Four Weeks To Go - And Not Overly Confident.

It´s 4 weeks to the off now for the “Big walk” down the east coast, I´ve been building up slowly – and I mean slowly, it´s taken 2 months to pluck up courage to walk as far as 17 miles, which I did today. This was a triumph, I managed the last couple of miles without thinking I was wading through axle grease and my knees were only aching instead of downright killing me, unlike last week when they screamed out at me to stop and came up like Kenny Ball´s cheeks. I´m not bitter about that ludicrous challenge inside the centre circle, whereby I was scythed down needlessly and had my kneecap rammed round the other side of my adams apple during an Over 30´s versus Under 30´s football match back in 1981 – I hardly ever mention it in fact. (ah-em). But it´s been murder these past few weeks, and I´ve been reliving the incident over in my mind of late (you can read a full account in my book “Are You Affiliated” – available as a free download on www.kevinholt.net (advert over). The fact is, at 18 my career was in shreds and it would have been absolutely tragic – if I´d have been any good.
I´ve achieved these recent results by basically walking slower and not lifting my feet up off the ground so much, this results in me shuffling about rather in the manor of an old man in his slippers padding down his garden path to the wheelie bin, - but so be it. The only problem is, now that the weather is getting warmer I´ve started to develop this horrendous heat rash which is especially bad on my legs, it resembles a cross between German measles and injuries incurred by being flung off a motorbike at high speed whilst wearing nothing but a pair of “Speedos”. Problem is I wear a pair of tennis shorts in the show when I do Cliff Richard, and I´m on in “Sinatras” tomorrow night. – Will a bit of talc hide it do you think, - or will I have to wear tights?

Forget The "Credit Crunch", Financial Meltdown And All That - Kajagoogoo Are Back!!

Can say without fear of contradiction that summer is officially here now, I cleaned the apartment tonight topless! It´s not something I´m in the habit of doing let me tell you, - I think it´s bad manners – even though there´s nobody else here, but I was getting a right sweat on and something just had to give.
It´s been a funny old week, my football team cocking up the Division 1 play-offs induced me into 48 hours of manic depression which lightened only when Peter Andre and Katie Price announced that they were splitting up and could the media please “respect their privacy”. Another hot piece of news that brought me back from the brink was the bombshell that “Kajagoogoo” were to reform, - and about time too I hear you cry. I´ve just been on the official website (yeh, that´s what I thought) and – have you got a pen handy? – they´re appearing at “Hobbles On The Cobbles” – free concert on the market square in Aylesbury, “The Rescue Rooms” in Nottingham, and Leipzig Germany, which is listed simply as a “Free Concert in the city of Leipzig” – it doesn´t even say where. (Busking?). Can´t help but notice that the word “free” keeps cropping up, then again you wouldn´t want to be paying actual money to watch them performing “Too Shy” for 2 hours would you? Anyway, ten out of ten lads for having the cheek to get back together, and at least all UK hair gel manufacturers may take a keen interest.

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The Summer Starts Here

Well the summer starts here – the cricket has started! – cue coming in from work, bobbing “Test Match Special” on, stretching out on the sofa and drinking in the latest musings from Sir Geoffrey, C.M.J, Aggers and the boys, - now that´s what I CALL relaxation. Good God we even won a test match today! Big sporting week all round as it goes with my team Leeds United in the first leg of the 1st Division playoffs tomorrow with an early kick off against Millwall – though I suspect it´s not quite early enough for the Greater London Police Force, who put in for a half 7 in the morning start by all accounts (Suspect all leave will be cancelled).
Work wise, I felt a bit for Mike Dennett and Chic (vent act) the other night who did the spot before me to a very sparse crowd, half of whom were watching the Arsenal v Man. United Champions League semi final – with sound on! – you have to laugh – and it´s a shame they didn´t (it was the same for me). Come back the northern working men´s club circuit – all is forgiven.
The “Cumberland Ex-Servicemen´s Club” has been going great since Easter (a notoriously quiet stretch), we´ve got the best part of 600 members now and the collection of characters just grows and grows. The latest is “Paul Orbison” who specializes in songs by ......well, av a guess. He always dresses in black, complete with leather jacket which never leaves his shoulders even though the temperature is up in the 80´s and he even puts his dark glasses on to fill out his karaoke slip! Nice one Paul, you´ll do for us.

