Vale of Lune RUFC

Gilly arrived for the second team’s Raging Bull Cup tie against Lymm seconds plugged into a new state of the art hearing aid and so it was to be an end of pardon, what did you say?-beatific smiles as conversations raged around him, the ceremonial cleaning of such a delicate piece of equipment, no more buzzing or high pitched notes emitting from the vicinity of the lobes. Or so the Alies thought.

Judging by his reaction to Enty’s news that the Press Secretary was in the chair for a pre match snorter or three, of The Governor, some fine tuning was going to be required. But even though Gilly found the ale a bit winy, he was a man on a mission as his well trained eyes, he is after all a veteran of Korea, scanned the Maurice Armstrong Bar for a sighting of the Platelayer.

All week the Alies had been bombarded with jokes about cruise liners but it was the Platelayer’s tale about Quasimodo’s replacement that had Gilly’s slapping hand twitching uncontrollably.

There was no sign of the Platelayer, but the two did eventually meet up on the East Terrace and the smiting began in earnest to peels of laughter!

Enty is once more back in top form, it is almost a year on since his operation and appears to be slipping seamlessly into Friday night soirées with the great and the good of Lancaster and even further afield. He was feeling no ill effects following a meal of venison, haggis, red wine and port, the plumbing system had coped with all the chemical reactions and as Enty pointed out everything is self contained, flatulence is now a thing of the past, which must be a blessing to Jane.

Food was very much the topic of the day. Shagpile had been hard at in the smoker into the early hours; his labours had not been in vain as the post match buffet proved. There was a huge salmon provided by the Major plus Shagpile’s trout, sea bream, sausages and a delicious slab of Peter Shilton, all washed down with another guest beer, Hogshead.

Despite a whimsical wind, an engrossing contest unfolded much appreciated by the East Terrace, in particular Ash’s scramble through the brambles to retrieve the ball. As he began to tip toe his way up the slope a rainbow suddenly appeared over the Crem. This was the cue for the Cobra burst into song, his rendition of “Somewhere over the Rainbow” accompanying Ash as he tried to side step the thorns which would have done untold damage to his highly polished brogues.

The safety of Ash was uppermost in the spectator’s eyes; words like compensation were banded about and that he might have to contact those lawyers who advertise on television should he fall, but the Solicitor was on hand and no doubt would have volunteered his services.

As Ash made his way through the undergrowth he was overtaken by Vale’s touch judge and the ball was quickly lobbed back onto the field of play and the spectators attention returned to the game in hand. Ash’s exploits as he returned down “The Yellow Brick Road” went largely unnoticed, apart from a few choice oaths.

There were plenty of comments as usual from the Plumber, but one occasion son Bob was forced to inform him, “You got that one wrong Dad!” Oh, for those long lost days on Yorkshire soil.

The Major was sporting his beret and during the game gave more than passable imitations of a Frenchman, a Basque and an alarming likeness to Fred Scuttle. Throughout the week the Major had been laid low with an ear infection but he had battled through with antibiotics and some tender loving care. He produced a bottle of whisky to accompany the post match buffet which helped to deaden any pain.

Big Norman and Sutty had been fulfilling their match day duties but managed to tuck into a deserved plate of brain food. They were unfortunately not on hand however, to decipher one of the much travelled Oil Tycoon’s observations about life in general and the maritime world in particular when he informed Shagpile that, “They are all small till you play with them.”