The news that Eastbourne Pier had been all but destroyed by fire brought back memories of some of the best weeks of my life “working” for Barclays Bank.
Well let me clarify the term working firstly. Back in those olden and happier times, the bank had a thriving sporting section and as far as cricket went this meant the annual Lambert Cup, a competition steeped in traditions.
Winning the Lambert Cup Final in 1998, on a gorgeous sunny day in Ealing ranks as possibly the highest achievement in my mediocre cricketing life. Many would say it was my finest contribution to the bank in general.
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, if all he ever did was think up a great wheeze like a cricket tour for a week away, surely he got Employee of the Year?
Like most big companies who valued their employee’s health and well being, long before these notions were overtaken by the pursuit of profit, Barclays had national competitions in a variety of sports and, fortunately, cricket was one of these.
After representing the subsidiary I worked for – Barclays Mercantile – in the 1997 competition, the following year I was “tapped up” for the first and only time in my life by Panto with an invite to play for the Yorkshire region, once again in Eastbourne and Hastings.
There was no contract, not even a brown envelope just a casual “do you fancy a week on the piss?”
Panto got his nickname – and there shall be no real names disclosed here for many reasons – because when he ran after the ball he resembled the back end of a pantomime horse. He also danced like one which is one thing Eastbourne Pier will not be missed for.
Yorkshire Region ended up every year playing their group fixtures on the South Coast, which was an act of pure genius and cunning planning, particularly as York CC also hosted a group much closer to home.
It was all down to the scheming of skipper/tour organiser/butt of everybody’s jokes Cod ‘Ed, 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 so far away 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 master-stroke was to arrange our free day on the Friday, allegedly for the long drive back but really because of the Seventies disco on the Pier the night before.
Our accommodation was courtesy of Mr Wong. Now 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 shit-hole when we left the following Friday.
Premier Inns are Five Star by comparison.
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 or was otherwise engaged oiling his bat. Mr Wong’s greeting at these various times of the morning never wavered.
“You wucking wunken Warclays’ wonkers.”
I roomed with a probable founder of the Kelly Brook Fan Club. Ms Brook was at that time attempting a career as a breakfast television presenter before it was clear that reading the news was not what enticed audiences to her.
It was a disturbing week.
Eastbourne is a very bizarre place; dead by day, populated only by people almost dead, yet at night it comes alive with a variety of drinking holes so diverse you just have to try them all; so we did funded by the tour kitty.
Monday night and after a hard day on a cricket field where better to end up than a nightclub on student night? It took some skilled negotiating to get in with Cod ‘Ed and his fellow tour management team all six foot plus and not one in possession of a full head of hair.
I never ceased to be amazed that no matter how pissed 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 tucked up with his Kelly Calendar.
There was a ritual observed nightly; Panto would get me absolutely mashed, 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 in a pool of Diet Coke.
After my first serious experience of tour drinking, there I was, stood in an open field, dry-mouth, sun blazing down and a cricket match going on. Worse still, I was batting!
It was 11am and we were playing the worst side of the group. There were many new experiences in my two weeks on tour with Panto and this day was no exception. The scorebook read:
S Wilson How Out Fell Over Drunk 0
We 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 with my choice of drinking partner.
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 a final at Barclay’s magnificent sports complex in Ealing. The grass was so pristine I swear it felt simply not right to be walking on it.
There was clearly history between the two sides. My only memory was catching the opposition’s star player 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.
Victory and the Lambert Cup was ours. I still have the shirt and nothing will make me part with it, not even a Kelly Brook calendar.
There followed a magnificent night where secrets unfolded never to be told again.
There was only one more tour after this after 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.
And that was where it all started to go so badly wrong in British banking.
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