Choice Cuts 01 

THE SECOND FIFTEEN FROM THE INSIDE - Malcolm Parish. Newsletter No. 57, 21st April 1975

I have been asked to write a few words about the Rugby season, as seen from the middle of the 2nd XV scrum. Well, there aren't many words which can adequately describe the sensation of being sandwiched between Messrs Brown, Biles and Clarke (the BBC Third Degree), and those words which do spring to mind are totally unprintable, even in this rag. I mustn't, however, mislead you too much, as others have been misled. For instance, I was talking to one referee after a game recently, and he thought the name of the club was "Cy-nics"; and most oppositions know Mark Huddleston as Father Christmas because of the number of penalties he gives them. (A reincarnation of St. Nicholas himself?). But I digress. When I enquired as to the exact nature of the literary gem required of me, I was told "Oh, just describe a typical 2nd XV game." Right. We lost. No, on second thoughts, there's more to it then that, as you'll see.

Gone are the days when a mere 7 physical wrecks turned up at Ruislip station to play for the 2nd XV nowadays we have 15 of them. If we wait until ten minutes from kick-off, that is. Every Saturday brings a fresh crop of stories concerning cars abandoned on the Western Avenue, 31-year-old divorcees at Friday night parties, assorted physical and/or liquid excesses, and the by now ritual sifting of the contents of the ashtray in Pete Stockwell's venerable Morris 1000. When the team is finally assembled, (you think I'm joking?), it usually contains a mixture of old favourites such as Mick Nowland and John Clarke, together with relative newcomers, like Brian Pendred and Blair Dunlop - names unfamiliar to many at present, but who will doubtless make their mark eventually. Or at least catch a ball occasionally. About ten minutes after the ritual "meet", and after going back to find Paul Brown, then is a mad dash into the changing room to "bag" a place near the electric fire so thoughtfully provided by Bert. Unless we are playing at home, that is, in which case we have to go back to find Paul twice.

It is at about this time that Rich Snowdon (that well known man-mountain) discovers that he hasn't got any boots, which surprises only the non-regulars. This is shortly followed by the announcement that Pete Stockwell can't find his shorts, which surprises nobody. In fact, I think we'd all be disappointed if he ever turned up with a full complement of kit. When all such kit deficiencies have been sorted out, we start warming up for the match. This is a highly individual procedure; Chris Simmonds lights up a last No. 6; Ian Summerhayes treats us to yet another Tommy Cooper impression. There is also general discussion concerning the talents of the opposition, who invariably "beat Hampstead 1sts", "make Roy Bull look like Ronnie Corbett", or "hammered us last year". Graham James doesn't take part in the warming up ceremonies, ever since the fateful occasion last year, when, in a fit of uncontrollable enthusiasm, he rubbed his legs together and set fire to his shorts. Eventually, to the accompanying roar of the local Hell's Angels on their Honda 50's, and under the watchful eye of a couple of small boys who take a simple pride from outpacing our threequarters down the touchline, the game gets under way. The opposition kick off, and immediately 14 prayers are answered as the ball finds its way to the 15th member of the team, who is invariably the least able to catch it. On rare occasions, a wedge is formed around the luckless individual whose lack of positional sense has been so dramatically shown up. Let it be said here and now that the 2nd XV are good at forming wedges; wedges so tight that the opposition can't smuggle the ball out. And we certainly don't want to - that would mean more running around. So, when the referee blows his whistle, (or makes a noise with his false teeth in the case of a particularly consumptive specimen recently served up to us) we all get up looking smug, and make mental notes to mention this fine effort after the game, in the Firefly.

The course of the game from this point depends largely on the opposition Sometimes, Ian Summerhayes, with his devastating change of pace, will carve openings in seemingly impenetrable defences, to leave Mick Nowland to score near the corner flag. Mick maintains that it's not worth running the extra distance to the posts, as we won't get the conversion anyway. Occasionally, when the years are weighing heavily on his lungs, Mick himself will plunge through defences and score. This enables him to take a breather whilst the kick is being taken. Then there are the bad games, when Mark Huddleston's long pass from the 5 yard line goes second bounce over the nearside touchline, or when Malc Newing, on receipt of the "scoring" pass, knocks it on. In good games he runs straight past, which at least gives someone else the chance to pick it up and score.

There are some events which feature in nearly every game. There is Mick Page's nose bleed halfway through the second half, when a rest is more than welcome. There is the intrepid captain prostrated on the ground, felled by the heavy breathing of tiring forwards. And there is "kamikaze" Bell, who tackles everything that moves; although it's not so much tackling as diving at ankles and tying bootlaces together. Mention must also be made of the electrifying speed of Chris Simmonds as he intercepts scoring passes intended for someone else.

And when the game is over, we all agree that the result is not important, unless we won, and that everybody played really well. After dutifully clapping the opposition, tired limbs are rejuvenated and injuries forgotten as we wait for Bert's cuppa and fill the changing room with smoke, The changing room remains crowded until mention is made of match fees, or of whose turn it is to wash the shirts, when there is a rapid migration to the showers and our minds are turned to the hitherto unsolved problem of how to shower and smoke simultaneously. Eventually, resplendent once more in our drinking clothes, we repair to the Firefly.

Never have so many drinks been bought by so few. John Clarke stands a round, Mick Nowland stands a round, Bob Jackson stands a round, and the rest just stand around. Gradually, as the evening wears on, and all the cheese sandwiches are gone, the team go their individual ways, to reassemble (you still think I'm joking?) the following week. For the record, the 2nd XV have played 31 games this season, resulting in 15 wins, 1 draw, and 15 we don't talk about. It's been a good season on the whole, not perhaps the most successful, but certainly one of the most enjoyable in my 8 seasons. I hope the other "regulars" look forward to next season with the same appetite as I do.

Malcolm Parish