Welcome back
From a summer of scorched earth, lawns of straw palliasse, drowned feathers in bird baths and sweat-provoking walks along the Stour, keeping an eye out for louts with disposable barbecues and yobs with dropped fag-ends still smoking. A glut of local strawberries and raspberries and cherries. Pitchers of Pimms in the pub, drunk by student-types with their pink hair and cartoon tattoos and loud 'look-at-me, wot choo lookin'at' demeanours. The Pimms had more wilting fruit than my local Tesco. Terry complaining that he bought a punnet of strawberries in his local Co-op and half were mouldy when he got them home. It's been that sort of summer.
"Avven't 'ad a curry for a while" said Tel, almost belligerently, as we met on Friday for a pub dinner. There have been a few good reasons for this. I'm on a diet. He's got an ulcer. Duodenal. He pronounces it with too many 'o's, so it sounds less like a medical ailment and more like something that roamed swamps in the Early Jurassic.
He's not sufficiently affected to have surgery to 'cut the bleeder out' so relies on strange milky-looking medication and tablets to lessen the acids in his guts. He's stopped drinking lager as a sort of paean to his GP, and now glugs pints of Guinness Ice Cold (they still have a pump in our local but not in the Indian, where it comes in cans or, more probably, not at all). The ulcer started about the same time as the lassitude and heat in June. Despite best efforts, he's lost a good stone in weight, which caused brief but diverting anxiety over bowel cancer, until tests confirmed ulceration.
Curries are therefore, regrettably, out for now. I've lost weight again. Mine's as a result of trying and keeping off carbs and fat where possible. Our dinners in the pub reflected the modernity of this. He had batterless cod with new potatoes and salad. I had the roasted mediterranean veg ratatouille with wholemeal pittas. The waitress eyed us as the loons we probably looked. She even forgot to ask if we'd like chips.
His toilet habits have changed, as he told me over the initial round of drinks (him Guinness and me Vodka and Slimline). "Guinness and me meds don'arf make yer go" he said, wincing and looking round at the door to the gents for emphasis. "Pebble-dashed our on-sweet at 'ome the uvver night. Missus in a right ole strop even after I cleaned it with toilet duck. Reckoned ah sounded like that Flight 'o' the bumblebee. Wants me ter stick bog roll down the carsey before I let loose. Well, I told 'er, I went, s'alright for you wiv yer fitness plans, you aint got a bleedin' ulcer". I asked if it was bleeding as well and he looked like I'd asked him if he could play Stormy Weather out of his arse. "Get wiv the programme" he said, irritably.
We've both renewed the season tickets. I've had to help him download his to his mobile. Despite the imploring from him to sit in Sir Alf with him and relieve those around him who have to listen to his frustrations, I've stayed loyal to SBRL. Better atmosphere. I'd miss Dolly too much. And Lukey. He's bought a new home shirt. I haven't (yet) although I quite like the away one. We're ready, in the way of those who, glutted by the World Cup, quite fancy watching footy in thirty degree heat.
It's been quiet, this summer. Odd trips to watch the Vitality Blast finals day in Birmingham, courtesy of one of our partners and the fact that the tickets they were offering were of lesser importance to my colleagues than if they'd been for a local school fete. I nabbed both and took a mate. Two nights in an hotel and enough beer to justify the diet. Hospitality at Edgbaston was good. All finger food and free drinks and people in Super Mario costumes.
Holidays in York and Holland (cheap ferry deal from Harwich) and a weekend in The Peak District aside, it's been sweltering in shorts at home and turning up the fans. I need the footie season now. The dark, rainy nights and cold wintry days, the hope that we've bought quality, enough to stand a chance of surviving one of the most closed-out leagues in world football. See you all next Saturday. There's a seat in one of the pubs in town with our names on them. Just hope they do draught Guinness! |  |
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