Match Report

Starting XV
1. Nico
2. Clarkie
3. Bruce
4. Tim
5. Sam
6. Thomas G
7. Simon H
8. Claudio (C)
9. Smally
10. Jon K
11. Thomas S
12. Grant
13. PA Thibaut
14. Dan Vart
15. Guy E

Super Subs
Front Row: Dimitris
Second Row:
Flanker: Allan Newsome, Richard Hansen, Chris C
Scrum Half: Jamie Hickman
Backs: Fabien, Jeff Le Blanc

This weeks report starts with some corrections to last weeks fabulous novel, Manu would wish to be addressed as Monsieur Q and not mister, also Mr Potato would prefer to be addressed as "The Flying Potato" at any formal functions. The front row are still looking at grabbing the lime light again. Big Ass has confessed he dreams of walking through a field of long grass in a backless dress, specifically floral. He had been hoping for something more gladiatorial in a field of wheat, scared hands and a macho voice over, instead he gets the sound of Thomas Toit pants practising his yodelling. He is considering treatment for his nightmares or turning to drink. This is probably better than Dimitris, every time he touches the ball I hear the theme tune of postman pat. James Knott has acquired another heinous injury, he may have to pluck up the courage to visit the charlatan for a cure. It was all I could do to hold him in my arms for 4 hours despite my bad back and his bad breath until he stopped snivelling. The French foreign legion, had obviously been out drinking chateaux la feet, nun de blue and ricard chasers. Fabian, you were late and seen in possibly the worst trousers in France. If I hadn't been distracted by Warren accusing me of something dubious, you would have been up. The other two have apparently sold their Phoon socks and now share the other pair, which may explain why they insist on the pink. But better there than not, better late than never. We looked a little thin, but had a few dawdler's arrive in time to be super sub.

Tony Shale, the housewife's favourite was there to watch and spectate. Tony is always debonaire, trouser seams that could cut paper, a trilby angled so rakishly it could stop traffic, the kind of sartorial elegance that has men begging for advice and a nip of his hip flask. Then there are the Australians, Waz and Grant who frankly look like bin men. It takes an English man to show the way a gentleman should dress. Non of that joure d'vive rubbish. You need to use the sal de bain before you start giving fashion tips in your beret's and stripey shirts. The Australian sporting depression appeared to have by-passed our match day southerners, after Bledisloe, the cricket and even Gallic football, they were hoping to pull one back with the hungry hippos competition. Over in Chile they have their first open golf tournament, although there have been several complaints about the particularly tricky "wall of voodoo" on the 14th, straight after the windmill and the wishing well penguin hazard. This week saw several foolish players bringing along their parents to explain why they are alcoholics and carrying so many injuries. At one point you could hear "ooh, my little soldier" when Smally was shoulder charged onto the floor. Dan was also out this week, the valiant fighter who seems to attract dozens of seagulls trying to bite his legs every time he gets on the field.

Tim was too late to be able to tell players how much he hated Club and what suffering he went through as a youth. The ruined childhood, the hair falling out of his parrot, his grans chin, the plug hole; we were ready but he was late brushing his hair. Instead we had bouche douche (Shower mouth) as the French now call el Captiano stoking up the team into a frenzy of soggy enthusiasm. This appears to be the only wash they get all week. The start wasn't a picnic after kick off we lasted a minute before they managed to go over and convert. Some hasty team organisation and out of position players and we took a little time to get sorted. We had a few moments but began to play together and work out what we were doing. So much so we managed to let another try in after about 10 minutes, no conversion, but we were improving. The stand in scrum half was bearing up and looking for balls again when they went over the fence. Dan was doing a lot of chasing covered in sea birds and generalli making a fist of it. The scums were reasonable, the line outs when straight were OK. Club were actually soft, but we couldn't get the spark going just yet. We had a few breaks, mainly in the backs and this is where they looked more vulnerable. Building in confidence we let in another try to make it more interesting in the second half. By half time we were 17 points behind.

The half time talk used a lot of C words. C this, C that, yah big C, ride me sideways you big C. I've no idea how the tactical teamwork was going to pan out, but as long as we were thinking of a C, it would be alright. Some changes and fresh legs as well as some tired legs went back on the park. With a new side Club managed to get a break away with Dan chasing, the try was disallowed for contortionism and managing to put the ball on his own foot and mess it up. Much to the amusement of the crowd, C's. Guy was in the full back position now and appeared to be going for the hammer trophy with vengeance. Interviewing Mrs Small she said " His confidence in defence and pace and intelligence in attack, which was epitomised by his looping reverse pass, means it is going to be a monumental struggle for anyone to wrestle the full-back shirt off him." It was going to be the last time I interviewed a professional sports commentator who could'nt see he runs like a girl and is rubbish. The crowd were next treated to fondue Bourguignonne taking a rare pass to the wing and running in from 30 metres with several players trying to mount him and a blind touch judge. Toit managed to get the ball down in the corner and we were moving. Just to check if Mrs Small had been taking any notice I took the chance of asking what she thought of Thomas, she said "In the Typhoon environment he will just improve and get better and better. He's definitely got the hunger and the desire to stay there at the top." I said what game are you watching, this is Thomas He's a steaming pile of Swiss manure.

They quickly came back with a try, but we were back at them with another break, this time Jeff did all the work jinking, breaking a tackle or two and getting caught near the line, with pop ball, goal hanging guy was there to claim the glory touching down for 5. Sticking two fingers up at Jeff he trotted back down the field. We may have discovered the C. It only left the nadir of the game. Bruce had an eyelash in his eye and Dimitris was pooped trundling about in his red van. We were uncontested. Our put in, 5 yards from our line. We managed to give the ball to the opposition who then scored. Heinous, a crime that need to be marked in the AGM ledger. I asked Chris C's parents if they had ever watched rugby before, they hadn't. They were bursting with pride that their son was there pushing into several mens behinds. I asked what they thought of him, expecting the worst... "I'm a big fan of Chris. I've always believed he had what it takes to step up to the next level. He's got all the skills and the talent and he's from America, god bless." Never ask a parent what they think. He's and American, you can't possibly compliment them playing rugby.

Final score
Club Select 29 - Typhoons 12
Thomas G was man of the match running about like a dog until he had a lie down in the second half and came off. But he was back for more later. The fines were a travesty, not only was the judge a biased, blind, buffoon, but his accomplice sat in silence while a innocent nose was punished for allowing Thomas to score. Have to dash. A good game, more subs and we could have been in with a chance.