Our new website comes a long way from the far-off days when we relied on Bob Barnes and his company photocopier & franking machine to give us our Newsletter.

A regular feature was “Tales from the Touchline” covering all sorts of Clav subjects.

Here’s an opener from an old contributor, and readers are invited to submit their own “article” for next month’s, and so on. Please bear in mind that any website is a public domain, and hence we cannot cover some of the old favourites, such as “The Ropey Trophy” given to the opposition with the ugliest wives (but then, they only steal computers in Atherstone - they don’t know how to work them) You get the gist.

First Edition: The Evolution of Team Selection

I have been receiving texts on my mobile from the First Team Skipper advising me of the need to turn up for training, what with forthcoming heavy League fixtures etcetera. What? I’m fifty-f*****g four, for f**k’s sake, and my idea of a good Tuesday night is a million miles away from Stu Harvey telling me I have less worth than a box of snots, while I heave, cough & spit an extra cubic centimetre of Benson & Hedges finest lung-butter in the sharp damp air of Ossett’s Hole Lane on a tits-off-freezing night in February. No, I’m comfier nowadays. It’s the texts I’m on about. If only.

If we could text all those idle f*****s in February 1965 we wouldn’t have had to go through the following scene, would we?

Red Lion, Claverdon, 1965 - Selection Committee Meeting. Skipper Peter Braithwaite, Match Secretary David Wildgoose, a.k.a Vlad Q Wildebeeste. The Bar is empty, save for our two lonely souls - one studying a heavily biro-ed fag-packet, the other arranging a clip-board bursting with various documents. They have been at it some time.

Skipper: Right, that’s it then - Full Back, Dale Le Vack. Bloody marvellous - he couldn’t catch crabs.

Hon Sec: B******ks.

Skipper: What? He’s useless - I wouldn’t trust him to catch,

Hon Sec: No, b******s b******s! The point is, you said his name, and I wrote it on the f*****g postcard. Now I’ve got to cross it out.

Skipper: Why? He’s full-back Saturday. We’ve no other bugger.

Hon Sec; But the postcard’s got a stamp on it - and it’s the last one. And, I’ve already crossed out and changed three names and addresses and there isn’t and more room on the f*****g postcard. and he lives here for f**k’s sake - over this pub,           .and I’m now a postcard and three stamps short.

Skipper: Your round.

Hon Sec: I was saving these coins for the call-box.

FORTY-EIGHT HOURS LATER

Hon Sec: Your round

Skipper: Did you post the selection postcards?

Hon Sec: I thought YOU’D.

TWENTY-ODD YEARS LATER

The scene; The same Claverdon RFC Selection Committee Meeting, but at another sparsely-populated bar, this time The Case Is Altered, Hatton. This time the Skipper is Busby. And our Match Secretary, Rod Noon. Rodney has already got the round in, and flicking through his notes while the Skipper is struggling into the Bar, dragging what looks like a Blacksmith’s anvil with a handle on it, with curiosity from both of the locals.

Skipper: Give us a hand up on the table with this.

Hon Sec: What the f**k’s that?

Skipper: A mobile phone. We can call the team as we go.

FOUR BEERS LATER

Hon Sec: Let’s start with Mike Kew in at second row. He’s available.

Skipper: F**k it. I’m not phoning Kew-y. He’s been fitting his kitchen for three weeks and now he wants a game. You phone him. Here. Use my mobile phone.

THE DEVICE HAS A LOUD BUZZ ON EACH KEYBOARD ENTRY ONLY HEARD BEFORE IN 007 MOVIES WHEREBY BOND DEFUSES A NUCLEAR BOMB. THE LOCALS ARE GLUED TO THE ANVIL.

Hon Sec: Hello, Mike? It’s me - Noony - Over. What? You’ll never guess where I’m calling you from - Over. What? I’ve got a bloody great propeller over my head and the beer’s hand-cranked. Over. What?

Skipper: You don’t have to say over. It’s a mobile.

Hon Sec: (to Mike Kew) What? I can’t understand a f*****g word. Sorry.Over.

Skipper: You don’t have to say “Over.” Tell him.

Hon Sec: What? Sorry, Mike, one-o’clock meet - over and out. He’s gone.

F*****g marvellous. Amazing, that - I might as well phone the others while I’m here.

THE PHONE BLEEPS

What’s that noise?

Skipper: The battery’s flat.

THIRTY-ODD YEARS LATER

You should be ahead of me by now. The scene: Claverdon RFC Selection Committee Meeting - Skipper Gunner Grimshaw at The Crown Inn, Claverdon, Match Sec Simon Arbuthnot - this season, 2007.

Skipper: Right, that’s it then - I’ve texted the team.

BLEEP

Hon Sec: Your Mother says she can’t play - her hips f****d.

2007: Yeah, me and Gunner’s Mother can’t play.

And now we have a new website!

LONG LIVE CLAVERDON

Love & best wishes,

Busby

Tales From The Touchline continued.