Sex & Bowls & Rock and Roll: How I Swapped My Rock Dreams for Village Greens. Alex Marsh. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Alex Marsh
Издательство: HarperCollins
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Жанр произведения: Биографии и Мемуары
Год издания: 0
isbn: 9780007355495
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really proud but that the others rejected as ‘too Jethro Tull’. It is not quite being dumped by your girlfriend or having your home address mixed up with a paedophile’s in the local paper, but being told that you are ‘too Jethro Tull’ when you are a teenager can be firmly placed in the mental lever-arch file marked ‘Disappointing’. The BBC lost the rights to cover motor racing to ITV; the title sequence changed accordingly – including the music. And whilst this was after the band split, and I am not claiming it as a major reason why we didn’t make it big, it seemed to drive the final nail into our prospects.

      I don’t want to live in the past, but it is quite nice to pop in there for a short visit, and perhaps a spot of breakfast. It’s so easy to be embarrassed by stuff that you’ve done when you’re a kid. But I can think back and smile, given where I am today. We were a good little outfit, a good start. Yes, it’s time to do something like that again. I have to. I really have to.

       FIVE

       These deeply, deeply unfashionable shoes are made for walking

      Lord’s.

      Nigel is at Lord’s.

      So much for well-drilled trios and mutual respect and support. Pissing off to watch the West Indies and upsetting the delicate balance of the block like this. I haven’t even donned my deeply, deeply unfashionable shoes yet, and already I am thinking negative thoughts about the game. I shake my head and curse my stupidity, dragging myself back into the Zone.

      The first home match is always an interesting one. Let’s get some points on the board.

      Immaculate, fine grass, mown lovingly once lengthways and then once on the traverse, to create a geometric criss-cross of stripes that makes you want to hug the ground or at the very least stroke it with your cheek. Manicured borders and a white picket fence, with a wooden pavilion constructed simply but in the Edwardian style, with a small verandah. Three elderly men, rooted to the same seats since time immemorial, sit watching the play knowledgeably, smoking clay pipes, whilst a couple of wives diligently cut the crusts off ham and cucumber sandwiches.

      I would imagine that some bowls clubs are like this. As for us, we sit outside the draughty builders’ demountable hut that serves as our rain shelter and toilet, waiting for Howard to allocate the score cards for this agricultural square of land. You need a score card before you can move on to the ‘have a good game’s, as this tells you which rink that you’ll be playing on and against whom – and there’s not much you can do until you know that.

      This is the key to home advantage. It’s nothing to do with being comfortable in your surroundings, or having a large crowd to roar you on. It’s certainly been a bit less since we were asked to vacate the nice green beside the pub. It’s the fact that by rights it should take the opposition three or four ends to work out that there’s a slight slope up and down, and that when bowling forehand on the uphill you need no angle at all.

      Big Andy checks the card. Three – we have been given rink three. The one with the most pronounced hump three-quarters of the way on the downhill, where the skill is to attempt to bring the wood to a halt just on the prow where the grass is barest, so that it might roll gently down the other side vaguely towards the cott. We stroll across the green, up and down, up and down its undulations until we reach the mat. Light brown patches, dark green patches.

      But it doesn’t matter.

      The Stones, the Beatles, The Who – all the great records from the golden age were recorded on primitive equipment. The Kinks had a cheap guitar and a broken amplifier, and produced ‘You Really Got Me’, whilst even well into the seventies, Pink Floyd were using Sellotape to stick together fragments of master tape to create ‘The Dark Side of the Moon’. But then what happened? Pristine, flat, mown criss-cross stripe technology brought us Jean-Michel Jarre and Cher doing ‘Believe’. The idea that rough-and-ready is by definition not acceptable is not something that needs necessarily to be brought to bowls.

      EBA-affiliated greens generally benefit from the slickest production techniques. The English Bowling Association is the national governing body for bowls, although affiliation is voluntary and the association has nothing to do with our own club. We play very occasionally on an EBA green, and the difference is palpable – formal notices, honours boards, professional greenkeepers and flat, flat, flat. It is nice, but alarmingly favours the better bowlers, and most of us are just as happy with a flattish piece of grass and the services of a bloke with a mower.

      I remove my Stella Artois beer towel from my bag and wipe my wood with pride.

      If non-believers know one historical fact about bowls, it’s that Sir Francis Drake refused to prematurely curtail his game, preferring to complete the final end before engaging and defeating the Spanish Armada. There’s no firm evidence that this is anything other than a patriotic tale, although to anybody who’s been forced by a sadistic enthusiast to play on through howling gales, squalls and electrical storms the story does have the ring of truth about it.

      ‘We still have time to finish the game and to thrash the Spaniards too!’ is the quote that’s cited. One suspects that, in the remote event that this episode did actually take place, Drake was fortunate that we didn’t go on to lose. Still, it is a good legend, and ‘Drake’s Pride’ is now a well-known brand of wood and bowls equipment, endorsed by – among others – Short Tony.

      Drake was a well-to-do sort but when it came to the lower classes, bowls was illegal in England – right up until the midnineteenth century. Henry VIII had worried that the sport would distract workers from their jobs; that they would piss about playing bowls instead of doing an honest hard day’s work. How things change. Subsequent rulers agreed with him, and bowls went underground – becoming known as a sport for drunkards, layabouts and vagabonds, a sport during which violence might occur at any minute. We’ve had none of that, although we did see a little undercurrent of tension at an away match a couple of years back, when the bowls people clashed with a folk club.

      It’s an odd concept now, but pick any era, and you’ll find an interest of the common people that the establishment has identified as a threat. Marilyn Manson, rave music, the Sex Pistols – even the Beatles and the Stones. For a few hundred years, this perceived threat was bowls. The game might be the new rock and roll – but once it was more than that. It was too rock and roll.

      Jason has been given Nigel’s place for the evening.

      He’s only just left college, which makes him my generation if you look at the big picture, although clearly I am senior to him in life experience. It’s great to see fellow young people playing, let alone taking the important skipper’s role. We shared a block together a couple of years ago when I played in the Monday league, and hopefully have a bit of a rapport. It’s a big responsibility for a youngster, and I’m looking forward to giving him the benefit of my knowledge – be it in hints and tips, or just by getting those good shots in first to take the pressure off him and to allow his game to settle down naturally.

      ‘Have a good game.’

      The away team always bowls first, so I have a chance to lurk behind their lead as he launches his first wood from the mat. Frankly, it is not a good wood – fifteen degrees wider than the optimum angle, and far too hard, coming to rest – I estimate – six feet behind the cott. He grins ruefully, and I give him a sympathetic smile.

      Having carefully studied the path of his wood, I step up to take my own. This sets off at about fifteen degrees wider than the optimum angle and I have put too much pace on it – it comes to rest – I estimate – eight feet behind the cott.

      ‘That’s a good start!’ calls Jason. ‘Just take a little bit off it, and a bit narrower!’

      I give him a nod. I am frustrated with myself, but it is good that the boy’s nerves aren’t getting to him too much – keeping the volume up is a key skill for any skipper, and I wouldn’t want him to feel that he couldn’t pipe up to offer me advice.