21 – Long Walk Home
I always thought that as my school years evolved I might in time get some faint idea of how I wanted to make a living other than my Sunday morning paper round. By the time I cruised through my O levels with minimal effort and equally modest returns – still practising the art of just doing enough – this remained a mystery so I opted for two more years in the holiday camp with A levels as an excuse and stayed on, still oblivious to the need to earn money. As a teenager in the 1970s there was no obvious need for money as nobody had heard of mobile phones, we were happy letting our mothers buy our clothes and a six pack was impossibly expensive and tasted like tar generally.
Far too soon those two blissful years in sixth form passed by and there it was again staring me in the face…reality. I had no interest in going away to university as I tended to get homesick each time I left Wrose so moving away and running up a debt the size of Mexico had no appeal although I do admire Rick’s youngest son Joe’s causal approach to a five figure debt before he reaches the end of teenage life. That kid has some style…as long as Rick can keep funding it.
The Summer of 81
As a young dreamer I thought my God given right to a life of luxury would come knocking on my door in the guise of a juicy job, fat salary and no responsibilities other than to make nets every Tuesday in the summer. Strangely nothing happened, an England call up looked remote and I survived with some horrendous part time jobs that if anything else were solid evidence of what I did not want to do for the rest of my life. Hard labour was not inspirational in my book so I needed a plan.
Over that glorious summer of 1981 when Ian Botham cut loose seemingly at will and Aussie captain Kim Hughes ended up bawling like a schoolboy as a result, I was finally cut loose from school. Unbelievably my entrepreneurial side hit a winning streak. I won some contracts to deliver door-to-door samples of everything from leaflets to Bachelors Chicken soup to Bold 3 washing powder. All that I required was transport and able volunteers; thankfully many were willing to undertake some easy work in exchange for a bit of dosh. My dad’s Capri turned out to do a very good impression of a low loader; all we had to do now was deliver the goods.
Bold 3 And Bonzo The Dog
We did the job, albeit somewhat randomly, given that the “checkers” employed by the distribution company followed chalk marks you made at the end of a street. Clearly they were as lazy as we were because if you made sure you did the first few houses in a street then you could ignore the rest. And who in their right mind really wants to deliver 17,000 sachets of powdered soup? My mum ended up with two suitcases full, a guilty conscience and my dad could not stop farting for two years. We used the stuff to barter in exchange for milk from milkmen, sweets from the local shops and played at being Robin Hood by delivering huge quantities to anybody who looked desperate enough to want to dilute the supposedly chicken flavoured sawdust and attempt to drink it.
Bold 3 was much more fun. It was much bulkier so sometimes hard to get through letter boxes. The sight of a box of washing powder coming through a letter box was too much for some household canines – especially if you wiggled it enough. So if you came home some thirty years ago to find Bonzo foaming blue at the mouth and your hallway covered in Bold 3…sorry.
Dark Satanic Mills
As winter approached things looked grim. In those days Smudger Smith had a wool-sorting mill and he needed cheap labour in the form of me and my similarly unemployed mate Andy, who by this time had forgiven me for stealing Alison earlier in the summer and was in the process of trying to nick her back. So for a tortured eight weeks running up to Christmas Andy and I experienced the 8am to 7pm plus Saturday morning grind in a dark, soulless mill with dark, soulless colleagues and the clinging smell of wool and sheep dung.
Sure enough, having exams to my name, the other workers used me as an example of why, even if they were as thick as posts, they were really my superiors. They had had a previous experience with a young JB and also “played” with him to varying levels of mental torture. One day they convinced me that the bag of “dag ends” – the bit of the fleece that was closest to the sheep’s rear – had to be compressed into a bale by foot as it was really valuable. Just because I had four A levels under my belt it did not mean I could not be completely gullible. Standing inside the bale bag, I fell hook line and sinker and spent a morning pounding sheep dung. It was to be a long winter.
