THE ALL BLACKS

Southland Times, Issue 19434, 24 December 1924, Page 6

THE ALL BLACKS

CHRISTMAS AT DEAL CIVIC RECEPTION' TENDERED (By Telegraph—Press Assn.—Copyright.) (Australian and N.Z. Cable Association j.«■ LONDON. December 22. (Received December 23, 5.5 p.m.) The New Zealanders arrived at Deal, where they received a civic reception. “ALL BLACKS AND BLUES.” INNOCENTS OF THE R.U. GALA. (By Roamer and Monk in the Manchester Evening Chronicle). Monk and I went to see the Rugby fight between the All Blacks and the men of Lanca.<*hire. and what we say is: “Give | us good, honest murder.” I don’t know what the police were doing to allow it. Here were 30 men, all tearing each other to pieces, and not a constable lifted a hand to stop it. Even if the police force weren’t strong enough themselves, they could have called out the military. Somebody ought to protest. Why, I saw five great, strong “All Blacks” trying to strangle a poor Lancashire fellow, just because he happened to have the ball. It was his turn to have it, anyway. And 25,000 people stood round the field at Old Trafford and actually cheered. What is the use of having a League of Nations if this sort of thing goes on? Sometimes I think the modern man—or, at any rate, the modern football fan —hasn’t got a heart at all. I do not quite understand the rules of Rugby, but the idea seems to be that as soon as any man on the other side gets the ball you must rush at him and sit on his stomach. Be will not submit lightly, naturally. The moment you charge at him, with murder gleaming in your eyes, he will push his hand in ycur face, and then you may quite possibly hit the United Kingdom with a thud. Usually, however, he can only bash one or two of you. The rest of your team will grasp him by any available limb and then proceed to apply the Third Degree until he either parts with the ball or yields up his immortal soul. Now and again a lot of the men crouch in a bunch, like a crab with 20 legs, while another fellow throws the ball into the midst. Then the legs kick each other until the ball rolls out. Then the murder begins again. It was enthralling to watch the faces of the crowd as the massacre proceeded. Most of them were quite humane men. really, and would not harm a fly or anything, unless it got in their beer. At first they just looked dazed. Then they looked horrified. Then they entered into the spirit of the thing and applauded loudly I whenever the battle raged fiercely. One man stood high up on the bank and watched with the keen eye of the Man- ; Chester United supporter. He kept on moaning faintly. He couldn’t understand that the assassins were permitted to carry the ball as far as they could, and all his instincts rose in rebellion. He wanted to shout, “Hands.” Besides, an ordinary or Association footballer would have been shot at dawn if he < had flung his arms round the waist of an opponent and then sat on his head. The spectator high up on the bank watched the bloodshed with a haggard face, as though he thought the world had gone mad. “Foul!’’ he muttered. But the other thousands gazed at the stricken field with joyous expressions. “All for the love of the game!” they told each other—“ All for the love of it!” My hat!” they would say. “Look at ’em! Eating each other alive.” “Garn! They’re just strangling one another. You see? Look, Bill! The big stiff is throtting the little ’un!” “Look, quick, George! There’s five of ’em, all pulling poor Rutter different ways!” “Where’s the ref?” "Now they're chasing Ginger. No!— he’s dodged ’em. He's got— ah. They’ve caught him!—Look! They’re trampling him into the grass. Is he dead, Bill? Tell that man to take his hat off—l can't see! Have they dug him up yet?” “Ifc’s all right, George. You can’t kill I these men. They like it.” “Can’t the ref. stop it?” “Why don’t they kick the ball instead of trying to carry it? Is the ball punctured? Whv isn't it round, like ordinary' balls?” ‘7 dunno, Fred.” “Good heavens, they’re at it again! See that All Black kick Ginger in the stomach? Poor old Ginger’s going through it! His mother won’t know him.” And so forth. I do not think it was quite fair to allow the All Blacks to have 15 men. They are such huge fellows. One All Black was capable of strangling three Lancashire players, and as often as not he did it. Not that Lancashire despaired. No! They stuck to it like grim death. Blakiston, of Liverpool, was especially enthusiastic, and frequently managed to jump heavily on a prostrate All Black. In fact, some of the All Blacks were soon All Black and Blue. He stopped several men from scoring tries. A try is scored when a man—when the ball is taken—when —oh, well, explain it yourself. Of course, the All Blacks won. They had a nasty habit of throwing the ball from man to man so swiftly that the Lancashire players couldn’t assault them quickly enough to get it. Then the last man dashed away with it, hugging it to his bosom, and achieved a try. Whenever that happened the All Blacks had a shot at goal, just for luck. But they always missed, in spite of the fact that the goal-posts were about as tall as the Town Hall tower. Rotten shooting, I call it. Well, it all ended at last, without anybody actually being conveyed to the mortuary. The players trooped off the field. Monk and I raised our hats as they went. There can have been nothing like it since the great battles between the lions and the early Christians in the Roman Colosseum. Then the real fight began. I mean the fight* for the trams. The whole 25,000 spectators wanted to board each tram as it came along, and no quarter was asked or given. It was the real, grim, knife-and-dagger work, with no mercy to the women or children. Monk and I managed to climb on to a tram, as the result of a neat bit of infighting. Monk had to kick an old gentleman before he would make room, while I was forced to trample on two or three people. Then the car went along, with the rest of the 25,000 snarling horribly in the roadway. I do not know if the All Blacks saw it, but if they did they must have turned a trifle pale.