It hadn’t been a good summer, and, if history was anything to go by, it wasn’t likely to be a good Saturday. Wolves had never taken a single point from the Boleyn Ground, and had only scored in two – quite recent – matches. The previous season, we’d been spanked five-nothing. Yet as the train steamed into a boarded-up Euston station and we filed out past temporary buildings into the dismal London August, I couldn’t help feeling excited, more excited, in fact, than I would have done for any ordinary away match in the Smoke. For not only were we going to watch the Wolves, we were also going to listen to the very best amateur poets East London and South Staffordshire could provide, in what promised to be the most thrilling installment of the Boleyn Tavern Debates.
The tradition had begun in the twenties, as the Hammers looked for promotion from the second division, and Wolves trod water there under the listless stewardship of Jack Addenbrooke. With Wolves unable even to score at the Boleyn Ground (or do anything but lose at Molineux), discussions sprang up around the pubs of Wolverhampton about the ethics of betting against one’s own team in order for the inevitable pain of defeat to be alleviated. According to legend, such a conversation was overheard by a West Ham supporter during a pre-away-match session in the Boleyn Tavern, who, along with his fellow drinkers, joined in. Thus, the classic four-way debate format was established, and grew until the Hammers’ promotion in 1922.
When the teams’ paths crossed again, however, it was decided that the format needed some rejuvenation. Enter Norbert Prateworthy, the only man known to have asked for sherry in the Chequer Ball and nominal spokesman for the Contented Young Chaps, a group of amateur poets aligning themselves against the more modish social-realist tendencies of the day. He and his group decided the well-worn arguments could be efficiently spruced up by classical formalism, and thus the diehards and bookies’ plants who used to debate the matter gave way to the Contented Young Fellows and other poets’ circles from Whitmore Reans, Wednesfield, East Ham and Barking.
I hadn’t heard of their opponents, but they were apparently well regarded in the literary circles of Canning Town and Plaistow.
This year’s contest featured Norbert himself, along with the wheel-tapper and self-styled Petrarch of Park Dale, Natty Strong, who would be arguing for and against the motion: “Lump on West Ham to Win” in sonnet form. I hadn’t heard of their opponents, but they were apparently well regarded in the literary circles of Canning Town and Plaistow.
‘All right, Norbert,’ I said as we arrived at the pub, ten minutes before the first argument.
‘Gonby,’ smiled Norbert paternally, smoking a Senior Service through an ivory holder, ‘Jack.’
‘Nobby,’ said Jack Dudley, blankly. All set?
‘Set? Why yes,’ replied Norbert, ‘One really has no choice. A sonnet can hardly be rattled off ad lib…’
‘What are we going for?’ I asked, ‘English or Italian?’
‘A little innovation of my own,’ replied Norbert.
I didn’t like the sound of this, ‘But isn’t the judge Blessèd Graves? He’s not going to like too much bugg…’
‘Leave this to me, Gonby,’ came the reply, calmly patrician, ‘I was once complemented by William Butler Yeats, you know…’
‘On a tie you were wearing!’
‘Nevertheless…’
‘Neverthemore,’ replied Jack, and we decided to leave it there. In any case the chairman was banging out a churchwarden pipe which gave a gavel-like authority to the proceedings. The crowd hushed and his curt preamble followed immediately.
‘The motion is “Lump on the Irons”.’ Arguing in favour, for Wolverhampton Wanderers: Norbert Prateworthy.
There was a round of applause, a couple of brain-rattling whistles and a cry of “Come on me babbies!” Blessèd was filling his pipe by now and thus could not bang it, but things settled down to a hush before Norbert began.
'Is all that I could give thee given yet? In Saturdays and shillings have I paid What I have pledged? Thou wouldst not feel betrayed If I said halt! No more! And bet Upon West Ham to beat thee as they e’er Have done, ‘tis true, and yet I would feel shame To have, though not by much, but for one game Allowed a single part of me rejoice in thy despair. And yet one must be wise to what is fact: We never win nor draw here. We always lose The money spent on cigarettes and booze Is lost for zero gain, and thus the pact That I have sworn to you I this day choose To break and say, “Ten bob on Wolves to lose!”'
Loud and generous applause followed; and not only from Wolves fans. I was relieved that Norbert’s ‘innovation’ only extended to the rhyme scheme, and what I considered a rather harmonious blend of the Petrarchan and the Elizabethan. Jack and I nodded positively to each other. Nothing much for Graves to take issue with and a fine delivery, to boot. Jack pushed his way to the bar for another round while a burly dockworker stood up and approached Blessèd’s table.
