FOREWORD – a bunch of moaning old farts perched on a line of green plastic seats most Saturdays every summer was the inspiration for my first book. Thanks boys!
There is a unique, somewhat legendary and almost religious place of observance at the Villas. Here past glories are reflected and remembered – often with shameless embellishment – as present day struggles take place under highly critical eyes.
This is known as Critics’ Corner and is the heart and soul of every Saturday afternoon in the summer months.
Its where we all hope we will end up one day claiming to be a former giant of the game discreetly avoiding enquiries as to our modest achievements.
Twelve Plastic Seats
Situated in the top corner of the ground this collection of twelve green plastic seats houses occupants who provide rich entertainment for the players of both teams.
A dozen or so old guys, halfway and more to dementia, drunk as skunks and savouring the days unfolding events with a relish that makes you wonder how they survive the winters.
Granville Lawson is always first to arrive, like a shopper at the new year sales, desperate to secure his spot regardless of the fact that we haven’t had a queue at the gates since he was a lad.
The taxi drops our faithful cheerleader at the gates, arriving often before many players but then it takes the old boy a while to walk across the field to his reserved seat these days.
The Memorial
Time has seen many old critics drop off the perch in recent years. We now have a memorial in honour of those no longer with us to moan like hell, as those still living eye the free spaces on the board knowing that one day, one day soon.
The first version only had one free space and for a while the boys were struck by mass apprehension when it was unveiled; who would claim that final spot?
Suddenly, Granville’s artery busting pork pies lost their allure and the home made Hooch began to be turned away as they started to sipp mineral water. They sat there casting nervous glances at the plaque and viewing even the onset of a cold as a sign that it was time.
Greeny
So it was a very sad day indeed when it seemed that the final spot was “claimed” by a well-loved old critic, John Green. The previous year, John had lost Margaret, his wife of many years and a great servant to the club, renowned for her magnificent cakes.
Sadly, John’s appearances were limited after Margaret’s loss as his health deteriorated quickly; they clearly batted as a pair. His passion for Guinness was such that since his passing the bar stopped selling it for many years.
Perhaps reflecting the fact that he had not been a former cricketer himself, his observations were often generous.
Just when the remaining critics thought they could relax, our club statistician Brent Shackleton got to work on a new memorial and this time he upped the ante by creating four new spaces.
So what of those critics, some sadly gone but lovingly remembered?
Charlie Dalton
Charlie was a small, wiry man with a weathered face and skin that appeared snake-like, possibly a legacy of smoking forty a day Capstan Full Strength.
He turned up to watch us in his dapper suit and tie and spoke with the grating voice all Capstan devotees seemed to share. Like most of the critics, Charlie simply loved Saturday afternoons at the Villas.
In later life he did get a bit forgetful and was prone to letting his cigarette burn away as he walked around the ground lodged in his jacket pocket.
One day, club stalwart Brian Haigh literally had to assault him to put out the beginnings of a walking human pyre as Charlie walked around blissfully unaware that he was on fire. The old guy gamely fought back thinking Haighy was trying to steal his wallet.
Eddie Naylor
There was also dear old Eddie Naylor, who along with his wife Barbara seemed to follow us everywhere and felt every win or loss as much as we did.
He was a bit harsh on my old mate JB – often snoring loudly when the little fellow was batting and shouting “nay lad tha’s roobish!” – but he meant well and was far too deaf to hear JB’s replies.
One of the saddest things I ever had to do at Villas was on Eddie’s passing. After the service, Barbara asked if I would take a giant bat-shaped wreath back to Villas and place it in Critics’ Corner.
Winter was setting in and as I turned away I’m sure I heard Eddie’s voice saying: “Take this with you and give it to JB…see if he can middle one with this.”
I hope he enjoyed one last view that winter.
The Odd Couple
Two of the longest serving members of the club are Haighy and Tom Brown. Lifelong pals and former opening bowlers they are our version of The Odd Couple. Bickering constantly for the last sixty years they should have got married and had done with it.
Haighy is the most skilful avoider of work I have ever seen. In the early days, when we had to spend hours pulling and pushing the huge old metal roller, he would manage to stride alongside us, slippers always on, hand rested on the roller and talking non-stop bollocks.
Browny though is a visionary; a dreamer with so many lunatic ideas it is a wonder he was never sectioned. When we built the first clubhouse in 1983 he campaigned zealously for underground squash courts. At least we could have locked him somewhere safe.
In later life, he was the architect of the idea to purchase one hundred fast growing conifers to plant around the ground and used us kids at the time as slave labour to plant them; there are three standing today and fast growing they were not.
The Parachute Field
As a team captain he was, frankly, awful with many wild theories. He was an early exponent of the Parachute Field, known as such because a fielder is always placed where the ball had just landed.
It’s major failing is that you need about forty fielders and should not expect the game to finish before midnight.
He was a fine bowler but refused to shake his belief that a batsman’s strength could also be his undoing. His stubbornness was never more exposed than when confronted by a very talented batter called Andy Moulds who played for Harden.
Mouldsy’s strength was off his pads so Browny decided to feed him there ball after ball one sunny afternoon at Cuckoo’s Nest, Harden a lovely ground surrounded by cow fields where most days the cows grazed and simply chilled out.
Not this day though as Mouldsy tucked into Browny with as much relish as the old man tucked into his cream teas each Saturday. The cows took a peppering, retreating up the hill mooing “take him off for God’s sake.”
Mouldsy duly got a hundred.
Smudger
A great friend of both Browny and Haighy for many years has been Brian “Smudger” Smith who, in truth, should have been committed with the other.
Now Smudger always liked a challenge and one Saturday evening, not to be outdone by a new breed of young whipper-snappers at the club, he took on one of our star batters, Stevie Dunwell, in a head to head version of The Generation Game.
The challenge laid down was that Stevie would eat a full packet of Jacob’s Cream Crackers faster than Smudger could drink a full pint of beer with a teaspoon.
As Smudger was old enough to be Stevie’s dad it was a bizarre challenge and went to the wire with the whole pub whipped up into a frenzy as Smudger collapsed in a heap and Stevie flew off to throw up.
A dead heat was declared, nobody won a cuddly toy and there was no rematch.
Smudger’s approach to life was eccentric at best, evidenced when we discovered the reason why one of the umpires was late one afternoon. Haighy had just found him stone cold dead in the bushes on All Alone Road, finger pointing skyward in one last act of authority.
Browny, not the sharpest tool in the box, asked Haighy “how dead?”
Haighy rolled his eyes and we all lined up for an impromptu minute’s silence – most of us in tears of laughter at the thought of a man in a white coat, dead in the bushes.
As half-time approached, Smudger was told the news and replied: “Has anybody claimed his free tea yet?”
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