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The Saint

The Saint

John Duffy22 Apr 2012 - 06:30
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https://www.anselmiansrufc.com

Touchlines 21st April

“Eastham. We have a prab-lem,” was the oft-repeated cliché after the reverse at Broughton Park. One fan of the satirical magazine “Private Eye” even penned an obituary in the style of E. J. Thribb (aged 17½), poet in residence at “Private Eye.” “So. Farewell then, North One West………….” The clubhouse was plunged into a stygian gloom. The Easter Monday fixture deemed an irrelevance.
What a difference a few days make. Last Saturday, energised, determined and galvanised by a vocal support of several generations of players, Anselmians produced as purposeful a performance as any this season.
The clubhouse was animated, lively and optimistic.
Until the result from Northwich, announcing Broughton Park’s victory.

What happened next will remain long in the memory.
Gripped by a fine madness reminiscent of the New Year sales, frenzied individuals grabbed metres of aluminium foil from bemused kitchen staff and immediately began wrapping players and cramming them into plastic bags.
No thought was given to next season. “No point in leaving them here. We don't want them to go to waste. They’ll only go off in South Lancashire/Cheshire One,“ opined Ged Mahony.
Several older members were visibly nonplussed. Was it Jim McKenzie who muttered “The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,” quoting Lord Byron in “The Destruction of Sennacherib”? Was it John Thornton who compared it to "a Birkenhead taxi rank on a Saturday night"?

Asked for a contribution to club funds to buy more players, Eamonn Malone offered some cheese, (“Some cheese!?” Cheek! There’s Brie, Red Leicester, Roquefort, Sage Derby, Pont-l'Évêque, Wensleydale, Port Salut, and Boursin there! That should buy you a scrum-half!)

Earlier in the day, we witnessed, perhaps, the last reunion of McArdle’s Marauders. Younger members will have only heard tales of Tony McArdle’s 4th XVs of yore. In his pomp, Tony’s sides would have full internationals whilst the 1st XV was short. His legendary parsimony extended to disguising returning stars with false moustaches so the higher teams wouldn’t find out.
Rumour has it that George Gregan, Australia’s legendary scrum-half, played on several occasions, and it was then that Paul Kay, Anselmians’ legendary scrum-half, first saw the reverse pass that he used to such devastating effect against Rochdale. Paul, “a multi talented fire-fighter and all round good egg,” (according to. T. McArdle) is taking part in a “World Record” attempt to play rugby for thirty hours.
The Saint applauds all charitable work but even he baulks at the prospect of watching PK spend throwing a ball backwards for over a day. Life’s too short.

Back to the reunion. As old boys of what Jim McKenzie and his contemporaries bizarrely call “The School”, (as if there was only one of them), these veterans assemble on an ad hoc basis to swap lies and reminisce about how good they were. It is interesting to see how exotic life away from Malone Field becomes.
In the space of an hour, The Saint heard of sexagenarian triathletes, base jumping in the West Indies, pioneering orthopaedic surgery in the Midlands and undercover work so secret that if you found out you would be bound by the Cosa Nostra code of Omerta for ever more.
In the latter case, The Saint suspects that the individual concerned played for McArdle’s 4th XV in the 1980s and was thus sworn to secrecy for eternity.

And finally, metropolitan sophistication arrived at Eastham when one returning Anselmian, having spent several years in London, offered to buy The Saint a drink. “That would be very agreeable, thank you.” “What would you like?
I’m partial to “cidre,” he continued.
“Cidre?” I enquired. “Yes, it’s wonderful. Fresh and dry. You should try it.”
“Er, no thanks. I’ll have the bittre or, if that’s off, I’ll settle for gay lagre.”

The Saint.

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