Slipping Standards ? - 27 Apr 08

Take a look at this photo taken after the Barton League championship winning celebrations - “Jodys like Lauras breast’s”.

I was very disappointed to see standards slipping, and I didn’t mean Cliffy’s purchase from page 582 of the 1973 Grattans catalogue either. I mean, the photographic quality is poor and Hayley should have done better, but it wasn’t that. You could argue Laura could do so much better in her choice of men, but it wasn’t that. Cliffy and Jody really need to be careful of fashion related injuries, but it wasn’t that either.

I'll give you a clue. He should not be anywhere near those breasts. It isn’t right that he is there, he should certainly not be in contact with the breasts at all, and looks completely out of place. Yes, you all noticed, well done. So where should the apostrophe go ?

You just need to look at Facebook messages to see that grammar standards are slipping. First it was the elimination of all vowels from txt msgs, random punctuation, and now an apparent confusion over the use of there, their and they’re. We cannot rely on pronunciation or dialect because this does not come across well on paper and would vary from “Thar” (Somerset), “Theeeirr” (Yorkshire), and Thuurr (Blackburn). Like all good things in life we have to look to Rugby to seek clarity in such matters. Here are abridged conversations from a match at Cannock some years ago.

THEY’RE

“Gavin and Simon punched me. They’re wankers.” This implies they are (or they were) wankers. This is correct as any player from three or four seasons ago will vouch. The “a” has been dropped and an apostrophe takes its place; much like in the “ ‘koff” that was directed at me when I explained this principle to the Cannock captain.

THEIR

“That fat spectator and his wife on the far side ; their dog shat on the pitch.” The THEIR implies the dog is owned by the fat spectator which may not be factually correct but it was a Cannock dog so therefore we could use THEIR to include all people from Cannock rather than an individual, and so the suggested possessive article means we have used the correct form. We were doing well thanks to Rugby.

THERE

THERE is used to identify location and in this case the dog had indeed shat there on the touchline, there on the 22, over there on the 15 yard line and there was also shit on my shoe.

But the best Rugby related example was when I tried to console Glyn Bennett who had been robustly rebuffed when trying to retrieve two Cannock training balls thinking they were ours. “There, there, there. They’re their balls.”

So are there any simple rules to help us ? The easy way to remember they’re is that the apostrophe is used to show where we’ve dropped letters. This does not mean you behave like an Alrewas postman, you should not pepper your prose willy nilly, and you should use apostrophes judiciously. So how can we correct the misplaced apostrophe in our photo ?

We have not missed out any letters in the caption so the apostrophe would only be used to denote ownership.

So does Jody belong to Laura (Laura’s Jody) ? Possibly, but the sentence construction does not allow this (and neither would any sane minded woman’s sense of self esteem).

Does Laura belong to Jody (Jody’s Laura) ? Stop laughing at the back Smithers. Only in a twisted parallel universe would such a thing be possible.

Do the breasts belong to Laura (Laura’s Breasts) ? Mmm, plausible.

Or do the breasts belong to Jody (Jody’s Breasts) ? Well I think for reasons of good taste we will discount this hypothesis immediately.

So the most likely scenario is that ownership of the breasts is retained by Laura and therefore the apostrophe should be after her name.

There is an alternative that we learnt from the Cannock touchline in that the apostrophe can be used to show where a letter is missing and in this case we could write “Jody’s like Laura’s Breasts”, suggesting Jody is a tit.

That’s more like it.

Sometimes in this remarkable game of ours there are incidents where the two teams disagree on an outcome in accordance with the laws. We cannot logically negotiate and agree a position and require the intervention and analysis of the judge, the umpire….. the referee.  It takes many years to fully appreciate the absolute power that referees wield on the field – they are indeed the “sole arbiter of the laws of rugby” and the quicker this is recognized the better. I am old and have played many years but have never seen a referee change his mind due to my compelling arguments or beautifully crafted defence, yet I still feel the urge to appeal against the penalty for being offside in the centre. Stupid really.

We have all played in games with poor referees who could not tell you the way an elevator is going given two guesses, and it’s not fun. Other refs know you are going to infringe before you do and advise you of this before the damage is done; subtly allowing the game to flow. So sometimes referees can improve the game and sometimes they spoil the game but they are always there, always necessary, and fulfill a vitally important role. Like intestinal bacteria.

