24 – The Ties That Bind – An intro to the Jolly Boys
Apart from Duck, long since retired although cajoled since to turn out again for the Stiffs on the odd occasion, there are only a very few of us left still playing from the days when some of our team mates today were far from even thought of let alone born. There is a team photo of the 1975 Under Eighteen team in the clubhouse; I am that small my feet dangle off the bench and I am wearing black trainers and yellow socks.
Menacingly behind that impressionable twelve year old stand the seemingly giant figures of Brent and Rick, whilst I am sandwiched between Richard Tattersall, who clearly stopped growing soon after, and Nick Gibson who never stopped growing. And so it was probably my earliest experience of many life long friendships that only sport can truly foster. Was it here that the seeds of the Jolly Boys were sown?
Have We Lost JB Again?
The other member, JB, is not on the picture but that could have been for any reason; most probably he had got lost taking the hundred yard journey to the ground or more likely he was still in the dressing room trying to locate sock/jockstrap/shirt or daub his face with sun block oblivious to the pouring rain outside. In truth as he confessed many years later it was simply that his parents could not afford the gear to kit him out. So if I had to contend with yellow socks, well so what, it spoke volumes of how hard our parents worked to enable us to participate at all and that’s not lost on any of us. So when you see some of the gear that parents lavish on their kids today it is hard to avoid a wry smile or two.
There are several things that strike me about that photo:
- Brent is wearing another club’s sweater long before he started collecting them annually
- Duck is praying or trying his hardest to look innocent
- Nobody ever got their hair cut
- I think that was the bench we destroyed with the heavy roller
Over the years, the other three members of the Jolly Boys have plied their cricketing wares elsewhere. Brent on sheer ability; Rick on a wing and a prayer plus an aesthetic desire for new scenery and JB on a free transfer subsidised by Critics Corner. But we have all keptAll Alone Road in our hearts and still meet with an accountant’s precision on a Tuesday evening for beers, pork scratchings, tales, moans and groans.
We have had numerous rows and heated discussions over the years all around the Villas simply because we care so much about the place and what it has given us over many years. In truth, because no club is awash with unlimited volunteers it is inevitable that those closest generally end up falling out with each other simply because there is nobody else to gripe at. Keeping these places alive can be a soul destroying business at times and can test the best of friendships.
Road Trip
In an attempt to try to broaden our topics of discussion we formed the Jolly Boys Investment Club with the aim of making some serious money dabbling in all sorts of investments. To date we would have been better having a weekly bet on some nag running in the local jumps such is our prowess with the stock market. Although we have amassed a tidy sum – much larger than Brent and Rick let on to Sue and Julie and never disclosed in JB’s divorce settlement – you sense that we could have done a bit better.
Years have been spent discussing a wide variety of topics: the benefits of single beds for the middle aged man; the joy of pork scratchings; the vagaries of the stock market and hour after hour around the Villas and the great game itself. One night, against a background of another sizeable crash in our investment portfolio after another sure thing from JB fizzled into post-dotcom dust we decided to take a road trip. And so it was that a dream was conceived…read on…and weep.
25 – Born To Run
One dark winter’s night, many moons ago, with the next cricket season an age away, four old pals facing yet another mid-life crisis decided on a new challenge for the summer months; the Jolly Boys were going to take on the coast-to-coast cycle run. Of the four of us, only JB had had experience of anything longer than the canal path to Shipley, indeed Brent had not ridden a bike since his stabilisers came off the three wheeler. As a consequence detailed planning and heavy investment went into the next few months as much new gear was acquired, sending the local bike shops giddy with excitement.
Brent, conscious that he needed a bike that would carry his extreme weight,was duped into a £750 machine that in time would make Rover cars look reliable; on reflection we should have bought him one of those Sinclair C5s and simply towed him. Rick prayed deep into the dark winter nights that his frail hamstrings would not let him down and that sons Sam and Joe would not finally convince Julie to install Sky Sports. And as for me, I looked at my trusted Raleigh, forged out of solid iron and won in a raffle at BVCC for a quid. I just knew it was going to be a breeze.
The Bedstead
The lads had nicknamed my bike The Bedstead largely because it had that solid tubular construction and was about as flexible as one. On reflection, to attempt a trip of this nature on this crate was either naïve or suicidal depending on your viewpoint. Whilst the other members of Team Jolly Boys had front and rear suspension, disc brakes and lightweight frames I was sat on the cycling equivalent of a Lada.
Expedition leader JB, sponsored by Nav-Man, had all the gear and you have guessed it…no idea! Remember all those kids who turned up to practise years ago with brand new bats and pads that you never saw again as soon as they realised they were total rubbish. As we were to discover, JB could not read the map of the local Arndale Shopping Centre let alone 135 miles of countryside paths.