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"Where´s Your Donkey?"

Have started training for the charity trek down the east coast of England this summer, and on the whole it´s been going pretty well. Apart from a couple of old injuries rearing their ugly heads that is, - a mystery shoulder injury from about 18 month back plus a dodgy knee incurred whilst being viciously scythed down whilst playing for the Guiseley Working Men´s Club under 30´s football team against the over 30´s in 1981.
Have been loading up the rucksack with bottles of water, books, coats and a pair of old boots, it´s not that I intend drinking 6 litres of water, changing my footwear or stopping off for a little read on my round, but it does replicate the weight of a tent, sleeping bag and other necessities I´ll be carrying come the end of June. Have stopped short of wearing the gorilla suit though, we all know that the Spanish are world class when it comes to staring at nothing in particular, and I get a few strange looks just by wearing a backpack, so lumbering down the promenade in full primate mode, scraping my knuckles along the ground and grunting is probably going to be a bit too much for em in my opinion.
On the work front, haven´t had too many catastrophes of late, but after a show in “Sinatras” this week one old lady asked me “What have you done with the donkey?” – this statement confused me more than a little. -Just who the hell is she confusing me with? – The Virgin Mary and Osama Bin Laden were ditched from the act years ago.
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There´s No Business like Slow Business.

Well, the last two nights have been slightly bizarre on the work front. It´s been a quiet time of late, and what with Easter just round the corner – a notorious barren spell, and the exchange rate, some shows can be a battle.
First up I did a club that I´d never worked before whereby I got saddled with the late spot. By the time I got on the audience had thought better of it and the one remaining party, who were celebrating a birthday, I actually knew as they had been in “The Cumberland” that afternoon. Moments before I went on I was informed that I was only required to do “Half a show” - so I could be paid half the money, which turned out just as well as the stage turned out to be a bit on the wee side which left me a little limited in the tearing about and waving me arms about like a loon stakes (a vital ingredient in any show I think you´ll agree) and generally stuck to the more ´stationary` characters. Unfortunately “Billy Conolly´s” thunder was stolen when the punch line to his joke was delivered with some force by one of my “friends” in the front row and when (still in character) I berated him for making me look an arse, he proffered some words of regret. The first time ever that a member of my audience has apologised to me for me being rubbish, the remainder of the performance was littered with intakes of breath whilst I barged into the screen (behind which I get changed), kicked over my glass of water and trod on my guitar. I came off to the sound of my own feet and was damn lucky to get the full “half fee” in the end.

Then last night I went on to two middle aged men sat at different tables (who judging by the thick spectacles and long coats had turned up a couple of hours early for the stripper), who upped and went after about 10 minutes, (presumably because I didn´t get me jugs out). A group of about 3 couples who were busy entertaining each other at the back and a couple sat at a table directly under the television (which they were watching). On a lighter note, John the scouse sound and lighting man was celebrating his birthday. He plays the cameo of Andy Pitkin in a Little Britain sketch whereby I propel him from the cellar in a wheelchair and the script demands that I force-feed him a rancid drink pre prepared by the evil Carlos, - a wide eyed, flaming nostrilled Anglo Spanish maniac Sheffield United supporter. This drink is usually secreted amongst some of the audience sat at the front, but, as there were none, the female duo, due on next were seconded from their safe haven at the bar, plonked in a couple of seats and pretended to enjoy themselves. (cheers girls). The piercing silence was broken as I introduced “Michael Jackson” when a young couple (where did they come from?) started shrieking at one another with all the ferocity of a 70`s McEnroe line call query. I´d like to think it was them who cleared the place, because as I emerged for the final time from behind the screen to take my bow I was gamely clapped by the club´s sole inhabitants – “Deb ´n` Her” (thanks again girls) and “Jonny Flash” the photographer who had presumably been sent in to record the incident for police records.

