The jigsaw challenge

Now it HAS been said before. I have, maybe too liberally, used the phrase "worst job for the club ever" even on this blog - but we now have a new winner. The competition seems fierce at a first glance: handling hundreds of drunks, carrying tonnes of boxes and/or furniture, in rain, hail or desert storms we do things we couldn't care less about (re-sorting fence bits for five hours!). But there's a new number one: the jigsaw challenge. It includes a football pitch, seven naive rugby players and just over 700 pieces of a floor puzzle - to be assembled without gaps in any direction since a small gap would start the biggest fucking domino effect in history. This was estimated to take six (6) hours. As the hours went by, we realised that wasn't gonna happen.

In a way, jobs like these are nice. They bring people together in a way that just hanging out at the club never will. It usually starts with a lot of joking around, yesterday was no different. An unnumerable amount of puns was thrown about, there was a food buffet paid for by someone else and Coke in a cooler. But when a half hour remains of the said working hours and only a fourth of the floor is in place you end up in a totally different context. You reach a whole new level of friendship when you've seen the kindle in someone's eye die and heard them honestly say I've lost the will to live. Eventually (way past midnight and still not finished) you reach level 3 - where you take turns to giggle at nothing or to keep working with clenched jaws and a devil's stare. It's the kind of bond you have if you've been stranded together on a desert island or maybe been held hostages in a bank robbery - where there is only the present and no future. Now this is club spirit! I might've gone straight to work and slept only three hours on the sofa before starting my Monday, but at least in retrospective I'm glad to have been there.

We all learned one thing or two yesterday, but I think the most important thing was: you're never too old or too white to answer your phone with a yo!

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For a few lookbacks at awful jobs for the club, read about Pacman and the hefty cock, the bar desk in the spiral stairs or the five o'clock blizzard.

Just grab my arse, will you!

A joint training session is always rememberable. Going towards the men's team to try and contribute, you have a hunch one of two things is gonna happen. Either, someone is gonna kill you, or noone dares to touch you. On a rare occasion, you get both (so everyone runs miles around you apart from this one guy who desperately needs to prove a point). Today they were all very careful.

This was acceptable, albeit annoying, until we split forwards and backs to do some lineouts. Now of course I won't criticise newbies for being bad lifters, but if we fail because you're too awkward to hold a woman, something must be done. You need to realise we're never gonna win the ball that way... AND: if you guys drop me because of a feeble gentleman's grip, I'm not gonna be happy. So next time - just grab my arse, will you!

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Ladies' conversation afterwards:


- I think I kicked someone in the face...
- I broke someone's finger...
- They love it when we join in, don't they?

A so called boys' night out

The last round of Six nations was celebrated properly, as it should be. Some of us tried to watch all the games, but honestly, a red card in an already awful game can make anyone lose interest temporarily. For a few shaky moments the bar staff also claimed there was no more red wine, but the evening was nicely saved by finding another bag in box and the start of France-Ireland.

A couple of weekends ago Junior became famous for coming on a girls' night out. Tonight was the night to return the favour. With a clear majority of men's team players (hence boys' night out) me and the Red Boots Girl tagged along. So: what is the difference between girls' and boys' night out really? I'll tell you the truth - not a single bloody thing. There was gossip. There was alcohol. We were in a godawful place reluctantly talking to ugly strangers, just like last time. The conversation topics ranged from fashion, linguistics and medical issues to technical problems and relationship advice.* Some tried to be nice to their friends and set them up with possible flirts, other spilled dirty secrets about their friends as soon as they left the room. Some were denied more purchases by the bar staff (Nelson, I thought you could hold your beer better than that!)

Past midnight, the Scotsman won the bet over the redhead and Jim and Jeff went home together as usual. I think this little study proves that both men and women are from Mars and noone is from Venus, at least when drunk. I also think that I promised to play for the B team some time this year. Ah well, time will tell if it was a small price to pay for my discoveries.

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* fashion and linguistics both come in under the discussion about the red boots and how spectacularly wanktastic they were. (Let's also mention music as the discussion made more than one person sing these boots are made for wanking... Nancy Sinatra might not find it funny, but we did.) Medical issues was addressed as we found out how unpleasantly surprised you can get if someone starts nosebleeding over your naked body. The technical problems concerned big or small TVs, possibly with batteries and a private joke in there somewhere. Relationship advice needs no further explanation.

A so called girls' night out

Now, first of all, I would like to point out that you don’t have to be a girlie girl to go on a so called girls’ night out. In fact, you don’t even have to be a girl. We don’t discriminate against penises (despite sometimes being discriminated against for lacking them). As long as you don’t spare any details about your dirty past and are happy to play drinking games, you’re in. And that’s how we included Junior in our Saturday night plans. 

When both the rugby games were over, the crowd thinned out. Only a couple of groups (one could call them generation X and generation Y) stayed to make sure the bar staff was kept busy. What better way to lure secrets from others than with wine and peer pressure? Some of them we chose to instantly forget (we don’t mind dirty, but we can do without outright mingin’), and to clear our minds we eventually decided to move on to another destination. Junior, being drunk and stupid, mentioned going home since he was too awkward to go out with his friends’ sisters and his captain’s wife. As people in general don’t like to be reduced to someone else’s sister or wife, this resulted in Junior being dragged along to a pub. And to a burger place. And home with the rest of us. Last I heard was that he’s now signing up for the ladies’ team instead.

And as the Sunday morning came creeping up on us girls in the bedroom*, I found myself in a very familiar position. On the flank, tired as hell and pressed against a sweaty front row arse. Just like during season.

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*Junior quickly volunteered for the sofa in the living room. I think he’d appreciate this info being here, just for the record. In other words, he was scared shitless for multiple reasons.

The sacrifices we make

With a painful and throbbing big toe I now look back at yesterdays session. I slammed on a full stop to sneak round a defender and my new shoes wasn't up for the challenge. That try is gonna cost me a toe nail. Was it really worth a nail to be able to show off for some newbies? Well, if you can't outrun them at the Heinz Müllers...

Bleep test - check!

If you’ve ever been there you know what I’m talking about. In a gym hall a dark night, during pre-season, time just doesn’t exist. All there is, is a motivational soundtrack blaring from crappy speakers, squeaks from shoes touching the rubber floor and someone shouting: go! Rest! Go! in infinity.

It didn’t start that focused. The coach was missing and so were our rugby balls. We were debating who was gonna call and inquire of their whereabouts. I had JUST gotten used to the Scottish coach’s accent! said Nurse Brunette. And now I have to adjust my ears to something even worse. I’m not calling – I’ll never know what the Irishman says. But someone else did and the first indoor pre-season session could start. 

Ninety minutes later the Irishman was happy as us ladies lay panting on the floor, sweaty and aching (wait, that sounds…a bit dirty. Oh well). Some of us struggled to let go of the awkward feeling that comes with being back in their high school gym. (My ACTUAL high school gym. Walls were impregnated with my anxiety, pubertal hormones and bad memories.) Some of us were just happy to have done the bleep test without dying embarrassingly early on. The Irishman got the great idea to post the results on FB. Noone argued. Actually, we were too tired to talk.

Afterwards, the one part of my body that really gave me a hard time was my calves, after one (!) session with the skipping rope. Somehow I feel that’s a sort of failure. 

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24 hours later. Calves are fine. But my gluteus maximus are a pain in the arse. Literally.