London Irish
Fat Blokes 2010
By MadMonk
July 21 2010
Apparently there was a “proper” sevens competition on Friday. Some really keen fat blokes turned up at Abbey Rugby club at midday, pitched their tent in “camp carnage” and then hightailed it off to the Stoop to watch our boys contest the Premiership Sevens.
This is the curtain raiser for the season and the first event for Aviva to get excited about since taking over from Guinness as main Premiership sponsors. Worcester Wobblers had a much better idea. Turn up at midday pitch tent slightly away from the carnage end of the camp and start drinking. As defending champions of the plate competition they clearly understand the spirit of Fat Blokes Sevens.
The 2010 Flatulent Fairies
The 2010 Tinkerbelles (Well, most of them)
Like all sevens competitions there are levels of ability with a Cup, a Shield, and a Plate competition. The Cup teams can actually play a bit of rugby so it would be unfair, if not downright dangerous to put a bunch of flatulent fairies up against them. They are therefore banished to pitch 1 whilst the plate sides have bagged pitch 4 chiefly because it is nearest to the bar.
Sponsors CHP consulting compare current English International rugby unfavourably with the “dynamic, abrasive style of play at … true grass roots level … that reverse flick, that outrageous goosestep, that show and go…” Clearly they were watching different matches, entertaining in their own way, but not in the spirit of the founding side, the Flatulent Fairies and their sisters, the Trumpeting Tinkerbells. Picked for these sides, (picked = buy shirt and turn up) training consists of eating all the pies and washing them down with large volumes of black foaming beverage. Fat Blokes is grass roots rugby that caters for every level of ability from none whatsoever to average. Sadly I have not even reached the lower threshold so my part is to dress like an eejit make an exhibition of myself and watch others fall over.
The programme is: Friday, put up tent while still sober, and go to clubhouse for black tie and wellies evening of music courtesy of Rhinoplasty. Before leaving home I put on my wellies and black tie and check the mirror. The tie is too small. I am not boasting, it just is not long enough to reach past my Winnie-the-Pooesque stomach to cover what little assets remain below. I decide to extend the dress code to cassock as well. This is bright pink (Fairies club colours) with matching mitre.
Having (eventually) retired for the night I stumble from my tent to answer a call of nature and, attempting to scale the fence in the direction of the herbaceous latrine, fall heavily on my hip. The hour of heavy rain earlier in the evening has done nothing to soften the ground, and when Saturday dawns I am limping badly. As soon as the games start I am joined by increasing numbers of victims of the hard pitches.
You may well wonder what it is that causes grown men (and women) who should be old enough to know better to run around on dusty, grass flecked, concrete hard earth knocking each other over and injuring themselves in the process. Partly it is the reluctance to admit they are old enough and should know better, but mainly because it is, for some inexplicable reason, great fun. Certainly it is when you stop.
I meet someone who has news of the Premiership Sevens from last night. Apparently London Irish put out a very young side and lost all their matches. Saracens in contrast won all three of theirs to run out clear leaders in the round robin of London Clubs. At least now I do not have to go to Bath on 6th August for the play-off against the other regions. We will have to put out a better team than that if we are going to successfully defend our Middlesex Sevens title next month.
Back to grass roots rugby. Presumably somebody won the Cup over on Pitch 1. I have it on good authority (Eek told me) that the Admiral’s cup was won by Maidenhead. Impressive for a land locked town, perhaps they train on the Thames. The Mike Lee Shield was won by Berks Fire according to the same source. Encouraged by my injuries I stuck near the bar and pitch 4 so I can tell you on my own authority that Reading Ladies beat Supermarine for the Jack Wakefield Cup in the Ladies final, and that the Worcester Wobblers beat the Bath Tubs to retain the Arse Plate they won last year. I am not sure whether that is actually the name of the trophy or just another Eekism.
There now follows the fancy dress party. The theme is Space, so I add a picture of the Starship Enterprise, and a Final Front Ear to my mitre. Others have gone to far greater lengths and I feel positively inconspicuous next to the armies of ambassadors from every corner of the galaxy including Jabba the Hut who could scarcely squeeze into the clubhouse. Eek was resplendent, if a little cold, in his gold diamante bikini and Princess Leia hairstyle. As the evening wore on Space was interpreted as the space on the clothes rail, i.e. nothing at all. Gratifyingly it was not only the men who took this minimalist approach to costume to its logical conclusion, but then they had been spotted rehearsing during a number of streaker incidents on pitch 4 (Another reason not to stray)
Sunday morning and sore heads have been added to sore limbs and backs. The Wobblers strike camp early and head off with their trophy. I wander gingerly through camp carnage in search of less fickle companions and settle down to a second breakfast with Props, Jester Jane, and anyone still wielding a frying pan. There is some wait for the main (only) event of Sunday. Bristol have put out a team to play a 15s game against whoever is still standing after yesterday. This turns out to be precious few, but loyal to the memory of Jack Wakefield many don the pink fairy shirt and brush aside the pain of aching limbs for another hour. We are not playing the Pasty Eaters, the Bristol supporters who entertained us yesterday, but the professional club. In deference to our ineptitude it was I believe their third team. After a minute’s silence the game began, refereed once again by Elite premiership referee, Ashley Rowden. The professionals played in the true spirit of amateur rugby but could not quite stoop to our level of ineptitude, running in a hatful of tries. The Fairies set up a staged rolling maul all the way from their own 22 to the corner flag and back behind the posts. The roll was so slow that even Big Al was able to walk down the other end and be there well before them to photograph the touch-down. We did run in one genuine try plus one scored by one of our ladies. This may have been assisted by the concession that Bristol would not tackle our female players. I suspect this may have been something of a disappointment to the ladies who were probably looking forward to getting down and dirty with some professional players. The final try was scored by a super-sub, a young boy from Abbey RFC who was allowed to grab turnover ball and run in under the posts. A fitting reminder of the young age at which Jack was taken from his parents, and therefore from the whole London Irish family.
