...Twickenham

Some mates and I went out for a few quiet beers in Twickenham recently. It ended up being a very pleasant and peaceful afternoon but it didn't begin well.

1) Shortly after boarding the train it became clear that my left shoulder was covered in bird excrement. Trying to get the worst of it out on a train crammed with club-tie wearing rugby enthusiasts bound for the Premiership Final (a mad way of settling a league competition but I don't have time for that now) was a tricky feat.

2) Having consigned my jumper to history, we then got off the train just as Noah-style rain started throwing itself at us from the south-west London sky. We ran to the nearest pub as fast as our little legs could carry us.

3) Seconds before entering the hostelry in question, my friend executed one of the best comedy falls since Frank Spencer was at the height of his powers. One minute he was determinedly running into the pub, the next he was horizontal and heading into the ornamental shrubbery.

My mate claims that it was a case of the 'grip' on his shoes aligning with the grooves of the decking outside the pub's front door. He also claims that he only pulled off this glorious slapstick moment to make me feel better about my jumper.

Welcome to Twickenham. Alight here for lying on your backside in the rain, covered in bird mess. And a pointless rugby final.

I should of course add that Twickenham is a great place with many very nice pubs, bars and eateries. We just had a bad intro.