We woke groggy, minging and still a pit pissed from the night before. I have no idea where we had been, but it was a Saturday or Sunday and it was a rare event if mornings (or afternoons) didn't start this way. From the bed, using a coat hanger as a remote control, The FH turned on the TV. The match build up was on. We filled the time by him teaching me the basics, me asking which one Jonny Wilkinsoin was (he had just starred in an advert with David Beckham) and generally nursing our hangovers with small talk, painkillers and badly buttered toast.
His small flat smelt of stale beer and cigarettes, the walk from the bedroom to the kitchen was an obstacle course of Stella bottles and overflowing ashtrays. The only thing separating us from debauchery of the night before was a few hours’ sleep, a cup of tea and piece of toast. We were undressed, unwashed and unconcerned. He returned from the kitchen, swearing as he stood on a upturned bottle top, a bottle of lager in each hand and a cigarette dripping from his bottom lip. "Well… How often are we in a world cup final?" he asked, climbing back into bed.
"Exactly" I said taking a bottle from him.
We won, which meant our behaviour was acceptable, we got showered, dressed and became semi-respectable. Hungry, we scavenged the freezer and found a packet of Birds Eye Chicken Pies, which we cooked and ate before we headed out to pub for warm up drinks before the footy kicked off. 'Boro were playing Liverpool at home. I have no idea what the score was, or where we went afterwards, but I know we went to the match and I'm pretty sure it was messy.
The FH swaps his weekend lie in to ensure his "get up" coincides with when England are playing. I lie in bed, trying to find my missing hours of sleep. Usually I'm trying to block out the screams, wails and shouts from the children downstairs. However, this morning this is mainly what I hear
Fearless: (I imagine is pointing at the TV) Gargees? (Loosely translated as "please may I watch In the Night Garden?'
The Future Husband: No. Rugby.
The FH: Rugby.
The FH: RUGBY.
... and this continues for what feels like many hours (as Rugby matches often do).
Later on that day, The FH turns to me and says "My Pint and Pie never arrived."
"Pardon?" I reply perplexed.
"I signed up for a promotion with O2, they said they'd deliver me a pie and a pint before every England game."
"Right." I nod and turn back to the laptop.
"Not that I'd have them that early in the morning" he adds "That would be a bit grim."
"Yeah disgusting.” I agree, as we catch each other's eyes and smirk.
Oh life - how I love how you change us!