What we are up to

Dog Days #7

by Nathan Jones

Dear Bob,

Went to the football with Dad on Saturday. Wrexham vs Salisbury. ('Oo 'ur day?') A middling game on a bobbly green patch of grass levelled out on a little hill. No expectations of greatness, just a hope for something less depressing than the livingroom. And no-one sang 'We hate Chester and we hate Chester,' which I know is your fave.

You can see the mountains in the gaps around the ground, which struck me for the first time. Look at the mountains. We’re only right here, where I saw when I was over there, I thought. We were sat there in the stands, which I have always thought was a silly thing to do, or silly thing to call them (would we ever sleep at a wake?), and all of a sudden the whole crowd fell silent and Dad goes What the… and OH! Bloody ‘ell, as he realised.

Here you go: When you don’t even know who or what you are having a minute silence for, are you having a minute silence, or are you just waiting for the minute silence to finish?

As the seconds ticked by, it slowly dawned on us both that we were the only ones out of three thousand odd fans not standing up. We were suddenly two guys doing a sitty protest! I've not felt that kind of solidarity since Dad punched a crack head in New York for touching my arm, Bob. Footbob. The silence was for an old guy, anyway, in case you were wondering.

What was everyone thinking about for a minute? Well, the old guy is dead. You can see the mountains over there. O, this is where I am. Hey, who are the two guys sitting down?

Anyway, after the silence my Dad goes, That was longer than a minute, it was more like two minutes. And I hope everyone heard him.

Kenny had some blood taken yesterday, and the vet called him a lurcher. It’s lucky she’d already done the jab, because I’m not sure about having a vet jabbing your dog when she doesn’t even know what make it is.

Love me please,

Richie Kriss and Kenny Kross.