I posted on Twitter an invitation for anyone who wanted to write an article to while away the time as we all stare at four walls over the next couple of weeks to do so. I’ll do so again here, and if you want to contact any of us, that’d be great. For what it’s worth, I’m at firstname.lastname@example.org
Often people worry about how well they write, how it will come across, and whether they have enough content to make it worthwhile. Come now, no-one is going to care, anything amusing or entertaining is going to bring a much needed smile to someone, so go for it. Even if it’s very short, it’s well worth it.
I thought I’d share a tale from many years ago about a cricket tour, about how players on cricket tour are utterly brutal to their friends. Some will read it and tut, some will laugh or smile. But these memories stay with you, and for good reason. Names and locations are changed to protect the extremely guilty.
The Geordie was a passable enough cricketer, and a decent bloke. Liked a beer, liked a laugh, had an accent that became progressively thicker the deeper into his cups that he became. But he was a sensible enough chap, inordinately proud of his good looks, utterly horrified at the prematurely receding hairline he would do his best to hide that caused much debate as to how far he would go in years to come when it required winding around his head.
The phrase “kid in a sweet shop” was made for his first cricket tour. The relatively sensible fellow had become a raging beast, permanently hammered and incapable of any kind of meaningful speech. My arrival a day in to the tour meant as I said hello to him and was answered with incoherent dribble (no, not drivel) caused a mirthful team mate to pull me aside and advise that “the Geordie you knew is not the Geordie who now exists”. Obviously there is a fine line between someone being highly entertaining and extremely irritating when they’re like that, and he did his level best to cross that line at every opportunity.
Nevertheless, to the shock of everyone, he still managed to pull. God knows how, God knows what she was thinking. In the manner of people who support their friends at all stages, everyone naturally did all they could to wreck it for him. But she knew what was going on, and ignored us with the disdain and contempt we entirely deserved. It all went wrong for him when, fed up with the lot of us, he lost his temper and yelled out “What’s wrong with you all, you’re like flies round shit”. After a brief pause of disbelief, we fell about laughing, she said “Oh, thanks very much” and stormed off. Job done.
He may have been mildly irritated with us all by that stage, so clearly the only thing to do was to make it even worse for him. For reasons I’ve long forgotten, one evening he passed me his wallet and asked me to look after it. Clearly, this was an opportunity not to be passed up, so another team mate promptly stole his credit cards. In the manner of such things, he was too drunk to notice, and we didn’t volunteer to return them. The following morning he noticed they were missing, asked around if anyone had seen them, and our complete innocence was beautifully acted out.
Assuming he’d lost them the night before, he returned to the hotel bar, and nope, they weren’t there. So one of us rang the hotel from a call box (you can tell this is many years ago) claiming to be from the club we’d played the day before and that they’d found them. Off he went by taxi, using the last of his cash, promising the taxi driver he’d be able to pay via a cashpoint for the return journey. It wasn’t too bad, only about 10 miles or so away. He got to the club where the groundsman was working on the pitch, and the Geordie naturally assumed that he’d rung. Nope, sorry mate, no idea. Having timed it perfectly, that’s when we rang the club to say terribly sorry, but the person who had found the cards had had to go into town and could he meet him there? Much grumbling ensued, but he was a spirited bloke, so he walked. 5 miles. In the opposite direction to where we were.
Clearly, there was no one there to meet him, and no way of him getting any money. Somehow, he persuaded another of the clubs we played, located in town, to lend him the money to get back to the hotel, hot, extraordinarily grumpy for some reason, and willing to regale us with the horrendous day he had gone through.
“And I still don’t know where my effing credit cards are”.
“You bastards. You utter, total bastards”.
And you know what? He wasn’t wrong.
Feel free to add your own better tales below for our entertainment.