by Sam Anthony
+23 minutes: Missed drop-goal.
Steve: “Johnny, what are you doing? Why is he attempting drop-goals already? It’s too soon.”
Eric: “You wouldn’t have said that if he’d scored.”
Steve: “But he didn’t.”
+28 minutes: Penalty.
Eric: “This looks promising. It’s our scrum from five metres out.”
Steve: “They’re driving. Go on, lads. Penalty!”
Serena: “For us or them?”
Eric: “For us.”
Fiona: “Why is everyone booing? Did we do something wrong?”
Steve: “Johnno just told Johnny to go for three points. Some people think it’s boring to kick all the time instead of attempting to score tries.”
Fiona: “What do you think?”
Steve: “I’m inclined to agree with them. Life is too boring if we never take any risks.”
Barney: “Now I’m confused. Which one is Johnno and which one is Johnny?”
Ollie: “Johnno is the ugly giant with the prominent forehead. He’s our captain. An inspirational leader of men. And Johnny is the handsome one your mother fancies. He’s our fly-half, so he takes all the kicks.”
Serena: “I thought you fancied Jason Robinson, Mia.”
Mia: “Can’t I lust after them both? I’ve been working on this fantasy where Jason …”
Fiona: “Mia! Not here.”
Mia: “I’ll tell you later.”
England 9 - 5 Australia
+30 minutes: Missed penalty.
Eric: “Damn it! A penalty for Australia.”
Mia: “What for?”
Ollie: “Woodman wasn’t binding properly in the scrum.”
Mia: “I don’t know what that means.”
Eric: “Don’t worry about it. Just concentrate on making Elton Flatley miss this kick.”
Serena: “Ooh, I love Candle In The Wind.”
Eric: “Different guy, babe.”
Serena: “Riverdance?”
Eric: “Not him either. Focus, everyone … Yes, he’s missed it!”
+38 minutes: Try.
Eric: “This looks promising. Dallaglio’s away.”
Steve: “He’s found Johnny. Go on!”
Ollie: “We’re going to score. Jason Robinson, you absolute legend!”
Serena: “He looks so happy.”
Mia: “Who? Eric?”
Serena: “No, Jason. He really does have beautiful eyes.”
Mia: “Thighs?”
Serena: “Eyes … And thighs.”
England 14 - 5 Australia
+39 minutes: Missed conversion.
Eric: “Bugger it! Those two wasted points could be crucial.”
Ollie: “That’s what you said earlier.”
Eric: “You mark my words. This is going to be a very close game.”
+40 minutes: Half time.
Eric: “Right, coffees for everyone, Serena. Hurry up.”
Serena: “You could get them yourself, you know.”
Eric: “I can’t. It’s traditional for you to make the coffee at half time.”
Serena: “It’s hardly a tradition. We’ve only been doing it for a couple of weeks.”
Eric: “Babe, this is the World Cup final, and we’ve only got a slender lead. So far our luck has held, but we can’t afford to jinx it now.”
Barney: “I don’t like coffee, Mum. Do I have to have it?”
Serena: “How about squash, Barney?”
Barney: “Yes, please.”
Serena: “Jemima?”
Jemima: “Vodka and Coke for me. Make it a double.”
Mia: “Jemima, you know you’re not allowed to drink alcohol until you’re eighteen.”
Jemima: “Dad lets me.”
Mia: “Do you?”
Ollie: “Hmm? Need any help in the kitchen, Serena?”
Ava: “I’ll help her, Dad.”
+46 minutes:
Steve: “Brilliant kick, Mike Tindall.”
Ollie: “Crap line-out throw, Steve Thompson. What the fuck was that?”
Fiona: “Ollie!”
Ollie: “Sorry, Fi, but they’re going to give away a …”
+47 minutes: Penalty.
“... penalty.”
England 14 - 8 Australia
+52 minutes: Missed penalty.
Steve: “Not another one. We need to tighten up our discipline.”
Ollie: “Flatley won’t miss from here. It’s right in front of the posts.”