Good intestinal bacteria perform their vital function un-noticed, effectively and efficiently, like a good referee. Bad intestinal bacteria cause discomfort, irritation, and inflammation, like a bad referee.

When the system works well and the intestinal bacteria are performing as they should, digestion takes place as normal and life is good. A good referee allows the game to flow as normal and life is good.

If we have been out on the town and abuse our insides with Friday night binges followed by a suicidally hot biryani, it is no surprise that our tubes cannot cope and cause us much discomfort. Likewise if we abuse a referee, no matter how competent he is, we are likely to feel the heat towards the end of the match.

If we are concerned about our well being and wish to look after our stomach, we follow a balanced diet and drink Yakkult with all that friendly bacteria, to bolster our belly's chances of working well. If we treat the referee with respect, accept their decisions with aplomb and decline from challenging his interpretation, this bolster's the referee's chances of doing well too.

Sometimes external influences play a large part and irritants get involved. In the West coast of Scotland eColi is well known for disrupting digestion. The natural reaction for our intestinal bacteria is to evacuate the offending article (through one end or the other) in order to allow normal functions to be resumed.

In East Staffordshire iCox is well known for disturbing referees and their natural reaction is to evacuate him to one end of the field or the other to allow normal functions to be resumed.

We should encourage good people to enter the profession and support those who do, much like we should look after our own digestion. Referees make as many (and as few) mistakes on the field as any player but remember a good referee is as welcome, as rare, and as valuable as a reliable set of bowels.

Next time you see a referee, remind him of this fact.

Geography - 18 Nov 07

The Cutler's Hall in Sheffield is a glorious, opulent, extravagant piece of architecture, reflecting the days when Sheffield had more millionaires on Fulwood Road than in the whole of London, and half the world's steel was produced in the Don valley. I was there for an industry dinner last week and listened like a small child as the modern day Master Cutler to my left described how the company of culters has evolved in the early 16th century. It came about due to the concerns of the small companies scattered around Sheffield when control of the area passed from the Earl of Northumberland to the Duke of Norfolk, and they sought independence through an act of Parliament. While everyone else listened as he described the development through the industrial revolution, I was bothered about the geographical inconsistencies. What was a Geordie from Northumberland doing running Sheffield ? How come some lowlander from the Fens then took over ? I was troubled.

Returning home I had to look further into this. Norfolk is nowhere near Sheffield and North-Humber-Land is the land North of the Humber - not south where Sheffield now sits. Most of the land in Sheffield is still owned by the Duke of Norfolk but Norfolk and Suffolk were relatively new and I had to go back to Norman times to investigate. William the Conqueror came over to England and brought order and structure to the shambles that was the feudal system. This was the first appearance of intelligent central control (Norman Wisdom ?) and we saw the formations of the shires. My theory is that a family of cartographers got together and decided to set the boundaries and I wanted to follow their genealogy down the ages to see why Sheffield was so messed up. I named my theoretical family the Duds.

The Duds started with the Hamptons; we had Hampton court palace, Northampton and Southampton, but where were West Hampton and East Hampton ? I was confused. The Duds were confused. It is clear this was not the brightest of families. Later we saw Norfolk and Suffolk but where was Effolk and Weffolk ? Effolk was probably flooded but Weffolk looked like it was taken over by Essex. Sex was obviously important in Norman times and I'm glad to see it still maintains prominence today, although I don't miss the ducking stools and Cholera. So the Duds designed Wessex which ended up to be supremely powerful, and all was well in the Dud household. Essex however was where the dregs went to, Sussex where the posh people went, and Middlesex where all the Rugby players went (Twickenham still remains the capital of Middlesex). But where was Norssex ?

The Dud family line stretched into Scotland. Edinburgh is in the Lothian region now but the Duds thought it too big a county then so it was subsequently split into Midlothian, East Lothian and West Lothian. There was no North Lothian due to the Firth of Forth, and my colleagues in Scotland tell me South Lothian was considered "England" (It's actually Roxboroughshire but who cares ?). Someone in Livingstone asked why a Norman family should have any say in the division of counties north of the border and this became known as "the West Lothian Question". And you thought it was a recent devolution-inspired query ?

