Warky Report: Mum
at 17:23 3 Jan 2024
Steve - absolutely. She was a pragmatist. She'd be saying "Get on with it". She used to say that to me a lot whenever I had a brief moment of self-absorption/pity. |
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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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Reply | Merry Christmas from Warky
at 14:06 25 Dec 2023
Thanks for all your very kind wishes guys - we've just had a long walk and seen a pair of buzzards in flight so all's slowly healing. |
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Reply | Merry Christmas from Warky
at 08:56 25 Dec 2023
Thanks mate - I'm with Dad and we're just contemplating opening the presents she got us through Amazon. It all seems so strange. Still, don't want to ruin everyone else's festivities so hope everyone has a good'un. |
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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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Reply | The Warky Championship Report: Scum (H)
at 06:42 20 Dec 2023
Thanks guys - she's improving slowly so here's hoping.
See you all soon - well, Sunday, if everyone's happy with the Christmas one? |
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Reply | Unfashionable drinks
at 13:35 19 Dec 2023
Never tried that Kings Ginger stuff, meant to be less sweet than Stones. Anyone recommend it? |
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Reply | Unfashionable drinks
at 13:15 19 Dec 2023
My grandmother used to love Crabbies Green Ginger wine with a dash of lemonade - my Dad bought her Stones one year and she sulked until he managed to nip out on Christmas Eve afternoon to our local shop who just happened to sell Crabbies.
I got pissed on it one year aged twelve. Used to sneak nips and sneaked more than my fair share that time. Can't abide it now, but I quite like a Stones. |
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