WONDERFUL ENGLAND

Te Awamutu Courier, Volume 59, Issue 4185, 13 September 1939, Page 11

WONDERFUL ENGLAND

AMERICAN IMPRESSIONS. . A DAY AT LORD’S. Impressions of England, as revealed to the noted American journalist, Walter Davenport, as described by him in the London Daily Express, make interesting reading at this juncture;— Having spent 10 days in London I quite naturally know precisely what England is going to do in the next six months or so. It all became apparent to me after a week, which is nimble. It usually takes us American journalists all of a fortnight to discover all the secrets of the Empire. We always depart astonished at the ignorance of your Prime Minister, Foreign Office, Air Ministry and War Office.

A day at Lord’s watching a lot of husky white guys . from Lancashire and other parts trying to subdue a lot of ccml-black fellows from the West Indies gave me the fundamental lowdown. Nothing like that crowd would be tolerated in America. I was apologised to by a gentleman in the queue who merely brushed my arm. In America there wouldn’t have been a queque; there’d be a riot. There, the gentleman would have asked me to get the hell off his foot, and I’d have asked him who the hell he was shoving; and four cops would have answered us.

Inside the grounds or park there would have been no pale young men who needed haircuts lugging signs about telling us who was going to play for England and who for the boys from the West Indies. There’d have been a leather-lunged guy from Hell’s Kitchen telling us through a megaphone. And the lads who were going to play would have been out there tossing the ball around, indulging in batting practice and warning each other to lay off their blondes, who would be sitting in the stands eating hot dogs and looking biondely vague. 1

If, in the States, a pitcher or bowlei’ were to hand his sweater to the umpire, the umpire would probably eat it—and the bowler, too. If this same pitcher were to let any one or series of ones make as many as ten runs off him in an innings he’d be sold to the nearest glue factory. And when I envision the St. Louis Cardinals, who as far as I can see, approximate those West Indies boys in this cricket league, quitting in the middle of a batting rally for tea at four o’clock, everything becomes clear to me. And there’d have been no spectator asleep in America as was a ruddy gentleman just behind me. And no baseball fan would have been doing crossword puzzles, nor reading a life of Douglas Haig, nor fooling around with a pocket chessboard, stymied for two hours by his imaginary opponent’s Queen’s gambit attack.

All these things I saw at Lord’s. I also saw what I was informed was an appeal to the umpire about being hit by the ball. If you’re beaned by the the pitcher in the States, even on the leg, you get a free ride to first base. In cricket you’re out.

But it was the argument that revealed the fate of England to me.

The hitter spoke gently, almost deferentially, to the umpire who made a ruling. And that was that. In the States both teams would have been pushing the umpire around, stepping on his feet (with spikes) and talking in loud voices about his personal affairs—to say nothing of certain peculiarities in his immediate ancestry. And the crowd would have joined in. This is, of course, merely a sketch of what I have learned of England’s future. There are certain things I found out in Rosie’s Bar that I’m bound not to reveal. But it’s a swell place. The whole attitude of that crowd at Rosie’s was something like that of the gentleman, who, at the newsreel of the home-coming of their Majesties, sat in utter and apparently incurable silence until —just as they arrived inside the courtyard of Buckingham Palace —the hat of one of the princesses blew off. He stroked his moustache twice and, turning to his lady, said: “See that, m’dear; rather good, what?” Another revealing thing was the comment of the crowd in Piccadilly Circus the morning after the latest bombings. Offhand I recall most readily the elderly retired brigadierlooking man who said; “Rotten bomb-makers, whoever they are.” That’s all he said. And there was the day I saw the King and Queen riding down Fleetstreet being welcomed by the City. Out of the door of the Lord Mayor’s coach, at a nice rakish angle, was the great golden mace. I asked what it was. A gentleman, noting probably that I was not an Englishman, helped me out. “Aow, just something to hang ’is ’at on when it gets ’ot.” After all, there’s not a great deal of important difference between you English and us Yankees. There is some difference, of course. Like Tony Galento, who is about to be murdered —and like it—we holler: “We can lick them lugs.” You lugs say it to yourselves. A little more noise at Lord’s and a few more beers at Rosie’s and I’d feel right at home—-God bless it.