Читать книгу The Confessions Collection - Rosie Dixon, Timothy Lea - Страница 31

Garth is very apologetic about not coming back, but says that Mrs. Dent had his old man out before they got to the crossroads and that one thing led to another and that he thought Mrs. C. would let me out anyway and that, yes, he knew I didn’t have any clothes but it would have been giving the game away to leave mine in the changing-room and he thought Mrs. C. would take care of that too.

I can’t really blame him because I don’t reckon I would have acted any differently in his position. Mrs. Dent, I know from experience, can be a very demanding lady.

I am pretty certain that I will never see Mrs. C. again and this worries me somewhat because Cronky thinks that the Department of the Environment shines out of her arsehole and is not likely to take kindly to the disappearance of his favourite pupil. But, to my surprise, she shows up per schedule, bright as an old penny, and starts gushing the moment we have got out of earshot of the E.C.D.S.

“Frightfully sorry … felt so awful … poor you … wasting away … what a shame … your divine friend … silly old George … can be so difficult … bee in the bonnet … had the most awful trouble … couldn’t get away … marvellous idea … new wonder pills … two in his brandy … mad lust … endless lovemaking … staggered down … hardly turn key … sorry too much.”

I get interested towards the end and make her take me through it again. It appears that she has got her hands on some tablets which are the ideal cure for wilting Willy. Not only that, but they are a winner on the old desire stakes as well. Given a couple of those in their Ovaltine, Lady Lewisham and Malcolm Muggeridge would have to be separated with a firehose. Quite where Mrs. C. got them from is a secret she keeps to herself but I have a suspicion she has been having it away with some boffin at Python’s Pesticides who specialises in that kind of thing. Certainly her old man didn’t give them to her—be a bloody fool to, wouldn’t he? They must work, because she is highly chuffed and makes no reference to another painting session. Bloody egg heads put the mockers on everything. But, I reason to myself, if science can work against me, it can work for me, and you never know when the deadly brewers’ droop is going to strike. One or two of those little fellows could come in very handy. I press Mrs. C. on the point and after a fair amount of dithering she promises to get me a few.

“But for heaven’s sake, Timmy,” she warns me, “whatever you do, don’t use more than one at a time. I gave George two and they turned him into a ravening beast.” She smiles happily at the memory.

Well, of course, I promise I will be very careful and the next time I see her she slips me a small phial of what looks like saccharin tablets. I was expecting something the size of bantams’ eggs but you have only to take a butchers at Mrs. C. to see that, however small they are, they work. There is a comfortable, satisfied look about her and she hardly talks throughout the lesson. I throw in a hopeful reference to painting but she says that she has not been doing much lately and is spending her time getting ready to accompany George on a business trip he is making to Copenhagen. Bloody nice, isn’t it? A couple of love pills and a ‘live show’ and I reckon Python’s could say goodbye to both of them.

I pop the pills in my pocket and though I continue to do so every morning, after a while I almost forget they are there. Almost, that is, until the day of the Shermer Rugby Union Football Club seven-a-side tournament.

Winter has given very grudgingly to spring along the North Norfolk coast and Mrs. Carstairs has passed her test first time, as I always knew she would. Mrs. Dent has failed hers for the third time, as I also knew she would, because she likes getting poked by Garth. In fact, she is a first-rate driver, and if it was not for the fact that she would be jumping out every two minutes and trying to screw the other competitors I would enter her at Indianapolis. Mrs. C.’s success means that Cronky looks upon me as a second son and can hardly take his eyes off the door in case the Queen Mother comes in. Needless to say, the latter event does not take place and it is left to Garth Williams, six foot four of craggy Celt, to inject some excitement into our cold spring days.

“Ever played rugby, Timmy?” he says to me one morning.

In fact, I have played rugby netball, which is a game found nowhere else outside Clapham Common and too complicated to describe in detail here, but once I have told him about my shattered ankle he shifts his attention to Petal.

“You must be joking, luv. I don’t even like the shape of the ball. And all that physical contact with people you’ve never seen before in your life. I should coco!”