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CREDIT CRUNCH EFFECTS ´THE OLDEST GAME IN THE WORLD`

Performed my first show at ´Chaplins` for 3 months last night – it´s been shut for – ah-em ,“refurbishment”. Not sure how many of the rather exuberant and youthful looking hen party in there were actually aware that I was doing a show, but anyway I came away unscathed. Had to smile the other night in ´Sinatras`. During the act, as I changed behind the screen, I announce “And now, ladies and gentlemen, - the queen of rock and roll” and before I had chance to finish, somebody shouts – “Chubby Checker!” – what!!?? (it´s Freddie Mercury by the way).
We´ve had some decidedly ropey weather over the last few days, that very English Bank Holiday type of light rain that Peter Kay says “soaks you through”, the stuff that goes on forever and this coupled with ferocious wind blew the clock off the wall on the landing and threw a few seats about in the stadium built just up the road for the Spain versus Serbia Davis Cup tennis match. Thankfully there was nobody sat in them at the time but the days play was postponed until the maintenance team can get it fixed. – Easter?
Was reduced to hysterics in the gym this morning when one of the regulars, Alan – an unassuming, slightly stooping diminutive chap in his 70´s told me what had happened to him the night before. In his own words – “Me and me mate were walking home when this swarthy looking woman stood in front of us, looked at us for a second and then said “Would you like to f*** my big black pussy?”
“I said, well thank you very much for asking but me and Don haven´t been too well lately”

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The Magic Of The Three Kings

Well, the Christmas festivities just go on and on and on, and the shops are shut again. Today is ‘Three Kings Day’ the morning of which, so tradition dictates, all good children of Spain wake up to their presents as left by the gentlemen from the east. It must be great therefore to be a kid over here having it drag on for so long, it begs the question however just who do Spanish kids think Father Christmas is? I mean he crops up on every advert, film and festive song for at least a month, - so just who do they think he is?? When I posed this question to girlfriend Nikki, (who is half Spanish) a couple of years ago, without missing a beat she says ‘Just some fat bastard from the north’. So that ends that debate then.
As it happens I was listening to a programme on Radio 4 a couple of weeks ago and according to the bible there is no mention whatsoever of ‘Three Kings’ or even wise men. The only description of these three (it doesn’t even say that they are all men) is that they are ‘Magi’ which directly translated means ‘magician’. So that’s it then, they were three conjurors on their way to a ‘gig’ when they were way laid and diverted by a star to attend a children’s party. It makes sense to me.
It would appear that the modern story of the three kings as we know today was written some centuries later, and it wasn’t until then that the story, i.e. three blokes, two white and one black rolled into town on camels (something else that was never mentioned in the bible). It is this scene that the Spanish re-enacted up and down the country last night, and I know having watched the parade here last year they make a terrific job of it. Interestingly they find it impossible to find dark skinned men of the correct religious persuasion to fulfil the roll of third king, so they have to get a white chap and black him up! – You can just imagine the horror back home at the very mention of this can’t you, but thankfully over here we don’t have some trumped up little councillor tapping us on our shoulders telling us how to live our lives. Viva Espana!

It's In A Box Of "Smellies" - But It Doesn't Smell.

