We went there last Saturday too, to watch the rugby. Well, to do the usual deal, where G watches the rugby and I read my book. I liked it. It's close by, it is enough of a divey kind of pub/restaurant to suit my desire for such dives, and the guy who owns it made a toasted sandwich for a woman who walked in off the street with a baby and asked for help. She was another blogpost, but one that's been filed way back in my head, possibly not to come out. Yet. The people, all around 40+, and mainly manly-kind-of-men watching rugby, seemed to all know each other.
Anyway, we decided to go again, it being some rugby final and me loving the idea of reading my book and watching people. I was rewarded splendidly. The same crew were there, but arriving a bit after we did was a pretty and friendly blonde woman with a whole armload of plastic bags which she dumped on the big table in the middle of the room. Intriguing. She was greeted by most people in the room and I saw many an admiring glance from the male contingent.
It turned out that she was decorating for the Halloween Party later on that night. She had the whole bang shoot - bats, full moon pictures, zombies, fake spider webs and pumpkins. Well, sort of. She didn't really have pumpkins, but instead four butternuts and ten gemsquashes.
I became engrossed in my book for a bit, G completely focused on the rugby. I was reading the latest Fannie Flagg, you see, and I adore her writing and become completely entwined in her stories. Twenty minutes later I looked up and saw, seated all along the side of the table from which you could see the TV, three of the manly-men, all of them armed with a sharp knife, all of them shelling the "pumpkins" and cutting out scary faces.
What a perfect picture. They reminded me of family Christmas lunches when the women would all sit around a table, preparing the feast and chatting. As we left after the rugby, checking out their, suprisingly really good, handiwork, one of them looked at us and said "You girls leaving? Why don't you stay for the party?"
I replied: "Perhaps next year we will. Have fun!"
And I think we might very well just do that.
Showing posts with label rugby. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rugby. Show all posts
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Rugby
No need to keep rubbing your eyes to check that the title of this blog is 'Rugby', because it is, indeed. I'm writing a post about rugby. Me, Shiny, of the not-so-sure about the fun factor of watching a bunch of neckless brutes chasing a ball that's not really a ball up and down a field while engaging in blatant man-loving, in public. (I have nothing against man-loving at all, I just find the denialism in the rugby sphere particularly funny.)
Yip, I have some things to say, after going to watch The Big Match (Super 14 - it's a big thing here on the tip of Africa). There is always a Big Match I have discovered. Two weeks ago was one too, and now, apparently, there's another next week. Personally I think it's a conspiracy to get the likes of me interested. My rugby-loving friends need not use this ploy on me however - I don't need to be persuaded by the Bigness of the matches... just promise me beer, and I'll be there. I'm a sucker for spirit (spirit, not spirits... although I may be persuaded to have those too. What's a rugby match without a Klippies and coke?)
Anyway, on Saturday night, H and I reminisced on our varsity days by parking the car down by the sea and drinking a cider each while watching the sun set. Being more responsible than those errant varsity days we just had one (and knowing, now, that we are not, in fact, immortal.) We watched as a child bride and her child husband had photos taken on the beach, in front of the seaweed, and then in the dusty carpark with our beautiful new stadium (all World Cup-ready) in the background. Wouldn't be my choice of bridal background but it's good to see such keen spirit! Vaguely surreal really.
Then we went off to meet H's man, M, who had patriotically been sitting at Very Old Pub since 11am to secure a spot for the 5pm and then 7pm matches. We arrived, very fashionably, at 7:20pm. I don't know why everybody clucked at us, as we made them move out of our way to get to said spot, mid-first-half. The place was heaving, friendly, spirited, and full of testosterone.
The first 'conversation' I got to have was with short-legged blue t-shirt guy. As we went past him, he patted the spot next to him and said:
"Come sit here next to me. I'll get you drunk."
Tempting offer, but thank you I'll be just fine over here with my friends and, luckily, if I so wish, I am quite capable of getting drunk. All by myself. He spent the rest of the evening short-leggeding over and cheersing my glass. Harmless really, and I had to give him points for being friendly.
