Those attending the Lancaster and Morecambe Crematorium for the funeral service of David Hodgson, it was a case of standing room only for many, and this was not only a reflection of the love and affection that was felt within the family but by those who, over many years, had formed a lasting friendship with one of life's characters.
Daughter Pippa and son Garreth paid a moving tribute, full of humour which undoubtedly helped enormously to wipe away the tears. Exactly what David would have wanted, and he would also have approved of the roof raising singing when the final verse of “Jerusalem” was belted out with gusto.
Afterwards in the Clubhouse “the chariot of fire” showed no sign of slowing down. Lynda and the family circulated to ensure it would not be a sackcloth and ashes occasion, dress code tilted towards the informal, friend were reunited and new friendships made.
David's links with rugby were the core of many conversations. His acumen in the world of business were transferred to rugby when his playing day were over and he became a mover and shaker as President of Worcester Warriors when they became a professional club and later as President of Lancashire Rugby Union.
Gradually the day developed into a wake of epic proportions, as one would expect in the confines of a rugby club. As evening closed in, inhibitions were cast aside, wagers were made, challenges were thrown down and accepted as another chapter was added to remember the life of David Hodgson.
David's nickname was “Twang,” mystery surrounds the origin of this onomatopoeic noun, but during a full life he hit the right melodious notes with so many people and being human, he would readily admit to the occasional duff one.
A similar atmosphere engulfed the Clubhouse the following day when the Club invited sponsors for a huge buffet lunch. It was not only a big thank you in the direction to army of people who work so hard for the Vale, giving of their free time in a common cause. It was also another opportunity to meet up with people who have been solid supporters over the years to ensure the traditions associated with the Club are maintained.
During another splendid pre match lunch Morse was trying to pin down the Papa Johns format but the dough was proving reluctant to be kneaded into any acceptable shape and was certainly not oven ready. Endeavour was back in circulation, as always his peregrinations are censored and shrouded in mystery. Was there snow in Cheltenham recently? More pressing matters afflicted Endeavour, he was trying to wipe from his memory the images of the Barthe versus Bristol game the previous evening. Think watching the emulsion drying! However, he did perk up as he began ferrying excellent samples from the “3 Wheel Gin Company,” to the Alies' table.
The Consultant, after weeks of rough riding, was making a most welcome return to the pits. As always he had a fund of tales to tell, thankfully nothing about organising weddings, he did regret not having been in the Clubhouse to witness the “Braveheart” victory, and confirmed he would have mounted the table to have a fling. His claymore was rather blunted by the French.
Minimus and Maximus had the wind taken of their sails as they ambled towards Powder House Lane when they spotted Coo Coo Ca-Choo in her window and then husband Peter cavorting provocatively, demi mode. Min and Max could hardly wait to down their first pint and stop their imagination from going over the cliff edge. Benjamin, get a grip!
The win against Douglas perked the Alies up, the Sommelier was looking less frazzled when the topic of main drains was discussed, Woggle had recovered from his night time duties with grandson.
It was another busy day but the Alies eventually were able to assemble at the Round Table for the England game once the Prit Sticks, magic markers, crayons, paper had been cleared away. Some of little toddlers remained and were entertained by the Major who pulled some interesting faces and one little chappie, with a talent for music beat the oak in time to “Sweet Caroline.”
Monsieur Le Drop not only celebrated his birthday but had organised another splendid former players lunch. The response had been been massive, the clubhouse was packed to the gunwales but as always the Scarlet Pimpernel and his staff, ensured the event ran as smoothly as possible, while Scott Evans had put together a superb montage of pictures and reports from the archives, and these were relayed via banks of television monitors dotted around the clubhouse.
Such events always pose something of a problem for the Alies who have to be prompted a regular intervals to put names to faces but once a time frame had been linked to a profile then the cog wheels started whirling.
Chris Till, former player and Vale's representative in the Isle of Man, had made another crossing but did confess to not having packed his refereeing ensemble, quite naturally everyone remembers when he leapt over the barrier to whip out his Acme Thunderer in the fixture against Wilmslow when the match official pulled a muscle. No jokes about the Fisherman's Ball please, there might be people of a sensitive nature reading this.
At the pre match lunch raffle tickets made their appearance, the days of “a pound a strip” have long gone, so fivers and tenners, plus an Isle of Man twenty-Where did that come from?-fluttered down like confetti. The Manxman, using all all his financial skills to ensure the correct amount found its way into the bucket, sheer wizardry.
RoboCop had kindly arranged for Lady Patricia to be seated at the Alies' table, and through her and her late husband Peter's unstinting work and efforts the Club's traditions were not only maintained but plans for the future outlined.
President Anks is certainly going to end his years in office with an oompah because he has arranged a Bierkeller Evening for May 27. RoboCop has tracked down the legendary Frankie McGregor who will bring along his mighty accordion in what will be an orgy of drinking, eating, singing, stomping, slapping, leaping, and not necessarily in that order. It might not be October, but who cares.
For those of a quiet, delicate disposition and never crossed the threshold of the premises in Springfield Street, Morecambe, then it would be prudent to avoid the Bacchanalia that is certain to unfold. However, if curiosity is aroused, then this advice might help. If you can find a quiet corner, relax, order a couple of steins, down them quickly and within minutes all inhibitions should be cast aside, if not, order another foaming stein and keep going. Then you might be able to “Stand Up! Sit Down!” in time to the music.
