Bowls must have babes and baseball caps

Sir Francis Drake must surely be tumbling out of his hammock at the shocking news. The bowling green on Plymouth Hoe is threatened with closure, as part of the £10 million of cuts proposed by the city council.

To the City of Plymouth Bowling Club and the other groups that use this patch of trimmed and pampered grass, it must be a terrible blow. To the rest of us, it is another cruel defence cut, far worse than mothballing another frigate. This was, after all, the spot where Sir Francis, when told that the Armada had been sighted, is reported to have said: "There is plenty of time to win this game and thrash the Spaniards, too."

The leader of the Labour group on the council, the aptly named Tudor Evans, has attacked the proposal to withhold funding. So is this the moment that bowls gets political? Are we wrong to assume it is a game for quiet retired people who all appear to have bad backs? Will there be a Day of Action by people in white woollies and floppy hats, a mass stoop-in outside the council offices?

In fact, this is the second time that bowls has hit the headlines recently – albeit with a gentle, woody clunk. A couple of weeks ago, Sprowston parish council in Norfolk warned members of the bowls club that their traditional Christmas gift of supermarket vouchers to the groundstaff might be an offence under the Bribery Act of 2010. After a shocked in-drawing of breath had swept through the club, a person from the Ministry of Justice stepped in and said that the Christmas tips did not fall under the Bribery Act. The members were in the clear.

A good thing, too, because up to now, bowls has been a pastime for people who don't like excitement. It is like cricket once was: studious, relaxed and sedate, in the days before floodlights, garish pyjama outfits, Hawk-Eye and match-fixing. But cricket's example suggests a possible solution to the problems of the three bowls clubs on Plymouth Hoe. The annual cost of keeping the green open is £20,000, and at the moment their combined income is only £5,000. If they are to survive without their subsidy from the council, they must change their ways and get the paying public in.

In short, the City of Plymouth Bowling Club must brace itself for its first Mexican wave. It's time for baseball caps, fluorescent jackets, sponsors' logos, group hugs and tantrums. There must be transfers of star players and misbehaviour and great "characters" who chuck the woods down on the ground and storm off the green.

It is time to introduce Wags (of a certain age, perhaps) and flashy cars (or at least the smartest of mobility scooters), as well as agents and lawyers paid to keep the goings-on in the tearoom out of the newspapers. From now on, anything goes – so long as the sacred turf doesn't suffer the merest dent or blemish, of course. Matches must be televised with all the available ballyhoo, analysis and debate about the referees' controversial decisions. Think of the delicious moment when the Sky TV commentator says: "Let's just see that one more time in slow motion."

When you come to think about it, Sir Francis Drake was a bit of a crowd-pleaser himself, not averse to a bit of pizzazz. All
that stuff about finishing the game before he sorted out the Armada suggests the sporty swagger of a Kevin Pietersen in his prime.

Sir Henry Newbolt's poem suggests that the great sailor is slung between the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, waiting to be called to come to the aid of England again. It's time to summon him to return, and beat the drum for a new, thrilling and sensational take on Plymouth bowls.