Two Perhaps Apocryphal Parables

I have never been one for this misplaced nonsense about 'cleaning up the game'

If two players want to have a pop at each other toe-to-toe, then all power to them. If you consider how many scuffles, dust-ups (dusts up?)[oh, don't start that again - ed.], fracas or 'a wee bit of argie-bargie' happens in any number of games, any week, any-rugby-where, then the number of injuries is minimal. No worries. But I do object to the whisper of death - the sneaky, cowardly punch from behind; the stamp; the kick; the gouge or the bite.

In a match his Dad was watching, my nephew, Ed, went berserk trying to pole-axe a lock-forward after exploding out of a maul with no ball in sight. The ref not unjustly asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. Ed, a lad of few words (even fewer with a gumshield in) garbled something quite animatedly for Ed and then showed the ref his forearm, complete with teeth marks. The ref raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips in The French Manner, nodded sagely and set a scrum. Ed didn't know who'd done it but, being a reasonably decent type, decided to pick on the biggest oppo he could find. Chwarae teg, iawn.

Mind you, his Dad wasn't averse to throwing the Sunday Punch if the occasion warranted it...

Having retired for a couple of years, Joey was 'phoned by Julian (one of our other brothers) and asked if he would 'ring' for a Vets team Julian played in - they were short of a 9. "Oh, OK... Vets... All right then... Sensible, social game? Yes?... OK."

Ah. It must be a family trait, but there was this second row, see... he was being a bit free with the fist, the elbow and the boot. He made the mistake of treading on Joey, stuck at the bottom of a ruck. Now Joey may be a Respectable Head Master of a Respectable School and closer to 50 than 40 but he doesn't like being messed about. By anybody. "Cut out the handbags, gentlemen, please!" shouted the ref seeing a little flurry out the corner of his eye.

"Snotfeckinandbags-I'mtryingtoknockisseffing'eddoff" Was the elegantly snarled response as Joey stood over the floored-and-barely-conscious No. 5.

Y'see, let the big boys sort it out amongst themselves but Stamp out Stamping, Ban the Biters and... err... Really Be Quite Strict With People Who Gouge.

Coda...
I asked Julian, who had been playing fly to Joey's scrum-half, what he had been doing. "I was giving Joe my full and whole-hearted verbal support from as far away as I could get..."