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How To Watch The Rugby Match (Eventually)
Mar. 11th, 2017 09:06 pmSo. Things did not, initially, go to plan at the rugby yesterday. Mum paid for the match tickets from a friend of hers in Kent back in November, and told me about them on my birthday in December. I cried. Going to a 6 Nations game at the Principality Stadium has been on my bucket list since it was "the 5 Nations at Cardiff Arms Park and what's a bucket list?". This would be my pilgrimage, my hajj, to the centre of my rugby world.
Imagine my disappointment at 3pm on match day, at discovering that Mum hadn't been given the tickets, and her friend was nowhere to be seen.
Imagine my hurt at 4.30pm, when said friend - and the term was becoming increasingly less applicable - was still not in Cardiff and wasn't answering his mobile.
By the time half five rolled around, we had realised he wasn't coming at all, and mother and I were both in a state of shock and rage. She went back to her hotel room with her husband, and I went in search of beer - and food, honest - with my wife.
We roamed Cardiff looking for somewhere to watch the game and get drunk. Not something I do any more, it must be said. We found St David's Hall, a concert venue which was showing the match on a projection screen. And at quarter past six, with a pint of SA in my hand, over the tannoy came the words "If anyone needs 4 tickets for the match, come to the bar."
Dear reader, I am told I popped up like a meerkat. Polite words were exchanged, my family regathered, a certain financial transaction took place, and we shall go to the ball after all.
Three hours later, I am sitting closer to the touch line than I ever dreamed I would get. Wales have won. And I am crying like I haven't since Thea was born. I am not a man of faith, you understand, but if all of this was the work of a certain Jewish outside-half with nail marks in his palms, I'm inclined to give him this one.
Imagine my disappointment at 3pm on match day, at discovering that Mum hadn't been given the tickets, and her friend was nowhere to be seen.
Imagine my hurt at 4.30pm, when said friend - and the term was becoming increasingly less applicable - was still not in Cardiff and wasn't answering his mobile.
By the time half five rolled around, we had realised he wasn't coming at all, and mother and I were both in a state of shock and rage. She went back to her hotel room with her husband, and I went in search of beer - and food, honest - with my wife.
We roamed Cardiff looking for somewhere to watch the game and get drunk. Not something I do any more, it must be said. We found St David's Hall, a concert venue which was showing the match on a projection screen. And at quarter past six, with a pint of SA in my hand, over the tannoy came the words "If anyone needs 4 tickets for the match, come to the bar."
Dear reader, I am told I popped up like a meerkat. Polite words were exchanged, my family regathered, a certain financial transaction took place, and we shall go to the ball after all.
Three hours later, I am sitting closer to the touch line than I ever dreamed I would get. Wales have won. And I am crying like I haven't since Thea was born. I am not a man of faith, you understand, but if all of this was the work of a certain Jewish outside-half with nail marks in his palms, I'm inclined to give him this one.
