London Irish
FB7s 2009 - A Saturday Report
By RichH
July 22 2009
I arrived at Reading Abbey RFC on Saturday morning around 8:30. I’d worked late on Friday and got an early night, so felt in a positive bloom of health as I observed the bedraggled remnants of humanity staggering around the soggy campsite and club house. It wasn’t difficult to tell who had camped the night before, to say the least.
The atmosphere was great, though. When you get hundreds of people assembled to do things they love to do; drink, socialise and maybe play rugby, there is a sense of anticipation of the fun to come.
After helping to set up the temporary fencing I’d brought to corral the kids, I set off in search of team mates in the direction of Camp Carnage. I found a clutch of Fairies in various states of readiness for the match. Most, however, seemed dimly surprised that the first kick-off was only 40 minutes away, and ambled off to find boots, knee-braces, zimmer frames, etc.
It took me a while to get back to the club house. Every few yards I encountered another old pal from the world of rugby, some not seen since the last tournament. Jase the paramedic, Tim the spiritual leader of the Leeds Lardies and Hywel, his counterpart from the Worcester Wobblers, to name a few.
New Skipper Aitor gathered the motley bunch for a briefing.
So, the whole squad went off to face the foe. First up, our old friends the Bristol Pasty Eaters.
A few minutes into the match and a penalty is awarded to us. I tap the ball and set off up-field. Spotting a portly gentleman on the left wing, I step off and go around him. Just as I was experiencing the pinnacle of rugby joys, the moment when you know you are going to score, the whistle blew. I turned to the ref to see him brandishing the red card. “Too fast,” says he, and points to the touchline. I laughed but actually was seething. “At least let me bloody score,” I thought. Never mind, the game was soon won and it’s all smiles as we shake hands with the Bristol players.
Jo Dias, a friend and team mate from Reading, is itching to play and didn’t get on in the first match. I suggest we go off in search of a match with another team. Before long, we find the ‘Monkey Spankers’. There are only eight of them and they’d had a good evening, night and morning. Some hadn’t slept at all, and all of them had slaked their thirsts during what must have been a monster session. As we arrived, one of their number, “Peewee”, was dry-heaving and bent over double.
They were willing to let us have a run out and we took the opportunity. This was a Pool B match and so proper rugby and we got our game heads on. Jo took the kick-off and we retrieved the ball. A wayward pass went just past my finger tips (or I could have been slow onto it) and was scooped by the opposition. The player was downed and spilled the ball which I gleefully collected on the half way line to score. Marvellous.
Later in the match, I came down heavily on my knee which I took to be a temporary discomfort and, having won the match, we walked back to Fairy HQ. The Fairies were due to play the Bath Tubs and, having played the first match, I was sitting this one out.
Back to the Monkey Spankers and another match, and another win. These guys may be hung-over and limited in numbers, but they’re good players. A flat pass on the oppo 40 and I’m away with one man to beat. I stop dead as he comes across and step inside to score only to have the ball knocked out off my hands when I had all the time in the world to put it down. I’m mortified and apologise profusely to the guys as we come off. I’m told “Don’t worry, it’s the funniest things that’s happened so far today!” Jo scored to uphold the honour of Reading RFC, so I’m somewhat mollified.
Back to the Fairies and a match against Leeds Lardies in which I’m to play.
Skipper Aitor’s pre-match team talks are starting to become the thing of legend. “We haven’t come this far to lose,” is my personal favourite among many gems. Aitor’s selections are looking like a plan to me by now and he’s matching the teams he’s picking well against the opposition. Could there really be method in the madness? Certainly he has amazing powers of recovery. In every game he’s experienced a crippling injury in the first minute, only to rise like a phoenix from the ashes for the next match.
By now, the knock I took earlier is really painful and I’m no longer able to run without real discomfort. Sarah’s pills and Naomi’s ice gel are helping, but I fear my playing day may be coming to an end. Having decided not to play for Monkey Spankers now, at least there’s a break before the next match and I decide to start drinking beer and eating burgers. Lovely.
Next up, once more the form team of the pool, Worcester Wobblers. It’s decided that there will be a comedy half and a serious half to the match. I’m appalled. If we want to go on to contest the coveted Arse, we have to beat Worcester, but I realise I’m being a pain in Aitor’s Arse and drop it. The first half is lots of fun to watch, as it turns out, with both teams and the ref being equally silly.
