Everyone loves a rugby man

I make no apologies, this post is just an excuse to get some pretty arses up on my blog. You ready? Good.

Milla (her again!) has questioned why women think rugby men are good looking. I feel it is my duty (and, I cannot lie, my pleasure) to use words and photos to explain the attraction.

Compelling argument one: variety is the spice of life

No matter how you like 'em... tall, small, chubby, thin, there's a rugby man for you out there somewhere. The diversity of the positions means that there are a huge range of different body shapes and sizes playing.

Compelling argument two: Real men

Unlike other sportsmen, rugby men rarely feel pain. They can carry on playing with head injuries, broken fingers, toes, ribs. This makes them manly. Fact.










Compelling argument three: they're not footballers

They don't fall over and pretend they're hurt. They don't argue with the ref. They don't get paid far too much for doing bugger all. They don't play football.

And surely that's reason enough?

There are obviously lots of other reasons:

They're generally all aminable chaps
They tend not to get involved in orgies
The game stays on the pitch
All problems in life can be solved by a beer

I'm slightly biased, I must admit, since N is very much a rugby man. However, having once dabbled with the football playing fraternity I can honestly say that a rugby man makes a much better boyfriend. For me. I'm not saying that all footballers are bad. I'm not saying that they don't make good boyfriends. I am saying that I can't imagine spending that much time with someone who obsesses over the wrong shaped ball.

I know it's tres gauche to blog about what people search about to find your site but I've seriously had a couple of randoms recently which makes me wonder exactly who it is out there on the other side of this computer screen.

Too much Dulcoease? Make your way here.
Want to play rugby in a salsa dress? I'm your cow.
And, naturally, if you want to know about lovely men's bottoms... I have the monopoly on them too.

Banana, speedboat, constipation, erect, jumping up and down, telephone, dip his nib in my ink, swirly chairs, lick...Sorry... just trying disappoint people.

Pah! Kids today...don't know they're born

"In my day we used to walk to school, 15 miles in the snow, barefoot and with an anvil strapped to our back."

We've been suffering from server problems at work for the last couple of days. No email. No internet. No nothing. (No email days are obviously not a new thing but I don't think I've heard of many companies that have them here in the UK? On purpose at least.)

As I'm sitting on the edge of my desk thinking about getting something done which doesn't involve technology the age-old question popped into my head "how did we manage without computers?".

I started blogging (and therefore was first really aware of the wonderful world of the world wide web) when I was...er... maybe 18 and I remember that I got my first computer (Commodore 64 if you must know) when I must have been about 6. That means that for nearly 20 years, people have have easy access to some form of computer. That scares me.

Do you think life BC (before computers) was less frantic, less stressful, more interactive? It's so easy nowadays to ping off a quick email to someone you've never met and work on a project together without even talking to each other. Blackberries and mobiles mean my boss has access to me all day, every day (that is if I didn't turn the damn thing off).

Just for one day I'd like to spend the time without a computer, without a phone, without the television and just have a bit of peace and quiet. I could actually... talk to someone... finish reading that damn book I started ages ago...

Of course, knowing my luck, the day I choose to be incommunicado will be the day that Rupert Penry-Jones dumps his exceptionally beautiful and lovely wife and puts out an all-broadcast plea for me to whisk him away into the sunset.

Pimp yourself out (in more ways than one)

It's not that I'm anti-Valentine's Day (and in fact N did cook me a lovely supper last night because he knew he wouldn't be around tonight) but I still love these cards

Also... Peach is putting together a book of different bloggers' writing in aid of WARCHILD. I'm not going to submit anything (unless someone can suggest a suitable topic) but you should. Yes, you... standing over there. Go and have a look.

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.

A (possible scary) blast from the past

Things are a tad manic at work at the moment so I've got very little time to write anything constructive/interesting (plus ca change some might say!)

However, the other day I went for a trial with the regional team and I randomly bumped into someone I used to share a house with at Uni. At Uni we actively avoided each other. I thought she was a little strange* and she probably thought I was a little mad. Hey-ho.

Imagine my shock when I saw her again, after 5 years, in charge of the team I wanted to join. Scary. Not just scary but it led me to think... does this mean I have to be nice to everyone, just in case, someday in the future, they might wield some power over me?

The morally sound part of me whispers "actually, you should probably be nice to everyone, and not just because you don't know what will happen in the future."

The realistic part of me shouts "oh, come on. There are going to be people out there you just don't like. If you're nice to them, that just makes you a two faced wotsit. Don't bother. Everything will work out in the end."

Does it make me a bad person if sometimes, just occassionally, I'm not nice to someone. I don't think so. I suppose we'll see if I get my comeuppance later in the week. She's supposed to call me and tell me whether I've made the squad or not.


*Yes, the same one I mentioned here

I know it's tapping in horribly to the current zeitgeist but please can I just make it completely public how much I hate Valentine's day. And no, not for the normal reasons of it's too commercial and we should love each other no matter what day it is bollocks.

No, I hate Valentine's day because, if I don't get anything, I get grumpy.

Like now.

Grr.

