Barton under Needwood RUFC Limited has recently been tested for their commitment and dedication to ensuring that the sport of rugby continues to strengthen and grow in the village, and that it has ensured that all of the legal and challenging aspects of running such a large organisation are now in place.

On Thursday 4th April 2013 it was officially announced that Barton RUFC had achieved the Rugby Football Union's Club Accreditation. This is a fantastic accomplishment for a village club which is small in comparison to many of its neighbours and which relies wholly on the dedication of its members generosity and enthusiasm. This is only the start of our journey into improving the facilities and opportunities that this great club has to offer and on hearing the news Gary Steen our Chairman said "Since the introduction of Mini/Junior rugby to Barton Under Needwood RUFC, we have grown rapidly, without us as a club, realising how big we had become! The RFU Accreditation scheme brought us onto a path which has now clarified what we need to do to ensure that we continue to grow with confidence whilst at the same time enjoy the pleasure of having such a great team of players and supporters around us."

Announcing the RFU Accreditation award, Simon Winman, Head of Development from the Rugby Football Union

I am delighted to confirm that you have achieved the RFU Club Accreditation status. The effort and commitment you have shown to achieve this will, I am sure, already have had a beneficial effect for all who volunteer and play at your club. I also hope that the process you have been through will help you to continue to strengthen your club and grow the game in communities around it. The RFU, with your help, will provide an ever improving quality of experience for all involved in rugby.

If you wish to know more about the scheme, either ask one of the committee members or click here : RFU Club Accreditation
 

Courtesy of Paul Betts : .

It is largely unknown to players and followers of the modern game that rugby started off purely as a contest for forwards in opposition in line-outs, scrums, rucks and mauls.

This pitted eight men of statuesque physique, supreme fitness and superior intelligence in packs against one another. In those days, the winner was the pack that won the most set pieces. The debasement of the game began when backs were introduced. This occurred because a major problem was where to locate the next scrum or line-out. Selecting positions on the ground for these had become a constant source of friction and even violence.

The problem was resolved by employing forward rejects, men of small stature and limited intelligence, to run aimlessly around within the field of play.

Following a set piece, the ball would be thrown to one of them, who would establish the next location either by dropping it or by throwing it to another reject for dropping. Very occasionally, a third reject would receive the ball before it would be dropped, and crowds would wildly cheer on these rare occasions.

Initially these additional players were entirely disorganized but with the passing of time they adopted set positions. For instance, take the half-back. He was usually one of the smallest and least intelligent of the backs whose role was simply to accept the ball from a forward and to pass it on to one of the other rejects who would drop it, providing the new location for the forwards to compete. He could easily (given his general size) have been called a quarter forward or a ball monkey but then tolerance and compassion are the keys to forward play and the present euphemism was decided on.

The five-eighth plays next to the half-back and his role is essentially the same except that when pressured, he usually panics and kicks the ball.

Normally, he is somewhat taller and slightly better built than the half-back and hence his name. One-eighth less and he would have been a half- back, three-eighths more and he might well have qualified to become a forward.

The centres were opportunists who had no expertise but wanted to share in the glamour associated with forward packs. After repeated supplication to the forwards for a role in the game they would be told to get out in the middle of the field and wait for instructions. Thus, when asked where they played, they would reply "in the centre". And they remain to this day, parasites and scroungers who mostly work as lawyers or used car dealers.

You may ask, why wingers? The answer is simple. Because these were players who had very little ability and were the lowest in the backline pecking order, they were placed as far away from the ball as possible. Consequently, and because the inside backs were so diligent in their assigned role of dropping the ball whenever they received it, the main contribution to the game made by the winger was not to get involved. Their instructions were to run away as quickly as possible whenever trouble appeared, and to avoid tackles at all costs. The fact that the game was organised so that the wingers didn't get to touch the ball led to an incessant flow of complaints from them and eventually the apt description "whingers" was applied. Even though the "h" dropped off over the years, the whingeing itself unfortunately has not.

Lastly, the full-back. This was the position given to the worst handler, the person least able to accept or pass the ball, someone who was always in the way. The name arose because the forwards would understandably become infuriated by the poor play invariably demonstrated by that person, and call out "send that fool back". He would then be relegated well out of everyone's way to the rear of the field.

So there you have it. Let's return to the glory days of a contest between two packs of eight men of statuesque physique, supreme fitness and superior intelligence. The rest can go off to where they will be happier, playing soccer.

It was a disgrace. A completely one sided view of the afternoon's proceedings.

Over the years there have been some comments about the photography on match day; me, Scroggsy and now Coxy, we have all come in for criticism for favouring one particular player or sets of players over others, and have been accused of more bias when posting them on the website. “Wooly and Shummy get their picture taken but none of us forwards do”, and I have long fought for editorial and journalistic impartiality however I am now forced to admit that this bias has appeared on a colossal scale. As proof I present some photos take at the Harborne game. All show me supplying whisky and chocolates to the opposition spectators, all of whom appear to be women. This is a completely unfair depiction of the day which comprised Warren Rumsey drinking 90% of the whisky, Richard Welch asking to be substituted early to get the last of the Chomps, and Steve Dixon consuming far more confectionary than is good for a man of his age. I sense this particular member of the paparazzi became biased due to my blatant criticism of his complete inability to eat a Curly Wurly with decorum, but did not expect this to result in such a slanderous set of photos.

I would like to go on record to say that the sweeties and single malt were dispensed equally and without discrimination, and it was only because she gave me her mobile number that the blonde in the last photo got an extra swig of the hip flask, but you can rest assured that as the number is “unobtainable” she won’t be getting any Ferrero Rocher when Harborne come to Barton next year

This week, Matt Bird reveals his love for Firemen, Susan Boyle, an eclectic taste in music and that he struggles to keep it up !!!!

WHO IS YOUR SPORTING HERO AND WHY

Massive Cliché to start with straight away but the one and Only Jonny Wilkinson, in my eye’s the best number 10 ever to play for England and maybe of all time. His attitude on and off the pitch is a shining example to anyone in the world of sport. He trains like he plays and his autobiography is a great read. 2003 Drop Goal was the greatest moment for me in English Rugby!

Alternatively I’ve grown up with 2 guys who are famous for being ‘chokers’ Jimmy White, the nearly man of snooker and Greg Norman who famously blew a 6 stroke lead to lose the Masters to Nick Faldo and I’ll always have a place in my heart for those two sporting greats!

WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOU WEREN’T AN OFFICE FURNITURE EXECUTIVE

I’ve always said I wanted to be in the fire service, my dad was a fire-fighter for 25 years but I failed in the early attempts at joining the service full time and wasn’t clever enough to think about learning a trade to coincide with a part time role in Barton… whoops.

WHO HAS BEEN YOUR BIGGEST INSPIRATION IN RUGBY AND IN LIFE

My parents in Life, for sure, Fostered and Adopted by them I owe them everything as who knows where I’d be if I hadn’t of been so lucky as a baby.

Rugby – I’m inspired by a few players currently still playing at Barton – Jonny Simons for one who juggles an important job, marriage, x box time with all of the work he does for us – on and off the field.

Glyn Bennett – For the setup of the Junior section making the getting older process easier for the knowledge that the future of Barton Rugby Club is bright.

For the lads who week in week out are at training and available at the weekends.

WHAT IS THE HIGHLIGHT OF YOUR TIME PLAYING RUGBY

In the 7 years I’ve been playing rugby I have had some amazing times with Barton, a league title, 2 cups victories, a season going unbeaten at home, some amazing tours and currently we are on a 12 month unbeaten run at home

The Owen cup victory against Cannock at Burton in 2012 is the second best day as we totally dominated the game and was a great send off for our Skip at the time Fabio Bono Cox, but for me Edwardians at home was the highlight – 17 March 2012 Barton 31 Edwardians 23, was the best game I’ve ever been a part of, the performance, the support and the whole day just showed how good this rugby club is.

WHICH IS THE FAVOURITE RUGBY GROUND YOU HAVE PLAYED AT

Clee Hills’s new wooden structure round the portaloo style changing rooms is close but for actual facilities it has to be Featherstone Prison, one of the most intimidating places I’ll ever play but easily the nicest set up!

I think Rugeley will always have a place for me as well – PEASANTS!!

IF YOUR HOUSE WAS BURNING DOWN, WHAT ONE POSSESSION WOULD YOU SAVE

My fire Proof Blanket.

WHAT IS THE BEST ADVICE YOU WERE EVER GIVEN

On the rugby pitch I’ve been fortunate to have had some great advice and help over the years from many players / coaches – Kev Denver, Dave Rowe (I know I know), Tony Skehan, Clive Chapman, Lee Coton to name a few but the man who I actually think helped me more than anyone – Neil Beardsmore – the guy who guided me through my first season playing at 13 or wing.

‘’ Always make sure you can see my number and you’ll be fine Birdy ‘’

Off the pitch – my parents.

‘’ Never go to bed in an argument – always stay up and fight ‘’

This is why Matt ‘the Bayley’ and I get on so well at training.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE KARAOKE SONG

To watch – Jonny Simons – Living On My Own

To sing – We are the Champions a Matt Bird & Lee Coton remix.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE FILM & THE LAST FILM YOU WATCHED

Favourite: 300

Last: Nanny Mcphee.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE BOOK & THE LAST BOOK YOU READ

I don’t tend to read often and when I do it’s only ever autobiographies, or the Daily Star, but Jonny’s (Wilkinson not Simmons) is up there,

Ranulph Fiennes ‘Mad Bad & Dangerous To Know’ is good to!

Last: Susan Boyle – Fifty Shaves a Day.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE FOOD

Sunday Roast with all the Trimmings.

2014 will be the year I try my first Kebab.

IN A FILM OF YOUR LIFE WHO WOULD PLAY YOU

Jennifer Lopez.

DESERT ISLAND DISCS – WHICH 5 TRACKS

1. Steve Miller Band – The Joker

2. Queen – We Will Rock you

3. David Bowie – Heroes

4. Andrea Bocelli – Time to Say goodbye

5. Black Eyed Peas – Just Can’t Get Enough

WHAT IS YOUR VIEW OF THE SEASON SO FAR

Softly softly catch a monkey.... each week for me is getting better and stronger, we are coming together more each week and it’s getting there, I know this is the truth because on a Sunday / Monday morning I’m already counting the week down until Saturday!

Nice to get the first away win under our belt at Telford last Saturday, with for me, our best performance so far this season.

WHICH OPPOSING TEAM HAS IMPRESSED YOU MOST

No one so far, We’ve lost to Cannock, I’ve never won a game at Cannock, they had the usual game plan. We lost to Bromyard, a little embarrassing and we owe them at home.

I’d say if I have to pick – Telford, big pack, strong 8 and if the 13 could keep his temper he would have been more of a handful.

IF YOU COULD PICK ONE FORWARD AND ONE BACK FROM OUR LEAGUE TO JOIN BARTON WHO WOULD IT BE

I actually don’t think we could fit a back into our team – although if the 15 from Market Drayton, who’s also on Saracens books, fancies a run out for our two’s we’d make room.

The 8 for Telford was the strongest forward I’ve seen so far but very much a one man band.

WHERE DO YOU FEEL WE CAN IMPROVE ON AND OFF PITCH

Only one area for me – training, the sessions are good Lee & Kev are doing a great job this year but the numbers need to be better. Going Into the winter is normally the time we see numbers drop but to keep improving we need this to stay the same / pick up.

WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE IN THE HAMPER WARS HAMPERS

I think it’s great we have such awesome spectators I’m sure they are the best in our league and many other leagues but, and without wishing to sound harsh, it doesn’t really bother me what’s in the hampers as by the time I come off the pitch all you fatties have normally eaten everything.

SOCIALLY, WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE HAPPEN AT THE CLUB

Tour! Just got to make sure it happens this year for sure. Got to get people to commit and early.

A few more socials in the season and a few more of the lads staying around after the game in the club for a beer. It seems to be the same faces (drunkards) after each game and there’s only so much naked Quidditch I can take.

