Читать книгу Sex & Bowls & Rock and Roll: How I Swapped My Rock Dreams for Village Greens - Alex Marsh - Страница 8

Past the shop, past the village pub and south, where the cottages peter out and there dwell just deer, pigs and pheasants. Across the Peddars Way, the ancient thoroughfare that brought the Romans from Suffolk to their holiday villas on the north Norfolk coast; down through the fields and woodlands of the Royal estate to the main road. Popular Radio 2 DJ Chris Evans spurs us on, playing ‘Can You Feel It’ by the Jackson 5. If there was ever a record to pump you up for a bowls match then it is ‘Can You Feel It’ by the Jackson 5.

Game one. Game on.

Unusually, we have a passenger. Karen has joined us this year, from another club. It is her very first game for us, and she will probably be intimidated and nervous. Big Andy and I put her at her ease in between funking along to the music.

‘Canyoufeeeeelit!’ I sing, indicating right.

‘It’s quite a nice green tonight, although you wouldn’t expect it right in the middle of town,’ says Big Andy.

‘And it’s directly behind the pub,’ I add. ‘Although to be frank it was a bit lively in there when we went last year. ‘Bahbahbahhhh-bahhbahbahcanyoufeeeeelit.’

‘Wasn’t there a fight or something?’ he asks.

‘I don’t think it was exactly a fight,’ I recall. ‘I think it was just a bit lively. There was lots of shouting and stuff. Certainly I remember the barmaid running in and hiding behind the door. But then it was almost…six o’clock on a Friday night.’ I slow down as we approach a roundabout. ‘Baahbahbahhhbahhhbahhhbahhh-canyoufeeeelit!’ I add.

‘Hopefully we’ll be there with a bit of time to spare,’ says Big Andy. ‘Get a quick pint before we start.’

‘Right,’ says Karen.

It is good to have a bit of new blood in the team. We struggled for players last year, after the club suffered green-uncertainty, and we had almost considered dropping out of the Thursday night league altogether. But a strong showing in the tables and our reputation for being a good-natured bunch of people have held us in good stead.

‘You might find that we take it a bit less seriously than some of your old lot,’ I call over my shoulder, as the Jackson 5 make way for the traffic report. ‘We’ve got some good players, but everybody’s there to have fun. There’s a – there’s a good atmosphere about it, is the best I can say.’

We will indeed be in good time. Park the car, go for a quick pint, get into the Zone. When you play bowls, it is very important to get into the Zone. Mental and spiritual preparation is everything.

‘A good atmosphere,’ confirms Big Andy, as we pull to a halt.

‘No we are not fucking all right,’ snarl Ron and Vicky, stepping out of their car and responding to my cheerful greeting quite alarmingly angrily. ‘He hasn’t picked us, has he? Years we’ve played for this club! Well he’s a fucking arsehole so we’ve turned up here anyway to fucking tell him so, and he can stick his fucking bowls club where it belongs.’

The Zone announces a temporary suspension and apologises for the inconvenience.

‘Right…um,’ I reply.

‘No offence to you lot, and we wish you well, but it’s time he had a piece of my mind, and I shall fucking give it to him when he arrives and it won’t be pleasant, I can tell you,’ says Vicky.

‘We’ve got the trophies from last year – he can fucking take those as well,’ adds Ron.

‘Um – perhaps we’ll go for a quick pint and leave you to it,’ suggests Big Andy.

‘Best not to interfere,’ I agree.

I see a car approaching out of the corner of my eye.

‘Here he is now,’ says Ron.

As the car pulls up, we realise that it is not Howard the club captain, but Nigel. I make frantic ‘we are going to the pub, quick quick stop the car and leap out and join us as fast as you can as there is going to be an angry scene in the car park’ gestures. But he just blinks at us in incomprehension, so we sportingly abandon him.

‘Just a little disagreement,’ explains Big Andy as we hasten away.

‘Right,’ says Karen.

