Coaster hits the field for the Titans, pumped for a big one (750 words between lines)
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The King and I
It was the night of the Wally Lewis Celebrity Challenge* at the old Seagulls Stadium on the Tweed. A ragtag group of us got there early to see some mates play in the curtain-raiser and as happens in situations like that, the beer began to flow.
Those amber ales started to taste pretty damned good. The crowd was huge, a carnival-like atmosphere with all and sundry packed into every available seat while the overflow jammed into any space, including the stairs. A boutique ground, packed to the rafters and everybody there to pay homage to the great man in his swansong.
The atmosphere was electric, with everyone having a good old time, except me. You see it was my shout, and my timing was woeful. The game was about to start and the mob lining-up for more grog was longer than Todd Carneys rap sheet. The more I contemplated how I could get out of my obligation, the more people joined the queue.
My mates werent swallowing my lame excuses either. They knew it was my shout, and there was just no way to renege. Finally, with a deep breath and a look of bovine resignation, I got to my feet and started to negotiate through the half-tanked crowd to the bar, further repressed by one of my mates yelling and a pie.
The line was fifteen deep and service was slower than the economic turnaround. I waited as patiently as I could, hyperventilating when I heard the crowd erupt as a helicopter hovered over the grandstand, bringing the King to his adoring subjects. Geez, this was killing me, what was I doing? I was missing the event, thats what, the Emperors last entrance. I was almost out of my tree and delirious with thirst when finally the bar bloke asked the magic question: What can I get ya?
Four beers and two pies with sauce please mate, I blurted out. He was mercifully efficient and grabbing my spoils I spun around eager to return to my seat before I missed anything else. It was going to be tough handling the beer tray and the pies, but I resolutely started the trek back up the overly crowded stairs. People were crammed-in so tight, I could hardly squeeze my feet between them, balancing became precarious and then some bright spark lit my fuse.
GET OUT OF THE WAY DUMBASS some moron screamed at me. Quicker than Matty Johns can drop his fly, my blood boiled and I spat back, IF YOU PRICKS GOT OFF THE FREAKING STAIRS MAYBE WE COULD GET UP THE BLOODY THINGS. The abusive comments flew back and forth. For a moment half the southern stand forgot about the King, instead focusing on me and my screaming match.
Others chimed in on both sides, and then, as I attempted another step, I slipped. Not one of those little slides you have when you can quickly right yourself, this was a beauty, 'ass over tit' as my grandfather used to say.
I lurched backwards pushing into people. Elbowing, kicking and trampling indiscriminately -- it seemed like an age, was I ever going to stop falling? After an eternity I eventually hit the ground. I recovered and Preston Campbell-like, bounced straight to my feet. A burning sensation in my chest, where the two pies had attached themselves forming some sort of bizarre flaming-hot bra, got my immediate attention while the four-beer shampoo Id given myself wasnt offering any relief.
The adrenaline of anger and the pounding sounds of fury were confusingly replaced by
replaced by the roar of the crowd? The tumbling kaleidoscope of my fall materialised into a mosaic of smiling, sneering faces. To my horror, thousands were pointing, stomachs cramped by fits of laughter, at the clown who had so spectacularly fallen down the stairs. Once they had absorbed my pie bra dilemma, they went over the edge: grown men were crying; women were clutching their babies, and everyone was pointing, pointing, pointing.
I hurdled up the steps avoiding, where possible, those Id brought down with me. Ignoring not only their abuse but also the whistles and jeers of the crowd, I stumbled up my aisle, threw myself into my seat and sat down beer-drenched and smeared with stuff. Numbed with embarrassment, I stared blankly at the growing pool of sweat and tears equidistant between my feet. Through these torrents of emotion, the trusted voice of my best friend penetrated:
Wheres the freakin beer?
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Picture courtesy of
www.rl1908.com
* 13,900 attended 19 September, 1992.