We wedged ourselves into our little corner. This entailed H squishing up next to M (not a problem considering they're 3 months into a relationship and are all doe-eyed and stuff), me squished next to them, and the next table squished next to me. The bench consisted of short-legged blue-stripe t-shirt boy, very gay Sommelier, Big Brute Guy and English Guy, all in very close proximity to each other, and me. It was close enough that I could almost feel English Guy's breath in my ear. Luckily only almost, though, otherwise I would probably have objected and been, well, beligerent.
I watched the row of boys and decided in my head who was who, who was with who, and who wanted to be with who, but wasn't (of course, while concentrating closely on the rugby.) Blue-stripe t-shirt boy was definitely the target of The Sommelier's affections who seemed to be snuggled up to by The Brute, who, surprisingly, seemed to be married to the English Guy. A fabulous menagerie of man love, perfect for my head to create stories about (again, while concentrating closely on the rugby.)
Anyway, as is the nature of me, by the end of the match (we won!) I had established the full story after becoming best friends with The English Guy (happily single, and straight. Unusual for me to be wrong on these things. Not, in fact, English but more Irish, though has been living here in the south for 16 years) and The Brute (married to a sweet blonde girl at the end of the table.) That left The Sommelier who is, indeed, a lovely gay boy, showering his affections on blue-striped t-shirt boy, of the short-leggedness and bad pick-up lines. I didn't stay to see how that story ended, but I fear it didn't entail them walking hand-in-hand into the sunset. You never know, though.
Now that's what I call a good rugby match, don't you agree?
Yip, I have some things to say, after going to watch The Big Match (Super 14 - it's a big thing here on the tip of Africa). There is always a Big Match I have discovered. Two weeks ago was one too, and now, apparently, there's another next week. Personally I think it's a conspiracy to get the likes of me interested. My rugby-loving friends need not use this ploy on me however - I don't need to be persuaded by the Bigness of the matches... just promise me beer, and I'll be there. I'm a sucker for spirit (spirit, not spirits... although I may be persuaded to have those too. What's a rugby match without a Klippies and coke?)
Anyway, on Saturday night, H and I reminisced on our varsity days by parking the car down by the sea and drinking a cider each while watching the sun set. Being more responsible than those errant varsity days we just had one (and knowing, now, that we are not, in fact, immortal.) We watched as a child bride and her child husband had photos taken on the beach, in front of the seaweed, and then in the dusty carpark with our beautiful new stadium (all World Cup-ready) in the background. Wouldn't be my choice of bridal background but it's good to see such keen spirit! Vaguely surreal really.
Then we went off to meet H's man, M, who had patriotically been sitting at Very Old Pub since 11am to secure a spot for the 5pm and then 7pm matches. We arrived, very fashionably, at 7:20pm. I don't know why everybody clucked at us, as we made them move out of our way to get to said spot, mid-first-half. The place was heaving, friendly, spirited, and full of testosterone.
The first 'conversation' I got to have was with short-legged blue t-shirt guy. As we went past him, he patted the spot next to him and said:
"Come sit here next to me. I'll get you drunk."
Tempting offer, but thank you I'll be just fine over here with my friends and, luckily, if I so wish, I am quite capable of getting drunk. All by myself. He spent the rest of the evening short-leggeding over and cheersing my glass. Harmless really, and I had to give him points for being friendly.
We wedged ourselves into our little corner. This entailed H squishing up next to M (not a problem considering they're 3 months into a relationship and are all doe-eyed and stuff), me squished next to them, and the next table squished next to me. The bench consisted of short-legged blue-stripe t-shirt boy, very gay Sommelier, Big Brute Guy and English Guy, all in very close proximity to each other, and me. It was close enough that I could almost feel English Guy's breath in my ear. Luckily only almost, though, otherwise I would probably have objected and been, well, beligerent.