Steve: “But it’s a big kick. It’s on target. Did that go over the bar?”
Eric: “No. Just under. God, this isn’t doing my blood pressure any good.”
+61 minutes: Penalty.
Eric: “Don’t do it, Phil Vickery. No!”
Mia: “What did he do?”
Eric: “He handled the ball in a ruck. You can’t do that. Flatley won’t miss another one.”
England 14 - 11 Australia
+69 minutes:
Ollie: “This is so painful to watch. Every time we get into a promising position we make a mistake. Just catch the bloody ball and hang on to it. Sorry, Fi.”
Fiona: “I’ve given up.”
Serena: “More coffee, anyone?”
Eric: “No! We all have to focus on the game and think positive thoughts. If we believe strongly enough, we can hang on to this lead. I want to hear you all say, ‘I believe’.”
Steve: “What?”
Eric: “You heard me. ‘I believe’ after three. One, two, three,...”
Steve and Ollie (mumbled): “I believe.”
Eric: “No, all of you. One, two, three,...”
Everyone except Jemima: “I believe (woof).”
Eric: “Louder. One, two, three,...”
Everyone except Jemima: “I BELIEVE (WOOF)!”
Eric: “Nice. That should do it.”
Jemima (muttered): “Fucking dickheads.”
+72 minutes: Missed drop-goal.
Jemima: “Well, that worked.”
Steve: “We’re in big trouble if Johnny’s taking drop goals with eight minutes to go, and missing.”
Serena: “Would it be all right if I quickly pop to the loo?”
Eric: “No!”
+76 minutes:
Steve, Eric and Ollie: (Stunned silence and nail biting.)
Fiona: “How long to go until I get my life back?”
Ollie: “Four minutes.”
Eric: “Shhhh!”
+80 minutes: Penalty.
Steve: “Noooooooooooooo!”
Eric: “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Ollie: “For fuck’s sake! It’s going to extra time.”
Fiona: “Thank goodness that’s over. Can we go home now?”
Jemima: “At last.”
Steve: “Of course we can’t go home. The scores are level. There’s twenty minutes of extra time to play. It’s still anyone’s game.”
Fiona: “You told me it would all be over in eighty minutes. You promised.”
Steve: “I thought it would be. Nobody believed the World Cup final would go to extra time.”
Mia: “Sit down, Fi. The end is in sight.”
England 14 - 14 Australia
+82 minutes: Penalty.
Eric: “Penalty! Come on, Johnny. You’ve got this.”
Ollie: “What a kick!”
Eric: “Steve, put your phone away and concentrate.”
England 17 - 14 Australia
+89 minutes: Missed drop-goal.
Steve: “Get over, get over! Jesus, another missed drop goal!”
Fiona: “Who’s he? That’s not Johnny Wilkinson.”
Steve: “Mike Catt.”
Fiona: “Ooh, I used to love The Wombles.”
Steve: “That was Mike Batt, love. Different guy.”
Ava: “He wrote The Closest Thing To Crazy on Katie Melua’s new album. Beautiful song.”
Fiona: “This guy? Number twenty-one?”
Ava: “No. M
ike Batt.”
Eric: “Please, can everyone just shut up for the next eleven minutes.”
+90 minutes: Missed drop-goal.
Steve: “Seriously? Another one.”
Ollie: “Surely, if we try enough of them, one’s got to go over.”
Eric: “Shhhh!”
+97 minutes: Penalty.
Steve: “Don’t give away a penalty. Don’t give away a penalty. Don’t give away a penalty. Shit!”
Serena: “What happened?”
Ollie: “Dallaglio gave away a penalty. This one’s an easy kick. It’s going to be all-square with three minutes to go.”
Fiona: “Please tell me we can go home then?”
Steve: “Not if the scores are level. There’ll be another ten minutes of sudden-death extra time.”
Fiona: “What does that mean?”
Eric: “It means my poor heart will give out and I’ll suddenly die.”
England 17 - 17 Australia
+99 minutes: Drop goal.