So there was some consistency in the geographical division of land by the Duds but there was no logic. The Duds family tree took them briefly to the Midlands, where they took Mercia (owned by the Duke of Devonshire ?!?) and changed it into West and East Midlands. One branch of the Dud lineage settled in York and what a mess. We originally had North Ridings, East Ridings and West Ridings of Yorkshire, but no South. The Duds did some of their finest work and changed it to West Yorkshire, North Yorkshire and South Yorkshire, but no East. A fantastic piece of giggery pokery.

The Duds had perfected the art of randomly dividing up land using early ouija board principles coupled with a pencil, a map and a dark room, and had influenced all of the UK. But soon a shift would take place that would affect the Duds forever.

Politicians got involved and recognised that by adjusting these lines round what they called "Wards", they could rig polling registers and ensure re-election. They took over the drawing of maps and we rarely hear of the Duds today.

But those out of work boundary definition experts are still looking for a place to put Weffolk, and battle with their conscience about the absence of a blob called southumberland. Whilst in temporary exile they continue to thrive and are active in Middlesex at our esteemed RFU. How else can you explain the transformation of our league from Staffordshire 1 to Midlands West (North) 6 ?

We have Duds in Twickenham. Welcome to our league.

Aga - 3 Nov 07

I had an Aga cooker once. It was a big old thing taking up far too much room in the kitchen of an old Victorian house we owned near Glasgow. The Aga combined cooking, central heating, drying, and heating the hot water all in one unit. A masterpiece of engineering, it was on all the time and for those used to the instant control of a gas hob, it took skill and patience to master the art of cooking. I viewed it with the same appreciation as you share with the 1926 Brookland Bentleys that had to be warmed, tickled, primed and continually maintained before they would perform, but when they did, it was wonderful. The Aga had tanker loads of character. It was the centre of the house, it was the heart of the family, and like a patriarchal godfather it was temperamental and was hell when it didn’t work.

Eventually we decided to upgrade the kitchen and fit a new gas stove so the old Aga had to go; this is where the problem started. These things are very difficult to move. Pipes, flues, foundations, holes in walls, weight and bulk all work against you. The physical act of simply moving the unit was a major undertaking and took forever. They are large, cumbersome beasts, with little to get hold of and when they do move they leave a trail of destruction all around.

Just like our front row.

The Barton front row share a lot in common with an Aga. And I don’t mean one of these cutesey powder blue varieties you find in Notting Hill studio apartments. I mean one of these large, cream coloured, traditional farmhouse units, fired by neat fuel oil with twin 20lb turkey sized ovens and optional hot plate. Yes that one.

So what are the common features you ask ?

We lost on Saturday but not in the forwards as every scrum, lineout and set piece was ours because of the Aga like properties of our front row. Well done chaps. I’d shake your hand but I can’t find my oven gloves, and my pinny’s gone missing.

Blue is Bad - 13 Oct 07

Colour blind

The tyres squealed as the car navigated the M23 junction onto the M25. My brow was furrowed as I calculated the transit time to leave London's outer orbital car park we call the M25. Would I make it back to the house by lunch ? Had I misunderstood my wife’s text message ?  Would Rugby be the same again ? I was scared.

I was returning from America and had landed in Gatwick before the rush hour on a crisp Friday morning. Continental Airlines had looked after me well and the arrivals lounge showers were cool enough to refresh me sufficiently for my journey north. The scrambled O2 text message described girly conversations on a Thursday night over a delightful Chilean Chardonnay about their men’s rugby which they felt was “homo erotic”. I tried to decipher this and came to the conclusion is could only refer to one thing – erotic stuff in the home !!! I had the day off, so had the wife – Fantastic. Her message was subtle and sublime - come home quickly for afternoon sex. I was giddy and scared.

Now normally I'm not scared of anything unless it is blue. Blue is Bad, blue is frightening. Blue facial features used to cause me nightmares.

Being an Aberdonian, any journey to watch the Dons play Glasgow Rangers at Ibrox was a scary event and I remember as a ten year old hiding under a bus as waves of Blue Nose Rangers supporters charged into a small group of visiting fans. Blue was always associated with intimidation, ruthlessness and fear.

