“No one would have believed, in the last years of the nineteenth century, that human affairs were being watched from the timeless worlds of space.
“No one could have dreamed we were being scrutinised, as someone with a microscope studies creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. Few men even considered the possibility of life on other planets and yet, across the gulf of space, minds immeasurably superior to ours regarded this Earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely, they drew their plans against us.“
When HG Wells penned his novel, The War of the Worlds, he envisaged a threat from without; a Martian invasion bringing mankind low, routing civilisation by use of advanced technology. Ultimately, mankind’s fate rested on an invisible ally, earthly pathogens doing what humanity could not and laying waste to all those Martian plans. HG Wells may well not have envisaged that renowned thespian, rugby fan and bon viveur, Richard Burton, would narrate Wells’ words to Jeff Wayne’s epic music less than a century later, but the suspicion is that he could not have predicted that those same earth-liberating pathogens, filtered through the lens of the humble pangolin and crepuscular bat, would turn their powers against us.
And yet, your humble reporter found himself setting forth to Heidelberg, the foreboding cloud of Covid-19 only beginning to make its presence felt, hindsight allowing that valour was most definitely the better part of discretion on this occasion. We came together, a pack of eight, and though we may not have looked quite the beefy, gnarled and grizzly part that number usually represents – can one grizzle in a scarf? – but over the course of two nights we put in a shift of ale-drinking an international pack would be proud of.
To Vetter’s, and our pack was drawn together in a local brewery serving dunkelbiers and plates of meat and sautéed potatoes stacked perilously high. Serious discussion took place as to what a group of rugby-loving bloggites would do now that two of the three final-day 6 Nations matches were postponed; the news that two postponements were now three only served to harden our resolve: we, the good people of AOD, would have a good time. And that is exactly what your intrepid reporter did – a foray to the Drugstore, a speakeasy where the schnapps was fast and the talk was faster; bonded by our common purpose and strengthened in the face of adversity. This reporter staggered back to his humble abode at a relatively sane hour, leaving an unnamed few to head off to a subterranean nightclub aptly called The Cave, and, much like Joe Marler, they were went on down to see what mischief they could cause, and, again like Marler, they could happily take a ban – it would have little consequence in this day and age.
The dawn of a second day, then, and a stroll along Heidelberg’s Hauptstraße served to emphasise the impact Coronavirus was having – not a single soul was seen for some hours. But as the day drew on and venues opened, this reporter was joined by Meades, emerging from the morning’s Stygian gloom like Roland Bertranne, cutting a dash in Yorkshire brogues and dazzling white trews that even the ranks of Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer. The obligatory cultural touristic opportunities were availed upon; a trip to a wonderful bookstore where this reporter picked up a small piece by Wells contemporary Mark Twain, on his trip through Heidelberg by means of raft; a handy comparator for our own weekend, perhaps. Joined subsequently by Boanova (worryingly sporting a Leinster jersey) and SoYouThinkYou’reaWaffleman (equally worryingly, wearing a Munster top), gelatos were consumed, coffees were discussed and downed, and impressively steep hikes were had.
Sufficiently exercised, and in need of strong libation, we repaired to the venue-that-was-to-be-the-venue, The Dubliner. Joining Thaum and Mr Thaum, talk turned to our common love of rugby, and arms were chanced by suggesting to staff that they avail of YouTube’s wealthy repository of rugby matches for us all to enjoy, given the absence of any matches. Sadly, even Iks’ eloquent pleas fell on deaf ears, and instead we set about reviewing the season that never ended, remarking on standout players (Stuart McCloskey appears to have Thaum on a retainer for PR work*), and into the gap where our attention would have usually fallen, stories were exchanged, witticisms were slung and the occasional train refund form was completed. But that is another story for another time.
As Thaum has already elaborated, we moved on the Bar Centrale and thence to its restaurant neighbour Dorfschaenke, for pleasingly filling food and even more pleasingly outsized wine bottles. As the night began to wind down, several of our pack went separate ways; Thaum and Mr Thaum returned to the Bar Centrale to investigate the gin options, MrsIks went home to rest her weary hosting head, Boa had hit his limits and made good his escape. A round of beer and schnapps, and we remaining few parted ways, handshakes, hugs and backslaps abound.
And, in it all, Wells prose kept returning to my mind; MisterIks as the astronomer Ogilvy, assuring us that the chances of anyone getting a fine, were a million to one; only to then explain that for feeding ducks, he was served a 55 euro penalty notice (he still has no regrets and post-lockdown will continue his campaign in the face of teutonic adversity); SoYouThinkYou’reaWaffleman as Wells’ artilleryman, slowly losing his sanity as his left-handed passing fell to pieces and suggesting that a return to that subterranean life in The Cave may be the best solution for humanity; and the sight of Boa stood atop the Thingstätte, an arena built in Nazi-era Germany, dressed all in black whilst wearing a Leinster jersey, is one which will live long in the memory, if only for the nexus of humorous corollaries it brings together. And through it all, through the fantastic hosts, the pints, the ball-throwing and the brilliant company, there was the sense that from the madness, something beautiful had grown, or rather, something we had all known had been reinforced; that our blog-meets are something to be cherished. Not so much a case of à la recherche du temps perdu, more a case of à la prochaîne.
But the boss don’t like these dizzy heights
We’re busted in the blinding lights
Of closing time
As experienced by DropTheClaw.
