A pair of socks hanging in a tree on this bright, crisp, morning along the Wandle Trail en route to Colliers Wood reminded me of my rugby boots. On 25th June I mentioned my ingenious scrumping in Cottenham Park sometime in the 1950s. Remembering throwing sticks into conker trees when younger, I had decided to chuck my boots into an apple tree intending to knock off some fruit. Unfortunately it didn’t occur to me to untie the laces that bound them together. Soon they were suspended like the socks. More ingenuity was required to get them down. This involved the park keeper who was a bit put out. It made me late for the match. I couldn’t even invent a story which would present me in a better light. The news had been spread all round the changing rooms. Bill Edney, Geography master and rugby coach, was also a bit put out.
On another occasion, when playing for the Wimbledon College Old Boys, I lost a boot on the field. Rather than stop and put it on, choosing to wait for the next natural stoppage, I continued wearing one sole boot. I must be the only player ever to score a try with ‘one shoe off and one shoe on’. (My second name is John). I was probably lent wings to avoid anyone stamping on my stockinged foot.
A lace once came in very handy. When Alan Warren broke my finger (posted 23rd July), I obtained a spare, lace, not finger, from the referee and strapped the damaged digit to its neighbour in order to carry on playing.
It will now be apparent that nothing short of instant death would have got me off the field before the final whistle. When I damaged a shoulder which has given me constant pain for more than fifty years, I couldn’t raise my left arm, but I could rest it across the shoulders of my partner in the second row of the scrum. How daft can you get?
Sam knew. When I was about sixty and hadn’t taken the field for fifteen years, he played for a Newark side against a pub team. Reckoning I must be as fit as most members of the probably inebriated opposition, I sneaked my aged kit along when I went to watch. Just in case. Sam was not one to carry on regardless when injured, so I was puzzled at his continuing the game with a twisted ankle. Afterwards, I asked him why. ‘Because you would have come on’, he replied. And I didn’t think he knew I had come prepared.
During Sam’s stag weekend in the Margaret River area of South West Australia the young men arranged a game of touch rugby. In this form of the game there is no tackling. You just touch your opponent who must then release the ball. This was at the end of a day sampling the wineries. Naturally I joined in. After all, touch rugby is safe enough. Sam’s friend, Deutch, 6′ 5” and about 18 stone, forgot the rules and tackled me hard. Once I got to my feet I took the first opportunity to retaliate. I couldn’t get my arms around his hips. It was then that Mick O’Neil, about to become Sam’s father-in-law, sensibly called a halt to the proceedings, because, he said ‘someone will get hurt’. I think he meant me.
As usual, this morning, I continued my journey to Norman’s by tube. On the Jubilee line between Green Park and Baker Street, a young woman with extremely shapely limbs revealed by the briefest of running shorts; a ring through one nostril; a diamond stud in the other; and acne on her face cheeks spent her time oiling a lion’s head tattoo which was all that covered her right thigh. Perhaps she was applying hair care to the animal’s plentiful mane. Since she was seated directly opposite me, I was somewhat distracted from my book.
Church Road market, in the glory of the sunshine, was a colourful as ever.
Despite having a bad cold, Norman was able to serve up a succulent roast partridge meal followed by apfel strudel. Sadly he was unable to drink all of his half of the 2009 Dao, so I had to imbibe more than mine.
Great post! What a hard-headed man you are! Daft, indeed. It’s so hard to explain to young people to take care of injuries because 50 years later they become a menace. Ah well. We can’t help ourselves, can we? And youth is irresistible: behaving that way, or just witnessing.
Oiling the lion was amusing to me, as you suspected. Tara has been at me every few hours, “We have to go and get that lotion, Mom, that the tattoo lady told me about.” Tara doesn’t drive and relies on me for transportation. In the meantime, the tattoo gets the lotion we have on hand. I also commented on Tara’s attire yesterday, while we were lounging in the house. “Are those new underwear?” “They’re shorts. I have to wear these shorts so they don’t rub the tattoo.” {In my mind: shorts?! You mean in warmer months those are designed to be worn as outer clothing?!?} Luckily I don’t have to contend with any face piercings. Yet.
Many thanks, Crystal
You make me laugh SO MUCH! I’m literally cackling! 😉
Great. Thanks. I just wish I’d had the nerve to get my camera out 🙂
You do PRETTY DARN WELL most of the time my friend!
I was just going to say “Where’s the picture!??!”
Such a missed opportunity. I think the young lady would have welcomed it 🙂
This older, wiser Derrick would have known how to ask her, I am sure.
🙂
Never heard Touch Footie called Touch Rugby before. Must be a WA thing.
There’s a sport here that requires chucking trainers over power lines and have them hanging there. I have never seen it done but there are evidence of some successes all over the place. Presumably the trainers were stolen. Occasionally underwear is used; impressive.
Mary, trainers chucked over power lines here means there is a tinny house in the vicinity – I’m not sure how you locate it from that clue, but apparently they do….. 🙂
🙂
Pardon my ignorance; what is a tinny house?
🙂 A private house that supplies marijuana and other such necessities to those who desire to purchase it………
I wonder if the police is wise to this form of advertising. Thanks for the explanation.
I’m sure they are.
Thanks for that, Pauline. And here’s me thinking it was just cans of beer.
I think we called it Touch Rugby in ignorance – most of the lads were English. Thanks, Mary
Crazy man! 🙂 What book were you reading?
How do you expect me to remember that, Pauline. 🙂 Many thanks.
🙂
And I feel Sam was unjust to you in continuing with his twisted ankle. You gave me such a refreshing peep into your impassioned spirit, not to mention the lion that must be oiled! In many a ghazal the poets yearn to be the khol that tints the eyes of the damsels: you get the wind…
Lovely comment, Uma. Thanks. I do wish I’d had the nerve to photograph the lion 🙂
What a good yarn, you must have been a sucker for punishment or a complete idiot, I suspect a bit of both. Had more than one chuckle 😀
By the bye, I thought you didn’t have a good memory, did you mean you don’t have a good memory you have a brilliant memory?
Only thing to spoil the story was your referring to the Underground by that ‘T’ word, All the signs announcing the stations boldly state UNDERGROUND.
I never heard it called anything else when I was growing up in London, is it a new thing? If so I think it should be stomped out immediately
I know, tube is what toothpaste comes in. :)Many thanks, Brian
How about a northern compromise – T’underground?
🙂
I was really drawn in by that title. I’m not saying it was false advertising but… 🙂
Anyway – never underestimate the power of touch rugby to cause injury. Number One son caught his finger in an opponent’s shirt playing touch and ended up having a screw put in to hold the joint together.
Many thanks, Quercus. Perfectly honest, I thought 🙂
Hmm…
Love these memories, Derrick. Keep coming on!
Thanks very much, Ann