Poor little Jonny's face. All England had, and not enough to beat the Bok on the night. A face like a thunder cloud. Everyone else looked dejected or, to deploy the adjective de nos jour, 'gutted'. But Jonny looked livid. Livid at himself, at the pitch, the balls, the posts, the lines, the refs, the video judge, the other 14, the bench, the remainder of the squad (probably poor old Josh), the management and support, the media, the spectators, the stadium staff, the French nation, the Bok in their entirety, the Gods of Rugby, but probably most of all himself. He tried to pout and he tried to look inconsolable. Every time he relaxed for a second he looked like he wanted to rip the heads off kittens.
And he wasn't, actually, all England had.
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2 comments:
How can you be sad, bitter and disillusioned when you have such a fabulous neck? I write crime thrillers and when I'm feeling particularly jaded and bitter, I put in a good murder. It's great therapy!
True, true. Very true. And murder sounds like potentially outstandingly theraputic. Thanks for the top tip.
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