The Mixer Roses Sport

The Mixer at Roses

Roses is here, Roses! Bloody hell!

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Heart pounding like a jackhammer and eyes standing on stalks in a manner similar to a child confronted with a candy store closing down sale, TM perused the Friday schedules with moist anticipation. Roses is here, Roses! Bloody hell! It was also Alex Lacy's birthday (age undisclosed), but ROSES! What to watch first, what unknown sport to sample. Choices, choices. TM plumps for the cricket, nice genteel English sport for starters, let's not get too carried away...

11am, straddling the boundary rope in the glorious morning sunshine, eyes transfixed on the freshly mown grass, which radiates a beautiful perfume. Yet nothing happens and yet more nothing happens. Turns out it's a 12.30 start now, damn schedule is wrong. Oh well, not to panic, nothing missed. In for the badminton, the Sports Hall is awash with activity: shuttlecocks arcing majestically through air, the very air hung with sweltering tension, the swoosh of racquets therapeutic, the squeek, squeek of the white trainers on the polished wood surface. OH Yes!

Phew, calmed down now. Outside for the Ultimate Frisbee, how thrilling! The curve of the flying disc as it fizzes through the air in the drizzle, the deft flicks of the wrist, the vision, the intelligent tactics, the thrill of reaching the endzone. Lord, better stay out in this monsoon to quell my bubbling excitement...

Yet, there's more to come, more sport. TM makes the mistake of going to the indoor hockey. End-to-end action, the slamming of sticks, the hacking of ankles, the brightly-coloured strips, oh good lord I've come over all queer. Just can't handle this quantity of sport shoehorned into one day. Going off to lie down in a darkened room...


Hmmm, day two, eh? Rugger boys, nudity, lots actually, and the sweet smell of churned up 22 Acres grass? Enough to give TM that tingly feeling usually reserved for the age-old joys of the Grand National and Match of the Day.

The early news is that good old Capitano Cantor has demanded - with some ostentation, mind - that the rowing is moved back and forth and back...and forth and back again; supporters neither coming nor going. Why, TM asks one of the friendly, if slightly brighly coloured, steward fellows, should this be so? Swine Flu? Or have those pesky bladder problems bitten our esteemed leader, too? Nasty things those, from personal experience, and do certainly involve planning trips carefully in advance. But no! It seems he simply felt like a change might be fun for those dignitary-doodles from Heslington Hall. Suit you, sir, TM is heading off to the ballroom for some sexy rumbas and a bit of cha-cha.

But, alas, TM's floppy sword is forecfully requisitioned by a raucous rambunchkin from Lancashire en route. Those rugger boys, always shoving in where they're not welcome. Bah. Good old Mikey Callis will teach them a thing or two. Heard he eats children with his chips, that man. Wonderous. What's that now? They've painted the Roger Kirk white? Getting everywhere, this wash.

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