The Worcester Years: Early Days

Philosophers and songwriters say that you never truly miss something until it’s gone and after a certain weekend with some 40 ‘senile’ young men, I can confirm that this is certainly the case.

It’s safe to say that if you’re reading this as a University of Worcester student, you are entangled in emotions of frustration and helplessness. There’s nothing more frustrating than someone older than you telling you that ‘you don’t know you’re born’ or ‘back in my day’. So to those students of the University of Worcester – you don’t know you’re born and back in my day, things were a lot different.

Granted, there are far more experienced old boys than myself that may be reading this saying exactly the same thing about me and my generation, but I believe that the class of 2007 was the last of its kind. No, we didn’t get to experience the splendour of Bamboo/Breeze, a place that Ed ‘soft’ Parkes used to use as his out-of-hours boxing gym. No, we never drank Hooch on tap at The Dive nor did we get to enjoy a home varsity; but we did have it good. The things we did manage to witness in our varied shifts of three to five years at Butlins will stay with us forever. Here’s our story through my eyes.

It was the first time that I’d seen the campus or indeed Worcester, but I already liked it. I’d accepted Worcester as my first choice on the sound advice of Mark ‘Bubsy’ Sadler, who’d told me,

“It’s wicked. The rugby is good up there and it’s a great laugh."

Sold.

We drove the van around to a block of flats called Malvern. Lined with shrubbery and with a discreet waste disposal unit next to the door, this would be the place I call home for the next year. As my mam and sister decorated my new room, Dad and I hastily moved towards the Students Union. The first thing that hit me was the damp aroma of stale beer and vomit, the second thing that hit me was the intimidating sight of 30 rugby boys strewn around the place watching Wales Vs Australia and the third thing that hit me was how God-awful my Strongbow tasted.

My first experience in the rugged Divebar was a bad one; watching Wales lose to Australia in the World Cup whilst drinking what could only be described as fizzy, cold line-cleaner. Little did I know that over the next four years it would become one of my favourite buildings in the world. The lethal, metal stairway that was once surfed by Josh House, the Carling lantern hanging off the wall despite the Dive not serving Carling, Berry’s, the SU office, Maligins, Snakebite, Elton John, Frank the Tank, the stage complete with its chained safety barriers and the sticky floor that made walking in flip-flops all but impossible all joined together in holy matrimony in an all-loving marriage with Worcester Students Rugby Football Club.

After unloading a vans worth of possessions into a room that was not much bigger than my garden shed, we headed into town for a spot of lunch. Unbeknown to me, sat on the adjacent table was to be my direct rival for the number 10 shirt; my kryptonite, Gary Dipple. He was already one step ahead of me because as I tucked into my mammoth portion of Bangers & Mash and sipped my Stowford Press at the Old Rectifying House, the wiry, Jewish Cockney behind me was drinking a pint of water or at its most flamboyant; a lemonade.

Upon my return to the academic grounds of the university my flat had began to fill up. A quiet blonde by the name of Jenny O’Shea has moved in opposite me and a fellow Welsh-speaker was living next-door in Sara Parry, which really impressed mam. A sombre looking Amy Reiner was also lugging things to and fro into the Malvern Flat 1 and a fairy called Timmy had already started burning incense candles. I met the last member of our halls by chance when I wandered into the living room and assumed that one of the others’ dad was taking a break from the manual labour. He popped his little head up and introduced himself to me as Daz. After chatting with him for a few minutes about music, he opened up to me,

Malvern House aka The Common Room

“I only wore jeans to try and look smart, thought I’d make an effort.” He said.

“Thank fuck you turned up; I was just waiting for another normal bloke!”

A bloke he was, normal he was not. He seemed to be in his thirties and his persona was far from stable; but I knew what he meant. He’d be my housemate throughout my time at Worcester, he’s an excellent yet appalling human and that’s why we love him.

With all the initial uncomfortable, forced conversations seen to, I returned to my room where I was greeted with a knock at the door. There stood Adam West and Martin Misiko, the former quite clearly nursing a hangover and the latter sporting the most magnificently welcoming smile that I’d ever seen on a man. They’d come to inform me of a friendly game of touch taking place the following day on The Bottom Field. I was left feeling a surging sense of empowerment as they departed due to the fact that I was almost a foot taller than the pair of them. At a towering 5’9” and ¾, I thought to myself that I might be in the top half, even maybe the top third of the biggest men in the team. It didn’t take long for me to realise that this would not be the case.

