Match Report

For those eagerly awaiting the first proper match report, this week we start only 4 maybe 5 games into the season, simply because your roving reporter is habitually late and couldn’t be @rsed. However this could see the start of great works of fiction and some informative reportage on an irregular basis. It has been noted by the elderly that this season has attracted a large number of raw recruits, so firstly a big welcome to you all, whoever you are. Then there are those who we couldn’t keep away and think they are still welcome, you know who you are, but if you have any doubts please speak with Mr Swatts. Swatts of course maybe busy as he has started to take his work home with him and could be short tempered and tired with all the extra pressure.

In an attempt for team mates to get to know their fellow players, it has been traditional to write a few words or assassination as it is otherwise known. If you wish to see a player profile in future additions just let me know and I’ll stitch you up a like kipper. So this week saw Mr Bogle ask for a few words on his fellow front row Mr Quinn who he likes to secretly photograph and stick up the pictures in his basement. Bruce spent most of his formative years dressed as a tramp, hitchhiking from motorway service stations wearing ladies clothing. He is largely cured of his bad habits now and no longer hitchhikes. Quinny went to a strict Catholic school, our lady of the wandering hands, and was affectionately known as “sh1t lips” by his fellow pupils. He still has incense troubles with his nose and no longer has a fondness for ostentatious prayer – especially on his knees after the vestry incident with father “Teabag” O’ Reilly.

For those of you lucky enough to visit the sun soaked paradise of  Pataya you will be familiar with the teachings of chess as a game strategy comparable with rugby. Unfortunately the Sicilian opening has proved too much for several players who spent 40 minutes drooling on a d4 pawn, before knocking it over with a rook — an illegal move. For this reason we break with tradition to bring you some simple rugby for simpletons.

Except where the forwards are doing something in a vaguely forward direction before falling in untidy heaps of clothes and bodies, our playing philosophy will be to get the ball to the backs who will run forward in various different parts of the pitch so that the forwards can run from side to side in a marginally forward direction before the inevitable mistake and we all stand in a straight line across the pitch except one person who will hang back a bit.

On the rare occasion the game strategy works, you may see a body of indeterminate mass and ability wearing a creased green jersey fall over the line. After the usual lying about gasping for oxygen, screaming for water, water and a silver foil blanket, the ball will be kicked in any direction towards the posts, but not necessarily over it. Expectations that the number 10 should kick at least one ball over should be suppressed and sniggering and blowing snot through you nostrils is kept to a minimum of six stifled laughs per game. Similarly if any of the front row are running, one should not stop to have a good belly laugh while they get overhauled, isolated and tackled by mahatma Ghandi look-a-likes. In this way and with this spirit the team shall prosper, we will win games, flourish, rejoice and drink beer.

Pre-match there seemed to be the ritual throw the ball to you mate warm up, with the occasional kick the ball to you mate, when he wanders out of throwing range. However the pre-match talks sounded extremely serious and I chose to call one of those chat line things you have to pay for. Call Mrs Tussaud for discrete brass rubbing in chalk or wax. It was a disappointment when I heard a phone go off in one of them smelly Le Coq Sportiff bags at the side of the pitch and someone say “excuse` moi” and mince over to answer it. I had to listen to the last 20 minutes of team tactics about taking the ball into contact- allo mon petite poodle, j’ai de wax pour vous – then when the forwards have pulled in their forwards with crash ball or tie up a back or two, we pass to – that’s it, rub it all over me, harder, qui just there. It was time for the game to start.

The game appeared to go to some sort of plan. There was a steady stream of tries. I have no idea who scored. The limelight was instead on one of the most consistent kickers in world rugby. Let’s just say that he was consistent. Having pulled out a big lead we began some switching and swapping and lost a bit of shape towards the end. Revolution or whatever they are didn’t look like they had any chance of coming back and we let in one tries in the last 10 minutes.

Final score was Typhoons 30 (no conversions) to 5. It was a fine win and there was much rejoicing