Ovally Balls 
My parents scarifier their lawn. Now they just have a large patch of mud and are reseeding.
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*scarified
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Anyone else doing the footshake dance to get themselves through this dark time?
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Or you could laugh at this goatee for an 45 minutes.
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Everyone must be doing the footshake dance.
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Hmmm. Not sure about this. Exactly WHEN during the season would it be played? Would it be home and away? What would it mean for the South African clubs in the Pro Woo?
https://www.theguardian.com/sport/2020/apr/06/club-world-cup-to-be-put-forward-as-radical-new-rugby-union-competition
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‘sbollox
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That’s my detailed appraisal
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Nice to see you’ve given it some considered thought there Chimpie.
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It’s detailed enough.
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What does everyone make of the new shadow cabinet? Happy? Outraged? Couldn’t give a damn?
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And when I say everyone, I mean EVERYONE. Detailed analysis please. ‘Sbollox doesn’t count.
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‘snot as bollox as the last one.
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Maybe. Buggered if I know.
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Not sure about Nandy as Foreign Secretary; diplomacy is really not her strong point.
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*looks at recent holders of the post*
She’ll be fine, thaum
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Rather nonplussed by the Shadow Cabinet. Amused by a couple of them:
– Jim McMahon as Shadow Transport. Jim was the leader of Oldham Council that got rid of all trains in Oldham, replacing them with a tram network that only goes to the same destinations as the trains, only they take longer to arrive. He also filmed himself patting himself on the back as he announced the successful wooing of Marks & Spencer (yes MARKS & SPENCER!!) to Oldham. To attract them to the town they completely rerouted traffic into the town centre, meaning to drive into it you had to drive down the bypass, which was built to bypass the town centre. A couple of years late M&S announced they weren’t coming to Oldham at all and the site remains empty. Comically inept.
– David Lammy as Shadow Justice Secretary. He’s not the brightest, almost comically so on occasion.
– Ed Miliband as Shadow Business Secretary. He’s back!
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Thauma, I’d imagine Nandy would be a teeny improvement on D. Raab?
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Oh well, yes, Nandy is a huge improvement on either Raab or Johnson. But imo Thornberry was better.
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Nandy’s a great pick for shadow foreign secretaries. A lot of towns abroad.
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Jim McMahon’s greatest mpment:
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RIP Honor Blackman
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I see that Bojo’s condition has been downgraded for “routine testing” to “in good spirits”.
Fuck.
I’m no lung doctor but “in good spirits” is up there with “has the full backing of the board”.
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@brb
Just had a similar conversation with missus. Makes me think he’s in a far more serious state than they’re letting on.
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Ach, that’s terribly sad. Still, she had a long and frutiful life and career.
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Honor Blackman, not OT’s missus.
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My missus has many achievements but has so far not managed to hit the heights of recording a song as momentous as ‘Kinky Boots’.
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She has plenty of time to hit those heights, OT.
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Sounds like Jim McMahon used Swindon as a template before being let loose on Oldham.
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Big Frankie B:
https://theovertake.com/~beta/frankie-boyle-did-you-ever-wonder-what-youd-be-doing-during-an-apocalypse/
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It’s the law here at the moment to wear a mask at all times outside but it’s going to be relaxed a little for cyclists, runners and hikers, although they’ll need masks on if they get within 2 metres of anyone else.
Not the news the naturists were hoping for:
https://news.expats.cz/weekly-czech-news/under-czech-coronavirus-regulations-even-nudists-must-wear-face-masks-czech-police/
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Raddy Antic has just died. Managed Atletico, Real Madrid (spit) and Barca. And a Luton Town legend.
Strange pronunciation by John Motson here:
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Some evidence emerging that Covid-19 does not cause Acute Respiratory Distress, rather that it causes hypoxia, like altitude sickness. Bad news is that being put on a ventilator can actually cause hypoxia, and we may therefore be putting patients in ICU in an even worse position:
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Possible end of season, Winner Takes All! game for the Pro Woo.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/rugby-union/52171735
Where would it be played, though? The final was supposed to be in Cardiff wasn’t it? Can’t imagine the organisers would want fans travelling to a neutral venue, even with restrictions lifted. But then you’d probably have fans travelling anyway.
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Merci one and all for the match links and recommendations. Plenty to keep me going there for a while.
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Here’s a great match you can enjoy as a neutral, AVS.
https://www.rugbyworldcup.com/video/343233
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Now, how did I know that was going to be the game? And there is no suck thing as a neutral when England are playing.
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You knew it was going to be a World 7z final?
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https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EU7nBUXXYAItb4_?format=jpg&name=small
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Just remembered that I was watching something – Goldfinger? – with my grandfather once. At one point he said, “Honor Blackman is a fine-looking woman”, which was exactly what I was thinking.
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https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EU7nBUXXYAItb4_?format=jpg
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What the fuck am I doing?
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What the fuck am I doing?
Existential question of my life.
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BoJo in intensive care.
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What the fuck is TomP doing?
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Mrs CMW said Bozza wouldn’t get out alive earlier on. I still believe he will.
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“Israel will go into a four-day national lockdown starting on Tuesday to try to stem the outbreak during the Jewish holiday of Passover.”
Worked for the Egyptians.
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Thanks, OT.
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@TomP – did you realise that trying to work out what you were doing was such a big deal to Deebee?
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