Cod Almighty | Diary

What about the melon

6 December 2024

Tonight, the youth take on recently regular winners West Ham in the FA Youth Cup. Get yourself down to Blundell Park and cheer them on. And then, tomorrow, it's Morecambe. Are you trying not to be too excited or are you rolling with the optimism? Either way, it's a strange sensation, this whiff of certainty.

When was the last time you felt like something was nailed on? When was the last time you were so full of confidence that you knew, simply, wholly, absolutely, that success was not only just around the corner, but somewhere and somewhen that you could pinpoint, reach out and grab? When was the last time that optimism was a constant buzz, a background hum of satisfaction, a pleasant and pleasuring gentle fizz of anticipation. When was the last time you spent your Friday afternoon daydreaming of Saturday's inevitable victory?

Your A46 Diary had a relative, Great Uncle Bud, who drove a delivery wagon for Hewitt's Brewery. He would make lots of deliveries every day to the various pubs around the town and at each one he would have a swift 'alf, just a swift 'alf, a little pick-me-up, so that by the end of the day he would've had eight, nine, even ten pints. Every day. Putting aside the immorality of being drunk in charge of a vehicle for just a moment, I imagine we're all feeling the steady, days-long Uncle Bud buzz right now as we roll and swagger to Lancashire tomorrow to the winless-at-home Morecambe.

Nailed on. Get the mortgage on it. Get the beers in. Have a swift 'alf every corner kick, every throw-in, every shot, every time Hume powers a delightful crossfield ball. Another swift 'alf every time you think of how strong our bench is now, every time you think that those names that we'd almost forgotten are suddenly there, right there, on the pitch, on the bench, being beautiful, like swift 'alf, after swift 'alf, after swift 'alf, and we've all got a party of perfect little pick-me-ups to roll us through the weekend and into happy acceptance that we really are in a play-off place.

Uncle Bud, famous for the girth of his belly and the hollowness of his legs, eventually had to retire from work due to ill health. Shocking, I know. This led to a family myth of the marvelousness of melons. The doctors told him to eat more fruit. Melons, they suggested. So, he did. He ate melons like he used to sup swift 'alfs, and the girth of his belly shrank and shrank. He was a new man, the svelte Bud had climbed out of the girth and the hollowness, like a lizard shedding its skin, and lived on for a few more years than might have been expected while he was driving that Hewitt's wagon. All thanks to melons in my family, nothing to do with not drinking a gallon of beer a day.

I never met the man, or, if I did, I have no memory of him. I imagine he died without the full satisfaction of those extra years. I'm sure they were nice and certainly more than he had expected, but Uncle Bud's buzz eventually had to fade. Maybe the memories - or the blurred recollections - of all those swift 'alfs made him smile. Maybe. Maybe he'd thought his buzz was nailed on. Maybe he just enjoyed it while it lasted. That's us, right now, enjoying it while it lasts. Put the melons on hold.