Music: F.E.A.R. - Ian Brown
Last weekend really was action packed.
First up on Saturday was the much heralded Blogger's Night Out where I met up the lovely Tuppence, Rapunzel, Gingerella and Helen.
We all had a great time. We talked, drank copious amounts of wine and shared the blogging love. Well, something like that.
Happily on Sunday morning I woke up with no real hangover, and I got back to Leeds just in time for the main event of my weekend. (No offence ladies!).
The big game. The crucial game. The rugby game of the season.
The game that ended up with two results: one that I hoped for; the other that came totally out of left field.
And yes, one of those results involved a man.
In order to get there I have to tell you about the rugby first...
Call me weird, but I really love the feeling I get in the pit of my stomach as I walk toward the rugby ground with other fans on the day of a crucial match. It feels like there is a kaleidoscope of butterflies flapping around before they manage to escape and burst into a shot of pure adrenaline.
As usual, I was wearing my replica shirt and I was rushing to get into the ground as I was running late. There was absolutely no way I was going to miss kick off though. Sunday's game was so important as it was a dog eat dog relegation battle. If my team won they would survive in the Premiership and the other team would be relegated. If my boys lost, it would mean a tense final game of the season with the spectre of relegation looming large. I was as nervous as hell.
I really hoped it would be a big turnout to support the lads, as over the past couple of months the crowds had been dwindling. As I approached the ground and the number of fans increased I could see a sea of yellow and blue flags pouring in through the turnstiles. I sensed a buzz in the atmosphere that I only seem to feel on days like this. I smiled and felt thankful that the faithful were back out in numbers.
I was meeting up with my ex-colleague Joe to watch the game, as he’s also a season ticket holder and is one of my regular rugby match day mates. If Joe’s not around then I’ll either drag my Dad along (having learnt never to bring him when I’m going with a bloke, oh the embarrassment) or if he’s not up for it then I’ll go and watch the game on my own. I know, it sounds a little bit tragic but honestly it’s not. None of my friends like rugby but it's fine, as when I do go and watch games on my own I still feel part of a combined force of fans all willing the team on to win. I invariably end up chatting with the people around me and have a bit of a laugh.
Oh, and I silently drool over the players and any fitties in the crowd. Obviously.
Headingley Stadium is a fantastic venue but then again I am rather biased. As I finally reached the turnstile and heard it click when I scanned my ticket I could smell the unmistakable smell of fried onions and hotdogs wafting on the breeze. From the South Stand I could hear the trumpets and the banging of the drum which roused the supporters into song. Ten minutes to go until kick off and I rushed towards the bar which is where I was meeting Joe.
Joe and I used to work together until he left about a year ago to follow the more lucrative path of the self-employed IT consultant. We still see each other pretty regularly though at rugby games and on the occasional work night out. I really like Joe and we get on brilliantly well.
I’ll never forget the first time we had a proper conversation with each other when a few of us went out one Friday after work. Everyone had sunk a few shandies and I was busy mingling when I bumped into Joe and we ended up talking to each other for the first time. I knew that he liked rugby so we chatted about that for what turned out to be a couple of hours. At the end of the conversation he announced that he was really impressed: finally he’d found a woman who could talk intelligently about sport. I felt rather pleased with myself, but then grimaced slightly. I didn’t always like the tag of being “one of the boys”, but it was nice to meet someone with similar interests.
Since then Joe and I started to watch games together and when he left the company we stayed in touch. My colleague Mick takes great pleasure in winding me up about my friendship with Joe and pointing out that he would make an excellent Sugar Daddy. It’s true, Joe is thirteen years older than me, is quite attractive, very single and from all accounts very comfortably well off. The problem is I just don’t fancy him and I’m not sure if I ever could.
I have thought about it though. Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if we did get together: amazing sex (with age comes experience after all); fantastic holidays; great lifestyle, and maybe he would want to have children reasonably soon (he’d definitely be able to support a family with his income).
But then again he probably has a saggy arse, is incontinent and struggles to get it up.
However, all that aside, I’m not sure if we would have anything to talk about other than rugby...
Mick does make a very good case for Joe, painting the picture of spending a month chilling at Joe’s Spanish villa or swooshing down the slopes with him in France (as Joe goes on at least one skiing holiday a year) but there’s something missing. A spark maybe? Or is it because he’s so much older than me?
Either way, I tried to put all these thoughts out of my mind as I swept into the bar and caught Joe’s eye. I worked my way through the scrum of people and we said hello and kissed each other on the cheek.
To be continued...