I can see both sides of the quarrel. Doing the Human Resources for a small club is not a job that I would personally volunteer to do, even if I wasn’t so busy at the moment what with the stuff at home and the sorting out the band and things. It is a thankless and tiring task, and you are always likely to upset someone in the act of doing it. But I have always got on well with Ron and Vicky, having played in their block many a time. I hope it will sort itself out, somewhere else, where I won’t be involved with people shouting ‘fuck’ at other people. Big Andy clearly feels the same. We will hide bravely in the pub until the scene is over. It has always been a nice pub.

The pub is closed.

An aroma of angry dispute drifts on the air from behind us. ‘It can’t be closed!’ I moan, pulling once more at the door, ignoring the scrunch of broken glass beneath my feet.

‘It’s definitely closed,’ confirms Big Andy, stepping back from the tightly drawn blinds, the empty bottles discarded on the step, the sign on the door saying ‘This Pub is Closed’.

There are more raised voices. We stand awkwardly on the concrete slabs, thinking that perhaps a cheerful and very slightly out-of-breath publican might suddenly arrive with a key. I wander round the corner to the other side of the pub. That side of the pub is closed as well.

‘I guess we could just walk the streets for fifteen minutes?’ I wonder.

There is a small huddle of players clustered by the gate to the green as we nervously walk back with a view to sprinting around the edge of the car park and thus not getting involved in shouting and finger-poking. It transpires that the gate is locked, so we join the huddle, like refugees from the Gaza Strip. We examine our shoes as the argument approaches. They really are very interesting shoes. You can stare at them for ages without getting bored. The stitching runs all the way round, from the heel, round the toes, back to the heel again. And they keep your feet warm. Warm. And dry.

‘I’m sorry about that little scene,’ the club captain says helplessly, as his antagonists disappear in a cloud of petrol.

A greenkeeper arrives to unlock the gate. We traipse in slowly, in single file, still fixated on our shoes. The Zone hangs up a small sign: ‘This Zone is closed’.

The rules of bowls are simple.

Of course, I mean the local rules: the rules that we play by every Friday night before we go to the village pub; rules that are probably written down somewhere but that may as well be unwritten, that have been passed down by generations of Norfolk bowlers. I am sure that there are variations in different counties, in different leagues, or when you go overseas to any of the other great bowls-playing nations. But as far as I am aware, there is no Sepp Blatter of bowls; no white-capped Juan Antonio Samaranch figure passing resolutions and presiding over standardisation. I guess there is Howard, who goes to the league meetings and picks the team. Howard, or Barry Hearn.

In any case, there aren’t many rules in the big scheme of things. Not compared with cricket, or American football, or just living in general. If we assume that everybody knows the object of the game – to get as close to the cott – the little white ball – as possible, then we can dispense with that and get on to the important bits. And the most important bit comes at the very beginning of each match, before a mat has been laid or a wood tossed.

The first, undisputed law of bowls is to shake your opponent’s hand and wish him a good game.

‘Have a good game.’

‘Have a good game.’

‘And you – have a good game.’

‘Have a good game.’

‘Have a good game.’

If you are playing triples – three on each block – as is normal on Fridays, then that equates to eighteen announcements of ‘have a good game’. That is, I wish each of the three people on the opposing block a good game, and each of those three wishes one back – six ‘have a good game’s. This is repeated by the two colleagues on my side, making eighteen declarations in total before you even acknowledge your own side. That is not all, however. A ‘block’ is merely one-third of a bowls team – we play nine-a-side, three blocks playing their separate games side-by-side on different parts of the green (‘rinks’), their individual results being added together to decide the outcome of the match. That is fifty-four ‘have a good game’s resounding around the green, drifting amidst the trees and the mats and the scoreboards and echoing off the hedgerow. Often it is dark before we have finished wishing each other a good game.

And ‘have a good game’ it must be – that is the wording that is acceptable. There is no ‘good luck’; no ‘have a nice one’; no simple ‘cheers’ or ‘all the best’. ‘Have a good game’ is the phrase that is said, and has been, and always will be.

‘Have a good game.’

Cricket was my first sporting love.