On the Sunday evening JB and I prepared in the only way we could, in our local hole – the White Bear – ready to meet the others who were making their own way to the Whitehaven start; predictably we got lashed, which was not in the Lance Armstrong doping guide at all.
Monday – Whitehaven To Keswick: If You Go Down To The Woods Today
Knowing JB’s capacity for self-induced chaos I decided to turn up early at his place ahead of the train journey to our staring point, only to find the little man trying to reassemble his fancy cycling shoes…spuds is the technical term… with bits all over the place and most of his breakfast all over his face. I looked down at my Nikes, lately a comfortable pair of gardening shoes and wondered what the fuss was all about.
JB explained in that manic way that only he can, that the spuds locked your feet into the pedals and made you go faster: great, I had four days ahead of me with a psychopath. Once we were at Shipley station he was at it again as the train was delayed. When it rumbled into view,JB was panicked into collecting several weeks worth of Sunday Times, his spuds and bike to get on to the train, thus knocking the miserable Monday commuters to all parts.
I was on and seated when I heard a thud…had we crashed? No, it was JB’s bike half in the door and half on the platform with JB clinging on and the prospect of the train taking off. At last he was on board cursing all from Tony Blair to Network Rail to a very disinterested driver. So off we went to Carnforth with a suspicious crunch as the train crushed JB’s expensive new visor, which had dropped on to the tracks.
Roll Up, Roll Up
Carnforth was once the location for Brief Encounter, a romantic weepy made circa 1940. I know this because JB passed the time by detailing the plot for the next two hours. It seemed a pity that we subsequently turned up at this historic station looking like circus clowns – draped in bright Spandex with sun cream splattered all over our faces. A quick cream scone revived us and, once I had wiped JB clean again with a Wet Wipe, we moved on to Whitehaven – a place that makes Bradford look positively cosmopolitan.
Finally, as my patience at the extended child-minding session was just about wearing thin, we met up with Brent and Rick; soon though yet further trauma courtesy of JB who had managed to get his foot stuck in the spud that was attached to the bike – hence he jiggled around the platform like a dancing bear trying to free his leg. This fascinated the locals, they had never had such an entertaining free show and were just on the verge of passing the hat round when he freed himself – greeted with wild applause and an offer from the station master to come back tomorrow.
The Deer Hunter
At last we were off, facing four days of slog and numb-bums. Very soon we met three fellow cyclists doing the same route but with an average age well in excess of sixty which made us feel slightly better – especially as the eldest must have been eighty and was sporting chinos, a hunting jacket and a deer stalker with a permanently lit fag dangling from his mouth. They were to haunt us for the next four days.
That very first day was sheer torture in extreme heat with murderous climbs in and out of numerous valleys. I had never seen Brent so scared since he batted against a gigantic West Indian bowler called Copey James at Gob Lane CC. Late in the day, as Keswick finally loomed, disaster struck. After yet another lung-busting climb in the heat, another climb. Once at the top, JB flew off down the hill with a crazed yell and Rick decided to follow on close so we could tell the rescue services where to find the body.
“Tell Sue And The Girls I Love Them!”
I stayed with Brent as he looked like he had just done a twenty-over spell. Unbelievably, he had under-eaten, something you would never normally associate with Brent – and was entering a delirious state dreaming of Mars Bars. I realised that as I needed a good bowling spell from him the following Saturday if it came to mouth to mouth so be it…what a skipper has to do for his team…although had it been Barry Hawkesworth I would have left him in the woods to the mercy of the wild.
Suddenly, he collapsed in a heap and could go no further and we were genuinely concerned for the big man especially as we had not named a reserve for the Saturday game; would we have to call on Molly as a pound for pound replacement? Fortunately we found an angel in the woods in the form of a lovely lady at a nearby guesthouse who offered Brent the only form of resuscitation he knows…cake…. as long as we left JB outside.
In The Woods, Shorts Round Ankles…not A Good Look
With Rick escorting Brent safely into Keswick, JB and I decided to complete the “official” route. I should have known that following cycling’s equivalent of Eddie the Eagle was not sensible at all. Flying through some woods at a breakneck pace I had the feeling that I’d had it as, with The Bedstead vibrating violently beneath me, I hit a huge brick and was launched through the air, landing with a thud in the undergrowth. Was I dead?
Not quite although two flat tyres, a bent wheel and blood over my fancy new outfit, it could have been a lot worse; bizarrely, the tie cord on my sixty quid shorts had also popped. I looked like the victim of some violent attack as I trudged along alone, dragging The Bedstead behind me. Where was JB when I really needed him? Finally I found him on the edge of the woods where “we” embarked on some basic cycle maintenance… well, I watched and he fiddled and the midgies ticked into to two giant suppers.
