Millom in the Dock (12 page)

In reality,
critic bores me and I don’t go near dartboards. So then you can
understand why Rugby League in Millom or on any other planet in any
other Universe will always be out of bounds to me. However, a
softer version is available. One mile away in Haverigg there was
and, still is, a Rugby Union Club. These lads seemed more … more …
ehrm … what’s the word? … Human … than the Millom League mob i.e.
they actually cooked/cook meat before they ate/eat it, used/use the
alphabet, didn’t/don’t go to the dentist and have to be
tranquillised with a rifle before having a tooth removed, if they
happened to have any left that is? Should you be a toothless Rugby
League player in Millom, you can usually see your ex set round some
other player’s neck at some point during the weekend’s social
activities. Didn’t/don’t ruin pair after pair of gloves in winter
because of ‘knuckle to floor drag- producing cow hide destroying
friction’. As you can guess by this factor, King Arthur Ferg loved
the League players more than the Union soft lads who only used one
pair of warm woollen mittens each … each winter to rub off the
snowflakes which landed on their noses and eyelashes, so their
fingers didn’t get cold and wet. Bless!

I knew, on a
friendly basis, most of the lads who played both varieties way back
then through the annoyingly opaque mists of time but, let’s talk
League for a while. The first team would be almost immune/used to,
yet still crave, whatever pain they could get, especially you know
who. Someone told me that some of the players who visited would ask
upon arrival, “who’s this Sharpo?” ... his fame had spread, not
necessarily because of his skills.

Despite this
opiate lust they would also have a full team of substitute players
but, not exactly to be used in the event of injury – i.e. head
twisted around a là Exorcists or any other reason for a player
leaving the field in a state of heroic grace. If the visiting team
were particularly rough carnivores and, the odds were against our
home team of mere Arnie/Silverback crosses making an impression,
off they all came grumbling gutturally, yes even the contract
killers who didn’t need a contract, just a victim, such as Sharpo
and, onto the field would go the feminine touch just to even things
up a little. This was an unwritten rule or … no game.

The moustaches
were real as were the hairy legs and, it wasn’t/isn’t at all
unusual (expected) for the women players to bite off part of the
opponents ears after a few of these naïve visiting players had
pulled very, very hard on their top lip facial hair in a grim,
griiiim, (oh dear me!), mistaken attempt to remove it, as part of a
cruel humiliating rugby type stunt. Mike Tyson had obviously seen
8mm black and white footage of Millom Lass League game strategy.
Evander was obviously screened by his parents. This is the first
and only time that Sharpo was ever accused of being a tranny, when
he donned a false Freddie Mercury moustache and tried to join the
girl’s team so he could punch someone. He may have gotten away with
it, but unfortunately, he lost a little concentration beforehand
and while getting changed made the dire mistake of shaving his legs
to fit in; he was spotted immediately i.e. his shapely white pins
against the ladies, erm, well insulated pins ...

And, I will
tell you something M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear
reader, that scene in the original Jurassic Park where, the
Tyrannosaurus Rex is chasing the scientists in the jeep? It would
have been a different story if the Millom Rugby League girls (and
Sharpo, after a re-grow of leg hair) had been on board, on yes
sireeee! A handbrake turn followed by a fucking Barbie that’s what!
It would have been the Rex in the crapper with Sharpo helping pull
down the chip board wall panels, I can tell you.

M’lud: “Mr
Lassut! Language!”

Oh, sorry
M’lud, I got a little carried away there. Adrenaline rush.

M’lud: “That’s
okay, I’ve heard worse in the House of Lords concerning Jeffrey
Archer. Carry on”.

Okay, thank you
M’lud. This particular local sport can also go leaps and bounds
towards an explanation regarding this ‘missing link’ bollo … ehm …
fiasco. The fact is M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear
reader there ain’t no missing link. Millom Rugby League have a
cartload of Anthropologists dreams running around the pitch on a
Saturday afternoon. I mean the men by the way; I wouldn’t dream of
insulting the women, no way, as my words may upset them (especially
if they are on heat and their hormones are all messed up).