I don’t usually agree with Petal but I am on his side there. What kind of bloke is it that spends Saturday afternoon trying to push his head between two other blokes’ arses? And all that frisking about in the showers afterwards? And singing dirty songs in the ‘men only’ bar? It’s a bit strange, if you ask me. Would you want to spend Easter in a coach with thirty-two men? Of course you wouldn’t. I wonder The People haven’t exposed it.

“I’m trying to get a side up for the Shermer seven-a-sides,” says Garth. “They’re a bloody load of snobs and they win their own tournament every year, so it’s time somebody fixed them. Raymouth have gone off on tour and I’ve persuaded one or two of their blokes that couldn’t go to turn out for us, but I need a couple more class players if we aren’t going to look bloody stupid. Your friend Tony Sharp is their star, Timmy, if that’s any incentive.”

It very nearly is but I still get the odd twinge from my ankle and I reckon I’m 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 his team-mates.

“You funk another tackle, you gutless prat, and I’ll break your fucking neck,” says Garth so that his spittle spatters the offender’s face, “and that applies to all of you.”

He turns his gaze on the rest of us and there are universal murmurs of assent. The conversion attempt fails again and so it is 6–5 to Python’s and mercifully the half-time whistle goes shortly afterwards. I have only touched the ball twice and that is to throw it in from touch, a fact that does not escape Garth’s attention.

“Right,” he says as we suck our scrag ends of lemon. “Get your knees brown this half—all of you. We’ve nothing to lose, so get stuck into them. You won’t be able to live with yourselves if we lose to this shower of shit.”

I will be able to live with myself very happily, but I don’t thing it is a good moment to say so. I feel my ankle, hoping that some sinister swelling will give me an excuse to hobble off, but it seems as strong as a Hashamite’s hampton.

“Right, lads,” says Garth in a voice that would warm the cockles of Cronky’s heart, “let’s be having you.”

The whistle blows and we start another seven minutes of agony. This time it is our turn to kick off and Garth gives the ball a cunning side-foot jab which sends it bouncing up invitingly in front of the bloke with the eighteen-inch fringe, who has an empty field before him. No doubt remembering Garth’s words, he snatches at the ball and knocks it on. Garth’s scream of rage and pain drowns the referee’s whistle and there is another scrum which claims the flagging energies of the two small fat men and the big fat man. The big fat man is not in the middle, which means that the scrum spins round and round like a dog chasing its own tail and the ball cannot be put in. Everybody except me gets their knickers in a twist and the minutes tick happily away with the score still 6–5 to Python’s. Eventually the ball squirts out on the Python’s side and despite another crushing tackle by Garth, they work it out to their wing, who comes haring towards me. Remembering my instructions, I dare not let him pass and crouch expectantly, waiting my moment to spring. No doubt sensing my resolution, the winger artfully chips the ball over my head and attempts to race after it. I say “attempt” because a reflex action makes me stick out a leg and he doesn’t touch the ground for about ten yards before landing smack on his face. Cries of outrage from the touchline mingle with those on the field and the referee awards a penalty try.

“Hard luck, boyo,” says Garth who doesn’t give a monkey about playing the game if it is a choice between that and winning. “You couldn’t do anything else.”

The kick is in front of the posts and should be a formality but the man who takes it is in too much of a hurry and slices it past a post. Nevertheless we are 5–9 down and with seconds left to play I feel a sense of relief that my afternoon’s sport is over without me suffering serious injury.

I reckon without Garth; the Pythons are watching him like a monk on a nun’s outing and seeing them all bunched up in front of him, he kicks the ball over their heads and jets off after it by himself. One of them gets there first but hardly have his hands closed round the ball than Garth sends him flying and snatches up the bouncing ball. Two blokes jump on his back but he strides on carrying them with him until the line yawns in front of him. Only then does he begin to falter but with one last superhuman effort he twists free and hurls himself over by the corner flag. It is stirring stuff and even I find myself cheering. I don’t want to play another game but as I watch Garth carefully placing the ball by the touchline, I have an unshakeable feeling that it will go soaring between the posts. Garth carefully brushes the mud from his toes, rubs his hands thoughtfully and—thud! The ball soars into the air and curves smoothly over the bar. The final whistle goes and we have won 10–9.

