hallowed turf

My daddy took me to twickenham for the Irish game.

What to say - it was a grand day out.

It was a four oclock kick off. Which is just wrong. So we set of a bit later than usual. And got a bit drunker than usual. Slight problem as the river was high we failed to make the white cross and found the much loved 'something begginging with A' more by luck than judgement. But reached twickers before the anthem and may have had an overpriced keg crap pint. Or two.

The rugby in the first half was awful.

The rugby in the second half was exciting. (but still piss poor).

The least bad team won. Unfortunately not us, but ho hum.

It was a grand day out.

and three genuine conversations from the toilets at Twickers... (all in an irish accent)...

"boys, we need to up the pace. twenty miniutes in and I'm still not pissing blood"

(from the cubical) "Whats the f**ing score. Anyone. Please. Five quid for a fucking ref link and there's no fucking reception. If I was going to see the game I wouldnt need the f***ing ref comentry now would I? So whats the f**ing score? Barry? Anyone? ..... F*** me. There's no F**ing Paper...."

and

"we need to eat. We need to eat after..."

"after the game or after the piss?"

"well........Fucked if I know"

it was a grand day out.