Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

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.