Choice Cuts 22

Tales from the Touchline, Newsletter No. 67, Oct 1977

As I watched the rugby team play Grammarians recently I spent some time observing my fellow spectators. My eyes lingered on two very attractive young ladies, but I was distracted by the antics of an altogether less beautiful specimen. Now I must not identify this mystery personality as that would not be nice and anyway he had given me a lift to the game in his Daimler Sovereign; but he was convinced he could jump higher, tackle lower, push harder and unlikely as it may seem RUN FASTER!! than anyone on the pitch; he was sure the referee was biased, the pitch was too short, the linesman excessively partisan (theirs not ours) and the second half was only 25 minutes long; he was certain that if he were playing, victory would have been a foregone conclusion; he was in short injured. Now while the less kind of you pause over the morning's cornflakes (or stop doing whatever you're doing when reading this rubbish - especially Paul Brown, because I know where he reads it, and what he does with it when he's finished), to enquire "how long has Tony Westray had a Daimler" (Editor's note) the more benevolent of us will consider the average crowd at an Old Boys rugby match.

Most games there is at least one crutch-assisted body with a broken leg usually Dick Pooley, whose fanatical desire to play Long John Silver in the Christmas Panto is rapidly becoming a burden on the National Health Service. Incidentally, reports of Dick being signed by the BBC for a new series entitled not plastered (in the medical sense) but unable to move much faster, Ian Dothie adds his not inconsiderable weight to the supporters club. He will be missed when he is restored(?) to fitness which he informs me will be around Christmass exactly which Christmas is a matter of some speculation. There is rather less debate as to whether it will be before or after the match against Ruislip.

Alongside the ranks of the injured are the "magnificent two" - no not Mick Hanson's latest testament to Anglo-Antipodean relations, nor in case you were wondering an oblique reference to part of the female anatomy, I refer of course, to Messrs. Barber and McClelland. The former invariably a picture of sartorial elegance from the knees up, the effect being somewhat diminished by a pair of Wellington boots. If you add to this motley selection myself and some glamour in feminine form you have a fair representation of the average crowd. All six of us.

The reason for such a small crowd is simple. If anyone turns up possessing two legs in reasonable working order and whose heart is deemed to have a 50% chance of lasting 80 minutes they end up playing for the 3rd XV.

Should you ever consider joining this happy band (throng is not a word I would use to describe 6 people) chances are you will be offered a glacier mint of indeterminate age from the depths of Mr. McClelland's raincoat pocket, I would advise caution if this is the case. I would also advise earplugs to combat Northwood's answer to the sonic boom if he should disagree with the referee and he usually does. But don't be put off by me, come along and see for yourself there's plenty of room on the touchline.

Hints for the professional spectator:

1. Always arrive after the K.O. this prevents being sent home for kit, providing a hi-speed taxi service for late arrivals, and being called upon to cut up oranges and plant flags.

2. A ruffling of and sprinkling of water on hair after the match ensures inclusion at the passing round of the opponents jug.

3. Bring along plenty of warm clothes - you may be warm but others around won't be.

M. Parish