Picking up the kit I’d laid out the night before, I set about getting ready for my first university rugby experience. My legs were cleanly shaven, my hair was immaculate and I was sporting my very best stash. My presumption that I’d be among the tallest players was quickly washed away as I spotted a congregation of giants on the divine piece of greenery known as The Bottom Field. The details of the game itself still desert me, but there are four things I remember quite vividly;

• Being greeted by a fellow fresher in a green & white hooped rugby shirt. He had delightful blonde hair and with a flick of his fringe introduced himself to me as ‘Lewis’; the last time anyone called him by his name was that afternoon.
• Linking up with Gary Dipple on the nearest side of the pitch and thinking he was a South African scrum-half. Mind you, later on I found out that Tom Shepard thought I was a “Nippy Winger”. Looks can be deceiving.
• Lots of big men shouting “TIMMY!” whenever anyone knocked a ball on.
• Ed Cook in his trucker hat; every fresher remembers Ed Cook.

Most of the boys went to the Dive to pay their respects to the Chick that afternoon, but seeing as I was still petrified of social situations, I spent the evening alone in my room figuring out whether or not university life was for me. That night I wrote some scribbles down on a post-it note and stuck it to my wall. It would be my first real training session in the morning, the note read,

• MAKE AN IMPRESSION
• STAND OUT FROM THE CROWD
• DON’T BE TOO KEEN

I can quite confidently say that I achieved all three.

My kit was once again set out ready for the morning but my 06:30 alarm had somehow turned into 06:58 and I was scrambling to get myself out of the flat. Somehow, I was walking out of the door at 07:00 and I’d dodged a bullet. I’d get to The Bottom Field by two minutes past at the latest and the boys would still be stretching, or so I thought.

To my horror, the session was already underway and the group were circulating the perimeter of The Bottom Field’s grounds. I slipped my white & red Nike Vapors onto my feet and began to tie the laces. I’d spotted some fellow freshers in Luke Milton, Lewis Joiner and Tom Shepard; this comforted me, but not for long. As I was strapping up my boots I heard a brash voice call out,

“Fuck off! You’re late!”

Assuming it was one of the boys messing around I started trotting down the hill; mentally preparing myself for a lap of the field to catch up. As I was halfway down The Bank, I heard that voice again.

“Fresher, fuck off! You’re late!”

Any miniscule piece of humour that I’d perceived in the first outcry quickly descended when I made eye contact with the perpetrator. It was at this stage that I realised that I wasn’t dealing with your average human being; in fact having picked his face out of the crowd it was barely human at all. The gargoyle-like features stood out from his spherical, hairless head as if someone had been playing a real life version of pin the tail on the donkey. His piercing eyes were now drilling through my soul and I became rigid, staring down the barrel of the sawn-off shotgun that is Andrew Cushing. Despite being wrapped up in hiking boots, thick socks tucked into tracksuit bottoms and an overcoat that would fit a horse; I still imagined him to be cold. Our shivering eye-contact was broken by a breathless Northern tone as it cried out,

The Glare That Will Live With Me Forever

“Don’t fucking listen to him, join in. Come on.”

It must’ve looked like I was doing the cha-cha down the bank because no sooner had I started advancing, I was retreating again when another shrill, evil shriek came,

“He’s not joining in, He’s late. He can fuck off!”

By now the group was running away from me towards the pylon in a murmur of sniggers and disgruntled rumblings. In the time it took the boys to get back around to me, I’d already changed my mind a dozen times and I’d decided that I’d give it a go and join the back of the pack. The Northern voice, which turned out to be that of Danny Hughes, pleaded once more,

“Come on, Mate.”

But one final blast from the poison dwarf was enough to send me on my way,

“Fuck off, fresher. You’re late. Go back to bed and try again next time.”

Dejectedly, I left the scene; leaving a very ethnically diverse Bank of casualties behind in Jamie Tsang and the Eastern European Matt Cock. I’d not only met my goals, I’d set new records. I’d certainly made an impression, undoubtedly stood out from the crowd and in the worst possible way I’d shown that I wasn’t too keen.