Travelling with my dad to watch him play, my own small child’s kit stashed hopefully in the boot, in the wishful anticipation of one of the men suffering a horrible injury and being unable to continue. Watching my dad intently as he stood crouched like a panther in the gully; ambling around the boundary together as he waited for his turn to bat. And then – oh joy! – somebody would be too slow to move and would be hit in the nuts at silly point, and I would be called upon to substitute. And then cakes at tea, and being given cider in the pub afterwards. What could be a better way of spending a Saturday afternoon for a boy?

Then making it into the team, and running around, and batting and bowling, and buying cider in the pub afterwards. And playing with your dad, and discovering rock music, and skipping the odd game because of band practice, and leaving before the cider to go drinking with your new friends, and not having so much time on Saturdays to do stuff with your dad, and…

I think I am a bit fat to play cricket these days. I did give it a go again a couple of years back, but I was really only still good at the cider bit, and after a while I became aware of small boys lurking around the ground, regarding me as a dead-cert nuts casualty. It was fun, but I don’t miss it. That was then and this is now.

Football was never my thing. I did play at a reasonably high level, for the 3rd Billericay cub troop. My position was left back, which, as my dad explained to me, was probably the most important position on the field. Unfortunately, none of the other cubs realised this, and they used to shout things like ‘Haha – left back in the changing room, more like! Left back! Left back in the changing room!’ I didn’t move on to another club when I left the cubs. My fellow players eventually went on to become people in the City with aggressive suits and wanky spectacles and too much testosterone. They were happy times.

Tennis half-killed me, and I was never built for rugby, so now it’s just a bit of snooker, with John Twonil, Mick and Short Tony and the gang – and the bowls. I wonder what would have happened had I discovered bowls at a very early age? There are probably hundreds of thousands of small boys who have never had a chance to play; never seen a bowling green. It is a shame, and the reason why Barry Hearn must succeed.

Triples – three on a block. Each has a specific role: the ‘skip’, the ‘lead’, who bowls first, and the one who bowls second/in the middle, who does not have a particularly satisfactory title.

The first thing that you’ll not appreciate on Barry Hearn’s television coverage is this: when you step forward to bowl, you can’t really see what’s happening at the other end – the ‘head’ of woods that collect around the cott. It is too far away, and difficult to judge distances between the woods. This is the role of the skipper – to stand by the head, making judgements about the position of each wood and letting you know what’s going on via a combination of words and gestures. These will include his recommendation on what would be the best shot to try in the circumstances. Sometimes this is a gentle suggestion, sometimes a barked order followed up with ‘Oh well – do it your own fucking way then.’ Skips have different styles.

Each player has two woods to bowl. The home and away skippers bowl theirs last, their responsibility being to tie everything up – not merely hoping to gain points for the team, but perhaps to knock an opponent’s wood out from a scoring position, or to block things off in front in order to protect an advantage.

If you’re the one in the middle, then you have a dual role to play. First, you will be looking to build up a good strategic position within the head, to make the skipper’s life easier when he comes to claim the points. Second, you will sometimes be called upon to merely get as close to the cott as possible, if the lead bowler has failed to trouble the surrounding grass with his efforts.

The lead has a simple job – a very simple one. The lead must bowl two woods that come to rest right next to the cott, thus putting the opposition on the back foot from the word ‘have a good game’. It is a big responsibility, and it takes a certain type of person to make a good lead. Paradoxically, as your two colleagues are yet to bowl, there is the opportunity of rescue, and thus the lead position is also a good place to hide somebody if they are shit.

I usually bowl lead.

Unlike many sports there are no white line markings, behind which you must stand. Instead, as you bowl, part of your body needs to be in contact with the mat. It’s a black mat, but the colour isn’t particularly important. Clubs can get hold of mats from specialist bowls providers, who can supply a range with a combination of grips and surfaces to suit wet or dry weather conditions, indoor or outdoor surfaces, or with their own logo embossed in the rubber. Ours are reassuringly bog standard.

