What goes on tour...

If it's April it's Rugby Tour. This year the theme was Christmas, and there were seven snowmen, five elves,eight Santas, one Jacob Morley and a Tree.  I wore a hat.

Monkey Rugby - by mochida1970

As a punishment for our disappointing costumes the judge sentenced four other pitch-side grinches and I to an hour each in the monkey suit.

This tour I had a staunch ally in my long standing resistance to fancy dress and themes of all sorts: my mate Chopin (who was conveniently too tall for the monkey suit) and he and made a pledge of mutual rebellion and steadfastness in the face of silly costumes. 

On the first evening I texted Mrs Botogol at home : Chopin & I r rebelling. we r nt sheep we r indvdls wth r own mnds

Mrs Botogol texted back  Don't tell me - have you two gone out to the pub together? 

yes how did u kno?

When we got back to the site Chopin and I had to run a gauntlet of angry pixies to get back to our caravan where our respective offspring were waiting. I confidently expected to bask in their admiration - "Just wear the monkey suit why don't you?" said my more socially compliant son.

Well, I'm pretty pleased with it...

The end of season video, that is.

I just wish I had a pound for every hour I spent editing it, because, well....I'd have £30 now. (No, you're right: it shouldn't be that hard. Let's just say I'm two codecs short of a Blu-Ray)

Still, it turned out all right in the end, I reckon.
OK then: volume up to 11 before you press play... and...action...

I'm with Wayne Barnes

U11s run a lot faster than U10s and this season sometimes referees - even super-fit triathletes - find it hard to keep up. So, at two tries each, with three minutes to go, when the super-fast left wing was caught by the full back in the far corner, well I was just very glad I had a touch judge, and when his flag shot up it was a simple matter to call a line out 5m back.

"Line-out??" said the TJ indignantly, "Line out????? He wasn't out! That was a try!"

Now, I might not have the prestige of Wayne Barnes, but on my side I have many more years of experience, and I knew what I was doing:

"But..", said I, "...but you put your flag up!"

"Yes of course I did! I was signalling a try!"

There was a short pause, punctuated only by very troubled 11 year olds

"Ummm, yes,.. sorry about that, ref", he said, (delightfully sheepish, now) "I was, um, excited ... but it was a try"


I don't suppose this situation comes up very often for it's not mentioned in the Continuum. So I pondered for a moment, surrounded by 11yr olds with points of view, and it didn't take me long.

"Sorry boys, silly mix-up. Try given"

The boys were fine about it, I relaxed, problem solved.

Except for ....except for.... over on far, touchline a small group of parents were incensed "Oi Ref! But he put his flag up! Oi Ref, what are you doing? It's a line out, surely"

There are a great many hand signals available to the rugby referee, but they don't include anything for "Sorry, everyone, but the touch judge is a prat"

So I had to make one up. I'm altogether not certain it worked, but touch judge understood which, after all, was the important thing.

Simplifying My Life

I could kick myself.

Really: what's the point of having a World Cup Wall Chart if I don't read it? What an idiot.

In my defence: I never seriously thought England had a chance of making the semi-finals; but obviously I would have at least pencilled it in to the calendar, wouldn't I? You would think so, wouldn't you? A clue: 'no'.

So, at 8pm on Saturday England will play France in the semi-final of the World Cup..... and Mrs Botogol and I will be at a gay poetry reading.


Early this morning, thundering four abreast on our hardtails down the tow path at Ham, my friend announced he was simplifying his life. We were surprised, we said. On whole, we told him, he seemed pretty simple to us already. No, he said, by simplifying he meant he was jettisoning the unnecessary, the distracting, the inconsequential and the inessential in his life.

Well, we naturally assumed he was dumping us and we were a trifle miffed. "What, after all these years?", we asked, and I quickly mentioned the inner tube he still owes me.

But it turned out he didn't mean us at all. He meant... well.... So far as I could gather he meant he couldn't make the poker school at the Cabbage Patch of a Wednesday evening.

Simplify his life. And he's not even a Quaker (#41)

But maybe he has a point; maybe you CAN'T follow rugby AND go to gay poetry evenings.
Not in the long run.

Trying Times

This last week I have been mostly watching rugby.

One week down, three long weeks to go.

Last Thursday my son and I pinned up the Times World Cup Wall Chart in the same, prominent place that Mrs Botogol has accorded all world cup wall-charts since 1995 - the inside of the coat cupboard door - and on the Friday evening we solemnly inked in the humiliation of France. Then we lost interest in the chart, and since then haven't entered a single result. Something to do with watching England I think. And tripping.

When I haven't been watching Rugby on the television, I have been watching it in the flesh, and when I haven't been watching it in the flesh, I've been coaching it, and when I haven't been coaching it I've been refereeing it, and when I haven't been refereeing it I have been talking about it at dinner parties. (A thought: is there too much rugby in my life? Can there be too much rugby in anyone's life?).

When I sit and think about it, I don't know why I even watch the pool stages of the World Cup: an endless procession of well meaning, brave but ultimately hapless minnows bullied and overcome by a ruthless, foreign superior force with whom they simply can't compete. I mean: if I want to see that, I can see it at work.

At work, my boss's boss has a new boss. Not that anyone has left: No, the new boss (my great-grand-boss you might say) is an extra layer of management inserted between my boss's boss and his boss. The uber-boss. We call him the uber-boss - the other middle managers and I - because he's as far up the chain as we can imagine. We are told on the intranet that the uber-boss himself has a boss, but emotionally it's hard to conceive what such a person would be like - a person of whom it is said that he reports to the ur-boss himself, the CEO, the one who appears on the webcasts.

When I say that no one has left, I should say: no one has left yet, for last week the minnows actually got to meet the Kwisatch Haderach [my great-grand-boss. Yes the new one...keep up] and, well, let's just say I reckon we are in only the pool stages of the RWC of our next grand re-organisation, that the charts are not dry on next week's powerpoint and at high levels some yellow card offences have been noted: Lack of directio, Disorganisation,Tripping. That sort of thing.


Why is tripping so bad in the list of Rugby sins anyway? For there is no two ways about it: in the hierarchy of grievousness tripping occupies a top spot: worse than punching, trampling, stamping, testicle squeezing and eye gouging, not as bad as biting, spear tackling or failing to get your round in.

Goodness, I once saw an eight year old sent off for tripping.

Although, oddly enough, it was his father he tripped; who was also the coach; and the referee. Fortunately you normally get tripped only if you are carrying the ball.