So tonight, I’m at a 60th anniversary dinner for a very old couple that have been good for me since I moved from Yorkshire to Cheshire. The same couple who’s grandkid got married in that beautiful service in Durham last week.
One of the protagonists moved me from Idle to Cuddington, and I think we both had tears in our eyes on that journey. I was on my arse following a relationship spiral, and he didn’t want anything for petrol or his time. He simply moved me over here, (let’s call him Mike ’cos that’s his real name), in his van, at his expense. And I’ve never forgotten it.
it was a silent trip over, but every thirty minutes or so, he squeezed my knee (in a nice way), whilst I looked out of the window like George Michael in that Comic Relief sketch. Crying through Pop Master, though I did beat him, and he’s a blue too. No bonus points.
Turned up at the restaurant tonight to pay tribute to that lovely couple (there’s 26 of us booked in), and there’s a bloke outside smoking/vaping in a navy blue Barbour jacket (or so I thought), as we pull into the car park. I commented to my wife and son that his jacket was smart, and lo-and-behold, he’s the new internet squeeze of the anniversary couple’s next door neighbour and stalwart of many family do’s ‘Linda’. Trouble is he’s not the shade she’s been literarily hammering since she left the not-right ‘Tony’ a few years ago. Did she previously subscribe to premium Tinder in dark-mode, and had the free three-months run out? She’s not turned up in either a Spankbang or XNXX.com showreel since, but it could be the algorithm? I dunno, I live in hope, great rack.
Restaurant style is tapas, delivered through a co-ordinated 48-strong microwave artillery, and the sheer skill of Cheshire waitresses, transcribing pseudo-italo into North-West patter, shrugging was like an algebra exam sheet turn-over, but the being together makes the food a secondary concern. The drinks and laughter were flowing. Despite seeing each other a week ago.
Tapas meant that the food came in phases (3 minute ding, 4 minute ding, 5 minute ding etc.). He’s impatient, arsey with the waitresses, trying to impress his new squeeze of five weeks, and my lad gets chatting to him. Football comes around quick and it turns out he’s a City fan. Within 20 seconds talks turn to Liverpool and the wife is squeezing my leg. Really squeezing my leg.
My lad is neutral and lets him bleat on. But boy does he bleat on and on and on. The anniversary couple look across, puzzled. His voice is dominating the room.
He’s sat next to me, but knowing that he smokes/vapes, and is wedded to his phone, I wait.
A few minutes later he goes outside, and so do I. I amble and wait for him to come off his phone, and ask if he has a minute. “Sure he says”.
I say to him, look pal, I’m not sure if you are aware of how your loud sporting allegiance is coming across, to a top table full of URCHINS and COUNTY ROAD CUTTERS time-served lads, but your voice is raised, you Bolton beaut, and we are at an an anniversary dinner here.
“I don’t give a fuck” he says.
So I tell him that I remember them playing York not that long ago, and that cunts like him, were probably shitting themselves whilst I personally fought with Mickey and Donald Francis (NO RUNNARS), and that I got sent sent down for three years, fighting with them during the match, and that when I got let out at 7.00pm, I hunted them down, and knacked all of their families, and waited through to the next day, to knack their postman at 9.00am too, and that as such, I’ve no problem weaving you into the scenery, for I am the real deal.
But I didn’t say that.
I said “nice jacket man”.
And he says “ I got it from Bolton Market, it’s a copy I think”.
I hope Linda goes Belle Epoque for the next do…
