Yesterday, I booked flights for myself and the Bullet to the East Midlands airport. I don’t know why: it just seemed like the right thing to do. Gonad has a brother, (whose name I don’t know, you’ll be glad to hear – just as well he hasn’t a sister) and it seems he runs a hotel in Nottingham, so we’ll stay there. The plan is to get a train to Cardiff, which seems like a pretty good idea. If you had tickets for the game it would be a good idea, but that isn’t a position I can claim to be in at the moment.
I went for a few pints to Jerry Flannery’s last night, fully expecting that they’d have a bag of tickets behind the bar: how many would ye like, lads? Ah no, that’s all right. They’re free. To my amazement, not only were they not free, but they weren’t there at all. I’m never going back. As an aside, I have to tell you that Old Jerry is looking better than he has in ages, and why wouldn’t he? Young Jerry just looks mean.
I don’t know what to do about tickets. I’m hoping that things will unfold as they ought to in a karmic sort of way, and that eventually fate will deliver two tickets unto us, thus maintaining the harmony of the universe. Either that or Bruff RFC.
If any of Bock’s people would like to donate tickets, naturally I will carve your name in the granite of the Bockschloss, for all men to honour to the end of days.