Saturday 24 September 2011

I had pretty much achieved more by midday today than I have done by the end of the average weekend.

I was up at just before 7 to watch what remained of England’s Rugby World Cup game. Then I was at the gym for just after 9.30 so I could watch France-New Zealand as I trudged along on the x-trainer. As usual I had dragged my feet getting ready in time and so the match started while I was still at home. This meant I got to see NZ do their fucking Haka.

Proper gets my goat does the haka. Whoever is playing New Zealand has to stand and watch them do their war dance while, anything other is seen as disrespect. These are top class rugby players, primed for battle – muscles stretched etc. But they have to stand around waiting for the All Blacks to do their dance routine (with their tongues out)? Look at this video and listen to the commentator. He doesn’t know why the IRELAND players ‘have to be quite so confrontational’. The New Zealand team are doing a WAR DANCE (that sometimes involves doing the neck slitting mime, though it didn’t there) in front of the Ireland team, and it is the All Blacks who get right in the Irish lads’ faces and one of the All Black’s who pushes the Ireland lad stood there committing the crime of NOT being scared.

Despite the haka annoying me, it hadn’t seemed to affect the French lads who started off quite well. ‘Better get to the gym’ I thought, ‘I will enjoy watching the frogs lick these underachievers (in terms of Rugby World Cup glory,’ my thoughts continued. Of course despite the gym being only about 5 minutes walk away, by the time I got there New Zealand were 20-some points up and the game was all but over. I blame the French being naturally weak as a nation and being intimidated by the haka (despite starting better than New Zealand).

After the gym I wandered over to the football pitches to watch a bit of the city academy team who were playing Crewe. It was raining a bit so I only stayed about 20 minutes or so. As I walked away I noticed I had been stood next to none other than Andrew Cole – former Manchester United number 17 and, later, 9. At least it looked like him. Then my brain-memory recalled his son was on city’s books, it definitely was Andrew Cole. What a leg’, ’99 for ever baby.

That’s pretty much all I did. I don’t class going home, showering, making scrambled eggs and bacon on toast and sitting watching sport all day doing something. But still – I HAD already done more by 12 than I do on my average complete weekend; except drink more alcohol. That tells a story.

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