SYDNEY “BARRACKERS”

Greymouth Evening Star, 6 December 1928, Page 10

SYDNEY “BARRACKERS”

A DAY ON THE HILL.

The running lire of comment kept up by the barrackers on the “Hili’ is a time-honoured feature of big cricket in Sydney. The following entertaining account in the Sydney “Sun” not only chronicles the sayings and “wisecracks" of the gentle souls who inhabit the “Hill,” but also gives a good idea of a day’s play in the recent match between England and an. Australian Eleven.

A minute past 12! Hey! What do we pay our two bob for? What are we here for?

Hey! Fair go Hobbs! Don’t dig the wicket up! Take him out a shovel. Garn, Hobbs, you’re scratching like an old hen! Someone else has to use that wicket. Go down George Street if yuh wanta dig holes! That’s where they dig ’em ’ere. Yah! Bowl on the wicket, Scott! Whatya tryin’ to do—save your average? Pretty one, pretty one; it’s a four! Mug bowlers! Hey! Vic., haven’t yuh got any more bowlers? Hit this tripe, Hobbs! Hit Hooker out of the ground. Another four! Mug bowlers! Y’ll never get ’em out! Bah. They call yuh a spare parts Australian Eleven! You’re not-’even old scrap iron. Steady, Sutcliffe!. ...You was out last night! Give the lads a chance! TripQbßotten! Mug bowlers! These two’ll be ’ere all day. Bowl on the wicket, Scott!

Yah, wow, murder! Get yer ’at to it, big mug! Who missed that? Morgan, you blob! That’s right, rub your fingers! Yuh won’t get another chance like that till Wednesday off these blokes. Yah, murder! Should have had Sutcliffe.

C’mon, paste these mug bowlers. Scott, will you bowl on the wicket! What are you here for? What ’ave we paid our two bob for? Garn, Oldfield, shift the wicket for Scott. He’s giving nobody any practice. Got any more bowlers? Are you cross-eyed, Scott? The wicket’s over there! Ninety up! They’ll be here for the day. C’mon Hobbs! Hit this stuff. Who d’ya think you’re playing against —the Blind Asylum? ’Ave a ’it! ’Ave a 'it! C’mon Nothling! Put some Roma oil on that ball. You’ll never get ’em out. Nice one! They’ll play this tripe for a week.

Y ow-yah—ooh—How—Zat —Hout!

Sutcliffe’s gone! Great catch. Good old Nothling! Damn fine bowler. Knew he’d get him. She broke from the ;off. I saw ’er from ’ere. Who’s the big cove? Bettington! Garn, who told you you could bowl? C’mon, Sardine, ’it. ’im out of the ground. Easy stuff! Backyard bowling! Four! ’Aven’t yuh got any bowlers? Bettington you’re a big boom! YOW--YAH—OOH—HOUT!

Bowled him! Bowled Sardine! Bettington, you beauty. Lovely ball! Trimmer! Knew nothing about it. Who’s this? Mead! C’mon, don’t scratch around. What are we ’ere for? C’mon, Tommy Andrews, shake it up! Take ’im out some oil. ’Aven’t yuh got any bowlers? They’ll play this rubbish for a week. YOW—YAH—OOH — HOWZAT—HOUT! Hobbs! Hobbs! Hobb’s hout! Leg before, Scott, you champeen. Beat 'im all the way! Fresh-cut sandwiches. ’Ool ’ave a cooler. Paper! First race at Randwick! Hey! Take your feet off me beer! Hey! You with the size 14 daisy roots, look where you’re walkin’! Come on! Come on! Sixteen minutes past two! What do we pay our two bob for? Bettington you beauty! C’mon, Doctor, you’ve got Mead thinking. ’Ave a 'it. ’Ave a go! Mead, what are you playing—croquet? Come on. Doctor, you’ve got him under chloroform! What’s wrong with your leg, Mead? Are the white ants in it? Hey! Sit down in front. We paid as well as you! Hey, you, Bullet-head in the brown suit —sit down! Hey, you, with the sheilah, sit down! We can’t see through you!