I'm surprised you're not all grouped round me in a circle, poking me with a muddy stick and chanting "liar, liar, pants on fire".

Despite the lovely day off I had last week, I didn't manage to get near a computer and a) update myself with goings on in blogland or b) update you (all three of you) on what's been going on chez cow.

What was I doing, I hear you cry (crying's right, not sure if you're crying for more information or in distress).

I would like to tell you the reason is that I was lying in bed all day, being pampered by a naked contingent from the England rugby team. I would be lying.

I would like to tell you that I was over in Italy, stuffing myself on good wine and food in the blazing sunshine with the boy by my side. I would be lying.

I would like to tell you that I didn't spend my day off on my hands and knees cleaning the carpet in my room, dusting and generally making things look very tidy. I would also like to tell you that it stayed dust free all day and didn't suddenly look worse five seconds after I had cleaned it. But I can't.

So yes, the guilty secret is out. What did I do on my day off? Clean.

Am I turning into my mother?

I committed the cardinal sin. I went back to the past.

By use of the Internet Archive

I went back and looked at my history. It's a bit weird re-reading it all.

I read the day that I first met N when I was pissed off that I hadn't met anyone. I was in the midst of a dating phase bought on my a mad Australian friend of mine.

I read a couple of days later when I was a smitten kitten, skipping around in the first haze of lust.

I remembered the time when I caught him playing Jenga with my housemate and she took off all her clothes. I remember how much I hated her for it.

I remember the time we both first realised we loved each other.

I don't know if this reminiscing is a good thing? If I read further back, before I met N, I read about the hideous love life I used to have. How I was a complete idiot and let men walk all over me. I read that I used to fall heavily for men, for no particular reason. Somehow believing that if I gave them everything they asked for, they would want me, too.

Thankfully, you can never go back and change the past. And, in a deeply philosophical ending sentence, you can only learn from it.

(you have my permission to throw up now)

I am not dead. You may all breathe a sigh of relief.

Dead tired? Yes.

Dead on my feet? Yes.

Dead annoyed? Yes.

Dead overworked and underpaid? Yes.

But not dead. And my leg's still attached. Yay. Macca is safe.

Although nutty is not an old cow, sometimes I think I'm older in mind than I am in body. I think I plan things too much. N proposed a proposal to me the other day. Not actually, but theoretically, along the lines of "if I asked you to… what would you say?". I answered "I'd say yes, but not yet."

So why? If you think about it, that's a silly thing to say. I love him, he loves me. I can see myself saying yes. I can see myself with him. So why don't I say yes.

Because I have a plan.

26 - engaged
27 - marry
30 - child
30 - move out of London
31 - move to bigger house
33 - child 2

Where it goes from there is anyone's guess. I suppose it's tempting fate in a way. I don't know if any of these stages will ever happen but it's just the way I've always thought about it. I think that any younger that 26 is too young to be engaged. Similarly, I think that men shouldn't get married before 30.

Who knows. Anyway, N knows he has to wait. At the same time, it is really rather nice knowing that I've got someone who loves me that much.

(of course, now I've said that, it'll all go to rack and ruin and fall apart. He'll have an affair with a leggy blond and I'll turn into a toad or similar.)

P.S. Got a promotion on Friday. Of sorts.

Housemates are strange people. I should know, I've lived with a couple.

One who sticks in my head is a girl, S. S was nice enough - she wasn't my friend, she belonged to another member of the house. She did have one disturbing obsession though.

In a fit of girly giggles we had stuck attractive, half naked men up the stairs (posters of, not real, worse luck) just to brighten up what was, essentially, a dossy student flat. Imagine our suprise when returning home one day (in time for Countdown, naturally) when we saw a new picture on the stairs.

A picture of S's dad.

A signed picture of S's dad.

Does anyone else think that's a little bit odd?

They were all there. David, Jonny, some chavtastic woman in a pink shell suit. Oh, and me and N. Jonny and I got on well. Very well. Nothing happened but I was being a bit of a flirt. Giggling. Touching his arm, playing with my hair. I could feel N's heavy gaze on me and I felt a twinge of guilt. He had a forced smile as he sat there surrounded by these luminaries. I noticed him there alone but in my selfish daze I ignored it.

I woke up with a start.

She's making a list and she's checking it twice…

People I would dump N for if they glanced my way:

• Mark Cueto
• Rupert Penry-Jones - oh c'mon, he's pretty - and he got his arse out on TV
• Ben Fogle - In fact I did see him once. He didn't glance my way. He was on his phone and stalked past my drooling mass as if I were his Labrador and he was his way to an important fox hunting meet.

I don't think it's wrong to have a "list" and I don't think that, just because I've been with someone for two years, it means that I can't find other people attractive - especially if they're completely unobtainable. I think the main thing is, I don't and wouldn't do anything about it and I never would.

And besides, what's the likelyhood of any of the above men rocking into my life?

The alarm wakes me, shattering a particularly good dream about Rupert Penry-Jones.

I roll over, hoping to find a warm body beside me but just end up whacking my arm on the radiator and nearly taking my eye out on a big button attached to the pillow case.

Not an auspicious start to the day.