Eventually we cycled into Keswick, half-bitten to death and hours late. The guest house that Brent had had six months to book turned out to specialise in dwarves and the ceiling was so low that even JB had to crawl about on his knees. Soon, one side of the room was like a bombsite as the scruffiest man in the world inflicted his unique brand of room management. At this point, it’s right to point out that if you were expecting wild tales from four lads cut loose on the road then try all day on a bike for the libido. I felt violated.
Tuesday – Keswick – Via The Bike Shop – To Penrith
We awoke to some bad news as, despite leaving them unlocked, nobody had stolen our bikes so we had to continue. Once we had all gingerly mounted, with rear ends aching like never before and never since, we headed for the local bike shop to assess the damage to The Bedstead. With any luck, it would be terminal and I could go back to bed. After the resident hippie had put down his joint, he looked at my bike and gave his assessment:
“Sometimes we see really crap bikes like this with people on the coast to coast. They tend to leave them here for scrap and buy a new one to make sure they’ll get there.”
He then comforted me that for the next hundred miles or so I had one brake, a knackered back wheel and was cycling the equivalent of that fat bird that won Pop Idol compared with my colleagues riding the equivalent of Girls Aloud; for the record I always fancied the ginger one. His final advice was either to take the bus or make sure I had chosen the hymns for my funeral. So off we went, cheered by the news that I was on the edge of calamity, Brent was just out of intensive care, Rick’s contact lenses were playing up and JB was in control. The portents were not good.
Get a Job!
Early in the day we passed some local layabouts moping around some lumps of rock. Something to do with the summer solstice and no doubt passing time before their giros could be cashed and off to buy more weed and a rainproof kaftan. I made a rash comment about work-shy, lazy good for nothings until the boys reminded me of my own work/play ratio for Barclays Bank; they had a fair point.
More glorious sunshine, more never-ending hills, but eventually we reached the Eden House Country Hotel, a place so lacking in atmosphere in made the White Bear seem like Stringfellows. Boy could Brent pick them but at least we had single rooms and I would not be kept awake by the baby elephant I roomed with last night. No sign of the old boys today…surely they could not be further on?
Wednesday – Penrith To Rookhope…and Tina
This was the day we all feared, with some monster climbs for most of the way. Brent looked pale and ready to offer himself to the gods, especially now that his super bike was down to three workable gears thanks to JB’s early morning bike maintenance. A good buy, that one, I thought as I humped The Bedstead off it is mountings singing “one wheel on my wagon….”
At the foot of the local Mount Everest, JB asked if anybody fancied the off-road route; had he nicked some weed from the bike man in Kendal? Off went the little mad man, down into the valley and being good, loyal mates we left him there. What the map should have pointed out was that off-road was fine…in a Range Rover. As we sat at the summit we could just pick him out down in the valley, glistening with sweat, covered in mud and cursing away; life was sweet again, albeit temporarily.
The Rookhope Inn – Paradise Lost
The afternoon was a succession of hills, every time we reached a summit JB would exclaim “that’s it for today.”; as usual he was talking utter rubbish. One hill was so steep that a middle-aged couple who had decided to walk their bikes up actually passed Brent still manfully in the saddle wheezing away. Six saddle-sore hours later and in we rode to meet Tina and the locals at the Rookhope Inn, a place that BBC Holiday will never ever feature I promise. The pub was run on a last out/lock-up basis, Tina liked a pint with her cornflakes and the previous week’s turn, a Freddie Mercury look-alike had been bitten to death by midgies and was buried behind the bike shed.
All beers were £1.50 a pint and when we enquired the barman said “dunno”. Has it always been like this…”dunno”. What time’s dinner….”dunno”. At three in the morning the local farmer, having had his fill, climbed into the combine and was heard to rattle off into the night. These people were the happiest I’d ever seen…pressure what pressure? Clearly Trip Advisor had not sent anybody for a review here.
Thursday – Rookhope To Sunderland– Home
We left Tina with a tear in her eye and a cold pint in her hand and after one early climb it was flat out across some spectacular landscapes. Things were going too well until Brent’s dream machine collapsed again with a broken chain. No problem said JB and then proceeded to take two hours trying to fix the missing link only for the local DIY man to give it a crash with his hammer and cure it within a minute. As we awaited the miracle that JB promised, the old boys sauntered past again with the Deer Hunter looking serene with fag hanging from lips…they were in front – again.
Eventually we were off again and with twenty miles to go we hammered it, but we didn’t see the old boys until we reached the coast-to-coast offices in Sunderland and there they were on the steps, having a fag, taking in the vista that was Sunderland. Sunburnt, covered in flies and stinking like tramps, our bodies aching, we were dreaming of a comfortable bed as we were finally at Costa del Roker.
It was an emotional end for Brent as he viewed the ocean, having thought that he might never see one again. My thoughts turned to our next trip as I sat astride The Bedstead à la Roy Rogers and Trigger, dipped a front wheel in the North Sea and wondered if I would ever sit down again without the aid of a very large cushion.
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