I watched the row of boys and decided in my head who was who, who was with who, and who wanted to be with who, but wasn't (of course, while concentrating closely on the rugby.) Blue-stripe t-shirt boy was definitely the target of The Sommelier's affections who seemed to be snuggled up to by The Brute, who, surprisingly, seemed to be married to the English Guy. A fabulous menagerie of man love, perfect for my head to create stories about (again, while concentrating closely on the rugby.)
Anyway, as is the nature of me, by the end of the match (we won!) I had established the full story after becoming best friends with The English Guy (happily single, and straight. Unusual for me to be wrong on these things. Not, in fact, English but more Irish, though has been living here in the south for 16 years) and The Brute (married to a sweet blonde girl at the end of the table.) That left The Sommelier who is, indeed, a lovely gay boy, showering his affections on blue-striped t-shirt boy, of the short-leggedness and bad pick-up lines. I didn't stay to see how that story ended, but I fear it didn't entail them walking hand-in-hand into the sunset. You never know, though.
Now that's what I call a good rugby match, don't you agree?
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Rugby
I went to a rugby match this weekend. A real, live one, with a whole bunch of men with no necks and tree trunk-sized calves feeling each other, and a rugby ball, up on a beautifully manicured lawn under huge lights. The testosterone in that place swirled and flurried, I’ve never felt anything quite like it.
As you can see from that description, it will probably not be a repeated experience. I was excited, really I was. I was keen to experience the shared humanity of the massive crowd. Until I heard the baying for blood, the boo-ing to the other team, and the drunken stream of expletives from the bullies behind us.
Now, I can honestly say that I am by no means a prude or a priss and have been known to use language that could make a sailor blush and, at one time, be able to drink said blushing sailor under the table. I don’t, though, when there are hordes of young kids around. And if there’s one thing I abhor, it’s bad sportsmanship. Call me weird, but I was brought up to acknowledge good play, on both sides. Boo-ing, in our household, was a no-no.
There were exciting bits, let me not lie… “Our” team won, and there is something very special about mass enthusiasm. It was just the violence that got me. I do think we were unfortunate in our nearby neighbours. Perhaps it’d have been better elsewhere.
Admittedly, I’m not the world’s biggest rugby fan. Basically, I know nothing about the sport, but am learning. I tend to limit my exposure to it to international games, in a pub, with beer, preferably in the company of others who are also only slightly interested in the rugby, and will talk to me throughout the game. My lovely friend, E, who instigated this live match at the stadium, tends to make sure there is at least one such person when I watch rugby with him. He knows, if there isn’t, he’s going to have me wittering away in his ear for the whole 80 minutes (See that? I even know the length of a match.)
Perhaps I’m just too much of a sissy, but is it okay if I stick to cricket?
As you can see from that description, it will probably not be a repeated experience. I was excited, really I was. I was keen to experience the shared humanity of the massive crowd. Until I heard the baying for blood, the boo-ing to the other team, and the drunken stream of expletives from the bullies behind us.
Now, I can honestly say that I am by no means a prude or a priss and have been known to use language that could make a sailor blush and, at one time, be able to drink said blushing sailor under the table. I don’t, though, when there are hordes of young kids around. And if there’s one thing I abhor, it’s bad sportsmanship. Call me weird, but I was brought up to acknowledge good play, on both sides. Boo-ing, in our household, was a no-no.
There were exciting bits, let me not lie… “Our” team won, and there is something very special about mass enthusiasm. It was just the violence that got me. I do think we were unfortunate in our nearby neighbours. Perhaps it’d have been better elsewhere.
Admittedly, I’m not the world’s biggest rugby fan. Basically, I know nothing about the sport, but am learning. I tend to limit my exposure to it to international games, in a pub, with beer, preferably in the company of others who are also only slightly interested in the rugby, and will talk to me throughout the game. My lovely friend, E, who instigated this live match at the stadium, tends to make sure there is at least one such person when I watch rugby with him. He knows, if there isn’t, he’s going to have me wittering away in his ear for the whole 80 minutes (See that? I even know the length of a match.)
