A bit of a slow Sunday. It was all about the volleyball. Yep, it’s come to this. We’ve become absolute Rebel groupies.
We had a brisk walk up to campus. The plan was to stick around and watch the men take on Stockport, then head back home for the football.
Five hours later and we were still at the Essex Sports Arena. I’ll watch any old live sport.
Stockport to Colchester is a long way for any team to travel. Shout out to the visitors who made the long trip.
Just over an hour later and they boarded the bus back up north having been beaten 3-0. Thanks for coming, etc.
We decided to hang around to watch the women. They were due on court against D***y around an hour later.
A head clearer of a walk around Wivenhoe Park killed the time. I was struggling to lose the hangover from Saturday evening and the latest Forest shit show.
Some refreshment was needed, and preferably a hot one. We failed badly to buy anything on campus.
Everything is self service, digital DIY these days. You place your order on a terminal, and then wait for it to appear as if by magic.
I suffer the same fear on the occasions I go to the cinema. Where do I pick my ticket up from? Who do I pay?
We watched some Bright Young Things successfully order a drink via a screen. We tried to follow their actions, but fell at the first hurdle.
STAFF OR STUDENT?
…asked the screen.
Neither. Although I use to be a student. Now I’m just a volleyball groupie.
We headed back to the Arena.
The women’s match against D***y was interesting. Rebels were cruising at 2-0 up, looking safe to close the game with a 3-0 victory. But then D***y pulled back the a set.
The fourth set was close. Something very funny, and very wrong then took place. The D***y coach decided to sub herself on at game point to take a serve for D****y.
I confess to not knowing the rules around this. But it must have been legit.
A flattering guess at her age would be 40. All the players she coached must have been under 21. It was taking the piss.
It was a blatant message saying I don’t trust you, I’m better than you at a critical period in the match.
The build up for the game saving serve began.
CRASH.
She launched the volleyball straight into the net, falling at the first hurdle, so to speak.
Oh dear.
The coach trip back to D***y must have been a blast.
We walked back to base. The evening entertainment was Vanishing Point. This is another in a recent run of cult films that I’ve wanted to cleat off the list.
I can’t see what the appeal is. I was expecting some renegade, underground drug fuelled road movie. Instead it was like a pilot for Starksy and Hutch.
This storm bollocks scares the shit out of me, btw.