With the squeals and whimpers of the Canterbury ‘players’ still fresh on our minds, we headed back to fortress Harlington to kick off our cup run. Today’s victims were familiar faces, they’d received a gentle 26-7 spanking a mere 5 weeks ago, an experience they were clearly unsatisfied with. The naughty boys had travelled far from their quaint Hertfordshire village, begging for a firmer hand. We were only too happy to oblige….
The game started well, from the very first phase Sochi’s fifth appendage came swinging through their back line, catching both centres across the cheek. A penalty lead to an early lineout, driven over the line by the valiant forwards of ICURFC. Hiding at the back of the mall, I was able to claim all the credit for the third time this season. An easy snipe for FAF followed not too long after, it was all going swimmingly.
Being the ‘take no shit’ ‘bad boys’ of the South Eastern BUCS leagues, we inevitably gave away a series of penalties. Unfortunately, being too handsome and doing whatever the f**k we want has its drawbacks and saw us defending a lineout just 5 metres from our try line. After winning approximately ZERO lineouts in the last game, Hertfordshire had given up all conventional tactics from the set piece. A sneaky short ball and a lapse of concentration, led to the sweatiest of try’s, lifting the opposition’s spirit. We were determined to put them back in their place.
After some sensual interplay between our backs the boys had quickly run the ball out of our own half with a single strike play, putting Al Amino over the line. Jealous of all the attention, the forwards followed suit, scoring from yet another driving maul. The tries just kept coming, I’m watching the recording and I still can’t keep count. A particular highlight has to be the efforts of Air Marshal Wheaton who had just landed his single prop pitch-side not 2 hours before. Selflessly lurking on the wing all game had finally payed off when he took off down the touchline, leaving their entire backline in the dust. A final (and laughable) attempt at a tap tackle was shrugged off by the fighter Ace, allowing him to score under the posts.
Finally, something snapped, the shock substitute for the number 10 position, had spat his dummy out. Not only had he helped us answer the age-old question ‘Who ate all the pies?’, he was about to bless us all with some quality entertainment.
The ball had only entered his orbit a handful of times before he’d had enough. His cheeks were red raw, hot to the touch. The open palm of the Imperial men’s 1st XV had struck one too many times, the toys were firmly out of the pram.
Despite attempting to bully our honourable scrum half all game, Egor wasn’t happy about Elliot’s reaction. “Don’t touch me!” He whelped (to a man the size of his breakfast), scampering to the other side of the field with tears in his eyes. “I said, don’t touch me!” he exclaimed once again, clearly misunderstanding the definition of a ‘contact sport’. The onslaught was taking a toll, and it was only about to get worse.
The pummelling continued, what a sight it was. The final score line of 55-10 had us huffing our own farts for the second week in a row. The smell of victory is sweet. The defeated team left the premises with mixed expressions. Most with a coy smile, blissfully rubbing sudocrem onto their botties, having received the treatment they’d come for. Others hanging their beer bellies in shame, waved on by ICU’s finest “See you in the new year fellas!” blows kiss