Thursday, 12 September 2013

7.27am music report

Today the cafe had reverted back to standard crappy cafe jazz.  I'm not sure it's better, per se, but slightly more morning/setting appropriate?  I'm unable to tell - in the early hours of the morning all I want is silence and tea.  Yes, I am actually 80 years old. 

All the other stories I have at the moment revolve around poo.  I've already gone there once, let's not do that again, shall we?  We'll leave it that living with smalls is surprisingly odorous.  My olfactory senses are taking a battering.

Ok, so, what else then?  Oh yes.  This weekend I am going to the Rugby.  Our Nation's Game, watching Our Nation's Team (the All Blacks, hallowed be thy name, the father Hansen, his son McCaw and lo! the word of his apostle Kieran Reid) belt ten types of crap out of the Springboks (we most feverently hope).  While I enjoy the occasional game - for example watching the 2011 World Cup victory in Clapham followed by the most ridiculous day of my life stands out - I am going on record: I don't really love it and I've never been to the ABs before.  I know, I should turn in my passport and best pavlova recipe immediately to the authorities and leave the country.

Sport attendance seems to involve far too much being cold, far too many overbearing idiots and not nearly enough cocktail olives for my precious tastes.  I've been to the cricket, yes (summertime. Pimms) and I actually enjoyed a live match of American football (hot dogs! hilarious guys from Jersey commentating the game behind me!) but we'll see about the rugby.  The last game I attended was the Blues versus....some other team...and I seem to recall being quite bored, though I'll admit I wasn't invested.  We were with P's Irish cousins who enjoyed heckling immensely, much to my amusement, P's concern and the ire of the Blues supporters seated around us.  These were the girls who also managed to convince P's friend that they weren't really P's cousins at all: they just did a fantastic accent and had looked up the most Irish sounding name in the phone book before calling to announce long lost family were on their way for a visit.  Brilliant. 

Anyway.  Rugby.  I feel like I'm going through a rite of passage.  I want to see the haka - sing me national anthem - wave me flag - stand outside the dressing room for a signature - make a comment about the ruck - curse the ref - worship at the goal posts - it'll be great, I've no doubt.

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