The Man From The Pru…although Not For Long
It was not until around spring time that an employer seemed remotely interested but as it was the Prudential it seemed worth the wait and soon I was signed up as a trainee in the Claims Department, where I met people with even less hope than the lot still grinding away in the mill; there seemed to be a rota for who would be off on the next Monday morning sickie. It was a desperate place to look forward to spending the next forty years. However, there was light at the end of the tunnel in the form of a forthcoming cricket tour down South.
Now most of us can only dream of reaching the pinnacle of cricketing ability and donning the cap with the three lions that enable you to end up representing your country in some of the finest parts of the world. These days though even the most ordinary of club cricketer – me – may get lucky enough to enjoy the odd tour even if Richmond-on-Thames, Eastbourne and Hastings hardly rival Bridgetown, Cape Town or the MCG on Boxing Day with 100,000 ex-convicts baying for your blood.
Still that heady mix of visiting far off places with the ultimate challenge of proving your cricketing, drinking and pulling techniques is the pinnacle of every club cricketer’s life – to kid yourself that for one week only you are a Pro. I have been lucky to freeload on some of the finest company sponsored “sporting” trips anybody could wish for. Sadly, in these draconian times all these “opportunities” appear to have been consigned to another life…but at least we were there…and boy did we make the most of it. These trips were also the closest I ever got to being an “overseas player”…even if I could only use the term very loosely in connection with the Seventies disco on the Eastbourne pier straddling the ocean.
The Phantom Wanker Of Richmond
Lady Luck was just around the corner. Only two weeks into my soon to be short lived career with The Pru, I was delighted to accept three days away on the annual cricket tour to Richmond-on-Thames, comprising a one day game that was rained off…(paid to sleep – could life get any better?) and a two day game where it definitely could as we spent most of the time watching the opposition smash us to all parts with the only comfort afforded the enormous selection of cakes and goodies for the lunch and tea break. Chasing a ball was impossible after six vanillas anyway.
As the one-dayer was off we prepared as best we could and hit the bars of Richmond mid-afternoon, keen to share our Northern culture and get slaughtered. With this kind of preparation it was no great surprise that our bowlers could hardly stand let alone hit the cut strip the following day but this was in the days before real professionalism. In addition, as the Pru was footing the bill we made hay whilst the sun shone…even in the rain. After a good soaking I decided to get a relatively early night on account of being completely wrecked. So off I trotted back to the hotel where the young Swedish tennis star, Mats Willander, was staying with a girlfriend so impossibly beautiful I gave up hope there and then of ever pulling anything to remotely match her.
As I staggered down Richmond High Street I passed a battered, slightly steamed up VW Camper van with a guy who looked like Woody Allen sat rigid in the driver seat. Then I noticed it…he was jerking himself off furiously. Too much for me this liberal Southern lifestyle I thought and wandered past leaving him to it. It was then, to my horror, that I heard the unmistakable rattle of the VW engine and soon the Jerkmobile of Richmond was on my trail, driven by Woody the Jerker.
Running for my Life
I ran faster than I have ever run in my life but Woody remained in hot pursuit no doubt with trousers around his ankles. I made it into the lobby and all I could say to the Swedish vision in front of me was “Behind me, behind me…” I never saw her again but every time I saw Mats Willander on telly at Wimbledon all I could think of was Woody getting it on in his van. Needless to say my team mates were less than supportive and a cricket dressing room is the last place you should ever seek counselling.
My career with the Pru lasted barely three months. It culminated in spending two whole days in the basement pulling pins and paper clips out of old files that were being destroyed. The old bag that was supposed to be training me was off sick again; nobody else seemed bothered and this did not seem like the life I wanted. I needed to find another holiday camp.
Back To The Comforting Bosom Of Grant Assisted Education
Three more years passed in pursuit of a degree that seemed to have value in those days – before Tony Blair started shelling them out to anybody who turned up – on which basis I would probably have failed having spent most of my college years working at the Five Lane Ends pub and then Silks nightclub inBradford. All of a sudden, I liked the colour of money, I just had to find a more sustainable source. And then I joined dear old Mercantile Credit, subsidiary of Barclays Bank, and the best four years of my working life by a country mile. All good things come to an end though and in 1989 I hopped from Bradford to Leedsto join the sister business, Barclays Mercantile and left the madness of motor trade credit for business finance…a different kind of madness. Just when I thought it could not get any better I discovered another touring opportunity.
