I see the local area of welling is due to be hit by a fair amount of rain, what's the chance of the game being on ? does your pitch have a good drainage system ?
The pitch does drain very well, and we hardly ever have to call games off due to rain. However our groundsman posted on facebook yesterday that he was getting the boat out!! It has been dry so far today and if we had a game tonight I would be confident it would be on. Like you say the forecast for the rest of the week is pretty ****e, so ask again on friday. Bearing in mind the distance between us I'm sure the club will call the game of early if we need to. Hope to see you Saturday.
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Growing old is compulsory, Growing up is optional.
E&B&Q are due to play a match at PVR tonight - I just hope it is called off otherwise the pitch will be well churned-up and must put the match on Saturday in further doubt if there is steady, heavy, rainful during the rest of the week
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Oh, a mighty god is the god of gold, His empire never decays; In every age, in every clime, The hearts of men he sways.
You may know about the scouting habits of Bath City but how do you know that we have good knowledge about the way you are playing? Too much information can be a bad thing anyway. I prefer we play our own game rather than worry about yours.
I seem to remember a few years ago that Bath stuck 5 ( or may be 6) past us in one match.
It was more memorable as the Bath coach was nicked from outside the ground. Almost as good as when the driver of the Northwich coach dropped the keys down the drain in the road.
Back in '79, Laura and I had been on a bender in Budapest, on our way back from the International Young Communists' function in Minsk. I seem to recall there was a bit of a to-do over an incident involving digital relations between myself and a girl called Olga from Rostock. It all blew over by the time we got back to Hull and we enjoyed a nice fish supper on our landlady Joyce. She was a seamen's widow.
A couple of years later Laura denoucned me at a meeting of the YCL held above a kebab shop in Harlesden. She claimed I had exhibited Trotskyite tendancies during one of our tantric love making sessions. I had to fight my way out of the meeting using some of the skills I learned volunteering for the Angolan government in a bitter fist fight with counter revolutionaries in Slough.
The great Jack Jones was driving past at the time, in a large green minibus, and he helped find me safe passage into Yugoslavia where I worked for a few months spying on ladies from the GDR's cultural exchange.
One of the things that Jack taugh me was to sing like a baratone, quite a fete considering I was rather admired as dandy for my talented falsetto. Certainly it helped Jack and I secure places for ourselves in later years when we returned to Spain after Franco's death.
Jack told me not to gloat, but it was a real pleasure when we arrived on the banks of the Ebro to find two Spanish comrades hanging out the back of Lorna.
After that wall came down, I found myself in Rostock working for the Danish Peace Foundation. Olga was by now heavily aged and suffering from rectal splints but we managed one final night of passion before her internals collapsed and she died a horrible, painless death in her bedroom while I wrote postcards to an old lover I had remembered in Grimsby, as I sat in her living room.
Back in '79, Laura and I had been on a bender in Budapest, on our way back from the International Young Communists' function in Minsk. I seem to recall there was a bit of a to-do over an incident involving digital relations between myself and a girl called Olga from Rostock. It all blew over by the time we got back to Hull and we enjoyed a nice fish supper on our landlady Joyce. She was a seamen's widow.
A couple of years later Laura denoucned me at a meeting of the YCL held above a kebab shop in Harlesden. She claimed I had exhibited Trotskyite tendancies during one of our tantric love making sessions. I had to fight my way out of the meeting using some of the skills I learned volunteering for the Angolan government in a bitter fist fight with counter revolutionaries in Slough.
The great Jack Jones was driving past at the time, in a large green minibus, and he helped find me safe passage into Yugoslavia where I worked for a few months spying on ladies from the GDR's cultural exchange.
One of the things that Jack taugh me was to sing like a baratone, quite a fete considering I was rather admired as dandy for my talented falsetto. Certainly it helped Jack and I secure places for ourselves in later years when we returned to Spain after Franco's death.
Jack told me not to gloat, but it was a real pleasure when we arrived on the banks of the Ebro to find two Spanish comrades hanging out the back of Lorna.
After that wall came down, I found myself in Rostock working for the Danish Peace Foundation. Olga was by now heavily aged and suffering from rectal splints but we managed one final night of passion before her internals collapsed and she died a horrible, painless death in her bedroom while I wrote postcards to an old lover I had remembered in Grimsby, as I sat in her living room.
