Sunday Morning
Help me I feel so bad. That's what the text message from Rich Allan said, as I pulled into the Texaco garage on the Maypole roundabout at around nine on a Sunday morning. My Lucozade stop was delayed by some vagrant who was aimlessly wandering the forecourt. Being locked firmly in docile Sunday morning mode I was in no mood for lairiness, but I couldn't resist another peek.
My first reaction was that Worzel Gummidge had really let himself go. Then I realised that the man in the black tracksuit stood in front of the bonnet of my car was Rich Allan himself. Burridge hadn't played on Saturday. Something about the other team not being able to get enough players together. Rich had filled the void with an enthusiastic visit to the pub. His previous night's whereabouts still evident by an ink stamp on his right hand that brandished the name Mono. His misery was now compounded by the ninety minutes that awaited him playing football for the Dolphin.
Rich and I are alone at Burridge in enjoying a game of football on a Sunday, although the ten in the morning kick-offs do have a habit of stretching that desire to breaking point at times. This morning we were due to share communal playing fields, but not the same team. He'd put his faith in recovery in a bottle of water. We both knew it was hopeless.
Click here for the Paul Andrews player profile.
Next week: Greg Baker.
Looking back (bringing back the blog)
I haven't posted here since 2012 – that’s five years of not blogging. The blog is/was about Burridge AFC, the football team I played f...
5 comments:
You like a bit of S&M then Marky?
He's not Chinese Monkey anymore, then? Have you got into trouble for using that nickname? It wouldn't surprise me.
There's nothing quite like that queasy feeling as you warm up, throw up, then cock up, during those early morning Sunday kick offs.
Do I miss it all? Too bloody right!
You've lost me, Lulu.
The Chinese Monkey name seems to have run its course, Gorilla.
There's always something quite nice about getting to the pub at midday on a Sunday, Jimmy. You don't have to wait for the pool table.
Unless it was proper Papal bottled water, he was always going to be stuffed. You can't find the decay.
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