More beer and another burger. I tell the skip that I’ve had enough for day. “You’ll play in the final though?” he says, and I truly want to but know realistically that even if I do, it can only be a cameo. My one rugby attribute is pace and my knackered knees have done for that.
Before our next match it’s time to watch the Tinks in action.
More beer, then, as I watch the Fairies take on Team Badger. Previous skipper Ulster “Director of War” Tom has been enjoying the hospitality and is starting to join in with Aitor’s team talks, much to everyone’s enjoyment.
So, a place in the final and time for me to start drinking in earnest. I take the opportunity to catch up with friends and enjoy the banter. We’re treated to more rugby from the Tinks against the Lardy Wobblerettes but they can’t quite repeat their earlier performance and are soundly beaten.
The finals of the higher pools are on the pitch, but I pay scant attention. I understand the need for an elite pool to keep such teams from drubbing the coarse squads, but believe that if you aspire to be a serious 7’s team, you should enter a serious 7’s competition. It’s akin to a pro boxer walking into a primary school and picking fights. What’s the point?
And so to the Arse and decision time for me. I tell Aitor that I can’t start, but will come on if injuries require it, or at the end if the game is already decided just to have a cameo. Pretty much our best seven take to the pitch, but it soon becomes apparent that it’s a match too far. Worcester look fresher and are quicker to the ball.
The talk of the match though is not the result but Paul Yarrow’s eye-watering tackle on Worcester’s Jon Wooller. Jon, a stalwart of the event and a fine player, is not the biggest man on the pitch and was completely blind-sided by a perfectly executed tackle by Paul. At the presentation, Jon is still looking groggy and I remark to Paul, “He may have the trophy but at you’ve still got your liver.”
At the Fairies huddle I take the opportunity to thank Aitor for a job well done, to much applause. I think everyone has enjoyed the day and, as usual, there are a few new Fairies who are wondering what they’ve been doing every third Saturday in July for the last few years.
We retire to our tents to change, some into themed 70’s fancy dress, others into completely random outfits such as Magic Wand’s “Super Sperm.” Opting for jeans, I head to the palatial bedouin tent that is Waltham Manor. Searing hot goat curry is served and I confess a spoonful of sour cream is necessary to keep the top of my head on. We’re all sore and battered but have that lovely ‘post-rugby’ feel and settle into a few looseners.
The chill drives us all to the club house for more refreshment. By now, many of the Abbey players are completely naked and dancing with one another by the disco. There is a no-mans land of empty dance floor between them and the other revellers which is far larger than necessary given the anatomy on display.
The Camel Jockeys are trying to wind Coco up by slapping him, and it’s working. Martin “Peanut” Gill spots the fun and takes a huge run-up. Arm windmilling for maximum slap power, he hurtles towards Coco and delivers the killer blow. He misses completely and his whirling momentum takes him at high speed through the door, down the ramp and flat on his face. It is a long time before the laughter stops and poor Martin staggers back in with that forward-sideways-forward walk favoured by those who are no longer thirsty.
I don’t make it beyond midnight having hit the wall and I go to my tent for what feels like a well-earned rest. I wake at 7am in abject agony. When will I remember something soft to sleep on? Bill Newton is frying breakfast and before long, a gaggle of revellers has appeared. I reflect that despite the pain, hangover and chill, right now I wouldn’t be anywhere else.
After helping to set up the temporary fencing I’d brought to corral the kids, I set off in search of team mates in the direction of Camp Carnage. I found a clutch of Fairies in various states of readiness for the match. Most, however, seemed dimly surprised that the first kick-off was only 40 minutes away, and ambled off to find boots, knee-braces, zimmer frames, etc.
It took me a while to get back to the club house. Every few yards I encountered another old pal from the world of rugby, some not seen since the last tournament. Jase the paramedic, Tim the spiritual leader of the Leeds Lardies and Hywel, his counterpart from the Worcester Wobblers, to name a few.
New Skipper Aitor gathered the motley bunch for a briefing.
So, the whole squad went off to face the foe. First up, our old friends the Bristol Pasty Eaters.
A few minutes into the match and a penalty is awarded to us. I tap the ball and set off up-field. Spotting a portly gentleman on the left wing, I step off and go around him. Just as I was experiencing the pinnacle of rugby joys, the moment when you know you are going to score, the whistle blew. I turned to the ref to see him brandishing the red card. “Too fast,” says he, and points to the touchline. I laughed but actually was seething. “At least let me bloody score,” I thought. Never mind, the game was soon won and it’s all smiles as we shake hands with the Bristol players.
