KINGSWOOD VETS v OBs VETS 14.03.2020
This was the return fixture and, for most of us, our second consecutive encounter with our friends from South Gloucestershire. This one was always going to be a bit different because:
a. It was at Fortress Failand;

b. We had a cast of thousands including one stag party and a sort of second stag party, I think, for Tristan, who in any event disgraced himself and will neither be wed nor selected again as a result;

c. Serial-offender Trezona was taking advantage of on a cheap ski deal courtesy of CoronaTrav and not available for further attempts at extermination by the Kingswood hit squad.

CHANGING ROOM STEWARDSHIP
Special mention must be made of Zonks, who had not only set out all the shirts in numerical order, anti-clockwise around the room (Ed. note: actually the otherwise absent Trez who snuck in a 0730) but also arranged a magnificent Frogger centrepiece, which spoke all too clearly of what was to follow. Little did we know. Good work.

WARM-UP
The warm-up was nice. It was actually warm for the first time since the weather turned in November and there were some tidy skills on display. One enormous ringer (might be called Duncan or Loz) incongruously wearing Harry Potter spectacles, comfortably passed the ball, Exocet-like, most of the width of the pitch. If he trains he might push for selection.
Someone pointed out that Mr A. Stag of the stag party (I know; coincidence or what?) was warming up in a Polo Ralph Lauren shirt, which was the most OBs thing ever. Ok ya! as we all carelessly whispered on our yachts in the 80s in Wham-Video-World.

NO SCRUM CHAT THIS WEEK
Keen students of these reports will remember that after the last game I was in some discomfort as I typed, having had my head shoved in the interminable scrums which were such a feature of the last Kingswood game.
All good this time though, in no small part due to the welcome return of Whittle at tight-head. Whittle confided in me that he had heard there would be some frogging afterwards and was magnetically drawn back to his alma mater. He has been playing in Bournemouth for ??? RFC where he tells me the rugby is good but the wholesome, consensual approach to the club’s social scene has become too vanilla for him. He played opposite Anne Boleyn (see last report) and kept him quiet. No mean feat.
Whittle’s finest moment came towards half-time when he decided not to lower Kirk after lifting him at a lineout. To the concerned chorus of whoas of Hullis’s teammates as he landed on his face, the arch-deviant chuckled. He had a point, we all agreed as we jogged away from our stricken teammate.

Kirk and Ali Hein in the boiler house and Sam Hawke at loose-head all had good games and showed up in the loose, so they can’t have been pushing very hard either. Millard and the rest of the ever-changing back row didn’t have too much to do and were glad to have lots of spare time for posing and not to mess up their hair-dos.
Gav Hooper, having retrieved his finger from the club freezer (see last report) kicked magnificently. I don’t think he missed one and some were acute and off a very sticky surface. Well done Gavvers.
Ted had a good game and later confided in me that he was glad to be relieved of his kicking and distribution duties by the front five.

CAUSE FOR CONCERN
It has always been the OBs way that, given the opportunity to play against your mates for the opposition in the event of no-shows and injuries, OBs whose erstwhile performances have been lacklustre suddenly play like men possessed.
Former club captain Andy James, also making a long-overdue return, played like the beast unleashed for them. In one maul he was seen ripping at the ball like an enraged bear, making primeval birthing noises. Very manly – unnecessarily so, too – who’s he trying to kid?
Garth was worried that with so much rucking and tackling to do, the forwards might not have the energy to get into what he calls the pivot position – that sort of fly-half area where I enjoy having a rest between rousing speeches – so we stepped up our efforts and tried to take as much first receiver ball as possible, saving the backs from the tiresome business of kicking and jumping the wrong way in tackles.
I remember his smile of admiration when, finding his pass blocked by me, I ignored the queue of speedsters outside me and deftly tossed the pill to Kirk as he staggered backwards from one of the nastier rucks, just in time to catch it and most of the on-rushing Kingswood defence. Nice work Stanni.

ALSO MENTIONED IN DISPATCHES:
Zonks (who had frog-lust throughout the day and could barely speak before the match, in which he may have played for both teams) broke Peaches. He concussed him and blackened his eye so that it swelled to approx. the size of his head, prompting one wag to proclaim that it needed to be purged/drained by leaches and another to come up with Peaches Leaches, which was quite good and he may want to use in practice when/if he recovers his wits.
Tim “Aristotle” King held up a would-be try scorer with a minty roll-over tackle. Well done Aristotle.
A. Stag looked like Henry Winkler playing The Fonz. He was ably supported by Stag’s mate, maybe Duncan/Loz, Rupert Hyde, Liam De Glanville and several others not seen at Failand for many years, all of whom performed very creditably for one or the other side.
Stag or possibly Gay-J (they looked quite alike getting dumped) took a thunderous tackle in the second half, instantly evocative of Sarpedon’s slaying by Patroclus as he fought for the Trojans against the Greeks. If it was Mr Stag, the post-match aches will have long since been eclipsed by his hangover. The next time I saw him he was heaving out of a window, much to the amusement of his guests.
TT did more than his fair share of tackling. He does a sort of pounce and then goes rigid from the waist down, dragging his quarry to earth. An Attenborough narrative would be good if anyone’s thinking of doing a video. He later told me it was too muddy for running quickly (again).
Burty turned up to ref and did a (some uncharitably suggested, surprisingly) good job being appropriate both as to his application of the Laws and as to player management. Splendidly done ref., if I may make so bold, which brings me on to the enfant terrible de jour, mes braves:
Not one, not two, BUT THREE high tackles in a vets match! In mitigation they were more of the seatbelt than the Brian Lima variety and only drew community justice for the third from our guests. He also greedily helped himself to several (possibly three) tries. Fowler had to go. Burty rightly identifying greediness, wanton try proliferation and a lengthy list of antecedents as aggravating features got the red out (by which I do not mean Whittle’s diseased member).

Kingswood were their usual decent selves and gave us a great match, battling to the last and (we won though I don’t know what the score was) making a good fight of it while simultaneously finding something worthwhile for our many excellent extras to do.

TUNNEL ETIQUETTE
Sweetly done, with inward peel that would have graced (think stripping the willow or something) a country dance.

BEERS
Beers was very good as we got to speak with former comrades Lambo, Spotty (now sporting comely woman and small child – who’d have thought?) Barney (claiming to be similarly encumbered but without any evidence – no one was convinced) Tan (wearing Maplin’s Camp Site uniform – “Hi de bloody Hi” unseasonably bronzed Pictish one), Bricks (may have played but didn’t do anything amusing so doesn’t feature above, but officiated with gravitas when the skis were produced for the stag party) and Barton (really ought to have played).
At about 5.30 the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, dogs howled in the streets and Guildhall Chambers mysteriously caught fire. Five apocalyptic figures strode from the stygian mists where the hockey players were tucking into their deep-fried Mars bars at less visited end of the clubhouse. Arms folded, stern faces masked and wearing spandex, like day-glow Village People in S&M mode, the Frogmen waited while the chatter stopped.
Some people, nervously giggling with terror, were ordered to the floor. Tristan, voluntarily wearing a chemsuit with a full face inhaler which, he confided in me, was so that he could enjoy his own beer farts without sharing – a bit like the ball earlier – couldn’t contain himself; he hurled himself to the deck for a good frogging (he also confided in me) and was the only person still to be heard coquettishly giggling after the “Down” command was issued, clearly trying to provoke the Frogmen.
What took place thereafter, I cannot say. I sneaked out before it got too kinky, which, given that this is the only reliable written record anyone will ever have of the horror that became Frogmageddon (as the 14th of March shall henceforth be known by me) is no bad thing.
STANNI