Compass, whistle, cagoul, map. Count your steps along the track. To checkpoint one. Checkpoint two. Checkpoint three and back. Compass bearing sou-sou-west.
Let's face it lads, you're really crap!. But you're exciting to watch, I'll give you that. Not for a wage, not for fame. Not for directors. For the love of the game.
The ancient sport of face-jumping. Involved a skill unknown. A jump onto a partner's face. With ne'er a crack of bone. Tom McSmee, a champion,. In several tests of skill.
Na then!. Get another drink!. And get yourself sat down. We'll have a game of shave ha'penny. And loser gets next round. Get another drink!. And get your arrows out.
"So, Greavsie, well, what about the black lads gettin' bananas thrown at em?". "Well, it seems a bit unfortunate, I mean, uh, uh". Sitting on the bench, he starts another drink.
You like to make investments in your favorite sports. Competition pays, talent can be bought. So you made it your business. To make it a business. Now it's all about getting the check.
They call it hopscotch!. Now this is where it all begins. A piece of chalk and a boot-polish tin. Hit the streets, no time to wait. Draw them squares out, 1 to 8.
Outside the pub. Smack you in the gob. Get four long years. In Wormwood Scrubs. Put me in a ring. Fit me with gloves. I get money and fame. For doing what I love.
Oh isn't it horrible?. I can't look. He fell on the ski-jump. And he's not getting up. The car he was driving. Just blew a tire. Oh isn't it horrible?.
Gooch, you're scum, it's as simple as that. Defending white oppression, battling for Apartheid. Blinded by the Krugerands. Ignoring all the shanty towns.
For twenty years Graham Hill. Risking life and limb. Drove the circuits of the world. And they said it would kill him. "Going so fast is a fine way to win.
Frickley in South Yorkshire, a small mining town. Where once the riot coppers beat the pickets to the ground. Has a football team, and a stand full of fans.
Like two gigantic Buddhas. Someone carved from jelly. Huge yet nimble. Strong yet gentle. They pace the sawdust circle. No flicker of emotion. Huge yet nimble.
From the deepest to the highest. Battling for the yellow vest. Changing gears rapidly. Ten seconds to change a wheel. King of the Mountains. Queen of the flats.
The bowler's running in, the batsman lights a fag. He keeps a packet handy and it's lodged inside his pad. Because it's written in his contract that after every over.
Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun. Taking on the locals, every man jack of 'em. Stupid, drunken, gobby toughs. No excuse is good enough.
Now he's going for the grey ball. Into the top left pocket. A touch off the slightly darker grey ball. And he's snookered behind the grey ball. Oh, he's going for the grey ball.
Where did the chinaman go?. Where did the chinaman go?. Bowled out of favor when the paceman move in. As pitches got faster with no turn or spin. "Bowl faster, bowl at him, bowl bodyline.
That Thompson and Cram both lost in Rome. Was no surprise, when one thinks. Of all the rubbish they consumed. Those cereals and drinks. Lured by big advertising deals.
Old, old limbs move slowly now. Up and down stairs from bed to chair. A balsa puppet struggles to remember. Cheering crowds and famous victories. That was a full life.