WHAT CAN WE DO OFF FIELD TO HELP IMPROVE THE EXPERIENCE

If this is on a match day I think you guys do a great job, handing out food / drink to all spectators, fireworks, general support – as said before it’s awesome!

Maybe a bit more of a sing song in the club all together – sunshine mountain as standard for every home game.

KATE OR PIPPA

Kippa’s.

STONES OR BEATLES

Hmmmm toughy – Stones.

WHAT FOOD WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE SERVED POST MATCH

A good curry would be nice, rice and some breads, super.

AS CLUB KICKER WE KNOW YOU LIKE TO GET IT BETWEEN THE STICKS, HOW IS YOUR LOVE LIFE AT THE MOMENT?

I can’t keep it up!

I’d like to be a gigolo or a male escort… I’m not built for relationships or marriage so I’d use my talents in this field.

In the coming weeks we are going to get to know more about our players, members and supporters by way of a series of interviews titled ‘Up Close and Personal’.

First up is Club Skipper Jonny ‘The Castrator’ Simons who reveals his devotion for Matt Cox, and a desire to be Freddie Mercury, no coincidence there then, plus a yearning to go to prison and a greater love for Mofo than the beautiful Lucy.

WHO IS YOUR SPORTING HERO AND WHY

I would have to say Daniel Eugene "Rudy" Ruettiger. A true inspiration on never giving up and defeating the odds. He had a hard time at school as a dyslexic guy but still tried to get into Notre Dame College in America. He succeeded after four attempts!!! Then he was desperate to play for the College American Football team. He had no weight to him and was 5’6”. He kept trying and trying to make the team, but couldn’t, but he never gave up. In Ruettiger's last opportunity to play for Notre Dame at home he was brought on towards the end. He tackled the opposition quarter back with a massive smash. The whole crowd went nuts and he was carried off the field on the shoulders of his teammates at the end. If you ever need motivation, watch the film “Rudy”.

WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOU WEREN’T AN INTERNATIONAL HEDGE FUND MANAGER

The village castrator. When my Aunty looked back at the Simons’ family tree, that’s the furthest ancestor we could find – the village castrator!

WHICH BARTON RUGBY PLAYER IS YOUR ALL TIME HERO AND WHY?

Tricky one. I would have to say Matt Cox. The greatest skipper I have played under, he had the same ‘give it your all’ attitude I try and have, and he was always there at all the training sessions he could make with a smile on his face but giving it everything. Right effort + right attitude = RESPECT for a great player and was always good company on and off the pitch.

WHAT IS THE HIGHLIGHT OF YOUR TIME PLAYING RUGBY WITH BARTON

Far too many to recall, both on and off the pitch! I am fortunate enough to have travelled the world, I have lived in countries such as Australia, Tokyo, Japan and Cape Town, South Africa and I still travel a lot now with work, so I guess I am fairly experienced on being at different places and playing for different Rugby Clubs, However everywhere I go I proudly say Barton is a very special village and the Rugby Club has become a big part of that for me.

AND WHAT IS THE LOWEST MOMENT

I don’t have a low moment, but there are always two things that get to me:

WHO ARE YOUR FAVOURITE OPPONENTS

The ones that play well and never stop and force us to raise our own standards. I would rather play higher level opponents than have ridiculously easy wins, but that’s just me always wanting a challenge and believing we can do better.

WHICH IS YOUR FAVOURITE RUGBY GROUND YOU PLAYED AT

Featherstone Prison for the quality of the pitch!

IF YOUR HOUSE WAS BURNING DOWN, WHAT ONE POSSESSION WOULD YOU SAVE

Mofo in one arm, the wife in the other, and the phone number for Ali Babas kebabs in my mouth!

WHAT IS THE BEST ADVICE YOU WERE EVER GIVEN

No 1. “If you commit to something, give it everything you have. Never ever give up on pushing yourself and be the person that you want to be. Look at the heroes on TV, or the happy people in life, or the people successful in the things they do, or the people that have a positive effect on the world, and be one of them with the right attitude and effort. Believe that positive thinking can change things to how you want.” (by my self made millionaire boss I used to work for, my true mentor).

No 2. You don’t have to be naturally good at any sports or anything. You just have to try harder than anyone else

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE KARAOKE SONG

Living on my own! Freddie Mercury

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE MUSIC

Cheesy rock / rap!

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE FILM & THE LAST FILM YOU WATCHED

Favourite: Ferris Buellers Day Off

Last: Transvestite Vampire Orgy Volume 4

WHAT IS THE BEST DISH YOU COOK

Revenge. Served Cold.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE FOOD

Sober: Curry

Drunk: Kebab

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE HOLIDAY DESTINATION

Thailand

IN A FILM OF YOUR LIFE WHO WOULD PLAY YOU

Kermit the Frog

TELL US A SECRET ABOUT YOU

I can eat larger portions of food in one go than any fat man I have ever met. Tried and tested many times.

As you drive westwards beyond Kincardine O’Neil along the North Deeside road in rural Aberdeenshire, you come across some spectacular scenery. The road winds up out of the village and into the Dess estate. This 2,000 acre paradise sweeps from grouse filled heather moorland down past Dess House; a stone built fortified manor house, to the salmon filled pools of the river Dee. The silvery road snakes along the same contour of the hillside with the high, solid dry stone walls coming right up to the edge of the road, reflecting the throaty exhaust note of an Audi TT driven with brio in a very pleasing fashion, and acting as an immoveable barrier to those unlucky enough to crash in a very unpleasing fashion. The large beech and elm trees and hedges that populate the banks provide a sunlight impenetrable rain-forest like canopy, which in summer gives an eerie feel to the drive, in autumn a layer of lethal low viscosity leaves, and in winter and equally dangerous layer of black ice – lovely. As you enter this section of winding road, at one particular point you can see straight through the seven bends that form the “Dess Hedges” ; a chink of light at the end of this horticultural tunnel, siren like luring you through the danger of hard contact with the walls, encouraging you to go faster and faster and to pick the perfect line. At this point it also gives you sight of any vehicle on the bends and if you can see clear through here you can effectively straight line your vehicle through the bends in a “look-at-me-I’m-Lewis-Hamilton” manner.

So if you are lucky with your timing, and you can see that chink of light through the curves, it brings a big smile to your face.

It was a Dess weekend at home against Five Ways. Standing on the sidelines fifteen yards behind the scrum I saw Quidditch feed the ball into the second row. I could see a chink of light from Thorpey’s feet to the scrum half and as Quidditch fed the ball straight down this line through the curves of our forwards’ feet, I recited; the timing of the put in was right, Quidditch saw a chink of light through the curves, and it brought a smile to my face; and his. A Dess hedges put-in. Lovely.

The came Woolly. As he waltzed his way through the Five Ways defence, I was fortunate enough to be standing in line with him as he saw a straight line through the myriad of opponents, and just like Dess with no oncoming traffic, he picked a straight line through the forest of tacklers, avoiding the dry stone wall contact of the second row, and the flimsy flailing branches of the backs, and exited the danger area to score. It was a thing of beauty to see a torso take a straight line through this melee as the feet darted from side to side like an alpine slalom skier or like the wheels of a motorcycle on a perfect line through those bends. The timing was right, a chink of light could be seen through the curves, and we all smiled. As he appeared into the bright sunlight and touched down, I thought to myself; Dess Hedges.

Much later in the bar that evening while waiting for my pint and pork scratchings with Danny Carlin I reflected on the day’s performance, Woolly’s run and our win. We paused to watch the buxom barmaid bend down under the bar and I was fortunate enough to be in just the right position to see down her completely inadequate top, past her ample bosom and flimsy brassiere, and to catch the glint of light that reflected back up off the jewel in her belly button piercing. The timing was right, a chink of light could be seen through the curves, and I smiled. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking ?” said a drooling Danny. “I don’t think so son” I replied. After all, he’s never been to Dess.

RFU Grand Draw

20 December 2011

Please see the attached file from Darrell.

This is a great way of raising money for the club and there are fantastic prizes -

1st £10,000
2 - 3rd TAG Heuer exclusive limited production Aquaracer Calibre 5 Automatic Watch with RFU and England Rose applied to the face (RRP £1,395) donated by TAG Heuer
4th £1,000 donated by Robinson Low Francis LLP
5th £1,000 donated by Mazars LLP
6th A weekend break for 2 people at the RBS 6 Nations match England v Scotland 2013, incl. 2 nights accom.for 2 people in central London with guaranteed match tickets donated by England Rugby Travel
7th Signed RWC 2011 England Squad jersey donated by RFU
8th Signed RBS 6 Nations 2011/12 jersey donated by RFU
9th iPad 2 Wi-Fi 32GB donated by Compleat Software
10th A Salmanazar of Bollinger Special Cuvee Champagne (equivalent of 12 bottles) donated by Mentzendorff
11 - 14th 2 tickets + Hospitality to a QBE International 2012 donated by Twickenham Experience/RFU
15th 6 bottles of Champagne donated by Filing Plus
16th 6 bottles of Champagne donated by JLT Benefit Solutions
17th £250 donated by Bates Wells & Braithwaite
18th Signed Manchester Utd shirt donated by Nike
19th Signed Arsenal Shirt donated by Nike
20th Weekend for 2 including B&B donated by London Marriott Twickenham
21st Rugby Ball signed by England RWC 2011 squad donated by GILBERT
22nd 12 bottles of Fine Wines donated by Farrer & Co.
23rd 4 tickets Chelsea v Blackburn 13/5/12 donated by Barclays Bank plc.
24th 12 bottles of Valserrano Reserva Rioja donated by QBE International
25th A Four Ball Round of Golf at the Downs Course, Goodwood donated by RSA
26th Rhino British & Irish Lions 2009 Tour Ball signed by Sir Ian McGeechan donated by Rhino Rugby
27th Half Day off-road Driving Course donated by Land Rover
28th 2 tickets to an O2 event, choice subject to availability donated by O2
29 - 30th 72 cans of Guinness donated by Guinness/Diageo
31 - 32nd 6 bottles of Wolf Blass Yellow Label wine donated by Wolf Blass
33 - 35th 2 tickets to Aviva Premiership Final donated by Aviva
36th 1 England Rugby Cake donated by The Rugby Store
37 - 38th 1 family ticket for Twickenham tour donated by World Rugby Museum, Twickenham

See the RFU webstie for more details :

www.rfu.com/ManagingRugby/ClubDevelopment/FinanceAndFunding/FundingAgencies/~/media/Files/2011/ManagingRugby/ClubDevelopment/FinanceAndFunding/GrandDrawPrintedMatters.ashx

Flower Power

23 October 2011

What do you think of the flowery shirts ?

I tried to get as many flower references into the Edwardians match report and there is a prize for the person who can correctly identify the number of references. Not a big prize, and not even a good prize, but a prize.

Pre-season preparations

17 Sept 2011

Training for the players has been going extremely well.

In order to ensure the whole club is ready, the spectators are also training hard, practicing chants, learning the names of the opposing players so we can abuse them, and putting unknown post codes into the Sat Nav so we can find our way to the strange outposts that the Midlands League Organizing Committee have deemed we need to travel to. But first we need to secure home territory and this we take very seriously. Here is the first training session.

Sadly we will lose some members of this elite spectator squad as they have been called up to international duty in New Zealand.

   I'm, not jealous. No, not me.

For Stewart...

1 Sept 2011

Are we ready for the new season ? There are lots of reasons to suggest we are.

Training is in full flow and we are now all familiar with coat-hangers, the skin removal properties of a hard pitch, and which water bottles are easier to squeeze water out of (answer; none).

There are new rules for submitting match cards which will increase the opportunities for us to be fined for not following, there are new guidelines for replacements which are guaranteed to create mayhem and jollity in equal measure, and there are new teams to play in far off places like Bishop Onny. BO (as we will now call them) may not be far away at all, but to me is sounds like a leafy Cotswold town near Painswick where the locals have just embraced this new “coffee” drink and the parish council discuss the problem of horse fouling the streets – only because the drop in horse numbers and subsequent manure production is affecting Mrs Wainwright’s roses this year.