So there goes another Christmas in high definition clarity as opposed to the hazy alcoholic blur of the ones of my youth, but hey, that’s progress!?
I’ve realized though that’s it’s perhaps best to be a little hung over on Christmas morning, if only to engineer a lie in. I was up at 8am all bright eyed and bushy arsed and not really knowing what to do with myself, for one preposterous minute contemplated cleaning the windows but managed to snap myself out of it. I was under strict instructions not to open my presents until girlfriend Nikki had arrived from her folk’s place where she was spending the night, and knowing her sleeping patterns I knew I could quite easily be kicking my heels for hours on end around the front room before making an infuriated phone call on Boxing Day.
She eventually rolled up just before mid day by which time I’d had two breakfasts, done a white wash and listened to a whole programme of Christmas carols as played by the “Brighouse and Rastric brass band” with vocals provided by the “Hudderfield Choral society”. (I later used a joke as told by presenter Christopher Timothy at “Sinatras” in my show, but it didn’t get the laughs as afforded to it by the congregation of St. Peter and Pauls church unfortunately).
Have to say I did pretty well presents wise, two jumpers, three books, a couple of dvd’s, hip flask, some “Mr. Men” socks, a “Next” pack of smellies, a calendar, a hamper, and a hoody top so I can frighten the pensioners at work of an afternoon. Unfortunately I managed to smash a beaker before I had chance to open it, it was a special Leeds United one as well with my name on it and I looked on horrified as it lay in pieces on the ground at my feet, all a bit too symbolic for my liking, mirroring exactly our season up to press. One piece of equipment in the “Next” pack has got me beat mind. It came in a little cardboard box labelled “Muscle Bar”, is the shape of a tablet of soap but is black in colour and odourless. I’m not all together sure what I’m supposed to do with it to be honest, I’ve been holding it up to the light and sniffing at it for days now, I did wash my face with it a couple of times but my sink went a funny colour and I came out looking like Al Jolson,....anybody got any ideas?

Ten Years!!

It’s my anniversary today; I’ve been here in Benidorm for 10 years! That’s like a whole year, times by ten, hang on I’ll check, it can’t possibly be true can it, I mean 10 years, I should be retired by now. I lived in Blackpool for two and a half years before that and in my own mind I’ve lived in both places for exactly the same amount of time. I don’t even know why I remember it was the 10th of December when I landed here, but I do, I didn’t realize it then but I couldn’t have picked a worse time really, this little chunk between the November fiestas and Christmas is possibly the quietest time of the year. Just to underline this fact, I’ve been laid off from three of my four jobs this week.
But there I was just innocent middle aged bloke looking to break back into show business after taking a decade off due to the fact that I’d have been up on a manslaughter charge if I hadn’t taken time out, such was my relationship with my agents. I had subsequently worked as a postman, and then barman and every other job with “man” in the title until I felt confident enough to return to the fray.
To say I struggled when I first got here is putting it mildly, I didn’t have an act so I was basically unemployable, living in a freezing hostel in the Old Town with a bunch of surreal nutters in a room that your average psychiatric patient would turn his nose up at was a bit of an eye opener. The mattress had a lean of 45 degrees, weighed about 3 ounces and the window was so small I could only look out with one eye at a time. (I’d appreciate it if you’d hum the theme tune from the Hovis advert at this point), I would tip toe down to the beach bare foot at first light for a bracing run before breakfast, flicking loose stones from my heel and averting the stares from local cops as I frolicked on the sand. Oh, the innocence of it all.
My girlfriend, in a strange loop of fete now lives in Blackpool and we communicate on “Skype” whereby you can talk for an unlimited amount of time for free over the internet, you can also see each other. Not sure agree with that bit though, half of the fun of conversing on the phone is that you can pick at your toe nails or have a good scratch at your nether regions whilst discussing the price of washing powder.”How’s your day been?” I politely inquired last night.
“Oh, nothing special really, but I had to buy a pregnancy test from the chemist and then a packet of cigarettes” she mused matter-of-factly. After I’d matter-of-factly fallen out of my chair, I thought for a bit, pulled myself together and croaked, “Er,....what!!!??, ......but.......you don’t even smoke!” (Well, actually no I didn’t say that, I’ve only just thought of it now – but I was shocked).
“It’s for class” was supposed to allay my fears. I must point out at this point that she is taking a degree in acting, and the part she is playing today is that of a chain smoking nymphomaniac apparently. Whatever.

