It’s not football, mate.

To Twickenham on Sunday to watch some Welshmen lose at Rugby Union to Wasps. As these things always seem to go, the welsh supporters were irritatingly cocky but descended into sullen silence and finally started sulking off home before the finish. One welsh chappie threw a pie at an English supporter, who simply turned round and said “this isn’t a football game you know”. The Welshman looked as if he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him. At that point I remembered why beating the Welsh (only the South Africans are more insufferable) was always so sweet.
We were seated in an area that on Big Match days is reserved for disabled ex-international players and committee members. (I was accompanying a spinal injury victim) Still wouldn’t let us buy a drink in their posh bar, though. So I took the lift down to ground floor level, walked up two flights of stairs, queued, purchased said drinks, walked down two flights of stairs, back up in the lift, and accidentally dribbled some plastic Tetleys from a plastic “glass” over the nice carpets in the corporate hostility department. Who says the welsh can have a monopoly on rugby hooliganism?