But Barton are ready to play anyone. There are many, many players strutting around Holland Sports Club trying on first team shirts for size, practicing their scoring dance, and positioning themselves for the first match of the season. It is good to see such bravado and high spirits in a club, and we are a shining example to others in our league who are depressed through poor life choices, being surrounded by enthusiastic 1960s architecture, and following Eastender’s story lines.

This is so much better than last December when we were bottom of the league and we found our Pay, our Pensions and our Pitch all frozen, but we made it through to finish the league campaign on a high, win the Owen cup, and have a fabulous tour to Norwich – remember that? No, me neither.

So can we have the same end of season fun this year but without the depressing first three months please ? Thanks.

All good things come in threes

27 April 2011

Barton, Under, Needwood,

Rug, Bee, Club,

Kit, washed, by

Shoul, Der, Pub

Rice, rice, crispies

Snap, crackle, pop,

Training, Thursday, teaches us

To Tap, tackle, stop

An, Drew, Gillet

Set, the, guard,

Stamp, on, player,

Yell, O, Card

End, of, season

Fuss, Fuss, Fuss,

Trans, port, problem,

Need, another, bus

Gary, Gary, Owen

Ow, En, Cup

Cup, against, Cannock

Don’t, F**k, Up

Evans, Bird, and Bayley

All, Called, Matt,

Holly, Bolly, Tolley

Fat, Yorkshire, Tw*t

Mini, Junior, Senior

Legends, Colts, Vets

All, Coached, By

Grant, Bennett, Betts

Throw, not, straight

Take, it, again ?

Scrum, fif, teen

Not, back, ten

Hands, on, Quidditch

Thorpe, Blokko, sound

Jonny, Simons’, Hand off

Always, making, ground

Giles, Mouley, Cliffy,

Mike, eee, B

Craig, Hudson, Robinson

Legend, Jimmy, G

Cox, Maxwell, Woolston

Murphy, Murphy, Knight

Forster, Coton, "Sarah" Palin

“Dan”, Carter, White

Free, kick, Given

Tap, and, Go ?

Don’t, kick, Rowie,

no, No, NOOOO !

Touch, Line, Treats,

Tries, Tries, Tries

Stu, Cox, Deli

Big, Niall’s, Pies

People, get, hurt

Malc, olm’s, knees

Polly, goes, down,

Heli, copter, please

Game, has, stopped

No, Off, ence

We, can’t, find

Blox, ham’s, Lens

Things, to, watch for,

Bent, ley’s, thumb

Lee, Coton’s, finger

Rach, els, bum

Things, we can, rely on

Seasons, Sun, Tide

Rowie, takes, a tap and go,

Mouley, is, Offside

Where, to, kick to

you, can’t, teach.

like lines, of, running

Rowie’s, dinner, speech.

Tough, De, cision

Andy, Macey, Mitch

Who, makes, The

Best, Tour, Snitch

Tour, Bus, Singing

Guys, Guys, Guys

Bloody, Mary, factory

The Count’s, Tour, Eyes

Naked, Beach, Rugby

Scar, brough, Grand

Tackle, the, Rabbit

Wash, Your, Hands

Barton, Under, Needwood

Sun, and Sand, and Seas,

Rugby, Beer, and Cheryl Cole

Good Things, come in, Threes,

Wolseley Sponsorship

5 March 2011

Thanks to "Thruster" Dean Fradgley, the club has received sponsorship from Wolseley to support the development of the Mini / Junior section. The money has already gone towards the RFU "Rugby Ready" course at the start of April and will further enhance Barton's standing as the leading mini/junior Rugby Club in the Midlands.

Unfortunate photo of Danny Carlin getting in the way of the cheque being handed over by Dave Rowe.

Sometimes we have to be very clear about what we want. We may use visual metaphors, direct instruction or subtle guidance, but our language is peppered with phrases that everyone knows and uses, yet actually make no real sense. “Crusaders off the top of an Australia ball, Quidditch crossfield to Wooly” makes perfect sense to us all but when trying to tell Rusty Spinney from Colorado that his excuse for not coming on tour would “not cut any ice” did not translate well. “Why would you want to cut ice with my excuse ?” he asked. “Under what circumstances would you need to cut ice ?” “What would you do with the piece of ice you cut ?”. I was stumped, but it prompted me to listen carefully to touch line banter and see why communication in our club seems to be so hard.

“Now Quidditch has passed his exams the world is his oyster”. What ?!! I mean seriously, what gave GCSEs such power to transform our glorious planet into a scabby mollusc just for Higgins ? What about my oyster ? Where is my oyster ? Are there oysters for everyone or just Quidditch ? What if you are seafood intolerant ? Should you still go to University ? Now many of you may be thinking, here we go again, he’s had too much time in airport lounges and has probably guzzled all the drumsticks from the sweetie tin and washed it down with the rest of the Bill Scrogg’s Sloe gin, and although this all may be factually correct it still doesn’t explain the rapid promotion of the oyster.

“That Shaun Leek, he certainly cuts the mustard”. “Yea, but Danny Carlin doesn’t”. What ? !! Of course he doesn’t ! He works at the Argos warehouse, and if I was his supervisor and caught him with a chopping board and a sheaf of cress like foliage under his arm I’d be far from chuffed. Why do Danny or Shaun need to cut mustard ? There are thousands of Polish workers in Lincolnshire picking and mashing mustard seeds into paste, yet none of them can steal a lineout ball like Shaun. But according to our touchline experts, we should fill our second row with muddy fingered, swan eating farm workers because they have greater cuisine related horticultural skills.

Luckily Kev picks his squad based on their ability on a rugby field, and I for one am glad he does, but please do not be surprised if he takes the spectators’ half-baked feedback with a slightly puzzled look.

Polygon

22 January 2011

Matthew Perkins; younger brother of the world renowned Christopher, is leaving us for pastures new. He’s convinced that in his new home the grass is more verdant, more luscious and more green than even Danny Carlin’s heart, but we know the draw of Barton will always pull him home.

I had the pleasure of playing with "Young Polly" Perkins in his first ever senior game. He confided in me. “What should I do ?” he asked eagerly. I said,

1. 1. Whenever someone passes the ball to me I'll drop it , so be ready to pick it up.

2. 2. Whenever I pass, it will be bad so make sure you catch it.

3. 3. Whenever I run, I'll get tackled so make sure you’re on my shoulder.

4. 4. Whenever I defend, I'll miss the  tackle, so make sure you get him”.

Sage words, I’m sure you’ll agree. He replied “but you never do any of those things”. Aw, Bless, I thought. You have much to learn.

Throughout the game he was a solid full back, always eager to come into the line at the right time, the right place and the right pace, and in defence…well, you’ve all seen him tackle. After ten minutes I decided my tutoring was complete, and my new student had learnt all I could ever teach him. Over the next few years I watched as he put all this into practice.

1. 1. He never drops a ball and

2. 2. He is always in the right place when a pass is on, and

3. 3. I was always confident that in contact Polly would be belting up to the line, screaming for the offload.

At Thursday’s session I jogged slowly round the pitch with Jamie Maxwell and we commented on the frozen crisp hard ground and the bright shining moon overhead that illuminated the far flung corners of the field and the huge numbers of people at training, and all felt good in the world. A few minutes later I was prone on the grass, trampled hard into the frozen tundra by a rampaging Dave Palin (how many times have I told you to respect your elders Dave ?) who I'd failed to tackle, and while gazing wistfully at the moon again caught in the corner of my eye a Harlequin shirted Polly bringing the big number 8 to ground.

1. 4. You have learnt much my son.

And this morning while driving up past Ripley on the A38 when the only music on the radio at 5AM is Radio 2 playing old wartime classics, I'm sure I heard ;

1. My Bonnie lies over the ocean,

2. My Bolly lives over the Sea,

3. Our Polly flies over the ocean,

4. Oh bring back our Polly to me.

Enjoy your travels Matt, but don’t forget your roots – you’ll always be welcome in Barton.

Tequila, Mexicans, and Movember

30 November 2010

Movember => Moustache => Mexicans => Tequila shots. The logic of Barton prevails.

Enjoy the photos because no-one enjoyed the drinks....

 

 

Dan the Man

25 November 2010

To the tune of "Robin Hood" please;

   Danny Carlin, Danny Carlin, running down the wing,

   Danny Carlin, Danny Carlin, running down the wing,

   Feared by the Blues, Loved by the Reds

   Danny Carlin, Danny Carlin, Danny Carlin

 

Caption competition

9 October 2010

There is no prize for guessing what's going through Birdy's mind, and we know what's going through Danny Carlin's mind (SEWLTIK ! SEWLTIK !) but what's Glyn thinking ?

Answers on a postcard please......

 

The New Tight Five

5 October 2010

Barton enter the professional era and have hired the two largest locks in Northern England. Darrell Young and Steve Tolley at second row are the tallest in the league (although this wide angle photo doesn't show it). Here you see them locking a huge front row of Steve Dixon (who looks like he is illegally binding), Gary Bentley wearing someone else's shirt, and Gareth Roberts pausing and touching.

Enough to strike fear in any opposition pack eh ?

Fortune Telling (for Dick Titley)

25 August 2010

The air was thick and humid with a taste like a seaweed scented Turkish bath (but without the body odour) and the bright neon lights lit up the gaudy baubles of Temple Street market at 11:00 at night. Foreign markets have always fascinated me as a place to people watch, and this one in Hong Kong's Kowloon peninsular was no exception. I never buy anything because most of it is plastic tat, shoddy knock off items, suspect leather goods and alien spices with unfeasibly vibrant colours. What I do like to do is immerse myself in the corner of a hawker stall and watch the world go by as I stuff my face with salt crusted calamari. There you can watch European backpackers looking for souvenir T shirts, Cruise liner passengers trying to get a passable fake Rolex, retail workers stocking up with comestibles for their supper, city centre financiers looking for a card school before taking the night bus home, children playing with discarded cardboard boxes wishing their parents didn't have to work so hard on the jade stalls, and delivery boys steering their barrows through the filthy streets. Wonderful.

That's the Temple street that everyone knows but if you go to the far north end and down a narrow alley way you come to the Yau Ma Tei Rest Garden which is a surreal kind of tranquillity from the hustle and bustle of post colonial Hong Kong, hidden away behind some of Kowloon's government buildings. I found it about 20 years ago and have always been drawn to the ancient culture, the mixture in this oriental melting pot and the social dichotomies that are present in the square around midnight. A long time ago I was mesmerised by watching Cantonese bankers still in their immaculately cut suits walking backwards round the gardens very very late in the evening. Apparently this was to rebalance the Ying and the Yang and to replace the Chi that was lost on the walk to work (forwards) earlier in the day. This was seen as perfectly normal and it was me who was barking mad for questioning the logic behind it. They do have very different beliefs and it fascinates me.

One belief I know they have got wrong is their belief that Karaoke is a good thing and that they can sing; it isn't, and they can't. As you walk down Market street towards the Garden square they set up stalls (a bit like Gary Steen's Gazebo) along both sides of the street and have very loud, open air Karaoke sessions.  They are not properly licensed and you are not allowed open containers of alcohol in the area so (like illegal Thai boxing matches in Bangkok) they serve beer in a plastic bag with a straw. This makes you look like a prize winner at the local fair who's goldfish has decomposed into a fizzy mush, but at 35 deg and 90% humidity it tastes great. I sat and listened but the tunes were barely recognisable and it took me ages to translate the words but yes this was what they meant by cacophony. Aurally stunned, I stood within touching distance of four stalls playing at full volume a Chinese dirge, Madonna, Tom Jones and ABBA. "Rivin Mateeaa Whoa, I mati ea a go" and "Gleen gleen Glaa hoooaaa". As I was standing, obviously looking a little pensive as I tried to recognise the ABBA song, one of the many fortune tellers who frequent the east side of the garden came over to me and tried to lure me into their stall. Normally I brush them away but this one had a little twinkle in their eye so I took my bag of beer and sat down on a plastic picnic chair with a deformed leg. He asked me what I wanted to know, so I pointed to my new Barton Rugby tour shirt and asked if this season would be successful. He told me to put my hands on a bird cage and watched intensely as the bird hopped left and right and bobbed its beak in and out of the tight mesh, somehow signalling my fortune to the teller. He frowned intently at the shirt and then pressed his face against the bird cage knocking beads of condensation from my beer bag onto the bars of the cage and then span back round at speed rubbing his temples.

