5 April
Lake Delia Part Deux
Arriving at Ravers last Saturday afternoon for the Dragons match
I was embraced by the ‘warm’ rays of the sun wafting
down on the placid waters of Lake Delia. For those who don’t
know, Lake Delia is the car park area in front of the beer tent.
Given the pleasantry nature of the weather and the calmness of the
lake many punters had opted to take gnus out on the water for a
pleasant paddle with their companions friends, buddies mates and
on at least one gnu, their enemy!
Three girls could be seen on a raft. Highly unfashionable and cheap
of course, (the raft that is).The girls all paddled furiously and
with much splashing on one side of the raft. A voice from the beer
tent, bawled, “Which one of ye wants a pint?”
A girl stood up immediately and bawled back, “good on ya!”
before she fell to
the floor of Delia amid much laughter
from her companions. "Changed times,", muttered one regular
darkly even though it was quite bright.
I’d seen enough and headed for the touchline just below the
Terrace in hope of getting a prime spot near the halfway line. I
managed to squeeze in with junior at the last available space and
settled down, standing up, to take in the sights and the sounds
of the Terrace rising steeply above, whilst I waited for the match
to begin. It was then I noticed an unusual sight coming towards
me on the little touchline tributary that runs between the touchline
fans and the massed ranks of spectators perched on the Terrace above.
It was the Original Kimble and cap’n Grumpy.
I stepped out into their path causing them to ground to a halt.
It was then I noticed the Original Mr. K was heavily disguised as
a French philosophy student.(Don't ask me why). He wore a long cream
mackintosh type coat black trousers and white guddies or trainers
as they call them nowadays. A homburg sat atop his head and with
a book on deconstructionism
by J.P. McSartre, a Scottish/French philosopher under his arm, his
disguise wore,
just that air of informality with the wrap around shades. Mr. K.
nodded vaguely in my direction and I nodded back at his book under
his arm.
“Deconstuctionism huh?”
“Yes, you know how it is," Mr. K said wearily, “
your in an airport, lights flash, engines scream, announcements
blurt out over loudspeakers, people rush around and suddenly your
plane takes off without you.”
“Yes, I know,” I replied wearily, “Aldergrove
International.”
Mr. K peered at me suspiciously.
The cap’n who had been until this moment uncharacteristically
quiet, burst into life, “I gave you 3 outa 5 for your marathon
post, I gave you 60%.,” he gushed effervescently
“Yes and for factual content too,” I sounded shocked.
“I would like to be one of your students cap’n, you
mark generously,” I continued.
“I can understand why that Alan Solomons Mark 2 chap wanted
to keep in touch re the trapezoidal, quantum, qualitative, ergonomic
properties of a generic, globular mollusc by algebraic formulaic
comparison,” I said, without pausing, repetition, deviation
or hesitation.
The cap’n was suddenly serious. The build up to his marathon
relay effort had begun and the decline of his waistline was uppermost
in his thoughts.
“I’ve lost a stone,” he boomed.
I wondered why he had ever found a stone in the first place, was
he going to throw it at someone? Very uncharacteristic I thought.
“I haven’t run for fifteen years,” interjected
the Original Mr. K, another marathon entrant, his beard grew longer
with every syllable of that last statement. This from someone whose
theme tune is, ‘Keep on Running’!!
The cap’n though was keen to develop the theme of his new
running diet which prohibited him from copious quantities of fish
and ships.
We were interrupted from this reverie by Mr. K whose head had lurched
alarmingly to one side, as cocked, like a sparrow listening for
the early worm. He was peering high into the Terrace in the general
direction of the kee klamp commentary box from which gusher Neilly
broadcast's the match events to the nation. A Japanese flag fluttered
in the stiff breeze nearby.
“Banzai! we must go,” shouted Mr. K. suddenly. It was
then I noticed the cap’n carried a Tesco 4 pint beer carrier
carton with 3 pints of the black stuff and a pint of amber nectar.
Mr. K. was appended to something similar.
"You'll be having a few during the game then cap'n?" I
nodded towards the beer carrier. Without saying anything he took
out a pint of the black stuff and laid it on the ground. Muttering
a quick prayer, he offered up his Guinness to the gods before his
ascent to the second barrier and beyond. With that he and Mr. K
departed.
Scanning the Terrace during the match I could see cap'n Grumpy
high up on his perch at the barrier, a huge 'X' hung in the sky
beside him where The Original Mr. K. would normally stand. I knew
there was a caption competition on but this was ridiculous, you
could hardly miss that big axe.
The Terrace represents a vibrant and colourful sight on match days
like these. The flags fairly flutter in the breeze, the scarves
colour the generally drab anoraks and jackets that most people wear,
the families huddle together, groups of supporters stand around
and natter and there is a general air of a medieval tournament about
the whole thing. Then there is of course the eccentrics
who glue the whole shebang together, blended with the dilapidated
and antiquated nature of Ravenhill. All combine to create an eccentricity
that will undoubtedly be missed when Ravenhill is redeveloped.
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