Champions!

So, a mighty fine result on the hockey field yesterday when our supersonic squad of over 35s (see photo below) finally won the National Womens 'Masters' Plate final. A translation:

1. 'Masters' = old fuckers over 35

2. Plate = teams who get knocked out in the first round of the National cup by some evil giantkilling team of butch birds, only to rise from the testesterone-fuelled ashes and have a second go in the Plate competition

We did like to make the usual hard work of it – firstly having to get to Old Loughts (yes, pronounced Louts, perfect name for stick wielding moose) somewhere in the arse end of Essex by 8.50am… the only upside being a nice drive over Tower Bridge, again feeling middle aged as I admired the rather impressive architecture of the archway bits and the view of the Gherkin and Tower of London.

Was all terribly official with wrist bands allocated to players so we could get pitch access, having to line up and walk out side by side with our oppo up the halfway line, then split out like synchro swimmers into one long line, then do the rapid masculine handshake as we walked down the line of opposition gamely saying 'good luck, good luck, yep cheers, good luck, (you're going down in flames), good game, thanks, good luck, cheers (lose you ugly suckers), good luck etc''). Like a wedding line up, without the spaghetti straps. And even had our hockey sticks passed through a metal ring that checks you're not wielding a nail-studded Flintstone club of epic proportions… la de dah de dah, get us and our professionalism…

And then we promptly went 0-1 down in the first five minutes as we hadn't woken up yet and I hadn't quite shaken off the third large Absolut Pear vodka and orange from the night before (its a great drink if you haven't tried it,. their flavoured voddies are cracking)

Only to then go gloriously 4-2 up, with ten minutes to go and seemingly have it in the bag against our (actually quite nice) opp of Kettering with their dodgy Midlands accents

To then go bloody hell 4-4 with mere nano seconds to go (fortunately I was off the pitch at this point so it wasn't my fault for once!)

And then just squeak a win on the 5 penalty flicks each team does at the end (not including numpties like me thank god) - hurrah!

Cue great relief, one very happy Mary Greenham our captain, bubbly flowing and some of the tackiest medals known to man, clearly rescued from a boys boxing club in the 1970s. If you say 'well we're the National Plate Champions and say the 'Plate' bit really quietly, it sounds most impressive!

And then went out to see War Horse (yes, I know, a bit slow off the blocks) for a bit of sisterly bonding on Sat night (lucky H in the babysitting seat) which is very good, bloody clever how they do the horses,even more amazing how their knees and backs cope with either being squished or bent for hours on end (oh no, its that middle age thing again) and not half as sad as I thought it would be, so all good there too.

A mighty fine Saturday all round – hope yours was corking too and that we're all making the most of the sun before the Icelandic Ash comes and smothers it in grey matter.

Here's to Spring having finally Sprung x x x