Hello! I'm 55!
(That's how I started the last blog post, and I'm going with it again.)
This time, the fact that I'm 55 has had me thinking about pubs, and cricket. Cricket and pubs, if you'd prefer. Why I'm specifically thinking about pubs now is a) there's a vague rumour that they'll be opening again soon; b) I just got to the end of Mortimer & Whitehouse's 'Gone Fishing' book (which accompanies their lovely tv series), where they start talking about pubs, and c) the cricket season is nearly upon us, and pubs play a BIG part in that.
In 'Gone Fishing', Bob Mortimer recalls how he and Paul Whitehouse both start to think about "The Pub" around five o'clock. They've been fishing for hours and hours by now, and the promise of a few pints and a pie are looming large. Here's the rub though: get in the pub at five o'clock and all might not go well. They may not be serving pies yet. You fancy-dans in your London gastropubs might expect food "all day", but out in the sticks this is not always economically viable. No, best to wait until 7-7:30. By then the kitchen will be on full alert. Also, atmosphere. A country pub (I'm judging this by Norfolk standards, having lived there for a decade or so) will have a very specific clientele at five o'clock: the guy who was in at 11 and intends to stay all night, the guy who was in at 11 and can't remember his name, and the local postman. You need more than these guys for atmosphere, just ask Russ Abbot.
(Aside: the local postman lives "The Best Life". Sure he has to get up early, but he's finished by 11:30, which coincides nicely with opening time. He can drink and pie himself stupid, safe in the knowledge that he'll be asleep by 8. Be more postie.)
So Bob & Paul kid themselves they're trying really hard to catch one more tench (insert fish of your own choice here; I didn't read the book to learn about fish or fishing, so it could be Flipper the friendly dolphin for all I know), but they're really thinking about that first pint. (Aside: Paul prefers wine, which kinda ruins everything.)
Which brings us on to cricket.
It snowed today. Every cricketer will tell you they played in snow. The poor sods who actually do it for a living may well have been out there today. Mine was Central Park, Dagenham, Craven CC (dissolved after their treasurer ran off with the float), won by nine wickets, ran out my cousin Dave, I finished 54 not out. Craven weren't much cop then. Anyway, we went to Hornchurch to find a pub suitable for humans to interact afterwards. Let's not get too bogged down with where is and where is not a good place to drink after a cricket match (Dagenham, for a fucking start) (or Hornchurch, if you're being picky), but like Bob & Paul, it's definitely part of the day.
I started playing grown-up cricket at 17. I'd never been in a pub. Never ordered a pint. After my first game I was pissed after two pints, and went into the ladies for a pee because my cousin Dave pointed at the door and I was too pissed to read the sign on it. Fiona was in there; Fiona is Scottish, she simply said "och Edward, you'll be in the wrong toilet." We're still friends to this day.
In fact, apart from all the ones who've died (and there's a depressingly large number of those), we're all still friends. We're still friends despite the dropped catches off my cousin Dave's bowling, despite taking my cousin Dave off after four overs because he keeps bowling bouncers when the ball is swinging like a top and we've got three slips and a gully, despite telling my cousin Dave he can't bat at three because he bowled 21 overs and it really is time to give someone else a chance... We really, really loved playing cricket together. And by and large, the pubs and clubhouses we went to afterwards were absolutely brilliant.
And that's why even at 55, knowing my eyes are shot, knowing my knees are shot, knowing I couldn't bat in a helmet because I never did, I'd love to have another go.
Memories of the post-match pub/clubhouse;
Gary. Gary would often be late for matches. Trouble with Gary was that he had no sense of time. Not just hours and minutes, but weeks and months. Gary turned up for a holiday a month early, only to be told his tickets weren't valid for another month. He had to break it to his wife that she had to go back to work and book the time off again a month later. Then he had to do the same himself. Gary loved the tea part of cricket the most. I remember Gary eating a gherkin from one hand and Mars bar from the other, after going through the usual sandwich/cake/tea cycle. He was the urban fox of teas. One week Gary went to the wrong ground. Thankfully the ground he went to was at least in the same county as the one we were playing at. He finally arrived at (yes, you've guessed it) tea time. And we'd already fielded. So Gary (honestly if you met him you'd love him, wish he was right here now, I'd hug the tardy bastard) managed a head start on the tea, didn't have to field at point (he was always wandering behind square, looking at the clouds, the trees ("GARY, IN FRONT OF SQUARE FFS!!"), and could waltz in at 4 or 5 to tonk the winning runs. Oh, and there's what Gary used to wear. Gary used to forget his spikes. Gary was convinced he should bowl regularly, but he had what even his dear old mum would describe as a "dodgy" action. He was quick, but if we chucked it we'd all be quick. Anyway, he only wore bowling boots, in the hope (against hope) that he'd be called upon. Every now and then, if we were playing teams who knew Gary since he was yay high, he'd get a bowl. Luckily, no one died. When he forgot his spikes (often), he'd wear his proper Sunday Best shoes to play cricket. Advantages: the ability to slide across the turf. Disadvantages: to Gary? None, actually. The best thing about Gary though, and the thing that will mark him down in the annals of cricketing history, is that before him no batsman had ever shouted "there's two there, his trousers have fallen down."
Okay, most of my memories of post-match pubs and clubhouses involve Gary. If I can remember anymore, I'll add them.
