Some of you will know one of the enduring passions in La Vie Angevin has been rugby... not just any old rugby, though - WELSH rugby. For this deeply unfeminine interest, you can blame my lunatic Welsh grandfather: my absolute first memory was sitting on his lap and being thrown around in a manner the child protection services would almost certainly find dangerous these days whilst Grancha screamed at the Welsh performance, good or bad, on TV. The potential for toddler-sick was not considered - The Child had to be initiated into Wales' one true religion, and, by Duw, he was not going to shirk his responsbility; not even the threats of my Nanna ( 'you'll scare The Child, mun') were going to hold him back. I, Childe Angevin, far from being scared, loved every minute - far, far more exciting than going on the playground swings, with the added opportunity for learning new and forbidden words when Grancha forgot himself from time to time. Which he always did, and which were always flagged up by the clucking coming from the kitchen when it happened, where Nanna was usually employed making the half-time tea, sandwiches and Viscount biscuits and avoiding the noise.
In my street, you didn't need the Radio Times to find out when Wales were playing - you could hear the old man howling bilingual imprecations, in his fine Welsh tenor, from several hundred yards away. Afterwards, under pretext of taking me (and the dog) for a walk in my buggy, there was the inevitable post-mortem in the local (known as 'Little Wales' to any English who encroached on our enclave) with the other geriatric would-be coaches, all of whom, of course, said the team was 'just right' and EXACTLY the one they would have picked if they had been in charge (if Wales had won) or called 'English sabotage' and demanded the head and vitals of the management (if they hadn't). I regret to say my taste for post-match pints probably stems from this too... inevitably The Child was bought off with quarter pints of India Ale and a pasty as part of the ritual.
Much to the disgust of my English father, Grancha's early indoctrination won out despite the lures of English culture all around me, and standing freezing my butt off in the pouring rain watching various Welsh teams at various grounds has been a pretty much constant feature of life ever since. So.. yesterday found me wrapped up like a mummy at the Madjeski Stadium in Reading, screaming imprecations at the Ospreys whilst they attempted to beat London Irish and get through to the semis of the EDF Anglo-Welsh cup. Possibly rather tactlessly, I was in the company of my Plastic Paddy mate, Joe, who was manfully doing his best not to shout TOO loudly for the Irish because I'm bigger than he is and can do better Chinese burns too...
Well, unfortunately, the Ospreys, despite my almost continual and very loud directions from the stands, lost. The bunch of women. However, they managed not to lose by too much, got themselves a bonus point as a result and thus made it through to the semis anyway on the back of their previous good performances. So... winners and losers as it says in the title. The Irish supporters were all happy because they'd got a good win, so there was much merriment in the bar afterwards (although sadly no pasties).. and indeed in the shuttle bus taking us all back to Reading Station (Who IS John, by the way?). How unlike the situation were very tipsy, mixed coaches of round-ball supporters being carried around... that, unfortunately would closely resemble Armageddon, I suspect. Another proof that rugby is miles better than the so-called sport of football, should any more be required.
Roll on March when the Aquatic Passat will be forced into service on the road to Coventry and the Ricoh Stadium: the Ospreys this time facing Gloucester. Now... if the boys manage to pull their collective fingers out this time AND the Cardiff Blues manage to overcome Northampton we are facing an all-Welsh EDF final in Twickenham, the cradle of what passes for rugby in England. I bet my Dad is spinning at the prospect, but Grancha and all your pals, whereever you are, save some India Ale for me and wait until I get there before discussing whether Little Shane is as good as Gerald Davies, please... A pasty or two wouldn't go amiss either.
... but somebody has to write a blog, sitting in the November sunshine with a great cup of latte on the terrace of a good hotel, watching the sun sparkling on incredibly blue sea, whilst thinking of her friends sitting freezing their butts off in the greyness of an autumn UK. Hehehehehe, I'm not REALLY rubbing it in, guys....