Having not taken part in the Monday morning fitness session, I was ineligible for selection when Worcester took on Birmingham in the first game of the season. It was a chance for those selected to make an impression on the field. Guy Griffiths and Luke Milton had the unenviable task of running the game as half-backs despite not knowing a single move. The rest of us were required to show our drinking prowess off it, which we did badly. I took up what would become a familiar seat down at the front of the bus when I was joined by the still injured Jamie Tsang. Our first conversation is one I’ll remember for some time,

“Hi, mate. I’m Jamie.”
“Alright, butt. Gareth.”

We engaged in the customary handshake and as he took his seat, he pointed at the three feathers on my jacket and mumbled,

“Welsh are you, mate?”
“Yeah.” I replied.
“Yeah, me too.”
“Oh right, where abouts?”
“Near Wrexham, by Oswestry?”

He’s since vociferously denied this exchange, but had you wanted to write a letter to Jamie’s home address while he was studying; you would have needed to put the following address on the front of your envelope:

Mr Jamie Hon Man Tsang
1, North Road
Llanymynech
Powys
Wales

SY22 6EZ

Much is made of Jamie ‘Panda’ Tsang’s ethnicity, but Martin Misiko summed it up quite neatly one evening at the Dive when he said,

“Tsangy. He’s confused.”

Aren’t we all; a Welshman with a Birmingham accent claiming to be English but with the unique ability to be blindfolded by dental floss. Confused, yes. Loved, definitely.

Our babysitters that day were Richard Smith & Lee Thomas. After watching the first half of the rugby whilst making small talk and drinking warm, flat beer; Lee Thomas took us on a re-supplying mission. He’d already polished off two bottles of wine and we were given an early introduction to a man they called Lincoln. Unfortunately, he’d already made himself known to me in fresher’s week. As I waited patiently at the bar to be served I felt a clamp-like hand on my shoulder and an overpowering scent of Johnson’s Holiday Skin filled my nostrils. The conversation went thus,

“Fresher?”

“Yeah.”

“One pint. Rugby?”

“Yeah.”

“Two Pints, Welsh?”

“Aye.”

“Three pints.”

I must’ve been at the bar for a further 15 minutes trying my best to get through three pints of ice cold snakebite. The freezing sensation of the teeth, the cramping of the throat and neck, the bloating of the stomach and the violent urge to vomit all held me back; but Lincoln supervised every last drop. He did, however, teach me the invaluable rule of E.G, a rule that through OCD I carry around with me today to the extent that I E.G my mam’s shoulder when I’m done with a cup of tea. Following my release from his watch, I staggered towards the toilet to redecorate a cubicle and give the hard-working Security staff an extra hours pay. There was a man in yellow that I’d recognised that night and with a bit of Dutch courage I went over for a chat. Our exchange was brief but, how was I to know there were two rugby-playing Pumba’s from Cardiff. I’ve since come to learn that there’s certainly only one Pumba; and he’s a superb human.

Every one of us has a story about the first time we met Lincoln, and for many; it was set in the alcohol aisle of a Birmingham supermarket. Having marched his band of followers to replenish their alcohol supplies, the disciples were browsing the cans and bottles. It was then that our tour guide spoke some of the truest words I’ve ever hear come out of his mouth,

“If you want to get proper fucked up, get a bottle of Frosty.”

A few of the boys contemplated it, and sensing some indecision; Lincoln attempted to seal the deal. He turned his back to us, held a bottle of Frost Jack Cider at his side and in one foul swoop, dropped his grey Adidas sweatpants to his ankles. We were greeted with a round, supple posterior upon which the ‘Frosty Jack’ logo had been replicated. The group collectively reeled in disbelief as he stood for a number of seconds holding the pose. But, the true beauty of the moment was the look on the Middle-aged Asian woman’s face who was getting a full-frontal view as she went about her Wednesday mid-afternoon shop.

We made our way back for the second half with ample supplies and the afore-mentioned small talk had become genuine conversation and the warm beer was now a delightful bottle of Blossom Hill rosé with just the slightest hint of strawberries.

Our mentor in Richard ‘Vinnie’ Smith gathered us together and warned us of a man they called ‘Cooky’. He was the giant in the trucker hat when we played touch rugby and there was a definite air of mystique about him. He’d been told to stay away from freshers and we’d later find out why. But for now, we were careless. We’d started to bond, share stories, backgrounds opinions and phone numbers; friendships were forming. The freshers who played were congratulated and commended for their first appearances by us first-years and duly punished by their elders.

It had started. We were there. We were WSRFC.