To the Table of Dreams! …on Christmas Day morning. #OddJase, Odd Wifey as well. But what else are we going to do? Morning Service down at the Church? I don’t think so. Wiff waff is my religion of late. The Table of Dreams is my high altar of choice.
It was also the choice of some big BRUTE in the past day or so who had trampled their muddy size twelves all over it. Some people. Filthy fuckers. You dirty dog, etc.
Hey hoe. We pressed on with the extra heavy wind ball. This wasn’t ideal conditions for the annual contesting of the Christmas Cup. Spoiler alert: there isn’t really a Christmas Cup. But we play for it every year anyway.
Along with the wind ball, I was wearing my wellies. It was quite a sight with the steady passing procession of Christmas walking families thinking wtf are these two oddballs doing on Christmas Day.
HAVE A GOOD ONE, etc.
I was actually having a bloody good one. 2-1 up, in a best of five to bag the Christmas Cup. Steady the buffers, luv. It all came crashing down with a predictable 3-2 defeat for me.
Second in the Christmas Cup can still be celebrated, right?
