Throughout the days play topic of conversation inevitably turns to the plans for the coming evening and this usually opens with the one word question, "Nags?"  More often than not followed by some combination of the following;

“yeah, why not?”

 “ah might join for a cheeky one or two”

“I’ll come but I don’t have circuit kit”

The latter often comes as a wily tactical move from the more seasoned members of the club.  It is this approach that often results in Will Hay wearing board shorts, which potentially fit him in first Year College, however have seemingly shrunk significantly since.

Once the decision has been made that the boys are heading to the Nags there is inevitably the “do you even know where the nags is?” sledge to a team mate who has, (often unfairly but other times entirely justified i.e. Jack Holloway) been dubbed a poor club man who never comes back to enjoy a drink or two.  Then follows the planning on how best to get from the far and distant corners of Sydney back to Glebe’s favourite watering hole. The immediate fear is that you’ll be stuck riding solo with the rare unit in your team and have to endure an hour of his chat.

The first two or three people to arrive set up immediately in front of the bar, making use of the bar table, which has a maximum capacity of two plates of food and nothing else.  Gradually as more and more arrive we begin to dominate the entire front room of the pub, rearranging chairs and tables to ensure that we all fit in a somewhat horrendously misshaped circle.

The usual gripes and complaints are directed at whomever happens to be club captain, for now Henry Clark, who cops the brunt of the friendly advice (read as abuse).  The fact that beer actually needs to be ordered and doesn’t just magically appear at the table is inevitably his fault.  When the aforementioned Will Hay gets a bit peckish the shout of “CLARK. Chippies.” can be heard by all.

The single blokes usually gravitate to a corner hovering over a phone looking through their respective Tinder matches, it quickly develops into a competition on who can throw out the most outlandish chat, early season form suggests that new recruit Tom Decent may be in a league of his own in this domain. 

Once the clock ticks 10:30, the plans for the night are decided. Usually dependent upon the days results the cohort decide whether to venture onwards and upwards or to shuffle home in a post lost depression.   If it has been a successful day on the field, it obviously stands to reason that it will be a successful night off the field. Come 11pm the cohort will stumble down to Parramatta Road to relocate. If Ben Joy is deciding on the next location we undoubtedly will be jumping into cabs and heading towards the Sheaf, if Ash Cowan (more than likely sporting a billabong shirt and dusty ¾ length jorts) is in charge it’ll be just through Uni and across to the Marly. 

Wherever the next location, it inevitably ends with someone (Liam Robertson) smoke bombing early, someone playing a thousand shots and still nicking off for none (this list is too long to name just one), someone getting advised to leave by security and the left overs thinking a 3am trip to the casino is the only logical progression. 

Regardless of where you end up, or how you feel the next morning, you’ll be back the following Saturday because this is why we play cricket.   The hours spent doing absolutely nothing at the Nags are what makes this terrible sport the greatest game of all.