“You’re bloody lucky to have that bloke playing for you,” says one of the Pythons as we trudge back to the changing room. “We’d have pissed on you otherwise.” I am about to tell him to get stuffed when an old geezer wearing a Sherlock Holmes hat with the flaps down shuffles up and jabs at me with his shooting stick. “You’re a cad, sir,” he squeals, “that was the worst foul I’ve ever seen and I’ve been playing and watching the game for over fifty years.”

“Stick around for my next appearance,” I tell him. “You haven’t seen anything yet.” But there is nobody on the touchline for my next appearance. A lot of faces pressed against the windows of the clubhouse but only fourteen poor sods and the referee out there on the pitch.

For some time the sky has been darkening and ugly black clouds have been bumping into each other menacingly. As we are about to leave the changing room, there is an enormous clap of thunder and the rain pisses down like it’s under pressure. I expect us to wait till it’s all over or pack it in, but no, out we have to go.

In no time, the pitch is like a kids’ paddling pool and the ball more difficult to handle than a bar of soap in an Italian restaurant. We are playing R.A.F. Great Grunting or the Gee Gees as their big-mouthed captain keeps calling them. On a dry day they would probably have murdered us but in these conditions they keep dropping the ball or falling over and the more mistakes they make the more rattled they get. This, coupled to the fact that the two teams are soon so covered with mud that nobody can tell the difference, helps us to score our vital try, and natural Lea modesty will not prevent me from saying that I am responsible for it.

One of their big blokes is making progress towards our line with the ball when Lanky earns his keep at last by leaping on to his back. This slows the bugger down a bit and he looks round for some support. “With you,” I shout, and like a lamb he passes me the ball. Garth is hovering about and quick as a flash I hand it on to him and he is away loping through the puddles to score under the posts.

“You dirty bastard,” shrieks the airman who is being viciously abused by his team-mates. “I’ll get you for that.”

“Don’t be soft,” I tell him. “You want to use your eyes.”

There is nearly a punch-up but the referee gets between us. Garth kicks the goal, and play is resumed.

After that incident a certain amount of needle creeps into the game and this is totally to our advantage. Most of our team are only good at close range fouling and as curses and threats rebound round the field and a pall of steam rises from the scrum, the minutes are ticking away.

Half-time comes with the score still 5–0 to us and it is late into the second half with the rain still pissing down that the airmen get near our line. Despite the miserable cold and the wet I am hardly aware of either and have now totally abandoned myself to winning at any costs. With this in mind, I blatantly obstruct their winger who is about to receive the ball in a scoring position and a penalty is awarded against us, from which one of their big men forces his way over between the posts. They only have to convert and it will be five-all.

“Try and charge the bugger down,” orders Garth as we wait poised behind the line for their kicker to move. The bloke makes a Cecil B. de Mille production of getting ready for the kick and then, as he runs forward, I let out an ear-splitting shriek and charge at him. Obviously unnerved, he pauses and I am able to get to the ball first and lash it into his goolies. He collapses, screaming in agony and the referee’s whistle nearly fractures my ear drum.

“I’m warning you for ungentlemanly conduct,” he hisses, barely able to keep his hands off me. “The kick will be taken again without a charge.”

“Oh, ref. It was an accident,” I bleat. I ruffle the writhing airman’s hair in the hopes that this will be interpreted as a sporting gesture of true penitence but the referee waves me back behind the posts and turns to the stricken kicker.

“Nice going,” says Garth admiringly. “I think you’ve buggered him.”

In fact, I have, because the poor sod is borne away still groaning and an anxious conference takes place amongst the opposition as to who should be the kicker. Their fears are justified because there is now a pool of water in front of the posts and it is necessary to build a small island of mud to raise the ball above water level.

