Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions. Rosie Dixon
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embroidered on it.
“We’re the Adders,” she says. “Adder-laide. Get it?”
“If I think about it for fifteen minutes,” I say. “Blimey, do you want me to wear that? It’s a bit short, isn’t it?”
“You’ll have to get used to the remarks. They’re always going on about ‘I’ve adder’ and ‘she’s been layed’.”
“Sounds just like University Challenge, I can’t wait. By the way, have we got any chance of winning this game?”
Labby looks glum. “We got thrashed last year. They take it so seriously, you see?”
What the hell do we do? I think to myself. Apart from moving all the patients into the grounds and turning the wards into gyms I can’t imagine what more can be done.
Comes the great day and Labby has not slept a wink the previous night. I know because her tossing and turning has meant that I have not slept a wink either. I go through my morning on the ward in a daze and am so absent minded that I allow myself to wander within grabbing distance of Britain’s sexiest octogenarian. The dirty old basket is suggesting a game of “naughty nanas” before you can say “straitjacket”. At least it is nice to know that I have one fan. Groper Arkwright may not be God’s gift to women but he is loyal.
There are three coaches to take supporters to the ground and I feel a right twit sitting there in my cheer leader uniform. We have had one rehearsal and it was disastrous. I don’t think I will ever be able to put my heart into any song that ends “Right up, Queens!” The whole thing is not calculated to make your blood turn into red steam:
“Adder, Adder, Adder, Adder,
Adelaide’s! ! !
Come on Queens, give them beans!
Right up, Queens!”
I was furious because Adam Quint walked past as we were prancing about. He stopped and watched us with his hands on his hips and the expression on his face made me want to punch him in the mouth. It was like Einstein watching a group of monkeys trying to thread beads on a piece of string. I don’t think I will ever be able to find the words to describe how much I loathe that man.
The match is to be played at Richmond and I tell Labby that this is a good omen because of Tom’s name. She tells me that Tom was playing there last year when the hospital lost 32–0.
“Better close the windows,” says someone, and I see why when a bag of soot bursts against one of them as we drive through the gates of the ground. There are long red and white scarves everywhere and these must obviously belong to the St Swithin’s people. I can hear shouts and screams coming from behind the stand and a man walks past me covered in bog paper with a toilet seat round his neck.
“It’s a scream, isn’t it?” yodels Labby. “Olly, Olly, Adders! !” Everybody surges out of the coach and I am grateful to the medical student who passes me a hip flask and urges me to take a swig. I am feeling about as nervous as a sword swallower with hiccups. My last public performance was in a Butlin’s Holiday Princess Contest and my bra fell off. The girl who won the heat was the one who had hooked me up. Just a coincidence, of course.
“How long do we have to stay out there?” I ask.
“Until the game is over.”
“What!? I though we just did our little song and that was that.”
“Oh no. We go behind the goalposts and enthuse the team.”
I wish someone would enthuse me. It is a freezing cold afternoon with a hint of snow in the air. My reception area is like a cold storage unit and I have still got my coat on. Where is that medic with the hip flask?
Out on the field, rival gangs of supporters are pelting each other with paper bags full of soot and flour and parading banners with slogans like “St Swithin’s for Cuppers” or, the brilliantly original, “Queens are Kings!” The main idea seems to be to destroy as much of the opposition’s material as possible and the spectators beginning to fill the stands rehearse their cheering as the battle rages below them.
I try and keep out of trouble and wrap my arms round myself to stop my nipples becoming petrified prune stones. If I brushed against something hard they might snap off.
“We’ll get going just before the team comes out,” says Labby. “Oh look! The boys have got a fire engine. Isn’t that brilliant?”
She is right. There is a fire engine carrying the black and gold Queen Adelaide’s’ colours circling the pitch. It looks quite a new one too. I don’t suppose—I look towards the gates and there is a man in a fireman’s hat struggling with a group of medical students. Oh dear. This is becoming a bit like the Christmas Dinner. At least the fireman seems to have been separated from his chopper.
The extending ladder on the fire engine swings out and two rows of St Swithin’s supporters in the stand collect a faceful of foam as a Queen Adelaide’s medic unleashes a fire extinguisher from the, top rung.
“Fantastic!” Labby’s ecstasy is short-lived. The tip of the ladder strikes the end wall of the stand and spins round nearly catapulting the Queen Adelaide’s marksman into the standing spectators. He dangles for a moment and then drops onto the grass.
“Is he all right?” We sprint towards the prostrate body with a crowd of Queen Adelaide’s supporters but are beaten there by an ambulance that appears from nowhere. The authorities are obviously well prepared for this game. The back doors swing open and—ooooow!! Four St Swithin’s swine leap out and start spraying us with their own fire extinguishers. A tremendous pitched battle takes place and reinforcements converge from all sides. Another ambulance screeches up, but this time we are ready for it. Almost before the doors are open the driver and his mate are covered from head to toe in flour and soot. It is only then that we realise they are on the level. Labby tries to say something but I don’t think they are very pleased. Especially when the bloke they came to pick up, walks off whistling.
“I think we’d better go and do our thing,” says Labby. “It sometimes gets a little out of hand about now.”
I can see what she means when they break the banner over the man’s head. As I recall it, the motto of Queen Adelaide’s is “Cure by faith and dedication.” It must be referring to bacon.
Whatever anyone may say about our performance of the Queen Adelaide’s’ song—and most people seem to say “get ’em orf!” (referring, I believe, to our knickers and not the performers themselves)—it does seem to divert attention from the violence on the field—that and a loudspeaker announcement saying that the fire brigade want their fire engine back and that the police have been called. By the time we have got to the “Right up, Queens!” bit and swung our snakes—I didn’t tell you about those, did I? I was too embarrassed—we are actually being cheered by both groups of supporters. It just shows what fourteen legs, fourteen tits, seven cloth adders and one lousy song can do to restore international understanding. Maybe the United Nations would like to employ us. The wail of police sirens coincides with the last notes of the song and the Queen Adelaide’s team runs out onto the pitch. It must be whatever was in that hip flask, or the reception to our song, but I actually find myself cheering.
They all look so big and strong and healthy and the whiff of embrocation would kill the editorial board of Jeremy at forty paces. Even when Shameless MacSweeney squeezes my pussy as he canters past I am not annoyed. “Just a touch of the magic minge to bring me luck,” he husks. “The Irish are very superstitious, you know.”
“Hurrah!” shouts Labby. “Doesn’t he look fantastic?” She means Tom but my attention is seized by the large, hairy figure shambling out onto the pitch behind the rest of the team. It is Adam Quint wearing rugby kit. He looks like Clement Freud with elephantiasis.
“He’s not playing, is he?” I gasp. I mean, with the gut he has on him it is easy to see why his socks are round his ankles: he can’t bend down to pull them up.
“John