I've got time to kill...

Consuming sunshine, peaches and coffee on the patio. From moon-waxing climax to golden Morning Glory... after months of gloomy 4 o'clock  sunsets, the gods are making-light like sex-starved mortals.



I sent HW off to work this morning with a full flask and a sugar mouse, after a lovely buttered-toast filled evening in. We watched Princess Bride, perfected our smoke-ring skills. Chatted///

Buttercup: "You can die too for all I care"

 (Pushes him down a hill)

Man in black: "AS...YOU...WISH" 

(As he rolls down hill)

Buttercup: "Oh my dear Westley, what have I done?!"

(Jumps down hill after him)

What I'd give to have either of these moments in real life!

*******

The shocking disappointment of England's Grand Slam shambles didn't stop us beating our sheep-loving neighbours by 42 points to win the 6-Nations Championship.  True, my love for the team was rather narrowed down to the number 16 Hooker, and Johnny (<3 forever) But Rugby has the power to wrest a number of passionate expletives from me that no other sport has even the vaguest ability to match. Except maybe Curling. And Thumb-War.

So, what's so good about rugby? And, to broaden out the question, what's so fucking irritating about football? It never fails to amaze me, for example, that my 12 year old brother can absorb match after match of what looks to me like second division Spanish league kick-arounds in various sunny Mediterranean rec's, then go on to devour a double-dose of Match of the Day Highlights before his nightly fifa session. Meanwhile the sight of a hair-slicked olive-skinned youth diving - no, rather plunging into the penalty area like a five year old having a tantrum - is enough to make me switch over to Antiques Roadshow for something that's a bit more of a thrill.

Yet the answer isn't as simple as "Rugby players don't dive." Respect for the forwards' Man Up and Carry On attitude certainly contributes towards my admiration, but I'm pretty sure it's got more to do with the definition of their leg muscles as they brace against the scrum. I'm faintly ashamed to admit, that whenever the ref shouts "Crouch, Touch, Engage" and the camera-man angles up the shorts, I appreciatively add that's what she said. Rugby players wear straps to hold their thighs together, for crying out loud! They fight, they launch headfirst against forces equivalent to a car-crash - literally, they put their necks on the line to push their team towards victory. And despite the second-rowers' penchant for thrusting, and the general tightness of the lads' kit, they play a damn straight sport.  

Gracing the Bath ground recently, my mum and I displayed a disgraceful amount of sexist favoritism; deciding who were the most talented wingers/fly-half's and cheering them on enthusiastically throughout the match... regardless of which team they were on. As they lined up to sing the anthem, facing blissfully away from us, the girls in our stand took a Unanimous Sigh at the Great Sight. The average Prop may weigh 20st, and you may spot more Cauliflower ears in a single Scrum than there are in Alan Titchmarsh's vegetable patch, but if the lovely Zara Phillips can resist looking down her royal nose at Mike Tindall's own wonky honker, it goes to prove my point that theres something about Rugby Players which attracts.

Perhaps it's that same age-old something that pushed pre-historic ladies' buttons... The something that has endured evolution, regardless of the relationship revolution brought about by selective dating-sites, long-distance love, and a wave of empowered women bearing briefcases and ball-breaking stilettos.

Take Bridget Jones, who secured her Mr Darcy by vowing not to take any more shit from lousy Thai-ladyboy-shaggers. Yet her post-Darcy diary delights in the deliciousness of seeing him come to her rescue re: bailing her out of jail and saving her career. I am sure there were stone and bronze age Bridgets, to whom the thrill of seeing their man go thundering into action, confident that he'd bring something dead and Bambi-like back to the cave for the midnight post-sex snack, was the strongest aphrodesiac they knew.
I quite like the fact that I have some link, some remnant in me of the girls who got away with skipping around in a leopard-print bikini number all day long, eating mammoth steak and shooing sabre-tooths away from the cave.
(Which also explains the compulsory half-time Pasty)

That's my latest theory, anyway///