ECC Falcons Match Report
I had been looking forward to this match for a while, not because of the occasion because I truly believe the ECC is a shite competition and should be scrapped. No, I wanted to visit Squeakston Park 'cos I ain’t been there yet. My initial excitement was dashed soon after landing at Newcastle International Airport and having arrived at our B&B, so glamorously described on the internet. The website didn’t say it was a feckin shitehole, or that in Geordie land “full English” meant “full of fat”. Never ever stay at Stone Cottage. Still, never mind, sometimes you hit a snake, so we buggered off ASAP and walked to the nearest metro station to get a train into the town centre. In desperate need of losing weight fast we found a café and took three mugs of steaming, er, something, to a downstairs table. Immediate hopes were dashed, and it was a full ten minutes before a scruffy hole digger came out of the loo with a grin on his face that said “I dare you to go in there”. Feck me, he was right ‘n all, but since there were no ladies at all in the café plan B saved the day.We emerged into a lovely sunny day and metro’s it back to Squeakston Park for an early pint or two before kick off at 12:45, a ludicrous time for a kick off in a cup semi final. Most of Geordie land probably thought the same ‘cos the ground was feckin empty, but that’s good for LI because the noise of the faithful would definitely be heard.
We parked ourselves at the back of the South Stand and watched events unfold. I’m not gonna describe the game because if you were there you would have seen it; if you weren’t and have Sky you would have watched it; and if you were in neither of those two groups of people then you probably haven’t got a computer and so can’t read this anyway. We were awesome for 70 minutes and played some of the best rugby I’ve seen this season. Then someone unplugged the kettle and we cooled down quicker than a gigolo in a gay bar. All I can say is that watching us fritter away a massive lead like that is not good for the body. After a diet of Chilli laden sub, a “full fat” breakfast, a cup of steaming “something” and twelve pints of Guinness, you try controlling a twitchy ring. I’m gonna have a word with Smiffy and tell him what I think. Sadistic bastard.
Game over and job done it was back to the concourse for some more ale and some haute cuisine, and just in time for the Leinster v Munster match on the telly. This wonderful match was ruined by some shite karaoke singer who filled the entire concourse with a sound that could have curdled milk at a hundred paces. So we buggered off to the Twin Farms for a couple before heading back to the airport via the metro (again). The Metro is a wonderful way to get around the area easily and cheaply; from Newcastle to Whitley to Sunderland, all day travel for a tad over £3. The trains are frequent, too frequent in fact, ‘cos we only just had time to finish our own peculiar version of: “paddy was working on the railway” before our transport arrived.
Back to the airport, back to Reading. Here we met up in the Three Guineas with a fellow Eejit who had trotted around most of London in the morning along with thirty-seven million other idiots. Buy a car for fecks sake, are you mad? The original Marathon runner Pheidipedes completed the course and promptly died, what does that tell you?
He did look cute though in his Eejit habit and Flora badge.
Lovely day.
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