Ghost of rugby games past

Iwas on the blower to the bro, reminiscing about our father, who art in heaven, and the state of his armchair. When my parents passed to their reward and we were left to divvy up the chattels, no-one wanted this particular piece of furniture except little old me.

‘‘Eeeew’’, we chorused turning our noses up because of his years of occupation in it. For hours my father would park up in the red brocade throne, till my mother launched an assault, digging him out of it to give the chair her signature industrial-strength clean.

The arm rest protectors were boiled in a pot on the stove and hung on the line, then, bottom up, she unearthed from its crevices crumbs, chocolate wrappers, biros, book receipts and – hold on to your stomach, dear reader, nasal hair clippings.

The outlier side tables were essential to what we referred to as ‘‘Dad’s set-up’’. They housed the remotes, the vital TV rugby listings, magazines, his partial dentures, to be slipped into the cakehole when the doorbell rang, and a stack of books, fiction and non-fiction, in various states of progress, some of which he had the bizarre habit of reading the final chapter of before starting at the beginning.

So when it came time to tossing it out, I put my hand up for the throne on the off-chance that, if there were to be leaps and bounds in DNA, there would be sufficient residuals of Dad in the furniture for him to be put back together and brought back to life.

And so it has come to pass. Since moving back to Christchurch, where Dad and his mob resided for many a moon, the chair, like a glass in a seance, appears to have moved across from the sidelines of the room and parked itself plum centre in front of the TV.

Iblame the Rugby World Cup. I have a love/ hate relationship with rugby and am currently in hate mode, on account of All Blacks coach Steve Hansen’s voice. Every time I hear Shag’s dulcet tones it makes me run from the room with my hands over my uncauliflowered ears. How is it possible that this colourless voice has inspired armies of rugby talent to scrum, kick, score and ruck their way to gold?

If our rugby greats are to be led into battle, surely one should expect something rousing, along the lines of Laurence Olivier’s St Crispin’s Day speech, not a droning voice that sounds like the annoying hum of an on-theblink fridge.

I was explaining all this to the bro, who is parked up across the ditch with his own set-up ready, like his dear old dad, to watch every game. I told him to expect a CD of Dan Carter’s movie A Perfect 10 for Christmas, wondering how anyone could stay awake for it or St Richie McCaw’s film.

He came to their defence, reminding me that these superheroes had devoted great chunks of their lives to training, while I had the ridiculous expectation that they would have sat round in smoking jackets exchanging bon mots and witticisms in preparation for a post-career movie.

In the meantime, I have company.

I have a friend who leaves her television on for her dog when she goes to work. She has inspired me to leave the TV on for the benefit of the red brocade chair and the ghostly personage who has taken up residence in it. Maybe this would explain the sudden appearance of scores of chocolate wrappers lodged down its sides.