Watch Yer Back - The Fiestas Are Coming!

Well, the November Fiestas are upon us once more, and once again we'll witness the culture split. The Spanish will dress in their sublime lacy period costumes, observe the parades and fireworks and visit the funfair in the old town, with small children gambling playfully at their feet. - Then there's the middle aged British gangs who'll converge on their favourite bar (Vincents, Wooky Hollow, Yorkshire Pride and Shamrock being the favourites), have a high volume chat with the folks they met last year and get wrecked whilst dressed up as Fred Flintstone. - Not that there's owt wrong with that mind! - that's OUR culture that's all. There not much good if you're a "Turn" though, and I've been laid off from "Sinatras" while the heat dies down.
Trawling through the papers today, it's a case of Prince Philip eat your heart out, after hearing of this classic from all round entertainer, Italian Supremo Silvio Berlusconi. Whilst in a press conference with the Russian President he came up with this corker. - "I will try to help relations between Russia and the U.S, where a new generation has come to power, and I see no problems to establish new relations with Obama who is handsome, young and suntanned"

www.concertchairmanbenidorm.blogspot.com
Oh for f......

Halloween An All That

It’s been a pretty quiet week down at the old “Cumberland Sports & Social Club” this week, the lull before the storm that is the Benidorm Fiestas you might say.
We did however pay homage to two top people – Sid and Pauline Dunhill by awarding them the “Members of the Month” trophy for October. Due to budget restrictions however, the Concert Chairman had to revamp an old pigeon trophy which went mercifully un noticed, what didn’t go un noticed though was the fact that he spelt Pauline’s name wrong! - And Sid’s as well now I come to think of it (his name is Raymond).
They have been in every afternoon and every night and have been present at all of my cabaret shows, gleefully showering “Cliff Richard” with table tennis balls and acting as wilful stooges to my “Julio Iglesias” flower routine and bracing themselves for the contents of “Dean Martin’s” glass like the veteran extras that they are.

It’s Halloween tonight and our barmaid Cheryl has been playing hell because the Bat uniform that she’s been requesting for the last two months from Claire and Ivor’s fancy dress shop next door failed to show. So instead she’s going as a big spider. Unfortunately, she has a mortal and irrational fear of the things so let’s just hope she doesn’t catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Mind you, I think Dracula’s had them banned for the evening.

Catching my eye in the on line papers today is the news that 58 year old expat Mark Lewis – who barely speaks a word of Spanish, - has been made Mayor of San Fulgencio (somewhere near Alicante), after he was only one of two councillors not to be arrested on corruption charges. Somebody give the lad a chance I say, this time next week he’ll be building a road through his next door neighbours garden and commissioning his brother to do the work even though he’s running a fish shop in Tooting.

www.concertchairmanbenidorm.blogspot.com

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Summer of 2008 - illustrated

Well there you go, another click of the fingers and whooooosh!! - the summer's gone. It didn't turn out anything like I'd planned. Originally, I was to have visited around 15 "Quirky" festivals around England, - in the end I managed 3! - and one of those I turned up a week early by mistake.

Mind you, I'm taking part in the "Gorilla Fun Run" in London city centre on September 27th (I've got to, I've already paid £75 for the suit).

The main reason I got side tracked was that I ended up living in Blackpool for the summer, despite what the elements chucked at us, I had a great time witnessing live shows including such diversities as "Joseph and his technicoloured wotsit", Joe Longthorne, Jimmy Carr (a bit like Chubby Brown without the loud suit), Cannon and Ball, Norman Collier, Brotherhood of Man, Paul Daniels, Boyzone and The Krankies!!.

I arrived back in Benidorm yesterday and recoiled at the heat, I've not been out of the shower since I got here, and had to sleep with my fan at the side of the bed last night, (she was thrilled). Start back to work on Sunday afternoon at the "Cumberland Sports & Social Club" as the Concert Chairman, it's a bit warm to be wearing a suit, tie and flat cap, - but I must suffer for my art.

