A measure of misunderstanding
Alan Watkins
Mr Peter West is not only the former compere of Come Dancing, the presenter of cricket broadcasts on BBC televisioitand the owner of a public relations concern. He is also the man whom the editor of The Times has seen fit to select to instruct us on the intricacies of Rugby Union Football. It was in the course of reading an article of Mr West's (14 November) on the forthcoming South African tour of Britain that I came upon the claim that Mr Hector Monro, the Minister of Sport (whose name Mr West had contrived to spell wrong), was a former Scottish Rugby International. Interested and surprised, I had recourse to Rothmans Rugby Yearbook, an invaluable work of reference which seldom leaves my bedside. No Monro, H.S.P. (for such are the Minister's initials) appeared among the Scottish internationals. It struck me as a pretty little Problem. You know my methods. I inquired — or, to be precise, caused inquiries to be made — of the press officer at the DepartMent of the Environment, under whose aegis Mr Monro performs his ministerial duties. The reply came: Mr Monro had Played for South of Scotland but not for Scotland.
Accordingly there were two possibilities. Either Mr West had got things wrong, made a muddle, confused Mr Monro's career in Rugby administration — which he certainly had at international level —with his career as a player. Or else, unlikely though this possibility was (for he is the most modest and engaging of men), Mr Monro had, maybe in an incautious moment, been bullshitting. The word may require some explanation. It has little connection with its modern, American usage, adopted in this country by the more tiresome women's liberationists, US in 'Don't give me that bullshit', which really means 'I don't agree' or, more likely, `I can't answer that argument, but don't see \14:by I should admit it to you.' No: bullshitting, in the sense in which I use the word, is a verbal art-form. It consists iT) claiming either past achievements or a present body of expertise or knowledge bearing little relation to the true state of affairs. In its More advanced form it consists in giving a general impression, without vouchsafing Specific details. Thus bullshitting need not be confined to Sporting achievements or expertise. It can Comprehend politics, sex, wine, food, Music, much else besides. However, sport is an area specially favoured by bullshitters. Rugby is a particular favourite. The reasons are fairly clear. Though Wisden is not exhaustive about who played first-class cricket — the less eminent names are dropRed after a time — it is still possible to determine the truth of claims or (the essence of bullshitting) implied or under stood claims. Rugby possesses both a looser structure and, for all the merits of the Rothmans book, less comprehensive works of reference. Moreover many English clubs run a dozen or so sides. So when a journalist friend of mine asserts, as he frequently does, that he played for the Saracens he may be telling the truth. But he may have played for the Extra B XV when the regular incumbent of the position had flu. In Rugby circles it is considered impolite to demand further and better particulars. Though bullshining is not encouraged, it is tolerated. As an English Rugby selector (no bullshitter himself) engagingly put it to me: `If some chap tells me he was "with Waterloo before the war" I just pretend to accept it. It's an odd kind of freemasonry we have.' Lord Gordon-Walker (as he now is) was certainly being a bullshitter when, in the Leyton by-election, he claimed in an autobiographical hand-out that he had played as a front-row forward, adding `no place for softies'. I do not know what the electors of Leyton made of this. And, though Lord Gordon-Walker may well have played in the front row at one time, for some team or other, his name was hardly one to conjure with in club-houses from Richmond to Llanelli. Again, a journalist acquaintance of mine claims to have played centre for the Harlequins. But I remember the names of the Quins centres in the period of which he speaks. They were Lloyd, Grant and Rutter, and my acquaintance is called none of these. Perhaps, like my Saracens friend, he is telling the literal or Extra B truth and, in so doing, bullshitting. What Dad's Parliamentary Companion, in its Table of Precedence, calls 'literary men' seem peculiarly prone to sports bullshifting. A friend of mine, a political journalist, somehow managed to convey the impression that he had been given a trial by the Irish soccer club Distillery. (Claims to having had a trial for some club or other are the mark of the advanced bullshitter, for such claims cannot easily be verified.) This impression or claim struck me as intrinsically implausible. I thought that, far from having been given a trial by Distillery, giving exhaustive trials to distilleries was more in his line. At all events, my friend was invited to address the Conservative College at Swinton. In his introductory observations, the chairman (likewise a friend of the speaker) stated that, in addition to being a famous political commentator, a trained historian, a literary critic, a writer of thrillers and a man of distinction generally, my chum had been given a trial by Distillery. Alas, his nerve failed. He said there had been some misunderstanding or confusion and that he had never, in fact, received a trial from the club in question.
The same technique, it may be remembered, is employed by Bithel of the Mobile Laundry (a funnier character, in my opinion, than Widmerpool) when in The Music of Time he is asked directly by Nicholas Jenkins whether be in fact played Rugby for Wales. Bithel says there has been some confusion — that there was a Bithel, a remote cousin, who did play for Wales and that people have mixed him up with his cousin. Jenkins had earlier had his suspicions of Bithers reputation as a Rugby player: `If he had ever played Rugby for Wales, he had certainly allowed himself to run disastrously to seed,' My fellow countrymen, it need hardly be said, are tremendous bullshitters. Dylan Thomas has this passage in his story of a coach-trip to Porthcawl, which, inevitably, was never reached: 'They stopped at the Hermit's Nest for a rum to keep out the cold.
"I played for Aberavon in 1898," said a stranger to Enoch Davies.
"Liar," said Enoch Davies.
"I can show you photos," said the stranger.
"Forged," said Enoch Davies.
"And I'll show you my cap at home." "Stolen."
"I got frieads to prove it," the stranger said in a fury. "Bribed," said Enoch Davies.'
My favourite story is, however, true. It also concerns a Welshman. Again, he is a journalist and a friend. He managed to indicate that he had played outside-half for Swansea against the South Africans in 1951. I said that, as it happened, I had seen this match. I remembered it well and had no iiiia recollection of my friend disporting himself at outside-half or, indeed, in any other position.
‘Ah, but I didn't actually play. I was asked to, but didn't.'
'Why not?'
`Too scared.'
That is a story which, without close research into the Swansea club of 1951, is uncheckable. It also contains, in 'too scared' a piece of self-depreciation that is sheer genius. All in all, it is bullshitting of a high order. Long may the art flourish!
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