The jazzy intro to the EFL highlights on ITV, a tuneful raised-leg fart from a sax, is music to the ears at present. I think I might have missed the Town goals yesterday though. They're on to QPR as I speak.
Paula's mum was cremated on Tuesday. Or maybe not? I never know if they do it there and then or if they wait, maybe having a crafty fag out the back of the ovens, waiting for the mourners to depart. I didn't go. Tel told me the news. It sounded like the usual; funeral service, bit of Buble, quick prayer, the vicar (who she never met apparently) saying a few personal words of comfort to the congregation. Tel said a few came dressed like Mickey out of 'Only Fools'. Cheap leather jackets, shiny suits, pencil-thin black ties, pork pie hats. Paula looked very pregnant, as befits someone who is due in January. The stalls were inched forward by degrees as she entered the pews. She couldn't kneel down for the prayer.
She later approached him to say thanks for organising the after-service tea. He paid. Paula's mum left nothing except for the sort of jewellery seen in H Samuel windows marked for discount. People accepted tea from her chipped Beryl teacups, hoping for something stronger perhaps. He had them covered. Several found themselves accepting nips of brandy in their cups. "'Ave to at a funeral, 's'as important as egg sarnies, booze is" he explained to me on the phone afterwards, a note of guilt in his voice lest he be accused of getting the mourners legless. He also provided cream sherry, but none took him up on the kind offer. He's giving it to next door as a Christmas present instead.
He's lent her more money. She approached him after the last person had departed. He didn't say how much but it necessitated a trip to the bank so I reckon it ended in three zeroes. Not that I should really be involved or need to know. He mentioned to her that I was thinking of moving away and selling the house, so lo, I received a text on Thursday saying Hi, just to keep her hand in should I be inclined to give her any of the proceeds. Perhaps that's harsh. Perhaps I should delete that last sentence? No. She's shown no inclination to ask after my health for a few months now.
I worked yesterday. It was a good excuse to meet up with friends in Brum and still claim my travel expenses. Cynical? Moi? The office was drab on a grey, windy and wet day, the Christmas decorations they put up last week glinted opaquely under the strip lighting. It felt like December 29th, that day when you itch to take everything down again. It's a long old week between Christmas and new year. I remember as a kid helping to light the fire in the lounge while watching cheap US cartoons, perhaps a Looney Tunes or an episode of Scooby Doo. The batteries ran low on Christmas toys and it was too wet to ride my new bike.
We had the early kick-off, the Liverpool game, on the telly, on mute in the background as we pretended to draw up meeting plans and project stats. We ordered pizza and dough balls from Dominoes via Just Eat and drank mineral water from bottles. We went for a quick beer at two, just the one, the local in Broad Street, writhing with the Villa before their home game with Arsenal at 5.30pm. They had the end of the Palace v Liverpool game on. Their Christmas decorations were inspired. It was only later that I realised they were in the same colours as the Palestinian flag. No escape, is there?
The Villa fans were complimentary about the Town. One or two even thought we could be them in a few seasons. I wished them well. I know the two clubs have had distinctly average periods in the past. I still can't forget 1981, even though I was only seven. The excitement, the hope, the crystal-fine dreams about a top four finish and Champions League qualification, all resonated. We were back at the office by 2.45pm. It seemed a shame.
I worked until 6pm and then went and secured my room at the local Travelodge (£33 for one night) and dumped my overnight bag on the single bed and wondered how, if they still swung cats in this enlightened day and age, they'd manage to miss the bed and the widescreen telly in one.
To bed at 3am, then woke at eight and helped myself to complimentary cornflakes, ice-cold milk and lightly browned toast with a pot of honey so small it wouldn't accept a table knife or a teaspoon. So I took five and left them draining upside down on the buttered toast slices. I'm back in the room on my laptop as I type. I'm making a move about twelve. The hangover has lessened and the traffic should be easier.
2-0 away. I never expected much from Middlesbrough.They are one of those teams we never seem to be able to do consistently well at, even back to Ayresome Park. I saw the goals prior to leaving for the bars and eateries of Brindleyplace last night. I'll be saving again in New Year. I checked my credit card balance this morning and it's beginning to look at lot like Christmas every day.
The scum next week. You all know what that means. The Rozzers everywhere, congregating yellow and green home shirts in that garden bit of the Station Pub, making Nescafe hand signals to the blue-shirts walking over the bridge. Mounted police, one way in and out of Portman Road, the detour for the home fans taking in parts of Whitton and Stowmarket. Early morn hangovers appeased by medicinal pints of Guinness in the pubs that open. Bacon rolls, songs about Delia and poor little budgies ringing out around the town, the communal trains on the way back, the jostling and the old Bill managing it all by proxy. The gnashed teeth of regret at the 1-1 draw. Well, it's been that in the past. Hopefully we'll be happier come two-forty-five next Saturday.
Let's wait and see eh? It'll be the next report so gird your loins and get those singing voices warmed up ready. Push those butterflies back down the old gullet. Yes, I've had them too. Derby day. You never can really tell.... |  |
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