Ollie: “One minute to go. We just need a drop goal to win it.”
Steve: “We’re too far out. We need to get closer to the posts.”
Eric: “Hold hands, everyone.”
Fiona: “Why?”
Eric: “It’ll help us win. If we all hold hands our luck will be magnified.”
Fiona: “You do realise that this is all happening ten thousand miles away on the other side of the planet? There’s bound to be a significant time delay. The match is probably over already.”
Eric: “What?”
Steve: “Beautiful break, Matt Dawson. Surely we’re close enough now.”
Ollie: “Johnny’s in position. This is it.”
Everyone (even Jemima): “Yeeeeeeeessssssss! (Wooooooooffffffff!)”
England 20 - 17 Australia
+100 minutes: Final whistle.
Ava: “Are you crying, Dad?”
Steve: “No, there’s something in my eye.”
Eric: “We did it. We fucking did it! Well done, everyone. I told you holding hands would help us win.”
Mia: “Happy, love?”
Ollie: “So happy.”
Serena: “Now can I go to the loo?”
Chapter 57
Saturday 22 November, 2003
The pub, 7:51 p.m.
Ollie unbelted his jeans, undid the button and lowered the zip. Turning his back, and dropping the trousers a few inches, he said, “What do you think of that?”
“Bloody hell, mate! Put it away,” said Steve.
“Not till you’ve both had a good look at it.” Ollie waited. “Well?”
“It’s a hairy, white arse. I’ve seen better and I’ve seen worse.”
“Look closer.”
“Fuck off!”
“Eric, what do you think? You’re a doctor.”
“I’m a cardiothoracic surgeon, my friend. What you need is a proctologist or a psychiatrist. I can’t be sure which without more information.”
“Please, can you both stop admiring my toned bum cheeks for a moment and look here.” Ollie pointed at a tiny spot high on his right buttock. “Is that what I think it is?”
“That depends,” said Eric. “What do you think it is? A speck of chocolate? A dead fly?”
Ollie swallowed. “A malignant mole.”
Eric leaned closer and peered intently at the small, black, asymmetrical blemish. He licked his thumb.
Steve gasped. “Look out, mate! He’s going to stick it up your arse.”
Ollie clenched, but Eric merely rubbed the suspicious area with his moist digit.
He tutted. “Oh dear.”
“What? Is it bad? Am I going to die?”
Eric made the sharp-intake-of-breath noise that car mechanics make just before they diagnose a very expensive issue with your vehicle. “As I say at every opportunity, I’m a cardiothoracic surgeon, not a dermatologist or an oncologist, but as a medical practitioner with over thirty years experience, I think I can safely say that this discolouration on your particularly unattractive backside is almost certainly …”
“What? What is it?”
“The result of a leaky pen in your back pocket.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Nope.”
“Is that all?”
“Uh-huh. You can pull up your trousers now; people are beginning to stare. I’m surprised Mandy hasn’t chucked you out already for putting the other customers off their drinks. Where is she this evening, anyway?”
“It’s her night off,” said Steve. “She’s gone to the movies with her mates.”
Ollie sat down and exhaled. “God, I’ve never been so relieved in my life. I thought my days were numbered.”
“They are,” said Eric. “But hopefully, it’s a big number. Now, please excuse me, gentlemen, I feel the need to wash my hands.”
◆◆◆
When Eric returned, and the three friends were ensconced behind their drinks of choice (or compulsion in Eric’s case), Steve said, “What’s the conversation topic this evening, Ollie?”
Ollie sat back in his chair. “Cancer.”
“Jesus! Seriously? We just won the World Cup. This is the best day of all time. We should be celebrating, but you want to talk about cancer?”
“Absolutely. Nothing is as important or as serious as cancer. I’ve been reading a book about it, and I’ve learnt so much. Did you know, for example, the word ‘cancer’ comes from the Latin for ‘crab’ – just like the sign of the zodiac?”
“Interesting.”