Nevertheless!
I’ve seen Wigan Warriors run terrified from the field before the
halftime whistle, which is allowed by the referee, who works in
Millom slaughterhouse, so he erm, ‘understands’. Then they, Wigan,
were too nervous to eat their orange segments, even after seeing
the women’s team eat their quantity of Outspan with juice spraying
relish … without bothering to peel them (the origin of marmalade by
the way boriiiiiing! Zzzzzzz!). The box sometimes ends up in
splinters too during the feeding frenzy which would make a group of
hungry piranhas dining on some unfortunate beast look like camp
tadpoles lapping baby bears porridge. The ladies B team by the way
were away training young Hyenas new techniques to bring down adult
Rhinoceros’, as their parents can’t manage the task. Ahem!

After the half
time relaxation session with the Vitamin C, the Wigan players then
refused to re-enter the arena for the second half because of these
feminine warriors who, now upright again, would make Amazons look
like makeover teams for ‘Gay Eye for the Straight Guy’. They
literally had to be pushed on by the proud mothers of the players.
The poor ickle players were between pure carbon and a hard place.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t just the threat of the game but, the
soap and watery legend of the … communal bath afterwards?!

“Are legends
true?” asked the Wigan players to each other, with mucho
nervousness. “If not in general … might this one just be the
exception? Gulp!” Will Sod’s law rise from the depths to claim them
as victims? The Wigan 7 sure hoped not. The rest of the players had
climbed onto the clubhouse roof and no amount of stick and stones
aimed safely, thrown by the ‘shown up’ mothers and partners could
loosen their grip.

Because the
local Rugby lads (not even Sharpo, but he was very close to a sniff
a couple of times) could not come anywhere near to satisfying even
the basic sexual needs of these women, foreplay for instance
involves a two person scrum, followed by that bit where they lift
you up by the knack … ahem! Knickers, to grab the ball … say no
more, very, very painful, especially as the top of your head
crashes into the ceiling … so I’m told. So, as sexual partners, us
delicate non Rugby, well after the link, homosapien ‘upright’ types
had absolutely no chance at all and, then more often than not, had
to live in sexual frustration sometimes for decades. Sigh! (I still
am … S I I I I I I GH!)

The visitors
though, rough as the game was, were always very welcome especially
if they were highly skilled, although it didn’t seem that way in
the presence of the opposition and the ch(J)eering crowd. Ancient
Christians would know what I mean. You see the Millom Females 11
saw them as suitable sexual partners if they, working as team,
managed merely to touch the ball. If any of the visitors actually
succeeded in running a couple of feet with it while at the same
time giving a carry to a couple of thumping, biting, scratching
ladies they, the ladies, wanted … no, sorry, ‘were having’ his
body; end of story.

Artist’s
impression of Sharpo leaving the field at half time (if the men
were still on) to get his segment of orange.

The game was
merely a warm up, score a try? No one knows as it has never
actually happened. Hmmmmm, yes M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the
Jury, dear reader, I realise it is painful to visualise these
things but I must continue with ‘the bath’.

Like Orca, the
women would herd the visitors into the corner of the bodily heated
pool, creating small steam twisters to add to the confusion. It was
then either soapy flesh to soapy flesh … moustache to moustache (if
the guy was man enough to grow one) … or drown! Please yourself?
With home so far away and, only one road passing through the hick
town through two farmyards?! Well no one really wants to die, so
physical and emotional exhaustion with limbs skew-whiff and your
head jammed up your butt is far, far more preferable, especially
with people like Poggy around to help heal you … foot on backside …
rope around remaining bit of neck … pull … heave ho! … Pop! … Wash
hair. A ‘free’ enema! A cranial pull through. Every cloud has a
silver lining (except if it’s from Chernobyl). A relieved and
grateful local audience huddled together grunting approval at the
far end of the bath.

