So it’s a sunday morning and although the sun is shining it is tad chilly, The local football teams are due to play on the top pitches and to be honest I think they could get a soaking. They will definitely get windswept!
How times have changed since I played sunday morning football, in my day the first players on site would string the nets up on goalposts that were bent, rusty and wobbly. Then into the changing room/shed/container, empty the kit out of a bin bag to find the kit is still damp and there’s only 21 socks. Most of the team are there with ten minutes to go to kick off, but, there would always be someone who overindulged on a saturday night and so would be late for the game.
The referee (an eighty year old with three inch thick glasses and a pot belly) would rouse the players from the relative warm of the changing room and out we would go onto the quagmire that was loosely called a pitch to be greeted by the Neanderthal Pub XI who’s sole intent is to break as many opposition bones as possible in 90 minutes. We would lose by the unluckiest goal ever and slowly trudge off collecting the nets on the way back to the shed to find out, of the three showers, only one worked and that would be either scalding hot or freezing cold brown sludge, someone had rifled through your trousers and nicked your bus fare home and it would be your turn to wash the kit.
Oh happy days!!