Northampton Saints
The Summer Serial - How Grim Was My Valley? episode 2
By Llewellyn Lloyd
July 18 2013
This episode of the Summer Saga took some time to come to light, because, in fear of reprisals from the Tafia, the author changed his tradecraft, and the manuscript was let in a place that the editors would blush to name. So hear is the second spasm, in which Idris Jones has arrived in NORTHAMPTON, and to answer Ianto's question - yes, they do play rugby a bit there!
The Summer Serial - How Grim Was My Valley? episode 2
In which Idris makes himself known to Northampton Saints supporters
The River Nene flowed quietly between fields of stubble beneath a late Summer sun . The waters moved sedately in contrast to the excitement that was building in its upper urban reaches.
In the Town of Northampton beyond the West bridge where the river flowed between concrete flood defences the ancient Parish of St James was coming alive as first a few and then a rapidly building stream of people many dressed in the green black and gold of their team made their way towards Franklyns Gardens for the first match of a new season.
In the September sunshine the joy and anticipation of the gathering crowd was palpable. All summer long they had waited and speculated and now at last the day was here. The first match of a new campaign that could and just might end in glory. For so many years they had hoped for so much and seen their hopes dashed as their beloved Saints fell at the last hurdle. Now with new and exciting player signings the expectation that this really could be their year was very great indeed.
The usual groups of friends met in the usual pubs for pre match drinks while others made straight for the ground and the bars there. Watching rugby was always a thirsty pleasure.
One such group had met earlier and after several pints of good beer were wending their way up the Weedon road towards the Rugby ground.
Striding out on front was the tall figure of Rob Downes who was known to his mates as “Up and Downs “ due to the his ever changing views of the Saints prospects which ranged from total pessimism to unbridled optimism. So far he was cheerful and optimistic.
He was followed by Jack Gregory a formerly rotund person who was known for his deep attachment to technology and an encyclopaedic knowledge of pale ales of obscure provenance.. Bringing up the rear of this eclectic party was Old Dick Riley who grunted and swore as he hobbled walking stick in hand after the others. Old Dick was a person of confusing appearance and even more confusing origins.
Rob was the first to arrive at the Gardens where he stopped and stared at a sight so rare that he almost wondered if he was at the right place at the right time . Such thoughts were not uncommon for Rob who had been known to turn up on a Saturday for a Sunday match.
Hey Boys he called over “ You should come and see this “. The others arrived and the three friends found themselves with many others staring at a sight unprecedented at the Rugby ground. Rob pointed and the others followed his finger to stare like him at - a uniformed constable.
This was a very unusual sight and Old Dick reminded them all that no member of the constabulary had been seen at Franklyns Gardens since the last time the Cobblers played Cardiff City . – and then it was just a young copper who wanted to use the toilets.
“ But why “asked Jack Gregory “Is there some sort of trouble ? “
Over there - pointed Robb and he pointed towards the VIP car park and the famous statue of rugby players in action universally known as Uncle Keith’s tackle.
A man had climbed up onto the statues plinth and seemed to addressing the crowds of rugby fans as they made their way into the ground.
The man was of average height and dressed despite the warm September sunshine all in black . A long black overcoat flapped open around him and on his head was a black woollen hat. His right arm was raised over his head with fist clenched and his left arm clutched a large black book to his chest. His eyes were wild and his mouth open.
He spoke –
“ I am the Reverend Idris Jones and I am here to bring you the truth “ he bellowed .
Some people stopped and looked up at him. Jack , Rob and Old Dick walked across and stood with several others before him.
” I have come to turn you to the paths of righteousness and rugby enlightenment. I call upon you now to put aside the false gods of the crash ball and the rolling maul and to reject the great sins that are called promotion and relegation.”
“ He’s mad “ said Rob
“ Is he Polish “ asked a man in an England shirt in the now growing group of fans at the base of the statue.
“ what’s wrong with relegation “ shouted Jack Gregory - who was always up for an argument
“ What’s wrong with relegation “ repeated Idris Jones “ I will tell you – it is against the divine plan for does not the good book tell us “ and here Idris waved his large black book threateningly at the listening group. - “ that on the last day the first shall be last and the last shall be first –that should be clear enough even to your befuddled Saxon minds “
“ Oy who are you calling a Saxon ? ” called Old Dick -who sometimes referred to the possibility that his great grandfather had got on the wrong boat in Cork Harbour and instead of going to America to make his fortune had ended up in Swansea. No one was ever sure including Dick how he came to be in Northampton.
Just then a large and imposing figure was walking past and turned to address the trio . It was none other than Big Jock Strachan, yacht owner and a former officer of aeroplanes. In an accent that reeked of class , breeding and hint of scotch he growled “ Fit like the wee loon on yon statue ? “
Standing immediately behind the tall Scotsman was his lady wife the fair lady Ellen who was not of the Caledonian persuasion. “ I’ll translate if you like “ she offered - as she was want to do in view of the frequently shifting and incomprehensible accents deployed by her spouse.
“ No need “ said Jack “ We got that bit - “ as for the bloke over there well he’s some sort of missionary we think -and he sounds Welsh.”
“Och aye Wheel noo “ muttered the Scots aeronaut “ When I was on Hurr Majesties Surrvice I flew over Wales the once you know – it looked closed .”
“ I hope it isn’t “ said Rob “ Because were playing them Newport Dragons in that cup thingy next month- will it be cancelled then ? Not that I was going to go to it as we’d probably loose anyway.
Meanwhile the crowd around the statue had grown and was, in the opinion of the constable who everyone had forgotten about , was likely to turn nasty.
Normally Northampton folk and the rugby fans in particularly were a phlegmatic lot and not given to expressing something like passion on any less than seven pints of Old Wally .It was as yet early for a such a level of consumption but faces were getting redder and voices louder as the provocative rhetoric of Idris Jones continued to challenge their deepest beliefs, habits and hinted at an inside knowledge of their most private functions.
The Constable who was called Tarquin Haddon and was regarded as the black sheep of his family by his delinquent grandfather Bert moved to the foot of the statue and looked up at the ranting figure above him. He was going to be firm but not aggressive.
“ Sir I must ask you stop what you are doing and step down “ he said in loud and clear voice . In fact it was very clear and only just out of the treble register so much so that had it been any higher pitched it would have been a squeak.
The black coated figure who was just warming to his theme about the iniquities of so called English teams stuffed full of Boers and wild tribesmen drawn from across the vast pacific – looked down at the thin uniformed figure below him and stopped .
Idris knew about the police - he regarded them as collaborationists in the great atheist conspiracy to turn his home land into a post millennium theme park where sin would prosper and supporting Manchester United would be compulsory.
He spoke “I am about the Lords work young man and I cannot cease from my appointed mission for anyone “
The crowd fell silent and the constable and time stood still . Then suddenly Old Dick shouted out “ Blooming eck its five to three already – let’s leave this twerp and watch the game . “ and with that the crowd drifted way and the constable and Idris were left alone staring at each other.
A moment later the sound of several thousands of voices singing as best they could ( the majority being English ) ” Oh When the Saints “ roared forth from inside the stadium.
Idris looked about confused by the noise – slowly he stepped down and turning to young Tarquin Haddon and asked
“ who is this Wendy and why are they singing about her? is she one of those harlots from the popular music industry?“
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