“No charge, and no shouting,” says the referee sternly and all eyes are turned towards the Gee Gees’ kicker. Their captain has decided to take on the job himself and, also, that the best method of succeeding is with a hefty belt. To this end he stands fifteen yards behind the ball and then charges at it sending up a spray of water like Silvana Mangano running through a rice field to meet her lover. Thud! bang! crump! The ball flies like a rocket, hits the underside of the bar and ricochets down on to the back of our big fat man’s head, hitting him half a second before the bar it has dislodged.

For a moment, nobody knows what has happened and then we realise that we have won. All, that is, except fatso who is lying face downwards in the mud in real danger of drowning. We scrape him up and return rejoicing to the changing room avoiding contact with a few members of the opposition and my friend with the shooting stick, who are obviously not happy with the result or the way it was achieved.

“Bloody marvellous,” exults Garth. “Well played all of you. Especially you, Timmy. Are you sure you don’t have any Welsh blood in you?”

“I pop out for a leak occasionally,” I say wittily and feel warmed by the maestro’s praise. That is about the only thing there is to warm me because we are all soaked to the skin and have no clean kit to change into. Garth has a track suit which he pulls on before lying down on a bench and closing his eyes. “Keep warm, keep off the beer and report here at five forty-five,” are his last words to us.

That is nearly an hour away and I wish I was relaxed enough to take a kip. But I’m not. I am the neurotic type who has to wander about picking his nails until the action starts. I leave my team-mates who are all describing how they won the last game! “I knew I had their big fellow when I saw his plate wobbling”; “so I belted him one and I didn’t hear a squeak out of him after that”—and make my way outside. The rain has stopped and miraculously the clouds split open to reveal the sun which pops out like the yolk from two halves of an eggshell. Its arrival coincides with the appearance of the Shermer team who then proceed to crush Old Repseans 23–0 in the other semi-final. Watching them, I reckon that we are going to need an earthquake to stand a chance against them. The hated Sharp flashes around like a dose of clap at a hippies’ gang bang and the whole team are big, fast and competent. The draw must have been woefully mismanaged if we can have emerged as the team to meet them in the final. I wander back inside with my spirits lower than a dachshund’s balls and decide to have a cup of tea. Sharp’s bird is still behind the counter and she gives me a nice smile as I go over.

“You look frozen,” she says pleasantly. “Haven’t you got anything to change into?”

“No. I got all this stuff out of the laundry basket by the changing room and there’s not much left.”

It’s a fact. Thirteen left boots—twelve without studs, two grey jock straps, a pair of gym shorts and a brassiere with one cup missing. Makes you think, doesn’t it?

“Oh well. Have a nice hot cup of tea, then. How many lumps?”

“Five, please. I need to build up my strength for the final.”

“You’ll have to excuse me because I’m terribly ignorant, but who do you play for?”

“Cromingham Crabs. Don’t worry. Nobody else has heard of them either. We only got together for the tournament.”

“My goodness, you have done well. You won’t win the final, though.”

I would like to be able to disagree with her, but I can’t.

“I shouldn’t really say that,” she goes on, “but my fiancé plays for the Shermer team.”

“Oh, really? Which one is he?”

But she doesn’t have to answer because a slightly muddied Sharp comes striding over and pats her on the cheek.

“Did you see my last try?” he begins and then notices me.

“Oh,” he says—it is really more of an ‘ugh’ than an ‘oh’, but no arrangement of letters gives quite the flavour of the original—“don’t tell me we’re going to have the pleasure of meeting in this final?”

“Depends whether you beat Old Repseans,” I say weakly.

“Oh, we did, old lad, we did.” I can see the whites of his knuckles and for a moment I think he is going to have a go at me there and then, “so you needn’t have any worries on that score. Just worry about the one in the final.”

“Oh that’s very good,” I turn to the bird, “it’s a play on words, see: ‘score’ and ‘score’!”

“Don’t clown with me, you oik,” hisses Sharp and I can see a punch-up is about 1.5 seconds away. His bird can see the same thing because she shoves a kettle into his hand and point towards the kitchen.