“And it was first diagnosed by the ancient Egyptians in around 1500 BC.”
“Fascinating.”
“Three hundred thousand people in the U.K. will be diagnosed with cancer this year alone. That’s over eight hundred people every day.”
“Depressing.”
“Apparently, cancer isn’t just one single disease, it’s many diseases sharing one common feature: abnormal cell growth. It’s caused when cells divide uncontrollably and spread into surrounding tissues. Changes to the DNA ...”
“I fucked Mandy!” Steve blurted.
For thirty long seconds, Ollie and Eric did their silent impressions of the guy in The Scream by Edvard Munch.
Ollie was the first to recover the power of speech. “Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s true.”
“It might be true, but you didn’t have to tell us. Nobody asked you if you’d cheated on Fiona with any teenage girls lately. You could have kept it to yourself and we’d have been none the wiser.”
“I couldn’t face you whining on about cancer for the next few hours.”
Eric nodded. “I hear that. I was giving serious thought to faking a heart attack.”
Steve’s face was ashen. “Sorry, guys. I couldn’t hold it in any longer.” He looked from one friend to the other. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Exhaling deeply before responding, Eric said, “On the one hand, you’re a fucking idiot. Why would you risk your marriage like that, just for a casual shag? But, on the other hand, I’m so jealous. What’s it like having sex with someone that ... hot?”
“You should know,” said Ollie.
Eric’s face reddened. “Hmm? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Have you looked at your wife lately?”
“What are you implying?”
“She’s stunning. I don’t think you appreciate how lucky you are to be married to such a gorgeous woman.”
“How dare you …!”
“Guys!” Steve shouted. “We’re talking about me. It’s time to kick off a three-man focus group. I require some top-tier synergetic brainstorming vis-à-vis my little snafu, to determine best practice for maintaining the sustainability of my marriage moving forward.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me. I can’t put it more simply than that.”
“Do you mean you want us to discuss your appalling behaviour and decide what you’re going to do about it?”
“Not quite.”
“Let’s begin,” said Ollie, “with you telling us exactly what happened between yourself and the lovely Mandy?”
Steve sat back. “Well, the first time was last Sunday after you guys left the pub.”
“First time! How many times have you molested the poor kid?”
“She’s not a kid, she’s nearly twenty.”
“If Mia was here, she’d say, ‘Are you rounding to the nearest ten, the nearest five or the nearest whole number?’”
“Does it matter?”
“Absolutely. If you’re rounding to the nearest ten, she might be only fifteen. If you’re rounding to the nearest five, she might be only seventeen and a half.”
“She’s nineteen, all right? I’m not a fucking paedo.”
“Nor am I,” said Eric.
“Nobody said you were, mate.” Ollie turned back to Steve. “So, let me rephrase: how many times have you taken advantage of the poor teenager?”
“Do you mean on how many occasions have we made love or how many times have we had sex altogether?”
“Both.”
“We’ve been together twice and had sex five times, if you must know.”
“What happened last Sunday?”
“I helped Mandy tidy up the pub and she was very grateful.”
“How grateful?”
“She insisted that I go back to her place for a nightcap.”
“Insisted?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Nightcap?”
“Yup.”
“Are you referring, by any chance, to the cloth headwear – usually worn in bed – popularised by Ebenezer Scrooge?”
“Why would she invite me round to give me one of those?”
“Then you must be talking about the national park in Australia.”
“That makes even less sense.”
“The 1993 double album by Jethro Tull?”
“No. For a drink.”
“Hot chocolate? A nice glass of warm milk?”
“Alcohol. Although, now I think about it, I reckon she probably meant nightcap as a euphemism for sex.”
“Why?”
“Because she practically threw herself at me the second we stepped through the front door.”
“No. I meant, why would a gorgeous nineteen-year-old girl – who could have any man she wanted – try to seduce a forty-five-year-old, overweight, balding electrician.”
“I’m not … ” Steve looked down at himself. He glanced at his reflection in the window. “Okay, that’s a fair question. Could it be my charm and charisma?”