Rugby

The anticipated fireworks didn't really materialise at rugby training last night. It looked like they would though after the Head Coach walked into the clubhouse and shot me a look which might have sent a lesser mortal scuttling to the hills.

Just before the warm-up, the Head Coach sidled up to me and we had a brief tete-a-tete. The net result was that both parties seemed to be happy with the outcome but I am still not convinced that this is the end of the matter. The Head Coach strikes me as the sort of man who likes to bear a grudge but we shall see.

Training otherwise was enjoyable enough - a pleasant evening interspersed with downandups, running up and down the pitch, combat submission wrestling, press-ups and handling skills.

I am one of the sweatier members of the club so as per usual, my t-shirt was soaked by the end.

One of the most enjoyable things about being associated with a rugby club is the banter between players. Most of the banter last night centred around the true meaning of the word 'mung' and one of the younger players who missed our previous training session due to getting lucky with a female seven years his senior last weekend.

Upon interrogation, he did reveal that his liaison had three black crosses tattooed on the inside of her bottom lip. How odd. She had other tattoos also and this led the collective to label her, either fairly or unfairly, as a 'goth'.

I hate goths.

Whether he 'munged' her or not is unknown.