After the novel experience of trying to play Rugby League in an alcoholic haze on New Year's Day and the semi-nude pantomime at Underbank, (when the gallant A-team of 1976/77 embraced both the great outdoors and the agricultural home side minus playing shorts), reserve team rugby somehow began to be taken much less seriously. It proved to be impossible to completely erase the quasi-erotic image of the game at Underbank from the mind. We got some new shorts and team spirit was never a problem. (Talent, fitness, dedication, discipline, determination, preparation and organisation were.)

Tell us about it, Bro !

Our next match was a welcome home game on a muddy Odsal Rec. against Holset Engineering from Huddersfield. We had an agreeable rapport with the Holset lads, principally because fixtures with them brought us two much needed victories. The pure joy in the expectation of actually winning a game - after losing the previous eleven - cannot be entirely described. It was amusing how players who had dropped out over the long losing run miraculously found a new surge of interest when the Holset games came around. One such player was nicknamed 'Fatty'. His endomorphic body shape - (surely not another short fat bloke, we already got twelve) - spoke one position only . . . blind side prop.

He would 'go' about three times in the dressing rooms before a game, then the farting would start. He reduced the warm up to a bigger farce than was normal by dropping a few large ones as we reluctantly limbered up before the kick off. He was expert in saving up his biggest and best for the scrummages, possessing a unique talent for timing his trumps to coincide with the precise point in time when a scrum was formed. Farting in the scrums was an art in which Fatty had no peer in the Pennine League fourth division. His expertise was so tasteful and cultivated that he single-arsedly succeeded in transforming 26 stubble chinned Saturday afternoon warriors, and the po-faced match official, to a state of uncontrollable giggling. Scrums became heaps of tearful joy as prop supported rival prop, hookers hugged and back-rowers embraced like brothers as Fatty's farts resonated into the cold afternoon air.

As competitive events, the matches were killed stone dead around the third scrum. It became impossible to take them seriously when he again let rip. He was so good that he didn't make any noise until the two packs had physically engaged and had entered into that short pregnant period of just a few seconds before the merry whistle blower, who seemed intent initially on obtaining absolute technical perfection, instructed the pugilist scrum half to "Set it in lad". This was Fatty's cue to close one eye, grimace, hold his breath and push with all his might. His first fart of the day was usually a tender affair, a high pitched soprano sounding apology of an effort that seemed to be oppressed as it tried to squeeze its way out from between his big buttocks. It seemed to be struggling to break free as it was driven back up into his anus by his adrenalin-fuelled blind side second rower's shoulder. The fart refused to be denied its freedom, however, and the full ripeness of the big fella's anal explosion was soon to be released fully into the face of his poor unsuspecting second row team-mate, who was striving manfully, against all odds it seemed, to do his bit for the forward scrum push.

FNF . . FNARF . . . FNAAAARF. As he gained in confidence, Fatty progressed to freely letting fly in multiples, causing the poor gasping, crying, vomiting young second row behind him to detach himself very early from the scrum, his senses attacked mercilessly by the fat man's fermenting fart factory. The by now fully liberated fart had developed into a well rounded vocal addition to the Universe, deepening in sound and texture to that of a tenor, before floating free in mature, rich deep baritone.

New players and rookies were always given the blind side second row spot from that day on. Fatty's enduring wife, Dolores, always carried a small roll of soft white Andrex in her handbag, to save her man from next using his underwear, shirt and any other attire as surrogate bog roll when he was forced into one of his many flying visits to the small room. He didn't play too many games, nobody would pack down behind him, you see. Although he has gone, he will never be forgotten. The last I heard of him, he was retired and living happily in Fartown.

Wot it is . . . see, this is wot it is.

Whoever & Wheresoever Yer Are