Charlie George was handing out business cards for his Barcelona holiday apartment this week. It looks nice, and he'll do you a good deal off AirBnB, although Hoofer isn't allowed to stay. Charlie claims it's because Hoofer's got four kids and wouldn't fit in the two-bedder, although I do wonder if it's some sort of strange territory-marking leopard print rivalry. Ol' eagle-eyed Burty spoiled the party though, spotting a typo in the email address, but Charlie adroitly shifted blame onto his missus for producing the erroneous cards in the first place. Either way, get your holiday plans sorted at Charlie George's top-notch Barca beach batch pad. The way he drawls "Costa Del Sol" will have you instantly conjuring images of sun lounges and sundowners. https://apartmentcastelldefels.com
It was a hot, muggy evening, at the tail end of a hot, muggy week. It seems London does get summer after all, who knew? Lying awake in bed at night sweating profusely is that much sweeter for its rarity. It does mean hay fever is in the air though, and the park is a particular hot bed of runny noses and scratchy throats this time of year, and sadly I'm no exception.
We had the bare 11 against Cuz Andy's team, and in an effort to match Mac Attack's formation we plumped for a 3-5-2 with a back three of Geordie John, Hoofer and Charlie George. Baldwin and Burty were employed as flying wingbacks, and a midfield trio of Doggie Dundee, Zondervan and Tony were complemented by Illy and Latch up front.
It worked quite well, keeping things tight until we opened the scoring via a lovely breakaway from Tony and Illy, the two exchanging passes before big T-dawg calmly slotted past the keeper. They equalised just before half time, a powerful shot from inside the box bursting through Tys's hands, the keeper looking around a little perplexed it had gone in. In the aftermath Burty, in tremendous Homer Simpson style (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zsKOYQ7z9CE), noticed a squirrel climbing the fence and exclaimed "Look! A squirrel!". Hoofer was unimpressed "We've just conceded a bloody goal, I don't care about a stupid squirrel".
The other notable occurrence of the first half was a YUUUUUGE clearance from Baldwin. A mere two yards out his own post, he absolutely leathered a left foot volley right across goal and clear onto the hockey pitch. AWAAAAAAAY!
The second half was much the same as the first, our lead restored after a long-range Illy shot crept past the keeper into the bottom corner. It didn't last long before they pegged it back, their muscly striker turning in the box and smashing past Tys.
We should have scored the winner towards the end as the game really opened up, but a few misplaced passes in the final third frustratingly curtailed our chances. Their Charlie hit the underside of his own bar with a clearance, Illy attempting to force in the rebound with half a bicycle kick but his heart wasn't really in it and it bobbled away. 2-2 in the end; a good game, a fair result.
There were several contenders for Best on Ground, including Illy with a goal and an assist, however with 2/3 of the jury being defenders he was always going to struggle to get enough votes. Burty also got a mention but he couldn't possibly get it two weeks in a row. So it came down to Baldwin or Zondervan. For the former a storming first half display of nice passes, lovely feints and great telescopic-leg tackles made a great case, but Zondervan got the final nod for a yet another sterling midfield performance.
We retired to the Duke, Molby's Latchmere rebellion still holding sway despite his absence. The terrace was full but the windows wide open, so it was an "inside-outside, mediterranean" affair, the kind you'd experience at Charlie George's Barca pad. A small pub squad this week, and with the oppo also in attendance having nabbed a prime alfresco spot we were initially outnumbered 5-3, until the late arrival of Latch and Doggie Dundee evened the scores, the two teams reaching stalemate for the second time on the night.
The importance of pub squad was starkly brought home to me a few weeks ago. I was staring at my email inbox on a Friday afternoon, and in particular the two most recent emails I had received. One was the eponymous PubWatch, its wit and charm bringing gladness to many. The other was from my Dad, to say that my cousin Alex was in an induced coma back home in Tasmania, suffering from kidney failure brought on by alcoholism. The tyranny of distance produces an ever-present faint ache, but at times like these it is most keenly felt. Further news of Alex arrived later that afternoon: he was getting weaker and wasn't expected to last the night. His father is a mining structural engineer in remote Papua New Guinea and was scrambling to get back, but couldn't get on a flight until Sunday.
