I’ve lost a bit of enthusiasm for the rugby football. Normally I would have purchased my season ticket by now, would have spent the summer working out my first choice starting fifteen and could even be querying what Malcolm Preedy might think about Gloucester Rugby’s chances for the forthcoming campaign. I would certainly have attended any pre-season friendlies but yesterday I opted to give the match against Glasgow a miss and instead helped construct a stunning composting area on our front lawn using stakes and wooden palettes. By all accounts, the occasion was fairly typical pre-season fare with mistakes galore and the cherry-wearing fellows making heavy weather of it. Our lads ne’er do themselves justice when there isn’t an ‘r’ in the month. I’m not sure what has caused my lack of zest. I certainly was much more excited about the team’s adventures twenty years or so ago when the fifteen was made up of local heroes who rampaged round the park for nought but pride although the standard of football is much higher these days and I still have my huge favourites from the modern era (the young prince Simpson-Daniel, the noble Boer, the expressionist aesthete-cum-athlete Forrester). The season’s structure bothers me too; I’m tired of the play-off system but even more wearied by the seemingly blind acceptance with which it has been greeted by so many Gloucester supporters. I’m sad that I’ll never be able to salute my team as champions because finishing top means nothing and winning the championship final means even less to this old-fashioned saddo. Luckily in the Heineken Cup there is a trophy with gravitas and dignity and I find myself supporting these fixtures with added zeal. Sorry for such a negative posting. I’ll endeavour to snap out of my maudlin aspect in time for next week’s opener against those Tigers.
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