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vehicles like yours are what they're going for.'
    'So there are even more luxury cars on housing estates round Liverpool then?' said Tom in a Scouse accent.
    Jon laughed. 'No, we reckon these are being shipped straight out of the country. Probably ending up in Eastern Europe.'
    'Cheers for the advice. 'Tom showed his company's season ticket to an attendant and led the way to the corporate hospitality suite. 'When was the last time we saw each other? Was it that European cup match back in February?' 'God, you're right. How crap is that? Alice still hasn't met...' John faltered,'. . . your wife.'
    'Charlotte, you dim twat, 'Tom answered for him.
    Jon rolled his eyes in agreement. 'How's married life going, then?'
    'Fine. Expensive, but fine,' answered Tom.
    'Expensive? You haven't got a kid on the way, have you?'
    Tom glanced over his shoulder, a strange expression on his face. 'Not that I know of. I'm talking about Charlotte. She blows money like nobody's business. 'He patted his Timberland jacket. 'You don't think I'd pick something like this, do you?'
    Jon eyed the expensive-looking item, then glanced at the sleeve of his own battered leather jacket, which he'd found in a stall that smelt of joss sticks in Affleck's Palace years ago.
    Tom had met Charlotte only the previous year and, much to everyone's surprise, they had flown out to Barbados and got married within weeks. Jon decided to put the subject on hold, at least until they'd had a few beers.
    By now they were at the door to the hospitality suite. Tom showed their pass to another attendant and then stepped back. 'After you, mate.'
    Jon bounded up the stairs two at a time. He looked back at the top only to see Tom halfway up. By the time he caught up, he was puffing slightly.
    'Jesus, are you trying to make me feel unfit? This is the most exercise I've done for months.'
    Playfully Jon cuffed him on the back of the head. 'You should never have given up playing. Fly halves like you don't need to make tackles – us flankers do all that kind of stuff for you.'
    'You're saying you used to do all my tackling?' said Tom. 'As far as I can remember, you were too busy trying to get the opposition's fly half stretchered off to be doing any of my tackling.'
    Jon grinned. 'Well, you fly halves. Serves you right for prancing round the pitch doing your poncey little side steps and shimmies.'
    There was an awkward pause and Jon cursed himself. He should have remembered how sensitive Tom could be.
    Regret hung on Tom's face. 'Not with the hours I work,' he murmured. 'Don't tell me – you're carrying on playing for Cheadle Ironsides next season?' 'Hope so,' answered Jon, now anxious not to make his friend feel bad. 'It's nowhere near the standard we used to play at for Stockport, but I turn out when I can.'
    'For which team, you old bastard?' Voice now brighter. 'The veterans? When do you get to wear those purple “don't tackle me” shorts?' Tom shoved his mate aside with a smile.
    Relieved Tom hadn't taken the comment to heart, Jon hissed, 'Piss off,' and kicked at Tom's heels as they headed for the bar.
    The sevens tournament was played in the spirit of the season's final event. Looking down at the teams warming up on the touchlines, it was obvious plenty of players were still nursing hangovers from the previous night. When one threw up before running on to the pitch the crowd cheered with delight. During the matches themselves, all the teams avoided playing safe and kicking – instead the ball was run from everywhere with outrageously long passes and overly complicated moves being attempted. The play was great to watch, but the teams soon tired, even with each match only lasting fifteen minutes.
    At one point a slimly built back tried to sell an unconvincing dummy to a forward running on a defensive angle across the pitch. The forward didn't buy it, aiming his charge at the ball carrier and not the man he was apparently passing to. The forward's shoulder caught the back full in