Bloody hell sometimes I can be a complete knob. There are those sweet folk who would question why I say sometimes, but hey, there are moments of brilliance to The Dude’s young life.
Yesterday wasn’t one of them. I started well, I even joined dad at the Poppy Day march in town, and I know he was chuffed, even though he’d never admit it.
I had Sunday dinner at home, that was great, a couple of day’s worth of food in a single meal, with a doggy bag to take back to the flat as well.
But then I admitted something that I’ll not be able to live down in ages.
I thought the match was away at London Irish, I thought we were going to the pub, and I just didn’t understand why dad was in such a rush to get away from dinner.
I was still furious with myself when we got to Kingston Park, so it was a good job that we played well.
The crowds aren’t as excited as I remember them being before we went down, but nonetheless it was great to be in the melee.
We had a few after, and then I staggered off, hopefully without being rude to the old man. And sat. Useless. Staring at the computer expecting to be able to conjure up the thoughts I needed for an essay about which I had done little research and so far have no real ideas. It was due in this morning, but I spent the day in the library pretending to browse the learned tomes, before coming home this evening with my friend Google and the determination not to copy anything I read. I’ll try not, honest!
Watching The Falcons has always been a roller coaster ride, even back in the day when dad and I used to go, sometimes with his dad too. I used to have to sit in the back room in the boozer with all the women, and for all you southerners reading this thinking that I must be about eighty years old, well actually that was just a few years back.
When we went down it felt like the end of the world, an ending that started when Jonnie moved to the south of France, not that I blame him. Who’d live in the north east when they could live in the south of France? And that’s even before you take into account the fortune he was paid to go down there.
But the parachute helped us keep a decent squad. It’s a crazy arrangement as it stops most teams staying down – well, except Worcester I guess, they’re a bit knackered, mainly because Exeter did so well in their first year. Rugby. It’s all about money really, no matter how it might feel at the grass roots level.
All that aside, I’m looking forward to this afternoon. We’ve got London Irish, the Exiles! We knobbed them a few weeks ago so they’ll be coming at us hard.
Dad’s coming too. I pulled off a lovely family stunt this morning and fell into step with him at the remembrance day march in town. He was beside himself, probably a bit angry as the closest I’ve come to serving in the military is a few weeks in the boy scouts, but then delighted to have his boy with him. We’re at the folk’s place now and we’ve just had a great Sunday roast and we’ll be off up the road in a minute or two.
Roast beef, all the trimmings, and then Rugby!
Sundays don’t get better than this!