New House
A semi in the suburbs and a mystery footballer
This is the latest chapter of my book The Flagging Dad which I am serializing on Substack on Thursdays.
With a new baby on the way, we have moved into a semi-detached house in suburban North Leeds. This confirms that my youth is over, and I have turned into my dad. Three days after we’d landed, I tried to throw one of Joshua’s nappy bags into the outdoor bin from the front door, a shot of approximately 20 feet. I significantly overcooked it and could only watch as the nappy bag bounced off our wall and looped onto the garage roof next door. We hadn’t met the neighbours yet, and this would not have been the best first impression.
‘Hi, I’ve just chucked a bag of sh*t onto your garage roof. Andy, nice to meet you.’
During our first week in our previous house, I’d introduced myself to the community by ploughing our car into the corner shop owner’s van, so there seems to be a pattern forming (gladly, nobody was injured but going to buy a pint of milk filled me with anxiety for the next three years.) After clambering up the wall, I mercifully managed to retrieve the nappy bag. The only witness was Joshua, who was more concerned about repeatedly whacking a spatula on a wheelie bin, so I think I’ve got away with one.
Need to work on my range.
The move went much smoother than envisaged. We had initially planned to borrow my pal’s van, but my mum didn’t trust me not to crash it (see previous paragraph), and instead treated us to a pair of removal men. As they parked up, I had a moment of panic when I thought one of them was a probation client, but I was relieved to discover he was just a mere lookalike. Similar neck tattoo, no disclosed criminal background. They were nice guys: laidback, very strong and die-hard Leeds United fans who had the ability to simultaneously carry extremely heavy boxes, smoke roll-ups, and casually discuss Kalvin Phillips’ hopes of an England call-up. I was impressed.
Louise’s mum and my brother’s wife came along to help out. My sister-in-law is Canadian-Japanese and had some difficulty understanding what the removal men were saying, frequently asking them to repeat themselves or responding with a nod and a smile, hoping for the best. Similarly, they found it amusing when she asked them to check if there were any boxes left in the trunk of the car.
‘It’s not a bloody tree, love!’
‘I can’t see any elephants around here, love!’
Everyone put in a shift, barely stopping all day, and by 4 p.m., shattered, we were done. My brother came over the following afternoon, assisting me in (almost) installing a washing machine and (fully) assembling a cupboard, tasks made trickier given he’d sunk four pints of Amstel at Elland Road.
My parents may have thought they’d dodged a bullet by being on holiday for the move, but Louise has compiled a 12-point list of tasks for them. There is no escape. One is to hammer a nail into the wall and hang up a picture. It is a damning assessment of her faith in my practical skills that she thought this was beyond me.
The move was necessary. As much as we loved our previous house, it shrunk to half the size once Joshua and all his baby gear arrived. I won’t miss walking into the front door, tripping over a pile of shoes, and a folded-up buggy falling on top of me. We’re moving up in the world. We’ve got a cupboard under the stairs.
I played football on Wednesday and popped to the pub on the way home to catch the end of Liverpool vs. Chelsea (for all my bragging about storage space, we don’t yet have a TV). I bought a pint and found a seat in the corner with a good view. A couple of minutes later, a muscular middle-aged man in a suede suit strolled over. His beard was impeccable.
‘Hey, man. Mind if I join you?’
I regretted I was wearing a sweat-stained 2007/8 Leeds shirt, unsociably short shorts and my hands stank, having foolishly used the communal gloves when it was my turn in net.
‘Sure. Man.’
We settled into the standard men-who-don’t-know-each-other football dialogue.
‘Great ball.’
‘Unlucky.’
‘Good effort.’
‘Referee!’
But… the game went to extra time, leaving a gap where actual conversation was necessary. I haven’t been on a first date in 13 years, so I was a bit rusty.
‘So, um, how’s it going?’ I asked.
‘Great, man. I love football.’
‘Me too,’ I said.
‘Yeh, I used to play for Sporting Lisbon.’
I nearly spat my drink at him.
‘I’m sorry?’
I asked what his name was twice but it was long and Portuguese and I didn’t quite catch it. You can’t ask a third time, can you? It made my Google search when I got home difficult, though: Portuguese footballer. Leeds. Excellent beard. yielded no results.
Over the next half an hour, we half-watched the match while he told me his tale. He had worked his way through the youth ranks at Sporting Lisbon and made 11 appearances for the first team (including a substitute appearance in THE CHAMPIONS LEAGUE) before unfortunate ligament problems resulted in him moving down to the divisions of the Portuguese leagues and having to retire early.
I pointed at the knee brace I was wearing to prove I too understood the cruel world of sporting injuries.
Since then, he’d moved to the UK, retrained as a chef, worked with Marco Pierre White, and was now managing a fancy restaurant in town.
He was one of the most charismatic and interesting men I have ever met.
‘So, what’s your story, man?’ He asked.
‘Well, I threw a bag of sh*t on my neighbours’ garage roof this morning…’
*
Thanks for reading this installment of The Flagging Dad. I never saw the mystery footballer again sadly. I don’t think he was lying. It would be a weird thing to lie about, would it? Next week’s chapter is about a trip to a garden centre. Hard-hitting stuff - brace yourselves.
I have also been working on a new piece about money and writing which I’m planning to post on Monday morning.
Please do like/share/comment about your own experiences and, if you’re feeling generous, you could always:
Some people really make you question your life goals, don't they. Impeccably-bearded Lisbon man sounds incredibly accomplished. I expect with his skills he'd have lobbed the nappy sack straight into the bin and got carried down the street on your neighbours' shoulders.
I had a pedicure this summer and was sat next to a footballer and his wife. I did a similar google search based on the conversation he was having and it yielded no results. So much for AI eh Andy?