Jo Dias, a friend and team mate from Reading, is itching to play and didn’t get on in the first match. I suggest we go off in search of a match with another team. Before long, we find the ‘Monkey Spankers’. There are only eight of them and they’d had a good evening, night and morning. Some hadn’t slept at all, and all of them had slaked their thirsts during what must have been a monster session. As we arrived, one of their number, “Peewee”, was dry-heaving and bent over double.
They were willing to let us have a run out and we took the opportunity. This was a Pool B match and so proper rugby and we got our game heads on. Jo took the kick-off and we retrieved the ball. A wayward pass went just past my finger tips (or I could have been slow onto it) and was scooped by the opposition. The player was downed and spilled the ball which I gleefully collected on the half way line to score. Marvellous.
Later in the match, I came down heavily on my knee which I took to be a temporary discomfort and, having won the match, we walked back to Fairy HQ. The Fairies were due to play the Bath Tubs and, having played the first match, I was sitting this one out.
Back to the Monkey Spankers and another match, and another win. These guys may be hung-over and limited in numbers, but they’re good players. A flat pass on the oppo 40 and I’m away with one man to beat. I stop dead as he comes across and step inside to score only to have the ball knocked out off my hands when I had all the time in the world to put it down. I’m mortified and apologise profusely to the guys as we come off. I’m told “Don’t worry, it’s the funniest things that’s happened so far today!” Jo scored to uphold the honour of Reading RFC, so I’m somewhat mollified.
Back to the Fairies and a match against Leeds Lardies in which I’m to play.
Skipper Aitor’s pre-match team talks are starting to become the thing of legend. “We haven’t come this far to lose,” is my personal favourite among many gems. Aitor’s selections are looking like a plan to me by now and he’s matching the teams he’s picking well against the opposition. Could there really be method in the madness? Certainly he has amazing powers of recovery. In every game he’s experienced a crippling injury in the first minute, only to rise like a phoenix from the ashes for the next match.
By now, the knock I took earlier is really painful and I’m no longer able to run without real discomfort. Sarah’s pills and Naomi’s ice gel are helping, but I fear my playing day may be coming to an end. Having decided not to play for Monkey Spankers now, at least there’s a break before the next match and I decide to start drinking beer and eating burgers. Lovely.
Next up, once more the form team of the pool, Worcester Wobblers. It’s decided that there will be a comedy half and a serious half to the match. I’m appalled. If we want to go on to contest the coveted Arse, we have to beat Worcester, but I realise I’m being a pain in Aitor’s Arse and drop it. The first half is lots of fun to watch, as it turns out, with both teams and the ref being equally silly.
More beer and another burger. I tell the skip that I’ve had enough for day. “You’ll play in the final though?” he says, and I truly want to but know realistically that even if I do, it can only be a cameo. My one rugby attribute is pace and my knackered knees have done for that.
Before our next match it’s time to watch the Tinks in action.
More beer, then, as I watch the Fairies take on Team Badger. Previous skipper Ulster “Director of War” Tom has been enjoying the hospitality and is starting to join in with Aitor’s team talks, much to everyone’s enjoyment.
So, a place in the final and time for me to start drinking in earnest. I take the opportunity to catch up with friends and enjoy the banter. We’re treated to more rugby from the Tinks against the Lardy Wobblerettes but they can’t quite repeat their earlier performance and are soundly beaten.
The finals of the higher pools are on the pitch, but I pay scant attention. I understand the need for an elite pool to keep such teams from drubbing the coarse squads, but believe that if you aspire to be a serious 7’s team, you should enter a serious 7’s competition. It’s akin to a pro boxer walking into a primary school and picking fights. What’s the point?
And so to the Arse and decision time for me. I tell Aitor that I can’t start, but will come on if injuries require it, or at the end if the game is already decided just to have a cameo. Pretty much our best seven take to the pitch, but it soon becomes apparent that it’s a match too far. Worcester look fresher and are quicker to the ball.
The talk of the match though is not the result but Paul Yarrow’s eye-watering tackle on Worcester’s Jon Wooller. Jon, a stalwart of the event and a fine player, is not the biggest man on the pitch and was completely blind-sided by a perfectly executed tackle by Paul. At the presentation, Jon is still looking groggy and I remark to Paul, “He may have the trophy but at you’ve still got your liver.”