Placing the mat is the responsibility of the lead bowler. It is a responsibility that brings much pressure. The exact position of the mat is defined in the rules – but the rules tend to be different for each league, and are complicated, involving distances. In general, you can split bowlers into two groups – those who know exactly where the mat should go, and those who haven’t a clue. Being in the latter camp, and as a lead bowler, I have a particular mat-placing strategy that seems to work in all scenarios. I chuck it on the ground where I think it might go nicely, and if anybody shouts at me then I move it to where they say. It’s the same for both sides. If you get excited about poor mat-positioning then you are very likely an arse, and should be formulating Strategic HR Initiatives rather than wasting your time playing bowls.

‘Oh dear,’ I mutter, as I land about ten feet away from my target. We are rusty; I am rusty. No matter how many rehearsals you go through, nothing will prepare you for leaping up on stage in front of an audience of thousands. Likewise, the roll-up has blown away a few cobwebs but that is all. It doesn’t prepare you for the pressure of a match situation. I concentrate very hard for my second wood. I need to take quite a bit of pace off it, and give it a wider angle.

‘Oh dear,’ I repeat.

Some people would call the little white ball a ‘jack’ – in fact, this is probably the more commonly recognised term worldwide. A ‘cott’ or ‘the dolly’ are stubbornly local designations – I’ve never heard anybody use the J-word. If you referred to it as a ‘jack’ around here, people would immediately spot you for a tourist. It would be like walking through Edinburgh wearing a kilt and eating shortbread.

So the skips stand at the other end of the green, giving you instructions based on their reading of the game. But when the lead and second have bowled their two, then it’s their turn. Everybody swaps places. We walk up to the head of woods; the skips return to the mat.

The halfway pass is a key moment. Normally, it is the cue for a whispered ‘Well done!’ or a muttered apology, or a snarl of contempt. Sometimes you might stop to discuss a tactic or two; sometimes you might fit in some constructive feedback.

‘Put in a long cott. They haven’t worked out the slope.’

‘You’re bouncing them slightly. Try to get closer to the ground as you release.’

‘That was, without doubt, the biggest load of dog shit bowling that I have ever seen in my life.’

And suddenly, as you approach the cluster, the woods open out to reveal exactly what is going on in there. Invariably, your shot that you thought was really good turns out to be rubbish, whereas your shot that you thought was rubbish is still rubbish. Under normal circumstances it would be mine and Big Andy’s turn to shout at Nigel. We enjoy this. We usually shout things like ‘I’d go this way if I were you. Or that way.’ Big Andy tends to offer lots of advice, I am often less vocal. Nigel listens and then does what he was planning to do anyway, which is usually for the best.

Bowls is scored very simply – the closest team to the cott gets the points. So if you have the two closest woods, and your opponent has the third closest, you get two points and he gets nothing. Even if that third closest is still very close indeed.

‘Can’t play next week – I’m going to Lord’s,’ Nigel mutters as we cross.

We stare at him; so much for well-drilled trios and mutual respect and support. ‘Lord’s,’ I repeat.

‘See the West Indies,’ he explains.

No shots are counted until the end is finished. Tonight, Big Andy is getting one or two close, I am getting one or two close…but then their skipper is stepping up and rolling one closer. He is very good, demoralisingly so. Despite the initial Zone fiasco, we’d be winning by miles if it were just Big Andy and me against their support act. As it is, the game balances evenly – swinging this way and that, with one side never more than a couple of points ahead.

We go into the final end one point down. Then something odd happens – their skipper misses his shot twice. He’s been playing like a bowls god all evening, but the pressure has got to him. We shrug in surprise as his second wood pulls up two feet short and wide. A missed drop shot, a saved penalty, Lewis Hamilton going through on the inside – who needs the likes of the West Indies when bowls can produce its moments of high drama such as this?

Final score: our block wins by one. The other blocks are yet to finish; the overall outcome will depend on their results, but Jason is a few shots behind and we are not going to make up that margin. A few minutes later and it is confirmed – but we have had a good game several times over. The mats and scoreboards are collected; the captains sign the cards. A big piano chord descends over the green.

