Arnie Schwarzenegger, James Bond, Tom Cruise, Clint Eastwood...
These people don't really concern us, for our story is about mild man and referee Sidney Putapon.
Stirred and very much shaken after that ordeal at Bogminster, I prepared for my next assignment - at Bilechester Rovers - not the most pleasant of places to visit on a Saturday afternoon. Bilechester Rovers' supporters are notorious for their violent behaviour. One unfortunate programme seller was shot for not having the correct change. The Bermuda Triangle of football, where it is said that unpopular referees dissapear - never to be seen again.
This time I will not be bullied by the wife, I'm taking the car...
'Out you get Sidney, and don't be late home.'
'But dearest, it's three miles to Bilechester. couldn't you drop me any nearer?'
'O stop wining! I'm already out of my way - the W.I. meeting is far more important than a silly football match and I'm late.'
Before any more protesting, I was unceremoniously dumped out of the car with my bag following close behind. ('Silly football match.') Silly football match - how could she be so cruel?
I tried hailing a minicab, but the drivers recognised me as an unpopular figure in Bilechester, and told me in no uncertain terms to make my own way to the ground. As luck would have it, a passing ice cream van driver shouted out to me, 'Oi, Putapon - has the wife been laying down the law again?'
The look I gave left him in no doubt what I thought of his observation. Under my breath I muttered 'he's only an ice cream vendor, whereas I am a referee. 'Are you going to give me a lift, or shall we talk about strawberry vanilla ice cream for the rest of the afternoon?'
By now my blood pressure was rising and I was rapidly losing my temper, but the driver, good as gold, told me to jump in and keep my head low so that we could get through the gates without being spotted by the hostile crowd. With a menacing voice he looked me in the eye and said:
'It's three miles to Bilechester Rovers, we've got a full tub of ice cream, half a packet of choc ices, it's cloudy and we're wearing Mr. Whippy hats.'
'HIT IT !'
It was a hair-raising journey into Bilechester Rovers F.C. We must have been the first ice cream van to go through three red lights at breakneck speed. It was the menacing crowd outside the officials entrance that bought back to focus that this was indeed, enemy territory. I narrowed my eyes and set my mind to the task ahead in a calm, calculated manner. My parting words to the driver as he slowed down near to the ground were 'I'm gonna get in there, do a job, and get the hell out...' and then I was on my own.
Digging deep into my kit bag, I unearthed a sweaty sock, which I propelled into a nearby hot dog stand to cause a diversion as I made a dash for the back entrance. Kicking open the door and flattening myself to the wall, I didn't reckon on the door swinging back onto my nose. Bruised but unblooded. Now if only I could make it to the dressing room without being seen. I had two choices: being torn apart by the hostile crowd outside, or abused by the officials inside - no choice. GO, GO, GO!
From the sanctuary of the changing room I was greeted by a snot-nosed kid who observed my manoeuvres with a knowing smirk. 'Well done, mister,' said the cheeky lad, 'you got in then? They remember you from last time, don't they? Lino won't be happy - he was 'oping on you not making it this time. Wants to be ref I 'erd.'
'What do you mean, lino? Referees Assistant, sonny,' I remarked curtly.
I had calmed down sufficiently enough to cast my mind back to the events of my previous encounter with Bilechester Rovers and their supporters. Wherever I go there's someone out to get me. Is it me? Nah, can't be.
From the dressing room I set about my match day routine. Red card? Check; yellow card? There is no yellow card for Sidney Putapon. Ha, a little referee humour there for you. Extra pencil and paper? A most definite check! But where was my whistle? A smirk from the other side of the dressing room alerted me to the possibility that I was the brunt of a jolly wheeze. I'll show them, I was a linesman once, I too had a sense of humour don't you know? Taking the guilty party to one side I informed him that for perverting the course of my decision making process by waylaying my attention-gathering instrument, I had no other option but to replace him with the fourth linesman, oops - referee's assistant.
At 14.50 hours, I called both teams into my changing room for the customary "chat".
'Good afternoon, gentlemen, Before we start I would just like to tell you all that I'm not in a good mood at all.
I will not tolerate any spitting, swearing, gouging of opponent's eyes, etc.'
'Well that don't leave much,' a cheeky player observed.
'Oh - I forgot backchat. That's a booking straight off.'
'But we're not even on the field yet! What are you playing at?''
'And that's a second yellow card. You're off. Turn on the bath taps son - I'm just warming up. Right, let's get out there.'
Coming out of the tunnel it was pointed out in the stands that Bilechester Rovers were a man short, to which one of their players remarked ' and if this pillock has his way we'll all be off before half-time.' Of course, he was right, and I proved it by brandishing my red card again!
Glancing through the window from my hospital bed, I could just make out the floodlights of Bilechester Rovers' ground where I incurred my present injuries. Did I go over the top with my fifth sending off? Maybe it was unfair to get a steward to eject that spectator for the yellow top that clashed with the corner flag, and perhaps it was a tad harsh to send off the home goalie for laughing at my, by then, very red nose. This was too much for the home supporters to take, for the last thing I recall was the sight of a stampeeding mob bearing down on me with a look of extreme displeasure on their faces.
And now, to cap it all, here comes nursie to take my temperature again. 'Come on now Mr. Putapon, the surgeon's ready to extract that protruderence from your posterior.'
