No game today. Heavy rain during the week saw to that. Three cups of super strength Nicaraguan coffee have seen to my fingers moving around the keys on my laptop at a ferocious pace. On borrowed time even at twenty to two in the afternoon because of Winter’s insistence of stealing daylight from us before a man’s had decent chance to do anything constructive. To perhaps get closer to finding whatever it is we’re all searching for. Not so my next door neighbour Greg Baker, who can count himself lucky to have found what he’s been looking for. Not in this case the back of the net from the penalty spot. Not even the head of Justin Newman from a pinpoint right wing cross. No. He made the discovery last Sunday afternoon as we watched Kenny Jones give Sol Campbell the right run around on TV.
Now don’t get me wrong, when not in the company of women I’m all for letting standards of behaviour drop a few notches, but it seems Greg Baker has sunken to new depths. At first I tried to pretend I hadn’t noticed him rummaging his index finger up his nostril like a burglar in a hurry, although this proved almost impossible when he decided to snack on his little green discoveries. Without any encouragement, Greg Baker, a man who commands a responsible position within the community, told me without a shred of self consciousness, how he enjoys their taste. Sunderland against Portsmouth at the Stadium of Light never quite held my attention after that.
I’ve been at his flat again today, thinking perhaps I’ve misjudged the fellow. He’s been busy shopping at Tesco. What has he bought? Six boxes of cereal, that’s what. He was eating a bowl. I say bowl, due to no clean dishes being available he was using a rectangular Tupperware container. For some there appears no hope.