The collection taken during the match was for Handstand. This is Bristol’s nominated charity and raises money for Marshall Johnston a Cornish lad who lost all four limbs to meningitis when only a few months old. The money raised funds a succession of prosthetics which have to be replaced every six months because he is growing so fast. Our other charities this weekend are Wooden Spoon, who benefit disadvantaged children, and Help for Heroes who help soldiers injured in Iraq and Afghanistan. It is a sobering reminder that there is a serious side to a weekend that can easily be written off as silliness.
Many thanks to Eek, Cheffy and others for another marathon effort organising the weekend; to Nick and Scott at Abbey for once again hosting the event, and not forgetting Griff, this year’s fairies captain. I witnessed his expert team selection: “Go and stand next to someone you like playing with, seven on the left play first half, seven on the right the second, and anyone else is a sub.” Toby, I hope you are listening…
Now it is over again for another year. Saying goodbye and realising that some of the people there I will not see again before the start of the season, I feel we are much more a family than a supporters club. Like all families, not everyone gets along with everyone, but generally the reverse is true. Like all families we welcome new members and grieve for those we lose.
The 2010 Flatulent Fairies
The 2010 Tinkerbelles (Well, most of them)
Like all sevens competitions there are levels of ability with a Cup, a Shield, and a Plate competition. The Cup teams can actually play a bit of rugby so it would be unfair, if not downright dangerous to put a bunch of flatulent fairies up against them. They are therefore banished to pitch 1 whilst the plate sides have bagged pitch 4 chiefly because it is nearest to the bar.
Sponsors CHP consulting compare current English International rugby unfavourably with the “dynamic, abrasive style of play at … true grass roots level … that reverse flick, that outrageous goosestep, that show and go…” Clearly they were watching different matches, entertaining in their own way, but not in the spirit of the founding side, the Flatulent Fairies and their sisters, the Trumpeting Tinkerbells. Picked for these sides, (picked = buy shirt and turn up) training consists of eating all the pies and washing them down with large volumes of black foaming beverage. Fat Blokes is grass roots rugby that caters for every level of ability from none whatsoever to average. Sadly I have not even reached the lower threshold so my part is to dress like an eejit make an exhibition of myself and watch others fall over.
The programme is: Friday, put up tent while still sober, and go to clubhouse for black tie and wellies evening of music courtesy of Rhinoplasty. Before leaving home I put on my wellies and black tie and check the mirror. The tie is too small. I am not boasting, it just is not long enough to reach past my Winnie-the-Pooesque stomach to cover what little assets remain below. I decide to extend the dress code to cassock as well. This is bright pink (Fairies club colours) with matching mitre.
Having (eventually) retired for the night I stumble from my tent to answer a call of nature and, attempting to scale the fence in the direction of the herbaceous latrine, fall heavily on my hip. The hour of heavy rain earlier in the evening has done nothing to soften the ground, and when Saturday dawns I am limping badly. As soon as the games start I am joined by increasing numbers of victims of the hard pitches.
You may well wonder what it is that causes grown men (and women) who should be old enough to know better to run around on dusty, grass flecked, concrete hard earth knocking each other over and injuring themselves in the process. Partly it is the reluctance to admit they are old enough and should know better, but mainly because it is, for some inexplicable reason, great fun. Certainly it is when you stop.
I meet someone who has news of the Premiership Sevens from last night. Apparently London Irish put out a very young side and lost all their matches. Saracens in contrast won all three of theirs to run out clear leaders in the round robin of London Clubs. At least now I do not have to go to Bath on 6th August for the play-off against the other regions. We will have to put out a better team than that if we are going to successfully defend our Middlesex Sevens title next month.
Back to grass roots rugby. Presumably somebody won the Cup over on Pitch 1. I have it on good authority (Eek told me) that the Admiral’s cup was won by Maidenhead. Impressive for a land locked town, perhaps they train on the Thames. The Mike Lee Shield was won by Berks Fire according to the same source. Encouraged by my injuries I stuck near the bar and pitch 4 so I can tell you on my own authority that Reading Ladies beat Supermarine for the Jack Wakefield Cup in the Ladies final, and that the Worcester Wobblers beat the Bath Tubs to retain the Arse Plate they won last year. I am not sure whether that is actually the name of the trophy or just another Eekism.