"Baaaton, Sheer, Speed................Big Tolley !! " The last reference was accompanied by a flourish of the arms so I asked him to repeat it. He looked at the Bird again then shook his finger. I thought my money was out so I handed over more and he said "Year of Tiger - many points, year of Rabbit not many points". Did that mean we would score lots this season and not as many next ? Was this because we were to be promoted ? Yes ! Halleluiah !! I walked home quite chuffed that I had deciphered the mumblings of a madmen and delighted that Barton were going to do so well.

Back at the hotel next morning with a smelly crumpled bag of beer in the bathroom it was suggested that the teller saw "Newcastle" on my shirt and simply reeled off Toon football players that he knew (Joey Barton, Alan Shearer, Gary Speed) and "Big Tolley" was "Victory" - he thought Newcastle were going to win something, and it was nothing to do with Barton rugby. My disappointment was greeted with guffaws of laughter but I needed to know. I thought I had it all worked out but now I was more confused than ever.

It has bothered me for weeks. Did he mean Barton or Newcastle ? Is Barton's success really dependent on the dancing movements of a Bird (a question you are all asking of our stand off), and what was that ABBA tune ?

 

 

Wives & Girlfriends

28 March 2010

I’m always fascinated about the people who choose to spend their Saturday afternoon watching level 8 Rugby and what vacant lives they must lead to place an Essington v Barton encounter higher than anything else that could occur at 3PM on a Saturday in February. These are people whose lack of exposure to sunlight has produced a complexion of unbaked pastry and who are further disfigured by systematic exposure to state education.  You have others; the ones who shamelessly read the Guardian, wear elbow patches, and like bits in their Camra regulated beer, and then there are the Wives and Girlfriends (WAGs), deliberately looking pretty and trying to impress and support their latest Beau.

In my playing days my good lady would sometimes come down and in one friendly against Burton I managed to score twice for Barton then switched sides at half time and scored a late lucky try for Burton. I was well chuffed and after the match swaggered up to her, chest puffed out, bursting with pride and she said “did you win?”. I had to explain what had happened in a style that would have made Dave Rowe’s exploits seem terse and believable, and she replied that she’d really come down to see Debbie’s new baby and to talk to Sue Woolley and had missed it all. She forced a smile then turned away and patted me on the head like you would a faithful Labrador who had just retrieved a stick from a swollen stream, to say “that’s enough now, I’m bored”.

So not all WAGS are there to watch (or understand) the game, they are there for many reasons ; duty, devotion and sometimes just to look pretty, and due to the latter I have come to the conclusion that we have the cleverest and best looking touchline line up of any team in the league.

Many teams have come to play Barton just so they can have freeze spray administered by Jules or Rachael, and others come just so they can mingle with our WAGs. Some of our own spectators say they come down to watch a tightly fought contest, some say they want the fresh air and some say they want to watch Coxy yellow carded but in reality they all come down to admire our collection of WAGs. It’s like mixing with the VIPs at China White’s, it’s like brushing shoulders with the A list celebrities on the red carpet, it’s like sitting in the stalls with Megan Fox at the latest movie premier – yes, that’s what Saturday afternoon at Holland Sports Club is like.

Our WAGS are not just pretty, oh no. They are also clever and have letters after their name – BA, BSC, PhD and as one spectator said “Phooaarr”. No team can compete against this and no-one can say our WAGs are dim. I won’t mention names but there are ladies in our midst who have a better understanding of the intricacies of scrummaging than most referees, and when I try to engage them in conversation (like I know something about front row etiquette) I receive a polite, although forced, smile and a pat on the head. Again.

Some teams attempt to reach our stratospheric levels of prettiness using their own WAGs although the rough raw material means they need even more make up than I did last Saturday night, however their poor understanding of how to subtly combine foundation and mascara meant one Essington girl’s eyes looked like two crows had flown into a chalk cliff face. And their choice of attire is no better.

There are people designed to wear lycra (none should be on a rugby pitch by the way and more of that later), yet those who should, don’t, and those who really shouldn’t, do; unashamedly. I mean no fabric, natural or manmade should be expected to suffer such strain as trying to retain the hundredweights of cellulite carried round by some of the ladies from Hanford. Come on ! Use a full length mirror ladies !

There are exceptions and there was one lovely young thing from Tamworth a few years ago who caught my eye. After the match she sidled over to me but it transpired she only came over to question why I had thrown, and in this very rare instance, landed, a punch on her boyfriend who was playing openside. Now everyone in Tamworth and almost everyone in East Staffordshire, Warwickshire and parts of Derbyshire knows why one would want to punch this particular flanker and as such only a half wit would ask such a daft question, so although very pretty she had to be pigeon holed as “dim”. I smiled and patted her head.

 

That was the closest our opposition have come to the Barton WAGs and so I lay down a challenge to our future competitors ; until you can beat us with better rugby, better medics, and better looking touchline catwalk stars, then you don’t deserve the points.

Lycra - strong enough ?

10 March 2010

Call me old fashioned but men’s underwear has to have a St Michael’s label at the back and an industrial strength Y shaped gusset at the front. I know the racier among you do go as far as buying ones of different colours and I too can push the boundaries and think outside of the box at times. In a fit of exuberance, one day I bought a pair that had a stripy pattern and I was so giddy afterwards that I had to lie down with a cool flannel across my forehead - the frisson was so climactic.  I’m a dedicated followed of fashion as you can tell.

As underwear departments broadened their offering I tried to keep up. Boxer shorts were obviously for boxers, Thongs are for women under 9 stone (and I’m not budging on this), Jockey Shorts is simply a lack of horse riders for the 2:30 at Kempton, but what is all this Lycra ? Even in the heights of Derbyshire you are not going to play at an altitude that puts you at risk from Deep Vein Thrombosis, and most of the team have a few years before Varicose Veins become visible so there is no medical reason for the application of this fabric and believe me, looking at one of our tight five, no material should be asked to withstand such strain; you know who you are.

Lycra should not be seen on a straight man (see Matt Cox’s Mankini pictures from tour if you need convincing), and there are more effective ways of a) staying warm and b) preventing opponents getting a grip than donning this electrically charged man-made fibre. White Lycra is just not on (Woolston, Poitreneaud, you have been warned) and I’m not convinced about Black even if it does contain neoprene padding, is worn round the shoulders and carries an IRB approval label. Rugby is a game to be played in heavy duty cotton clothing that gains 14kg in weight when damp and a further 10kg when wet, but I have to recognise that times move on, fashions change and progress cannot be halted.

 

If we must have Lycra around the game, can we please keep it for the more attractive WAGs and not on the pitch, and certainly not in that disgraceful pink camouflage pattern that the junior coaches seem to wear. Oh, and can I be the one in charge of selecting who wears it ?

Diplomatic ties with France strengthened

5 February 2010

"Uh, Je veut allez....uh......a Montmarte.....bitte". It may surprise you to learn that French is not my first language but I sometimes get by with my pigeon French and as I found myself with a spare afternoon in Paris a week before the Scotland game, I felt I should impress the locals with my witty repartee.

"Montmatre ? Ou ? Rue de Monmartre ? Avenue du Monmatre ? Place du Montmartre ? Ou ? !! " the gruff taxi driver felt my instructions were neither clear nor complete.

"Uh....Montmatre (at increased volume). Dans le.......um........hill......................" Silence. "Aaah !" I remembered. "Avec le grand eglise blanc !".

I was well chuffed and sat back in my seat, arms stretched along the back of the Citroen's plastic upholstery (specially selected by a blind, armless Frenchman with no sense of smell), convinced my directions were now complete. I remembered taking my girlfriend there in the early 1980s and the gently greying white marble edifice with the ever impressive gargoyles stuck in my memory. There was a mountain style railway up the side of a huge range of steps and at the top was a wonderful bohemian square full of artists and painters, ever eager to sketch a silhouette or a cartoon for twenty francs. The cafes around this cobbled square were full of tourists, artists, poets and writers all relaxing in the cosy glow of this summer afternoon, and a faint whiff of Gaulousies drifted between the easels and stalls. Today I needed a coffee and a rest, and Montmartre was where I wanted to go.

"Quoi !!!" the taxi driver broke my daydream. "C'est la Sacre Coeur ! Pah ! ..........le grand eglise blanc !" he said emphasising every error in my Parisian grammar. "La grande Eglise Blanche. Non, non, c'est La Sacre Coeur". I felt like saying "oooowwwww ! someone's tired" but couldn't recall the translation. He paused at the traffic lights and then curled into the main road leading to Pont du Lyon.

We were on the south side of the river and I wracked my brains for a London Taxi driver metaphor about being dodgy this side of the river after dark, even if it was in the afternoon and bathed in bright sunshine.

"Êtes-vous Anglais?" he guessed. "Non, Ecosse" I replied. "Ah, Ecosse. Jouez cinq, gagne nul" and guffawed loudly as he completed this sentence. I was not about to let a Frenchman insult me without some kind of reply. "Cette année Ecosse est le champignons du monde!" I said, which left him speechless and with a perplexed look on his shrivelled face.

"Ah, mais La France ne joue bon" I said, and before he had time to reply (or translate) I continued. "Tout le bon Rugby en France est....um   .....from.....um........les Rost Bif". After all Nathan Hines, Jonny Wilkinson and Chris Paterson had plied their trade south of the channel. The result was as hoped for. He became incensed. "Stade Francais est le premier club en Europe". "Style, passion, force" he continued.

"Non, non" I said, "le premier rugby en France est dans le Sud Ouest; ............Perpignian, Toulouse, Beziers". I couldn't think of any more. "Les clubs en Paris........pah !!" I said while doing the best French-wave-arms-about gesture I could muster.

"Pah !" he replied. "Ibanez, Chebal, Harinordequi. De Premier class mondiale!". He pointed his finger skywards, triumphantly.

"Chebal ?" I said, drawing out the name in a long drawl with a contempt that really only central Parisians can execute properly. "Chebal ? Pah ! Il est un tosser haireee", and then, with ever increasing confidence added "Il avec le cheval comme une femme". I took his puzzled silence as a point to me and my smooth debating style. I continued. "Basteraud - il avec le cheval comme un chien et Poitreneaud avec beaucoup de lycra et une moustache....uh.....scrufeeee". He remained silent, so I though a while and started again; "Harry Nord a key" I said, but was rudely interrupted;

"Harinordique, Charles de Gaulle, Napoleon; - Les Grands hommes de la France extraordinaire !!!". He was obviously trying to bring in some anti-British sentiment which had been thinly disguised up to now as it was, and I couldn't let him carry on with this illusion. "Pah !" I said. "Harry Nord a Key - Il est un grand Nancy garcon".

"Qu'est-ce qu'un 'garcon nancy' ?" he asked me sheepishly. "Tout les joueres de France" I replied although I didn't know why he needed any clarification. He shook his head and ploughed on past La Defence with the ridiculous straight line architecture that we abandoned in the late 1960s.

As we approached the 9th arrondisiment he stopped and turned round, gesticulated wildly from under his bushy eyebrows and said something like "Fu**in P**s artist".

Well I wasn't having this, shouted "Pah !!!" and threw my fare at him and stormed out of the taxi. I had done my job and smoothed diplomatic relations once again, knowing Scottish Rugby would rise once again over the French.

When back home I was recounting this encounter to my family but they were not impressed.

My A level studying French daughter suggested my accent may have turned "champion" into "champignon" and that the driver was correct in not replying to a statement suggesting Scotland are the Mushrooms of Europe. She continued that whilst she did not know who Basteraud or  Chabal were she was sure they didn't have a horse like a lady, and that perhaps, just perhaps, the taxi driver wanted to know whether I wanted to take the railway to the top or be dropped at the square. In other words "Funicular ? Place d'Artistes ?".

