Cake is from www.funcakes.co.ukJust found this archived news article from the Yorkshire Evening post. Even as a non football apprieciating woman I can see the funny side!
IT should have been the perfect weekend but the Missus had to go and spoil it.
Trust her to have a friend inconsiderate enough to stage some sort of event on a day of such manna from the gods of sport.To be honest, I'm still not quite sure what the event in question was. Just before I sidestepped into the TV lounge at the hotel I saw a big cake and someone in a white dress but sport was calling so I didn't hang around.Luckily I wasn't alone.There were about six blokes already in there and despite our unconvincing macho posturing – "So I just told her, didn't I? I'm watching the game" – we all looked nervously at the door every time it creaked open.I'm not going to lie to you, we lost a couple of casualties along the way. One missus literally dragged her bloke out by his ear telling him, 'She's your bloody sister, for God's sake, Brian, and you're missing her wedding!"Those left behind glanced at each other with knowing looks. Any of us could be next.It was like that scene in The Deer Hunter when they're waiting to see which one's going to be pulled into the hut to play Russian Roulette.At least it cleared one thing up. We were at some sort of wedding.
After draining our beers, we all pretended we weren't thinking about running the gauntlet of going to the bar and risking getting collared.Finally, someone cracked."I'll go," he said, in a wavering voice that, for all his bravery, betrayed the nerves of a man about to embark on a mission behind enemy lines.He was gone for 10 minutes of the second half and when he did return it was clear he had witnessed things no man should ever have to see."It was terrible... there was a George Michael impersonator in there," he shivered as we patted him on the back and told him it was okay, he was safe now.As the game came to its victorious conclusion we hugged like brothers, our friendships forged in the white heat of battle against a determined and ruthless adversary.And then we went our separate ways... to face the inevitable firing squad.
Trust her to have a friend inconsiderate enough to stage some sort of event on a day of such manna from the gods of sport.To be honest, I'm still not quite sure what the event in question was. Just before I sidestepped into the TV lounge at the hotel I saw a big cake and someone in a white dress but sport was calling so I didn't hang around.Luckily I wasn't alone.There were about six blokes already in there and despite our unconvincing macho posturing – "So I just told her, didn't I? I'm watching the game" – we all looked nervously at the door every time it creaked open.I'm not going to lie to you, we lost a couple of casualties along the way. One missus literally dragged her bloke out by his ear telling him, 'She's your bloody sister, for God's sake, Brian, and you're missing her wedding!"Those left behind glanced at each other with knowing looks. Any of us could be next.It was like that scene in The Deer Hunter when they're waiting to see which one's going to be pulled into the hut to play Russian Roulette.At least it cleared one thing up. We were at some sort of wedding.
After draining our beers, we all pretended we weren't thinking about running the gauntlet of going to the bar and risking getting collared.Finally, someone cracked."I'll go," he said, in a wavering voice that, for all his bravery, betrayed the nerves of a man about to embark on a mission behind enemy lines.He was gone for 10 minutes of the second half and when he did return it was clear he had witnessed things no man should ever have to see."It was terrible... there was a George Michael impersonator in there," he shivered as we patted him on the back and told him it was okay, he was safe now.As the game came to its victorious conclusion we hugged like brothers, our friendships forged in the white heat of battle against a determined and ruthless adversary.And then we went our separate ways... to face the inevitable firing squad.
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