Let the games begin. The trip has taken on a new momentum with the finishing part one of ‘a quiet few days at home with Mum’. Her and number two daughter spent the day at Hampton Court where number two daughter took an enormous number of pictures of arty things wot I wouldn’t pretend to understand. I was not carded for this event and so after seeing the two of them safely onto the ferry from Kingston to Hampton Court I wandered around Kingston.
I confirmed that Lichtenfelds the supplier of jeans circa 1967 is no more. As near as I could work out the premises have been incorporated into the foundations of a multi storey car park. Millets the outdoor shop, which I recall as a purveyor of army surplus after the war, is now very upmarket in the hiking and rambling department. Not a greatcoat in sight. I made enquiries as to getting a UK data card for the iPhone from O2 but it really was not a fiscally sensible thing to do. I can buy a swag of Coffee for £30 even at UK prices.
Good mate from forty years ago was slated to pick me up for the expedition to the frozen (I hope not) North after he had played golf. I had a couple of hours to kill and attempted to watch the cricket. Mum’s TV was not up to this. The ‘Freeview’ box would spit out the commentary but no pictures. Presumably Mum has shell out the folding varieties to get the full nine yards and I assume up to the minute sport is not a top priority. Now the best way to watch cricket on the box is to have the sound turned down and have the radio commentary on. Doesn’t work just having the TV commentary on. As it was obvious that England were going down in a screaming heap it made following the cricket in an ersatz kind of a way even less attractive and so I surfed on looking for some Saturday arvo sport.
The best I could come up with was the Gillette Soccer Saturday. This is what you get when you haven’t paid any money for proper sports coverage and is very odd. What you get is almost live sport coverage. You get the talking heads mouthing off endlessly before the game and giving predictions as to what will happen. Later in the afternoon these turn out to be as accurate as your average Phil Gifford prediction as to how North Harbour will fare. Then the games start but you aren’t allowed to see any of them ‘cos you haven’t paid your dosh. It would appear that every Premier League game is televised as throughout the next ninety minutes you go live to each ground in rotation – or out of rotation if anything happens. Anything happens obviously includes a goal being scored but someone looking as though he should have scored five minutes ago also qualifies. The little reportettes are given by men in cheap suits and large shiny ties (both in my top five least favourite garments) talking very loudly into microphones on little booms attached to their heads via a pair of headphones the size of soup plates. These gents are able to murder the English language in any accent you fancy from John o’ Groats to Lands End. It is so bad I couldn’t turn it off.
Relief from all this shortly after the modern day equivalent of the teleprinter had done its dash with the arrival of Young and his very nice MG motor vehicle to spirit me off to the central object of the trip. I was most gratified to note that he looked exactly the same as he did last time I saw him which we reckon was twelve years ago. Also his wife hasn’t changed either. This is good. I was dreading finding everyone looking and behaving like boring old farts. Caution though, there are still about ten more to check out and there might be some born again Parish Councillors on the horizon; somehow I doubt it. However a very amusing evening was spent bullshitting away as if the eighties, nineties and whatever the last nine years are called hadn’t existed.
The omens for the next five days are very good indeed. However I don’t expect to be able to post regularly. May have to do with a Jumbo post at the conclusion.
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