I knew what to say............. "Pah !"

Formal warning from Bill Gates

9 November 2009

Gents, please see the attached letter from Microsoft.

Please can you refrain from pressing Ctrl+ T from now on. Thanks.

New Sponsorship Deal closed

13 September 2009

After many nights of negotiation, testing and scenario planning, we are pleased to announce a new sponsorship deal for some key players within the club. Like most major sporting enterprises, sponsorship can be arranged by match, by club, by competition, or by player, and the latter is what we saw today.

Thanks to the tireless work of Medic Rachel we have secured sponsorship for all Matthews in the Club (currently Bloxham, Bird, Evans, Knight, Perkins and Bayley), starting with the Burntwood game. It gives the club a much broader appeal and opens a new avenue for cash generation and social networking (well new to some of us). The players receive free merchandise, one-to-one tuition, and publicity in National magazines. In return all the players have to do is to wear the shirt / hoody with the company logo at all games, and appear in a short promotional video. The club gets much needed funds, one of a kind publicity, and the opportunity to generate and develop new "members". For more details on how to increase your "member"ship, please see the picture below.

spanker.

This is a Great British company and a wonderful invention. Sir Alan Sugar has hailed the inventors as "visionaries" and Sir Richard Branson has wished them all the best for their new enterprise, at the same time offering any assistance the entrepreneurs may need. Britain's best known inventor was not so supportive however as Sir James Dyson felt the invention may reduce sales of his hand-held, high-suction cleaner.

For those of you disappointed to be left out of this awesome deal, do not fret as there are many pages of Cosmo still to be analysed.

Department of Culture Media & Sport combine - well Culture and Sport

14 August 2009

Britain has a new poet Laureate and as this is a public resource endowed to write poetry for important occasions, the committee of Barton Rugby Club approached Carol Ann Duffy to ask for a poem to be written to celebrate our first successful season in Midlands West North 5, and our forthcoming season in MWN4.

She refused.

We thought this was a little harsh and we were disappointed to say the least, but in hindsight Gary probably should not have expressed surprise that lesbians can write, and I’m sure his “helpful” amendments to her most famous work to make it rhyme were not particularly well received.

 

Anyway, as we promised you a poem, one was hastily drafted to put us in the mood for the new season.

 

Let’s

Let’s look towards to Future

Let’s hope there’s no recession

Let summer practice hone our skills

Let’s learn to keep possession

 

Let Cliffy do what Cliffy does

Let’s crash, and ruck and maul

Let’s run at their three quarters

Let Simons have the ball

 

Let’s sing about Delilah,

Let’s allouette and Dream the girls

Let’s Climb up Sunshine Mountain (twice)

Let’s trounce them all at naked bowls

 

Let’s not forget the golden boys

Let’s remember skills are taught, not born

Webby, Fitzy, Tolley, Steen

Rigby, Betsy, Jukebox, Thorne

 

Let’s thank those men who made this club

Nostalgia has a golden glow

Let’s commemorate the ones we’ve lost

Let’s not forget Clouseau

 

Let Glyn develop Minis

With Granty and Paul Betts

Not like British Leyland please

But more like a Cooper S

 

Let’s hope the team is balanced

With experience and youth

Let’s hope the website match reports

Contain a grain of truth

 

Let’s prepare for our new season

In Midlands West North 4

Let's win away at Cannock and

Not concede another draw.

 

Let’s do the Barton haka

Let’s watch St Leonards cower

Let Gary Steen tell David Rowe

This is your finest hour

Let’s look to win our first league game

Let’s focus on the final score

Let’s hope it ends up “Yardley three

Barton fifty four”

 

Let’s play some Greenday music,

Let’s attack and let’s defend

Let’s top the league and wake me up

Before September ends

 

Let’s start the season with a bang

Let’s forget the ELVs

Let’s support the only team that counts

Barton RFC

 

Drugs in Sport : Ritalin and Rugby - 7 February 2009

The National Institute for Health and Clinical Excellence (NIHCE) have been conducting a study into the effectiveness of particular drugs offered through the NHS and are particularly interested in Ritalin. They contacted us a few months ago because we are based in the centre of their study territory, have a team of people about the right age distribution, and normally have enough people on hand to make the statistics viable.

I heard of the trial on Radio 4 one summer morning on the way to work. Apparently Doctors have been prescribing Ritalin to control ADHD and in many cases, prescribing too much; unnecessarily costing the NHS lots of money and affecting those patients who were taking it. John Humphreys said NIHCE needed to investigate this and so here they were in Barton; investigating.

Now when I got the call and the researcher spoke of ADHD, I wasn’t sure what the “AD” stood for as I wasn’t listening properly, and I thought they were asking about one of our new players. I mean we’ve had Ade Asprey, Ade Hales and now Ade Varney, so I was not surprised they wanted to discuss Ade Aachdee whoever he was. The researcher told me it was nothing to do with Ade Aachdee or Ade Varney although he did buy a Rover from his Dad Reg once, back in 1983. Apparently “AD” stands for Attention Deficit and it turns out our team was absolutely ideal for the study. The “HD” part of the condition is Hyperactivity Disorder and having seen Barton’s last few league games the researchers felt we were running round lots, shouting at each other, but with little plan or strategy – yes we were hyperactive and disorderly. Perfect.

They came along to our training sessions and saw that Tony and Glyn were trying their best but the players had a short attention span and were not listening to the wise words spoken softly – yes, we had Attention Deficit for sure. Players ran around from pub to pub on a Friday night upsetting the local girls and scaring old men. It was clear Barton Rugby had ADHD in spades and Polly had even signed him up as a front row replacement. Barton Rugby Club were absolutely ideal for this clinical study.

Researchers have swelled the ranks of spectators at home games, they have watched training sessions from covert locations, and have taken urine samples fro virgin try scorer's beer glasses, perspiration from strapping, and red blood counts from the injured. These were all taken in the name of science, as reliable repeatable data is critical for the success of this double blind trial. I was sworn to secrecy during these trials, especially when I asked if “double Blind” was a call that meant you dummied then went down the open side, as they could obviously tell I possessed great intellect and was on a par with their Professors and Consultant Doctors.

The fluid samples taken were all monitored for hormone levels and led to some fascinating results. Aside from determining Ritalin levels, we know Matt Bayley’s hamster is expecting twins, Malcolm’s ability to reach the high registers with the new Cloth repertoire is perfectly natural, and Dean Fradgley’s loss of body hair is not down to waxing.

Anyway the trail has now come to an end and the researchers found conclusively that Barron Rugby players had not been prescribed enough Ritalin to counter the tensions of level 5 Rugby. The dosage was altered last week and this Saturday we saw the difference; people were communicating well, forwards were listening to each other and supporting properly at the breakdowns. There were clear calls in the backs and everyone understood their role in the play and the importance of the position. No Attention Deficit there. The speed of the game was controlled to our pace, the moves were slick and unhurried and order was restored. No Hyperactivity and no Disorder – it was sorted. ADHD had been eliminated !

I excitedly showed Tony the results and extolled the virtues of effective pharmaceutical control. He said it was bollocks and the victory was down to rigorous training, committed team effort and hard work.

So yet again the general public have ignored detailed scientific research and do not have faith in statistical analysis, but when we are winning; who cares ?

New levels set for Di**head Nominations - 6 September 08

The season has not even started and Iain Cox's grip on this Award category is already under threat.

Nominee A is Chris Whirledge.

The family holiday plans were for wife & kids to go on ahead and for our erstwhile Hooker / Back row player to follow on after work in the car with the holiday packing in the top box. He was asked to pack everything on the bed.

Somewhat dazed after a tough week at work he set off down the A38 acknowledging all the locals who appeared to know him and were waving happily at him. By Lichfield the waving was still going on and knowing his fame did not extend beyond Fradley, he stopped the car to find he had not closed the top box at all and he had littered the south bound carriageway with his wife's smalls. A quick loop of the A38 was completed but as the light was fading he picked up what he could and continued south. Meeting up with family he decided to keep Mum and it was only when certain items from the "pack everything on the bed" list were missing that he started to fret. In a fit of panic, a call was made to our Utility back Gordon "Flash" Brockington. "Flash, can you drive down the A38 and see if you can see anything that may have blown out of a holidaymaker's top box ? Me ? No ! I'm calling on behalf of someone else." Flash duly ran the reconnaissance mission but found nothing. Chris has to fess up and suffered the wrath of his wife for being such a Clutz.

On return to Alrewas, the missing items were found untouched and still beautifully folded on the bed.

Nominee B is Jon Todd

Toddy, Sally and the rest of the family went a wandering along the mountain tracks in Austria (they love it and sing fald a ree, flad a rah, etc. whist wearing knapsacks on their backs). With the hills alive with the sound of music, Toddy, head of the von Trapp family playfully threw his young son Adam around amongst the beautiful scenery. Not know for his ability to pass, or hold onto the ball in a tackle, Adam was duly dropped on his head and, showing signs of concussion, medical assistance was called. The Air Ambulance whisked young Todd off the mountain where he was pronounced fit and well and nominated for a Grammy. On return to the UK Jon von Todd received a £2,500 bill for the helicopter.

At Heartfest two questions were asked of Toddy; "What happens if you don't pay the bill ; will they put Adam back on the mountain ?" and from my dear wife "Did you drop Adam, because of a poor pass from Gareth ?"

Barton help Beijing - 9 July 08

Due to the international fame generated as a result of Barton Rugby’s glorious 2007/8 season, delegates from BRFC were invited to visit Barton’s twin town of Beijing so the Chinese could learn from us on how to run successful sporting events in time for their Olympics.

Initially very cynical I thought the Chinese would simply copy everything Barton did and make a run at the Midlands North 6 (West) title in 2009 i.e. after the Olympics, but I was pleasantly surprised by their warmth and some amazing coincidences.

The first town we visited was in Sichuan province in the South West of the country which is famous for its fiery food and proximity to Tibet. Food is a major part of life in central China and in true diplomatic tradition we exchanged recipes – I received KungPo Chicken and in exchange handed over Dick’s recipe for Match day Chilli. We wolfed down their tasty chicken without breaking sweat which earned much respect round the Lazy Susan table, however we watched them struggle with Dick’s mince, the spices, and the Garlic bread which completely confounded the most skilled chopstick user. Immediately we established culinary respect and they conferred an award on our esteemed chef and anyone able to eat a full portion of “GungPo Con Carne” which translates as “he who has grapefruit sized testicles and asbestos mouth”.

That afternoon after lunch, seeing how much we had in common culturally, they took us to the Panda sanctuary and showed us the little cubs. The cubs immediately took to me as one of their own, probably due to the big black rings round my eyes from the jet lag and the large belly due to Chi Lai Tit Lai’s food. My hosts explained one of the youngsters had been chosen as the mascot for the games and had called it Lai Moo meaning "he who always does the right thing". I explained that we had a bear who was the opposite and always did the wrong thing - we called him Moo Lai. We left Sichuan and flew to Beijing and it took that long for the translator to explain what I had said, that it was true and that it should be seen as funny. Not wanting to lose face, they laughed.

