Spencer
Follows relates the highs and highs of his first Ploughmans Tour
It
was with an air of uncertainty that I packed my case in preparation for the
annual Ploughman's Cricket Club Tour of Gloucestershire. My only previous visit
to the Bull Inn of Fairford was last November and could easily have resulted in
charges of drunk and disorderly, breaking and entering, theft, criminal damage
and abandonment of a bin-bag full of sick. So it was quite a relief to have
escaped my last PCC knees-up with nothing more than a conviction for owning a
"horribly small arse" (Jane Buckner) and a reputation for possessing
"bad energy" (Jeanette Houchin).
However, those were the ramifications
of just one frivolous evening in Fairford, and so, the possible prospects for
the consequences of four days and nights on tour filled me with trepidation as
I embarked on my travel South from Lichfield to Gloucestershire. The journey
was both scenic and rapid as the city melted away into lush countryside and in
only ninety minutes I was helplessly negotiating my way around Fairford's
surrounding hamlets, lost as could be. After the cathartic exercise of venting
my frustration on the baby rabbits that populated the country lanes, I soon
steered the blood-spattered 4 x 4 into the village itself. I hoped that enough
of my colleagues had also made the first night, which would make the trip down
worthwhile, and upon entering the Bull my fears to the contrary were allayed as
a sea of familiar Ploughman's faces met me. A theme of the season just passed
has been that travelling PCC players, supporters, womenfolk and groupies alike
have consistently outnumbered the home support at away fixtures. The innocent
citizens of Fairford were about to experience this phenomena first-hand, much
to their cost, and I noted upon my arrival that some of my compadres were
already heartily enjoying the spirit of tour. A lumbering Harry, (pint firmly
docked in shovel-sized paw), is always a good indication that the night has, in
fact, begun).
After
greeting all the usual suspects and imbibing a few beverages myself I was led
to the now infamous "cottage" where the full horror of my situation
was suddenly revealed. Yes, I was to spend four days sharing a room with
Matthew "pervert" Ridgway. As luck would have it though, Paul, Sha,
Nick, Rich and Tim would be residing there also and so I slowly began to relax
my undersized bum-cheeks. However, Tim's stay was to be a brief one as Kate now
largely dictates his whereabouts and she was to join him in the main building
at a later date. After he first arrived at The Bull sporting a new purse, I
think a few of us were a little relieved to see him go anyhow.
Back in the bar we stocked up on jugs
(not a reference to Dawn), (or Chris for that matter) and let The Bull's staff
retire to bed, obviously scared of the ensuing drinking games that were to
come. Harry, having already attempted to buy all of the vodka in the place, now
decided it would be a good idea to take his shirt of for no apparent reason.
This must have been a brilliant idea in itself as, for no apparent reason, he
was followed by Coxy, Gary, Tim, Paul, Matt, Chris, Tom, Nick, Dyll, Sha, Leon,
Rich, and myself (and possibly Cathy Davies although I was drunk by this point
and can't be certain). The drinking games were obviously starting to take their
toll on some with Matt doing "a baby-sick" in his mouth and Tim
feebly imploring everyone to "keep the noise down", so at two-thirty
a hardened team of survivors sojourned to the cottage to see the morning in, in
style. Unsurprisingly, my recollections of this time are not particularly
lucid, yet I do remember Sha running around like an excited puppy screaming
"you're all a bunch of f***ing lightweights". This about thirty
seconds before I found him in the toilet looking shifty. It was only after
protesting his innocence ("I just wanted to wash my hands") that Sha
then staggered into Paul's room before being sick out of the window and passing
out on the bed. After another hour or so the rest of us wearily decided to hit
the hay as well. The consensus being that we didn't want to overdo it on the
first night as there was cricket to play tomorrow.
