Thing 103 Kick A Rugby Penalty

It's amazing how a Project designed to get me up off my fat ass and out into the world can involve so much sitting on my fat ass. Honestly. Sure, there was a marathon, but there's also been pizza, cake, cookies, McDonalds and fast food feasts. There's been pints of Guinness and skittle vodka and down the line somewhere there's going to be a cocktail invented. Altogether, this has not been a healthy Project to date.

Today was going to be no different. Hee Hee was going to lend me his snazzy Z4 BMW and i was going to drive a convertible with the top down for the first time. I imagine I wouldn't have looked like a douchebag at all. Not even a little. I'd have looked perfectly fine in it.

But the weather was mankerrific and I wanted to sleep off the night shift. Then in the afternoon I had (lame excuse goes here) and then I wanted to sit down because I was tired from (additional lame excuse required here). This is the kind of laziness I was trying to avoid. So Top Cat encouraged me to get off my backside.

I listen to what he says.
The thing about me and Top Cat is that we like our rugby. Like it a lot. We love it. We're those clowns that enjoy discussing the bits that most people don't understand just because we know it's only for people who really know the game of rugby. It's called Talking the Talk, and we're good at it. We could tell you kicking success percentages till your blue in the face. We could tell you when and why some kickers should take three points, and why going for the corner is the wrong option. Oh yeah. We love Talking the Talk.

We wouldn't hit the broadside of a barn door with the banjo that missed the wide side of a bull's arse. We do not, Walk The Walk.

There were some kids pucking about a sliotar in the next field who were more in danger of being hit by our rugby ball than ever the post was. We continued to Talk The Talk when we were missing three-pointers to beat the band. We blamed boots, technique, wind, grass, dogs, cats, apartheid, Bush, Geldoff and anything else we could think of for our poor kicking percentage.

Pictured: Riverdance? Goosestep? I'm a little unsure.

For all of our inability to make it count (I think Top Cat managed five or six proper conversions to my four), it was proper fun. Two hours or so of booting a rugby ball around for fun. No pressure, just a bit of banter.

Glad I got off my lazy arse now. Delighted in fact.