Quarterback

Day Whatever plus ten, and as you set out across the green at the end of the road you’re especially pleased for the anticipation of an hour of uneventful suburban routine, at the close of a so-called working day which had not been going too badly considering- until you remembered midway through the afternoon that it was Tuesday, and therefore the day when you do a week’s worth of shopping for the self-isolating pensioner who lives in the house behind. Which was all going swimmingly, until you got to the car-park of Stockport Sainsbury’s, and flummoxed beyond reason by the task of remembering all of the items now deemed necessary for an expedition to the supermarket (money; shopping list set out in order corresponding to this particular branch of Sainsburys’ labyrnithine ‘snakes-and-ladders’ style one-way system; bags for life; smaller bags made out of netting, for the storage of fresh vegetables; spare, desanitised pound coin for the trolley; detergent-infused wet wipes for the steering wheel/trolley handle; miniature plastic bottle of desanitising liquid for the hands), you manage to lock your carkeys in the ignition. Leaning against the bonnet in the sunshine, waiting for Frankie to jog the two miles into town with the spare ones, you console yourself with the pleasingly retro nature of your self-imposed misadventure, achievable as it is only by car-owners persisting with clunky hatchbacks fitted with old-school mechanical door-entry technology, as opposed to these idiot-proof non-touch mini-laser-guns you see people swishing about nowadays. You’re an idiot, in other words, and proud of it.

Her Majesty’s government having now decreed ‘unlimited exercise’, the Council have unlocked the gates to the tennis courts across from Davenport station, allowing a half-dozen of the neighbourhood’s residents to indulge in post-working-from-home singles matches. The haggard-looking bloke walking past with his teenage son, half-emptied can of Tennents Super Strength in hand, doesn’t look like he’s going to take up such ostentatiously wholesome family pursuits any time soon. As you step back into the driveway of the Mormon church to let the chattering pair by at the socially-accepted social-distance, the bloke acknowledges the gesture: ‘Thanks, mate’. Such common courtesy is easy enough- but for the rarity with which it is proffered by the more outwardly respectable tennis-set who commonly frequent this particular stretch of leafy pavement, you would suppose it was as tricky to execute as an overhead forehand smash.

Over the Woodsmoor station humpback, and the exertion of overcoming the incline has left you sweltering in the persistent early-evening heat, so you take a diversion off the scheduled route into the quadrangle of Great Moor Park and plonk yourself down on the same bench where, in similarly drained circumstances this time last week, you partook of a bottle of fizzy mineral water and a packet of Hula-Hoops just purchased from the Co-op. This time the twenty minutes’ worth of shade afforded by the towering trees will need to be enough to revive you. Off to your left in an adjoining paddock, the only other inhabitant of the park- a shortish middle-aged bloke in expensive-looking grey tracksuit-and-hoodie combination- amuses himself by chucking an American football, quarterback-style, in the direction of the overgrown grass-borders forty yards distant. Standing back to appraise the accuracy of the effort, he looks pleased enough- then trudges off to first retrieve the eye-shaped projectile, then send it back, opposing-quarterback-style, whence it came. You reflect that as sole ball-pursuits go, it doesn’t look the most self-absorbing option- then chastise yourself inwardly- after all, we’re in this together and too far gone by this stage to start questioning each other’s leisure choices, surely to goodness. Also it could have been worse- he could have been playing golf.

On the corner of Egerton Road and the Crescent, you stoop down to greet a grey and brown-patterned cat which is emerging from a gravelled driveway. Startled by your too-enthusiastic attempt to engage it in conversation on the day’s topical developments, the animal darts into the road, where it escapes by the breadth of its handsome whiskers being flattened by a passing Toyota Corolla. Further spooked, it sprints diagonally across the lawn of the garden opposite then plunges headlong into a bush. Its views on the Continuing Stand-off Between Ministers and Teaching Unions on the Timetable for Summer-Term Return to School remain unrecorded.

Deciding you’ve strewn enough neighbourhood havoc for one afternoon, you take the right onto Bramhall Lane and head back home over the railway bridge. The tennis courts are now deserted, affording an uninterrupted view over Cale Green park and into another astonishing South Manchester May-time sunset. We may be starting to come out of the other side, but it’s going to take a while yet, and in the meantime, we’ll take our comforts and joys where we find them: a crimson evening sky; a sliced backhand return past the wife; a forty-yard overarm release to an imaginary running back; or a steady supply of cornershop-issue lager at a neat 9.5% proof. All in this together- but each to our own.

Comments

[kono]

Tennent's Super Hangover, i remember drinking a few cans of that on street one fine afternoon when i was across the pond... not surprising i can't remember where... and on a random note, i did the dangerous thing of ordering a pizza for the boyos and me yesterday for lunch from the joint right up the street, i walked in and what was playing? The Smiths! I asked the young girl behind the counter (young being 18-23?)if someone was playing it or if it was just on the music feed, she said it was her playlist and told me how she liked the Smiths which led me into a probably too long diatribe on how much i love the band ended with the fact it gave me hope that the kids were still listening to them, she said, kids? smiling, i laughed and told her i was old enough to buy those records the day they came out, lol!

[Jonathan]

It's an authoritative enough brew the Tennents sure enough. My abiding memory of it is partaking of a couple of cans while promenading one late-afternoon early down Manchester's Oxford Road. The first was enough to make me light-headed in an unremarkable kind of way; the second, by mid-way through, had me wailing incomphrehensible seashanties of my own invention in the general direction of passing bus-stop commuters. Not bad for £2.25, even at 1995 prices.

And I am very glad to hear of the Smiths continuing popularity among the popkids. Same over here I think.. certainly heard 'This Charming Man' emanating from young Frankie's bedroom more than once during this present business... and I don't think that's any of my doing (he's got the independent-from-his-parents tastes you might expect of a self-respecting 16 year old).