Friday
began with a marching band in my head, but having successfully negotiated
breakfast (a feat that was not to be repeated), I was able to face the prospect
of the short journey to face the mighty Cirencester in combat. Having already
been repeatedly fined for not wearing the golden duck tie, (which I had
skilfully earned with a fine knock the previous week), I was eventually amerced
into wearing the hated article. Luckily, wearing a Chris Feeney, "Weight
Loss Memorial T-Shirt", which I wore by way of commemorating
"Flatscreen's" remarkable achievement of shedding over forty-five
stone, offset the ridiculousness of my attire somewhat. I obviously cut a
dashing figure as it wasn't long before the first and second teams, as well as
wives and groupies were to be seen sporting similar apparel. Kudos goes to Matt
for attempting to hawk the remainder of the shirts to the local populous. One
old boy in particular appeared tempted by the two naked ladies on the rear of
the garments, but his patronage was lost upon regarding the front picture of
two men (who eerily resembled messrs Feeney and Buckner caught in a romantic
clinch).
With
the new kit distributed, attention was turned to the state of Tom's hair. Not
only had he purposely styled it as vertically as possible, he then tried to
explain it away as "bed-head" whilst blaming it all on the
"product" that he was using. Despite this blatant admission of
homosexuality from our leader, the driving of Christine was to lift the mood.
The myriad small creatures darting into the hedgerows first caught my attention,
then came the squeal of rubber fighting tarmac and the sound of a hatchback
taking flight. Dawn's little car then mounted the pavement whilst scattering
local pedestrians in a scene reminiscent of Herbie Goes Bananas, before
Christine emerged from behind the wheel with the nonchalant air of someone who
is happy with their work. This turn of events prompted me to err on the side of
caution and travel to the Cirencester game with Sha. We were behind Matt's car
and after a hilarious journey of watching him weave his way to the game without
leaving fifth gear, I was glad to finally arrive at a picturesque and secluded
ground, already populated with the ubiquitous wives/groupies. Demonstrating
that some of the fillies had perhaps overdone things the night before Jackie
and Linda expressed extreme concern over a caravan that had caught fire. Only
it was not a caravan, it was of course, a steam engine.
The
coin-toss determined that we bat first and I was soon aware that I had been
dropped down the order to number eleven so as to give some of the less able
players a chance of some time in the middle. As I sat watching the beginning of
our innings I reflected on what a charitable gesture this was. And it was
whilst on the sidelines that another act of generosity was about to take place.
The thoughtful, warm-hearted Jane Buckner was to present me with a false
backside, so that I could walk amongst other men in confidence, free from the
persecution that my freakish deformity surely warrants. I clearly remember
being deeply touched by the gesture.
Meanwhile
the real action was taking place on the pitch where Rich, after a fine knock,
had been dismissed and returned to the pavilion before dedicating his effort to
"all the ladies on tour". Absolutely everyone felt physically ill
because of this statement. Tom was soon in and managed to flatten his hair into
his helmet long enough to play his first fine innings of tour, one that would
ultimately help him to win the Player of the Tour trophy. It obviously
impressed girlfriend Cally, "who's that batting now". Maybe her mind
was elsewhere, (we shall see).
The
match itself will live in the annals of Ploughman's history as being one of the
greatest matches the club has played in. Chasing two hundred and seven to win,
Cirencester had reached 184-7 before a spirited fight-back from Ploughman's
(including a Champagne Moment winning catch from Leon which was perhaps the
best any of us have seen) turned the game on its head, and won us a famous
victory. After our thrilling, and dare I say, manly performance, Coxy's old
adage that "the beer tastes better when you win" certainly rang true,
as we commiserated and drank with the opposition. After proceedings had
degenerated to the point where Matt was seen picking Paul's nose, we ventured
back to The Bull where our outlandish behaviour would go unpunished.
And
it was here that proved to be the setting for the second great battle of tour.
Trivial Pursuit! Now although I was confident of victory, I'll admit to being
slightly concerned by the challenge of Christine, purely due to it's ebullient
nature (she was practically foaming at the mouth at the prospect of
competition). However, I discerned that it was I who held the upper hand as I
had managed to ensconce an extra member into the folds of my team. Rodney,
Harry's twin brother and a fellow tour virgin, had agreed to join my side and
it was by never allowing them to be seen in the same room together that our
team was able to maintain the subterfuge of being a triumvirate. The similarity
between the two is striking, only the fact that Rodney is marginally more
handsome sets them apart. Unfortunately for me they both seemed to be too
pissed to play Trivial Pursuit so essentially the plan failed. They were,
however, more use than the idiot Ridgway who insisted that he was right about
every answer when actually he had no idea what the questions were. This
prompted me to tear an answer card in half in disgust. Luckily the opposition
were too drunk by this stage to form coherent answers of their own, and this
was exemplified by the fact that Swaps (this man is a doctor) believes a
peacock to be "a type of flying mammal"!
