forums | The Warky Report: Cambridge United (H) I guess that’s why they call it the blues by Warkystache
Yes, welcome. A week off spent relaxing, walking through blizzards of polystyrene and slush, nose redder than Rudolph. The promising spring warmth gave way to cold, windy, overcast skies, the never-before-seen image of snow slapping off the roof and somehow landing in the birdbaths where it swarmed. is accumulated like little marshmallows in a cup of hot chocolate. I had P with me Thursday and Friday and we did something. I went to lunch and shopping in London, I mean. Not just anything. Oh no. She’s no more pregnant than me. Although people wonder if I am, sometimes.
Hampstead was nice in the sun. A little chilly though. I took her to lunch at my favorite pub, The Spaniards. We had steak and fries, artfully plated with vine roasted tomatoes and slightly wilted green stuff and a bearnaise sauce so rich it could have bought Chelsea. Then, £150 lighter in the wallet and infinitely lighter in the head two pints of Guinness and a shared £40 bottle of red, we strolled over to the Hampstead tube and into Covent Garden, where she bought things. Mainly clothes. A few smells of Neals Yard (no cheese, no, it was botanical hair and skin stuff). Then return home at 8:01 p.m. All smiles and repeated homilies about the last time she was in London (for an interview and a training event) and how she had never been to Hampstead before, but loved it that.
My reward came that night. It was also a nice reward. I should stop calling sex a reward. Extra blowjob sex though? Is it a reward? Considering Tesco has a rewards card that saves you around two pounds on purchases, I thought that was the case. Their offer does not include oral sex. I would end up queuing for the old maid with a face like Rosa Klebb chewing on a nettle, knowing my luck. And she would just slip it off.
No Friday night curry then. We were meeting, Tel and I for football the next day so it didn’t seem appropriate. So we had a day in London that probably cost me a lot more than a Chicken Dopiaza and rice, but was infinitely better. We look like a couple. We even walked huddled, like those endless pap shots of C-list slebs you get in the Mail, so-and-so with his significant other on the streets of Hampstead. She claims to have seen Jude Law in a pub where we choked up so she could ostensibly pee and me a glass of something hot and heavily alcoholic. She came back excited. I threw a glance. Fuck me. If he was Swiss Cottage’s darling, he’s a naughty b*star in real life. Which made me think it wasn’t him. Just a weasel-faced early 50s dude in a wrinkled suit sipping a quiet G&T. And wondering why this bird who went to pee was looking at him all upset. We left before he could venture out to whisper “How much?” in Paula’s ear.
Saturday. Yesterday. Well, she was back at work, so I was unfairly woken from exotic dreams about foursomes with Jude Law and Sienna Miller at 6:30 a.m. to find the other side of the bed gaping and the sound of water from the shower. I thought about joining her, but she was out before the idea was hatched and, wrapped in a towel, she began choosing the tights and blouse she would wear for work. It was stocktaking day, so that meant organizing a crowd of students and old fogies doing part-time work into action. She dressed in front of me, unconsciously. I still struggle with that in front of her. No one wants to see me put on my underwear and put the old man and his two purple hairy companions up front.
I love how women are embracing pantyhose. These were rolled into a ball, then the feet in and slowly unraveled the legs like a condom. Her ass clenched as she bent down to pull it straight around her ankles. I had a bit of tumescence but fought it off savagely thinking about the old girl from Tesco, pulling out her false teeth and puckering up. I’ve tried this sort of thing before (not the old maid) and although nice she still moans jokingly that it’s holding her back.
She kissed me, mouth open, tongues, goodbye, then left breathlessly, descending the stairs slightly. She saw her mother after work was done so I would see her much later. I watched her through the front window in my dressing gown as she backed up and walked away, waving and blowing kisses at each other. And I have problems in the relationship? You probably think that. No I don’t have any more. It’s stabilized.
Tel met me at eleven o’clock, driven by Mrs Tel who dropped us off at Manningtree Railway, then sped off, Tel grimacing as she narrowly rushed to park two cars. “A bleeding accident is just waiting for it to appear, sometimes it is,” he mumbled. We went for a pint at the Station Cafe. We both went for a Guinness. We sat next to a small group of established City fans who were supping pints and eating bacon baps. Everyone noticed we owed one in Cambridge for the 2-2 at home. Some thought it would be a walk for us. I had heard that before.
