Batman, Pacman and..?

What could be better than to spend one of your christmas holidays carrying someone elses heavy stuff in and out of a truck? Constantly reminded by the mirror about the phenomenon christmas weight, a few of us were desperate enough to agree working extra for our beloved rugby club. Even though one of us snoozed a bit too much, we started early and worked hard - cheered on by today's Big Afro Daddy. The poor truckdriver was frequently reminded by a traffic warden that we ought to move asap, maybe that's why he over-consumed nicotine all day? (Seriously, if you manage to smoke a whole packet before lunch, do you really have to use snus in between your cigarettes?)
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We were treated to lunch between truck load one and two, and there was also lots of chocolate at the new place where we unloaded the furniture, which made us temporarily forget today's fitness target. But I guess even if our weight stayed the same maybe we got a wee bit stronger? One can hope... Aside from the stiff competition for riding shotgun whenever we moved, there was also the ongoing argument between Sleepyhead and myself who was gonna be Batman and who'd have to be Robin. Eventually a rule became established, whoever screwed up most recently was Robin until something else happened.

As we left after a hard day's work I discovered that the Bartender didn't appreciate drawings on his car window...especially not ones of Pacman and a hefty cock... But that's a classic!?

Like an obituary but not really

Losing a player on the team usually requires a mourning process for a few of the people staying on, whether players leave because they're up the duff, injured, too busy, just feel too old to go on or because they move somewhere else. For some, they might just've been the fullback with the weird accent or the drunkest girl at the rugbyclub...but for others they might've been someone like-minded and a constant partner in crime. Someone who'd listen to your moaning, bring you chips and dip when you're hungover and drink the last of your beer when you can't take anymore. A really good friend. Someone who'd encourage you to treat yourself to nice things and discourage you from getting involved in stupid things (even if you don't listen).

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In the big, warm and sometimes slightly incestous family that is our rugby club, someone is missing. There's now a pitch black hole shaped like a small irish girl holding a pint in one hand and - for some reason - a christmas goat in the other...

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But to look at it from the bright side - more Kexchoklad for the rest of us! See you soon!

What happens on tour...

Oh, I'm desperately looking forward to this! Last time it was an unbelievable weekend where everything happened and nothing should be mentioned, because, well...what happens on tour stays on tour. Amsterdam 7's, Stockholm 10's, regional series and an Uppsala ladies team ready to fight for glory and titles... Next season could just prove to be the most interesting so far.

OA's (1st team) 2008, beaten in the quarterfinal by the Czech national side

www.amsterdamsevens.com

Merry Rugby Christmas

As I tuck in to my second pizza of the day and watch rubbish sitcoms in preparation for monday morning, I can't help being truly impressed by Irish who went into work this morning to split some cells (!) before our hungover hangout. Yesterdays christmas party wasn't well attended, but the few of us there really gave it our best shot (and shot would be the key word here). When the Greed game was over and Pär the pink christmas goat had found a new home (enjoy the Emerald isle, Pär!) there wasn't much else to do than to trick fellow drinkers into downing vile shots of whatever the Bartender and his accomplice could dig out from the dusty shelves behind the counter. When we'd all been carried outside by the grumpy staff and got the door slammed in our faces (pure luck we left with coats and bags, I tell you!) we made it downtown one way or another. We couldn't really agree on where to go next, but after a 30 minute loo visit Max burgers finally proved the strongest alternative. For the record, a burger has never been more delicious... Let's all remember until next year: Absinth is a one way ticket to Hangover Hell, first stop Vomit city...

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The official Uppsala Ladies song (melody Heja Bamse):

URFC, laget som vi gillar

våra damer klär i babyblått

Festar, tränar hårt med våra killar

svett och blod det tycker vi är hot

Ruckar, maular, tacklar, slåss - ni kan inte stoppa oss

Fyrisfjädern är vårt hem, vi slåss för liv och lem

Vi är Upplands glödheta valkyrior

och vi viker inte oss en tum

SKÅL

Off season

The off-season period is going slow... With a pitch the council won't sort out until after New Year and with temperatures under -10 training has basically consisted of a few brave people running round town with numb fingers and red noses. Highlights so far have been the core sessions in the changing room afterwards where we can defrost and admire Magnus' lycra babygro.

Lets hope for a good turnout next weekend when we combine our christmas party (and Greed game!) with selling unpopular drinks cheap in the bar. Rumours say the shrimp vodka is still regular price though...