Perhaps I’m just too much of a sissy, but is it okay if I stick to cricket?
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Babies, children and weekend bliss
The baby boy is beautiful. His sister is a fair-skinned, strawberry blonde 3-year old bundle of energy. He is tiny, olive-skinned and has a mop of dark hair. She thinks he's a bit noisy. He thinks sleeping and eating are just the perfect way to spend the day. I must admit that I agree with him completely.
I had a very full weekend. The City Beneath the Mountain was sweltering, it was as if The Weatherman was baking biscuits and had left the oven door open. Upper 30 degrees were the order of the day. Now I am very much not a shopping mall person (to put it mildly... I abhor them) but on Saturday morning when we went wedding outfit shopping, I loved it. They have air-conditioning. Say no more.
We shopped, I had house guests - a family with three children aged 7, 5 and 4. The house was filled with squeals of delight and joy. My house is, well, let's just say a bit of a children's paradise because I have lots of 'stuff'. And plenty of it is kid-friendly. I own four dinosaurs for heaven's sake, need I explain more?
I watched rugby. I don't usually do that. It turned out to be quite fun actually. We went to the pub down the road and I drank my new favourite drink (which is, incidentally, fabulous in a heatwave) - icy cold beer shandy made with ginger ale. Yum. The rugby-watching was made extra fun for H and I, as there was a table next to us with one guy and two girls who were vying for his attention. It was like watching birds fluff out their feathers and they used every trick in the book. It was hysterical as the one pushed her boobs out in his direction, and the other looked at him through fluttering eyelashes beneath her fringe. One even did the 'oh-could-you-please-open-my-Appeltiser-for-me-I'm-too fragile' trick. Bimbo. Unfortunately we didn't stay long enough to see who won, but they provided us with hours of entertainment.
After a late night not-so-nice hiccup, Sunday was spent breakfasting, three children on a sugar high after having hot chocolate and chocolate cake for breakfast, stopping in each park on our way home to swing, get dizzy on the roundabout and lose their tummies on the slide and then they chattered off back to their farm and we relaxed the afternoon away in a haze of bliss.
There is a big decision pending, and my love story is bristling and bubbling and wanting to be set free. It is imminent, I can feel it. I need blogsphere advices and discussion to help me, and to get that I guess I’m going to need to blurt it all out.
Watch this space?
I had a very full weekend. The City Beneath the Mountain was sweltering, it was as if The Weatherman was baking biscuits and had left the oven door open. Upper 30 degrees were the order of the day. Now I am very much not a shopping mall person (to put it mildly... I abhor them) but on Saturday morning when we went wedding outfit shopping, I loved it. They have air-conditioning. Say no more.
We shopped, I had house guests - a family with three children aged 7, 5 and 4. The house was filled with squeals of delight and joy. My house is, well, let's just say a bit of a children's paradise because I have lots of 'stuff'. And plenty of it is kid-friendly. I own four dinosaurs for heaven's sake, need I explain more?
I watched rugby. I don't usually do that. It turned out to be quite fun actually. We went to the pub down the road and I drank my new favourite drink (which is, incidentally, fabulous in a heatwave) - icy cold beer shandy made with ginger ale. Yum. The rugby-watching was made extra fun for H and I, as there was a table next to us with one guy and two girls who were vying for his attention. It was like watching birds fluff out their feathers and they used every trick in the book. It was hysterical as the one pushed her boobs out in his direction, and the other looked at him through fluttering eyelashes beneath her fringe. One even did the 'oh-could-you-please-open-my-Appeltiser-for-me-I'm-too fragile' trick. Bimbo. Unfortunately we didn't stay long enough to see who won, but they provided us with hours of entertainment.
After a late night not-so-nice hiccup, Sunday was spent breakfasting, three children on a sugar high after having hot chocolate and chocolate cake for breakfast, stopping in each park on our way home to swing, get dizzy on the roundabout and lose their tummies on the slide and then they chattered off back to their farm and we relaxed the afternoon away in a haze of bliss.