On Tour With Barclays – What A Bankers’ Bonus
Winning the Barclays Bank Lambert Cup Final in 1998, on a sunny day in Ealing Ranks as possibly the highest achievement in my mediocre career…cricket, that is. I have no idea who Mr Lambert was or what part he played in the great history of one of Britain’s oldest banking institutions but whoever he was and if all he ever did was think up a great wheeze like a cricket tour then thanks to him for the best few weeks of my life. Like most big companies who valued their employee’s health and well being long before these notions were overtaken by return on capital employed and shareholder value, Barclays had a strong and flourishing sports and social scene with national competitions in a variety of sports and, fortunately, cricket was one of these.
There were a few seasoned old guys who seemed to register for even the tiddly winks team if they could blag a few days away. It’s all about team-building after all. My first experience of the Lambert Cup was 1997 when Barclays Mercantile entered a team competing in the round robin matches staged in Eastbourne and Hastings. Frankly, we were a complete rag tag bunch and spent most of a rainy week by the sea either being smashed by much better sides or hanging around shopping centres like middle aged hoodies.
All The Gear… No Idea
As we assembled the first morning to play we were a motley crew. First rule of assessing any new player at cricket is if all his gear is brand new gear it’s fair to say he will be useless a term afforded to me at the beginning of most seasons after a winter’s excess at PC Sports. Given that the owner of all this shiny new gear claimed he had been netting with Hampshire all winter we cut him some slack that is until his first attempt at off spin bounced three times with a cry from the batter of “I cant hit that pile of pap.” True enough he could not as the third ball looped over his head and bowled him. Some said that he was a Middlesex second teamer but I could only conclude they went to the same nets as Hampshire.
Fortunately it rained quite a bit that week so our pummelling’s were shortened by the elements which is always a blessing in cricket where pummelling’s can be merciless, long drawn out affairs under a searing sun. Rain and a quick thrashing never hurt anybody…so they say. Later in the week we played the mighty Yorkshire region who, had they not been a collection of dedicated alcoholics, should have been odds on favourites to smash all comers. Knowing quite a few of the lads from the local leagues helped alleviate the pain of playing in a team of no hopers and they kindly lent me some of their favoured reading material to pass away my day, such as Super Mums, Fit, Forty & Hot and Doing Doggy with Granny although nobody ever owned up to that one.
Tapped Up – The First And Last Time
The following year I was “tapped up” for the only time in my life by “Panto” Bradywith an invite to play for the Yorkshire region. Panto got his nickname simply because when he ran after the ball he resembled the back end of a pantomime horse; the front end was not far off too. Yorkshire ended up every year playing their fixtures on the SouthCoast, which was an act of genius, and cunning planning particularly as York also hosted the Lambert Cup regional play offs.
It was all down to the scheming of skipper/tour organiser/butt of everybody’s jokes “Cod Head” so named because he looked like a cod’s head although I’ve never seen a six foot cod. Our much derided leader calculated that nobody was ever likely to get called back to the office in Yorkshire from Eastbourne and as we had a day off in the week of four matches and then team bonding was more important than share holder value. Another masterstroke was to arrange our day off on the Friday, allegedly for the long drive back but really because of the Seventies disco on the Pier, which meant that most of us did not get to bed till the early hours. Some never made it back at all but marriages are at stake here.
Eastbourne – Land Of The Dead
The weekend before the tour most of us had the dreaded double weekend and then after a never ending drive down the Sunday night we hit Eastbourne. I would play six games in seven days and be hammered for an equal amount of time … finally I felt like a professional…sort of. Eastbourne looked like the land that time had forgotten or at least allowed to be taken over by the living dead. Appearances can de deceptive and at night it awoke with a vengeance.
Sensibly and this is the last time I can associate that adjective with this experience –…we had a few beers and retired to bed. My room mate still works for Barclays so I have to be protective of his professional reputation, save to say he was a joy to room with even if most mornings I caught him hammering away under the duvet due to the sight of Kelly Brook on breakfast TV.
