Rugby For Dummies

It was 7.30am on a grim Sunday morning and time for PoshMum to get up. Oh G*d, her head – it was as if two Canadian lumberjacks were hacking at her skull with a bucking saw! Dinner parties at Lucinda’s was ended this way – a fine Meursault with the first course, a wonderful dark red Pinot Noir for the second and then they practically forced her to drink those two glasses of Calvados! Now her eyes were puffy and gritty, her head was clanging like the great Bell of Bow, and a small field creature appeared to have crawled into her throat and died. PoshMum uttered a quiet groan and tried to roll out of bed in one smooth movement (to minimise the thudding wrath of the hangover she so richly deserved). She failed; tottering to the bathroom, she peeked through the shutters and moaned anew – it was pi**ing with rain, and with PoshHuband on a Partnership Conference in Cannes it was her turn to carpool four boys to the rugby tournament in Canterbury. Blast! That was it - she was giving up wine for Lent! And Calvados. PoshMum tiptoed gingerly up the stairs to Jerzy the manny’s private lair in the loft extention and croakily demanded that he arise forthwith. Jerzy (who was also indisposed, having overindulged at his favourite Earls Court hang-out) was peremptorily ordered out of bed and told to get ChildrenOne and Two into their rugby kit and at the breakfast table toute suite! Stomach lurching at the very thought of food, she tottered angrily down again – what was the actual point of Jerzy? He ate them out of house and home, never played football with the boys and constantly overslept. He could at least step up to the plate on the rare occasions she was ‘ill’. Useless lump!

One Diet Coke, two Panadol and a double expresso later, a somewhat jittery and snappish PoshMum was peering into her white bespoke wardrobe and wrestling with the thorny problem of practical chic. Mini-rugby practice was the religion of choice in Dulwich Village; while PoshMum had absolutely not clue one as to how it was actually played, she relished the weekly style challenge and the place was simply heaving with the ‘right sort’ of people – the six figure income dads and pukka English SAHM’s that comprised her target audience. Hell would freeze over before she missed one of the matches, despite her utter loathing of the penetrating cold, the driving rain, smelly dogs and ankle deep mud. Rugby-schmugby – it was all about her ‘look’! Now – what could she wear that was simultaneously fashionable and water-proof? Ah yes; today she would be mostly wearing a black Joseph polo neck, skinny jeans (Superfine, not Seven - much too popular these days) tucked into a pair of piratical Popper boots from the Celtic Sheepskin Company. She topped this off with a tweed shooting jacket (a prized find in an Oxfam shop in North Devon, she liked to pretend it was a hand-me-down from her mother) and a jaunty Barmah leather hat. There – all that was needed now was some industrial strength concealer, a bit of lippy, her beloved sun glasses and another Diet Coke. Then she would be ready to face the rugby crowd.

It took her two hours to find the rugby ground (located in a particularly obscure corner of Kent) and the yammering din from the boys in the back seat did her temper (and her head) no good at all. The bumpy drive along the narrow, muddy lane to the club house was also quite unhelpful – never mind; she knew that uber-posh dads Nigel Rees-Williams (a big cheese at Merrill Lynch and someone that PoshHubby was keen to cosy up to) and barrister Jonathan Flynn-Saville (listed in the Legal 500 as a leading Junior, rolling in pots of money and recently divorced) would be there. She intended to flirt with them both shamelessly. She hopped down from the car, pulled on her neoprene lined Le Chameau wellies and went in search of the action, as it were.

PoshMum stood on the edge of the pitch (the ‘touch line’?) huddled under the massive golf umbrella that she had sweetly offered to share with Jonathan Flynn-Saville – alas, he was far to butch and preferred to prowl the field in time with the play, bellowing a stream of advice and encouragement (interspersed with the odd howl of anguish) at their team of shivering, nine year old boys. PoshMum was somewhat miffed – apart from a cursory greeting he paid no attention to her at all, and was not even tempted by her extra large thermos of tea, or the Duchy Originals bacon sandwiches she had made Jerzy prepare. Perhaps the fact that she had no idea when he asked what position ChildOne played (Second Row by the way) might have something to do with it – oops! PoshMum drew the collar of her jacket above her ears and scowled - she was failing to make a good impression on Nigel Rees-Williams too. There he stood chatting away with Arabella Fothergill, who was top of the ‘no artifice needed’ league of posh mum. With her greying hair, muddy dog and ancient Hunter wellies (most definitely not the cool new ones) she had no time for PoshMum, who in turn, found her dishevellment highly amusing. Feeling somewhat left out, PoshMum sidled up to them and tried to sneak her way in to their conversation, but totally ‘dropped the ball’ by cheering a conversion from the other team (she had failed to notice that they had swapped round at half time). Mortifying - she was utterly shamed in front of her rival.

“Oh dear, someone with two rugger mad boys really ought to learn a bit about rugby, don’t you think?” laughed Arabella witheringly.

“Quite right, as usual Arabella! Honestly, what a feather brain I am!” said PoshMum thinking on her feet, “Nigel, you’ll help me won’t you? It really is embarrassing, I’m just so clueless, you see!” [insert tinkling, girlish laugh and tilt the head on one side a la Princess Di].

How could any gentleman resist such an appeal? The rest of the match was actually quite enjoyable; Nigel and PoshMum got on like a house on fire, Arabella stumped off in a huff and she got to extend an invitation, which meant that PoshHubby would soon gain the valuable contact he wanted.

“A job well done.” thought PoshMum as she drove the boys home, “Now, I wonder if Amazon Marketplace have any spare copies of “Rugby for Dummies?”.