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to the green. The stadium could seat thirty thousand and it was packed. Large
monitors had been set up outside for the benefit of those who could not get a
seat, and the TV networks were beaming the match live to an estimated two
billion people in seventy-three countries worldwide. It was going to be quite
a show.
I stayed on the touchline as the Swindon Mallets lined up face to face with
the Reading Whackers. They all glared at one another as the Swindon & District
Wheel-Tappers brass band marched on, headed by
Lola Vavoom. There was then a pause while President Formby took his seat in
the VIP box and, led by
Ms Vavoom, the audience stood to sing the unofficial English national anthem,
'When I'm Cleaning
Windows'. After the song had finished, Yorrick Kaine appeared in the VIP box,
but his reception was derisory at best. There was a smattering of applause and
a few 'Hails!' but nothing like the reception he was expecting. His
anti-Danish stance had lost a good deal of popular support when he made the
mistake of accusing the Danish women's handball team of being spies, and
arrested them. I saw him sit down and scowl at the President, who smiled back
warmly.
I was standing at the touchline with Alf Widdershaine, watching the
proceedings.
'Is there anything more we could have done?' I whispered.
'No,' said Alf after a pause. 'I just hope those Neanderthals can cut the
mustard.'
I turned and walked back towards Landen. On his lap was Friday, gurgling and
clapping his hands. I had taken him once to the chariot race in the novel
Ben-Hur and he'd loved it.
'What are our chances, darling?' asked Landen.
'Reasonable to middling with the Neanderthals playing. I'll speak to you
later.'
I gave them each a kiss and Landen wished me good luck.
'Dolor in reprehenderit  Mummy,' said Friday. I thanked him for his kind
words and heard rny name being called. It was Aubrey, who was talking to the
umpire, who, as custom dictated, was dressed as a country parson.
'What do you mean?' I heard Aubrey say in an outraged tone as I moved closer.
It seemed there was some sort of altercation and we hadn't even begun play
yet. 'Show me where it says that in the rules!'
'What's the problem?' I asked.
'It's the Neanderthals,' Aubrey said between gritted teeth. 'According to the
rules it seems that non-humans are barred from taking part!'
I glanced back to where Stig and the four other Neanderthals were sitting in a
circle, meditating.
'Rule 78b-45 (ii),' quoted the umpire, as O'Fathens, the Reading Whackers'
captain, looked on with a gleeful expression. 'No player or team may use an
equine or any other non-human creature to gain an advantage over the opposing
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team."
'But that doesn't mean players, ' I said. 'That rule clearly refers only to
horses, antelope and so forth - it was brought in when the Dorchester Slammers
attempted to gain the advantage by playing on horseback in 1962.'
'The rules seem clear to me,' growled O'Fathens, taking a step forward. 'Are
Neanderthals human?'
Aubrey also took a step forward. Their noses were almost touching.
'Well. . . sort of
There was nothing for it but to seek a judgment. Since the rules regarding
on-field litigation had been relaxed ten years earlier, it was not uncommon
for the first half-hour of a match to be taken up with legal wranglings by the
teams' lawyers, of which each side was permitted two, with one substitute. It
added a new form of drama to the proceedings, but one not without its own
problems; after a particularly litigious
Superhoop six years previously when a legal argument was overturned in the
High Court two years after the match was played, it became mandatory that
three High Court judges be ready to give an instant, unquestionable ruling on
any legal point.
We approached the Port-a-Court and our respective lawyers made their
representations. The three judges retired to their chambers and returned a few
minutes later to announce:
'It is the finding of this Croquet Appellant Court in the action Mallets
versus Whackers (Neanderthal player legality) that the Whackers' complaint is
upheld. In the eyes of English law Neanderthals are not human
, and cannot play.'
The Reading side of the crowd erupted into joyous yells as the judges' ruling
was run up on the screen.
Aubrey opened his mouth but I pulled him aside.
'Don't waste your breath, Aubrey.'
'We can prepare an appeal in seven minutes,' said Mr Runcorn, one of our
lawyers. 'I think we can find a non-human precedent in the Worcester Sauces
versus Taunton Ciders Superhoop semifinals of 1963.'
Aubrey scratched his head and looked at me.
'Thursday?'
'A failed appeal could result in a two-hoop forfeit,' I pointed out. 'I say we
get the lawyers working on it.
If they think it's worth a try we'll lodge an appeal at the end of the first
third.'
'But we're five players down and we haven't even picked up our mallets!'
'The game's not lost until it's lost, Aubrey. We've got a few tricks up our
sleeve, too.'
I wasn't kidding. I had visited the lawyers' pavilion earlier when they were
performing background checks on every player on the opposing side. The
Whackers' striker, George 'Rhino' McNasty, had fourteen unpaid parking
violations and our legal team successfully pleaded that his case should be
heard here and now; he was sentenced to an hour's community service, which
effectively had him picking up litter in the car park until the end of the
second third. Jambe turned back to Mr Runcorn.
'Okay, prepare an appeal for the end of the first third. We'll start with what
we've got.'
Even with our substitute brought on, we still had only six players to their
full complement of ten. But it got worse. To play on a local side you had to
have been born in the town or lived there for at least six months before
playing. Our substitute, 'Johnno' Swift, had lived here only for five months
and twenty-six days when he began his career at the Mallets three years
before. The Reading lawyers argued that he was playing illegally in his first
match, a transgression that should have won him a life ban. Once again, the
judges upheld the complaint, and to another excited yell from the crowd, Swift
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walked dejectedly back to the dressing rooms.
'Well,' said O'Fathens, putting out his hand to Jambe, 'we'll just accept
you've conceded the match, okay?'
'We're playing, O'Fathens. Even if Swindon were to lose by a thousand hoops,
people would still say this was their finest
'I don't think so,' interrupted the Whackers' team lawyer with a triumphant [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]