Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions. Rosie Dixon

ran with it,” I say, gazing at the flesh mountain ambling paSt I must have spoken too loud.

      “If you think I look ridiculous you should take a look at yourself in the mirror. I’ve seen Christmas tree fairies with more chic.”

      As usual he is gone before I can think of anything to say. God but I hate that man. He spoils the look of the whole team. The rest of them are all whirling their arms in the air and running on the spot with their knees slamming against their chests. He is peering down the front of his shorts. It does not inspire a lot of confidence.

      The St Swithin’s team run out and it is obvious that they are much bigger than us. Bigger and uglier. No, honestly. They really are repulsive, some of them. Our team look much nicer. Even Quint looks cuddly compared to some of the bruisers on the other side.

      The two teams are presented to an old man in a white fur coat—at least I think it is a white fur coat until I realise that someone has tipped a bag of flour over him—and then it is time for the kick-off.

      The ball is placed on its end in the middle of the field and one of the St Swithin’s men kicks it towards where all the Queen Adelaide’s men are standing. I think it would have been much cleverer to kick it over to the other side of the field but I suppose he knows what he is doing. The ball is caught by one of the Queen Adelaide’s team and then everybody starts punching each other and the referee blows his whistle. It is just like the scene before the game.

      When the players break up I see that Quint has the ball and a bleeding nose. I would have backed myself to start a whip round for anyone who gave Quint a bloody nose but to my surprise I feel quite angry. When he puts a giant mitt over the face of one of the St Swithin’s men and pushes him flat on his back I am thrilled. “Belt him one!” I shout.

      Labby looks horrified. “You don’t say things like that at rugger matches,” she says.

      “I do,” I tell her. “Smash his face in!”

      If anyone had told me that rugby was just like the wrestling on the telly I would have been a fan years ago. Mick McManus would really have to watch himself with this lot. Fists, elbows and boots flail away, interrupted only by dull moments when the ball is kicked in the air or people try and run with it.

      “I think we’re holding them up front,” says Labby, breathlessly.

      “Is that why that man is lying on his back clutching his balls?” I ask.

      “Our back row is up very faSt”

      “Given half a chance,” I think she is talking about MacSweeney.

      “You mean the ref? He is a swine, isn’t he?”

      There is no doubt that the referee favours St Swithin’s and this is proved after ten minutes when he awards them what Labby tells me is an easy penalty kick.

      “What a swizz,” she says as the stretcher goes paSt “I’m certain Tom never meant to stand on his face.”

      “Don’t worry. Maybe he’ll miss it. Does the ball have to go over or under the bar?”

      I start booing the minute the St Swithin’s man runs up to kick, but again, Labby is horrified. Apparently, you don’t do that kind of thing either. It is so confusing. Throwing bags of soot and punching lumps out of each other on the field is O.K. but a bit of verbal agro is out of the question.

      The kick is successful and we are three points down. All the St Swithin’s supporters go wild and I would like to scratch their stupid eyes out.

      “Let’s go behind the posts they’re attacking,” says Labby. We move off along the edge of the field and I give a V sign to the jeering St Swithin’s mob. Labby shudders. Of course I am not usually like that but I do get worked up sometimes.

      Quint is standing on the touchline and his vast tummy is quivering. His hair is bedraggled and blood mats his beard. I feel almost sorry for him. Queen Adelaide’s kick off and Quint shambles forward and flattens the man who is about to catch the ball. Immediately there is a shrill blast on the referee’s whistle and the St Swithin’s supporters start shouting ‘Off! Off! Off!’ I think they are referring to Adam but it is the St Swithin’s man who leaves on another stretcher.

      “Come on, boys! Only another thirteen to go,” I shout. Labby winces.

      In fact it is soon thirteen–fourteen because one of our team has to go off with a cut head. He collects a boot that is intended for Quint.

      “A certain amount of feeling is creeping into the game,” says Labby.

      “Is that why that other man is lying on his back clutching his balls?” I ask.

      Labby does not have a chance to reply because sickening St Swithin’s score a try.

      Tom Richmond cleverly kicks the ball in an opponent’s face but it bounces over our line and a St Swithin’s man falls on it. Quint falls on him but too late to do more than make him the third stretcher case of the day. Another four points to St Swithin’s. It is absolutely sickening. A couple of minutes later I feel even worse when St Swithin’s convert their try and make the half-time score 9–0 in their favour.

      “If we can knock out another three men we’ve got a chance,” I say. “They’re already down to twelve.”

      “I expect that’s what Mac is telling them,” says Labby.

      Shameless is pounding his fist against the palm of his hand and making faces like he wants to go to the toilet very badly. Five minutes after half-time, he gets his chance when he is helped off the field clutching his collar bone and saying that he does not want to go—off the field of course.

      “That’s terrible,” says Labby. “He’s one of our best players.”

      “Olly! Olly! Adders!” I scream, “Let them have it, boys!” We do another little dance and a chorus of “Right Up, Queens!” but it looks more like “All up, Queens” out on the field.

      Both sides have slowed down a lot and poor Quint looks exhausted as he struggles from one side of the field to the other. The St Swithin’s supporters are doing all the shouting and with twenty minutes to go we are still trailing by nine points.

      Then something amazing happens. Queen Adelaide’s score! Somebody kicks the ball down the edge of the pitch and the St Swithin’s man who is running after it slips over—he says later that he was tripped but of course he is a rotten fibber. I may have stretched out my foot and wriggled my toes because I was getting pins and needles but there was definitely no intention to trip him up. He falls into the crowd and a Queen Adelaide’s man picks the ball up and runs under the posts. It is so exciting and we all cheer like mad.

      The St Swithin’s supporters reveal what lousy sports they are because they all shout and boo and wave their fists. It is all so petty. Tom Richmond kicks the ball over the bar and we are only three points behind.

      “A try will do it,” squeals Labby. “Oh, come on, Queen Adelaide’s.”

      Now that we have scored the boys throw everything that they have got into the game and I notice what a tower of strength Adam Quint is in the touchline queues—or lines out as they call them. He is the biggest man in our team and he leaps into the air and catches the ball like a great seal. Of course everybody has to wait a couple of minutes for him to get to each line out but I expect that they are glad of the reSt

      “How much longer?” I say to Labby.

      “Three minutes. But there must be some injury time.”

      “About half an hour, I should think.”

      Even as I speak another St Swithin’s man goes down clutching his face and his team-mates start throwing punches at Adam. It is so unfair. They are always picking on him!

      “Pick on someone your own size, you apes!” I scream.

      “But he’s twice as big as anyone else on the field,” protests Labby.

      “Exactly.”