We pass the closed pub sadly on our way out of the car park. Bowls is not a game to be played dry.

The village pub is austere and slightly intimidating from the outside, sitting haughtily in its prime position at the head of the little settlement. The whitewashed brick is always pristine; the metal tables dotted around outside polished and gleaming; the menu neatly typed in its menu box beside the front doors. Inside, modernity intrudes – some odd modern art prints and the remaining nine-tenths of the chandelier that Big Andy’s raised fist had connected with after Liverpool scored in the Champions League. The left turn into the main bar reveals a smaller than expected room – the presence of an enormous chimney breast carving the area into an awkward ‘L’ shape that would make it very difficult to accommodate a band and PA equipment. I’ve thought about this a lot, and the only practical solution I can think of would be to move all the chairs and tables and set up at the very apex of the ‘L’. There would still be very little room for the sort of audience that I would envisage, but they could overspill into the corridor, from where we could sell T-shirts and souvenir programmes.

There are more modern art prints, and a wooden floor that catches the light from the huge old mullioned windows that look back out across the road. There is a lot of history behind the building, I would expect, but really the main point of interest about the place is that it sells beer, will sell it to me, and I don’t need to pay for it immediately due to my bar tab arrangement.

Here dwell the people with whom I spend my life: the staff – principally the Well-Spoken and Chipper Barman; Mike, Ben and Lottie – and the regulars, who stand clustered in the usual area, adjacent to the Mini Cheddars. Short Tony from next door; Len the Fish, who knows all there is to know about fishing and fish; John Twonil who drives the bus for the old folk; Eddie with his soft Cambridgeshire burr. I chuck my stuff on the side of the bar and throw my coat on the back of a stool, where it’s gazed upon suspiciously by Len the Fish’s dog – a rustic and uncomplicated countryside dog, the epitome of uncomplicated countryside dogginess in this epitome of uncomplicated countryside.

‘Is that your phone?’ gasps Short Tony incredulously.

I explain the phone situation, matter-of-factly. It would be foolish to spend money on a new flashy Londoner’s phone when I hardly make any calls at all, and when the LTLP has a perfectly good one that I can use. Everybody laughs at the thought.

The Chipper Barman is a placid character. I am sure this placidity disguises some deeply hidden threat; his slightly short and swarthy appearance conceals a robust frame beneath. In fact, he is a double black belt in something from the Far East and despite being a steady and thoughtful chap, he could probably steadily and thoughtfully break your neck. I am always careful to compliment him on his barrel-tapping.

With the momentary rush at the bar easing off, he acknowledges us with a nod, wandering slowly over to the corner where we live.

‘Show him your phone!’ someone prompts.

The Chipper Barman’s face lights up. ‘Girl’s phone! It’s a girl’s phone! Hahahaha!’

There is a bit more laughter, which I am starting to think might be at my expense rather than the ludicrous fashion-victimness of city types. It is good-natured, and I smile it off, but I am surprised by the ‘pink is for girls’ sexist implications, to be quite honest. It is as if The Vicar of Dibley never happened. I am not particularly affected by it – it is just boring and predictable. If people want to spend hundreds of pounds on the latest gadget when there is one in perfect working order that they can get for free then they are the idiots, not me.

John Twonil returns from the toilet.

‘Mppphhhhhffrggghahahahaha!’ he chortles, bringing up the phone thing again. He is bloody immature for somebody his age. Short Tony and Big Andy join in once more. So are they. Even Mrs Short Tony, who you think would have some sort of gender solidarity.

‘You are wasting your breath,’ I inform them. ‘Water off a duck’s back.’

Honestly, they are all living in the dinosaur age. It is the post-sexist twenty-first century now, and if I want to carry round a pink phone then I am perfectly at liberty to do so. The world has moved on, and I am proud to say that I have moved with it. There is a bit more laughter at my expense. I smile it off and place my order. The banter of the locker room is part and parcel of sport, and bowls is no exception; to be teased and wound up (albeit immaturely and unfunnily) means that you have genuinely arrived.