The train has come. We jumped on it. Such exclaimed how beautiful the Stour was and how bad the remnants of the ICI factory were. We chatted about Trongs, our post-game Chinese restaurant he had booked for 7 p.m. We arrived in Ipswich, through the tunnel Tel always calls the time tunnel, because he thinks it takes us thirty years back when the train finally stops at the platform. He isn’t very complimentary about Ipswich. As he walked around the town he kept pointing out litter and building work as if these issues were unheard of in North Essex. “The city looks scruffy,” he said. I commented that it looked better than Colchester, which has really had a tough time judging by the litter and general lack of care. He smiled. He knows I don’t like Colchester.
We sat at the bar drinking pints of amber foam and munching on dry-roasted peanuts. The town was semi-busy, mostly with people in blue shirts and hoodies. The pub was warm and the beer acceptable. We had a light lunch; chicken wings with barbecue sauce and fries. Tel asked for coleslaw and they brought out a small tub of what looked like yogurt. They overdid the mayonnaise. Still, carrots, cabbage and onion were good when you found them.
We left at 2.40pm, walking with the stragglers as they tried to put one foot in front of the other, dazed and boiled over by the beer and other alcoholic “treats”. Tel chided me for trying, which normally never happens on a pub night. These included Drambuie, Gray Goose Vodka and Lime cordial and Grand Marnier. He quantified this behavior by explaining that he did not trust the brandy from these places.
We separated in the car park, him to walk to Sir Alf, me to have a cigarette in front of the SBR. He raised a clenched fist in farewell and said “‘F’we lose a lot like at ‘arf time, we end up in booze at four”. He smiled from his own mind. Even he didn’t think we would lose to Cambridge United at home…
Eventually I met him at the pub at half past five. I was surprised I hadn’t seen him ride into town on the way and wondered how long he had been there, comfortably ensconced with a pint of San Miguel in an angular glass and another bag of roasts at dry in which he bit the strange handle. “Garbage Wornit?” he said dismissively. “Bleedin’ Carroll couldn’t find his own ass with bofe’ ands”. He sniffled, then grabbed a handkerchief. I ordered a pint and left it, fishing in its pockets then pulling out some paper towel rolled up for the purpose.
He warmed to his theme. “Burns was just wide. So was that Donut guy at right-back. Morsy was decent, but that Chaplin, who was bleeding, Charlie could have played better.” He checked his phone and then let out a gruff cry of delight that made people around us look at him. “Geddin!! Liverpool won, as did Derby, Swansea, Fulham and Mansfield. Five out of five, look”. He passed the phone. I threw a glance. £1229.63 we won. He withdraws our winnings to a bank account he created for this purpose last year (“Need the int’rest on our winnin’s don’ we?”) and, at my request, he verified the account. “Wiv terday thass twelve fousand six ‘undered odd” he said smiling. “Nice Christmas that will be this year”. Mine is going to the wedding.
We had Chinese. Very very good. Trongs is one of the best in the area. Nice roast Peking duck (we had a whole one as he likes it the most), good starter platter, great fried pork belly with greens and rice. We left, burping lightly and ripping bits of rice out of our teeth with a fingernail, inebriated, and got into the taxi to go home. He dropped me at ten o’clock. He continued to his place in Dovercourt. I needed a slash. I put the keys in the lock the first time. The house was in darkness. Paula was due to arrive at eleven o’clock. She had taken her mother and sister to dinner at the Pier in Harwich.
I drank a good cognac and watched MOTD, slumped in my chair, my stomach rumbling from the Chinese and the onslaught of alcohol. I must have dozed off, because I heard the door key again and P came in, looking glamorous in her new Coven Garden jeans and leather jacket. She came over for a kiss and I asked her how work was going and about her mother. She made herself a Bacardi and Coke and sat down on the couch next to me, kicking off her heels and then her jeans to perch on top of me as we talked. Suddenly Brighton v Norwich went dark and I felt myself sinking into a kissing session. Well you can guess how it ended…..
Only two more home games, one of which I can’t do because I’m working really hard this Saturday. I say. I didn’t check when I accepted and all that. Yet, with the season over and nothing to occupy me over the summer (apart from South Africa and which seems to be September, if at all), I’m settling into a whole new world. He feels good too. No play-off drama, no nerves about winning at Wemberlee, just sunshine, warmth and fun ahead. Bring it on.
