The Greco-Roman Supporters Club

My frenzied enthusiasm for London 2012 has been building since that triumphant moment when we beat France at Agincourt (sorry - at an IOC meeting in Singapore). When the tickets were released a year ago I applied for every event I recognised, not to mention all the ones that looked authentically Olympian. This meant that Handball and horse dancing were out, but Greco-Roman Wrestling was very definitely in. 

England v France

And it was with great pride that my three ticket-wielding chums and I alighted a cheery Sunday London Underground and headed out to the ExCel centre ('you have checked this is in London haven't you Kate?') for some Greco-Roman frolics. 

We'd agreed on togas. Yet when the strapping army officer chum we'll call Harvey arrived at the Pad holding little more than a stolen towel to fashion into attire, chances of fulfilling our self-imposed dress code seemed slim. We had two pins between us and my bed sheet was sceptical about its reincarnation as an item of clothing. It had just started raining.

It was the weather that sharpened our resolve. We're British aren't we? Bad weather, arts and crafts and living in the past is what we do. By this stage the two of us were holding up proceedings so Harvey and I abandoned all pretences to modesty and trusted our luck to the safety pins. We went to rescue the third and fourth members of our Greco-Roman Supporters Club (GRSC3 and 4) from station and pub respectively. 

Absurd

GRSC4 had adapted the Greco-Roman theme to include a fairground Union Jack hat, facepaint and a Union Jack for a cloak. He looked like a cross between Ronald McDonald and Count Dracula if they'd accidentally fallen into a BNP rally.

Over the wrestling itself, it is best if we draw a veil. Our ignorance - despite much youtube research - was total. There were some truly surprising moves that left us all perplexed that the event had not come with a PG-13 warning. There was a good bit when North Korea fought South Korea ('Who are we supporting?' 'Good Korea obviously') though we didn't quite catch the winner. There was a very small chap who cried when he lost, but the cheering that then followed him out of the building was as heart-warming as it was deserved. 

I'm not going to rabbit on about the atmosphere like some Matt Baker lookalike, but the good-humour and enthusiasm of the crowd (despite the terror-inducing brutality before our eyes) was a sight to behold. Neighbours coveted our union jacks, though no Briton was represented that session. Others praised our costumes with un-British enthusiasm that turned out to be neither sarcastic nor fearful. 

At the end of the day, back on our Noble British Public Transport System, we wended our separate ways knowing that we'd been a part of something great. And if we'd never been quite sure who won, over at Wimbledon Andy Murray was busily claiming his Gold, so we (I) got the opportunity to blub with pride after all.

Email Squash

It was with foreboding that I opened my email last week to find a message from a Sarah Loughton entitled 'Squash'. An innocuous title, you might think. Wrongly.

An in-joke I'm afraid.
Hint: moustache

Keen followers of Kate in the Countryside (all others please consult glossary here) will know of my enthusiasm for squash. These days, the only other fans of the game are aged gents. They played when Jonah Barrington (squash player) was almost a celebrity and flares were in. Squash back then was a cool game, or so Daddy Mason likes to tell me. But then he does have a moustache. 

Opportunities for squash games down at my local Pimlico gym are numerous. Saturday's Fight Club, where we tough things out on the squash court to make up for the indignities of office work, is one example. But Sarah Loughton's email relates to the squash league. It's a friendly league for those who like to indulge in the odd gentle game.

Ah, Sarah. She doesn't play squash. At least, I've never actually met the girl but I sense it to be true. Ms Loughton is the diligent PA of Bob, one of my opponents in the league. And she takes her duties very seriously indeed.

Dear Kate

Bob would like to set up his game with you for this month. He is free on Monday 4th, Wednesday 6th, Saturday 9th, Tuesdays 12th and 19th but not Tuesdays 5th or 26th. Thursdays are usually not best. Please respond as soon as possible with your availability.

Regards

Sarah

I already spend much of my life replying to emails. And not all of them about squash. Receiving an email like this usually makes me retreat to my room where I can put on Harry Potter tapes very loud and sit in a corner humming madly to myself. But Sarah does not like to be ignored:

Dear Kate,

Bob is no longer available on the Tuesdays as advised, but will be free on the 5th. Sunday 10th and Thursday 14th or Friday 15th….

Kate,

Bob would like to play his games in the second week of the month this time. Tuesday 17th 3rd or Sunday 30th (not Saturday) may be best. Wednesday….

Kate,

Please detail your availability at your earliest convenience. Bob's mother has….

It becomes a game. I send back impossible chains of numbers to which Sarah replies with one liners. We get nowhere. I don't even want to play this man. He wears a DT teacher's visor on court and last time we played he ran into me so hard that I was winded. Twice.

Then, last week, she strikes:

Kate,

Since you never seem to reply we ['we?' What is this? Are we going for two-on-one here? Surely unfair] will be claiming a walkover if you do not get in touch.

Sarah

Imagine this in email form

I spend the next two days crafting an email of such impenetrable niceness that it can surely lead to no more conflict. I can't take this any more. I have a full time job!

Next day: a forwarded email to accompany Sarah's helpful scribings. She has spoken to the League Master and he has obligingly agreed to remove me from the league. 

A sad day.