Posted on Tuesday 30 August 2005
A trawl through some of the darker corners of Britain’s sporting heritage
Imagine the scene: an autumnal Sunday evening in a sleepy Welsh market town; anticipation hangs palpably in the air, there is a rising sense of uncertainty, throats become tighter and dryer by the second. Not only is there the normal pre-match excitement but tonight is special - there is a new star on display. The player selection stage (accomplished by the traditional combination of coin-tossing, spoofing and shouting) is unbearably tense but I emerge triumphant - I have the new vet! No idea how good he’s going to be, at all. I believe he’s Tristram cousin or somesuch but I’m ready for it and I launch into song:
We’re on the march with Callum’s army
We’re going to the surgery!
And we’ll really shake ‘em up when we win the vet’s cup
‘Cos Callum is the greatest vetneree!
Cans are opened and immediately emptied. This one’s going to be big. The Tristram Farnham boot boys bide their time as a mighty roar of “Herriot! Herriot! Herriot!” rises from the back along with some rather unsporting murmering about the perils of having drawn Siegfried from the left; the theme music kicks in and one of the classic games of Veterinary Hooliganism is underway.
What’s that? You don’t know how to play the beautiful game? Okay, here’s how it works. Take a bunch of people (either men-folk or potty-mouthed girls who drink pints - the latter are preferred), a television set, a stack of beer-cans and a working knowledge of football chants. Whilst waiting for long-running, light-hearted veterinary drama “All Creatures Great and Small” to begin, divide the players into three groups of fans (four if you happen to know Callum will be along for a spot of guest vetting) and support your vet by any combination of chanting, shouting and missile-throwing that you deem appropriate. The method of division is entirely up to the players and should not in any circumstances be agreed in advance or it’s no fun. Experienced players will of course realise that Herriot nearly always wins ‘cos he wrote the books but Tristram is often worth a punt, and as we shall see later the boy Callum is something of a star. Siegfried is generally too tied up in the adminstration of the practice to get round to scoring any goals, which is a great shame because he’s every bit as good as Marco van Basten when he’s on form. Goals? Simple. A goal is scored every time an animal’s life is unequivocably saved by the vet - you don’t get anything for a spontaneous recovery - not in this game. There are a few more complex rules such as arms in cows being used as a surrogate count-back penalty shoot-out if it’s all square after 60 minutes but participants are generally encouraged to create and to squabble over such details while the game is in progress.
Now that’s cleared up we can get back to the big match - the 1989 UEFA Veterinary Cup Final. The Scottish lad has arrived on the Yorkshire vetting scene as a complete unknown but is set to rapidly make a name for himself. Tristram tries and fails to fix the farmer’s horse but Callum is there on the rebound with a lightning diagnosis and a clinical strike. Goal!!!!!! 1-0-0-0, Callum’s blue and white veterinary army are going at it to full effect; Tristram’s confidence is waning; Herriot is looking uncharacteristically subdued and Siegfried is having one of his more anonymous days. There can be only one result, surely. As half-time draws near, Callum approaches an ailing cow. He shoots! He scores! Two-nil-nil-nil to the Scottish boy! The crowd goes wild and things reach fever-pitch as the new signing steals the show and his silky skills lead us to an emphatic 4-1-0-0 victory (Herriot grabbing a late consolation piglet). Though many of us were unable to recollect the extended and passionate post-match celebrations the next morning, the match will live forever in the hearts and minds of all those who were present. One simply doesn’t see vetting of that quality everyday, Brian.
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