One of the bonuses of the DoC is the bar staff are a bit nicer. Hoofer seems a happier gent, and even managed to engage one delightful staff member in full conversation, as she was quite interested in how our football game in the park finished up. Who knows what his reaction will be if he discovers whether she possesses any tattoos. Burty thinks the DoC beer is of a better quality, and although the food isn't up to Latchmere standard, the pub itself is certainly less crowded. Whisper it quietly, but the DoC could, *could*, be making a comeback.
The pub squad entertained yet more discussion of Brexit, possibly brought on by Baldwin's earlier revelation that he had been asked to write a piece about how Britain had changed in the 365 days since the referendum. Seeing as his deadline was less than 12 hours away and he hadn't even started (how does this guy even hold down a job?!), he was eagerly pumping Chris for ideas after the game (England v Iceland, Nice attack, Murray Wimbledon, Allardyce sacking, Trump, Berlin attack, Westminster, Manchester & Borough Attacks, UK general election...). I couldn't find any trace of the piece online, so one can only infer that a dog ate his homework.
Although a lot had changed in Britain since the referendum, Emily Maitlis is still a constant on the telly. On realising this Baldwin gazed into the middle distance, lost in thought. For a long time. Longer than seemed appropriate. The referendum happened to be on my wedding anniversary, which prompted Baldwin to mention that he and his wife don't celebrate their wedding anniversary, but the night they first got together. He knows it well because it was the semi-final between Italy and Argentina at Italia '90 and that he missed watching it to be with her, something he still reminds her of to this day. It seems the Italy v Argentina game wasn't the only semi happening that night.
The general pub consensus about Brexit is that it's a bit like trying to leave a party. You've managed to grab your coat, and have extricated yourself from the kitchen to begin inching your way through the crowded hallway and the blessed safety of the front door, but then you bump into someone else, and you notice your missus is still gas-bagging and will be another twenty minutes...
By Saturday morning word came through that my cousin's condition had improved slightly, some key indicators showed signs of progress, while others, although less vital, had gone backwards. However, Saturday afternoon saw him deteriorate rapidly, and it was decided to switch off support once his brother arrived. On his father's return from PNG on Sunday Alex was "modestly stable", but fragile. They hadn't cleaned his bed in over 24 hours for fear of moving him, but it seemed some blood transfusions had helped his condition. The family had been having discussions of what his life would be like if he survived, and whether tough decisions would have to made on his behalf.
On Tuesday I received the email from his parents "Alex finished his struggles with life at 16:04 today. Will write again when we have composed ourselves a bit." For all the good of instant communication via electrons shuffling around cables at the speed of light, there is no remedy for the sting of physical separation. There was nothing to be done, nothing that could be done; only thoughts reaching across the divide.
And so the five of us sat in the DoC on a balmy summer evening, spinning yarns and talking bollocks. Stu's first girlfriend, Misty Whittle, got another airing, if only because her name is amazing yet there seems to be no trace of her online. Apparently they both auditioned for a TV show, and although Stu got down to the final two, she actually made it in. A real Sliding Doors moment for Stu.
The evening was a little muted this week, the pace of the game in the heat taking its toll. It didn't matter, the important thing was we were there. Some may consider the conversation to be irreverent and irrelevant, a mere footnote in our lives. Others may suggest the opposite, that our lives are comprised of these so-called footnotes.
I was the first to depart for the evening, but did so safe in the knowledge that the conversation would continue. The beer would still flow, the stories would keep tumbling out. Sheedy had the right idea on his Countdown questionnaire: Q: "What's your favourite place in the whole world?" A: "The pub."