The blue pictish faces of William Wallace’s warriors and their tales of terror were the bread and butter of History lessons as Primary school kids sat wide eyed and open mouthed, scared witless. The Smurfs with their blue faces were horrific.

Whilst climbing in the Cairngorms at 13 with my father, we got caught in a blizzard and were stuck for two days with a pitifully small supply of Kendal mint cake, and an even smaller balaclava, and I watched as the frostbite turned his ears blue. Blue was nasty.

Stumbling on an accident on the M1 three years ago I saw a dead Renault driver with bright blue lips, and it compounded my assertion that blue is associated with death.

Recently we have seen an epidemic of Blue tongue sweep southern England’s cattle herds, and I for one won’t be having one of these Blue Tooth things on my phone. No way. Blue is bad.

By now the Oxfordshire countryside flew by as the car made its way up the M40 at breakneck speed. My eyes were alert for Harley Davidson bikers, Hell’s angels in green rovers and police men in squad cars, but my mind was elsewhere. I was still scared.

I arrived breathless and wide eyed but could not contain my disappointment when the text was explained to me. All that was on offer was a garden salad and the chance to mow the lawn before it rained. I had a similar faux pas the previous week when she referred to me as homophobic. Given the irresponsible lending strategy of North American sub-prime mortgage brokers and the overheated housing market, I felt it well within my rights to be worried about my home, and its value, and had naturally accepted her statement. I was after all a little scared of falling house prices. So it was not only blue that was scary these days.

In fact blue is not scary at all any more.

After the World Cup semi final and the hue confusion at Murrayfield with Scotland and the All Blacks (mostly Grey ?), my fear has subsided. Blue no longer causes cold sweats, and teams wearing blue are no longer feared opponents. Think of blue as pleasant, gentle and soft – like the sky on a clear day, like the eyes of Melinda Messenger, like the pastel coloured skirt worn by the girl in the Cadbury Flake advert.

Wear the red and white colours of Barton proud this weekend and run all over the soft blue and cowardly yellow of Yardley. Just like the red and white of England trampled all over Les Bleus last weekend.

Don’t be scared.

Farewell Anita - 22 Sept 07

Body Shopping ?

It was sad to hear Anita Roddick passed away last week. I met her once at a Highland games in deepest Aberdeenshire where she had bought a country estate (now owned by Billy Connolly for anyone who’s interested). I was amazed at how scruffy she was given her empire depended on lotions and potions to make people look and feel better, and her business strategy was certainly not that of Elle MacPherson. She looked like a hedge had been dragged backwards through her hair and she wore the crumpled, well traveled appearance of a letter that had been delivered weeks late after being sent to the wrong address. Twice. Our conversation was brief as I knew nothing about Patagonian rain forest tribal culture and she knew bugger all about offshore drilling but she was bubbly and friendly in an eco-warrior, swampy-in-the-tree sort of way.

She forever changed the face of bathroom products and spawned a raft of copy cat stores vying for a niche in the market space. Lush is a prime example. They sell soaps – every kind of soap imaginable yet I spent a considerable amount of time in their Covent Garden store before being told they don’t make soap-on-a-rope. I mean how can you have a soap shop without that staple of the 1970’s shower, the microphone soap-on-a-rope ? Incredible. I left confused and bewildered with some Kiwi fruit and lemon grass gunk that now prowls the far ledge of our bath at home.

People often wondered how we survived before tea tree based body lotion, but I never did. Call me a philistine but I never understood what to put where and when, and have often chosen an incorrect sea salt based exfoliant scrub when all that was needed was some cucumber scented fair-trade candles. Women can fill a bathroom with bottles much like we can fill a garage with tools that we never use but absolutely need to have. But I still don’t understand it, and the variety of options is mind boggling.

Sadly I see that our younger players are falling into this trap with a bevy of gels, creams and sprays for a vast array of occasions. Post match analysis in the changing rooms quickly skirts around on-field performance and now revolves around the different Lynx fragrances and how much and what type of “product” to apply. Now FHM and Maxim may want you to believe otherwise but not long ago the only ”product” rugby players used was Vaseline on eyebrows and ears. Then we evolved a little and used deep heat after the match. Then we used deep heat before the match. Then we progressed to shaving our legs and oiling them up before the match; well Dale did. I recall bleeding profusely form a cut above the eye and wincing at the thought of boxer’s congealing cream being applied; and not from the pain. This is what I call a healthy aversion to “product” and may explain why my daughter calls my boyish looks “weathered”.

