Wordsmith Entry E

By Wordsmith Entry E
January 23 2007

Magnus, Morgan and Mini

 

Half time at Franklins Gardens. I reckon any discussion of this turgid game would be a bootless activity, so why not join me instead for a few generous swigs from the hip flask; and fire up some distant memories. 

 

Rugby life in the 60s and 70s often seemed more a backdrop to a series of outrageous events than a sporting activity; and as a youngish member of a particularly robustious club I regret not being prescient by making careful notes of my experiences at the time. Nevertheless, although the years have begun to efface some memories, I clearly recall former team mates Magnus, Morgan and Mini and offer these (definitely not apocryphal) stories.

 

Magnus was unusual. This was partly because very few Scandinavians played rugby; but mostly because he wore an  earring. In the 1960s this accessory, irrespective of its virtu, was generally confined to ladies and gypsies; and as far as could be ascertained (he was suspiciously shy in the changing room) he was neither of these.

 

Nevertheless he was a sturdy and reliable full back of pleasant disposition and insouciant manner. An otherwise unremarkable chap, I mention him now because Magnus will forever be burned into the memory of several of us because of an incident following the announcement  of his engagement  to our team’s physio, Rosemary Chance.

 

Now, Rosemary was a lascivious girl who volunteered for this work mainly for the opportunity to work at close quarters with males who wore very little clothing. We soon discovered she was not actually a qualified physiotherapist but we nevertheless overlooked this perfidy in view of the treatment on offer; including the availability of what I shall simply call “private sessions” on a weekday evening.

 

Needless to say, Rosemary became very well acquainted with most of our team. Not so much a chance as a dead cert we’d often quip whilst chuckling into our beer. But the laughter stopped when the young, innocent Magnus announced his betrothal.

 

Magnus had no suppositions whatever about the flibbertigibbet Rosemary and we - his trusted friends, with such an intimate knowledge of his wife to be - were faced with a serious dilemma.

 

This was resolved on the very night of his announcement. By way of celebration, Magnus became so inebriated that he eventually fell unconscious. After considering many, increasingly bizarre machinations we devised a solution to his marriage plight that would only ocurr to a group bordering on a state of permanent and irrecoverable alcoholism such as we were that night.

 

One of our number, the prop Gary (G.B.H.) Knibbs, ran a small export packing company and within a couple of hours of rather clumsy travail we had Magnus crated up and on the way back to Sweden. We sent him to the only Swedish address that came readily to hand – Volvo Head Office in Gothenburg, gleaned from the handbook of Knibbs’s old estate.

 

On the following morning we saw daylight in more ways than one and the nascent of possible consequences soon followed. Fortunately for us he was never heard of again and the matter was rarely discussed – although whenever it was discussed we assured ourselves that he would be just fine back at home and that we had done exactly the right thing, given all the circumstances, when all’s said and done, and so on.

 

Rosemary was concerned for a week or two (and worried us a little when she ventured the possibility that he had returned to his native Denmark) but she soon resumed the ways that inhere in a nymphomaniac.

 

Every rugby group has a gloomy Welshman and Taffy Morgan was ours. Fast approaching 40, he was the oldest member of our team and a rather unpopular and lonely figure. Quite uninvited, he took on the coaching role as he was a PE teacher at the local grammar school.

 

His main coaching focus seemed to be on passing, and especially that kind of passing with an exagerrated hip movement  that thankfully isn’t done these days. The argus-eyed Taffy would have us running up and down the pitch, passing (off both hands, mind) with swivelling hips and trailing leg whilst he was hot on our heels shouting “pass and step away, pass and step away, pass and step away” as the ball moved from one player to the next.

 

Taffy had a number of disconcerting characteristics including a very strong lisp, shouting virtually all of the time (even in otherwise quiet conversation) and always spitting voluminously when he did speak. You certainly didn’t hang about when he was close behind you repeatedly shouting “pass and step away”.

 

His other love was drama, and we are not talking here about one half of a piebald horse at the local panto. He was properly trained and was to be seen on TV with minor parts in Z Cars and Emergency Ward 10 and often in supporting roles at decent repertory theatres.

 

It was not long after Magnus had “disappeared” that Taffy discovered the delights of Rosemary Chance. Most  players in our team who were injured during a game were ignored on the grounds that they were probably resting. On one occasion Taffy was genuinely injured (blood and everything) and Rosemary rushed onto the pitch to stanch the flow and massage entirely inappropriate areas of his body. Taffy leapt to his feet instantly and started to gambol around the pitch with a smile on his face and an impressive bulge in his shorts. Thereafter, and using his considerable acting skills, Taffy was certain to be dramatically injured several times in every match – usually receiving extensive treatment before he felt able to return to the field of play.

 

The last time Taffy was injured was in the final minutes of a local derby game. He had collapsed in a heap behind our posts and on this occassion had gone unnoticed by Rosemary. Those of us that saw him thought it was his usual trick and ignored him, retiring to the clubhouse as the game ended. It was hours later that someone discovered him in the same spot -unconscious, suffering from hypothermia and a very badly broken leg.

 

That was to be his final game, after which he turned his attentions fully to drama, even giving up his teaching job. Regrettably, within a year he had lost his footing on the edge of the stage at the Richmond Theatre, fallen heavily into the orchestra pit and fatally speared himself on a high hat cymbal. Step and pass away, you might say (and how I wish I’d thought of that at the time)

 

John “Mini” Sota was our club captain. His nickname “worked on several levels” as media or advertising types would have it these days. The obvious similar pronounciation to the US state, the fact that he was big (he was 6’ 4” and 17 stone which was big in those days) and the fact that he drove a mini was to name but … well, all of them actually.

 

Mini was a conspicuously well-to-do but likeable chap. His usual garb was that of an eccentric country gent, which led to a huge amount of abuse from his team mates. Never one to pule, it was to his considerable credit (and my puzzlement to this day) that his gentle riposte of  “a friend in tweed is a friend indeed” combined with a gently wagging finger instantly halted all clothing related abuse. This amazing effect was similar to the crestfallen reaction of opposing players when he stopped play and loudly called them a “rotter” following a cheap shot in a ruck or maul.

 

At some point in the 1960s, well before the Irishman became a Lions legend, Mini curiously adopted the style and mannerisms of Willie John McBride; even to the extent of the odd hour or so talking sagely in an Irish accent and using a pipe. I say “using” because Mini didn’t actually smoke. Indeed, that pipe was never remotely close to a shag (unless it was Mini’s turn with Ms Chance, obviously) but it became a vade mecum for him; instantly produced whenever he felt the need to adopt the Willie John personna.

 

Apart from this oddity (which out of a combination of fear, embarrasment and respect was, by and large, totally ignored), our esteemed captain was also unable to contain his desire to address an audience. I particularly remember an away game at Barking, after which he climbed onto a bar stool and announced that he would ”like to take wine with anyone wearing cufflinks” and also a sevens tournament at Basingstoke when he similarly climbed to a superior position and asked the Japanese invitational team to explain why kamikaze pilots wore helmets. In both cases his remarks led, albeit unintentionally, to an instant mass brawl, substantial damages and our removal from future fixture lists.

 

Usually he was reluctantly forgiven for these faux pas and it was often said that we would follow him anywhere (although with the benefit of hindsight, I think this was because he usually held the beer kitty). He is now something very senior in one of the security services – a fact that still causes me the occasional sleepless night.

 

Now then look lively, I can see that the second half is about to start. Do you know, I might use these reminiscences for my wordsmith entry; although quite what I would do with a “lick my ring” tee shirt goodness knows – far too modern and racy for me.