Twilight of umpire
AFTERTHOUGHT JOHN WELLS
Yes indeed, writes breathless, brittle-moustached man with his mouth to the microphone and his ear to the ground, beer-sodden Alf Burbage, it was cough, sob, splutter and blub all the way home for the dancing, swaying mob of colourfully garbed, dusky-skinned cricketing cnthusiasis at Sabina Park, Kingston, Jamaica, as they staggered manfully about in the billow- ing clouds of disgusting onion 'n' garlic- flavoured tear-gas, lobbing bottles of Auntie Emily's Home Town Goulash at the soberly clad riot police. To some their sacrifice will have seemed in vain. And yet I say this. Hats off to the battling piccaninnies of Sabina Park! In carrying sporting violence into Test cricket they have triumphantly invaded yet another cherished sanctum of peace and fuddy-duddy ritualised conflict.
I will say another thing. Violence is here to stay. As I stood and roared myself hoarse at the breathtaking climax to last year's FA Cup Final, when referee Bert Entwhistle was dis- membered and eaten by the crowd within seconds of appearing on the field, as I joined Buddy Mantovani in the tux Bunker and listened to that exhilarating exchange of small- arms fire between the rival supporters' clubs, my heart went out to the deprived spectators of old-fashioned, stuffy sporting events, still groaning in the shackles of petty restrictions and head-in-the-sand reactionary rules. But have no fear. Their day will come. Already heroic innovators like the Wild West Indians of Sabina Park are breaking new ground and hammering away at the shape of things to come.
I give you eighty-four year old Sam Elphin- stone, thrice holder of the Surbiton Darby and Joan Club Snooker Truss and Badge. After an astonishing thirteen-minute break in the final, during which packed oldies in the benches held their wheezy breath as ball rolled across the emerald baize to click against ball and to fall with a thud into the pocket. Sam Elphinstone went for an apparently immaculate black. The ball nudged the cushion, teetered on the brink, and stayed there. Hardly had the pent-up sigh of disappointment begun to escape from a thousand withered lips than it was interrupted by the throaty ripping of dusty baize. Sam Elphinstone was taking the law into his own hands. And a long triangular piece of the cloth with it.
Within seconds the man they call Mad Sam Elphinstone had shivered his cue into a thousand fragments over the polished dome of his opponent, the Rev Sid Crocker, MA. The pensioners went wild. It was then that the crutches began to fly. Mrs. Althea Pontifex, ninety-two, the first woman snooker player on that historic occasion to throw a heavy pink through a stained-glass window at the end of the Memorial Hall depicting Temperance feed- ing at the breast of Charity, told me: 'Suddenly it was all happening. I do not know what came over me.' I can tell her. It was a bath-chair belonging to one-hundred-and-eight year old amateur accordionist Ringo Delarue, and • wielded on that particular evening by Mr Hugo 'Fruity' Tremayne, ninety-four. It was a great fight. Snooker will never be the same again. Nor will Mrs Pontifex. That is what sport is all about.
• Take Bridge Hooliganism. Until a short while ago, the sport was in the hands of a -tiny suburban coterie who could afford to pay for the damage. Now, thanks to Nobby Booker, the tiny ex-cat burglar and president of the newly formed Guildford Bridge Supporters' Club, the game is wide open to the man in the street. It happened this way. Going about his business one evening, Nobby and a mate found them- selves in the drawing-room of a wealthy bridge fanatic. Seeing a game in progress they very naturally had a dekko at what was going on. After a bit Nobby chipped in with a word of advice. His mate supported the opponents. It came to a punch-up. The drawing-room was wrecked. Today, Nobby can mobilise chara- bane loads of supporters to strike within minutes whenever a game starts. 'China cabinets are favourites for a kick-off,' Nobby tells me, and after all, it keeps the kids off the streets.'
So a lot is being done. Nobody is chucking mud at men like 'Muscles' Clementi, not at least since he bought his new burp gun. We remember the noble work 'Muscles' did in whipping up spectator enthusiasm during Franklin Engelmann's panel game 'Guess Who Is Standing Behind This Curtain' at Broad- casting House recently. We shall not forget his heroic assault on the Councillor Ethel Meard Flower Clock during the last minute of injury time at the Brighton Chess Congress. 'Muscles' was the first to introduce the Mills bomb to Wimbledon. -But such achievements cannot blind us to the shortcomings of others. The men who are trying to drag us fighting and howling back into the Victorian Age. The men they call the Guilty Ones.
Her Majesty the Queen, for example. How can this great nation of ours graduate to brighter sport if the Royal Person refuses to throw her weight behind it? When did we last see Her Majesty hurling one of the Royal pets over the heads of the crowd in order to express her pleasure and delight at making a few bob on the Tote? When did any member of the Royal Family come out in the open, say, during some highfalutin polo carnival when the Duke was galloping about among the riot- ing spectators cracking them over the head with his polo mallet, and slosh, for the sake of argument, Old Blobberchops the Arch- bishop? For he, too, must bear the blame.
Faced with the dwindling number of beauty spots and sporting venues left for the creative participant in spectator events, His Nibs was approached a while back by a deputation from VANDALS, the official spectators' association, sug- gesting the throwing open of the larger churches and cathedrals for indoor soccer on wet after- noons. This appeal was endorsed by the Bishop of Wimbledon, pointing out that if God came back on earth today, He would be done by the police for soccer hooliganism. Similar demands were made for facilities in the Reading Room of the British Museum, the National Gallery, and the House of Lords. So far they have all been refused. But I say this. We are not living in the Dark Ages. And no dribbling old bishop, pansified intellectual or musty-dusty librarian is going to get in the way of our lot. Not, anyway, if he values his prospects.
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