At the Fairies huddle I take the opportunity to thank Aitor for a job well done, to much applause. I think everyone has enjoyed the day and, as usual, there are a few new Fairies who are wondering what they’ve been doing every third Saturday in July for the last few years.
We retire to our tents to change, some into themed 70’s fancy dress, others into completely random outfits such as Magic Wand’s “Super Sperm.” Opting for jeans, I head to the palatial bedouin tent that is Waltham Manor. Searing hot goat curry is served and I confess a spoonful of sour cream is necessary to keep the top of my head on. We’re all sore and battered but have that lovely ‘post-rugby’ feel and settle into a few looseners.
The chill drives us all to the club house for more refreshment. By now, many of the Abbey players are completely naked and dancing with one another by the disco. There is a no-mans land of empty dance floor between them and the other revellers which is far larger than necessary given the anatomy on display.
The Camel Jockeys are trying to wind Coco up by slapping him, and it’s working. Martin “Peanut” Gill spots the fun and takes a huge run-up. Arm windmilling for maximum slap power, he hurtles towards Coco and delivers the killer blow. He misses completely and his whirling momentum takes him at high speed through the door, down the ramp and flat on his face. It is a long time before the laughter stops and poor Martin staggers back in with that forward-sideways-forward walk favoured by those who are no longer thirsty.
I don’t make it beyond midnight having hit the wall and I go to my tent for what feels like a well-earned rest. I wake at 7am in abject agony. When will I remember something soft to sleep on? Bill Newton is frying breakfast and before long, a gaggle of revellers has appeared. I reflect that despite the pain, hangover and chill, right now I wouldn’t be anywhere else.
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Discussion started by The Craic www.londonirish.org , 22/07/2009 12:19
The Craic www.londonirish.org
22/07/2009 12:19
22/07/2009 12:19
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Wow! Really nice to read, thanks for the praise. Being a winning captain is very easy when you have good players. And yes, there was a certain degree of thought in the selection process, some people were worried about how concentrated I was in trying to get it right. I think that if we had a spacialist scrum half and Worcester hadn't been recruiting players from the army, we would have won the final. I guess it is a London Irish tradition not to win finals... 
Note to next year's captain: don't let Rich play with the big boys, he'll come back injured and will let you down.
Note to next year's captain: don't let Rich play with the big boys, he'll come back injured and will let you down.
Rich
Brilliantly summed up well written and now i know why you werent in the final!
will
Brilliantly summed up well written and now i know why you werent in the final!
will
Excellent report Rich. And soooooo many thanks for very descriptive recall of my 'Delboy' moment. Much appreciated 
Excellent report - mine should be on the Tiger's site in a few days (I hope), but it's not half as good as yours!
Rich, drop me a note with your mail address, I've a couple of shots of your mate Dias that he might like.
Ta.
Ta.
Fantastic report Rich - I need a good report like this to tell me what happened.
It's like the 60's - if you can remember it - you weren't there
It's like the 60's - if you can remember it - you weren't there
Very glad someone was up for this - thanks Rich!
My report goes something like this:
Got there mid-afternoon Friday, put tents up in rain...
Went to Weeble Caravan for a few minutes to catch-up...then nothing...
Got some bruises, but I couldn't tell you where from...
My report goes something like this:
Got there mid-afternoon Friday, put tents up in rain...
Went to Weeble Caravan for a few minutes to catch-up...then nothing...
Got some bruises, but I couldn't tell you where from...
That's where the bruises came from ... you let Eddie loose on your arms with his complete crayola collection when you visited their caravan.
Great report Rich - a true wordsmith in our midst and an early contender to do ALL the reports next season.
Are you sure you had a drinkie or two, your recollection is that good!
T
Are you sure you had a drinkie or two, your recollection is that good!
T
OMG did I laugh reading that!! Although next year a bit more about the Tinks would be in order. Yes we lost, but we lost in style and some of us had a cracking game, so I have been unreliably informed!! 
Thanks Rich, I can now use that as evidence to prove what I did at the weekend, as per Eek's description, I must have had a '60s weekend'! as my memory is rubbish (or very good...)
See you soon
cheers
Tom
See you soon
cheers
Tom
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