The View from the Oak

VIEW FROM THE OAK - VOLUME 3

"There really is something magic about this time of year when the harvest has been gathered in and the autumnal colours start appearing in the trees. I just love it being able to walk around the pitch in my wellies kicking the leaves just like I used to when I was a boy searching for conkers and soaking up the last vestiges of the summer warmth before the onset of winter". As usual the Captain of Industry (retd) was rambling to himself in that little private world of his. He was completely oblivious that the conversation had moved on after Marlborough Man had stated "It’s bloody cold tonight boys, bet there was a poor show at training" when he entered the smoky warmth of the snug and ordered up 8 pints of Bass for the gathered multitude.

The F-Man and the Rottweiler were sat in the corner grumbling about lack of commitment being shown by the players towards training. Earlier they had been lamenting how difficult it was to practice the intricate penalty moves that they had sketched out on the back of the Silk Cut carton when only the third team utility prop/winger and the second team scum half bothered to turn up.

F-Man had tried to put a positive spin on the situation, "We could use the fecking prop to pretend he is the frigging scrum and after he has controlled the fecking heel and put on the secondary drive he could loop the flipping scum half and take it on the frigging burst from the flipping miss two dummy". At which point the Rottweiler tried to introduce a degree of reality into the discussion, "but I just think that it is too much to expect him to sidestep the traffic cone as well as catching the ball".

"I once had a conker that was a ‘sixer’ but don’t tell anyone I soaked it in vinegar" rambled the Captain of Industry (retd) with that rheumy look in his eye that indicated to everyone he was still on planet Zog and that it was only his body that inhabited the chair in front of the one arm bandit.

"Anybody seen Rumpole recently?" said Paperboy. "It’s not good to spend all your life working you have got to have some fun and get a life!" he pontificated. "Are you out tomorrow?" enquired Drain. "No, I’m working late" said Paperboy importantly. " I am trying to close a multi-million dollar futures deal for tissue paper but there is a real danger it could go down the pan!".

"Talking of fun, whose round is it" said Drain wiping the foaming head of his pint from his facial hair, "’cause it ain’t no fun having no ale at 11.05pm".

"You speak for yourself" said Marlborough Man, "I am finding it increasingly tough to get up on a Friday morning after having a gallon of Bass the night before". "I think we should seriously consider changing our night to Friday" he suggested at which point a deathly hush fell over the gathering.

The silence was eventually broken by hysterical laughter coming from the vicinity of the one arm bandit as the spirit of the Captain of Industry (retd) returned from the planet Zog and invaded the limp body. "Don’t you just love a good drink on a Thursday night" he said as the colour returned to his face.

"Who have we got on Saturday?" he inquired with an almost presidential tone before lapsing into an earlier conversation. "You’re right it is cold tonight, I’ll have to dig out my faithful coat for the game on Saturday".

"I’ll be glad when Planet Zog move their clocks forward" moaned Marlboro Man as he contemplated yet another early morning start.

"Where’s my beer" demanded Drain looking at his watch with the intensity of a one eyed man in a brothal, "I need to get a good night’s sleep tonight".

A View from the Oak; Vol II

"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness sweet bosom friend of the rising sun"

With landlord Claude, swiftly becoming a fading memory, the most significant autumnal feature has emerged, the rugby season. Trainers and non-trainers, players and non-players, has been and never have beens, turn their attention to the coming season.

Players who have come, players who have gone, all have attracted much of the bar room gossip. "Seventy five pounds a week … just for training and playing ?" was the quizzical question raised beyond the cigarette smoke. "That’s more than I give the missus in housekeeping, and that’s to feed all five of us. When I played it cost me that to play, with annual subscription, match subscriptions, travelling costs, beer money and card school kitty "

"They’ve never been born, these modern players !" opined Foggy, who had just arrived breathless, limping from the car and hurrying into the bar. "When I first started at the Old Leams, we used to put five sides on the park and play teams like the Eds all the way down".

"Ok Foggy" said Rumpole, "but in those days balls were laced, studs were wooden and referees wore blazers. Get into the real world man, the world of computers, trading and rugby professionals".

"I have just come from the real world … that of IT, of a volatile stock market and I know bloody well about rugby professionalism, I watch it four times a year at Twickenham. Isn’t it marvellous, the way we are taking over the world ? Never again a defeat at Murrayfield when in sign of a Grand Slam, never again a beating with a Sospan Fan, only a four-leafed cover would prevent us beating the Irish "

"But how do we aspire to Midlands 1 if players in Midlands 3 West South East North can be paid £75 per week ?", asked the Manager. "If we are to fulfil our ambitions and utilise our assets to the full, we need to be moving up the leagues .. and players that will make that happen, cost. Hookers, props, wingers … players who will not automatically win you games ask for that sort of money. What price today a Freddie Ison ? A strong tackling, attacking, goal-kicking full back Dave Charles ? A flying destructive, ball winning second row like Roy Everitt ? The world has gone mad … how do we get to where we want to be ?

"Not by spending money on players" uttered the Drain, wiping the last vestiges of his squidged pint form his hirsute chin, as he simultaneously looked at his watch (11.05pm) and his monthly cash flow statement. Colour drained from his face at the sheer mention of professionalism. His main concern was the gas bill, the rates, the groundsman’s invoice, the brewery direct debit, all of which were pending.

