Well, i'm back from my flying visit to London Town and am absolutely shattered. It's lucky I have the day off work *dances a silly dance* because I would have been worse than useless today.
The England vs Scotland rugby match was absolutely superb. It wasn't a complete whitewash and there was lots of running backwards and forwards, tackling, and then occasional try. In my opinion it was an exciting match but more importantly the atmosphere at Twickenham was......I can't think of the word because I am too tired and fuzzy. Someone make up a word which describes the tingly feeling you get down your spine when you are excited. Electric? Spine-tinglig? Something like that.
One small problem about the match was that I don't understand the rules of the game. Football, yes; rugby, no. I only accepted the invitation because I wanted to go to an England rugby match and could therefore tick it off my list of things I have done in my life. I didn't realise I was actually expected to comment on what was going on!! How the hell can you be offside in rugby? Why is kicking the ball out of the pitch a good thing? And why is it better if it goes over the 22 yard line (but only if their Number 8 is running forwards and not backwards)?
About 15 minutes in to the game I made to conscious decision to follow the crowd - I waved when they waved, I frowned when they frowned and I joined in singing Swing Low Sweet Chariot many times. Yet I still made a tit of myself when I joined in with the booing. Everyone else was doing it so I boo'd the referee. Boooooooooooo, quoth I. No one told me the crowd wasn't segregated (in football matches there is a distinct divide between the fans to control violence) and that the Scottish rugby fans were intermingled with the England fans. It appears I was temporarily siding with the Scots although I was heartily put in my place by receiving a dig in the ribs and a scowl from my host. Soz.
Oh, and for those of you who were videoing the match in anticipation of me streaking - sorry to disappoint but I didn't have any SG stickers about my person so it didn't seem worth while. Plus, I bottled it
The resultant celebrations of winning ended at about midnight because everyone else (who live in the UK) had homes to go to and trains to catch and so, completely trolleyed, I did a little bit of 'people watching'. I tend to get moments of complete clarity when I am horrendously drunk and things have the habit of making more sense when I am pissed than when I am sober. So there I was, Victoria train station, midnight-ish, clutching a coffee and a warm sausage roll, gently swaying from left to right, watching people mill around. A few of my findings are:-
-very few Londoners will make eye contact with you and those that do have no feeling behind it. They just look straight through you.
-people with backpacks are more friendly that people in suits. Backpackers will always smile back, even if it is to a drunken fool.
-actually, I have deleted this one. It's for the best.
Sunday was a complete write off. I felt like a zombie hobo, drifting from one place to another not remembering where I had been five minutes before. At one stage I found myself back at Victoria train station slumped in one of the comfy arm chairs in Starbucks. The waitress had found it necessary to wake me from my slumber; not because she thought I was dead or feared for my safety in any way but because a tramp was eyeing up my half eaten danish. Fair enough.
I don't recall too much after that but I found myself home at about 8:30 last night and have slept since then. If I think of anything else to add to this journal then I will do so although I doubt it will be as exciting as, say, having two gorgeous ladies run their fingers through my chest hair
(I checked my post a moment ago and my invitation to that particular event appears to have been mislaid somewhere along the lines).
Back to bed, sleepy head *yawwwwwn*
The England vs Scotland rugby match was absolutely superb. It wasn't a complete whitewash and there was lots of running backwards and forwards, tackling, and then occasional try. In my opinion it was an exciting match but more importantly the atmosphere at Twickenham was......I can't think of the word because I am too tired and fuzzy. Someone make up a word which describes the tingly feeling you get down your spine when you are excited. Electric? Spine-tinglig? Something like that.
One small problem about the match was that I don't understand the rules of the game. Football, yes; rugby, no. I only accepted the invitation because I wanted to go to an England rugby match and could therefore tick it off my list of things I have done in my life. I didn't realise I was actually expected to comment on what was going on!! How the hell can you be offside in rugby? Why is kicking the ball out of the pitch a good thing? And why is it better if it goes over the 22 yard line (but only if their Number 8 is running forwards and not backwards)?
About 15 minutes in to the game I made to conscious decision to follow the crowd - I waved when they waved, I frowned when they frowned and I joined in singing Swing Low Sweet Chariot many times. Yet I still made a tit of myself when I joined in with the booing. Everyone else was doing it so I boo'd the referee. Boooooooooooo, quoth I. No one told me the crowd wasn't segregated (in football matches there is a distinct divide between the fans to control violence) and that the Scottish rugby fans were intermingled with the England fans. It appears I was temporarily siding with the Scots although I was heartily put in my place by receiving a dig in the ribs and a scowl from my host. Soz.
Oh, and for those of you who were videoing the match in anticipation of me streaking - sorry to disappoint but I didn't have any SG stickers about my person so it didn't seem worth while. Plus, I bottled it
The resultant celebrations of winning ended at about midnight because everyone else (who live in the UK) had homes to go to and trains to catch and so, completely trolleyed, I did a little bit of 'people watching'. I tend to get moments of complete clarity when I am horrendously drunk and things have the habit of making more sense when I am pissed than when I am sober. So there I was, Victoria train station, midnight-ish, clutching a coffee and a warm sausage roll, gently swaying from left to right, watching people mill around. A few of my findings are:-
-very few Londoners will make eye contact with you and those that do have no feeling behind it. They just look straight through you.
-people with backpacks are more friendly that people in suits. Backpackers will always smile back, even if it is to a drunken fool.
-actually, I have deleted this one. It's for the best.
Sunday was a complete write off. I felt like a zombie hobo, drifting from one place to another not remembering where I had been five minutes before. At one stage I found myself back at Victoria train station slumped in one of the comfy arm chairs in Starbucks. The waitress had found it necessary to wake me from my slumber; not because she thought I was dead or feared for my safety in any way but because a tramp was eyeing up my half eaten danish. Fair enough.
I don't recall too much after that but I found myself home at about 8:30 last night and have slept since then. If I think of anything else to add to this journal then I will do so although I doubt it will be as exciting as, say, having two gorgeous ladies run their fingers through my chest hair
(I checked my post a moment ago and my invitation to that particular event appears to have been mislaid somewhere along the lines).
Back to bed, sleepy head *yawwwwwn*
VIEW 21 of 21 COMMENTS
Proper writer would be good, but I realise in the first instance I may have to settle for less than an advance for my complete unabridged works. I'll get there in the end though, and then I'll invite you to all my cool VIP stoopid publishing events and we can trash them! Woo hoo