I guess you have to be of a certain era to know why Gavin Henson’s hair manages to stay erect for 80 minutes and understand why Anita made so much money from bottles of mush. Like many in the club I’m not of that era and Anita never made a penny from me.

Social Events & AGM - 1 Sept 07

AGM stuff

Ian Meadows stepped down as Secretary and we have not yet found a replacement. Anyone interested in taking up this vital role in the club, please contact Gary Steen.

Glyn Bennett stepped down as Logistics manager but agreed to help Duncan Balderstone and Matt Bird who volunteered to share this role.

John Carleton (whose name I finally spelt right) will continue as Social secretary helped by Gary Bentley and Duncan Balderstone.

Glyn Bennett and Steve Tolley will run the juniors as Dale Hutchison cannot run this any more.

The annual dinner is set for 24th May but we have yet to firm up dates and locations for the tour and tournament next year.

A new scheme designed to involve new young players from the village was unveiled (see Coaching page).

(did anyone notice the paragraph numbers in Niall's story?)

Niall Turnbull - 20 May 07

3.0              Nobel prize winning mathematician

3.1    Being Niall's slave on tour was never going to be easy. There were bags with clothes to carry, bags with outfits, bags with a Bloody Mary production line, and a bag of pork pies.

3.11      Now these were no ordinary pies - these were exclusive examples from the Melton Mobray factory's "Diplomatic" line, only used on state occasions. They were huge, each measuring 16" in diameter and 4" think, with a "heavy" sticker on the side of each box

3.12      On the Friday, the first of the range was cut into small pieces and distributed to all as we sat on the verge outside the M1 service station. This was a single layer pie with a wavy, yet robust crust that lacerated gums and cracked sensitive teeth. An orthodontist's mortgage repayment pie if you like. The filing was soft and delicate, unlike the surroundings of the Moto service station which were dismal.

3.13      On Saturday we headed to Bridlington and during the match a smorgasbord of cheese was complimented by a double layer of pork & chicken pie, washed down with some fine port and in Glyn's case, some not so fine pickled onion vinegar. With a belly full of high cholesterol product we didn't need feeding at the club which was just as well because they didn't offer us any and we had to buy our own beer. Dismal.

3.14     On Sunday, the sun shone brightly (like up Sunshine mountain) and the premier pie was unwrapped as we readied ourselves for the game at Hornsea. Niall did us proud with a triple layer of pork, stuffing and chicken pate which proved an exquisite blend and complemented the high-sugar sweeties nicely. The preparation and presentation of the touchline cuisine was first class but the rugby was dismal and we lost.

    3.141      So overall an excellent tour and some excellent, although highly calorific nibbles.

    3.142      But why a mathematician ? Well Niall's the only man who takes pie to three dismal places.

Birdy Scores - 8 Apr 07

Wedding of the Century

Birdy started playing for Barton only a few years ago and made his debut against Rotherham and like a true sportsman, took to the game quickly. He is the club's leading scorer this season, and although he did not eclipse Hornblow's score from last year there were not as many games. But 99 league points is not bad. Not bad at all.

He did score big by marrying Sarah last week and JC's videos on You Tube (see photo page for links) show a fantastic evening. Many men in the club however felt Matt was kicking them when they were down. I mean here he is; a natural sportsman, a nice guy, a successful career, marrying a gorgeous woman. Reminds me of Caesar.

James Martin was a year above me at school and was one of these tall, dark, handsome Apollo types that all the girls wanted to be with. At 15 he was going out with University goddesses and could pull women at will - God we hated him. An average academic, he was an excellent sportsman, playing off 2 at golf, representing Scotland at Squash, and hammering anyone at Tennis who came near. He was unhappy he couldn’t extend this prowess to team sports as he saw himself as a star footballer but couldn’t run very well. He preferred to stand, statuesque in midfield and run the show, which didn’t work too well on the football field but he turned out to be a stellar stand-off. He came to Rugby late and played well, but saw the game as a useful pastime where he could network ruthlessly and get on in life. His charisma was infectious and when he talked, people listened. He was neither a great team player nor a natural leader however we were not surprised to see him rise to high office in a large corporation in Edinburgh. God we hated him.

