TODAY HAS TO BE SATURDAY

Press, Volume CVI, Issue 31125, 30 July 1966, Page 14

TODAY HAS TO BE SATURDAY

IBU

WHIM WHAM]

Sir, you shall labour five Days of the Week, And on the Seventh (if a Christian) pray; But on the Sixth, unless you are a Freak, The Game of Rugby dominates your Day. Whether the Spectacle’s provided locally Or reaches you by Radio from Elsewhere, Somehow it occupies the Middle, focally— Ignore it if you can, or if you dare. The Sixth Day of the Week is sacred, Sir. This Time of Year, I have to treat it warily, Lest careless Jibe or accidental Slur Provoke the Devotees unnecessarily. When the Game’s good, it’s very, very good; And like that Little Girl, when bad it’s horrid. Most of Us know by now What’s understood By adjectives like ‘willing’, ‘fierce’ and ‘torrid’: Most of Us know what Commentators mean By Hints as broad as Bricks that They let fall, The Boys are ‘a bit eager* or ‘too keen’, Their Minds are not entirely on the Ball. In other Places, Words that lead to Blows Are bad enough,—but when a Front Row girds Itself for Battle, Everybody knows The Risk is worst, that Blows will lead to WORDS; And Words are apt to give the Game away, Prolonging futile Squabbles off the Field; A Grievance given Tongue is apt to stay When broken Bones are knit and Bruises healed, Sir, here’s another Saturday come round, — Clean Jerseys and fresh-laundered Referees. Let’s entertain the Hope, on EVERY Ground, Of speckless Play—and polished Speeches, Please!