The Olympic committee members however were less interested in food and very interested in the details of our sport and were pleased to hear me describe Rugby as having strong team-working ethics and the game required working together closely like a family. They liked the family reference and asked what the patronymic was. I said “Huh?” so they asked which tribe. I said “Huh?” again so still more explanation was required. My interpreter explained that the most common name in China is Li, then Ai then Wan, and that 95% of the people in this prefecture are from the Han dynasty; or tribe. The Chinese were delighted when I said we had exactly the same structure in Barton. The assembled dignitaries shuffled forward on their chairs and sat silent and spell bound as I described how our leader took a disparate group of tribes from the hills, the grasslands and the cities and moulded them into a strong fighting force. Ski Han was our leader and we had trounced all forces that dared to challenge our might. Like in China the Han dynasty included the revered Ev Han, who’s son Blox Han was a key general in the cavalry, Brigadeer Dix Han, Cavalryman Morg Han, and the tall northern Malc Han who was a foot soldier. Some of Ski Han’s dynastic disciples were like in China, also from the Li family line ; Bent Li, Moo Li, but most were from the East Staffordshire tribe Ai ; Row Ai, Cliff Ai, Bird Ai, Grant Ai, Cox Ai, Jo Dai (well he had Welsh blood), Silk Ai, Fradgl Ai, Jame Ai, Vaughn Ai, and Medic Jule Ai. The Ai family has a rich and varied history I told them, recounting tales of the founders Rig b’Ai, Toll Ai and Steen Ai. They were amazed at the similarities in our family blood lines and were interested if we had the same one-child policy in Staffordshire. I explained that we had two sons of the Cox Ai and Pol Ai family in our squad and this set them all off talking at once. They were interested in the Pols, and I said we had many of them over the years – I reeled off Pol Pilips, Pol Sims Han, Pol Mawinney, and many other Pols . One delegate asked “Pot ? Pol Pot ?” but I said no, that was Jay Cee.

In Beijing it was incredible. Not a single mention of the US presidential elections, lots of reference to Barton's “Plowess” on the field and our aspirations for greatness, and of course the Beijing Olympics. They told me they often read in the “Richfield Mekry” about our proposed new changing rooms and suggested we visit the Olympic village to see their designs. The main Birds Nest stadium was proposed as a model, and although beautifully designed, old ladies could see through the mesh into the changing rooms of a Barton copy and the wind whistling through the showers with Gillet inside may not be the best solution. Losing face in China is much like getting caught shagging sheep in England; no-one ever treats you quite the same after and no matter how hard you try, you lose respect, so to prevent further loss of face for the architect I agreed to consider a modified proposal.

Next stop was the Great Wall. Not bad but certainly not visible from space, as it was only as wide as one lane of the M6 but with as many people using all 6 lanes on a Monday morning. I was in much danger occupying this section of wall due to over exertion from strenuous walks, and temporary blindness from American Tourists’ checked sports coats. At on eo f the view points we discussed the art of war, rugby tactics, won ton noodles and Wensleydale cheese with cranberries; it was as if we were all of one mind. My hosts explained that in light of this new found understanding they wanted to name one of the newly refurbished towers “Baaaton” because we had both demonstrated impassable defences and had successfully repelled wave after wave of Mongol hoards in our glorious history. I wanted to say that Maxwell’s Garry Owens would easily clear their stumpy wall, and the fact there were gaps in it would allow Hornblow and Goodhead to break through with ease, and if they wanted to compare their crumbly stonework to our defences they had some serious construction to do. Knowing they had not seen Dale Hutch sidestep or Matt Cox’s direct line of running they could not comprehend the error of such a fickle comparison, so I did not press the point and simply cut the red ribbon and declared the tower open.

By now we had built up a fantastic relationship and decided to conduct a cultural exchange to further the development of both towns and to build the Barton Rugby brand worldwide. An open invitation was given to the whole club to travel and play in the Hong Kong Sevens next year but I politely declined saying we were a 15 man team, and because our forwards are a huffy lot it would create discord in the team for us to attend and exclude them from the fast game. The Chinese understood and accepted.

On my way out they continued to say how much they admired “Baaaton Lugby”, our honourable culture and intellect, and that the fan base in China may surpass that of Manchester United in a few years. I thought this was nice but possibly a bit much and somewhat surreal; but the best was yet to come. In the Beijing’s new airport (which is the world’s biggest building) departure area I saw the new flagship car from Shanghai Automotive; the Roewe.

Nice gesture to name it after our league winning Captain but will it perform as well and manage to start every Saturday?

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.

 

Referees - 24 Dec 07

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.

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.............

Birdy Stag Do - 10 Mar 07

Back to winning ways - Barton 29 v Bird XV 27

It was a glorious summers day in March. The Barton team took to the field against Matt Bird's select fifteen early to allow maximum exposure to the afternoon's Six Nations matches, and the match at Holland Park provided more entertainment. Matt is Barton's high scorer in league games this season and set about showing the eager crowd exactly why.

It was an unusual match; Neil Beardsmore refereed the first half, Malcolm took the conversions, Carl played ten minutes and started to bleed, Dave Ward played scrum half surprisingly well for a man not used to seeing sunlight due to his natural position of hooker, and Dave Rowe didn't kick. James Gardner made his first appearance in a Barton shirt and scored a debut try, and there were new boots of different colours making their debut too.

There are a variety of video clips in the photo gallery showing the ebb & flow of the game, including the one submitted to the TMO after Matt Perkins touched down following a jinking run down the wing by Cox. There is also a solo try by Rowe but due to the lunar eclipse earlier in the month, the actual touchdown took place in absolute darkness and, rightly so, the try was disallowed.

Evan Bloxham revelled in the open spaces and took up the role of crash centre on a number of occasions, running full pelt into the stationary three quarters. The impacts created some concussion in the receivers and it was a great game for John Taylor High School teacher Evan, who had many former students on his team. Due to Evan's impacts you could say some pupils were dilated and some pupils were delighted.

The Titley family were dominant. Dad Dick on one side, son Harry on the other, and singing son Dave as Referee. Dick came close to scoring but was held up over the line by Harry and a terse discussion took place. Dick threatened to withdraw pocket money and Playstation privileges if the try was not awarded and Dave took the correct decision and sent him off. This event was recreated after the match for the assembled media............

The throbbing crowd were dressed in beach wear in preparation for the evening's stag entertainment and everyone looked splendid, although the ground was a little slippery.....for some.

The ladies in the crowd were wooed by the wingers of Goodhead and Carvell on the nearside, and were thankful that Kev Denver and  Toddy were on the far side, shrouded in mist. Goodhead felt a tinge of cramp at one point and nurse Julie was on the pitch before Simon even sat down. The team tried to stop her but with some very fancy side steps, a stiff arm hand off to new Andy, and a slide over the last ten yards she made it to rub "Si's thighs" better. The side steps and dancing were copied later by Gary Bentley and Toddy and were just like Tony Blair's politics; fake like you are going left but actually go right.

At the end of the match the players still standing congregated under the posts to celebrate Matt Bird's last few days as a single man, and try one last time to dissuade him.

Hurricanes - 14 Jan 07

Hurricane names

For every year, there is a pre-approved list of names for tropical storms and hurricanes. These lists have been generated by the National Hurricane Center in Florida since 1953 with Hurricanes named alphabetically from the list in chronological order. Thus the first tropical storm or hurricane of the year has a name that begins with "A" and the second is given the name that begins with "B." The lists contain names that begin from A to W, but exclude names that begin with a "Q" or "U" (poor Quentin & Ulysses). There are six lists that continue to rotate and the lists only change when there is a hurricane that is so devastating the name is retired and another name replaces it.

Always at the forefront of modern day meteorology, the BRFC committee decided to propose our own list of names. Here is a letter that was sent to the National Hurricane Center in Florida just before Christmas ;

Dear Dr Neil Franks,

We, the committee of the Barton under Needwood Rugby Club, feel that we can offer you some support in the prediction of Hurricanes in the Atlantic and can also suggest certain early warning protection techniques. Whilst we realise you have already determined the 2007 names, we wanted to write early to help our American friends in the 2008 season. Our playing season is full of rotating scrums, whirling mauls, and calm before the storm, so we know what we are talking about.

Here is our proposed list of names, and the suggested warnings you should broadcast when these tropical storms approach the eastern seaboard.

Andy – will cause devastation with Chinook like winds. Violent and unpredictable.
Ben – The back of this system is likely break before reaching the shore.
Carl – Strong and persistent, feels like being in a wreck with a truck
Dale – changes direction with little notice. Gusts left and right, but blows hot air from the North.
Evan – Appears every year just after half term. Follows the laws of physics.
Fran – Quiet, doesn’t travel far, Slow moving.
Gary – Always starts in unusual positions (windward side but mostly offside). Likely to end up in hot water.
Hornblow – runs rapidly down the edges of tornado alley.
Iain – Starts from way at the back. Puts up a fight at the first sign of defence.
Jonny – Always goes blind. Travels from the North West or from Japan.
Kev – Will start at the first rum shop in the Caribbean and end up in Denver.
Lewis – Most storms start with a low pressure system and this depression makes it very Moody.
Matt – Deceptive mover. Generates admiration more than fear. Will land on the flanks of Carolina. Lucky her.
Neil – The centre is calm, eye of storm likely to be black. Solid props will be needed for the front row.
Oliver – Will start off in Latin America where it will be called Al Oliver, after his cousin El Ninio.
Paul – This storm will want the No 1 shirt, and will appear around the end of April when we go on tour.
Richard – This will be a typical, good old fashioned storm. Nothing fancy but regular and predictable.
Simon – May be defeated by storm surge and lost at sea.
Tony – The whistling winds of this storm will make people think songs are being played from a loud Jukebox.
Vince – The Full Monty of a storm. Close Protection required. Will retire at end of 2008.
Ward – Often confused with other Wards, this Hurricane gets everywhere and spoils defences.

We hope that this guidance has been of assistance to US homeland security and while we do not seek any financial compensation for this help, a mention on the Gerry Springer show would be much appreciated.

Yours sincerely,

The Committee.

We hope our membership appreciates the humanitarian efforts that are being made as charitable gestures by the committee on your behalf.

Tammy & the Treasurer - 23 Oct

I love Houston. From the moment you touch down at George Bush Intercontinental airport and inhale your first breath of the bluebell scented humid air you want to put on your Stetson, jump in a big pick up truck and invade Middle Eastern sultanates; or, at a push, minor Caribbean islands.

I’d opted out of the Stetson, but had rented a Hummer and felt completely at home as I cruised towards downtown on Interstate 45, paying scant regard to turn indicators, lane control, and other road users in general – yup I drove like a local. But something was missing. I was listening to how American football players were measured by the number of yards they made in a game and who should be in the superbowl, but I still missed something. Was it cowboy boots ? or a “hoss” ? No, it was Country Music. I fiddled with the unfeasibly small buttons on the radio and pored over the incomprehensible operating instructions whilst weaving uncontrollably from lane to lane. I managed a few admiring glances from people acknowledging my Texan driving skills but I still couldn’t work the radio.

Then on she came. Tammy Wynette. The undisputed Queen of Country. It was a tribute show, and for the next hour I crooned to “D.I.V.O.R.C.E”, “Stand by your man”, and other classics, but it was “No Charge” that brought a tear to my eye. It tells the story of a boy who hands his Mother a list of chores he has completed and the amount of money she should pay him; “For mowing the yard - $10. For tidying my room without being asked - $5”. Mom takes the note and writes on the other side and sings “for the 9 months I carried you, growing inside me – no charge. For the pain & the tears that you’ve caused through the years – no charge”. Etc. etc. etc. The last line is “when you add it all up, the true cost of my love’s no charge”. And at the end the crying boy writes “Paid in full” in great big letters. Aaaawww.

It reminded me of the trials and tribulations of being a Rugby Club Treasurer.

There are no end of excuses I’ve heard over the years as to why Membership subs or Match fees shouldn’t be paid, and how much value each of our glorious players added to the team. “I shouldn’t pay match fees because I made a try saving tackle” etc. The list is endless and often quite innovative excuses appear. I started to compose this list into my own version of “No Charge” and, with all due respect to Tammy, made up a list of suitable ripostes using the American Football comparison of the number of yards made. This is what I came up with ;

1. For clearing to touch from behind our try line – no charge

2. For the double diamond call to the winger that set up the winning try – no charge

3. For high hanging restarts, allowing our forwards to get to the ball – no charge

4. For side stepping their flanker and kicking to the corner – no charge

5. For making the gain line and recycling the ball for the forwards – no charge

6. For marking the lines on the pitch – no charge

7. For diving in their 22 and fooling the ref – no charge

And the reply (please sing as you read);

1. For the kick in to touch, it stayed in by this much – no yards

2. I’ll admit you did fling, the ball out to the wing - 10 yards.

          But you made us all stare, for the winger wasn’t there – no yards

3. The start didn’t go ten, so we’d to scrummage again – no yards

4. For the side step you tried, it put us all offside – no yards

5. Their penalty was fleet, and you failed to retreat – no yards

6. The dead ball line was pale, well it was at least for Dale – no yards

7. You fooled the referee, and then missing the penalty – no yards.

When you add it all up the distance you made was no yards.