After
the obligatory victory (yes I know you weren't playing Dyll, for God's sake)
and subsequent taunting of Christine was over, the group moved on to the more
intellectual pursuits of "Foot Jenga" and drinking games. This
situation soon grew out of hand amid scandalous drunken rumours such as, that
Alan Tolhurst had worn his wife's perfume as aftershave for the evening, and
that Rodney was in fact Adam's real father. Matt was once again sick but at
least had Tim's help to clean it up. By four thirty we were all feeling fairly
jaded and sleep beckoned as Saturday's cricket approached.
Saturday
arrived with an emergency in the cottage! The ever-diligent Sha had noticed a
leak in the ceiling and rushed to tell Rich about the domestic disaster. After
several minutes of hunting high and low for the root of the problem Rich
finally deduced what the trouble was…the trouble was Sha. He had inadvertently
turned the shower on with the showerhead upside-down and facing the ceiling.
This had caused the ceiling to be sprayed with water giving the illusory effect
of a leak from upstairs. Not the most relaxing way to begin a weekend but at
least everyone was now up and awake. So with disaster averted we stumbled,
blinking into the sunlight only to be faced with the hideous sight of Coxy's
and Wilko's "who's got the most
vomit-inducing shorts" competition.
The
first team were soon bundled into the bus bound for London and their league
fixture, whilst the second's went to tackle Kempsford. Oddly, Cally had chosen
to join those heading for the Kempsford match instead of accompanying Tom and
the first-team. I was beginning to suspect that this was so she could watch me
play cricket instead, and so I found myself in an awkward position. In fact the
sexual tension between us was so palpable that it must have been embarrassing
for those who attended the game and I firmly believe it to be the reason I
failed to take a wicket.
The
game itself was played in a fine spirit and ended in a battling defeat. Tim
staked an early claim for "funniest moment in the field", by falling
backwards over a bail of hay and into a wood whilst attempting a catch. Surely
that particular honour goes to Yorkshire though who, with his children proudly
watching from the sideline, rued missing a run out chance with an indignant
"slut". Special mention must go to the vanity of Patrick Gledhill who
wore a cricket jumper all day in sweltering conditions as "it makes me
look slim", although he was obviously just showing off to the rest of the
Gledhill clan.
Having
been set a very gettable total to chase and with the support of new tour virgin
groupies in the forms of Kathy and Emily, we were confident of success, only to
be bowled out well short. Despite captain Cox being despatched by a twelve year
old we went down fighting with Sha hitting his first six for the club, and Tim
hitting a couple who were relaxing in their garden. Special thanks must go to
Paul Lane who despite being incapacitated for the tour with a bad back,
provided much needed support. His appeals from the extra cover boundary were
much appreciated by all. Thanks also to Paul Peters for taking the burden of
"the tie" off my hands.
By
this stage of tour the cricket, alcohol and lack of sleep was taking its toll
and this led to a particularly embarrassing gaffe of mine whilst umpiring.
Bond, a Kempsford player, came on to bowl and I immediately called his first
delivery as a particularly huge no-ball. He looked surprised but accepted the
decision with grace, after I had called his second and third deliveries as
no-balls also he was less dignified, claiming "I've bowled off this run-up
for twenty-two years without bowling a no-ball, I don't know what's happening
today". This comment led to a self-examination regarding my umpiring
technique, and it was at this point I had the revelation that right-handed
bowlers like Bond actually lead with a different foot than left-handed bowlers
like myself. I had actually been looking at Bond's right foot instead of the
left and the "no-balls" were actually perfectly good deliveries. Of
course I didn't admit this to Bond, and simply warned him to keep behind the line.
