Blues Rugby:
Wake up at 6.30am, knock down a protein shake and tell the adoring fan who came back from Park End to leave immediately. Not even playing soon but change in to obligatory stash and hit breakfast to get the carbs in and swap lad anecdotes of night before all centring round the “R&B” room.
Go to lecture for my dubious postgraduate course entitled “Drainage; a slippery problem” and wonder just how future generations will address diversified sewage networks in an increasingly globalised, biodiverse, ethically challenged, koala hugging peppermint tea drinking society? Title for the thesis sorted though sure.
Cycle to Iffley in an ever growing amount of stash: hats, scarves, fleeces, mittens ear warmers, ear plugs, stockings, suspenders, braces and of course the standard OURFC long johns. Big game today Blues Vs Senior Brownie troop of Great Britain Old Girls. Somehow lose. I offer my diagnosis to Cherwell reporter: “Rugby’s a simple game, we have just got to do the basics right, quick ball, tackle, stop running in the wrong direction, stop getting distracted by the advertising signs etc”. Still, go back, put on the OURFC tie on (acting as guaranteed queue jump) and have a damn good night in Bridge.
2nd Team College footballer:
Wake up at 2pm (alone), missed all lectures and absolutely hanging. Better go get a Mission to reboot. Am told by fellow second teamer that I refused to leave the Park End “Cheese floor” all night and attempted to inappropriately get with all my close female friends in college. Fail.
Hit the library to do some reading, half an hour in forget I am supposed to be at a Second team game. Manically rush to pitch and in process realise that I have forgotten shin pads! So once again torn up cardboard pizza boxes will have to do. Don’t have my best game: score an own goal in first thirty seconds as I don’t realise which way we are playing so can’t believe my luck as I am in loads of space and smack it past my own keeper, I’m eventually am sent off for making what I thought was ironic satire by criticising the female referee.
Trudge back to college and try to cheer myself up with the prospect of a quality night out in Bridge. Get to Bridge, and despite trying to claim that I know the promoter to the bouncer, am automatically “Anuba’d”. My ticket number inevitably never comes up and I find out that there is a fairly substantial rumour going round college that I got with my Scout in desperation last night. I console myself with a Hasan’s on the way home.
