Considering the lack of rugby on the day the turn-out for the farmers’ subcrawl was not too shabby. Heading up the real life farmer contingent were Fraser and Hoggy, hailing from Dumfries these two know their stuff when it comes to sheepdip, milking and turnips and brought an element of authenticity to proceedings. Most present looked suitably farmerish, with the theme interpretation ranging from new age farmhand, through flower-pot girl to ye olde farm master, with an array of flatcaps and tweed to behold. A couple of outliers, who appeared to have come as a fisherman and the Fonz, were suitably punished.
Captain Stu, after a day lacking in captainly boss-around type duties appointed himself shepherd to the small flock of ladies present. This self-appointment met with mixed response.
The farmers were soon on the move leaving the coaches and physios behind to enjoy their civilised Christmas Dinner. Captain Stu’s attempts at shepherding having been snubbed, Rose-dawg took the reigns as team enforcer. With his whistle at the ready a number of ridiculous rules emerged along the way.
At this point we’ll have a brief intermission, to give an opportunity to express a deep, heartfelt appreciation of Rosey’s costume. As a rough and ready wee ginger kid Rosey had always felt hemmed in by the Knightswood city limits. On his way to school up Great Western Road he played at army men(probably on his own). He rolled about in the mud at rugby, and dreamed of a life out in the open. Most of all, more than dreams of freedom, of sheep and hens, of barns and farm cottages, of farmers wives and milking maids, most of all, little Rosey dreamed of driving a Landrover Defender, one with a snorkel.
Much like Martin Luther King, Stuart Grainger Rose1 had a dream. On farmer night this dream very nearly came true, thanks to the wonders of creativity, card-board, green paint and industrial strength glue(as provided by Messrs Fleming and Martin-and John, and maybe a little bit Adam) Rosey was a Landrover Defender, complete with spare tyre, snorkel, number plates and headlights. It was quite a sight to behold and, after a few minor blips, being mistaken for a tractor – how very rude- Defender was quite the man about town, vroom-vrooming here, snork-snorkelling there. After a successful run round the subway the Defender was eventually parked up in the big Multi-storey in the sky after a run in with a humour-deficient doorman near George Square. He had a good life. The Defender that is, the doorman, to my knowledge, is still alive and refusing entry to anyone smelling vaguely of fun.
Meanwhile, back on the trail…with young Fraser nominated team-boy and off to buy a round of Discovery tickets the team had their first rapid pit-stop at Curlers and were soon subway bound where they ran into a rival crew, spying over the rails at Hillhead, rather more topically dressed, and slightly merrier, a tribe of scruffy Santas.
After much deliberation at Fortress Hughenden it had been decided that the farmers were far too posh(and more than a little bit too scared) to stop south of the river in their flatcaps and Barbour jackets, so the route consisted of Partick, then all the way round, surfing past the Southside, to St Enoch’s. This plan held strong until approximately 10 seconds after Partick, when it was decided that nowhere was too scary for this bunch of farmers, and if there was a bar, they’d be frequenting it. Chopper, resplendent in a full boil-in-the-bag waterproof ensemble set the pace, and chose the drinks, a serious personnel error as far as the ladies were concerned.
Specifics mould into one big clockwork orange in these circumstances, so the night has been squished into a mish-mash of rules and potted events, as follows…
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We’re cool- we don’t ride the subway, we surf the subway. Don’t touch anything but the floor when the subway’s in motion.
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If you’re from Fortress Hughenden you’re always ready – when the whistle goes you hit the deck.
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You’ll drink what you’re given. And be grateful.
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All the backs are gay.
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If Rosey decides you’ve to race up an icy concrete hill of danger, or run up a down escalator you do it. In fact, what Rosey says goes.
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Never leave your Captain behind…uh…except if he’s dawdling…then it’s ok.
And to the highlights…Wigan mysteriously appearing dressed as the Fonz, and equally mysteriously disappearing a short time later after some (fairly standard for him) crimes against society. A young farmer, possibly of the Hoggy variety, falling down the escalator on the escalator challenge. Hats on the tracks. Trying to dissociate ourselves from the roughest looking Santas in the world at the far end of one subcrawl too far from the North Pole. Viper antics, these will be left to the rumour mill, and have most likely been distributed and over taken by new tales by now.
A good night had by all, the pain I felt on Sunday after running up the down escalator in highly inappropriate shoes while Rosey barked at me from the stairs, is a pain I’ve only ever felt after pre-season, but, for that one brief moment, at the very end of the subcrawl, as I leapt, gazelle-like, from the escalator, after the leg-drive of champions got me to the top against all odds, for that one brief moment, I was at the top of the travelator on Gladiators, the foam hands were pointing at me, Another One Bites the Dust echoed around the arena, Ulrika-ka-ka-ka-ka was waiting on the far side of the swingy paper-breaker thing in hideous high-waisted PVC trousers and an inappropriate-for-teatime-tv 90s crop-top; for that one brief moment I was a winner.
Reverse-escalatoring – highly recommended, Stuart Motivator Rose available by appointment for a small fee, usually in the form of food.
1 Unfortunately the Roses couldn’t afford a middle name for poor Stuart back in the ‘80’s, for the purposes of this report a middle name has been borrowed from Coach of the Year, Keith Robertson. Yes, really…
