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Sorry, Lawrence
By Will 1 month ago, 3 Comments »
I spend a bit too much time at my local cafe for comfort. But, for a London coffee-place, it’s surprisingly chilled and smokers aren’t so much spat at as welcomed wholeheartedly.
So, on my day off today, I was down there with my paper, fags and coffee when poor Lawrence Dallaglio sat down next to me. That was his first mistake. His second was to engage me in conversation, asking where I bought my Times. The door was unlocked and I bundled (bumbled) my way in like a terrorist eyeing his latest target of mass murder.
He seemed amiable enough and was happy chatting. But I made a grave, reprehensible error by admitting I was a cricket journalist. This usually favours me well - even with the ladies, once I’ve given them a brief overview of the game and the fact it’s not all as boring as they might think. But, for poor old Lawrence, I might as well have said “I want to expose your mental frailties; I want to ruin your life, and kill your family.” He was muted thereafter, and no amount of “Oh, but if you like cricket, come on - how about an interview?” would persuade him otherwise.
I departed, feeling partly guilty and mostly a dickhead. Poor sod was just there trying to enjoy his coffee. But everyone in my shoes would’ve done similar…well, maybe.
Right. It’s autumn, which means one of many things: pubs with fires, pubs with beer, pubs, leaves, and stupendous light for photography. I’ll try not to accost any more sportsmen for the rest of the day.
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