“Get some more hot water, Tony, there’s a love; and don’t be such a fool.” Sharp looks at the kettle, then at me, and grits his teeth.

“I’ll see you on the field,” he snarls and stalks away before I can think of anything memorable.

“Phew!” says his bird. “I’ve never seen him so worked up. What was all that about?”

“Well,” I say archly, “I don’t really know, but I think it may have something to do with the fact that I work for the East Coast Driving School. I believe he works for Major’s and there’s not much love lost between the two organisations.”

“Well, I never!” she says. “So I’m talking to one of the hated rivals. I’m Valerie Minto. How do you do?”

“Timmy Lea; pleased to meet you.”

What a turn-up, this lovely bird springing from the loins of the monstrous Minto! I hardly know what to say.

“Have you seen my father?” she goes on. “He’s around here somewhere. He’s president of the club, you know.”

“Really?” I murmur in my best upper-class twit manner. So there we are, all the gang are gathered to see me make a berk of myself in the final.

“I’d better go and have a rest,” I say. “Thanks for the tea; it was delicious.”

I give her my look of gangling, unaffected innocence, which has brought a few pairs of drawers tumbling down in its time, I can tell you, and replace my cup.

“I suppose I shouldn’t wish you good luck,” she says, “but, good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Another of my Outward Bound School smiles and I amble back to the changing-room where the rest of the Crabs are stretched out trying to relax. The concrete floor is now littered with mud from scores of boots and the whole scene looks like the reception area in a morgue. I pile a few jackets on top of myself and try to kip, but it is no good. My limbs are stiffening up and parts of my body I never knew I had are starting to ache. The cold crucifies and my borrowed kit is chafing my thighs. I might as well try to sleep on a bed of nails.

I am about to go back to the bar when Garth swings his legs over the side of the bench. “O.K., lads, let’s be having you. None of the Shermer mob are in here, are they? Good. Now look. They reckon they’re going to cakewalk it. They’re so relaxed they’re nearly asleep. We’ve got to get amongst them right from the first whistle and really knock them off their game. Run them ragged. Remember how we shook those R.A.F. buggers? Every time one of them gets the ball—pow!” He smashes a giant fist into the palm of his hand. “Hit him for six! And when we’ve got the ball, use it! No stupid passes. Give it to me if you can, but if you can’t see a man to pass to, die with it.”

It is all good, dynamic stuff, but when I gaze round the blokes listening, it might be Dad’s Army having a pep talk from John Wayne. Most of them look as if they will have to be carried on to the field and big fat man is still grumbling that he can’t see properly. Now, nearly half the team have trouble with their eyes.

“And remember, the final lasts for ten minutes each way, so you’ve really got to motor.”

Twenty minutes! Shermer will run up fifty points in that time and I will probably drop dead of exhaustion. Why the hell did I say I would play? I go into the bar and find the answer. Dawn is perched on a stool flashing her minge at anybody who cares to look at it and sipping Babycham like the darling of Roper’s Light Horse.

“Oh, there you are,” she squeals. “Have you been hiding from me or something? I haven’t seen you the whole afternoon.”

I mumble about having to take it easy because of the final and notice that Sharp is perched at her elbow with his back to us. He bestows a contemptuous glance and goes on talking to one of his team-mates. The whole Shermer side have changed into clean kit and are lounging about as if waiting to have a photograph taken. A glass of what looks like orange squash is resting by Sharp’s hand and a diabolical scheme begins to take shape in my sordid little mind. “Knock them off their stride,” Garth had said. None of us seems capable of doing that, but supposing I could slip Sharp a couple of Mrs. Carstairs’ sex pills. They are supposed to have a pretty shattering effect.

“A gentleman would see that my glass was empty,” whines Dawn.

“I’ll have to get some cash,” I say and streak to the changing-room.

“We’re on in two minutes,” says Garth. “Don’t get lost.”