There is a big decision pending, and my love story is bristling and bubbling and wanting to be set free. It is imminent, I can feel it. I need blogsphere advices and discussion to help me, and to get that I guess I’m going to need to blurt it all out.
Watch this space?
Monday, February 23, 2009
Fitful dreaming, prickley night
It’s been one of those days. I should’ve known it was going to be, because I had one of those nights. I slept badly (no full moon, no period – great, the insomnia’s spreading). I now know where the expression ‘slept fitfully’ comes from, except that mine was more ‘dreamt fitfully’. It was a night of being in that middle space, between sleep and wakefulness. That space where the dark seems sinister, the branches blowing against the roof seem dangerous and your thoughts wander close to the abyss, without their leashes.
I knew it was not a good sign when I was woken moments after I’d nodded off by my phone ringing. I always panic when my phone rings in the night (I’m a natural worrier, lucky me). It was obviously a wrong number but the guy wanted to chat. Wierdo.
I should’ve worked out that it was really not good when I was awoken by one of the monstrous mosquitoes, sucking blood from just above my eyebrow (I have an itchy bite to prove it). What made me finally get it, however, was the fact that the monstrous mosquito woke me from a dream of rugby.
Rugby. WTF? Now, while I am not averse to gathering in a pub to patriotically drink beer (while other people watch rugby) for an international game, the fact is that I’m not a rugby girl. I am, however, a beer-drinking girl. I don’t like stocky men with short (or no) necks, wearing little shorts to show off their stocky legs. I especially don’t like them when they’re running around on a field following an oblong ball, looking for excuses to give each other wedgies, or worse, blood noses.
I vaguely went back to sleep after contemplating what on earth it could mean, my dreaming of watching a rugby match. At the stadium. Live. The mind boggles. I placated myself with the knowledge that, in the dream, I was whinging about being bored. Maybe it was the lack of beer.
But my sleep was filled with barbed dreams that prickled in my mind. I woke up feeling like I’d been microwaved. At 4:45am. I’ll leave it at that. I then managed to have a lot of trouble getting my driveway gate to open to let me out to get to work. At work, I looked down to discover I’d spilt toothpaste all down my top. And in larger scale news, our mountains are burning. Again. While this created a beautiful, glowing crimson sun this morning, I worry so about the little tortoises.
I wonder if rugby is listed in dream analysis books?
I knew it was not a good sign when I was woken moments after I’d nodded off by my phone ringing. I always panic when my phone rings in the night (I’m a natural worrier, lucky me). It was obviously a wrong number but the guy wanted to chat. Wierdo.
I should’ve worked out that it was really not good when I was awoken by one of the monstrous mosquitoes, sucking blood from just above my eyebrow (I have an itchy bite to prove it). What made me finally get it, however, was the fact that the monstrous mosquito woke me from a dream of rugby.
Rugby. WTF? Now, while I am not averse to gathering in a pub to patriotically drink beer (while other people watch rugby) for an international game, the fact is that I’m not a rugby girl. I am, however, a beer-drinking girl. I don’t like stocky men with short (or no) necks, wearing little shorts to show off their stocky legs. I especially don’t like them when they’re running around on a field following an oblong ball, looking for excuses to give each other wedgies, or worse, blood noses.
I vaguely went back to sleep after contemplating what on earth it could mean, my dreaming of watching a rugby match. At the stadium. Live. The mind boggles. I placated myself with the knowledge that, in the dream, I was whinging about being bored. Maybe it was the lack of beer.
But my sleep was filled with barbed dreams that prickled in my mind. I woke up feeling like I’d been microwaved. At 4:45am. I’ll leave it at that. I then managed to have a lot of trouble getting my driveway gate to open to let me out to get to work. At work, I looked down to discover I’d spilt toothpaste all down my top. And in larger scale news, our mountains are burning. Again. While this created a beautiful, glowing crimson sun this morning, I worry so about the little tortoises.
I wonder if rugby is listed in dream analysis books?
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