‘Arguing for the motion for West Ham United: Billy O’Hearn.’
‘Oh you Irons, Oh you Hammers, oh you West Ham. You are as glorious as eels On Saturday. My favourite day. It feels Just like a holiday. You cannot do No wrong in my eyes, boys. You don’t always Win, of course, and though your record ‘gainst Wolves Is perfect, ‘tis still unsure. It involves The lady Fortune and her fickle ways. Still I don’t care. I’m West Ham through and through I’ll bet upon you like I always do. The bookmaker’s on Green Street sees my trade, Since Harold the new Gaming Act has made And with the mighty Irons marching on, I’ll put two guineas down and make a bomb!’
Applause more polite than enthusiastic greeted the fourteenth line. This was a good deal more generous than the sniggers that had greeted the messed-up iambs of the first line or the ham-fisted volta, not to mention the unwarranted reference to current affairs. ‘This looks like a whitewash,’ I muttered to Jack as he passed me my pint.
Jack nodded, ‘Just need Natty to keep things tight second half.’
‘Arguing against the motion for Wolverhampton Wanderers: Nathaniel Strong.’
Wild applause from the Chapel Ash and Park Dale contingent followed, with shouts of “Gerrintoem, Natty!’ and, once again, ‘Come on me babbies!’
‘The eyes that guide the hand that holds the pen That writes these lines have for so long discerned No point from Upton Park can e’er be earned We’ve seen it proven time and time again. The broken hearts of countless boys and men Have kept the score, each lesson gravely learned. And thus as far as wagers are concerned To bet on a home win makes perfect sense. Unless, that is, last Saturday, you saw Farmer knock four past Trautmann. What a man! He’ll break the curse if any player can. And thus the painful tears of years before Shall all be comforted and wiped away Smart money is on Wolves to win today!’
As the applause rang out, Natty played to the gallery, with extended bows and a couple of provocative hand-gestures designed to rattle his opponent, a bookish-looking weed already on his feet and looking nervous.
‘Arguing against the motion for West Ham United: Peter Black.’
‘Sooner or later’s a rule of nature That cannot be ignored. One day they will Prevail, these filthy northern imbeciles With zoological nomenclature. Why not today? They’re a good side And just beat City eight-to-one, while we Lost to the Villa. Sixty-two could be The year they take away our hard-won pride. Now, wins in football cannot just be bought But must with heads and feet and studs be fought What can be bought is beer and cigarettes Which can console a West Ham fan upset By home defeat. And so I take this crown, And on a West Ham loss I put it down!’
‘Rubbish!’ shouted Jack, applauding. I couldn’t help but agree, as did dozens of men in the public bar. From the first trochee to the intrusive ‘just’ shoehorned in to fix the meter of the crucial ninth line, it rivalled last year’s final Haiku for sheer clumsiness. I peered over Chimdy Potts’ shoulder to see Peter Black’s manuscript, half expecting it to be scrawled on the back of a fag-packet. Instead, though, I saw the ‘poet’ shaking hands vigorously with his team mate, Billy O’Hearn, and waving towards the home fans by the toilet to the Gents’. Had they not heard the boos? Deafness, I supposed, would partly explain the illiteracy.
‘“Eight-to-one,”’ chortled Jack, referring to the clumsy sixth line, ‘I thought, “Is that the time?”’
‘Easy! Easy!’ shouted the Chapel Ash lot…
‘Easy! Easy!’ shouted the Chapel Ash lot, yet still the Blessèd Graves didn’t announce his decision. I looked around. The celebrations became muted, then stopped altogether. Had we won or hadn’t we? And if we hadn’t, why not?
‘The winner: West Ham United!’ announced Graves, to boos and obscenities from the bar area. ‘Y’am a disgrace, Chairman!’ shouted Jack, while Norbert and Natty surrounded him, demanding explanations. Tensions began to rise and the more peaceful-minded spectators, Jack, Chimdy, Dickey Toolan and myself, retired to a quieter hostelry.
It might well have been the decision that killed the Boleyn Tavern Debates; we will never know. For Wolves ran away 4-1 victors that afternoon and the notion of a comfort bet, became less of a talking point as the actual result in years to come.
All in all, a bitter afternoon, only slightly improved by the Wolves score. Are you reading, Blessèd Graves? I hope you can live with what you did! Up the amateur poets of South Staffordshire! Your fight and greater technical skill will never be forgotten!