I fumble in all my jacket pockets and at last find the phial of tablets. Back outside and I realise I have forgotten the money for Dawn’s bloody drink. More fumbling and I emerge again to find to my relief that Dawn and Sharp are still where I left them.

“Same again?” I say, snatching her glass and leaning across the bar so I am operating from behind Sharp’s back. There is a lot of activity because people are ordering up before the final and it is easy to manoeuvre the phial to the edge of Sharp’s glass without attracting attention. I look round carefully and am just about to dispense a couple of tablets when some impatient sod pushes forward, jogs my arm, and the whole bloody lot go in! They start fizzing immediately but before I can do anything, Sharp snatches up his glass and downs it in one gulp.

“Right! Forward to battle,” he says, and, slapping his mate on the back, makes for the door.

Christ, I think, what am I going to do? I may have killed the bloke. Should I tell him? What can I tell him? Perhaps an anonymous phone call to the police.

“Oh, there you are.” It is Garth by my side. “Come on, they’re waiting for us.”

My eyes follow Sharp to the door and suddenly I see him give a little skip and a jump followed by a puzzled shake of the head as if he did not quite know what had come over him. I also see Minto for the first time. He is carrying a megaphone and gives Sharp an encouraging pat on the shoulder. In reply, Sharp’s hand drops and gives Minto’s balls an almighty squeeze, which makes their owner leap about three feet in the air. This little scene is not generally noticed but I see one of the tea ladies nearly drop her plate of Spam sandwiches in amazement. Like a man in a dream, I follow Sharp out of the door and see that he now has his arm round his team-mate’s shoulder and appears to be whispering something in his ear—or is he whispering?

“Get off!” screams the poor bloke in outrage and proceeds to wipe his ear with a handkerchief. Sharp has been nibbling it.

This stuff obviously works fast, and indiscriminately, but is it fatal? I have got to do something quickly or the game will have started. Maybe exercise would be the best antidote. Sharp is now kissing the referee and trying to hold his hand. At least he looks all right; he is not turning green or anything.

“Their kick,” says Garth. “Now remember what I said.”

The referee has shaken himself free and Sharp has his arm round one his team-mates. I am standing near the touchline and can hear puzzled murmurs blending with the chorus of support for Shermer.

“What’s Tony playing at? Is he trying to pretend he’s a pouf or something? Olly, olly Shermer!”

The referee blows his whistle and the most incredible rugby match ever played begins. The ball is kicked to one of our little fat men, who is half scragged but manages to scramble it into touch. A line-out forms and Sharp, standing next to one of our men, starts to stroke the inside of his thigh, and nuzzle him. He gets a belt for his pains and promptly lopes over to the referee to tell him all about it.

“Stop playing the giddy goat and get back in the game,” snaps the official, clearly embarrassed. Sharp shrugs and starts towards the line-out when someone in the crowd catches his eye. “Yum, yum,” he yodels and hurls himself at a tall blonde wearing lace-up boots and green hot pants under a maxi-coat. He has his arms round her in a trice and starts trying to undo her braces. “Lovely dolly,” he groans. “Tony wants you.”

It takes two men to pull him off and the struggle seems to have some effect, because he shakes his head a couple of times and wanders back on the field looking a bit more like his old unpleasant self.

“Next time you go off, you stay off,” warns the referee. “I will not tolerate any more fooling about.”

“Give us a kiss,” says Sharp, but the referee pretends not to hear him.

In goes the ball and Sharp leaps like a performing seal to knock it high in the air. Garth sees his opportunity and comes in like a ton of bricks. He jumps, catches the ball, and his impetus takes him through the Shermer forwards before they know what has hit them. The scrum-half is trampled into the ground and the winger gets some free plastic surgery from Garth’s mighty mitt. Two men see the danger and race to cut him off, but, as they close, so Garth lobs the ball over their heads and Lanky folds it to his chest and just has the speed to make it to the line.

The silence that greets this effort could only be bettered by a Liverpool supporter watching Everton score their fifth goal at Anfield Road and I have to look at the referee to be certain that he has awarded a try.

