February 19, 2006

• 
  
  
  
  

  More Morris pics, less rugger pics. None of us wants to see hairy-legged men.

  
  

  I'm sorry?  You think that Morris doesn't involve hairy-legged men?  What planet are you on, mate? (there is manic updating going on here, as I really don't want to be cutting and sticking photos for Guides). It is, of course, de rigeur to sit and work out who has the best calf muscles.  Yes, the ones at the back, in the green silk, belong to a woman.

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  Left to Right, Gorgeous Gordon, Delectable Diane and Gregarious Guy.  All proving that, yes, morris dancing gives you calf muscles that will rival those of football players.  Personally, I just find it makes it difficult to buy knee high boots to fit.  However, I have dinky feet.

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  Of, course, if it's a slightly fairy-like party, you have to dress up in the spirit of things. Jameson is quite, quite wonderful, and got me safely home despite a bit of an accident involving some red wine, and all the compromising photographs.  I haven't posted all of them. 

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  Meanwhile, the wand was something that every girl wanted to pose with.  And every boy was mesmerised by.  I mean, it sparkles and flashes (and falls to bits, but that's beside the point.  It is now held together with sticky tape. I still love it to bit.  Yes, the girl standing in the background having a drink is wearing a wedding dress.  I mean, you have to get the wear out of the things).

  
  

  

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  This wasn't to say that a degree of debonair sophistication wasn't lent to the proceedings (when I wasn't learning the rude version of "Green Grow the Rushes", or enjoying the best, close harmony, version of "Oh you'll never get to heaven" that I've ever sung, ever ever ever.  And probably ever will).  Even if we were eating asparagus.  Some men know how to open champagne bottles.  They're born knowing how.  You'll have to just believet that it's champagne. An empty bottle of Coats do Roam got in the way.

  
  

  And, then, there's the Rugby.  Totally out of chronological order.  For which I apologise profusely.  Here.  Have some knitting (Friday night) to distract you from all those hairy legs and what has been described as 'the best bunch of bums I've seen in ages'.

  
  

   

  
  

  The best bunch of bums that Fiona's seen in ages (this is one of the few bons mots I can remember).

  
  

   Just look at them.  The whole point of rugby is that it's kinda like male mud wrestling (Eff's description this morning, with hangover, bravely trying not to get hypothermia.  It was a little heavy for both of us, drink wise, last night).  There's a distinct lack of mud here.  Today, there was lots of mud. Lots of falling over.  I did not take pictures.  There was no point.

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  However, I am considering an alternative career in sports' photography.  I got some corkers, and without the benefit of a long distance lens.  I rock.  I am amazing.  I hope that my photos are featured on the team website, or in presentations, or something. 

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  OK.  The photo pixies were with me.   Sometimes.  The bottom photo is one of those ones where I think the pixies ought to have been with me, but when they blatently weren't.  The sun had gone in at that point (minature cloud).  It was cold.  It was colder today.  And it started raining after I left.

  
  

   

  
  

  OK.  I must stick things down.

  
  

  xxx

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  • 11:15 am
  • 3 Comments