The day was set fair. The spring sun
over the soft folds of the wooded weald as we coasted around the southern section of the
M25 en route for Dartford, propelled by the adrenaline of the Monsters of Baroque and some
pleasing ballads from Rick Astley. We arrived early. With the gentle breeze lightly
touching our warm cheeks, conveying the scent of newly mown grass, we waited expectantly.
It came as something of a surprise, therefore, on a splendid afternoon for football, that
an alternative programme of events should be decided. Instead of the publicised game,
which had been billed as a promotion contest, we were disappointed to learn that a
gravitational experiment was again to be conducted. Perverse as this might seem, it has to
be said that Frank Casper was meticulous in his research. Having established the equality
of gravitational forces applied to skyward punts at other Fourth Division venues, he would
not consider this finding to be conclusive without further experimentation at all grounds.
He, therefore, selected his research team with care. One researcher was called Bray (as if
we needed any clue about the species on display) and he applied himself to the task with
alacrity, proceeding to pepper the stratosphere with some stunning clearances. Frank did
fall down on his selection of the oxymoronic Rocket Ron, however. Ron thought he had been
selected on footballing criteria only (as if), and when it was made clear to him that the
ball was to be propelled vertically as far and frequently as possible, he quickly became
disenchanted. His disenchantment overspilled when Maidstone had the gall to score before
the interval, and he began lashing out lethargically at anything which came into vision.
Of course, the only thing which he caught was the referee’s eye, who decided that
there was a surfeit of experimenters and suggested that Ron did something more useful,
like cleaning discarded hair out of the bathroom plug hole. But you had to feel for Ron.
He thought he had been cheated. (We certainly did.) After all, this appeared to be a joint
experiment, and Pender had merely demonstrated the gravitational effect of jumping on an
opposing researcher, totally unaware that this constituted a breach in experimental
etiquette.
Unabashed by the suspect commitment of all research parties, Frank
continued with the gravitational experimentation after the interval. Frank contended that
causal connections between separate phenomena could not be confirmed without experimental
evidence of their repeated juxtaposition. In other words, Frank understood the conceptual
difference between a possible correlation and a cause, and was not to be unduly swayed by
apparent coincidences between ostensibly related phenomena such as tacky tactics, crap
performances and zilch points. Also, his dogged scepticism in the face of what might
deceptively appear to be the bleeding obvious would have been appreciated by Descartes,
who had never been a season ticket holder as far as I can recall. But possibly more
artesian than Cartesian, Frank’s favourite dictum was, allegedly, 'I drink, therefore
I am. Sod the cogito, mine’s a Jack Daniel's. (Personally, I don't believe a word of
this.) However, Frank failed to grasp that experimental methods cannot secure certainty
because the principle of verification finally rests upon an unverifiable assumption. As
Clive adroitly observed to Jimmy, when ruminating over the success of the pre-season
fitness programme, ‘Ultimately, there are no scientific reasons for believing in
science.’ Wittgenstein had sussed this about 50 years ago, but had failed to tell
Frank. Frank was allegedly rather pissed off with Wittgenstein on another matter, too.
When Wittgenstein announced that if animals spoke our language we couldn’t possibly
understand their meaning, Frank’s hope of a fulfilling social life evaporated.
(Again, I find this inconceivable.)
And so it came to pass (although I don't remember seeing one) on this
balmy afternoon that a pointless research project was accomplished. The crowd had long
since turned its attention from the inaction on the field of play, immersing itself in a
debate as to whether John Major’s fledgling administration represented a departure
from conviction politics. After an interlude of soporific chanting, it appeared, in the
view of the majority, that Major’s move towards the centre, complementing Labour's
abandonment of a left-wing agenda, signalled a terminal squeeze on the Liberal Democrats.
However, I think Frank reserved his position on this one.
So, finally, with the evening spread against the sky, I was left in
suspended contemplation. Dare I eat this meat pie? Dare I disturb the universe? Dare I lay
a fiver on play-off success? Not a chance.
Tim Quelch
October-November 1995
