Agent Ned reporting in: still deep under cover, stashing the Maketu good stuff around the countryside. Don’t think the locals are on to me yet. They’re too interested in eating something called a Pasty, which is clearly missing an ‘r’.
Took a detour to Somerset over the weekend to keep my cover going. Bath, to be precise, which is a perfectly charming town in the middle of nowhere on the basis that it has a hot spring. (Nothing to make Rotorua tremble, mind.)
The Romans liked a bit of a wash, so they called the place Bath. Built a bit of a shed over the pond, and the Pongos extended it a bit a few years later with a tea rooms where Jane Austen invited Georgette Heyer for a cuppa and scone. Or something like that.
Lovely spot, and it just so happened that Bath was playing Wasps on Saturday afternoon. Unfortunately the place was swarming with braying blue-bloods so I couldn’t get a ticket. Instead I had to sit in a pub and swallow a dozen warm ales while saying in a very loud voice how fabulous the local players were, don’t change a thing, you’ll go the whole way lad.
On Sunday afternoon I found another pub and watched London Welsh play Leicester, mainly so I could see how Piri Weepu was getting on with his Welsh cousins. Unfortunately we have to use the word ‘play’ in a very loose way for London Welsh. They’re 0 and 13 for the season, and no hope for surviving. Poor old Piri looks grumpy as: he’s still got the wild man beard going, which is farily useful for a Pongo winter, and I sure hope he’s being paid in the folding stuff, but clearly he’d rather be pushing Wainuiomata around the park.
I can’t say that any of what I saw from any club would strike terror into Shag’s heart: all very much by the numbers, with nothing of any consequence happening in midfield.
What they really need to do is start a team called London Polynesians, and rope in all the cuzzies from the big teams. They need to be playing for love, not money.
Oh, that’s right, I’m undercover. Carry on gentlemen, you’re doing wonderfully well.