Friday, 8 July 2016

Blaze of glory...

You'll be surprised, and I hope a little impressed, that I sat through a whole football match on Wednesday night.  Having depleted the whole country's supply of Welsh cakes last week, I only felt it fair to support their national team as they battled against Ronaldo and a few other Portuguese chaps in a bit of a kick about.

A lot of thought went into the evening.  As the weather was positively balmy (I'd left my vest off, so it must have been warm) the husband fired up the barbecue, and I laid the table outside, choosing red napkins to complement the Welsh kit.  I even printed off some Welsh flags and dotted them about the table for waving when appropriate, so you can see, I was doing everything I could to channel some positive energy out to France (mainly using paper but you get my drift).

The husband, ever handy with an extension lead, had turned the television round, so that we could sit outside and watch the match while we ate.  It was all very exotic for a Wednesday night, but armed with a burnt sausage, a homemade flag and three boiled potatoes, I was ready to cheer the boyos on, preparing to wave the aforementioned flag with gay abandon.

As we were tucking into the food, the two teams came out onto the pitch.  I was shocked.  Where was the red Welsh strip?  They were all wearing black, which confused me, as I thought that the referees always wore black.  The husband very quickly corrected me on this.  Apparently FIFA has used some of their ill-gotten gains to extend the wardrobe of the humble referee, and he is now free to choose from a cornucopia of hues. I wonder if they have to take the red and yellow cards into consideration when they decide what to wear?  And what about their boots?  I tell you, they'll soon be back to wearing black again...it just goes with everything...

But what about the colour that Ronaldo and his chums were wearing...well that was a sneaky plan wearing green so that you blended in with the grass.  No wonder they got those two goals so quickly - Wales just never saw them coming....at all.  Ronaldo also seemed to be ever so good at falling over.  At one point I wondered whether there was a Welsh sniper up in the stadium roof.  If there was, he was a terrible shot, as Ronaldo kept getting up time and time again.

As the match went on, the flag waving became sporadic, and the singing of 'Delilah', 'What's New, Pussycat?' and 'Diamonds are Forever' faded into silence, as we watched a nation's fairy-tale end too soon.

Son number 2 wasn't with us to watch the match, preferring to go to the only Welsh pub in Oxford to watch it.  This got me wondering what makes a pub Welsh.  Irish bars have Guinness on tap, and their names are usually prefixed with an O'.....

Perhaps Welsh pubs have Tom Jones' Greatest Hits CD on repeat, oh and red napkins...
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