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From the wobbly desk of Egbert le Smerking Jackete….the last of the Egbert le Smerking Jacketes.
It has been some time since Lady SJ and myself have frequented Craven Park and we decided to re-new our acquaintance this Sunday past. We parked at the Archbishop Sentamu Acadamy car park and handed our £2.50 over to Lee Crooks and a gaggle of his young wags. . Older fans will remember Lee as a consummate professional. I well remember him running 2/3rds of the Headingley pitch during a test match just to punch an Australian. You just don’t get that kind of commitment and selfless professionalism nowadays. He was sent off of course, harsh but fair in the circumstances. Ray Price was representing Australia that day, mister ‘perpetual motion’ himself. He enjoyed a flinty reputation did Price but to be fair, he guided Lee off the pitch with a ‘missing you already’ jaunty wave. The game was a lot harder in those days of course. Quite how Lee will get his gaggle of urchins to the other side of the world on £2.50 we don’t know but we are considering him for our next winter break. Or we could simply use Con Mika’s holiday cottage in Widnes.
Lady SJ expressed doubts this was THE Lee Crooks due his non use of his catchphrase ‘me sen’ when referring to himself in the first person.
Father always told me to meet any chap I came into contact with as if it were my long lost brother and give him a ‘Hail fellow well met’ as this would surely make the world a better place. I greeted several chaps along Preston Road “Hail fellow, well met!” but this only seemed to generate several “Ehs?”and “Wots?” Then one chap embraced the spirit in which the greeting was made and asked me if I was “Talking to him or chewing a brick?”. A fellow philosopher I thought! Marvellous! But Lady SJ now seemed in quite a rush to get to the ground and dragged me along at a fair rate of knots, shouting over her shoulder “Sorry” and “No, there’s nothing wrong with him….well….” before I could get to the bottom of this new and somewhat left-field way of thinking. I do hope we run into him again.
If one thing strikes you about Preston Road, it’s that Laura Ashley has missed a trick here. I would implore you Laura, if you’re only knocking the stuff out from the boot of your car, come and service the locals. We saw some horrific things done to anaglypta wallpaper as we peered into houses we passed. The lack of post 80s furnishings was however off set by what looks like a chic and trendy deli that had opened since our last visit (yes, it has been many years) called ALDI. Quite a big place, we thought we would pop in after the game and pick up a nice piece of Brie. And probably a nice bottle of that rough farmhouse red that they do so well in Bordeaux or Burgundy.
We also encountered many exotic breeds of dogs. For certain, I think Crufts are now lagging behind the avante guarde new breeds available to the more discerning canine enthusiast.
I continued to hail fellow travellers and was rewarded when a cove who said he was called “Tony” asked if I would give the Gladstone bag he handed me to “Neil”. I said I didn’t know “Neil” personally but I would do my level best to find him and present the bag with Tony’s best wishes. He tapped the side of his nose and said ‘fanks’. I did want to engage him further but Lady SJ was once again dragging me along, ever anxious to get to the game. We lost a good 15 minutes as I tried to find a ‘Neil’ amongst the surging mass making its way to the game but imbued by this unexpected Arthurian quest, I was keen, nay, committed to making journey’s end. I was becoming quite frustrated by events then, by a stroke of good fortune, a programme seller admitted he was called ‘Neil’ so I gave him the bag with Tony’s best wishes. There’s one in the good Samaritan side of the ledger for me I think.
I did like the 1st of the pre-match entertainments laid on before you enter the ground, the swamp. This was huge fun and I was pleased I’d worn a pair of strong, sturdy brogues. I’m hoping someone will find the left one and return it to me. It’s a size 10 Loake. Light tan. Or it was when it was sucked off my foot. Lady SJ had no trouble as she had her Ug boots with stiletto heels on. These garnished several envious looks from other female fashioniestas.
We then took our place in the East Stand. It’s a happening place and it is certainly what grass roots rugby league is all about. However, the noise is appalling, a catawalling, screeching wall of sound that is far too loud. Anyway, eventually the man stopped punching his wife and the music came on. That was even worse. By jove it’s loud. I think I now have tinnitus. Lady SJ works with young offenders is and is very ‘on message’ with young folks and their culture. A very large woman in an ill thought out ensemble then gyrated wildly to something Lady SJ informed me was ‘Gangdynam syle’, well, it wasn’t Glenn Miller. (Half way through the 1st half I became very nostalgic about the large lady and “Gandynammy” and would have welcomed the distraction they could have provided).
