So, what better way to spend a Tuesday evening than by leaving work a little early and heading over to Old Trafford to watch Lancashire Teef**kingtotallers mash up Durham Donkeymoes? This may or may not have happened.
My matchmates were to be Colin, one of our trainers, and Carsten, the sole attendee of Col’s latest training course. Carsten is from Germany (or possibly Belgium) and knew precisely nothing about cricket.
I did ask “So, what part of Germany are you from?” His reply? “I don’t know, as I do not usually go to these things. Football, maybe.” I did find out later that he works near Brussels, though and that he thoroughly approves of the French going out of Euro 2008.
We had a troupe of dancing girls just in front of us and they were by far the most energetic of the four troupes spaced around the ground. The ones entertaining stand M were probably the next best, while the bunch stationed at the non-alcoholic E stand just didn’t bother. Given that there were about a dozen people sitting in the stand, I can see why.
Even when our lot did get up and boogie, they were spectacularly uncoordinated. The moves were there, but the unison wasn’t. Easy on the eye, but hardly the Dallas Cowgirls. Apparently they were the “Lightning Crew” or somesuch, all from a local dance academy. If even a malcoordinate like myself can master a few dance numbers, surely these bright youngs things could do the same?
There was a preponderance of children in our stand… and they seemed to grow in numbers all through the first half, like Dickensian street urchins flocking towards a dandy. My theory for this is that other kids around the ground had noticed the banter between the original kids (a junior cricket team) and the dancing girls.
Some of the kids were cunningly using the NPower cards to display “69” towards the nubile ladies. I’m sure I wouldn’t have had a clue what that meant at the age of 10. Perhaps they didn’t either.
Even Lanky Giraffe got in on the act, steaming in for a kiss – denied, unfortunately, despite his rather fetching dance moves. “They’re too young for ya, Lanky!” jeered the crowd. Not in giraffe years, clearly. At half time, all the dancing girls came together right in front of us, around a manilla jacketed chap who’d appeared from nowhere. No idea who he was, but clearly a Very Lucky Man.
They stopped serving beer just after half time. RUBBISH. But it did mean I could get the tram back to Altrincham and drive home.