After my recent rants regarding a certain lack of support from the police in dealing with some local “yoof” up at the cricket club, it was a refreshing surprise to receive an email from Inspector Hugh Robinson from the Neighbourhood Policing Team.
With a refreshing sense of humour and self-deprecation, Hugh duly introduced himself as “Inspector Plod”.
Most people will have a fixed view on the Police and mine was hardly enhanced by recent experiences. Hugh, having taken the time to come and visit us, has certainly rectified this.
As our Under 13’s warmed up on the field, the arrival of a police car caused a few turned heads. I could see Hugh enquiring as to where he could find me from some distance and could only imagine the whirring minds of a few parents.
Did they have a real criminal in their midst?
Fortunately, Hugh was more interested in a coffee and a chat rather than cuffing me, so I offered him the club’s finest Nescafe Filth, checked that the “freebie” did not constitute a bribe and we sat down to watch the game still with one or two worried looking kids.
We all know that the force is having to deal with austerity but, as around 80% of costs are manpower, the cuts hit hardest on the front-line despite what the politicians promise.
Add in the daily battle against a regime of politically driven targets, soft magistrates and the ridiculous new Police Commissioners desperate for sound-bite headlines, then the lot of PC Plod is far from an easy one.
Dealing with the local filth is probably the enjoyable part of the job.
Taking the time to come and meet us was far more than PR; people do have a basic requirement of the police to be visible and available.
A good bloke Inspector Plod and very welcome any time at the Villas.
Saturdays With Molly – Back On The Road Again
After a mid-season break due to Le Tour de Yorkshire, the Villas’ Stiffs resumed our promotion challenge this week at lowly Alwoodley; surely a gentle re-introduction to the remainder of the campaign? If only sport were so predictable.
I picked up our scorer H – still on suicide watch as the Bradford Bulls contemplate life away from the Super League – and relaxed into my seat for the journey as he recounted the tale of his forthcoming golden wedding cruise for the sixth consecutive trip.
By now I felt as if I had booked a cabin myself and knew exactly what “Our Lass” likes for breakfast.
As we hit the Leeds ring road we came alongside Shutty in his brand new Jaguar with passenger, Molly, riding like royalty. Molly never drives to away games, racking up more free miles than Richard Branson over the seasons in pursuit of his customary post match ales.
H woke me from the upper decks of some Cunard liner as we docked, sorry, pulled alongside Shutty in the gleaming saloon. Winding the window down as we slowed at the roundabout, H shouted a convivial welcome.
“F*ck me who’s died Shutty? How did you afford that?” as he offered the traditional Saturday afternoon greeting of two raised fingers.
Shutty’s wife Jayne had confessed a few weeks ago that the old boy appeared to be going through a mid-life crisis; first a desire to play Stiffs’ cricket with brother-in-law Molly way before the “natural” culling process and now the purchase of a brand new Jaguar.
At least there was no sign of any teenage Latvian lap-dancer just yet.
We passed on by with Shutty in cruise control and Molly still pressing every available gadget whilst waving to the crowds. I returned to more tales from Cunard as H still had several more decks to describe to me and wondered if there was room in the Jaguar next trip.
Alwwodley have had some tough times in recent years but the lads are a good set and contain a character called Browny who only club cricket could find a safe haven for each weekend. Care in the Community is alive and well.
A gargantuan lad not designed for any athletic purpose whatsoever, he is also the scruffiest cricketer I have ever seen, including our very own JB.
His kit has not seen a washing machine for years and was a filthy shade of grey more suited for black and white television. A big fat lad, fielding in the covers to boot, in filthy grey kit; had my cricketing life come to this? Was it time to book my cruise?
We won a toss for a change and noting the extreme heat we decided to bat – especially with Browny fielding they were effectively one man short already – although the wicket had more stripes than a stick of Blackpool rock. As they say, it would have been a good toss to lose.
Shutty and I, resuming our old opening partnership, strode to the wicket determined to set a platform and also avoid the stench of Browny.
It was short-lived.
Shutty struck one straight to mid-wicket, screamed out an excitable cry of “yes” as if on the marital nest and I knew I was toast. Halfway down the wicket we passed and I heard him emit a woeful apologetic sigh of “oh f*ck”.
I looked for an extra gear, maybe a sprinter’s finish a la Tour but simply hoped the fielder’s throw was the usual Stiffs’ standard for at 51 there are no gears to accelerate through; there was also no need for the Third Umpire or television replays.
I was out by a country mile and trudged off, day over, weekend f*cked and just gone ten past one.
I thought about turning and offering Shutty the usual solid team stuff like “don’t worry mate…go get a hundred…chin up old boy…that’s the spirit” but Shutty’s played the game far too long to realise that this, translated, would really mean “you f*cking twat!”
Our calamity set the tone and we limped to an unimposing 115 all out, boosted by Molly of all people in a tenth wicket partnership of 27 with Basher Jones.
And, to prove that you should never take sport for granted, Alwoodley approached the task with a degree of dedication rather than their usual Kamikaze batting methods.
They sent Browny in to take the shine off the new ball presumably the same way he had taken the white out of his whites.
We sledged him furiously with cries of “come on Dazzle us…play a Bold shot or two…don’t be afraid to go Aerial!“. Stubbornly he stuck around as indelibly as the stains on his kit.
We got what we deserved although we nearly nicked it at the end and I had another half hour with Cunard’s Tour Director plus a long Saturday night.
More Plod
Did you know when you dial 101, as opposed to 999, they charge you 15p. I thought we paid for the Police through our taxes? So that’s how they afford the Police Commissioners.
Changing Times
The world of social media and instant communication may be one where many of us at a certain age can not be bothered to go but for the young ones this is life itself.
And what of this? I have a mate, admittedly much younger, who likes to show me pictures of his latest flame. These are not your standard passport photos that you tuck in your wallet for a quiet moment although they are still useful for a quiet moment…(enough! Ed)
Can you imagine the response we would have got all those years ago if we had asked our girlfriends to whip them out and pose whilst we got the Polaroid warmed up?
Labelled a dirty pervert for the rest of our lives and a broken camera in bits on the floor. And even if she said yes imagine the trip to Boots to pick up the prints? Changing times indeed; I like being older…honest.
Size Matters
Desperate to become the celebrity gardener of Idle, pride took another fall this week as the Old Man sent a cucumber by local courier – my mum – just to show me what it’s all about.
With mine the length of matchsticks and pencil thin, he sent what can have only been from some garish sex catalogue.
Try harder young lad, tha’s not yer dad yet.
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