SPECTATOR SPORT
Culture clash
Frank Keating
It was, at last, a heartening rugby union season. The England XV swankily played two really grand games, but Scotland, heroically, the grandest. Ireland were Ire- land, and the gnashing, wailing Welsh, satisfactorily, were awful. With uncharac- teristic meekness, Gloucester threw away the club championship. They have another chance in the cup decider against preening Bath — `chockablock' (as Bill McLaren will sing-song) 'with a rare assembly of internationalists'.
In comparison, Gloucester are provin- cial introverts. But tough. A teaky guy called Teague is their talisman. Gloucester Play at Kingsholm. For over a century the Kingsholm handshake has left many an opponent with a sore head. I know: I used to play for `Glorse'. Rather, I once played a trial at Kingsholm: just out of school as a fancypants scrum-half in the late 1950s. I lasted 20 minutes. They carried me to the touchline and left me there, deathly pale and twitching. The club captain, Peter Ford, who put himself about for England once or twice, looked down at me in pity and said to scram until I understood the Glos philosophy — 'If it's dark and moves, kick it; it might be the ball. If it's dark and still, stand on it. If it squeals, say "sorry" within earshot of the ref.'
I dragged myself to the pressbox. The dirtiest, most diverting, games to report for the Gloucester Citizen were those against London clubs, all perceived as packed with Lord Snooty and his pals who couldn't play for toffee in spite of their England caps. One who deserved a few of those, but never got near a tasselled Twickenham titfer, was our own doughty prop Roy Fowke, a bargee on the Sharpness Canal. One time, against Harlequins, he obliter- ated England's current prop — a highly promising barrister — after which Roy wrapped his great mitt round a pint and engaged his learned friend in amiable post-match gossip. 'What be y'doin' furra livin' then?"Actually, I'm at Lincoln's Inn, actually'. 'What be 'ee there then? Potman?'
With its working-class pockets rubbing shoulders (usually painfully) with the game's essential middle classes, rugby lends itself to vibrant clashes of culture. Always has. Nicest tale I heard this season was of the time the secretary of the Combined Universities XV was looking to strengthen his side to play Oxford at Iffley Road. He heard the four-square Irish international forward, Tom Clifford, was over from Munster for some reason and free for a game. Slight snag: the match was to be followed by dinner for the team at some high table. Unless he was careful, Tom might blow the gaffe on his lack of qualifications and allow Oxford to cry `foul'.
Duly, the dark blues were duffed up, mainly due to Tom's extremely serious scrummaging — after which Tom was told, should he be engaged in chit-chat with a don at dinner, to say that he was 'a mature student at Cork University reading Mathematics'. Well, nobody ever debates Maths at Oxford high tables. Sure enough, before the port — and by which time Tom was well getting the taste for the claret the sociable academic next to him pursued the conversation. 'Up at Cork, eh? What are you reading there?' Tom took a large slug. He'd managed the first, but now the second part of the rehearsed answer wouldn't get down from the tip of his ruddy tongue. Another swig — and at least he made a decent stab at it. What was he reading? 'Sums, mister', he said.
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