There now follows the fancy dress party. The theme is Space, so I add a picture of the Starship Enterprise, and a Final Front Ear to my mitre. Others have gone to far greater lengths and I feel positively inconspicuous next to the armies of ambassadors from every corner of the galaxy including Jabba the Hut who could scarcely squeeze into the clubhouse. Eek was resplendent, if a little cold, in his gold diamante bikini and Princess Leia hairstyle. As the evening wore on Space was interpreted as the space on the clothes rail, i.e. nothing at all. Gratifyingly it was not only the men who took this minimalist approach to costume to its logical conclusion, but then they had been spotted rehearsing during a number of streaker incidents on pitch 4 (Another reason not to stray)
Sunday morning and sore heads have been added to sore limbs and backs. The Wobblers strike camp early and head off with their trophy. I wander gingerly through camp carnage in search of less fickle companions and settle down to a second breakfast with Props, Jester Jane, and anyone still wielding a frying pan. There is some wait for the main (only) event of Sunday. Bristol have put out a team to play a 15s game against whoever is still standing after yesterday. This turns out to be precious few, but loyal to the memory of Jack Wakefield many don the pink fairy shirt and brush aside the pain of aching limbs for another hour. We are not playing the Pasty Eaters, the Bristol supporters who entertained us yesterday, but the professional club. In deference to our ineptitude it was I believe their third team. After a minute’s silence the game began, refereed once again by Elite premiership referee, Ashley Rowden. The professionals played in the true spirit of amateur rugby but could not quite stoop to our level of ineptitude, running in a hatful of tries. The Fairies set up a staged rolling maul all the way from their own 22 to the corner flag and back behind the posts. The roll was so slow that even Big Al was able to walk down the other end and be there well before them to photograph the touch-down. We did run in one genuine try plus one scored by one of our ladies. This may have been assisted by the concession that Bristol would not tackle our female players. I suspect this may have been something of a disappointment to the ladies who were probably looking forward to getting down and dirty with some professional players. The final try was scored by a super-sub, a young boy from Abbey RFC who was allowed to grab turnover ball and run in under the posts. A fitting reminder of the young age at which Jack was taken from his parents, and therefore from the whole London Irish family.
The collection taken during the match was for Handstand. This is Bristol’s nominated charity and raises money for Marshall Johnston a Cornish lad who lost all four limbs to meningitis when only a few months old. The money raised funds a succession of prosthetics which have to be replaced every six months because he is growing so fast. Our other charities this weekend are Wooden Spoon, who benefit disadvantaged children, and Help for Heroes who help soldiers injured in Iraq and Afghanistan. It is a sobering reminder that there is a serious side to a weekend that can easily be written off as silliness.
Many thanks to Eek, Cheffy and others for another marathon effort organising the weekend; to Nick and Scott at Abbey for once again hosting the event, and not forgetting Griff, this year’s fairies captain. I witnessed his expert team selection: “Go and stand next to someone you like playing with, seven on the left play first half, seven on the right the second, and anyone else is a sub.” Toby, I hope you are listening…
Now it is over again for another year. Saying goodbye and realising that some of the people there I will not see again before the start of the season, I feel we are much more a family than a supporters club. Like all families, not everyone gets along with everyone, but generally the reverse is true. Like all families we welcome new members and grieve for those we lose.
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Discussion started by The Craic www.londonirish.org , 21/07/2010 09:27
The Craic www.londonirish.org
21/07/2010 09:27
21/07/2010 09:27
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Hi All,
Great time again this year - Thanks to the organisers.
Going by the traditional 'third weekend in July' I have next years event penciled in as 15th-17th. Is this right?
Is there any way we can persuade the London Leg of the Pro-7's not to be on the same weekend? (I am obviously not as hardcore as those that managed both)
Great time again this year - Thanks to the organisers.
Going by the traditional 'third weekend in July' I have next years event penciled in as 15th-17th. Is this right?
Is there any way we can persuade the London Leg of the Pro-7's not to be on the same weekend? (I am obviously not as hardcore as those that managed both)
Excellent write-up. Getting injured on a Friday night before the tournament is becoming a tradition! I hope you are better now from your nasty fall.
Well done Chris, helping to piece together all the bits that were missed - either mentally or physically!
Well done & thanks.
Well done & thanks.
I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed my first fat boy experience and it was a pleasure to finally put faces to some of the names on here. am looking forward to catching up with everyone again soon once the season starts and yes I have signed up for next year already
Cheers!
Topsy's brother formally known as Babs O aka Tony Tempah
Cheers!
Topsy's brother formally known as Babs O aka Tony Tempah
Great write up MM,
again reminding me how disappointed I was to miss this year.
Am ready to sign up for 2011 already, if selected!!!
again reminding me how disappointed I was to miss this year.
Am ready to sign up for 2011 already, if selected!!!
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