Live for the weekend.

Live for the Weekend.


Friday night was a strange one. It was Junior’s birthday, and, in celebration of him getting a year older, we were due to meet in the pub for about 8, with plans to move on into town. Rather bizarrely, Adam did not turn up for his own party. Typical Junior, too big-time for his own party, although he did send a text to let us know that he was being very ill, at both ends, lovely. Nonetheless AP, Titch Gav and myself did the honourable thing, and went to Oceana. The theatre of dreams was less busy than usual, but as usual there is still a tale to tell. This was the night when a normal lad, saved a life. I say this. What really happened; a girl was being sick and I held her head up so she was not sick in her mouth. Yes, Oceana is a glamorous place, with a classy clientele. Disappointingly, this act of great bravery and compassion did not impress the surrounding females; it clearly wasn’t worth the effort. My memory of the night is hazy, particularly concerning the end of the night. But I do distinctly remember being woken by Gav’s Dad at around 10am the next morning. Embarrassingly I was curled up on their sofa, still in my glad rags from the night before. More embarrassing still I had fallen asleep with the television on, although thankfully the adult previews had stopped and now the screen was filled with suggestive adverts about what some young lady was going to do with a banana. I took the opportunity to charge upstairs, away from Gav’s Dad and away from the TV.
When we got back to Sunbury a few hours later I only had time to grab my football kit, and shove my rave gear (remember the Sports Rave) into a bag, before jumping in the car and heading to the ground. A midfield berth awaited me. This was good because it was my favoured position. This was bad because it meant I had to do a lot of running and I don’t like running, especially not after a night out on the town. Nevertheless I managed to survive the 90 minutes, and survive is the right word considering the nature of the opposition. ‘Crunch him’, ‘break him in half’ and ‘oh fuck off ref’, were some of the more printable comments that I remember. You know you are in for a long afternoon when one of your opponents commits a foul, and rather than apologise chooses to engage in a big hi-five with one of his team mates.
So, Guiche and I retreated back to his house, watched the football, before heading off into London in preparation for the Sports Rave, although in truth I was far more excited about England’s imposing semi-final clash with France.
Don’t ask me why, but I ended up watching the game in my cricket whites. I might do the same in the final because we only went and bloody won! Amazing. Suffice to say my voice was a little hoarse by the final whistle, urging on the heroic warriors in white. Ironically, considering the state of my vocal chords, there was little to shout about during the game until the final ten minutes. That man Jonny Wilkinson demonstrating that perhaps there is some truth in the rumour that his ancestors can be traced back to the Greek Gods. A living legend, I am proud to say that I love him. We explode into life as he lands a drop goal with only four minutes to go, before celebrating the final whistle with real passion. Nothing says we’ve done it like a 22 year old man swigging from a can of Fosters in his cricket whites while sat on a bean bag.