Birthday weresloths

[charlie_cochrane]

Not their birthdays. Sloths written for the birthday of a lovely pal from across the Atlantic. And Richie Gray, just cos he gets a mention in the story. (And if you've not come across these lads before, you can read their debut in Lashings of Sauce.)

“Irish! Irish! Irish!”
As a chant goes, it has the advantage of being easy to learn. Although, for this match, this wonderfully ear-splitting match, it was too easy to confuse with the opposition call of “Tigers! Tigers! Tigers!”
Still, the guys out on the field wouldn’t be bothered, when they’re focussed on trying to beat the crap out of each other in the name of winning another Premiership match.
Nice to see Irish ahead for once, even though we do have a habit of giving it away during the second half. I thought we were going to get a try, almost on the stroke of half time, but it got lost forward then the referee—Barnesey, who’s at least easier on the eye than most of the breed—blew and I could have a good stretch.
Graeme—who’s also easier on the eye than most—stood up, easing his leg into position. Walking plasters are a great invention, especially for silly sods who break their metatarsals. It means they can come and watch the game, even though we had to bring a plastic carrier bag to stick his leg in if it rained or if some idiot spilled his Guinness. It’s going to be interesting to see what happens to that plaster when he shifts shape.
“Good game,” he said, nodding. “Long time since I’ve been to see a Premiership team.”
“You needn’t have gone to such extremes just to get to this match.” I tapped the plaster. “Couldn’t you have told your team your GP had recommended a week’s rest from playing?”
“Pillock. Anyway, that would have been lying. You never lie to the lads.”
“Really?” My eyes must have been rolling like sailors on shore leave. “So you’ve told them about me?”
“I have, actually. Said I’d picked up a bit of alright. They asked what she was like and I said she was a he.” Graeme grinned. He’s got the sort of smile that goes right through you and settles in your nether regions. Which is no use when you’re surrounded by nine thousand people.
“Was that how you ended up with your broken foot?”
“No, I ‘came out’ when I was in Casualty waiting to be seen. Carl had come along to give me moral support. Only right, as he’d been the idiot who trod on it in the ruck.”
“You need to remember to tie your laces more securely in future.” Only an idiot like Graeme could lose a boot just as fifteen stone of lock forward is about to bear his size elevens down on said idiot’s toes. “What did Carl say? About me?”
“That you were probably too good for me.”
I shouldn’t have worried. Most rugby players have few issues with gay blokes; they’re man enough not to feel their sexuality can be called into question just because they aren’t homophobic. Unlike in a certain game played with a round ball.
“He’s got sense, then. Maybe I should have a pint with him. He could tell me all your faults. The ones I haven’t worked out for myself. Ow!” Rugby programmes can make pretty solid weapons if they’re rolled up and applied to the back of the neck. And I couldn’t retaliate, could I? Bad sport to whack an injured bloke.
“I don’t know why I put up with you. Have you got the Bovrils in yet?”
“No. Given that I didn’t know I had to go and get them in.” Shifter maybe, but telepath definitely not. “And also given that the queue will be a mile long. You should have asked me to go five minutes before half time.”
“That would have been wanton cruelty, with your lot camped on the Tigers’ line. Anyway, you wouldn’t have gone, not with Losi itching to score. And if he had, and you’d missed it, you’d never have forgiven me.”
“True. Tell you what, I’ll go five minutes into the second half. Just tell the boys not to score, okay?”
Graeme hooted so much at that I contemplated breaking his other foot.
“What’s so funny?”
“Spent most of my life encouraging boys to score. You know that.”
“Pillock. Pillock who won’t be getting a Bovril.” I sat down again, to watch the entertainment. Always fun to see a bloke dressed as a dog and another dressed as a tiger trying to kick a rugby ball into a huge green dustbin.
“Why don’t any of the teams have sloth mascots?” Graeme said, settling into his seat.
“Not sexy enough?”
“Little do they know,” he replied, which got the old trouser department misbehaving again. “Anyway, think about it. Sale Sloths. Doesn’t have the same ring as Sale Sharks, does it?”
“Not the same ring, but probably a more accurate description.”
Mind you, I’d love to snuggle up with Richie Gray, shifted or not. “Did you tell Carl about the sloth bit, as well? Come out of closet? Or down from the lampshade?”
“Don’t be daft. I wanted to go to Casualty, not find myself in the Psychiatric ward.” He gave my hand a quick squeeze and lowered his voice. “Useful things, walking plasters. Don’t inhibit all activity.”
“We can put that hypothesis to the test later,” I said, getting up and pulling my greatcoat round me.
“Off to get the Bovrils at last?”
“Maybe.”
And it was going to be easier to hide the state of my nether regions stood in the queue...

Comments

[charliecochrane.livejournal.com]

I think they won in the LV. Richie was watching, looking very fetching in a wooly hat.