One hundred and twenty six nil. One hundred. And twenty six. Nil.
With the previous night’s jägerbombs keeping energy levels high, our make-shift 2s staggered through those pearly gates that signal our Fortress. New Beckenham, we hath arrived. Leon brought a mate along (who happened to score a hat-trick, so if that’s not an incentive, I don’t know what is!) and four scrum-halfs featured among the starting 15. Probably a good thing at the back of a ruck, but unlikely to do anything for our team discipline. We warmed up in our usual manner; sitting in the bar and watching the football until somebody decides it’s probably about time we got a move on. Kits on, boots laced, socks strapped and a dash of Spanish learned through Señor (that means Mr.) Calero, we strode onto the pitch, led by captain-for-the-day Ned Taylor. We were met by the perfect conditions for a game of rugby, with a crisp chill in the air.
Clarrie Gibbons once said that “a forward’s usefulness to his side varies as to the square of his distance from the ball” and Saturday’s game couldn’t have resonated this quote more accurately, with 19 tries scored by the backs and one solitary score from Harry within the forwards.
Having barely even seen any of the tries due to the pace and penetration of our backs, and most of them merging into one, I can only apologise if the accuracy is somewhat tainted. However, the game went something like this… We kicked off. Then Russell scored, Harry scored, Simon scored. Then Russell scored, Ned scored, David scored. Then Russell scored, Andrew scored. Then Russell scored. After each try, Simon, our very own Dan Carter, was enjoying the kicking practice he was granted, demonstrating that practice does in deed make perfect, with some quality boots from all over the park. The ref, who used most of the first half as an opportunity to perform his stand-up comedy routine, then blew his whistle, allowing a brief moment of rest bite for the Bexley men and for Matt Garratt to patch up his nose after receiving a whack.
The second half kicked back off and cue more misery upon our opponents. Straight from the kick off, and in one of the most surprising turn of events, Russell scored again. And again. Then again. One of these involved a powerful, mazy run through what must have been all fourteen of Bexley’s men, and a girly scream in a thick Scottish accent as he crossed the try line. Naturally, this showboating was later punished through one of the fowlest dirty pints to have been seen this side of the century. Then David, Andrew, David again, Leon, Leon again, Andrew again and again, all out-classed and out-ran the opposition, with some real quality back moves penetrating the defence. Just as Bank had started to forget about the existence of Mr. Roberts, he ensured his name was written in the stars with his eighth try of the game, despite some incredible support play from Rumford, the centre-cum-flanker-cum-hooker. (Editor’s note: pictures released later clearly identify Rumford almost 30 meters behind play and not in any rightful position to receive the ball). Finally, the man in the middle called an end to the affair.
Full time. 126-0.
1. Selfish. Adjective. (Of a person, action, or motive) lacking consideration for others; concerned chiefly with one's own personal profit or pleasure