It didn't rain after all, despite the predictions from BBC Weather (which wouldn't last a week doing Tel's football bet). The early morning walk yesterday was, at least, dry, which wasn't the case during that Storm Babet. Roads like paddling pools. Lanes impassable. Fields so sodden they could've swallowed sheep whole.
A badly-needed good week apart from all that. We beat Brizzle City 1-0, despite the crap red button camera which made the players appear as blurs and the Broady goal, which I thought he'd missed on first view, be celebrated matter-of-factly by the bloke who "commentated".
Tel watched in his local in Halstead, declining the offer to drive to mine. "Too far'way an' can't 'ave a drink then". He invited me to Halstead but I had work in the morning and had to refuse, citing the same reasons he did. We'd be meeting for Plymouth on the Saturday. Mrs Tel would be getting him to mine early. We'd have time for a bacon roll and a Guinness in the Station Caff at Manningtree. Happy days.
So I walked extra early, before dawn even, feeling self-conscious as 'that nutter 'oo walks in the dark" as I suspect the locals who live en route may think. That way obviously leads to paranoia, and I therefore tread lightly around houses, lest I awaken dogs and then households at six in the morning on a Saturday. I strongly suspect that, should a dead body ever be found dumped in these environs, I'd be the lead suspect.
I'd barely finished the Times crossword when the familiar beep of Mrs Tel's 4x4 could be evinced as it drove round the corner. Out he hopped, casually dressed in black cotton jeans, a 'distressed' denim jacket from Levi Strauss, a royal blue and white scarf he wears on home game days, blue Fred Perry polo and black Vans. Mrs Tel stopped long enough to kiss me from the driver's seat. She smelt of Anais Anais as ever. She was more conservatively dressed in open-necked pink shirt, black Levis and her leather coat. "She's off ter London wiv Sandy" explained Tel. That explained her hair. It was newly coloured, red and auburn and hints of blonde at the tips. She wore make-up.
He stepped in and had a cup from the coffee pot, grimacing as he added milk and two sugars. "Blimey, 'ad that brewin' a while aintcher?". He sat in my kitchen, looking around him as if judging the standards of my cleanliness at home, trying to find stray curled-up bacon rinds or perhaps a few toast crumbs. He found nothing, of course. I'd cleaned when I came in from the walk.
We set off at ten, my tummy rumbling from lack of breakfast as we'd be eating at the railway. He walks slowly these days and we had to skip past a few puddles. We got there at 10.20am and the orders flew in; bacon rolls, Guinnesses, the odd hash brown. People stood buying newspapers and take-away cardboard cups of coffee for imbibing on the London-bound train. Except it stopped at Ingatestone. We sat and watched them, Tel occasionally roused to comment quietly at 'manners've gone darn'ill int they?" and "That bird in the mac. If I 'ad an arse that big, I wunt've worn pink trousers".
We drank and ate up and caught the 11.25 to Ipswich. It was quiet. Normally you'd expect a fair few away fans and a load of home ones, but they all seemed content drinking at the Station Cafe or had already gone. The journey was the usual, although we saw a buzzard soaring over the fields near Wherstead and the Stour tide was out, revealing egrets dabbling amongst the rivulets. The odd group of home shirts, supping lager from tins and laughing about something we couldn't hear.
The walk to the pub. He was quicker this time. Anxious to be seated in the corner, supping. We'd booked Trongs for later so had a quick excursion past, just to check the menu even though we knew what we'd be having. A mix of stuff. His turn to pay.
The pub was busy without being packed. More Guinness, just to settle the old tummy, then straight into the lager. He's changed to Angelo Poretti at home, likes it. They didn't have any here so he settled for San Miguel on draught.
He's been to see Paula in Heybridge or wherever she's now living. She's due to give birth next month and texted both him and I because her partner has left her and she can't afford the rent. I didn't answer. I felt bad for a bit but it was deliberate. I can't come running every time. Sorry if that sounds heartless, but she's caused me enough financial turmoil already.
"In a right ole two'n'eight" said Tel. He didn't sound accusatory as he has done when he's been imparting Paula news to me. "I lent her a grand, well, say lent but I doubt ah'll see it again". I nodded, now feeling distinctly impartial. She's not our problem, really isn't. Yet, there's still a hold as far as Tel's concerned. "I told 'er to claim that Universal Credit, like, git her rent sorted before she's due. Size of 'ouse she is. Bloke she was wiv did a right old job on 'er". I didn't know if he meant in getting her pregnant or in b*ggering off. I'm hoping it was the latter.
Tel thinks her partner will come back. "E's got free kids already, prob'ly just went 'ome ter see 'em although she reckons they aint been getting on well". He sniffed and took a swig of his pint. "Reckons they aint 'ad sex for a month. The pregnancy put 'im off".
We drank on, somewhat sombrely, for a while and then thing brightened and, by the time we were ready to walk to PR, we were almost jocular. The town whizzed by as it always does when inebriated. We stopped at Ladbrokes for the footy bet and each had twenty quid on two lines of a tenner each. He won again, I didn't. I thought Burnley would beat Bournemouth. I also thought Chelsea would beat Brentford. He ignored the Premier and Championship and did Leagues 1 and 2. Five selections on each line, only one let him down for a win. £790 back. He's working out the total we can share for Christmas as I speak but reckons it should be at least two grand each. I might give a bit to Paula, if she calls me again. I'm undecided. It seems the right thing to do, although she still owes me three thousand for all the loans she's had off me.
You all saw the game. Plymouth played well. We looked a bit sluggish although there wasn't much anyone could do about Whittaker's opener for them. The equaliser was scrappy, but George's second half shot for 2-1 restored the status quo and the third was a lovely move. I just wish we defended better. We need four Brandon Williams at the back. He was immense, as was Hladders in goal.
Trongs was busy when we got there after a few post-match drinks. Tel thought we'd been lucky in the first half. He was still moaning about Leif Davis and his positioning even after three Town fans had disagreed with him.
Train home at 11pm, stuffed with peking duck and pancakes and crispy chilli beef and fried rice and noodles. Mrs Tel was waiting at Manningtree Rail, her headlights dipped after her day in London, Tel berating her for wasting the battery. They dropped me home and roared away, to meet again for the Swansea home game on the 11th as we both hadn't bothered with Fulham in the cup (work for me and he's got a meeting with some bloke to look at their hot tub). He slapped me on the back as they drove off, Mrs Tel giving me a peck on the cheek and kindly ignoring the various beer and chinese fumes that emitted from my mouth. A quick beep and they were round the corner and away.
Head's bad this morning. Still, another decent walk and an extra hour to read the papers at leisure. Have a good Sunday everyone. Speak soon. |  |
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