by Reece Morgan
After countless days of searching second-hand shops, sex dungeons, the missus’s wardrobe, and that shop in Akihabara for tartan skirts, the Cru finally assembled at Tobitakyu station. Some were true Scotsman, with kilt and sporran; most were horrifyingly overweight high-school girls; Tooley, for whatever reason, had gone for ‘pirate chic’. At any rate, with woad daubed, beer bought and underwear dropped, the horde made its way to Ajinomoto Stadium for the clash between the Japanese and Jockanese.
The match passed by largely unnoticed by the beer-swilling barbarians, and soon it was time to head to Roppongi. Despite getting horrendously lost, annoying everyone on every line, and Cocks becoming unable to navigate escalators, the Crusaders – bagpipes in hand and Flower of Scotland in their lungs – managed to make their way to the Hobgoblin.
Few sights will ever beat the glory of the Cru, in variegated tartan with a bagpipe-player at the helm, waltzing into every bar on the strip and ruining people’s nights. Luckily, we soon ended up at Geronimo’s, where more alcohol was consumed, clothes were lost or ruined, and future drama-bombs wheeled slowly into position.
All in all, it was a cracking night, and we look forward to smashing it even harder next year.
After countless days of searching second-hand shops, sex dungeons, the missus’s wardrobe, and that shop in Akihabara for tartan skirts, the Cru finally assembled at Tobitakyu station. Some were true Scotsman, with kilt and sporran; most were horrifyingly overweight high-school girls; Tooley, for whatever reason, had gone for ‘pirate chic’. At any rate, with woad daubed, beer bought and underwear dropped, the horde made its way to Ajinomoto Stadium for the clash between the Japanese and Jockanese.
The match passed by largely unnoticed by the beer-swilling barbarians, and soon it was time to head to Roppongi. Despite getting horrendously lost, annoying everyone on every line, and Cocks becoming unable to navigate escalators, the Crusaders – bagpipes in hand and Flower of Scotland in their lungs – managed to make their way to the Hobgoblin.
Few sights will ever beat the glory of the Cru, in variegated tartan with a bagpipe-player at the helm, waltzing into every bar on the strip and ruining people’s nights. Luckily, we soon ended up at Geronimo’s, where more alcohol was consumed, clothes were lost or ruined, and future drama-bombs wheeled slowly into position.
All in all, it was a cracking night, and we look forward to smashing it even harder next year.
