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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