“It’ll just be a gentle couple of days watching the cricket with the odd tipple” so Molly had promised several months ago as he signed me up for two days at the Scarborough Cricket Festival successfully adding another chapter to his upcoming book “Fifty Shades of How to Avoid the Wife”. On reflection, I had really signed up for the Scarborough Beer Festival and I still cannot remember which moment of weakness Molly had exploited for me to agree to two days away in Kiss Me Quick land with five middle aged drunks and, curiously, Joe, 21, about to experience another side of life way ahead of his time.
Molly, the club’s very own Brian Potter (spot the resemblance) was to meet us at the resort having spent the weekend larging it up in Filey with ex-Villas legend, Stuart “Abdul” Harris now the resident postmaster at nearby Cloughton. Rather trustingly, long-suffering wife Carol had allowed herself to be dispatched back to Bradford leaving Molly to “acclimatise” further for our forthcoming visit. On the Wednesday morning, with rain lashing down once again, I loaded up the car, ditched the sun block and headed off to collect the first of my three passengers.
Self appointed Prince Joe was first and it did seem bizarre that mum, Julie, was pleading with me of all people to “make sure my lad doesn’t drink too much” entrusting the care of her youngest with a look in her eyes that said this was a forlorn hope, having little faith in either Master or Grasshopper. The thought did occur to me that I might be able to do a “shift” , but keeping drinking hours akin to that of a vampire was not going to be easy given the reputation of the wild young Prince; the royal Harry might be an easier option.
Next to be collected was fellow senior citizen, Shutty, and then on to pick up the wise old sage, Winky to further ramp up the average age in the car. The team were all aboard the Skylark and it was time for the East Coast as the rain hammered down even harder and the flip flops went out of the window. Prince decided to explore my iPod en route and, as a demonstration of the culture gap, was quizzical as to who this artist called Sade was (pronouncing it with his posh boy lisp as Say – ed); I think he did though see the value of the smooth tones of Sade as an iPod option for future nights. By the time he had sampled Luther, George Michael et al he could see a miss-spent youth many moons ago currently driving him to the coast.
With time on his hands Molly had committed the cardinal sin of any married man – shopping without the guidance of the wife. Clearly he had found the local Poundshop and when we arrived was sporting a dandy new pair of cargo pants – “‘ee look at these zips…me legs come off!”. Far from a style guru, Molly seemed unconcerned that they were obviously several sizes too small causing Shutty to ask if he “had a knacker in each pocket”. He had also acquired some bright blue deck shoes, the sort Wham wore in the Eighties and waddling along the front he looked like a gay Robert Maxwell so Captain Bob was appropriate for the next two days.
To complete our party on Day Two we were to be joined by the bickering duo, our very own Odd Couple, The Galloping Major Binns and Big Al. The latter had been delayed by a training course although what HMRC could teach him after forty years of skillful work avoidance was a matter for debate unless it was the location of a new Ladbrokes in Bradford. We had been recommended a new chic, boutique hotel which seemed a strange choice for the next two days as we were quite likely to be able to sleep in a field; clearly the owners were desperate for business accepting us. Nonetheless, this was indeed a very good option – www.17weststreet.co.uk – although the tapas menu was wasted on us in beer,chips and curry mode for the next two days.
It certainly is a brave move trying to launch a classy hotel in these tough times especially in a town so down on its luck it was almost like being back home. What a magnificent place it must have been many generations ago and what enormous wealth must have poured in to leave such a rich legacy of classic architecture. Huge investment has gone on recently but it is hard to see how the town can create a strong future in the age of cut price air travel; however it is well worth a look if only for the splendid array of fine buildings and pubs…but back to the tale!
Of course, we had little interest in a stroll to view the Victorian splendour and opted for the nearby shelter of a forlorn dump called The Cask where the furniture could be argued to at least date back to that Victorian age. It was midday and I had a pint in my hand…there would definitely be trouble ahead. A quick game of darts with Molly stretching Poundland’s finest ever more – delaying lunch till my stomach could recover – and then it was down the hill in search of more venues from the well worn “Molly’s Good Beer Guide – Scarborough Edition”. And so it was that we spent the next three hours in The Valley; cricket, what cricket?