Scoop was unable to make the trip to Birkenhead Park due to a contagion but using his investigative talents he has been able to put together, from his little bans of stringers, a synopsis of the Alies activities at at a blustery, rainy day at The Upper Park.
The hospitality at Birkenhead Park is second to none and once again the Alies were wined and dined to the highest of standards from the moment they advanced over the threshold to their departure. It was not for the first time the Alies had experienced such cordiality and generosity. The Major in particular, remembers fondly a glorious session with the late Graham Marrs. He managed briefly to escape the lure of the grape and popped outside to check on the score at half time before returning when he spotted a bottle waving invitingly, by an unseen hand, in the window.
A delay in setting off from The Lane put extra pressure on the Sommelier, who had to be reminded of his duties as the sun flicked over the yardarm but with an ever so gentle nudge from the Major and a more vociferous request from Maximus the Shiraz started to hit the beakers in a torrent of red.
The sat-nav took William, a new face from Scotland behind the wheel, through Liverpool and the tunnel. Traffic was heavy as usual so that when the coach nudged its way into Park Road North, lunch had already taken off but the Alies were gently steered towards their seats for a languid session prior to kick off.
However, when the weather took a turn for the worse some of the Alies failed to tootle outside, preferring to view the game from a clubhouse window. Their hand might have been forced by the steady supply chain of food and liquid refreshments, which showed no sign of slowing down. Two lonely bottles of a “competent” Chilean also swayed the vote to remain indoors, also they needed to justify their existence, it would have been grossly unfair not to show respect to their voluptuous notes.
Out on the acreage a much changed Vale side, which contained a fair proportion of cherubic faced players, put up a brave display and won the hearts of the Alies, who were full of praise for their efforts against some very experienced Birkenhead Park warriors.
After the final whistle the slurping continued at a unsteady tempo but could not entirely dull the pain which gradually increased when witnessing the French surgically demolishing England at Twickers, where the phrase “entente cordiale” was lost in translation.
The journey back to HQ was something of a blur for the Alies, some remembered singing, not going or going through the Mersey Tunnel, or simply just falling asleep as a long day took its toll.
A notable absentee for the fixture at Rochdale was Minimus, which was not totally unexpected after his bravura performance with the grapes of wrath at Birkenhead Park. He missed a fine selection of wines available on the trolley with RoboCop's contribution a of an “Apothic Red” which proclaimed on the label that it was to be “drunk with friends” taking pride of place; full of expansive notes accomplished by a nod in the direction of the cutlass.
The Borough Treasurer was making a welcome return to the charabanc, which was a splendid vehicle, resplendent in walnut fittings and claret coloured seats. Plectrum Plucking Pete brought along his six stringed instrument for the second week in succession and his sensitive strumming while the wine was dispensed only enhanced the atmosphere of a mobile bodega.
Morse, who had been involved in threading his way through numerous committee meetings, was a gushing fountain of rugby knowledge but did struggle to explain how the new pizza competition would pan out once the oven doors had been thrown open wide.
Endeavour was once again fluttering around in the ether, but the only news that could be divulged with a degree of certainty was that he was not in the possession of an arrest warrant or a bottle of vodka.
Both the Major and Sommelier were back on home territory and were looking forward to sampling the delicious pies of their childhood but to their chagrin this moveable feast was nowhere to be seen. Once the initial shock had been absorbed and the lower lips had stopped trembling, their spirits were lifted by glasses of Wainwrights and some good humoured banter from the locals.
Rochdale gained revenge for their defeat at The Lane in October but for the second week in succession the whole squad produced another battling performance, heads did not drop, especially from an excellent group of emerging young players. There was just a small victory on the day when Scoop won the tattiest tie handicap after a dead heat had been declared on a collection of wine stained Rochdale and Vale ties. Following a close inspection by the stewards, a cigar burn was spotted on Scoop's Centenary Tie and he was pronounced the winner.
A five o'clock leave had been arranged so that the second half of the Ireland, England game could be viewed back at HQ. It was another convivial journey, and once Plectrum Plucking Phil had warmed up his fingers, harmonious singing began. The star of the evening turned out to be Woggle who once he had finished handing round a selection of Dorothy's mouth watering cakes, produced a virtuoso performance on the guitar, mixing the fingering skills of John Williams, Segovia, Reinhardt, without the hint of a duff note. A rousing rendition of “Country Roads” took everyone back up the motorways to watch a much improved England performance in a the Clubhouse.
This narrative ends at it had began. At Rochdale and the day before, was another example of the rugby community coming together to remember one of their own. Zak Elderton had many friends at Rochdale RUFC, a solemn minutes silence was observed and all the subsequent conversations emphasised his popularity at Moorgate Avenue.
Zak was a bright, shining young star who faded from our lives too rapidly, but he has left behind so many memories; the tears of sorrow will soon disappear, to be replaced by thoughts of those sunlit times which so many people enjoyed when being in Zak's company.
David Hodgson and Zak Elderton were chronologically years apart but they were united by a common bond, which of course was rugby.