| The Warky FA Cup Report: Maidstone United (H) 13:09 - Jan 28 with 710 views | Warkystache |
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?
|  |
| |  |
| The Warky FA Cup Report: Maidstone United (H) on 15:54 - Jan 28 with 532 views | BanksterDebtSlave |
Thanks Warky for a brief oasis of calm!!
Hope the funeral next week passes as well as these things can and yes, Candice is a stupid name isn't it.
My Mum didn't go to my Dad's funeral (it was just sons, partners and some grand children) she just got us to play 'Wake up and make love to me" by Ian Dury......which was fun. |  |
| |
| |
By continuing to use the site, you agree to our use of cookies and to abide by our Terms and Conditions.
