Pitch inspection tomorrow

Quoted from Mayaman

Not so easy to do on a train.

Quoted from Rodley Mariner

People get so angry so quickly these days. If the pitch isn't playable at 11am then the ref and the club can't say the game is definitely on but if they think it's realistic it will be playable by 3pm then it seems right they don't call it off and do what they can. I'll have to leave before 1 but I'll have Humberside on and if it's off I'll swing round and go home.

Quoted from Rodley Mariner

What are you proposing they should have done?

Quoted from Knut Anders Fosters Voles

At junior school in spring / autumn it was the responsibility of the school dinner ladies (randomly) to test the grass at the start of lunch break to check whether the playing fields were safe enough for us to play on.

We’d all crowd around the head dinner lady, pressuring her, heckling her, intimidating her. Really getting inside her head. ‘We know where you live!’, ‘Let us on the grass you bïtch!’, ‘Are you wearing Calvin Klein Eternity? You should wear it more often’.

Of course. It would never work. The old boot was tougher than Dave Moore and twice as ugly.

It was a huge decision. Either a full size Adidas Mitre Delta on the football pitches or an airflow / tennis ball on the playground, dodging girls playing hopscotch.

You couldn’t pick teams until a decision was made either. You’d look a right muppet if you’d picked a team of cloggers who could welly the ball a long way up the field (the standard formation was 5-0-5) and ended up on the playground being tiki taka’d around the asphalt by a gaggle of small-footed geniuses.

Although it was the 90s, you’d think, you’d hope, that the varicose spinster would at least have had some sort of Japanese moisture meter to measure the dampness of the grass.

Alas. We were not dealing with a sophisticated lady. She almost certainly wiped forwards.

Instead, all she had was her leathery hands, years of nous and a hatred of males. She’d string it out like a Neapolitan washing line. Eating into the pitch time in one of England’s first and finest examples of clock managing shïthousery.

Then the inevitable shake of the head. A smirk lingering longer than her husband during their marriage.

There’d be wails from us all. ‘I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU’. The captains would speedily try and salvage the lunch match by working out which pre-pubescent boy still had the cojones to deal with this desperate disappointment. Others would go full breakdown and start crowding the dinner lady in a degrading attempt to make her change her decision.

She never would. She’d just stroll off. Still smirking. Unwilling to discuss it for at least an hour. By which time we’d be back in the classroom nursing all kinds of grazes, broken toes and dislocated ankles from dribbling this mouldy tennis ball around the playground for half an hour.

A brave lad would make a break for the field and knee slide across it to try to prove it’s dryness. All he’d get was a detention and a battering from his mum for ‘greening’ the legs of another pair of school trousers.

Happy days.

Quoted from Davec

Game off