Why Mr Wong Never Got A Michelin Star
We stayed – on more than one occasion – in Mr Wong’s guesthouse. If any shareholders are reading this and thinking that this was a gross abuse of company money I can confirm it was a dump when we arrived and an absolute, in some cases door-less, hole when we left the following Friday; this was not the Savoy. There was no such thing as a porter and if you were late in you had to wake Mr Wong if your room-mate had the key and was otherwise engaged. Mr Wong’s greeting at these various times of the morning never wavered. It was a great credit to him and it always had a ring of welcome to it: “You wucking wunken Warclays’ wonking wonkers.”
Eastbourne really is a bizarre place; dead by day, populated only by shuffling blue rinsers and yet at night it comes alive with a variety of drinking holes so diverse you just have to try them all…and we did. Monday night and after a hard day on a cricket field where better to end up than a nightclub on student night? Mind you, it took some negotiating to get in with Cod and his fellow tour management team – all six foot plus and not one of them in possession of a full head of hair …but they let us in after we claimed we were professional athletes and therefore would spend a fortune. It was only the first night of the tour and I curled up in a ball and promptly fell asleep despite the blaring music and the temptations of student night miles from home.
Zinger Burgers
Time to escape and I never ceased to be amazed that no matter how far gone I was I could always find Mr Wong’s. Likewise I developed an addiction to Burger King Zinger burgers and had to have my fix before I hit the sack, with luck finding the right one and not frightening my roommate to death. And so for two weeks of my life there was a ritual observed with quiet honour. Panto would get me absolutely mashed each night, I would wander off (taking advantage of one of his visits to the loo) and he would come collect me a few hours later, slumped in the corner of the Eastbourne Burger King, face awash with ketchup and still clutching my coke. Then he’d lead me home, allowing me to gibber as randomly as I have ever done in my life.
The following day after my initiation to tour drinking I was stood in an open field, sun blazing down, a few people mingling around. Oh my God I was batting, it was 11am and we were playing the worst side of the group. Now when you are feeling slightly grey around the gills as a batter you really need to focus hard and to do so you need a bowler who is trying to basically kill you not a trundling, dibbly dobbly slower thanMollyand a sun so bright it’s only fit for factor thirty and a San Miguel.
There were many new experiences in my two weeks on tour and this day was no exception. The scorebook read:
S Wilson How Out Fell Over Drunk Bowler T Trundler 0
We then racked up 300+ although I never saw a run as I slept like a baby before having to field mercilessly for a much shorter time than I had slept. Panto got a ton and that showed up our wildly differing tolerances of alcohol. I knew trouble lay ahead as he had clearly marked me down as his drinking buddy for the week. The reward for a successful week on the South Coast– apart from cirrhosis of the liver – was a semi-final we won in York and the final at Barclay’s magnificent sports complex in Ealing a place steeped in history and used by various professional outfit is including QPR FC. The grass was that lush I swear it felt simply not right to be wearing spikes.
Winners
I cannot remember much about the final, apart from that there was “history” between the two sides and the opposition’s star player resembled a fat Russell Brand and was just as big a waste of space. It was he that I caught out at deep mid-off with the ball travelling faster than I had ever seen in my life. I swear if I had to do that now it would simply pin me between the eyes and death would be instantaneous. Next I opened the batting and the hippy opened their bowling with a mix of spin that had me groping about as blindly as many a bra clasp had done down the years. Somehow I scratched thirty-odd keeping the legendary John Proud company – and the Lambert Cup was ours. I still have the shirt and nothing will make me part with it.
I only ever went on one more tour as the following year after that the Bank effectively ended our unofficial extra week’s holiday with free B&B plus drinks allowance for reasons I have never been clear about. What was so wrong about paying for sixteen lads to tour the whorehouses of the South East on shareholder value? At least we came back happy bonded far more than any inane, useless, morale sapping, team-building exercise we seem to import very year from across the Pond.
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