And so the downward spiral continued, whirling like the cow caught in that Kansas tornado in 'The Wizard of Oz', the same bemused look, the same lack of knowing where we'll end up.
I could've had a ticket to the T20 finals day at Edgbaston yesterday; courtesy of a colleague called Chris whose girlfriend had glandular fever and didn't fancy it. Trouble is, he texted me at 8.30am on Saturday and I'd have had to have driven it and didn't have time and all that. Life works like this sometimes. Like Donnie in 'Lebowski', I need it to stop and start at my convenience.
It was a big weekend for the Brummie contingent. They had the Brum v West Brom game on Friday night and were making texted arrangements to meet in City Centre pubs prior to kick off. The Bromwich fans equally made dates for pubs, both sets jeering and bantering at meetings about the likely score. I left at 4.00; it was difficult leaving the air of excitement and anticipation in the City, their 'second' derby after Villa as one Bluenose told me in the bogs. The pavements heaved with blue-shirted fans, arse cheeks on show above the belt of their jeans as they sat quaffing lager on outside tables.
West Brom's away shirt is yellow and green. I disliked it immensely for this reason alone. Apparently, it's historic. They played in this when we did them in the '78 cup semi. "Yer couldn't beat cher wye oot a wet paper bag now' said one Baggie, kindly, as I got my jacket on to go. I smiled but it hurt. 'Cos it was true. Still, surely we'd get at least a point at Hull?
Even the McDonald's at Kettering was rammed, so I avoided it and had an extra keema naan with Tel at curry night in our local. I got there at 8pm to find him already in situ, eating poppadoms with mango chutney and raw onions, his pint of Peroni half slugged. "Bart time" he muttered as I sat. "Been 'ere since seven firty, fought ah'd be the late'un". He ordered more poppadoms and I had a pint of Doom Bar. We sat facing each other, him dabbing scraps of mango and poppadom with his index finger, sucking it like he hadn't seen food in a few days.
He told me about his forthcoming trip to Spain, a holiday that he's also using for research into Spanish property markets and costs for purchasing retail units. He's staying at the Puente Romano hotel at £480 per night for ten days, breakfast only as they like 'eatin' out'. Mrs Tel needs a break, he told me, following her medical bits and her brother's marital discord. I asked after Mrs Tel and he said she was fine. "She's lookin' forward ter the trip, nice bit'o'sun, bit'o' shoppin' fer sandals and designer stuff, narse food'n'that" Our poppadoms arrived and we ordered the curries, me having the vindaloo with no rice but an extra keema naan with my bombay potatoes, Tel going for Lamb Tikka Madras with extra chillies and two chapatis and a veg jalfrezi on the side. "Still on the diet?" I asked and he grimaced. "Nah, just get bloated when I eat rice'n'bread". "Does beer affect you?" I asked, and he smiled "Nah, fank Gawd, just grub sometimes. I get the froopennies" he added, sotto voce, as if he was imparting a state secret. This bewildered me a bit, til much later at home in bed when I realised it was rhyming slang. Thru'penny bits.
We conversed on, mainly about his holiday and my job. The shop seems the least of his worries, which is good 'cos he doesn't seem to have any other worries. He trusts Mickey wholeheartedly; says she's better than Paula, who got her Deputy Manager role at the supermarket and is now driving to her new job in Chelmsford. "She's dun well" said Terry, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "She'll be managin' it soon. Then she'll meet a nice bloke and get married and 'ave kids an' that'll be 'er". He didn't add 'an' they'll all live 'appily ever ar'ter' but the sentiment was there.
My Saturday walk took me further afield to Felixstowe, where I did a nice walk around the country bits behind Felixstowe Ferry, watching the boats bobbing and wondering if the Ferry Boat Inn did real ale. It was bracing and my little flabby cheeks were flushed as I drove home, eschewing the pub as it was busy, deciding I'd ditch the car at home and walk into Manningtree for a pint at the Red Lion. I regretted saying no to Chris' text about the cricket, but made it home to watch the final on telly anyway. It would've been a long, dry day if I'd gone and driven up there and back.
Dinner was skate wing with capers and burnt butter, homemade french fries and peruvian asparagus 'cos I fancied a bit. The sunday lunches'll start up again soon when it gets a bit colder.
Oh and we lost 2-0, and apparently are now the bookies favourites to go down, and people were getting a bit het up on Radio Suffolk yesterday and the Hurst honeymoon is collapsing under the strain. It didn't even register, such is the lowly expectations. Two home games coming up, the Brentford one looking as ominous as an Emyr Huws injury. I'll be there. Course I will. Whether i WANT to is entirely another matter. The law of averages says we're bound to win a difficult one at some point..... |  |
By continuing to use the site, you agree to our use of cookies and to abide by our Terms and Conditions.
