And did those feet, in ancient times.......

As the last blog posting I made subtly pointed out, it’s been raining a bit recently. As a result of the sporadic but biblical downpours of rain, our travels have once more been put on the backburner. However, we’ve still had time to do a fair bit of stuff- just not involving trips in cars to see elephants, that’s all. With the chance to travel curtailed, we’ve involved ourselves in the local expat social scene a bit- not something I particularly want to do all the time but a nice interlude none the less.

So what have we been doing lately? Well the two most appropriate nouns are “parties” and “football”. First of all the football I guess. Now those who know me well (and given that nobody other than my family and some of my most sympathetic friends are likely to spend much time reading my blogs that would constitute most people reading this) will be aware that from earliest childhood, I’ve had a thing for the Beautiful Game- even if most of the games I watched at Wolves were anything but.

A few weeks ago, we’d invited a couple we knew from our time in Cairo- Brett and Michelle- over for dinner. Like all good scousers, Brett is a football fan too and before long we were philosophising on matters as diverse as whether Andy Gray was evil because he left Wolves in their direst hour of need or whether it was because he played for Everton. More importantly, Brett revealed that he ran a local football team, loosely affiliated to the local English pub- the George and Dragon. They were about to start training for an upcoming match against fierce local rivals, “Ireland”. A combination of African heat and lack of fitness meant that they needed a squad of at least thirty and he wondered whether I was up for playing. As far as I was concerned, the pub bit could always be glossed over later- I was going to play for England against Ireland- I was in!

At the third attempt (the first two sessions cancelled due to social pressures and lack of willpower), we actually got a training session underway. The pitch, at a local school was more sand and rock than grass (the only grass was under a foot of water for all it was worth). However our opposition was of a higher standard. A bunch of local schoolkids- teenagers- challenged us to a match. Our able striker Shaun (the only one of us vaguely approaching fitness) kindly accepted on our behalf and the match kicked off. After about ten minutes, three things had dawned on us. Firstly, with most of our team bent double and wheezing, we were lacking a bit of match practice. Secondly, given that none of us had touched the ball at that stage, it was clear that these boys were very skilful. However, thirdly and most encouragingly, we noted that they still hadn’t scored. These boys were very skilful but didn’t pass and weren’t getting anyway. Thoroughly encouraged by this, we organised ourselves a bit, put in a few scary tackles and eventually had them on the rack. Nothing illegal, mind- just a few meaty tackles which left one player abandoning the ball and running off the pitch rather than face Shaun! Final score- 11-1 to us! Bring on the Irish!

Well sadly, the Irish decided to cancel- at least until September. Apparently there are various possibilities as to why. Maybe they had heard of our great victory and were intimidated by our obvious fitness. I’d heard that after the last match they had complained bitterly at an unduly physical approach from our team- maybe that was it. There had also been some controversy over whether some of our players weren’t actually qualified to play for England. Well, although there is possibly some doubt on the total Englishness of our team (although Sven and Giovanni both swear they know the words to “Jerusalem”), the Irish are applying double standards. Of their starting eleven, eight have never even seen Ireland. Anyway, match postponed but the training sessions continue!

On the subject of Englishness, we attended our first ball in Tanzania a couple of weekends ago. The Royal Society of St George (a very pleasant group aimed solely at promoting English culture- not the far right extremist party the name suggests!) was holding its annual St Georges Day Ball at a posh hotel in the centre of Dar es Salaam. Soma, never being one to miss a ball had the tickets in hand about ten minutes after they went on sale. Anyway, the old Dinner Jacket was brought out and by eight o’clock, we were supping champagne- just like Cairo! Actually this one was a little bit different. The ball was fairly clearly intended to mirror Burns Night- a party but with a bit of ceremony. We started off singing Jerusalem (a pretty embarrassed, English attempt since everyone was still sober) and then stood to watch a big rib of beef being brought in- a bit like piping the haggis I guess. Brett and I stifled semi drunken, schoolboy giggles as the person holding this joint (one of our teammates Vernon) was announced as the “Baron of Beef”- his ceremonial role for the night. He managed to keep a straight face at the time and even managed to retain good humour through a barrage of jibes as to the pornographic implications of his newly acquired title. Needless to say, the nickname has stuck.

The ceremonies continued- as the drinks flowed, songs such as Rule Britannia and Land of Hope and Glory were belted out with increasing enthusiasm (I even noticed our Romanian tablemate making a fairly drunken effort to convince us all that he would never be a slave either). The formal part of the evening ended with a couple of speeches- the Toast on behalf of the English proposed that we stick to English tradition- “get drunk and then get knocked out in the quarter finals of something”; this was responded to by the head of the Caledonian Society who spent a few minutes admitting that the English were okay, but the Scots were better!

Since that evening, we’ve been pulling our social socks up. Soma, typically unable to attend a function without wanting to run the next one, is now on the Committee of the Royal Society of St George and wants to persuade the BBC to link up to Dar es Salaam for the Last Night of the Proms! If she thinks I’m going to be caught on global TV bobbing up and down like a fool she can think again!