You can see that no matter how well you played and how nostalgic a view you take on the positives from the 80 minutes of rugby, there are the cock-ups, and in the end you always have to pay your membership subscriptions and match fees. So when I come round next week, please have your money ready.

Or I’ll get Tammy to sing……………

Welcome to the club - 13 August

With many new young members joining our ranks, I was asked to write an introduction to the club – a sort of induction to the characters and camaraderie that makes up BRFC.

I thought this would be easy but as I sat at my laptop, writer’s block appeared. How could I capture the spirit of touring, the frustration of level ten referees, the challenges of Cannock rules ? It was indeed a tall order. I tried to recall my induction to the club. It was the end of the 1990s. We were all worried about the millennium bug and what we could do with the dome when I found Steve Tolley’s number on the village website. He told me to come down training that Wednesday and that it would be fun. I did and it was. My first match was away against Stone where they told me I would line up next to Toddy in the centre and be opposite “Gus the Gorilla”. Micky Bocca has since moved down the numbers and in the last four games I played against Stone, he went from 13 to 7 to 4 to a solid 3, but his appetite for running into, rather than around, his opposite number made it’s mark. It hurt, but I had the satisfaction that my teammates were united behind me – they all went “oooh” at the same time as Micky blundered into me at speed for a second time. Recalling this however did not give me any clue how to convey the buzz around Holland Park that epitomizes BRFC. I had to do better.

 I was on holiday in Greece and thought the change in scenery would help; gazing out into the turquoise Ionian sea, interspersed with denim blue tinges, peering into the distance for inspiration - but none came. I wallowed in the warm waters of the swimming pool watching hard bodied women frolic with Frisbees, wishing I was a teenager again, but still no flash of light. I even lazily paddled on the shingley shores at twilight watching the sea ebb and flo multicoloured pebbles between my toes but the imagination was still barren. How could I describe the welcome newcomers receive from the old timers at BRFC ?

 I took off waterskiing. The conditions were good and we weaved around the bay like professionals; little skips over the boat’s wake, hard outer turns throwing up walls of spray, and cute waves to the kids on pedalos. We did a couple more circuits, however when showing off in front of a group of young women on the beach, I fell off and entered the water head first at full chat. This caused a pungent mixture of sea water, plankton, small stones and snot to be forcibly ingested via both nasal passages, past the sinuses, down the throat and into the belly. It was vile, but instead of trying to regurgitate the concoction I leapt out of the water in a “Eureka !” moment – I had my story !

My second game was a Powergen Cup encounter against Melbourne at home. The crowds were out and you could almost sense the sea of friendship wash over the assembled spectators, players and hangers on. Like the look of a grateful Labrador when it’s master returns or the feeling of putting your feet into your favourite slippers on a cold winter evening, everything felt right. The old hands were out – Rigby at fly half, Jukebox at number 8, Paul Phillips up front, Tolley on the touchline. All had played a part in setting the style and character of the club so far, but I didn’t expect them to have a second act to the play.

 Over the years, I’ve seen many back row moves, and even more moves in the backs but I like to stick to the simple ones. Run straight and take a pop or a scissors pass. It works well, especially as I am not know for fancy footwork or dancing feet (one coach in years gone by said the only time he saw me change direction was at half time). I could handle this move - a number 8 pickup was called, Jukebox would run at my centre, commit him, and pop the ball to me. I would run 80 yards downfield and score (yea right). Jukebox decided mid way through the move that a scissors would be better but didn’t tell anyone. Expecting him to pull up short and pop the ball I ran full pelt on a collision course with Jukebox, but of course he didn’t stop and my nose and the back of his head made full contact at speed. That was when I learnt about the character of the club. I sat up, rearranged the broken bits of my nose into a semblance of its former self and looked up to see Jukebox, peering down at me, rubbing his head. “Water !!” he yelled to the sidelines. I felt better. A forward had caused damage, seen my predicament, and called for assistance. I felt wanted, needed, and loved. I felt part of the team. The real spirit of BRFC. The water bottle was thrown on the field (yes we only had one in those days). Jukebox sprayed some on the back of his head, took a big swig and threw the bottle back to the sidelines as he ran off and left me, parched and bleeding on the half way line. The bastard !

 I was stunned, and the ref, deciding I would be in the way sitting where I was, asked me to leave the field for “running repairs”. As my shirt was now red and red quarters, this was no surprise. I heard Steve Tolley call “Come here, I’ll help you” and reckoned he knew where the first aid bag was, so headed in his general direction. When I reached the sidelines, the only piece of medical equipment available was an old tin of freeze spray. Now when these tins are almost empty, they produce a jet instead of a spray, and Steve managed to unleash the full contents of the spray into my eyes and directly into the nostrils, causing an unpleasant mixture of freeze spray, congealed blood and pieces of cartilage to be forced round the sinuses, down the throat and into the stomach. Not a pleasant combination, but this feeling is exactly what I was reminded of as I bobbed about in the sea off Greece trying to puke, and looking for my ski.

 So welcome to the club guys, the camaraderie is excellent and the tours magical. You will enjoy your time with us, as a player or supporter, but watch out when you hear the words; “I’m Steve Tolley and I’m here to help you”.

Josh - 12 June

The following is the story of one man’s quest to achieve world cup glory.

It started outside Twickenham, as I looked up at the new bronze sculpture outside the main entrance. It was a statue of Josh Lewsey. “The number one choice for England Full back” a cheery voice chirped up behind me. He was the archetypal rugby fan with a wizened face, old Wasps shirt and lots of scarves, badges and cap adornments strewn untidily over his portly frame. He went on to truly set Josh up on a pedestal, saying no-one in the modern game could come near him in terms of fitness, strength, skill and knowledge. This blind devotion from a devout follower of the JL fan club stirred something inside me. I was not going to worship at the temple of Lewsey, I was not going to fall victim to this new cult, and I was not going to let the chase for the full back jersey go unchallenged. Before I knew it I had blurted out, “You’re wrong. I will be the England fullback at the next world cup”.

“You said what ?!!...” was my wife’s response and she watched me pour over the latest issue of Rugby World where Josh had laid out his training regime. I had finished that article and had progressed to the March issue of Men’s Health where Josh described his strict diet and exercise plan, when my wife’s laughter finally subsided. Ignoring the wholesome lack of spousal support, I broke the task down into three simple steps; diet, exercise and skills.

Diet

The diet was simple – I had to consume five portions of fruit & vegetables a day. Now for a card-carrying carnivore this was quite a challenge but I was not going to let a few greens get in the way of my number fifteen jersey. The day started badly, as I scoured the kitchen for suitable breakfast ingredients. Toast was no good and the special K was not appetizing but I was saved by a small sachet of raspberry flavoured Oatso Simple. One down, four to go.

At work we normally have toast or bacon sarnies around eleven however I was on a mission and would not be swayed from the straight and narrow. The task was too important for that. Ferreting around sandwich van for something suitable I stumbled across a sausage sandwich which, on closer inspection, contained pork and leek. Leek; a vegetable. I gulped down the sandwich and went back for a second just to make sure I got a full portion of leek; and it felt good. Two portions down, and I was nearly half way.

Some auditors were in the factory that afternoon and a light finger buffet had been laid on for them. By the time I arrived there was nothing recognisable left so I plumbed for some pizza-like thing that they called bruschetta, because it had tomatoes and onions on it. I fought hard to convince myself that this was two portions but as I only had a single bite (and spat most of that out) I felt I could only claim one portion. No point in cheating eh? Then I saw the fruit. There was a big pile of big, juicy strawberries and although I had to share, they were great. I drooled as I ate them (you wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to remove strawberry stains from delicate whites) but I’d now got four portions tucked away and was on a roll.

I checked back on the guide. “Drink only Water or isotonic drinks”. Now I was parched and gulping down litre after litre of Morrison’s bottled water just made me want to pee, so I decided to try this isotonic stuff. No-one had heard of it in Yorkshire ! Disappointed I retired to the Red Lion where I asked Jonathan about isotonic beverages. As luck would have it he told me that their guest beer was from Kent and it was isotonic. Fantastic ! The more I had of this Maidstone tonic the better I felt. I had eight pints and felt brilliant.

Next day was a mess. There were strawberry pips everywhere and my head hurt. I reviewed the previous day’s events. Bugger ! I had failed in the fruit and veg department with only four portions consumed. Bitterly disappointed I shuffled into the kitchen to discuss the facts with my wife. In only the way a woman can, she was holding both a partially eaten kebab, which had been found in my suit pocket, and that disdainful look that conveys disgust yet removes the need for any words. She tried hard but couldn’t help herself and began the remorseless lecture about kebab production. Half way through her dissertation I started to grin, cheekily (and not for that reason !). She had pointed out that there were no animal products in any kebab “meat” and by default it must contain some type of vegetable. What his meant was I had indeed made my five portions that day !!

Raspberry flavoured Oatso simple, Pork & Leek sausages, Bruschetta, strawberries and a Doner kebab. Washed down with “Isotonic” drinks my new diet was on a roll and I was one third of the way to world cup glory.

I had to get through the second part of this three part process if there was any way I was going to trot out in the final against the All Blacks at the Stade de France in 2007, with the number 15 emblazoned on my back. Closing my eyes I could hear the crowd chant, I could smell the freshly cut grass and the whiff of garlic from the French referee. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest, I could taste bile in my mouth as nerves got the better of the Roberts constitution, I could feel the lump in my throat as we belted out the second verse of “God save the Queen”. And I needed another pee.

Back to earth; I was late for work. This wasn’t going to be as easy. I didn’t really understand the technical terms but I was totally committed to the task. Josh said I needed to restrict my carb intake so with a little piece of tin and a ball peen hammer, the job was done. It was hopeless. The car wouldn’t rev beyond 1800 rpm and could only manage 15mph up the A38, and with less than 8 mpg I had to fill up twice. I couldn’t see the link between my carburettor and prowess at full back, but that’s what Josh said I had to do. I arrived in the office at 11:30 - time for late morning exercises. Now “Men’s Health” told me exercises were no good unless they raised a sweat and increased heart rate, so I set about finding the hardest exercise imaginable. After a brief search I purloined the worst you could possibly find - my son’s GCSE Maths revision exercise book. “Train A leaves station X heading for station Y at 40 kmph. Train B leaves station Y heading for station X at 60 kmph. They pass each other after 45 minutes. How far is station X from Station Y ?” I started to draw a picture of a sunflower, and tried to think. “Distance travelled is velocity times what ? I placed my head in my hands and felt the vein in my temple pounding quickly - yes heart rate had increased. "How many furlongs in a kilometre ?”, "Are the trains on the same track ?" - a small bead of perspiration appeared on my brow, and ran down into my eyes. Excellent !! I had exercised to the point of increasing heart rate and raising a sweat !! Job done.

The final part of the guidance and advice notes related to what you can do at work. “If you work on an office on different floors, don’t use the lift, and eat apples”. Good advice. I didn’t go near the lift all day and spent the afternoon drinking tea in the ground floor canteen and testing the binding limits of chocolate hob-nobs by dunking them for different periods of time in my mug (well there were no apples to be found). Grinning inanely I knew I was two thirds of the way there.

The final part of the quest to wrest the number 15 jersey from Josh Lewsey pivoted on the small matter of playing skills. My dietary regime and training programme were world class and, as described earlier, second to none. It was now only a structured approach to honing my playing skills, and in particular, the tactics and techniques of the modern day full back, that would see me at the Stade de France in 15 months time. A structured approach was needed and would be split into two sections – theory and practice, classroom work and field work.

