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.

Volvo v Porsche

Volvo or Porsche? Given the choice what would it be?

Last week I was handed the keys to a Porsche Boxter Sport for a day as part of some kind of sales promotion. I am a Volvo driver so quite why my name should appear on a Porsche marketing list beats me. I suppose this says something about the quality of such lists.

On the other hand, at least I could afford to buy such a car and a pending speeding prosecution after 33 years with never a speeding endorsement in all that time might go some way to underline my otherwise flimsy boy-racer credentials.

I was heading to Builth Wells in Wales to undertake some fishing casting lessons and missed the turning in Newport after coming off the M4. There were some roadworks with a temporary 30 mph limit - one of those that appears with very little warning - and that did for me. I saw the camera flash and, sure enough, the next week a note arrived telling me that my speed had been recorded at 43 mph. What a bummer.

I think the Porsche salesman sensed my priorities when I asked him how much room there was in the boot. In fact it was very spacious with storage room at front and rear although there is nowhere to put a fishing rod.

The ride was pretty basic and the bucket-seats a bit tight compared with the comfort of the Volvo, but the Boxter felt safe, sticking to the road like glue. Its low profile gave the impression that it was travelling faster than was actually the case.

We would have taken the dog but there was not much room for him in the foot well. Still, it was fun with the top down and I didn't encounter any aggressive responses from other road users. I mention this because when travelling to the West Country last year as a passenger in a Porsche Carerra it was noticeable how other motorists on the motorway went out of their way to block our progress.

It was as if they were saying: "Thou art a Porsche, thou shall not pass." Come to think of it I feel the same way about BMW drivers.

We had a good day and I'm thinking a Porsche might well suit us when we're a little older. Just now, however, I'm sticking with the youthful appeal of the Volvo. OK, so the family has all but grown up, but no-one else knows that.