In the dark, cold, wet weekends we call “sunny days” in Scotland he would manage to adapt the play to suit any opposition, pitch, or weather condition. What was more amazing was his ability to stay clean. Caesar and his sidekick Splint were well known on the disco circuit for their snazzy dressing, often turning out in identical outfits, but Splint never looked comfortable no matter what he wore. Caesar always looked immaculate and could manage to wear a cream two piece linen suit from 5PM to 2AM and not get a single crease in it. Splint creased his suit simply by walking in it, and on the rugby field it was the same. Caesar would stay prim and proper while Splint (when we let him play) would look like Stig of the Dump before the kick off. He’s the only guy I know to be taken off in an Ambulance for an injury before the match, when he impaled his calf on a splintered corner flag pole during warm up (hence splint). Caesar would never be so clumsy, and this aura attracted the women by the dozen; God we hated him.

On the pitch his greatest aptitude was the ability to combine vision and decision making, rather than any physical skills, and when we made our county debut together it was clear who the coaches (and the girls) were watching. God I hated him.

So why Caesar ? On one of our nights out in Aberdeen, there was a group of Edinburgh models out partying after a day’s photo shoot in the Highlands for Barbour’s “Cairngorm” range of clothing, and true to form Caesar went back to a hotel with the girl who the previous year was runner up in the Miss Scotland competition. Caesar was 19, a poor student, and she was 23, earning a fortune, and we had to ask - how did he do it ? He explained that when Julius Caesar first came to Britain he said “Veni, Vidi, Vici” – “I came, I saw, I conquered”. James Martin adapted this to “Vidi, Vici, Veni” – “I saw, I conquered, I came”. God we hated him.

Congratulations Matt, hope you enjoyed Kenya, and we all hope some of your sunshine rubs off on us.

Charity Match - 25 Mar 07

Barton 38 v Barton 38

This match was in aid of the British Heart Foundation; a charity very dear to Barton Rugby Club and one which does some excellent work outside the National Health Service. The sunshine, the chance to meet old colleagues, but mainly the chance to relive past glories brought out some familiar faces to the fields of Holland Park. Colin Thorne arrived resplendent in his club jacket and wandered the touchlines shouting encouragement and offering support at every opportunity - my what powers the Mediterranean sun must have. Macey & Brinner from Burntwood cast off the cow outfit and hunkered down in the front row and never went back after that. The back row saw Andy Betteridge, Ian Fitzgerald and Jukebox line up and this week Jukebox left HPSC without medical assistance !! A miracle I'm sure you'll agree but the Lord does move in mysterious ways. The backs were the Millennium Masters (well they haven't played since 2000) and saw John Thorne, Nick Rigby, Gareth Roberts, Dave Ward and Toddy (well on the other side) with the Cox twins messing about on the wing, flank & full back. Ok so Jonny Thorne scored a bunch of tries and showed the same aggression of a narked Pit bull terrier, but why oh why doesn't he still play ? No one asked that question of Rigby & Roberts and even Chris Douglas asked why Wardy never passes.

We saw Jim "persil" Kendall because it was a Sunday, Gary Moule because it was a Saturday, and Ben Blagrove because there was food. Chris Perkins decided to be a flanker, with Dean Fradgley on the other side and Rowie guided both at number 8. Evan and Mike B locked the front row together and Vaughnie was everywhere. Gary Bentley found he couldn't hold a water bottle at half time and went to have his thumb strapped up but the medics decided to operate, cast his arm and even suggested amputation. The Royal Victoria was flooded with text messages suggesting amputation at the neck but the voting is still open. Text your vote to 830101 starting the message with "Bentos" then the location of the surgeon's first incision. Calls will cost £33.21 per minute plus network charges and the judge's decision is final.

After the match, everyone agreed that they played much better than reality and much beer was drunk, as backs were slapped. Malcolm ran the auction that raised £788 for the charity and more beer was drunk.

A wonderful match combing the cynicism of old age and the innocence of youth. A wonderful day raising money for a great cause, and a wonderful end to the season as we saw Iain Cox "swim" across the duck pond in his £175-a-pair jeans. It will be very difficult to wrest the Dickhead trophy from him this year, but we do have tour to come.............