Rugby Union Football of course. The game I was originally carded to watch yesterday was a second team fixture at King's Norton. To no one's particular surprise it was cancelled due to shortage of players. Such is modern rugby. However the powers that be sent me on a new mission to Camp Hill. I arrived and went in search of the lower team referee I was to advise and, there in the referee's changing room I found a Berkshire Society official preparing to handle the first team game - none other than my former vice-captain and all around good egg, Julian Rainford. He still looks in game shape. Is it really twenty years since that magical season when he scored forty-three tries?
 |
| Jules meets Big Fat Pig |
Fair do's to Camps who treated me like minor royalty. The beer was good (Ubu) as were the scratchings. After Jules had dealt with his watcher we had time for a brief chat and he got a local to take our picture. Once were warriors. Some day I must tell you about that December afternoon when we beat Sutton Coldfield. Better still get Gary Street to tell you - because in his version he did it on his own. Nearly true but Jules got the decisive try - which Gary duly converted from the touchline. I left Camp Hill felling well-disposed to my fellow man and grateful to be a member of rugby's citizenry.
And now I am sitting in our rather lovely kitchen and am sipping L'Extra par Langlois - a Loire sparkler which was put in our way by the ever reliable staff at Majestic. Donald Trump, Tony Blair (whose recent hubristic bollocks on the subject of Brexit I am choosing to rise above) and other assembled gits seem joyously distant. But then, tomorrow is another day.
No comments:
Post a Comment