THEORY

It was cold outside so a decision was made to commence the classroom work first. The sofa was moved, kids banned from the room as “Daddy’s working”, and a full tube of emergency Pringles placed within reach. Hours and hours were spent watching DVDs of top level rugby matches and copious notes were made of the full back’s positional play in defence and the lines of support running in attack. Unfortunately copious amounts of Boddingtons were also consumed during the replays and my carefully recorded notes were impossible to decipher the day after. The scribblings were worse than illiterate - they were illigitimate (a bastard to read). I had to watch the DVDs again.

PRACTICE

Little did I know the biggest challenge was the last – how to behave with the ball. Now in my day, full backs were frustrated flankers who could kick (no, nothing like Rowie). They were hard; the last line of defence and rarely attacked until Andy Irvine came along. There was also the small matter of the Garry Owen; the high ball sent deep into enemy territory to test the mettle of the full back. Catching was not too much of a problem, but the last time I pulled on a full back jersey was playing against GHSFPs in Glasgow and did not cover myself in glory. Under a high ball instincts took over and I actually attempted to make a real mark in the ground when catching the ball instead of jumping in the air and calling mark whilst airborne. With my heel perfectly positioned to make the appropriate indentation on our 5 yard line I was clattered by the opposition number eight and received four stitches in my head and bemused looks from the younger members of the team, who were blissfully unaware of this ancient tradition. I would not make the same mistake twice and was spurred on when an article I read waxed on about how safe Josh was under a high ball. It was something I simply had to master. A skill to perfect. But how ?

On the BRFC training ground I could kick the ball up and catch it, but how would I know if the style was correct ? Video replays were out (Tony Skehan was away) and there was no-one to give constructive feedback, but there had to be a way. Whilst washing up in the kitchen one evening I noticed that the glass fronted cabinet on the back wall gave a perfect full length reflection of me and my pink frilly marigolds. Unabashed I pulled off the gloves and jumped up like a 1970s punk rocker. Yes I could watch myself in the reflection of this glass cabinet and hone my high ball technique !

The most important part of this process was to ensure the house was completely empty and the neighbours otherwise entertained - this was not an activity that could be easily explained and privacy was paramount. I swept the house - fantastic ! The coast was clear. The first few jumps showed exactly why I’ve been a centre for decades. There was no height and style was appalling. Reverting to the DVDs again I could see that forward motion was often the key in a successful take. I returned to the kitchen and tried a few more. It was worse. The height was there but stylistically it was more akin to the Bolshoi’s Barishnikov in Swan Lake than anything seen on the fields of English public schools. I had the leading knee bent, there was height, and the chin was up, but all that was missing was the tights and tutu. I tried again, this time catching an imaginary ball, but it was no good.

I was devastated. Morale was as low as it had ever been. My dream was crumbling and all the hard work of the previous months would be for nothing, and worst of all that tubby git admiring the statue outside Twickenham would be right. Josh would be king. I started to weep.

The following Saturday morning I steeled myself to try again for one last go. The previous evening’s episode of Celebrity Come Dancing had given me some hope, but mentally I was not ready. A few half hearted attempts failed and I was stopped by a noise that I thought was someone in the house. I scoured the building again but it was empty – okay to continue. One last read of the RFU “how to be a full back” and off I went again to the kitchen to practice. It was all or nothing. My mind was clear and resigned to the fact that that morning would mean triumph or disaster. It felt different, there was a spring in my step, my senses were pricked and everything seemed much clearer.

I ran across the kitchen, leapt up, and caught the imaginary ball perfectly at the zenith of the leap. The style was awesome - protective leading leg cocked to catch oncomers with a knee, head up, eyes focussed only on the ball, and wide spacing of the feet giving good stability on landing. I immediately turned my round to protect the ball against the marauding three quarter line I could hear thundering along as they chased up the kick.

And there she was.

My wife had come out of the garden with the washing basket and was holding the basket straight; but her head was cocked slightly to the left. Her lips were pursed and her forehead furrowed in that quizzical, confused look, as she frowned and scoured her memory for any inkling as to what could cause such strange behaviour. Now there are some things that can never be adequately explained between man and wife, and she quickly reached the conclusion that any explanation could not be rationalised by the female brain and it would be of zero interest to her anyway. She shook her head silently. I gripped the imaginary ball even tighter into my semi prone form and mumbled “Mark” as she roughly brushed past me.

It had been a long hard task. I had fought diets, exercise plans and skills training but had finally made it. I’ve got my kit bag packed, my BRFC tie cleaned of residual curry stains, and my dress shirt neatly ironed. September 2007 I’ll stride past security at the players entrance of the Stade de France, wander down the halls of the immaculate changing area and enter the England dressing room. At the far end of the room will be a curly haired squaddy holding the number 15 shirt. I’ll march up confidently, put my hand firmly on his shoulder and sweetly smile as I utter –“excuse me Josh, I think that’s my shirt”.

Izal

There are many in the club who have not heard of a wonderful product called Izal. It is a form of toilet paper that was favoured by all major institutions, public establishments and government buildings because it was cheap, did not degrade, and would not be stolen. The designers took all the feedback from focus groups and customer surveys and developed a toilet paper that comprehensively ignored them all. You think paper cuts are sore and distracting ? You could not ignore an Izal paper cut across the sphincter I can tell you.

Our open-side flanker was called Izal. An uncompromising forward, he harried stand offs and thundered into the centres on a predictable basis. Like the Jason Whites and Richard Hills of this world, his work rate was phenomenal, mostly unseen, but absolutely critical in winning matches. He was also the pack leader and enforcer. He was always the first guy on your shoulder if there was even the slightest hint of difficulty, and if there was serious difficulty, he was always the last man standing. In the days before yellow cards, he was the sobering influence when tempers frayed, providing a reality check to any troublemakers. It was like you were in the school playground, about to get a hiding from the class bully, and Mike Tyson steps up behind you. Atmospheres change, and this reputation kept many a fiery local derby in check. Understandably he did not appreciate this nickname and wished his ball carrying skills took a higher profile.

Squealer was the blind side flanker and when under pressure uncontrollably raised his voice an octave, which could be mildly disconcerting to those new to the club. Morbid and morose, he never saw the ball unless it was in the opposition’s hands and continually seemed to be defending; but he was excellent. There were games when he would not be involved at all because the opposition would deliberately avoid his channel, and this made him even more depressed – he was a combination of Marvin the paranoid android from “The hitchhiker’s guide to the Galaxy” and Eeyore from “Winnie the Pooh”. But we called him Squealer.

I spent the best part of three years at full back playing behind these two and watched in awe at the craft of the flanker, played out by two completely different characters. No matter where you went with the ball, first into the ruck or maul was Squealer or Izal. They seemed to cover more ground than anyone I knew, yet they felt they were confined to the centre of the field by an imaginary 10 yard tether.

We need characters like this in Rugby. Toilers, shy, committed, reliable, uncompromising, and I’m glad we have people like this in Barton.  They are the quiet workers in the team who make the game so enjoyable for us all, and are understandably first on any selector's sheet. Now mostly Legends players, at next weekend’s dinner we should toast their contribution to our fine club.

So why compare our flanker with Izal toilet paper? Well they are both rough, tough and don’t take shit off anyone.

Fischer, Dogger, German Bight.

There is a section of the science world that studies learned behaviour; you know where certain external stimuli prompt subconscious reactions – Pavlov did all those tests with his dogs, who salivated when the bells rang. It was the same with me and the BBC World Service Shipping Forecast. Growing up in rural Aberdeenshire in a family of butchers, the farming report at 4PM was essential listening, however the only time I was up early enough to hear it was when we were off on holiday.

Before the farming report was the BBC world service shipping forecast. When I heard the shipping forecast it meant I was up early, in the car and going on holiday !!! The mere mention of storm force seven gets me giddy with holiday fever. Even now when I hear those dulcet tones describing wind and sea state around our coast, a little shiver courses up and down my spine.

Last Tuesday I found myself heading south on the M40 at some ungodly hour trying to reach Heathrow at a decent time. You know how it is, no traffic, clear run, mind elsewhere but physically in that twilight zone – the half hour where the horlicks hasn’t worn off and the red bull hasn’t yet kicked in.

Then on she came ; “North Utsire, South Utsire”. I was transported back to the old bench seats of a Ford Zodiac, bouncing up and down with excitement at the thought of reaching Gretna Green in 12 hours, and the warm foaming waters of the rivers in Grandma’s village. I had been switched into holiday mode and within a few moments started to contemplate our next big trip abroad – the Barton Rugby tour to France for the world cup 2007. We would be up early again, there would be talk of farming economics and the benefits of having four big wheels on your John Deere (well only when you sit next to Carl Mears), someone else would be driving, and the climax of anticipation on arrival would keep everyone buzzing for the entire journey. We are off to play our friends in Oyannax, soak up the fantastic hospitality of our hosts and watch New Zealand play Repercharge IV.

“Shannon, Lundy, Bailey, Malin”, Charlotte went on, and I tingled.

Who are repercharge ? Maybe we are Repercharge IV ? Maybe our Gallic friends have arranged a match for us already ! I began to wonder how our glorious team of Barton would fare against the Kiwis.

“German Bight, strengthening to Gale”.

How would Malcolm and Ali Williams fare in the lineout battles ? Could MBUK and Russ get Dick high enough to disrupt Chris Jack and deprive the All Blacks’ of their kick-for-territory tactics?

“Iceland, Fair Isle, Forties” – I thought of how our “Mature” over forty year old players would cope with the pace. Webby pushing Anton Oliver round in the scrums, Evan Bloxham taking on Richie McCaw in the open with a little help from his brother Matt. It would be quite a contest.

The front row battle would be critical. Would Gary Moule get the better of Mealamu ?

“Biscay, Sciliy”. OK, perhaps that was a bit of a stretch.

By now we had gone from the rough and blustery forwards in the North Atlantic to the smooth calmness of the running backs in sheltered coastal waters. The Red Bull was kicking in now and I started to fantasise about a match up between Dan Carter and Matt Bird as they traded penalty kicks at stand off.

“Dogger, Thames, Dover, East Sole”. The talk of the south coast brought back into stark relief the whippet like running of Hornblow in Brighton – how would he cope with Rokokkoko ?

“Humber; calm” was the reply.

By now the possibility of a game against the All Blacks was becoming more and more real, and in a fit of madness I actually began contemplating the odds of us scoring or even creating an upset on the international stage. What was the chance of us taking a lineout on the 5 yard line, setting up a solid maul and driving over convincingly for a score ? What about a carefully orchestrated move in the backs creating space out wide for Jody to scorch round Doug Howlett and into the corner ?

Just as the traffic started to build up round Hemel Hempstead, I got the answer. “Rockall”.

Birthday boys

The 25th of March is an auspicious day. Reflecting on possible Arian dominance, some great things happened on this day;

Robert the Bruce was crowned King of the Scots in 1306, we got together with the Austrians and Russians to kick Napoleon's arse in 1815, and the BRFC treasurer was born a few years after. The BRFC Manager's dad was born a little earlier and Barton's leading tryscorer this season Jonny Hornblow, was born a little later. Ben Blagrove, our part-time back row forward was also born on 25th but we're not sure when.

It was not all great though on the 25th March. King Faisal of Saudi Arabia was assassinated by his nephew Prince Faisal (there was a shortage of names at the time), the Treaty of Rome was signed and it's been downhill for the European Union ever since, and worst of all, 30 years ago today, Captain Dave Rowe entered the world.......and it's never been the same since.

The following three stories are part of a syndicated series of reports by world famous journalists. It starts with the story of :

Phantom Game

I didn’t see a match on Saturday, as there wasn’t one on, however in order not to spoil your enjoyment we have a "make-your-own" match report kit to while away hours of spare time over the festive season. Simply choose three sentences from section A, two from section B, and two from section C, pepper the text with mindless rambling and you too shall be a journalist of the highest calibre.

SECTION C

DO = n^1.5 x [ W_min / P_p ] x [1 / D_p ] x p

 And p because all good formulae include Pi.