I was helping coach my touch team the other day when 'The Sir Clive' Thomas asked me where I got my tracksuit from. We got them at the same time in the same place so I chided him in typical Cardiff fashion.... We represented Wales in a touch championship in 2002. It was very exciting and moving for me as my ailing Mum got to see me play. We lost to pretty much everyone that weekend but still won the Over 35' s trophy (there were no other entrants in that category).
We played against a Kiwi mixed team who all wore skin tight kit. Fabulous, we thought - the chance to touch lithe Kiwi ladies. Did we get near enough? Dream on. They had one bloke who could side-step you in a telephone box. He would jump in the air and then kick off either way. Dylan said you had three options: go left and let him beat you right, go right and he would beat you left. 'What's the third?' we asked, hopefully. Retreat five metres and let him beat you there. Boy, they were good.
Kiwi Frank Oliver is the cheat who dived out of an All Black lineout in the dying minutes of a Wales game to secure a penalty to win a game they should've lost. My father referred to him from then on in as 'F. O.' His son is Anton Oliver, the All Black hooker. I cheated once in a game of touch and still lose sleep over it. Bloody Australians. I teach a lot of children sport and now know that you only become one person when you play sport - yourself. Whoever you are when you play sport is who you are. Which makes me a chopsy, overly-competitive, committed, annoying little twonk with only the saving grace of loyalty to redeem me.
I hope that Andy Ireland enjoyed his weekend and that he spent a lovely day with his relatives and friends in Ulster.
Had a lovely smoothie in 'Coffi' on Crwys Rd, Cathays this afternoon with my brother. Made me hellish sleepy though. How can that happen?! Honey? Bananas? Well?
Isn't twonk a great little word?