Bond got his revenge however by bowling me out whilst on two, as Ploughman's
collectively collapsed to defeat.
Once
back at The Bull I spotted that Bond had also ventured into Fairford for a few
and I went over to him and admitted my mistake, claiming alcoholism as my
defence. We shared some laughs over this and the evening began to get into full
swing as the triumphant league side returned and the club as a whole regaled
each other with tales of cricketing heroics. Dyll had apparently already had an
expensive day, having been fined for everything from dropping a catch and
blaming Swaps, to pissing on the boundary. He wasn't however as hard done by as
Matty who was fined simply "for being Matt". Although sympathy for
Ridgway senior surely waned after his statement that "all those with less
than five G.C.S.E.'s should be made to work down the pit.
By
late evening everybody was enjoying the salubrious surroundings of Fairford's
market square and were having a good time, there were signs however that tour
was beginning to take its toll on some more than others. I myself was so stiff,
hung-over and tired that I couldn't stand still and had to jiggle around on the
spot, which generated some funny looks. Others however, were suffering mentally
too. Cally had apparently forgotten her lust for me and was now overheard
referring to Coxy as "The Hoff". Even this however, paled into
insignificance when compared with the utter lunacy that was Patrick's rendition
of Three Blind Mice. After Pat (who was drinking halves by the way) had belted
out several incredibly loud verses of this famous nursery rhyme with
unwarranted confidence, we all soon realised that the only way to shut him up
was to join him for a club sing-a-long. This impromptu open-air concert
included standards such as Jerusalem, (which Pat managed to sing a verse in
front of everyone else) and lusty versions of all our favourites from Last
Night of the Proms. It also however, caused quite a thirst and we all soon
retired to the resident's lounge to remedy the problem.
It
is often whilst inebriated that Plough-folk are at their most insightful and
profound, I find. Leon was quick to mention that Maddy is not only more well
muscled than Matt Ashton, but also that she is the only person at the club who
is weirder than Nick. Smash himself unleashed a new revolutionary convention
upon an unsuspecting cricketing world, namely, that wides should count against
the bowler's figures. Jackie Berry on the other hand offered a more abstract
line of thought with the concept of the raised hands at the bar resembling an
"American Wave". By two-thirty however, the humour was of a less
eloquent nature, epitomised by Matt pulling a full-on, cheek-spread moonie
right in front of Kathy and Kate.
Soon
the sambucca began to flow and I think it's fair to say that, at this point in
proceedings it really was the beginning of the end for most, Ploughers were
spotted lighting their fingers or attempting to breathe fire. Dawn described
Nick as being very smooth, (before drinking his pint) and even I was fined for
salivating over Swaps before calling Mette, "Annette, Jeanette,
Bernadette, etc". Things were beginning to turn black and so I stumbled
back to the cottage for some much needed rest but my slumber lasted only
minutes before I was awoken by the sound of someone breaking into the room via
the window. Startled, I pulled back the curtain to reveal the truly horrific
sight of Matthew Ridgway dressed in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a
summer coat of back hair, dangling for grim life from the first floor window
ledge. Luckily I reacted quickly enough and pulled his boxers down before going
back to bed.
A
couple of hours later and I was once again rudely awoken, this time by the
daunting prospect of yet more cricket. As we made the short walk from The Bull
to Fairford Cricket Club, the previous night's shenanigans were openly related.
Nick had apparently absconded to the river with Emily in the dead of night,
what for exactly is still a mystery, as is the fact that Sha had declared that
from now on he was to be known as "the Scatman".
I
was fading fast but hoped that the late arrival of the Fairford side was an
indication that maybe they too had overdone it the previous night. The game was
to be another classic as we again fought back to an unlikely victory despite
some incredibly unfavourable umpiring decisions. The highlights of our innings
included a full club-wide LBW appeal as I faced my first delivery, and Sha's
new found confidence with the bat resulting in a broken headlight for one of
the oppo. Special appreciation must go to Patrick for doggedly defending for
the entire innings, only to adopt a cavalier attitude to the last delivery and
getting bowled (thanks Pat, really made me laugh). As Fairford went into bat some
of us were really suffering. Nick opened his spell with eight wides in his
first over and I wasn't a whole lot better as I was struggling to just stand
up. Luckily the hardened tour vets picked up the pieces and it was left to
messrs Wilden, Wilkinson, Anoukar and Peters to turn the game on its head. With
old granddad Davies raising the clarion call of "remember
Cirencester" from the sidelines, we mounted an unlikely comeback and took
the last five Fairford wickets for just eighteen runs to seal another memorable
win. All that was left was to stride back to The Bull with just enough time to
get changed for dinner.
