The sharp –eyed amongst you, whose faculties have not been dulled by an excess of mince pies and other such seasonal comestibles will be aware that we have another full on episode of TLFT (TLF tardiness). But if you can’t exercise a bit of slackness when it’s the festive season then when can you? See this as a Boxing Day sale, a BOGOF and I promise I won’t be late with blogs anymore. Well, not this year at any rate.
Hedging your bets
Lesta were at home, the Mighty Saints were at mythical Margate (not mythical in a Greek legend way, more in a, TLF never gets to go there kind of a way). It was a tough choice, but in a moment of rare clarity, TLF realised there was a third way. MISS THEM BOTH. And spend some quality time with Mr TLF. And pretend that the Lesta game wasn’t happening at all, because let’s face it, domestically things are a bit pants….and they were facing Manchester City…and the kick off had been moved to 5.30pm which TLF really hates (but it was all about the quality time I promise). Although just in case the game actually is really happening, we’ll set the digi-box to record at the time it would be happening; just in case there are any incidents worth a look at later. “Not that there will be, we’ll probably just delete it straightaway.” And then we’ll go to Dylan’s at the King’s Arms and eat triple cooked trips, with pulled beef and not look at the twitter. And then on the way home TLF’s resolve will crumble and the phone will be switched back on to reveal numerous texts and tweets which make it sound like things might just be alright at Filbert Way. Like a moth to a flame TLF is then inevitably drawn towards the TV and is astounded and delighted (although does do a bit of worrying for the final 15 minute, knowing that Lesta are perfectly capable of throwing away a four goal lead). Mr TLF is relieved that a Lesta game has finally delivered a cheerful TLF but even more astounded and delighted to discover that because of the football, we’ve pretty much missed all of that evening’s Strictly. Winners all round.
Beaver (castor fiber): a large, semi aquatic rodent, known for building dams, and the second largest rodent in the world.
It’s ok, you haven’t tuned into Planet Earth and TLF hasn’t come over all David Attenborough (another of Lesta’s finest exports so it goes), but it was inevitable after a visit to the home of the beavers for a bit of pre-Christmas festive football. Yes I know, the Beavers. What a nickname, sadly bound to bring out the adolescent in any pre-Xmas giggly TLF…..
Attendance at an away game a week before Xmas is potentially a tall order but TLF had concocted a suitably convincing business case: “It’ll be my last game of 2016.”; “Hampton and Richmond play at a proper ground…Johnny Farmer said so.” It seemed to do the trick as TLF found herself in the company of Julie who was project-managing our route to Hampton. NOT Hampton Wick. NOT Hampton Court, but definitely the Hampton that the bloke at Vauxhall told us his train wasn’t going to, except it was…thanks mate. Still we can drink beer on a platform while waiting for the next train to Hampton just as well as we can drink it on a train. And if we had got that train we would have missed out on traveling with the aforementioned JF and the AD43 boys, which is never dull.
And JF is right; it is a nice ground, with a beaver sign (fnarr, fnarr) with a cosy bar that had a nice pre-Christmas vibe, no doubt helped by the staff’s festive jumpers, the draft Cobra lager and Julie’s very fine homemade gingerbread men. The injured Scott Thomas selecting one with a leg missing seemed particularly apt. Everyone TLF would want to see at an away game was there, the singing was good, the opposition had a full grown man dressed as a beaver (fnarr, fnarr) and on the way home Julie and I received gifts not of frankincense and myrrh but pineapple, plum and kiwi. Not from wise men you understand but a subset of the AD43 boys…I think there may be a green grocer in Hampton who will never be the same again.
You will have spotted in this ramble a severe absence of reference to the game itself.
We lost 4-0.
Never, ever laugh at a beaver.