Rugby, Pride and a prelude to Lent

A big breakfast today ahead of the England v Wales game at Twickenham and the gallons of London Pride that must be consumed before and afterwards.

The ritual is generally the same - down to the pub for noon, a few pints then off to catch the bus in Richmond that takes us to the ground.

But today is different because the match does not start until 4.30 pm and this plays havoc with the pre-match drinking. Peak too early and you're watching the game in a daze.

Ticket cock-up

So we're starting at the pub at noon as usual but - and this is the new bit - we are going have lunch in an Italian restaurant and that may mean wine.

I'm hoping that the catastrophic ticket cock-up has been resolved. We source our tickets collectively through various reliable avenues but this year the northern supply was a bit thin. Still the southern end was holding up, but there was a misunderstanding between the poles and one of the core group of regulars looks as if he might miss out and that's very bad indeed.

It has happened before in away matches but I can't recall such an oversight at a home match.

Another brick...

If we get to the ground early enough we shall be able to see "the brick". The brick was sponsored by Simon, aka The Philanderer and has been inscribed by various nicknames. On this occasion, for obvious reasons mine is "Scoop." It's part of some wall they've built and this our small bid for imortallity (until they knock down the ground).

This will be my last drinking session before the start of Lent next week. But I can't give up drinking for Lent because of other intervening rugby internationals. So I'm trying to think of a suitable sacrifice. I might give up milk instead. Should be doable.

Postscript: In the end we were deluged with tickets, enough for me to take two sons, Rob and George (and subsidise them). The restaurant booking was a disaster since we all turned up 20 minutes late and, understandably, they had given away the table, so it was back to the pub. A 4.30 pm kick off was far too late. It meant that by the time the game has usually ended England were well in the lead. This might explain their eventual loss - their body clocks were all thrown and they forgot about the second half. Luckily after the match we managed to find a pub. Later, that same instinct that guides homing pigeons back to their lofts brought us home. Just two weeks to recover and it's over to Paris: bring on the French.