Garth shapes up to take the kick and it is only then that I notice Sharp still lying on his back where the line-out broke up. He is peering down the inside of his shorts and singing “I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts.” It may be true, but it is obviously causing a fair amount of embarrassment to those standing near him. It doesn’t help Garth much either because he misses his first kick of the afternoon and we are just three points ahead.

Sharp makes another half-hearted attempt to invade the crowd but is thrown back on to the pitch by the worried Shermer supporters—a big mistake, as it turns out.

From the kick-off the ball goes to big fat man, who promptly knocks it on. Scrum-down. Sharp tries to bind down with his other two forwards but is promptly pulled out by his captain, which is just as well because he is already trying to love-bite his prop’s neck. The problem is: where to put him? On the wing he might run amok amongst the crowd; in the scrum and his obvious desire for close physical contact is being given full rein. Eventually they send him off to the centre of the field and play continues. The ball goes in and whips back on the Shermer side whilst our forwards wilt visibly. Scrum-half, fly-half, and out to Sharp. It looks an easy try and the Shermer supporters are in full song when Sharp stops dead in his tracks and holds out the ball invitingly.

“Give us a kiss and it’s yours,” he says. My short-sighted friend purses his lips, snatches the ball as Sharp closes his eyes and starts scampering down the field with the Shermer backs in total disorder behind him. They pull themselves together and charge off in pursuit, but by this time Garth has taken the ball and scored under the posts.

The Shermer supporters are now in open mutiny and when Garth kicks the goal there are shouts of “Keep it away from Sharp, for God’s sake,” and “Get him orf!”

Sharp is now sulking because our centre cheated by not kissing him and this is to his side’s advantage, because without him taking part in the action they have no difficulty scoring a converted try before half-time to make the score 8–5 to us.

I watch Sharp carefully whilst we suck our lemons and pretend to listen to Garth’s ranting, because I still fear that he may suddenly drop dead. But he looks all right as he invites the rest of his team to peep down the front of his shorts and it occurs to me that Python’s Pesticides would do well to solve the problem of gender discrimination before they put their wonder drug on the market.

“… and really get amongst them,” winds up Garth. “I don’t know what’s the matter with that daft sod Sharp, but he’s worth playing on.”

He is indeed. But only if he can get the ball. The rest of his team have now wised up and keep it away from him at any cost. In the first minute of the second half their scrum-half breaks from a line-out and scores under the posts. The try is converted and we are 10–8 down. If this was not bad enough, straight from our kick-off their wing catches the ball and races the length of the field with Garth just failing to stop him getting over in the corner. The kick fails but we are now 13–8 down.

As we trudge back to the centre line, morale is at truss height and even Garth is silent. The Shermer supporters are on top of the world and I feel mentally and physically knackered. I really believed we had a chance and now my dream is punctured like a french letter with ‘Made in Hong Kong’ stamped on it.

But I reckon without the crafty Celtic cunning of Garth. Seeing the opposition bunched protectively around Sharp, he taps the ball over the ten-yard line, sprints after it, sweeps it up and is striding away for the line with the nearest Shermer man ten yards away. He scores untouched and the score is 13–11. We kick the goal and it is 13-all.

Our mood is now transformed and straight from their kick-off big fat man catches the ball and charges forward as if nothing on God’s earth is going to stop him. In fact, three Shermer players stop him very comprehensively in the first four yards, and he goes down twitching and groaning. The referee blows up and the crowd surges forward to inspect the damage.

Luckily for us, Sharp is equal to the situation.

“Give him the kiss of life,” he shouts and promptly starts to pull down the victim’s shorts.

“Not there, you fool,” cries one of his team-mates, aghast. “On the mouth.”

He must have wished he had not said it because Sharp needs no further encouragement before subjecting Fatso to the kind of kiss that would clear all the blocked-up sinks in a toffee factory. A cry of horror goes up from the crowd and strong men turn away in disgust. Willing arms haul Sharp from his prey and the referee’s finger points rigidly towards the touchline.

