02/11/2026
Sleaford 22 – 10 Meden Vale
Fourteen men, no props, no kicking tee and one extremely unfortunate pair of budgie smugglers
On a cold and thoroughly miserable Saturday, Meden Vale travelled an hour to renew acquaintances with rivals they hadn’t faced for more than two seasons.
Sleaford, or “Sleaford Sh*thouses” as they are less affectionately known by the MV faithful, are flying high at the top of the league and came into the game unbeaten. (They are a different team these days and actually a good set of blokes so I think its time we went back to calling them Sleaford)
Vale were also unbeaten, although perhaps more impressively they managed to travel with a grand total of 14 players. The rest were unavailable due to weekends away, exotic holidays, broken bones and, in at least one case, what appeared to be a badly twisted sock.
Messrs Cullington and Stoutt quite sensibly suggested playing it as a friendly.
The 14 players quite sensibly told them to f**k off.
Captain Matt Thom rallied the troops and led magnificently from the front, playing with that famous left tit that rugby people are always banging on about but very rarely actually demonstrate.
And Vale started superbly.
In fact, some of the Sleaford players appeared to have gone Trick or Treating with the kids and forgotten they had a rugby match.
Vale hammered away at the defensive line with powerful running and some enormous tackling, particularly from Man of the Match Joe Divito, who spent most of the afternoon hitting anything that moved. And probably a few things that didn't.
Then, 15 minutes in, disaster struck.
Prop Finlay Carter came off due to an injury from a high tackle, which was especially unfortunate because the Vale front row had been giving Sleaford a proper going-over at scrum time.
Time for a tactical reshuffle.
With William Murphy now the only recognised prop on the pitch, 45-year-old veteran flanker Pierre of Oatez stepped into loosehead, while 48-year-old Richard Preston manfully volunteered for hooking duties.
Richard deserves particular recognition because he'd had a rumbly in his tumbly for most of the afternoon.
At some point during the match, that rumbling reached its inevitable conclusion.
Richard actually shat himself.
Fortunately, his trusty budgie smugglers performed a defensive job that even Sleaford would have been proud of and successfully contained the situation.
No leakage. No knock-on. Play continued.
Despite packing down with only seven men, Vale's scrum remained dominant for the full 80 minutes. Quite how a collection of pension applications, dodgy knees and borrowed front-rowers managed it remains one of rugby's great mysteries.
Magnificent effort.
The only real criticism of Vale's first half was that after so much sustained pressure they really should have had another 10 points on the board.
Instead, Sleaford found some open space, scored a try and somehow went into half-time leading 5-0.
One of our Scottish contingent compared the first half to Braveheart. To be fair, William Wallace had horses, swords and several thousand angry Scots. We had 13 blokes and Richard Preston with diarrhoea. Wallace had it easy.
Vale started the second half exactly as they'd finished the first and were eventually rewarded with a penalty to make it 5-3.
Had Ricky had his trusty kicking tee available, we might even have found ourselves ahead.
Ryan Lilley, wherever you are: more importantly, WHERE IS THE BLOODY TEE?
Sleaford then won a penalty and, rather than kicking to the corner and attacking, decided to take the three points. Their own supporters booed them. Which was beautiful.
Still, when you're rattled like a c**k in a sock, safety first. Apparently it keeps everything clean and contained, although after Richard's afternoon we'll have to ask Dylan Carter for a second opinion.
Sleaford's defence was generally decent, although occasionally their interpretation of timing differed slightly from everyone else's.
One tackle on Ricky Geeson was so late that the corner shop had shut, the landlord had called last orders and the clocks had gone back.
Sleaford then scored a second try after the referee unfortunately missed a pass which appeared to travel approximately five yards forwards.
In fairness, the referee was excellent all afternoon and is therefore completely forgiven.
But seriously...
Where the bloody hell is VAR when Meden Vale need it?
Just when Sleaford thought the old Vale dog was finished, there was another bite.
Joe Divito crashed over for a superb try following a planned lineout move, and Ricky Geeson added the conversion.
15-10. Game on.
And Vale still weren't finished.
Unfortunately, by now Stevo was hobbling around like a pony with a broken fetlock, while Ash D was operating on the sort of legs that, had he actually been a horse, would have resulted in a concerned vet quietly taking him behind the clubhouse about six years ago.
But still they carried on.
Eventually the final whistle went with Sleaford winning 22-10. And, through gritted teeth, they probably just about deserved it.
Nobody at Meden Vale enjoys losing. We travelled there to win a rugby match and instead came home as valiant losers.
And let's be honest:
Valiant losers don't win league titles.
But teams that travel away with 14 players, lose a prop after 15 minutes, play most of the game with 13, field a 45-year-old loosehead, a 48-year-old ho**er with catastrophic bowel trouble, forget the kicking tee, and still frighten the unbeaten league leaders half to death.....might just have something about them.
That famous left tit is still beating.
Onward we roll.
And next time, can somebody please bring 15 f**king players and the bloody kicking tee.