Party princess of the year

The usual mayhem took place last weekend in a well known location far from watchful eyes and patrolling police cars... Experienced players even had nick names for the surroundings, make out forest for example (although I seriously doubt anything happened in that snowy slope. But I could be wrong).

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Dinner got off to a good start with a toast madame very much prepared, a speech from the club president that wasn't too long and a starter that didn't make the pregnant guest throw up. Team Front row took charge of the entertainment competition with a couple of performances and remained in the lead for quite some time, until the Halfbacks captain decided to give them a run for their money and got everyone involved in a highly dangerous let's have drunk people in heels dance around on the furniture-game.

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Awards were given out which made some people smile, some people grit their teeth with greed and some people cry with disappointment on the inside. The usual 45 minute speech with beer awards from the men's coach was avoided by bribing him with the trophy for Player of the year, a cunning plan! Most worth mentioning I think is the Party princess of the year award, which I now have at home in safe keeping until it's rightful owner lands on home soil next week (I miss you Blondie!).

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The home built bar got busy after that and the dancefloor was packed with people you only see dancing once a year. On the stage we had a troubadour working his arse off and I saw several people trying to get their secret missions done before they got too, let's say, liberal with booze money. Good work, especially to Berg who I witnessed squeal with awkwardness as she interrupted a tête-a-tête just to ask someone about their favourite toothpaste or similar. As the hours were lost, so was judgement - some people clearly more affected by this than others. Most famous afterwards is the guy who tried to pick up one of the lesbians! Amused as she was, that special mission impossible (oh to convert a lezzer! or maybe get invited back to her girlfriends place!) didn't go well and he had to settle for someone else later on...

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As usual, everyone in the party committee said I'll never organise this again! but we'll slowly forget it until next autumn. Bring on 2011!

Swing lo' sweet chariot

It was a cold thursday eve when a few swedes arrived in the big city of London for a weekend of romance, shopping, rugby, drinking and an awful lot of public transport. Friday arrived and romance was quickly brushed aside when the happy couple was rushed down Oxford street by a shopping-eager second row in her pursuit of a dress for the annual party. That done, we looked everywhere for a pair of shoes for our often injured center, but realised our limits when we religiously tiptoed down Old Bond street in the rain (you can't afford to seek shelter in a Gucci store!).

Friday night barhopping was made extremely difficult by someone who wouldn't visit places with loud music and young people, the old man wanted a proper english silent pub with drunks in tweed coats dammit! We met a former Uppsala player and his rugby friends, who had some trouble realising us girls were players too (but didn't say anything to our faces because they're, well...british). A good night and great warm up for the big day!

We all thought we were well ahead of schedule when we left for Twickenham several hours in advance...but so did everyone else. Four hours before kick off the train was rammed with rugby fans hoping to be able to down a pint or eight before going to the arena. By a lucky coincidence we ran into the Bartender and his number 8-sambo (Happy couple no.2) in the William Webb Ellis pub and, after some sneaky stealing of chairs and a display of a drunk England fan's newly tattooed buttock, we managed to get a table and order some food. Happy couple no.1 arrived as well and we were in a brilliant mood as we 1) actually got our food, 2) got it in time, 3) without any mix ups, and 4) had drinks in our hands...

The game was great, not much kicking at all (unlike last year's clash), some good running, thrilling last second tackles and a sold out arena with 80'000 people singing Swing lo' sweet chariot when Toby Flood put another three points on the board. We were all quite surprised when England's last try was disallowed when the very similar All Blacks one wasn't, a fact that people around us unsurprisingly blamed on "the sodding frenchman" reffing. Add exploding pints of Strongbow to this and you know we were in for an exciting afternoon...

We followed up with a train ride from hell and ended up in Chinatown (as you do). Quite peckish we found ourselves a greasy china buffet of questionable quality next to a brothel... Some of us were reluctant to go in due to "lack of atmosphere" but as an impatient first row said: Are we gonna eat or are we gonna have fun!? We had a little fun as well when we discovered that there was no age restriction for the kid's menu, but you couldn't be taller than 1.20 if you wanted to order from it. You weren't allowed to stay longer than 45 minutes at your table and if you didn't finish your food, you had to pay extra per 100g leftovers!

I said goodbye to Happy couple 1 and 2 at a sparkling Piccadilly. Next time I'll bring high heels and Magnus, I WILL go to places with young people and loud music. Exclusively.