OLD YEARS are supposed to go out with a whimper. The cartoonists portray the dog-end days of December as Old Man Time, complete with scythe, calling the year to its doom.

Well, not 2002, not in Beggarsdale, not this last year at least. That went down fighting and the brand new 2003 - the cartoonists' bouncing young babe - was born with its arms already in a sling.

In this particular case, the newcomer had a lot in common with The Bullock, from Windmill Farm, and Owd Tom's grandson, Yun Tom, who saw in the New Year in a costume of plaster of Paris and butterfly stitches.

Their main concern, on Tuesday night, was which of their mates would stay long enough to keep pouring Rams' Blood ale (abv 5.5%) down their throats come midnight, unable as they were themselves to perform such an essential function.

This was the result of renewed hostilities against the Crooked Inn over the tops at Crookedale, re-opened now after is temporary demise to foot and mouth. This meant the re-introduction of the annual Beggarsdale v Crookedale rugby game, which has been going on for well over a century (before such a civilised contest was introduced, the young men simple threw rocks at each other!).

To say this is healthy village rivalry would be a violation of the truth. The butterfly plasters and, occasionally, the crutches that sprout after the game show that this rivalry can sometimes be very unhealthy indeed.

The Doc always books a locum to look after his "normal" patients on match day because he likes to be on the touchline just in case anyone get seriously hurt. As a former scrum-half in the Beggarsdale XV, he was known to be quite handy himself with the odd uppercut on the far side of the scrum from the ref. So, with the history of the fixture explained, I should now reveal why this year's clash of the Titans had an even sharper edge than is the norm. And it had little to do with the fact that this was a game back from the dead, as we had all assumed when The Crook closed.

You see, professionalism has crept into the game - and that really got the Beggars' backs up. And the forwards' backs, too, for that matter.

It was leaked to our lads the evening before the clash that the new couple running the The Crook (as we know the Crookedale Inn) had promised their players free booze between Boxing Day and New Year's Eve should they win.

Now that, in hard cash terms, is a lot of brass. I can only hope that the newcomers, being southerners, had some idea of what they were letting themselves in for.

As it happens, the matter did not arise. Our lads were so incensed (they only get one free jug of ale after the game) that they got stuck in from the start. The Bullock and Yun Tom, our two locks, hit the star Crook player, the blacksmith known as Iron Fist, simultaneously so hard in the first five minutes that all three had to be stretchered off.

So even though we were down a man almost from the start, we managed to scrape a 9-9 draw. All of it in penalties, I might add, which indicates the general tenor of the game. However, being a man short, we reckon we won the moral laurels. So amateurism triumphed once more!

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.