Banners, Blizzards and Bed sheets

“And just where do you think you are going with that sheet?” enquired Mrs Tok, in her matronly Scottish accent.
“Oh, just off to the annex to do a bit of decorating,” I replied nonchalantly, and before she could say “One and sixpence” I was out the door like a rat up a drain pipe.
Making banners is a time consuming pastime, a bit like watching paint dry! First of all one has to think of something slightly smart to say. Then one has to persuade the Cap’n that it will be appreciated by the Great Unwashed and Sky Pundits alike. Having failed to do either, I proceeded to paint out the battle flag for The Llanelli Game, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing out in the mid Atlantic and purposefully heading towards Raving Hill. First the letters – poster paint is quick and cheap, then the mythical symbol in acrylic.
“And just how long did that take?” asked the Great Inquisitor as I tried to sneak the redecorated bed linen past her and back into the Hacienda. “Oh, just a few hours”, I lied. “Well it would have been time better spent painting the ceiling, she retorted. (“Strange that, I thought that was Michael Angelo’s job….”)
The great day arrived and, ignoring the weather forecast, I furled said banner, placed it in the boot of the car and headed for the Great Showdown. Upon meeting the Second Barrier Crew on the heights of the Terrace, the banner was unfurled to gasps of, “What does it say?” and “Why is there a prawn on it?” and “What does Jagamarra mean – some kind of strange Scottish greeting?” Stupid, uneducated louts – don’t they know a mythical beast when they see one.
Justin certainly recognised it – but a wee thumbs up was as good as it got. We played with the wind and the Welsh played with us. The mood grew dark and the sky grew darker. Soon the grey clouds, heavy with rain were sweeping in from Armagh, (where it is always grey) and scudding across the city skyline. But still we hoisted the banner to the gale, Mid Ulster Maestro busy on his mobile to the control tower at City Airport trying to file a flight path.
At first it was only a wee skiff of rain, but soon it turned to drizzle, then a steady downpour. “Why are your hands covered in black paint?” asked Wee Kimble, formerly my personal trainer but now a dedicated sceptic of all things fatherly.
“Yikes,” I cried, as my finely painted banner slowly dissolved before my eyes. Then came a deluge, then a blizzard of sleet. Mid Ulster stopped trying to get through to the City and rang the Coastguard instead. Supporters were leaving by the thousand. “Heading for the Ark, no doubt”, I thought. The banner was flung on the terrace – personal survival became the watchword. Apparently they were still trying to play rugger on the pitch – at least the Welsh were. Our lads were hunkered down in the teeth of the gale, eyes blinded by driving sleet, wondering how to play water polo. I have it on good authority that Llanelli scored two late tries, but none of us saw them.
Then the ref pointed to the stand, the teams sprinted off, Rooster took a photo of two intrepid Arctic explorers trying to pitch a bivouac on the treacherous slopes of Raving Hill, and the result passed into history. We gave up. We attempted to rescue the banner but to no avail. Black paint flowed everywhere. There was now a grave risk we could be mistaken for two travelling Welsh coal miners. Goodbye Heineken Cup, Goodbye Raving Hill, Goodbye Banner. On the way out of the ground I could have sworn I caught sight of Scott of the Antarctic. “Lost again,” I shouted. I don’t think he got my drift.
All weekend the banner lay forlorn, abandoned to the elements. First on the terrace, then with all the rest of the detritus in a corner at the back of the stand. But then I reflected on what will no doubt be a day that goes down in history for all the wrong reasons and realised my mistake. That banner must fly again. So, early on Monday morning I went back to Raving Hill. “May I have my banner back?” I asked, with little hope of ever seeing it again. But there it was, various shades of light and dark grey, bedraggled, blasted, ruined……but still legible. The patina of battle, I thought. Gathering it up, I furled it once more.
And so some day it will fly again…..

SCOOP