Hamish McShanks

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 24^th June 2007

Referee [ref-uh-ree] – noun – an official who supervises a game or match to ensure the rules are adhered to; that’s the dictionary definition in case you hadn’t guessed. Unfortunately I was about to learn how to become a ref in real life. Why? You ask with barely disguised incredulity. ‘It’s the worst job in the world’ you shout at me, ‘everybody hates you’, ‘nobody will talk to you in the bar afterwards, let alone buy you a pint’ you continue to scream, drenching me in spittle, as your vicious tirade against referees reaches a crescendo. I’m starting to get the distinct impression you’re not a fan of the men in black.

Well fear not because I’ll be wearing yellow. That’s right yellow because I am about to become a touch referee! At this point I would imagine you have thrown your arms up in the air and are now mumbling words along the lines of ‘Christ it’s not even a f*cking real sport’ and ‘he’s dressing up like a bleeding canary’ and you’d be wrong (except I probably will resemble a canary, albeit a rather tubby one) However touch is a real sport and as such needs real qualified referees; something that we had a dearth of for our upcoming tournament. There was nothing else for it but to get ‘qualified’

Luckily our national association (yes we have one!) was able to run a course for us at short notice but they would require a minimum number of attendees. Undeterred I rallied the troops, gathering together a ‘coalition of the willing’ to attend i.e. I bribed, browbeat and bullied people into doing it, threatening to come round their house and shout through their letterbox till they gave in, or leave horses heads in their beds; that sort of thing. It’s a carrot and stick approach; if shoving a carrot up their nose doesn’t work I’ll start hitting them with the stick.

Fast forward to Friday night at the rugby club and picture the scene; half a dozen bruised and battered individuals gathered round a slide projector as the training is about to begin. The instructor (Peter) fires up the projector and our transition to specky four-eyed two-faced biased Judases is under way. The slides cover all the basic rules, player attire, the dimensions of the pitch and the ball, how the ground should be marked out and lots of other good stuff. Interesting though this was, there’s only so much theory you can take in; thankfully we were about to progress onto some practical training ‘Okay guys now you’ve done the theory we are going to go outside and practice signals and whistles’ My heart sank to my boots as I realised I’d forgotten to get whistles!’

Pete was rummaging about in his bag as I emptied my pockets and feverishly tried to work out how I could construct six whistles from half a packet of fruit pastilles, a biro and seventeen pence in loose change. My first attempt at hollowing out a fruit pastille with the biro was less than successful, not as much as a peep; although it was rather tasty. A full blown panic attack was on the cards just as Peter emerged from his bag clutching a handful of silver objects ‘as part of the course we provide you all with a brand new whistle’ Revising my belief in the possibility of an omnipotent deity watching over me I accepted the whistle gratefully.

It wasn’t just any whistle though, oh no, I was the proud recipient of an Acme ‘Thunderer’ whistle. Which according to the packaging was recommended for: Tough Sports, Military, Police, Industrial, Fire & Safety ‘Hmmm doesn’t seem to mention touch??’ I mumbled as I turned it over in my hands and read the blurb on the back.

According to the manufacturer it ‘Stands out from background noise’ always a useful trait in a whistle I think you’ll agree; those ‘silent’ whistles just never caught on. Further reading indicated that its Blowrate is ‘Hardest to blow’ its Blowsound is ‘medium loudness’ and its Blowtone is ‘Deepest’ all very interesting information but up until thirty seconds ago I’d thought the Acme Company only produced road runner traps? Somewhat concerned that I was about to be squashed flat, incinerated or dropped to the bottom of a canyon I followed the rest of the group outside.

‘Okay guys I’m going to show you whistle technique’, ‘there are three different whistle sounds you need to master’, ‘so get your whistles out of their packets and we’ll all practice together. ‘What’s to learn? ye just blow!’ I mumbled. Feeling somewhat foolish I ripped open the packaging to extract the whistle. When my fingers touched the shiny metal surface something very strange happened ….

Every position of power has a symbol of that authority; the clergy have their dog collars or coloured robes (depending on yer flavour of religion) the judiciary have their wigs and scales of justice. Parliament has the mace sitting atop a table in front of the speaker. Coppers have their ceremonial truncheons, although they also have modern extendable batons to give you a proper doing if need be. Luke Skywalker had his light sabre and Gandalf has his staff.

Referees have a whistle; which up until thirty seconds ago I would have laughed at.

Peter was blathering on about long and short blasts as I stared in wonder at my Acme thunderer. What magic creation was this? Shivering pulses of electricity were flowing through my body, if I’d had any hair it would have been standing on end. My fingers were surrounded by a purple and green aura, this was some form of magic or alien possession. I felt ten feet tall, I felt invincible, I felt like a FUUUUCKING GOD!!!

‘So what you need to do is hold your finger over th-SHRRREEEP-esuschrist!’ a shrill whistle blast two inches from his left ear seemed to catch his attention ‘Get back ten your offside’ Peter stumbled to the side, holding his hands to his ears ‘for pities sake Ham I’m trying to run a-‘, ‘SHREEEP’, ‘button the lip smart boy and get back another ten’, ‘I think you’ll find-‘, ‘MOVE IT! HUP HUP HUP!‘ , ‘Look Ham I’m trying to demonstrate whistle-‘, ‘there’s always one isn’t there’ shaking my head I theatrically put a finger to my lips before reaching into my pocket and pulling out a yellow card; which I brandished with a flourish in front of his face ‘two minutes in the sin bin sunshine’, ‘Ham this is intoler-‘ ,’shhhhhhhhh’

With hindsight sin binning, then red carding, the head of the referees association and the man in charge of my training probably contributed to me failing the course. However once a referee, always a referee and as I said during the fight to relieve me of my Acme thunderer ‘from my cold dead hands, from my cold dead hands’

Doei