“I’m sending you off for ungentlemanly conduct,” he says sternly, his lower lip trembling. You feel that the total horror of the situation is almost unhinging him. Sharp’s hand immediately shoots out and dives down the front of the official’s shorts.

“Give us a gobble,” he says.

Shermer try to rally after Sharp’s departure, but it is obvious that their hearts are no longer in the game. Not many teams can have lost a player for attempted buggery with a member of the opposition, and for a side showing all the symptoms of being gentlemen the load is too much to bear. Seconds before the desperately relieved referee blows his whistle for full-time Garth takes advantage of a moment of indecision in their defence and snatches up a loose ball to plunge over and score.

WE HAVE WON!!!

We hug each other and try to carry Garth back to the clubhouse, but we are too fagged out and he slides down into the mud with us giggling weakly. What a performance, we tell each other. By God, but we were magnificent! Mrs. Minto turns up from watching the Sunday afternoon T.V. movie to present the cup and prizes, and starts saying what a wonderful tournament it has been until somebody whispers to her to belt up. We have our photograph taken by Gruntsomb of The Echo—who else?—and a jug of beer is produced by Crippsy, who has turned up to see the final.

It is the first of many and by the time I have had a quick dip in the cold bath full of the mud left by the other fifteen teams, I hardly know what way round my trousers go.

We blunder out into the bar, expecting to find it jumping, but the place is strangely empty and most of the people there are members of the guest teams.

“Where is everybody?” I ask nobody in particular.

“They’ve gone home,” says a voice at my elbow. “They’re not very used to losing—not like that, anyway. Well done! My good luck must have worked for you.”

It is Valerie, who has been clearing away the tea things. Seeing her reminds me of Dawn, but to my relief she seems to have pissed off.

“Yes, we were a bit lucky,” I say modestly. “Er—how is Tony? I haven’t seen him since the game.”

“Neither have I, and I don’t particularly want to. I think they took him home.”

“How are you getting home?”

“I’ll ring for a taxi.”

“No need to do that. I’ll take you.”

“Are you sure it’s all right?”

“I’m not drunk.”

She blushes. “No, I didn’t mean that. Don’t you want to stay and celebrate with your friends?”

A few moments ago I would have said yes, but now, seeing her has brought home to me the whole point of getting drunk.

“No, I’ve had enough. Are you ready to go?”

She nods her head. “I’ll just get my coat and lock up the kitchen.”

Somehow I know it’s on. I don’t know how—I just know. It’s been one of my days. It’s The Day. My jacket pocket bulges with a pewter tankard inscribed ‘Shermer Seven-a-Side Tournament Winners 1971’ and I have this gorgeous little bird to escort home—or somewhere. She reappears by my side, looking sweet and pretty, and I tell her so.

“Where’s your car?”

“It’s over on the other side of the car park. It’s one of the opposition’s, you know. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not as long as it’s got an engine in it.”

I say goodbye to Garth and the rest of the Crabs, who are now too drunk to take in anything except more liquor, and we go outside. The puddles glint in the frosty moonlight and I steer her round them to where I can see the familiar outline of the Morris. There are a number of cars left but only mine has steamed-up windows. I notice the fact casually and it is only when I bend down to open the door that I realise why. Two completely naked bodies can be seen entwined across the back seat and the sole of a foot is clearly visible against one of the windows. It is moving as if gingerly probing the glass to see if it is real.

I recognise Dawn first because her smudged, sweaty face is gazing up with unseeing, half-closed eyes. The man is Valerie’s property and she is quick to speak his name. “Tony,” she cries out despairingly. “Oh, no!” She turns and starts running through the puddles. I could go after her but I don’t think there is anything for me there now, and, anyway, the night air is beginning to make me feel sick.

I could start making a scene about Tony and Dawn, but I don’t fancy her above waist level and I feel I owe Mr. Sharp a favour after all he has been through on my behalf. You can’t go on holding a grudge for ever, can you?

I leave the foot tapping rhythmically against the car window and make my way back to the bar to continue celebrating.