RATS vs Old E's Again

The heavens had opened overnight and Rats Stadium, without a closing roof, had acquired a distinctly bog-like status. Providence indeed, given the young whelps barely out of swaddling who opposed us that day. Revenge against the Elizabethans was uppermost in our mind but from the kick off these pups spread the ball wide and scored before we’d laced our boots. Too keen by half. One day they’ll learn to shave and masturbate, and also learn that if they’d run it again, perhaps they would have scored again. But age counts for something at least and the Rats began to gain the upper hand, scoring before the half when Mr Dick rounded off a fine move. Or was it Mr Dick? The caking mud had rendered all participants the same ethnic hue. And the Rats scored again after the half when Mr Lane finally found the lungs to complete a move to its conclusion. By the way, calculations in the bar afterwards had the aggregate age of the Elizabethan backs at 164, and ours at a glorious 328 – for those who wear the single digit on their shirt, that’s exactly double, by the way. The young guns had learnt a few time-honoured rugby stratagems however - in the time it took England to score 44 points against a bunch of Welsh Celts, our teenage guests from Queen Elizabeth School managed to put more money over the bar than most opponents have all season. (Yes I know that looks like a spelling mistake up there but I really did mean to say Celts.) But back to the Rats game – both teams had opportunities, before the Elizabethans backs indeed took the advice offered above and returned scores to parity. And so into the grandstand finale. The Rats lower numbers drove again, and into the opponents half. They gained a penalty. A young blade questioned the referee in distinctly un-Elizabethan terms and ten yards were added, ten metres perhaps. The official’s stopwatch sounded in his pocket, alarming him, indeed almost awakening him. The last kick of the game. “I must go for goal”, said Mr Owsley. It was then that your correspondent encountered the true All Black psyche at work. “Run it” the tarts chirped ,”Up the touchline” the low numbers bleated. It was ever thus. “No”, said Mr Stewart of Oceania firmly, “Mr Owsley tells me he will kick a goal from here”. So, quaking in my boots at Mr Stewart’s transferral of responsibility, into the breach I stepped. Cleanly I struck it, the only time that afternoon, Oh Joy. The ball soared goalwards, “It’s over” they cried, “He’s done it”, they cheered. Sadly, their eyesight was lacking, damaged beyond repair by years of the aforementioned masturbation. The ball sank beneath the crossbar and the spoils finished even. Rats 10, Elizabethans 10.