V.F.T.C.R vs Letchworth
From the pen of Woodford's favourite son, Pongo, V.F.T.C.R is back......
Saturday 15th September 2007 9.30am GMT. ‘THE ONE WIPE WONDER SHIT RETURNS WITH AVENGENCE!’
It’s back! The one wipe wonder went away for a while but has now returned. But only briefly!
Having felt the faint rumble of the interesting mixed grill still shifting slightly in my lower bowel tract and that internal movement that feels good but can also end in tragedy of messy sheets, I made a beeline for the throne.
In the back of my mind was the horrific Friday spent mainly traversing the internal staircase of the old Warnford Investments building.
Upon arrival Friday I noticed that the toilets on my floor were ‘closed for repair’. Being an old building the conveniences were only built on every other floor. Not that you notice this if you are lucky enough to be on one of the floors that have been deemed appropriate for blessing, until it is the turn of your floor for a lick of paint, and Bepasha reeks it’s revenge!
First trip - all but one trap were occupied; the vacant lacking toiled paper or a lid on the cistern. I waited a while for someone to pluck up the courage to wipe first and break that eary silence common in fully loaded gents’ lavatories.
The bravery was installed in trap 1 (my favourite) the flush came, the rustle of re-attiring and then out without eye contact straight to the taps.
I entered the trap, grabbed the first sheet, lifted the seat and wiped the rim. First sheet in the pan, second sheet coats the water to muffle the drop and then I brave docking knowing that I am about to experience that awkward feeling of the seat warmed by a stranger.
I dock and wait for the hand drier; a sound to tent the heaving and potential embarrassment which results in everyone giggling. The hand drier starts and so do I, about a foot and a half of rope is pumped out diving head first into the pan and then falling sideways whilst scraping my right butt cheek and coming to rest along the side of the pan sliding slowly, almost Crocodile like, into the water. It stops, lodged on the ridge of the ‘u’ bend and waits.
I wipe, expecting to use the entire burning roll, NOTHING, not even a stain. Clear, white as bright emulsion. I stand and flush. Everything leaves the bowl except the log. It doesn’t even budge. I wait for the next round of water, flush again, nothing. After 3 flushes all with no resolve I am left with no option. I gather 5 sheets per hand and pick it out of the pan. Held gently but firmly in my right hand I lift the cistern lid and drop it in – problem solved – next problem. Upon the 4th flush the water runs slightly magnolia but cleans all the remainder from the pan.
Alas this was the last time such a problem was to rear its ugly head that Friday. The quick fire emails throughout the morning confirm that, like me, the other members of the impromptu Thursday curry have all been struck by the ‘mint chock chip milkshake’ treatment. Lets hope all are well for the weekend?
Back to Saturday morning, and my novelty alarm starts up, an unrelenting high pitched recording of my beloved reminding me that I am a lazy slob and I need to get up. Especially cheeky as she is fast asleep next to me!
Stuff my clean kit into a plastic bag as my kitbag is still in the boot of captain courageous’ car and trudge off to meet my lift to the club.
As we set off for Letchworth last years top scoring winger produces ‘Now that’s what I call music’ 92, 93, and 94 on cassette. Pulling out some moves in the car that would win any dance-off at the local Young Mans Christian Association disco the claims of injured ‘inflamed hips’ are being suspiciously questioned.
We pull into the previously apt and now slightly misrepresenting ‘Legend’s Lane’ with Timmy Mallet’s ‘itsy bitsy teeny weenie yellow Pokka dot bikini’ starting up. Windows are closed and the stereo switched off. Time to turn on the rugby heads!
Perfectly representing the Letchworth attitude to rugby the two replacement back row forwards are standing in the middle of the road in vests and refuse to move out of the way of the car. If that wasn’t enough, every team in the leagues favourite hooker waddles out of the changing rooms as we walk in. Already I can tell what sort of a game is to follow!
Several fat lips and plenty of interesting decisions later we hobble off the pitch victorious. The bar is littered with the tough Letchworth forwards of old. Screwed up ears and flattened noses give the warning signs of what we have to look forward to in retirement.
Weekends like this, although not particularly pretty, remind me of the old encounters we have had over the years. But a few shared beers with these old rivals lift my heart to the thought that no matter how much of an old rugby nause I become, there will always be a home for us propping up the bar at ‘The Highams’.
