I’m a Lancashire lad who lives in Harrogate,
that pleasant spa town beloved of Victorian gentry.

I tried to convert the locals to black puddings,
tripe and George Formby, but gave up,’cos unlike my favourite rugby league club,
Twiddlewick Tykes, I know when I’m beat.

They ruled the roost in the Northern Division,
and though he received his share of abuse,
Charles Bunty-Bushworth became a fans’ favourite,
for they knew that when the scores were tight,
he could be relied upon to kick crucial drop goals.

He even used his influence at his old alma mater
of Balliol College, Oxford, to arrange a friendly game,
where the Tykes impressed the sceptics by beating the university’s fledgling RL team,
and even won the post-match quiz, proving they were no fools.

Fortified with ale, Bill Biddyworth even recited a monologue,
then Harry Huntingdon sang folk song Yorkshire Lads Are Coming.
Watching all this was TV producer and former Balliol old boy Chrispin Cunningham,
who, sensing a novelty angle featured them on a TV show, 
which followed them on their march to Wembley.

But when the director discovered - after they’d lost 20-18 to Keighley -
that, instead of drowning their sorrows in the fleshpots of Soho,
they’d all gone to see the West End debut of their loose forward,
Tim Tackle ’Em Todworth’s play, The Great Blunden,

Chrispin exploded, saying, ‘I’d arranged a film crew
to follow you around seedy clubs and sex shops.

‘I’d assumed you big lads would jump at the chance to see the fleshpots of London town.’

But team manager Sam Sugworth replied, ‘We don’t conform to preconceived stereotypes.
I for instance, eat vegetarian pork chops.’

This caught the attention of The Daily Bugle,
who sent budding reporter Gervase Philbin to interview him.

Fred declared, ‘You have a reputation as a rugby league-bashing title,
looking at us through blinkered, middle-class eyes.

‘But that’s hypocritical.
Why, you lot, after a match at Twickenham,
get drunk and sing rude songs on the banks of the Thames,
while we, the team who doesn’t speak ‘proper’,
are so well read, we’re exactly grammatical,’
and like nothing better than to stroll along the river Swale,
reading poems by that dastardly aristocrat, Lord Byron.

‘In fact, some of us, despite being big Yorkshire lads, are gay,
and our prop, who’s introduced to the fans as ‘Feisty Fred Figgins,
he’s big and he’s bad!’, reads The Bible.

‘And, he added, ‘not all rugby players drink copious amounts of ale.
Oh, by the way, did your paper review the Great Blunden?’

The commentator remarked, ‘What? Oh, we will - you know,
you’re a breath of fresh air.
Most of the people I interview are stuck up-types.’

Fred laughed, ‘Thanks, some of us even read The Guardian.
Here’s a ticket to see the Tykes.’

The Great Blunden proved a hit, and, after being interviewed on TV show Yorkshire Daily,
author Tim’s manly features attracted hordes of girls,
but the press had a field day, when it was seen he didn’t go for women.

Instead, he took up with that reporter, Gervase Philbin,
and, on retiring from the game,
they established a trendy eatery in the village of Mellam-Munt.

Sam Sugworth, after a stint as defence coach for union side Bulstrode Bees,
became a BBC RL commentator, occasionally embarrassing the
Beeb’s well educated bosses, with his rough, northern humour.

But his commentating expressions, such as, ‘He’d tackle an elephant!’,
and, ‘It’s time he had an early bath!’, proved a hit with the viewing public,
regularly upstaging TV host Frank Bough,
and he was soon being impersonated by that famous mimic, Mick Cartwood.

In fact, Sam’s autobiography, From Wembley With The Tykes
- To getting The Bees Buzzing, sold like hot cakes.

But I have to confess, though that Oldham lad who played for the Saints,
Adam Fogerty, but swapped his boots for Hollywood,
succeeded in converting stars like Bradley Flit to the greatest game,
I couldn’t achieve that feat in my adopted town of Harrogate.

But I still regularly support the greatest team,
with it’s crumbling stadium where you can get a cuppa for a quid,
and tasty home-cooked food, where we sing -

‘We’re The Twiddlewickers, and when our hope flickers,
as we stare at defeat, we sing, 'Come on The Tykes!', 
the team who never know they’re beat.’