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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