As 50th birthdays go, this one could hardly have been better celebrated but less poorly timed. The invite I received in May said, in golden glitter meant to represent the spume from a champagne bottle, "Dan and Beth cordially invite you to celebrate Dan's 50th birthday on 4th August 2018".
I didn't know the new season would start yesterday. Neither (then) did I know we'd be at home on the opening day. So I bought an RSVP card from Tel and said I'd be delighted, and all that guff, and now, here we were.
Tel was unsympathetic, but he hates other people's parties anyway. "Jus' tell erm yer ill" was his advice. I couldn't. I'd already bought him a card and a jokey pressie and a bottle of his favourite Laphroaig (looking at the pressies other people bought him, he had quite a few bottles of scotch). So I moaned at Tel that I was missing the first opening game in yonks, until he tired of my whingeing and told me to shut up. I'd made him 'cock the footie bet up, bleedin' put Roveram darn to do Brentfud" he spat, screwing the coupon up savagely and lobbing it underarm at my head.
He's not been in a good mood ever since he discovered he was borderline diabetic. He'd been feeling thirsty and put it down to the heat, as you do. Then he started nipping out the back "fer a jimmy" three or four times in the fifteen or so minutes I was there. "Drinkin' more tea" he said, coming back and reboiling the kettle. Then one day, he admitted to me that he'd nearly 'p*ssed meself in the cash and carry' and I wondered what source of mirth he'd discovered in Bookers, until I realised he was being literal. "Made it to the nearest pub and 'ad to buy 'alf a coke to use their karzy" he mumbled, reaching for a bottle of Sprite from the Coke fridge as he spoke.
His doctor, who is also my doctor and who is something of a specialist in looking at your cock while making rather negative sounding 'mmmm' noises, even if you've gone in with hayfever, took a wee and blood sample. "Try balancing that little pot on the bog lid and piddling in it" said Tel, bitterly. "Went bloody everywhere. I managed ter clean it up before the wife saw it though" (smugly). The results were something called 'glucose intolerance', "which is funny" said Tel, "'cos I never eat much sugar". He was sucking a polo as he said this.
He now takes two Metformin tablets and has cut down on his lager and food intakes. He still comes for a curry on a Friday at our local but now washes it down with halves, and has a vodka and slimline tonic instead of his customary JD and coke. Last Friday, he had the lamb rogan josh without rice but with a keema naan. "lamb, lamb and more lamb?" I queried, eyebrow raised a la Roger Moore. "Nah" he said. "The meat wots in the naan aint lamb, it's summink else. Chicken" It was the darkest chicken meat I'd ever seen. They say snake, alligator and ostrich taste like chicken; perhaps it was one of them?
So with a heavy heart, I got the 10.18 from Manningtree to London, got off at Liverpool Street and went to St James Park on the underground where we were meeting before heading for Dan's favourite pub. I couldn't even check the scores after 3pm; we were toasting Dan and I was sat next to his mum, who talked about her house in Ireland being haunted by men in Victorian coats and top hats. And about how Guinness tastes better in Dublin than in London, and how expensive it all was and had I been before? I nipped to the loo at half time and saw we were losing 2-1. B*llocks, I thought. This'll cause a few on here to blow a fuse. The Hurst dawn setting before it had chance to properly rise.
I got back to the table as Beth was making an emotional speech thanking us all for coming and wishing Dan a happy birthday. Except it wasn't as simple as that, and went on and on, to the point where I was considering needing another piss to check the score again. Oh for a condition like Tel's, I thought.
The speech ended and an emotional Beth sat down to polite applause and 'hear, hear's' from the assorted party guests. The relief at it ending was tangible, like a fart in the air. I checked the scores again and was disheartened to see it was still 1-2. Even worse, the BBC said Blackburn were 'in control' of the game. I hoped Nsiala and Nolan would be imminent and that, if Waggy went, we'd invest in someone who can score goals for fun, someone like a young Messi.
We drank up and were leaving at five for the restaurant, so I checked again as we walked out. My cry of joy made passers-by look at me, concerned (a rarity in central London, where you usually have to be practically dying to elicit sympathy). My phone said Nydom 91st minute, and I sang a little paean of joy to young Tristan as I jigged down the road. 2-2 snatched from the very jaws. I only realised it said Tayo Edun this morning. I'd had a few at the time.
So the evening meal was lovely; Scallops with sautéed asparagus tips, loin of pork with five spice sauce and soy treacle crust, parmentier potatoes and watercress, crème caramel with grilled white peaches and lovage. We drank endless bottles of white and I nearly missed the last train back. This morning I found two half-eaten McDonalds cheeseburgers in their wrappers in my jacket pocket and a pamphlet telling me that Jesus is my saviour. "Thanks mate" I said, wondering why he'd not bothered eating the other halves of the burgers. My jacket needed a dry clean anyway.
So that's it. The reason I was absent yesterday from what sounds like a good game. I'll be back for Villa on the 18th. Someone I know is going to Exeter on the train. Not sure I fancy that, but still......
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