Eventually the
waters would go calm again and the mist would softly veil the lad’s
usually 20/20 hunter’s vision. Was the mating over? How could one
tell? Easy! So I’m told … by simply submerging one’s head and
seeing, out of focus, the bodies lying dormant on the bottom of the
bath … dead?! M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader
… No! Merely holding their breath and ‘playing’ dead, the
cowards!

All this play
acting led to a Millom Women’s Rugby League style Holger Neilsen
revival session at the end of the bathing session, which involved
the jumping on the chest to expel water, plus a little mouth to
mouth resuscitation. Sometimes a crunching sound could be heard
during this kiss of life, which was simply dentures ending up as a
snack which, eaten between meals, never ruined the ladies
appetites. As far as this bath experience goes, I heard that
sailing ships had been wrecked in less stormy seas, then looted by
posh primitives from Barrow in Furness.

I’ve seen the
MEN’S district trophy fly through closed pub windows (why throw a
trophy through an open one? Unless there’s a copper looking through
maybe). I’ve seen players eat raw eggs then spit out the beak and
feathers. The Union lads would eat raw eggs too but, only after
they had been boiled for 4 minutes, as they didn’t want to catch
that “Salmon Nellie disease thing” (nowt to do with my Gran Nellie)
and end up with bad tummie wummies.

Now M’lud,
ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, this you are NOT
going to believe but, whether you do or not, it’s true. I heard
once, you can guess who told me? The story of a legendary male
player who could grab his testicles in the change rooms and turn
the whole baggage around three times! A select breeding male
specimen if ever there was one! Thus seeing an opportunity to
become a popular local male with sex hungry females, I decided to
do a rehearsal in the privacy of my bedroom before going public
with a self-indulgent, extremely virile display of maleness. I
would do four turns and they would just have to bow to me in
servitude and, then I would be an eligible breeding male! Look out
King Arthur; this would transform me into a G. o. d!

Well there I
was, stood naked in front of my dressing table watching myself in
the mirror, as it is important to get the angles correct. My
testicles though, gripped between thumb and forefinger began to get
worryingly red and slightly tight, not to mention extremely tender,
after just half a turn which, meant that the record was in
jeopardy. In my panic I decided to try the quick method i.e. like
tearing off a sticking plaster. I changed the angle of my hand and
gripped what I could in my palm, counted three, grinned at myself
then … twisted!

The Aurora
Borealis is sometimes seen up North but, never in a bedroom up
North with the curtains closed! I think the spectacular light
display I witnessed was a part of my brain fusing. A muscular spasm
on the way to the floor caused me to grab the dressing table cloth,
taking with me as travelling companions, priceless(ish) antique
vases (don’t tell the Reverend) and other breakables which would
have done really well now on Bargain Hunt. This combined thump and
crash must have alerted my parents who, thankfully, managed to
carry me to the local hospital which was very nice of them. I woke
up with two nurses, gorgeous twins in fact (tastyyy or what!)
attending to me. Actually it was only the one nurse, who wouldn’t
allow me home until I read the eye chart properly … AA
..
.
BB ..
.
CC
..
.
just wasn’t good enough for the NHS,
sorry the MHS.

Now, M’lud,
ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, childbirth Rugby
League style.

The doctors and
nurses naturally form a scrum around the stirrups which, are
borrowed from Freddie and Peg. The action usually takes place in
the pregnant couple’s bedroom. You can imagine the actual birth,
where junior is handed delicately to mum, who cuddles and kisses
the new arrival. She then, with a practiced ‘pass’ sent around the
room to say hello to everyone. It is said to be better than a smack
and a great way to meet the full delivery team, whether junior
wanted to or not. Rules are rules though … no forward passing
allowed (Section 7 Paragraph 3).