Match Report

This weekend saw the start of the new season and the hastily thrown together match report, cobbled for cheap laughs and humiliation. It is a miracle your reporter is still here to put together the events of the day. Only weeks ago, as I pulled the ice axe from my leg, staggering on, spindrift stinging my remaining eye, my thoughts turned to this day. To the east Broke Back Mountain, to the west Benny Hill and towering high above struggling below the overhanging glacial cerac nearing the peak, dressed in the back end of a pantomime horse (the head had fallen into a crevasse). I bivouacked awaiting the dawn, rescue or an offer of a pantomime season. It would be the last time I volunteered for a sponsored walk or evening stroll into the death zone. But rescued I was, and after some cursory checks for frost bite I have recovered for another year. It is now our mountain to climb this season. To summit above lesser teams and keep going with self sacrifice, team spirit and beer.

A big welcome to the new players and the faces from season’s past. Jacco had turned up to confirm why the Dutch don’t play rugby, there were several Frenchmen, replacing last season’s deserters and new players from the colonies. It is well known Dan is a gentleman and excellent female impersonator, but who put him on as scrum half? Maybe it was coach elasticated waistband? Would Grant look a bit like Susan Boyle if he wore a dress, would you still go for the Boyle and leave the ugly one for your mate? It was time to begin.

Nico strode forth for a toss of the coin, he lost. He came back and said the captain of University had told him, “if I enter your lands in force, I will take your women and children into slavery, I will kill all the men and leave their bodies for carrion, I will raise your cities to dust and no-one will ever know of your existence.” He gave one word in reply, “if”. What we do in life echoes in eternity, on my command unleash hell. This is it men, does anyone need the toilet before we go on?

The whistle went and the season began. We looked good under the high ball, right up to the point of catching it. We played well in patches and were all at sea in others. But the long ship Phoon battled on against the tide of points. Quinny was philosophic about the first half, “you may cry with the onion, but never laugh at vegetables, especially the potato”. A possible victim of one of Clarke’s stand-up comedy nights, or just protective of the national dish. You know you are getting old when you hear “dad” on the pitch, especially when it’s “dad you old b@stard pass the ball”, something you never want to hear. Laurent was flying the French flag, but I keep getting visions of Easter Island heads when I see him. What can we say about the first half? Lost a few scrums, line-outs and the odd missed tackle? Apparently our bootleg Johnny Wilkinson had been playing the game as the bootleg Dan Vart. Which explains a few things. In the spirit of teamwork he deliberately took a short kick-off to give the forwards a chance to practice their scrummaging. It was time for a break. The score was 17 -0 at half time.

Taking a leaf from Patton and Gwyneth Paltrow, Nico lead from the front. No b@stard ever won a war by dying for his country; he won a war by making the other poor dumb b@stard die for his country". And that's the glory, and we want it. Being a winner like me takes hard work (eh?), it has been back-breaking at times. I mean, some of you guys know what it's like. And working half the year in exotic locations, riding a moped, sleeping with Canadians is not what everyone imagines (Yes it is). And then there's the week of humanitarian work a year; God! Sick and hungry people are such a drain aren't they? Let them eat cake. Why are we here, what about global warming and Bruce you’re big enough to have a Mahout. Mixed messages this week and it was never really enough to fire up the team. Still the enforced drinking ban was relaxed at half time and the cold beers were attacked to numb the pain of the second half. There was a lot of numbing. Numb, numb, numb, numb numb.

The second half, in a game of two halves was bad from the score line, but good from the point of fight and never giving up. Heads bowed slightly we kept up pressure. Honourable mentions go to Jordi for a try scoring tackle and Keelty the younger for making his dad look slow and old. We conceded 45 points in the second half, but as I breathe and stink there was a come back. Building from a ripple of pick and mix, pick and go, bump and grind, Sonny and Cher we moved into the 22. Getting a heap of bodies up to the 10 yard line the ball went to BA and he burst through a desperate defence to put down for 5. Stepping forward was the un-missable Coles. He had earlier put away the tee, having decided it would not be required. Blaming a swirling wind (faint sea breeze), difficult angle (directly in front of the posts) and difficult pitch conditions he hooked another. I wished I’d missed Mr Unmissable. The last 5 minutes saw the great yellow crested tit, turn up late, but is too late. The final whistle blew and we walked off tired, beaten but unbowed.

We took a taxi and rode miles to this field by the sea, shook hands with people who may be harbouring the Ebola virus, kissed a boatload of snot-nosed babies and peoples spinach toothed girlfriends, listened to emotional and inspiring speeches only to finish second. I don't know about you, but I feel like a winner. Michael Winner. Even though we finished second in a field of two, the 20+ people who turned up to play are all winners. Except Dan who’s a whiner.

There were drinks after the game, fines and false accusations. Next week will be more of the same, but we need start playing together, sorting out a few set moves and last a few more minutes without turning purple. Training is Tuesday. Until next time. C