I intend to send a 42 page missive to the BOD about musical policy. A little Bobby Bland or James Carr would have been most welcome.
I did at this point notice the behemoth rising in the north. “Ye gads” I cried, “That’s what I call a magnificent erection!”. And people quickly moved, most noticeably women with young children, creating a 6 foot space around Lady SJ and myself thus affording us a better view of the new stand. Very neo-gothic. ACME builders, top chaps.
The Popkids (or is it kidz) were very good. There’s something terribly heart warming about a group of poppets dancing their hearts out on a cold, grey blustery Northern day. There’s something a bit disconcerting about a grown man in a robin suit gyrating in the middle of them. Things have moved on since I was a young person, electricity for instance, and people are far more broad minded now. A group of pre-pubescent girls thrusting their pelvises as the singer screams ‘I’m SEXY’ is, how can one put this, different to what Lady SJ and myself would have laid on at a soiree.
Anyway, the “Red, Red Robin” played, the teams ran out – hurrah – and a new optimistic season had dawned. I had a lump in my throat but the steward soon removed his fist and it was game on.
Much blame is apportioned to Mr. Bentham about the fast disappearance of the optimism. It’s clear Mr. Bentham , or ‘Phil’ as the Catalans seemed to refer to him, had clearly suffered a terrible case of whiplash and steadfastly refused, no doubt on doctors orders, to move his head from left to right, especially when Rovers had a play the ball. I think upon close scrutinisation, his more vociferous critics would find you could just about make out the marks were his neck brace had been prior to the game. Well played Mr Bentham. A credit to your profession. It’s also gratifying to hear the sheer inventiveness of supporters and the wide range of expletives they can add to a fairly simple phrase like “They’re offside”. One minor gripe, the next time Mr Bentham officiates for us, it would be kinder to tether his guide dog OUTSIDE the ground. There was enough baying go on without his Labrador adding its two penny worth.
The Catalans were bigger, faster, stronger……hold on…..someone else was using that mantra but I can’t think who. It must be one of the top 4 teams or you would look a bit stupid wouldn’t you, if you weren’t, you know, bigger, faster, stronger. Anyway, they were excellent. It’s hard taking a defeat but when you’re beaten by a superior side, there’s no disgrace in that.
Brent Webb seems a terribly unpopular person and at one point a bag of sweets that his coach had tied around his neck in an effort to improve his standing with his team mates ‘popped’ out from the collar of his shirt. I clearly saw him say to Menzies “Patterson just punched me” to which Menzies just shrugged his shoulders, neo gallic style, and said “Whatever”. I like Menzies, he’s a class act.
The major revelation of the day though was the half time sensation that is RUGBY GOLF. Now, this is cutting edge entertainment. I expect to see this boxed and in the shops by Christmas. As with all new horizon busting innovations, this idea was borne with no little amount of blood, sweat and tears being spilt. Apparently, they locked Mike Smith in a room with no food and told him he wouldn’t be allowed out until he invented ‘the mother of all half time entertainments’. Within 20 minutes Mike was screaming “Rugby Golf!!!! Rugby Golf!!!! Pink balls, pink balls, who’s got pink balls….Sammy Davis Jnr, can I have a Mars bar?????”. I think at this point he had to be drip fed a pizza.
So, it ended in disappointment but there where bright points. Omari Caro could just be a bit special and I thought he was very good defensively. Cory Patterson clearly harbours fantasies about conducting the East Stand but doesn’t quite have the confidence to raise his hands above waist height. It’ll come, it’ll come. And finally, the man with the big magnet who operates Dobbo’s kicking leg has promised to roam both touchlines next time, not just the left one or behind the sticks.
As the Catalans left the field, they were still chattering away to the official. “Feel…..Feel….” you could hear them saying. Or maybe they were just groping Craig Hall.
Toodle pip.
Le Smerking Jackete
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