ahead in the Lea v Sharp series, so I shake my head. “Sorry, mate, but my ankle isn’t up to it and I’d probably let you down anyway, but tell us when it is and we’ll come along and support, eh, Petal?”
“If I’m not in London, lovie, I’d adore to,” says Petal, totally without sincerity, “but I’m very heavily committed in the next few weeks. One of my friends is coming back from Australia and I haven’t seen him for years.”
“Worked his passage, did he?” says Garth.
“I beg your pardon?” says Petal. “Let’s have no more of that.”
So one Saturday afternoon, when the wind has dropped to gale force and a few super optimists in the High Street are beginning to scrape the flaking paint off signs saying ‘Olde Englishe Tea Roomes’ and ‘Ye Noshery’ in anticipation of the first rush of holidaymakers, I pick up Dawn and we take the coast road to Shermer. The rugby ground is tucked away in a corner of the golf course and the clubhouse is one of the new concrete type that looks like a public lavatory on two levels. From the moment we get there I can see what Garth means about the Shermer crowd being snobs. The two blokes selling programmes at the gate are both retired Indian Army and look a bit horrified when they see the E.C.D.S. sign on my car.
“Sure you’ve got the right place, old man?” says one of them condescendingly. “This is the Shermer Rugby Club, you know.”
I tell him I do know and we pay our 50p and go in past a crowd of blokes and birds leaning out of an old banger and shouting “You beast!” and “Oh, Rodney, don’t!” at each other.
I must confess that my unease is slightly heightened by Dawn’s clobber, which differs considerably from that on any other bint I can see. Her white high-heel shoes soon start sinking into the pool of mud outside the clubhouse and I don’t think that the stockings with two sailors climbing up a ladder pattern are being generally admired. Add to that a miniskirt, short fur coat, black patent leather handbag and the usual make-up counter of Woolworth’s plastered all over her mush and you can see that she would be a teeny bit overdressed for Raymouth Palais on fancy dress night. She does not help by rabbiting on about how cold and dirty it is and I wish I had left her at home, especially when I see some of the class talent lying about. I recognize the neat little dark-haired job that Sharp was with at the Y.C.s dance and give her a warm smile across the pile of sliced bread she is coating with sandwich spread, and she smiles back, which presumably means no more than that she thinks I am one of Tony’s friends. How wrong can you get? There is no sign of Sharp but I don’t have time to think about that because Garth comes bustling up.
“Thank God you’ve come,” he says. “One of the bloody Raymouth mob hasn’t turned up and we’re a man short.”
Now, normally I would have referred him to my wonky ankle but I don’t fancy being lumbered with Dawn for the whole afternoon and this might be a good opportunity to escape for a bit. We are certain to be knocked out in the first round so I shouldn’t come to any harm. Garth can see me weakening.
“Come on,” he says. “It’s only seven minutes each way and we’ve got a bye in the first round. You might even get a chance to kick Tony Sharp in the crutch. Have a go if only to give the rest of our blokes a game.”
“Oh, look,” says Dawn, “there’s a juke box over there. I think I’ll have a little dance to keep myself warm.”
“I’ll play,” I say.
It is half an hour before anyone starts playing and another half hour before we leave the crypt-like cold of the changing-room and start trotting towards a pitch which looks about half a mile away. ‘We’ are the Cromingham Crabs and, looking around my fellow team-mates, I wouldn’t back us against a day nursery when their best players were down with nappy rash.
Garth is all right, of course, his thighs sticking out of his shorts like sides of beef, but the rest of them! One long streak of piss with hair hanging down in front of his eyes like a Yorkshire Terrier, two small fat men and one big fat man who have to stop running before we even get to the pitch, and a bloke about my age who looks all right until he hands someone his glasses and then practically has to be led on to the field. The fact that only two members of the side are wearing the same coloured shirt also tends to convey the impression that we may be a bit short of teamwork.
We are playing Python’s Pesticides and, frankly, they don’t look much more imposing than us, though they have beaten Old Crominghamians II in the first round and are all wearing the same strip.
“Where do you want me to play?” I ask Garth.
“You’d better go on the wing,” he says comfortingly. “Do you know how to throw the ball in?”
“No.”
“Well, watch the game over there and you’ll see.”
He starts doing fast press-ups, slapping his chest after each press, and I am glad to see that someone is fit. The rest of our team are passing round fags and boasting about how long it is since they played.
The game on the other pitch features Shermer and that is where most of the spectators are gathered, shouting “Olly, olly Shermer” and similar idiotic expressions of upper-class encouragement. It does not take me long to see Sharp because the minute I arrive his lean frame can be seen streaking away and the cries of the faithful rise into a crescendo as he grounds the ball behind the opposition’s posts.
“Oh, well played, Shermer.” “Beautiful, Tony.” “Give ’em a chance, lads. Don’t score too many.” Sharp walks back nonchalantly, holding the ball at arm’s length with one hand and thinking how wonderful he is. I have to admit he can move a bit and I don’t reckon I would be able to live with him for speed. Luckily it’s not likely to come to the test.
Shermer score two more tries and it is obvious that they are a class outfit. The whistle goes and they give three ever-so-sporting cheers and trot back to the clubhouse whilst the shattered opposition can hardly drag themselves off the pitch.
“What’s on over there?” says a sheepskin-jacketed twit with a half-drunk pint of bitter in his hand as the crowd disperses.
“Python’s and Cromingham Crabs,” says the pork-pie-hatted berk with him. “Nothing worth watching.”
“God, no. Load of rubbish. Let’s go and chat up Fiona in the pav.”
It seems as if most of the spectators agree with them because only about half a dozen people and a stray dog are left watching us when Python’s kick off. Dawn is not one of them, having retired to the car because she is bored and cold. I, too, am cold, but not bored. As the ball rises into the air so I experience the almost painful thrill of anticipation which comes to me when playing any game. Unfortunately, for Python’s, the ball lands in Garth’s arms and he begins to amble towards the touchline, pulling half the opposition with him. Four strides and he suddenly changes direction and accelerates, leaving two men groping. By the cringe! But he can move for a big man! Somebody gets an arm round his shoulder but he shakes him off like a drop of water and has one more man left in front of him. For a horrible moment I think he may pass to me, but he drops his shoulder into the poor bastard standing bravely in his path and charges over his spreadeagled body to score under the posts. It is magnificent to watch and a murmur of surprise and appreciation rises from the onlookers. Garth boots the ball between the posts so we are five points up and the crowd waits expectantly for more. They get it, but not in quite the way they anticipate.
From the kick-off the ball goes to my short-sighted friend, who lets it bounce straight off his chest into the arms of a Python’s player following up. Garth dashes him to the ground but there is another man backing up who grabs the loose ball and reaches the line unchecked.
“Watch your handling,” snarls Garth, as we pant between the posts. “If in doubt, die with the ball. Don’t try any stupid passes.”
The kick misses, so it is 5–3 to us but soon afterwards our bean-pole carefully avoids contact with a member of the opposition, who scampers gratefully to the line and scores to the elation of