"What is to be done ?" asked the Manager. From behind the cigarette smoke came the answer. "We have to be organised, on and off the park. We have to improve people, players, committee, VPs, we have to plan ahead, we have to be welcoming to new players. We must become the home of first choice to all local players by combining the traditional values of the rugby club with a progressive ambition. We must fully utilise commercial opportunity. The use of the land, the clubhouse. Embrace partnerships. Encourage all to come to the Eds. Talk to new players. Drink as much as possible. Bring ideas to the table. Only when all of these are accomplished will we be on the way to achieving our ambitions".

"Will we then be able to afford £75 per week ?" asked the Manager.

Drain grumbled "Only when the bills are paid and only when I give approval "

"Yes but by then we will have taken over the Rugby World as we know it … the Sweet chariot, I mean," said Foggy.

Rumpole lifted his head. His scholarly demeanour had absorbed all of the preceding banter. He thought and reflected. Reflecting on the differences between an English and French landlord, he observed that with the onset of autumn comes the football season as well as the rugby season. Oh for Claude’s return when rugby was shown on TV – not two different football matches at the same time. "£75 a week … for playing rugby ? at the Eds level ? Oh, what have I missed ?"

The View from t'Oak; Vol I

Someone, and it may have been the Captain of Industry (Ret’d), mentioned Lord Lucan.

"Its amazing" he said "that someone can stay disappeared for so long in these days of instant global communications, thousands of television channels and the internet".

This was a fatal thing to say since it inevitably brought the conversation around to the First XV Captain.

"Two weeks to go to the start of the season and not a sighting" said The Rottweiler, "hide nor bloody hair of him. It’s a good job we’ve got no set moves or tactics or he wouldn’t have a clue."

"It’s more a case of Greta Garbo, ‘I vant to be alone’, than Lord Lucan isn’t it ?," chipped in the Paper Boy, "he hasn’t actually killed anyone has he ?" The assembled group pondered on this for a moment, sipping at their Bass and weighing up in their minds whether any of the local murders could reasonably be laid at his door.

"No, probably not. I think it’s to do with the sustained media pressure that comes with such a high profile role. Being Captain of the Eds means that his private life becomes public property. He’s just lying low, avoiding the paparazzi." The Drain took a great gulp from his Bass and sat back, content that he had laid the argument to rest.

"Bollocks." The Captain of Industry (Ret’d) recognised a stupid argument when he saw one, and wasn’t about to let this one go. He’d been involved in more stupid arguments than anyone else he knew and considered himself something of a connoisseur. "It’s burn out, the curse of the modern rugby player. He’s just had too much rugby, all those games last season and then no rest this summer. He’s watched all the Lions games and the Tri-nations, no wonder he’s knackered and needs some time off."

Rumpole of the Bailey, who up to this point had been unusually quiet, felt that he could settle the matter " Yes, You’re right, he is probably in some religious retreat somewhere, recharging his mental and spiritual batteries."

"MENTAL AND SPIRITUAL BATTERIES BE BUGGERED ! " roared the Drain, who was still smarting from having his original argument dismissed out of hand, " He hasn’t got any any mental batteries, they weren’t included in the package and his idea of spirituality is knecking ten tequila slammers in a row."

Marlboro Man, who had been sitting quietly in the corner, partly hidden by the pall of blue smoke that seemed to follow him everywhere, blew another great cloud from his kippered lungs and prepared to speak. He inhabited a planet far removed from earth and had a long-held view that the Anker was not really a pub, but was in fact a waiting room for in-transit aliens passing the long hours as they waited for the next flying saucer out. Aliens on business, aliens visiting sick relatives and aliens on holiday, all making the long trek between Alpha Centauri and Corrugatum III or Alemdium and Novus 27. What else could explain the hordes of alien children, the strange conversations and the constant playing of Country and Western music but aliens.

" I think" and he spoke slowly and deliberately to give due weight to the words that emanated from his lofty mind, "that he popped into the Anker for a quick pint, took a wrong turn on his way back from the loo and ended up on the 9.30 shuttle to Corragatum III. He is, at this very moment lying on the town beach in Omegatum, dressed only in his thong, enjoying the purple sand and letting the blood-red sea lap at his toes."

"He’ll burn more than his bloody arse if tries that one," replied the Paper Boy, " the surface temperature of Corragatum III is six thousand degrees centigrade."

A wonderful thing, a Cambridge education. An actual fact, indisputable by those present, dropped into the conversation, had a similar effect to the news that John Lennon had been shot. It caused a deep gloom and a certain indignation to settle on the talkers. How dare he actually know something about Corragatum III. Did he know something or was he bluffing ? Even the Captain of Industry (Ret’d) felt it better not to contradict since he knew absolutely nothing about the subject. He didn’t usually let this stop him having an opinion, but in this case the weight of the Paper Boy’s education proved decisive and he kept quiet.

Rumpole of the Bailey broke the mood, " I hear that he’s been missing for so long that quite a cult is growing up around him. He’s the modern youngster’s version of Elvis. He has apparently been sighted living under the M4 flyover in Chiswick with a flock of pigeons for company, at a performance of Aida at the Royal Opera House and busking outside the George Eliot."

"There are even impersonators. Apparently if you go around the town in the evening there are no end of people pretending to be him, standing outside pub and club doors stopping people going in. The Daily Telegraph said that if the present growth continues, by 2004 half the population will be impersonating our First XV Captain.".

"Whose round is it ?" demanded the Drain and the conversation moved on.