As ever the weather forecast was complete bollocks with the predicted washout last Saturday seemingly restricted to a single postcode in Yorkshire – LS17 – and Sunday’s clear skies blocked out by huge beer clouds.
Fish were raining from those clouds and smelly rats too.
The geriatrics had assembled for the Grey Fox clash, all hopeful of “getting it on” amidst ever thickening rain as Molly sensed another possible escape from the leash and onto the lash with a few cheeky scoops from the Hepworth Idle bar.
Still, whenever it rains you can be sure the tales will flow faster than the skies and so it was that the dressing room was regaled by stories from another age from our “Pro” from another age, Andy Moulds.
“Mouldsy” was so happy to see his topless shot in last week’s blog that he actually requested I publish it again – no problems there – and went on to tell us about the good old days sharing a team bath on a Sunday morning after football with the local wild man of Denholme – Spenner.
In those days Health and Safety was an unknown concept and showers were for wimps as teams shared big baths. Soap on a rope was the thing to have – thank you Gran – and it made sense to get in early before the water turned black.
The water was brought up in buckets from the nearby Foster Park lake in Denholme by young lads from the village as the heroes of the local football team battled away on the sloping park mud heap, often against the “Townies” from down in the valley with electric lights.
Mouldsy was late into the bath as ever this particular week but was pleased to see it empty and less discoloured than usual. It was only when he settled in with his bottle of Apricot Head & Shoulders he noticed a large brown floating object.
Spenner had left him a gift!
Apparently he “screamed like a girl” only for Spenner to casually walk back in and waft the offending object to the deep end where it would remain lurking like a deep water shark, obstructing the flow of the polluted water out back into the lake.
In danger of wetting myself at Mouldsy’ stories I made my way outside to see what the opposition were up to. Team Fitness Guru old Budweiser Belly Medley was already cracking out a crate in the home dressing room as the two opening batters sat with bottles in hand, bats cast aside.
As Meds was also due to umpire – following in the footsteps of his late Dad Harry – I wondered if fraternising with the home team would cloud his impartiality quicker that the Budweiser.
Meds was conducting fitness tests with the home team; anybody unable to open a bottle with their teeth had to go do some weights and bring another crate in. These boys were seriously up for the afternoon if not exactly the cricket.
The only warm-ups taking place were leisurely walks with lighted fags piercing the grey gloom. It was then that we uncovered a dastardly plot to poison the cream of the Villas.
Local pork scratching baron Big Howie had been recruited by the opposition.
Big Howie also supplies us with coke – the real thing if Plod is reading – and Team Diplomat Martin Binns had noticed that our recent supply was potentially contaminated. Shiver me timbers the cans were in Polish!
Was this a plot by The Tracksuits to nobble a clean living bunch such as the Villas leaving only hardened alcoholics like Molly free of the contaminated batch?
Big Howie winked at me, pointed at my kneecaps and I knew to drop the matter in an instant.
Our harmony was disrupted by the sudden entrance of Lady Secretary Marsden using the ruse that she needed help back up the road at the Villas.
We covered up as best we could as she stood barefaced at the door, disappointed that the only arse in sight was that of her beau, Mr Binns.
Our dear old scorer of several decades Nola used to make a habit of walking past our dressing room windows and we boys were less shy in those days too.
All Lady Secretary got for her pains was a ruddy cheeked Mr Binns for the rest of the afternoon.
Eventually the game was called off and we went to join the rest of the players who by now were several sheets to the wind. Old Brian was being placed in the nursing van for the long trip back to Bridlington as we sought out Big Al at The Scruffy.
Having been placed on a Villas central contract – and immediately rested – the big man was a bit livid about having been axed in favour of Brent who, as it turned out, was in a worse physical state than old bionic hips. It seemed that between the two of them they could not muster two good legs.
Sadly it looks like our Captain will be missing for the revised fixture on July 5th; how will we cope?
With our overseas David now on one leg too and acclimatising to English conditions by drinking with Big Al, there is every chance he could look fifty in a few more weeks.
Politics of The Mud Hut – Part 2
A few weeks ago I wrote a piece suggesting our electoral system may not be all it is cracked up to be, especially here in good old Bradford.
As this column seeks an ever-widening world audience, I allow various publications access to print as they wish. So it is that The Thackley Trumpit (Incorporating The Idle Chatterer and the Closing times) are regular publishers; start small, aim big so they say.
A few days ago they received an email directed to the Editor threatening the big stick of big politics from some lowly minion doubtless crawling up the greasy pole.
I have included word for word with all spelling and grammatical errors free of charge.
Dear Mr Craven
It has been brought to my attention that you have published an article calling into question the legitimacy of the election of Imran Hussain as Labour MP for Bradford East; suggesting that widespread votal-poster fraud has taken place. Indeed, you published the by-line with an accompanying picture of Robert Mugabe; inferring that the election was akin to those that take place in Zimbabwe.
David Ward has been in the Telegraph and Argus twice since the election, asking for witnesses to intimidation and postal-vote fraud to come forward. He seems unable to accept that he lost the election fairly and squarely. I can assure you and he that our figures showed that we were on 47% for weeks and months before May 7th. We also had David Ward on 24% and the Tories around the same figure. UKIP was not really on the radar. Our election team worked flat out for months and we gained over 19,000 Labour promises. Our get out the vote strategy worked very well, as we gained 19,300 votes and a majority of 7084.
In the end, the Tory vote collapsed and went two ways, to David Ward and to UKIP. Mr Ward had been calling for tactical voting in his election literature and this clearly worked, he gained 30% of the vote and not 24% as our canvass returns were showing. Indeed, Lord Ashcroft conducted a poll that showed the same figures as ours did. The result we gained was purely as a result of a co-ordinated and hard working campaign. Our contact rate was massively up on 2010 and it was this that paid dividends.
Mr Galloway was massively beaten in Bradford West by our female candidate. Bradford voted Labour in all three seats in the city.
These are facts, Mr Craven, facts that can be substantiated. You have no facts, just slur and insinuation. I must inform you that your article has been forwarded to our legal tem for opinion and you may well face legal action for defamation and libel. Your insinuations are without facts to back them up and defamatory to both Mr Hussain and the Labour Party.
Ian Parsons
Campaign Co-ordinator, Bradford East Labour Party
Bradford does indeed now have a Labour council and three Labour MPs perhaps explaining why our City remains a sad joke to many.
These are pitiful bullying tactics by someone who clearly did not read the article in full nor was capable of understanding the points made at all.
And I thought it was only dear old George that used the “sue ’em” card.
Broken Man
Week 3 of Me & My Lad and even though he has spent most of it hobbling like a cripple around the house, leg up on the foot-stool, lording it up as never before, the other night I swear I spotted the first signs that I was making progress with my tutelage.
As I entered the living room not only was there no sign of David clutching an array of devices, foot wrapped in ice, looking longingly at me for another cup of tea; lo and behold I swear he had fluffed up a cushion or two!
Had I done this in my sleep or was t’Lad one step closer to the Dyson and a fluffy duster?
Time will tell.
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