Odd-shaped balls.
I go to the rugby! 30-odd of us go to see mighty England trounce the hapless Wales! Sadly, not the 6 Nations dicking at Twickers, but the under 21s at Worcester's ground, Sixways. And the trouncing was more of your 21-18. Still, a win's a win.
No-nickname-yet Ed has organises a box to watch the game from - so much better than mixing with the proles in the stand. He has some business clients coming, so best to entertain them in the corporate-stylee to which they are no doubt accustomed. The rest of us are just freeloading.
Ed's clients ring to say sorry they're late, they have been lost, but the taxi driver is now confident that he knows where he is going and they'll be there in ten minutes. I happen to be standing beside him during this conversation.
'Fine, all right. We'll see you in ten minutes. The food's just here, so you'll be just in time. Bye.'
Ed then does a comedy double take; food, telephone, food, telephone ... 'Ohmyfuckinggod, they're Jewish. They're only fucking Jewish. Where's the catering manager? For fuck's sake.' And exit Ed, at a high rate of knots. We all look at the food. Sausages, in onion gravy. Pork ones, naturally.
The Typecast Landlord is along, with Mrs Typecast Landlord. They are not big rugby fans, indeed have never been to a game. Mrs TL asks for explanations. I oblige: it's a maul if the players are all still on their feet and the ball's not on the floor like now ... now it's a ruck, they've got to stay on their feet and not handle the ball now or it's a penalty.
Mumbling Nige and Tony Bloke guffaw loudly at this, and Nige reminds me that I should follow my own advice the next day while playing for the seconds. I do have a bit of a reputation for, ah, borderline legality at the ruck. I am saved by the arrival of the England sub, delighting in the name of Topsy Ojo. He takes a pass, gets tackled, and spills the ball. Someone observes that it's all gone Topsy turvy, and the conversation fortunately moves away from my deficiencies.
What with having the TL along, we don't really need the extended licensing laws legislation when we weave back into the Posh Pub at about closing time. He shuts the curtains onto the street, slips effortlessly behind the bar and time in the world outside ceases to have any meaning.
We lost fifty-odd to twelve the next day. I nearly scored but didn't. Our performance really was nothing to do with the fact that half the scrum was at the England match, at all.
And I got an (accidental) kick in the bollocks that I can still feel this morning.
Move on.
No-nickname-yet Ed has organises a box to watch the game from - so much better than mixing with the proles in the stand. He has some business clients coming, so best to entertain them in the corporate-stylee to which they are no doubt accustomed. The rest of us are just freeloading.
Ed's clients ring to say sorry they're late, they have been lost, but the taxi driver is now confident that he knows where he is going and they'll be there in ten minutes. I happen to be standing beside him during this conversation.
'Fine, all right. We'll see you in ten minutes. The food's just here, so you'll be just in time. Bye.'
Ed then does a comedy double take; food, telephone, food, telephone ... 'Ohmyfuckinggod, they're Jewish. They're only fucking Jewish. Where's the catering manager? For fuck's sake.' And exit Ed, at a high rate of knots. We all look at the food. Sausages, in onion gravy. Pork ones, naturally.
The Typecast Landlord is along, with Mrs Typecast Landlord. They are not big rugby fans, indeed have never been to a game. Mrs TL asks for explanations. I oblige: it's a maul if the players are all still on their feet and the ball's not on the floor like now ... now it's a ruck, they've got to stay on their feet and not handle the ball now or it's a penalty.
Mumbling Nige and Tony Bloke guffaw loudly at this, and Nige reminds me that I should follow my own advice the next day while playing for the seconds. I do have a bit of a reputation for, ah, borderline legality at the ruck. I am saved by the arrival of the England sub, delighting in the name of Topsy Ojo. He takes a pass, gets tackled, and spills the ball. Someone observes that it's all gone Topsy turvy, and the conversation fortunately moves away from my deficiencies.
What with having the TL along, we don't really need the extended licensing laws legislation when we weave back into the Posh Pub at about closing time. He shuts the curtains onto the street, slips effortlessly behind the bar and time in the world outside ceases to have any meaning.
We lost fifty-odd to twelve the next day. I nearly scored but didn't. Our performance really was nothing to do with the fact that half the scrum was at the England match, at all.
And I got an (accidental) kick in the bollocks that I can still feel this morning.
Move on.
83 days, is it? I can't add up. About that, in there, anyway.
posted by crisiswhatcrisis at
9:39 am
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