I
finally took my place at the table on the last night of tour and fondly
surveyed the room. Proud Ploughmen and women filled the dining-hall and most
had made a real effort to look the part for this year's final hurrah. Dyll
(about as Scottish as an Ostrich egg) Davies looked particularly dashing in
ceremonial kilt and sporran. It was with just a tinge of disappointment then
that my gaze happened to fall upon Ridgway senior who was attired in T-Shirt,
shorts, flip-flops, sunglasses and a necklace made of sweeties. He also had
emblazoned across his face the most ridiculous handlebar moustache I had ever
seen. That was until I scanned the table further, only to find that Leon and
Paul had sprouted even more pathetic attempts overnight. This was enough to
drive anyone to drink and this we all did as speeches were made, achievements
rewarded, and fines promulgated. I had done particularly well in the fines
department as had Coxy and the hapless Rodney (who was strangely absent from
proceedings). The biggest cheer was reserved for Tracey Cox who finally
admitted that she "has a secret passage that Rob's not allowed in"
(in her room of course).
After
the formalities and a fantastic dinner were over with, the tables were cleared
away and we got down to some serious partying. Matt took a novel approach to
karaoke; not knowing any of the words. Sha surprised all by revealing a
clandestine talent for break-dancing, and Jackie proved to be surprisingly
supple on the dance-floor. The fun continued long into the night and Coxy led
the club in an en-masse performance of "Amarillo" before trying to
stick his tongue down everyone's throat. Returning to the comfort of the main
bar we mourned the passing of last night of tour and it was in just such a
reflective frame of mind that Matt decided to ring Bruce for a
trans-continental Ploughman's reunion. It was good to hear the old cobber's
voice for half an hour (but even better was witnessing Matt open his phone bill
a month later).
Events
spiralled out of control around the time that Chris Feeney was seen
administering a pink concoction, which I only remember as "Dominican
Liquid Death" to all and sundry. After a couple of which I couldn't even
fight off Rob's amorous advances, and the night began to wind down from here
with only a hardened elite brave enough to push on through until morning.
Eventually even Flat-screen himself had to walk, succumbing not to alcohol but
to the chastisements of a haranguing Lorraine. Chris had been giggling like a
schoolgirl all-night and was obviously merry, but the fashion in which he
sheepishly slinked out of the bar whilst looking back longingly at the rest of
us is one of my most treasured memories from tour.
The
remainder pushed on regardless, spending the night in hysterics (mainly thanks
to Kathy and her one massive breast) until we heard Patrick readying his car to
leave at seven a.m. Ultimately though, even we had to call it a day and so we
left a snoring Dawn for the cleaners to deal with and made our way to our
respective beds. In the morning it was time to sadly wave goodbye to teammates
and The Bull and start the long journey back up the M5. This proved somewhat
troublesome and took four hours to accomplish. In fact I was so hung-over I
went by way of a Dudley, Worcester, Longbridge, a layby and half an hour in a
Tesco's toilet, but I think of this as evidence of having had a good time.
I
can reflect on my first tour with only happy memories. I had a brilliant time
and lots of laughs with some great members of a special cricket club. Special
thanks to Mark Dudley and all at The Bull who looked after us all so well and
treated us as old friends rather than guests. It says a lot for Mark's
character that if you tell him your name once, he remembers it and will use it
each time you meet him thereafter. Also my gratitude goes to Ian, the old guard
of the club and their wives for all the (often unseen) hard work they put into
organising the tour and the club as a whole.
Long live
Ploughmans C.C. and roll on next year's tour!