Saturday was one of those days England could have gotten no better.
Woke up in Portsmouth at the parent-in-laws, popped over to Jocko’s sister’s house to tell her the news. Held her newborn baby and rocked her to sleep.
Drove almost the entire way home (nearly two hours) with the windows down. That hasn’t happened in England since 1977, I’m sure (WAY before I was born, by the way). There was literally not a cloud in the sky, my back was perspiring and my hair looking crazier than ever. Amazing.
Quickly changed, Jock threw his cleats (forget what the English call them – I swear my English-isms are already fading and I haven’t even left yet) in the bag and we headed to a friendly game of football on astroturf at University of Western England.
It was just me and two other WAGs – for those Americans, that means “Wives and Girlfriends” and normally refers to the WAGs of professional footballers, like Victoria Beckham. But, we liked to think that we were the “Real WAGs of Western England.”
And, being the proud WAG that I am, I screamed and jumped up and down as Jocko scored one for the team – whether he wanted me to or not. That’s my man. Courtney would have been proud.
Later, dropped him off at the pub so he could join his 25 other mates and watch Blackpool beat Cardiff. I joined my girlfriend Sarah – a WAG who opted to sun herself and do some work at the same time – we chatted for a good hour on the meadow, and then headed for a drink at the Avon Gorge Hotel. Imagine a large concrete bar/deck overlooking the Avon River, the Clifton Suspension Bridge and a couple hundred people drinking, eating and sunbathing. That will be one place I will miss.
Hunger struck and off to the Thai take-away we went. Oh, and a stop in Tesco to buy our beverages – two bottles of wine.
After those two bottles of wine, it was midnight. However, we had the urge to see what was out on the town – Jock was still enjoying his time out, and we were ready to do some dancing. We walked about five blocks until we realized that pubs shut at midnight most places. One small fact we had forgotten.
No matter – we grabbed a cab to a Caribbean restaurant called Plantation. Us and other five other people rocked it out to Afro-Caribbean beats. About ten minutes later, they were closing as well, and asked us politely to take our white asses elsewhere.
Luckily, Sarah’s husband called and told us to get over where they were.
We entered a seedy, basement club that I had never been to before. I wish I could remember more about the club, but all I know is that after that Caribbean rum at Plantation, I was a goner.
Random Bristolian nights make me happy. This was one of those days I will look fondly back on…because although I woke up fully clothed on our couch with rum-mouth, it was all worth it. From baby-holding to the rhumba – all worth it.
