Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

“You’re bloody lucky to have that bloke playing for you,” says one of the Pythons as we trudge back to the changing room. “We’d have pissed on you otherwise.” I am about to tell him to get stuffed when an old geezer wearing a Sherlock Holmes hat with the flaps down shuffles up and jabs at me with his shooting stick. “You’re a cad, sir,” he squeals, “that was the worst foul I’ve ever seen and I’ve been playing and watching the game for over fifty years.”

“Stick around for my next appearance,” I tell him. “You haven’t seen anything yet.” But there is nobody on the touchline for my next appearance. A lot of faces pressed against the windows of the clubhouse but only fourteen poor sods and the referee out there on the pitch.

For some time the sky has been darkening and ugly black clouds have been bumping into each other menacingly. As we are about to leave the changing room, there is an enormous clap of thunder and the rain pisses down like it’s under pressure. I expect us to wait till it’s all over or pack it in, but no, out we have to go.

In no time, the pitch is like a kids’ paddling pool and the ball more difficult to handle than a bar of soap in an Italian restaurant. We are playing R.A.F. Great Grunting or the Gee Gees as their big-mouthed captain keeps calling them. On a dry day they would probably have murdered us but in these conditions they keep dropping the ball or falling over and the more mistakes they make the more rattled they get. This, coupled to the fact that the two teams are soon so covered with mud that nobody can tell the difference, helps us to score our vital try, and natural Lea modesty will not prevent me from saying that I am responsible for it.

One of their big blokes is making progress towards our line with the ball when Lanky earns his keep at last by leaping on to his back. This slows the bugger down a bit and he looks round for some support. “With you,” I shout, and like a lamb he passes me the ball. Garth is hovering about and quick as a flash I hand it on to him and he is away loping through the puddles to score under the posts.

“You dirty bastard,” shrieks the airman who is being viciously abused by his team-mates. “I’ll get you for that.”

“Don’t be soft,” I tell him. “You want to use your eyes.”

There is nearly a punch-up but the referee gets between us. Garth kicks the goal, and play is resumed.

After that incident a certain amount of needle creeps into the game and this is totally to our advantage. Most of our team are only good at close range fouling and as curses and threats rebound round the field and a pall of steam rises from the scrum, the minutes are ticking away.

Half-time comes with the score still 5–0 to us and it is late into the second half with the rain still pissing down that the airmen get near our line. Despite the miserable cold and the wet I am hardly aware of either and have now totally abandoned myself to winning at any costs. With this in mind, I blatantly obstruct their winger who is about to receive the ball in a scoring position and a penalty is awarded against us, from which one of their big men forces his way over between the posts. They only have to convert and it will be five-all.

“Try and charge the bugger down,” orders Garth as we wait poised behind the line for their kicker to move. The bloke makes a Cecil B. de Mille production of getting ready for the kick and then, as he runs forward, I let out an ear-splitting shriek and charge at him. Obviously unnerved, he pauses and I am able to get to the ball first and lash it into his goolies. He collapses, screaming in agony and the referee’s whistle nearly fractures my ear drum.

“I’m warning you for ungentlemanly conduct,” he hisses, barely able to keep his hands off me. “The kick will be taken again without a charge.”

“Oh, ref. It was an accident,” I bleat. I ruffle the writhing airman’s hair in the hopes that this will be interpreted as a sporting gesture of true penitence but the referee waves me back behind the posts and turns to the stricken kicker.

“Nice going,” says Garth admiringly. “I think you’ve buggered him.”

In fact, I have, because the poor sod is borne away still groaning and an anxious conference takes place amongst the opposition as to who should be the kicker. Their fears are justified because there is now a pool of water in front of the posts and it is necessary to build a small island of mud to raise the ball above water level.

“No charge, and no shouting,” says the referee sternly and all eyes are turned towards the Gee Gees’ kicker. Their captain has decided to take on the job himself and, also, that the best method of succeeding is with a hefty belt. To this end he stands fifteen yards behind the ball and then charges at it sending up a spray of water like Silvana Mangano running through a rice field to meet her lover. Thud! bang! crump! The ball flies like a rocket, hits the underside of the bar and ricochets down on to the back of our big fat man’s head, hitting him half a second before the bar it has dislodged.

For a moment, nobody knows what has happened and then we realise that we have won. All, that is, except fatso who is lying face downwards in the mud in real danger of drowning. We scrape him up and return rejoicing to the changing room avoiding contact with a few members of the opposition and my friend with the shooting stick, who are obviously not happy with the result or the way it was achieved.

“Bloody marvellous,” exults Garth. “Well played all of you. Especially you, Timmy. Are you sure you don’t have any Welsh blood in you?”

“I pop out for a leak occasionally,” I say wittily and feel warmed by the maestro’s praise. That is about the only thing there is to warm me because we are all soaked to the skin and have no clean kit to change into. Garth has a track suit which he pulls on before lying down on a bench and closing his eyes. “Keep warm, keep off the beer and report here at five forty-five,” are his last words to us.

That is nearly an hour away and I wish I was relaxed enough to take a kip. But I’m not. I am the neurotic type who has to wander about picking his nails until the action starts. I leave my team-mates who are all describing how they won the last game! “I knew I had their big fellow when I saw his plate wobbling”; “so I belted him one and I didn’t hear a squeak out of him after that”—and make my way outside. The rain has stopped and miraculously the clouds split open to reveal the sun which pops out like the yolk from two halves of an eggshell. Its arrival coincides with the appearance of the Shermer team who then proceed to crush Old Repseans 23–0 in the other semi-final. Watching them, I reckon that we are going to need an earthquake to stand a chance against them. The hated Sharp flashes around like a dose of clap at a hippies’ gang bang and the whole team are big, fast and competent. The draw must have been woefully mismanaged if we can have emerged as the team to meet them in the final. I wander back inside with my spirits lower than a dachshund’s balls and decide to have a cup of tea. Sharp’s bird is still behind the counter and she gives me a nice smile as I go over.

“You look frozen,” she says pleasantly. “Haven’t you got anything to change into?”

“No. I got all this stuff out of the laundry basket by the changing room and there’s not much left.”

It’s a fact. Thirteen left boots—twelve without studs, two grey jock straps, a pair of gym shorts and a brassiere with one cup missing. Makes you think, doesn’t it?

“Oh well. Have a nice hot cup of tea, then. How many lumps?”

“Five, please. I need to build up my strength for the final.”

“You’ll have to excuse me because I’m terribly ignorant, but who do you play for?”