MEAD STONEWALLS. Come on, Bettington! You’re got Tiddly thinking! What’s that? Four! Good old Tiddly! Rotten bowling! ’Aven’t yuh got any more bowlers? Shake a leg there, Nothling! Yuh ought to be in the old Men’s Home! ’lt im out of the ground! These blokes

won’t ’it! ’Aye a go! What’s that bat made for, Mead? Whatdya buy it for —to salute with? 'lt the ball ’Ave a go! Hundred and fifty! Garn! Mug bowlers.! Morgan, wake up! Howzat? Not out! Hey, Mead, don’t walk in front of yer wicket! Give the lads a go. Come on, Tyldesley! Take your stays off, and ’ave a 'it. What ’ave we paid our two bob for? Yow! A long hop! Hit it into the stand. Missed it, Yah! Mug batsmen! Give Spofforth a bowl! Richardson, yu’ll never get ’em out! Come on, Doctor, you’ve got ’em thinking. Operate on Tiddly, Doctor —you’ll never bowl ’im out!

Yow! Yah! Howzat? Bloomee! Nothling, shake yourself! It was a chance. Whatya. waiting for? Do you like the sun out there? Wanta stay there till Thursday? Come on, Mead! You’re not shovel-

lin’ coal! You’re big enough to get a job on the wharves. ’Ave a go at that mug bowling! Scott, bowl at that wicket! You two would make a man go home in disgust.

“POMMY' CAUSES A STIR. Hey, that beer in the bag’s getting hot. You in the hard-hitter —sit down, or take yei’ ’at off! Ahm a Pommy, ah am, an amh proud of it! Hey, shut the north and south, and sit down! Hey, shy something at him, someone! Give us that squashed orange. I’ll make him sit clown! There’s plenty of good Pommies! Yah! Shut, the trap, and watch the ..cricket. We didn’t, come here to listen to you! ,

Great shot. Pretty, pretty! It’s a four. Mug bowlers! Hit ’em out of the ground! There’s good Pommies—’ere you—shut up! Dammit, we want to watch the cricket.

Scott’ll get Mead before tea. No, he won’t! Beat yuh! No, blocked it! Three for two hundred and thirty! They’re only one off us. Mug bowlers! Alim not decrying the Aussies. Ah get ma bread and butter here; but Ahm a Pommy, and proud of it! Gard, shut your face! You’re a damn nuisance! We wanta see the cricket

How Vic. Trumpet would ’ave given that off stump of Scott and Nothling an ’ell of an ’iding if he had been there! He’d ’a’been tin ’undred now. No, two hundred, more like it. And what did Mead do? Nuthin! Just, scraped round like an old woman! Sixteen minutes past four. Hey, what 'ave we paid our two bob for.

you loafers? Yer goin’ slow. Here they come! Bloomee, Tommy Andrews is going to have a bowl! Shut the gate! Hey, Mead, the fence is out ’ere! Tommy, you bowl like a tired cart-horse! You won’t get a wicket till Christmas. Take ’im off! YOW—YAH — HOWZAT —HOUT! Mead’s gone! Hoo-ray. You’re painful to watch! Here’s Pat Hendren! He’ll shake things up! Come on, Patsy, ’it Hooker out of the ground! Good ball! Good old Hooker! Knew nothing about it. Beat ’im all the way. YOW—YAH—OOH—HOUT! Patsy’s settled! Beautiful ball, Hooker, you old love. Five for two

forty three! Come on, Doctor, chloroform these tail-enders! Hey, Tate, take the size fourteen paddles off! You’ll run better! Bat in your socks! Larwoood’s gone. Good old Nothling! Nice catch, Scott, you old war horse. We’ll get ’em out yet. Here’s White. Ah, pardon me, Ladylike stroke, sir; ladylike stroke! knew* nothing about it. Come on, Bettington; here’s a rabbit! He can’t bat! You skittled him. How rude! Tate, take those beetle crushers off! It ’im out of the ground. Coffie on, Bettington; shake it up! Another over before six. What do we pay our two bob for?

Not a bad day! Yes, but if Vic. Trumper and Reg. Duff were in against that bowling, well — Last race, Randwick —paper!