Studs and Stilettos

Lesson 14 -never wear the opposition's colours when supporting the home team

I know I am mad -my mother's told me so often enough – so that's why I'm clambering onto the coach parked outside school trying to look as if this is the most exciting thing, I could possibly be doing on a Saturday morning at 8.15am. It's a grey, cold wintry morning with low clouds threatening to wash out any scrummage on the rugby pitch. I am optimistic that at the end of a relaxing coach ride to god knows where, the match will be cancelled and I will be able to engage Charlie in a deep and meaningful conversation about his personal life: more precisely, whether he has a wife, girlfriend, woman or any sort of relationship that I could foist my way into and wreck.

'Hello Miss Niccus,' shout the yobs on the back seat. They all look very different without their uniforms, dressed in trainers, track suits, racing green rugby shirts with hair gelled up into spikes or combed over their faces. I have no idea whether I teach them or not so I wave coyly and flop down in the seat behind the driver.

Ron obviously thinks I have that sort of sympathetic face. He immediately launches into a full and uncensored version of his life story and is particularly keen that I should know all about the haemorrhoids which were brought on by a botched vasectomy. He finds these long journeys hell and will have to sit on some sort of air filled cushion if he is to safely manoeuvre this bus around the M25. If Ron doesn't shut up soon, I shall personally puncture said cushion and enjoy every wince when he changes gear.

At last Ron decides to get off for a last gasp of nicotine – he says it reduces the discomfort of his tender anal orifice - so I stick the earplugs of my iPod firmly in to cut out the sound of boys munching crisps and doing the Hakka.

A firm prod in my left shoulder makes me turn sharply and the grinning face of Charlie Best leers between the head rests.

'Nice to see you. I wasn't sure you would come. The boys are really pleased to have any support from the staff. It's going to be a great day: the team have been practising for weeks and if they win this match, we'll be guaranteed a place in the South East England under thirteen semi-finals.'

'Wow!' What else can I say. Charlie looks so animated. He's wearing the school colours – racing green - and his hair is freshly washed and cut. Today could be fantastic. I am SO glad I made the effort to get up at the ridiculous hour of 6 a.m. to wash my hair and select my smartest T shirt in vibrant yellow with black chinos and a buttercup pashmina.

Charlie gets up and goes to the back to make the usual noises about behaving, not chucking litter or putting chewing gum in the ash trays or singing lewd songs - unless there is a significant win over the opposition - then he comes to the front and the bottom drops out of my life.

'We're just waiting for the other members of staff. They should be here any time now. I did say 8.30 sharp but they always go off to the staff room for coffee while I load up.' Charlie looks at his chunky watch and I see that the members of staff are cutting it fine. If I got here on time, surely they could as well.

'Ah – here we go. Driver. We can make a move.'

Oh my God.

Talk about a bad decision. I can see the 'staff' lining up single file to board the coach.

My date with Charlie the Best thing in St Euclids is going to be blighted by the presence of Miss Moon (wearing a racing green tracksuit and carrying an enormous first aid box), Dr Beeter (no suit and tie but his casual gear is straight out of Abercrombie and Fitch), Mr McCloudy in a kilt and green socks and ...the last person I ever wanted to see....Anneliese.

Dr Beeter smiles sweetly as he clambers uncertainly up the steps carrying a red plastic Bob the Builder sandwich box which only serves to remind me that I forgot the bit about bringing a packed lunch. Anneliese comes next and as soon as she sees me, her smile freezes and melts, dripping off her face. Looking like a catwalk Eskimo in a fur trimmed hooded jacket in dark green suede, designer trousers with Ugg boots she leans over my seat and whispers.

'Would you mind moving seat Miss Niccus, Murdo and I always sit in front.'

'What?'

'I said, would you mind relocating to an alternative vacant seat so that the Headmaster and his wife can take up the correct position on this vehicle.'

'I got your meaning the first time,' I snap, rather too loudly. 'Why don't you have a break with tradition and sit somewhere else. Go and join the cattle on the back row.'

Anneliese ain't gonna tell me what to do.

I fold my arms decisively and look out of the window - until a mobile phone picture is thrust into my face then I decide that I would rather not be staring down on Ron's balding head so I pick up my handbag and plonk down next to Dr Beeter.

'Morning James. Didn't know you were a rugby fan. Do you mind if I sit here, the view is so much better than in the front.'

Dr Beeter blushes and his spots stand out like measles at this chat up line.

'Please...of course. Help yourself. It's so nice to see you supporting the school. We've hardly had chance to chat since we both started. How are things going?'

'Fab... absolutely fab... apart from one or two little hiccups. Hello Miss Moon. Didn't know you were a rugby fan.'

Miss Moon hefts her weight into the seat next to us after plonking her enormous First Aid kit on the window seat.

'Never miss a game dear. Not in all the time I've been at St Euclids.'

'Are you the team nurse then?' I ask, eyes riveted on the First Aid box. 'What have you got in there – a stretcher, mobile operating theatre or an emergency heli-pad?'

'No dear. It's just my lunch.'

Well, perhaps I won't starve after all.

I wriggle down in my seat and untangle my iPod wires ready to block out any chit chat about chess that Dr Beeter may feel he needs to share with me, when there is a distinct serpent like hiss.

What the hell....

Hovering above my seat and holding the largest video camera that exists on the planet just inches from my snout is Doris and she's sucked her face so hard she's in serious danger of imploding.

'Why..' she spits out the words as if she's just eaten a nettle, '... are you wearing yellow?'

I look down at my pashmina and the lovely bright sunshine T shirt which so suits my mousey brown colouring and pale bile tinged skin and gawp back at the horrible apparition who is infringing my personal space with her gigantic camera.

'I think it suits me – don't you?'

Doris is turning a shade of puce that is really rather attractive but I can tell that something is upsetting the old bat particularly as she has just turned too quickly and thwacked Mr McCloudy over the head with the protruding microphone.

'Hope this is going to be on TV later.' I chortle into Dr Beeter's rather pink ear, 'I've always wanted to be a star and this may be a way in. What do you think is wrong with that woman?'

Dr Beeter wriggles uncomfortably as if his chinos are caught in a wedgey and blushes again.

'Yellow is the colour of St Blades.'

'So? What has St Blades got to do with my choice of outfit?'

Dr Beeter cranes his neck and tugs at the neck of his designer sweatshirt.

'That's where we're going today. St Blades is the opposition.'