Come the evening and, after a few exploratory beers in the highly recommended Cellars Bar it was time to go into The Valley…again. Having tried my best to chaperon the Prince it was soon time to hand over the baton as my curfew approached. As he argued later, mainly to his wife Jane {“at what point did you remember you are 41?”}, Shutty suffered an “outer body experience” and found himself drinking double Jaeger Bombs at almost four o’clock in the morning with the Prince. Curiously, in this modern age, they were joined by two Yorkshire cricketers but no names lads as long as you coach our juniors all next year! Needless to say the ensuing hangover was the Mother of all and, as the song goes, every picture tells a story.
The three of us that opted to retain the comfort of the Valley still had to endure a long, uphill walk home after the mandatory grease kebab. Hilariously Molly was attacked and bitten on the arse once again by a swan, having suffered the same fate on two previous sponsored walks in years gone by. Clearly, even the wildlife found his fashion sense a touch offensive and that big, fat, wiggly arse just too tempting a target. Convinced that I had found us a short cut I led the team from the front but an alleyway full of wheely bins suggested that we were a touch lost and I had no future as a team leader.
Next morning and there were some worried looks; somebody had written in the visitors book “I like boobies” alongside the stream of generous testimonials in favour of the hotel. The alleged culprit – few prizes for guessing – had also been found sleep walking naked up the stairwell. No names but the owner has the CCTV tapes just in case he ever becomes rich and famous, which, at this juncture in life is a bet even Big Al may not take on.
Breakfast was an ordeal – not in a culinary sense – and it is fair to say that, between us, Shutty and I looked ready for the rest home down the road; it was time to hit the duvet and hope for a miracle cure. It was certainly not good to see the arrival of the Odd Couple and, in particular, Big Al “on a mission” to catch up on missed drinking time– it looked like another long day should I be able to escape the duvet. As it was still lashing down at least I was not missing much and eventually, after a long bracing walk along the front I arrived at the Valley complete with toffees, thoughtfully bought for my mum.
This is where my mum should know that the grazing machine known as Prince was responsible for construing my arrival with a bag of toffees as an invitation to graze on yet more junk food. Back from the bar with my first pint of the day and I was horrified to see my thoughtful £2.60 gift being devoured. Even the barmaid tucked in confessing “I could not speak for five minutes they are that chewy” prompting Molly to order a year’s supply. The Odd Couple were already bickering over the loser in the lottery for a night on the camp bed. As the infirm Big Al had lost the bet, it was down to Molly and Galloping to roll him over in the morning, give him a bed bath, talc him down to find the right end and dress him, there being nobody at the hotel willing to take the money whatever the offer.
In truth it was a much gentler evening although Big Al did manage a twelve hour “through” something he has not yet done for HMRC. Just as we arrived back at the hotel, Prince convinced the ever gullible Shutty that a curry was a necessity and off they went in search. Hatching a plan to water bomb them from my hotel bathroom on their return I then waited half an hour in vain, freezing my nuts off in my boxer shorts hanging out of the window over the entrance, unawares that they had called off the hunt for a curry and were tucked up safely. One carefully filled bin liner was emptied down the loo and the Prince had had a lucky escape as had a young lad on a bike that nearly copped it in frustration.
Time to go home the morning after but not before one long stroll down the numerous steps to the beach and, timing it beautifully, the opening of the cable lift ensuring Big Al could spend the “best 80p of the day” hitching a solo ride back to the top, cables groaning at the effort. Strangely, Molly has already had several enquiries for next year including Prince’s dad, Shutty’s wife and Trinny and Susannah, paid for by Carol just to keep Molly out of Poundland knowing as she always has that the lad is safest in the pub.
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