What's the story, Jackanory?

The story of the Rugby Club ladies and the Bath Boys

It was a cold Monday evening, a slight mist was rolling in and hands were firmly in pockets as the whistle blew for kick off. Four ladies from south-west London sat together in a near empty stadium surveying all that was before them. Mostly men's bottoms. Mostly this man's bottom

The game was exciting, thrilling, one sided. As the night grew colder, the ladies started to drink more for warmth (except one, she was driving). The game drew to a close. "What now?" they asked themselves.

"We have to warm down" one remarked, with incredible enthusiasm, since, in all the years she had been with the club, she had never been seen to think about anything but beer after a match.

With all lunges duly lunged, it was time to go home. Now, it just so happened that the ladies mode of transport had been parked just next to the visitor's coach. "Let's stow on board" "No, let's leave a note". The benevolent coach driver beamed down at the ladies. He'd seen it all before.

Then suddenly, before the coach driver knew what was happening, a bra was whipped off and a pen was found. One of the team was elected "writer" and a short message, followed by a phone number was scribbled on the offending underwear. It hung, jauntily from the rear view mirror. Waiting for someone to come and claim it.