Apparently the arrival of clear blue skies and piercing sunshine was enough for Matty to force his hand in encouraging me to participate in some activity away from the air bed (sleeping, always sleeping). With an unfathomable persistence, he enrolled me in a five-a-side football game with his work team followed by a game of tennis the day after, under the thick canopy of the afternoon heat. After a few months away from any aerobic movement, it was no surprise that I almost collapsed with the strain of my hammering heart during the initial fusbal match. After I scored a clinical brace (you never really lose it), Matty decided to unleash a point blank shot into my precious and much admired nether regions. The price I paid for altering the trajectory of his almost certain goal bound shot would be a pain so enormous that my vision was surrendered for several minutes as I coaxed back vomit from the recess of my throat. With the tennis I fared little better. My loose swooping backhand firing the furry tennis ball over the fence and into the adjoining children's playground, violently spinning on to the blue plastic slide and narrowly missing the infants at play and their parent's subsequent wrath.
Walk along Harbour Bridge
There was to be some respite from the cruel torture of exercise and swollen soft flesh, and that would be in the arms of a student pub,The Friend in Hand, tucked deep within the stirring Acacia lined alleys of Glebe. Every Wednesday night the eclectically decorated saloon (rowing boats attached to the ceiling, pearly white cockatoos flying overhead and leathery alligator skins on the walls to name but a few of the quirks on display) hosts a very unique local event: Crab Racing. As those of you born with a cultured tilt of the head will already know, Crab Racing is a game steeped in skill, passion and dare not seen since the days of Ivan Drago's fleet footed destruction of Apollo Creed (R.I.P.) in the fourth, Cold War referenced, installment of the Rocky franchise. Each crab was priced at a reasonable $3, and so the group of us who attended, including Matty, Katie, Paul, Mark, Mel, Nicola, Becky and Ed (an array of names that will mean little to you, but I felt obliged to have mentioned them anyway), threw caution to the wind and bought a pink-shelled crustacean each.
Matty, a seasoned pro it would seem of this beach combed spectacular, had been coy throughout the day in regards to the rules of engagement once the crabs were released from their glass bowled prison and onto the small rounded mahogany table that bedded their sporting track. It became clear that the first crab to scurry its way to the edge of the table (and in doing so risking a sheer drop to the spiralling depths of the beer sodden and tattered mauve carpet) would be victorious. Matty mischievously failed to inform us all that the judge of the competition was accompanied by a fair haired waitress with a dangerous combination of a hostile temperament and a fire hose on hand to spray each crab owner with a sheen of ice cold jet water whenever she pleased. Matty and I took it in regular turns to single each other out to the devilish waitress, so that one of us would get soaked. My white dress shirt was a bad choice for this occasion.
Some of us were petrified of a mere balloon
Littered in between the races were various competitions for the floor to keep the neutrals content, including 'The Best Hula' and 'Best Six Pack'. The hula was won by an over eager German traveler who's hips refused to lie and the six pack award was deservedly won by a man shaped like a space hopper who was all too happy to showcase his smooth bulbous belly to the entire room, whilst the other contestants - with obvious steroid fixations - looked on ominously in scorn. The racing ended in misty-eyed shame as all eight of our soft clawed soldiers were denied any glory following a turgid and altogether lacklustre display.
Crabs, like the malady of life, will only fail you
As we all had a lot of fun at the races, Matty placed on his Corporal Punishment camouflaged beret once again and organised an end of week game of touch rugby at The Domain along with his utterly tonk acquaintance from school and his additional hulk-esque cronies. I hugged the patchy dry grass of the outer field for much of the session, so that the team could make the most of my agility and speed rather than conceding my withering core strength and diminutive stature. Another reason for opting for this position was that my opposing number was an Australian girl with a physique of a young fawn. Not quite sure of the etiquette with touch rugby I felt little hesitation in grabbing whatever anatomy I admired most when hauling her to the ground.
Guess who was the big winner of the night?
Neither of us, of course
The day ended with a symphony for the taste buds. We all but erased the hard work on the playing field by devouring the magical combination of an infamous 'Tiger Pie' at Harry's Cafe de Wheels piled with lashings of mash, gravy and mushy peas. In 1974, The Saint of All Fowl - Colonel Sanders -stopped at the Cafe and apparently consumed three 'pies and peas' whilst leaning menacingly on his walking stick as flakes of puff pastry dangled from his wispy white beard. This was information enough for me to grow very fond of the pie before me.
After our sportsman's feast we then decided not to ease up on our metabolism, and instead destroy it, by visiting the humble Messina Gelato on Darlinghurst Road. The cool ice-cream slowly melting under the heated discussions as to what two scoops we would opt for when we finally hit death row. I reckon Stracciatella and Pistachio would be enough to see me off.
Caught with more spoonfuls of FroYo
Sydney Song of the Day: The Saturdays - Just Can't Get Enough
I've been borrowing Matty's i-Pod to inject some Dr. Feel Good into my bloodstream as apparently I have become quite the bore of late. I can just about forgive some of the songs on his playlist (Adam Rickett and Hootie and the Blowfish I simply cannot). This cover of Depeche Mode fends off the imperious Gary Barlow's Forever Love and David Morales' Needin' U.
If anyone wishes to send me pictures of either Frankie or Mollie from the band, please do with haste, I miss them awfully with each passing moment.
A reminder of their talent:
http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/showbiz/bizarre/2847800/The-Saturdays-go-PVC-for-perfume-ad.html
i-Pod Song of the Day: Ladyhawke - My Delirium
Although Pip Brown hails from New Zealand, I still couldn't resist her pocket rocket wave of synth pop whilst sitting in the award winning Ampersand Cafe & Bookstore on Oxford Street with a bowl of lightly toasted granola for company.
www.ladyhawkemusic.com
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