Secret Diary of a Ballcrasher
Secret Diary of a Ballcrasher
As a crasher, your time is often spent evading authorities… this is fun. But you do tend to miss out on getting personal with some of the most charming and lovely people our great country has to offer: May Ball security guards. Feste and I wanted to put this right, so our crash last night involved some close interaction with our old foe. We first devised a plan to obtain a couple of dodgy duplicate wristbands (long story, don’t ask…) which wouldn’t have passed muster under close inspection anyway. So, instead, we just walked straight up into the plodge, dutifully playing the role of two best mates talking through a vicious and painful breakup.
“You guys; you just fight all the time: it’s just better this way, can’t you see?” Feste pleads, drawing a raised eyebrow from some guy guarding the path through. “But I love her,” I insist, “I just… I just need to speak to her”. The guard makes some mild interjection, saying, “Where have you come from?” Feste steers us through: “Excuse me, mate, could you do me a favour and get the head of security? It’s important.” He’s unsure, but his quizzical look doesn’t give way to an all-out rejection of the request. We wait patiently for five minutes or so before a tall, stacked man returns wearing a head-set. As he approaches, we resume our roles. “No, and that’s exactly why I went after her, and didn’t let her go last time…that was two years ago!”
“Can I help you?” asks the security chief. “Yes,” Feste begins, then, leaning conspiratorially towards him, he explains the situation. “My friend’s got a pretty messy relationship issue to deal with, something that could take a while… I just needed to guarantee we’d still be able to get back inside in say 15-20 minutes, because I know you’re going to stop re-admittance soon.”
“Yes, it’s gone midnight so really we shouldn’t even let you out now”. He’s taken the bait, and thinks that we’re currently inside on our way out. “Well, I’ll try and make it quick,” Feste compromises, but could you ask your man on the door to just give us five minutes? He really needs it.” They glance over at me looking despondent and hopeless under a nearby tree. “Okay,” the security chief concedes, “five minutes.” On his way back in he utters a few words to the guard, who responds with a curt nod. After five drama-filled minutes of me ranting at the dialling tone on my phone (a performance any Cambridge thesp would be proud of), we saunter through with huge smiles on our faces, holding our shoddy wristbands as high as our spirits.
loving these blogs. If this is Jesus then I actually saw you coming in. So cheeky!