The photos are a resume of the summer, - not including the "Bottle Kicking" and "Cheese Rolling" which took place in the Spring (though it felt like mid winter).

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Five Bloody Two!!

I went home to West Yorkshire for the weekend so that I could watch my football team and catch up with a few friends and family.

Don't really think that I could have picked a better game all season to be honest, the sun shone, we run rings round the mighty Crewe Alexander, and scored five brilliant goals!, mind you it wouldn't be Leeds United if we didn't manage to get a man sent off and concede two goals in the last 60 seconds, but hey - who's counting!.

I went with my old pal Neil Ives and as we stood, (although the ground is all seater nobody behind the goal sits - until half time) in a half empty stadium we reminisced that 34 years previously we had been in this very same stand. Back then the atmosphere was Bear pit like, a capacity 44,000 crowd crow barred into the compact stadium, the noise was deafening and a sea of white scarves shimmered above the bobbing masses as we beat a then top Ipswich side 3:2 to clinch the title champions of all of England!

Oh how the mighty have fallen, we're now in the first division, which is actually the third division in real terms and the very fact we're a division behind the likes of Blackpool and Doncaster Rovers say it all really. Spending most of my time in Spain these days means I very seldom get to watch us play and this is the first time I've set eyes on a match since I attended a turgid 0-0 draw in a pre season friendly at Scunthorpe about 5 years ago!- happy days.

These days the turn over of players is phenomenal and if you ever listen to a game on the radio - which you can't unless you happen to have a digital radio - when a goal is scored you're never really sure if we've scored or they have, the names mean nothing.

Anyway we start really well, and a sprightly young black kid with a number 15 on his back (who looks shit hot) scores with a bobbling long range effort, then some bloke who appears to be playing on the left of midfield or possibly left back lets fly with a 35 yard thunderbolt which went in off the underside of the cross bar. Early in the second half two people scored that I knew, -Douglas and Beckford, because they were there last season. Number five was scored by a shaven headed barrel of a thing who I think we signed from Swansea at the back end of last year, and even Crewe's late surge couldn't take the shine off what was a blistering performance, I had to confess I'd actually enjoyed myself. This in its self is an outrageous statement!. - I mean, you don't go to a football match to enjoy yourself do you!?. To moan, and scream at the referee, prey that you per chance get to cheer a goal, criticise the selection policy, be exasperated that you can't get a pint at half time because your'e not a season ticket holder, tell yourself that they are going to score every time that they get over the halfway line and bemoan the fact that we always sit back when a goal up, thus inviting them on to us and end up hanging on for dear life and getting home by the skin of our teeth, - but enjoy ourselves - NEVER.

We got the train back to Guiseley and partook of a celebratory pint or two and more sport in the pub. It was the turn of England football team, who, in their first world cup qualifier managed to grind out a 2-0 win against a bunch of postmen and one legged bin men form Andorra. This Andorra team are great to watch, they spend the whole 90 minutes grabbing hold of shirts, wrestling aponents to the ground, treading on goolies and feigning death, so good and pre occupied are they with this brand of football that they forgot to try and actually score a goal, which came in handy in the end

In this day of sporting extravaganza next up was the boxing. Before the main bout we had to endure Audley Harrison latest tussle with a drunk that they'd found outside in the car park which lasted 12 painstaking rounds, - when the three judges were finally woken up they gave the decision to Harrison. Then another hour to wait before the main bout, which was a world title fight whereby an English bloke beat a Scottish bloke on points which was pretty good, and then finally the main bout of the night,... Amir Khan our big prospect.

I turned round to have a quick slurp of my pint and missed it!. He was knocked sparko by one of those rock hard South Americans before Khan had chance to tie his boots up. And so to bed.

Next day I had a good old fashioned session on the lash with various friends and family in various establishments including my club (although I haven't been a member for 20 years) Hawkhill Social Club - formerly Guiseley Working Mens Club and I am now back in Blackpool packing my stuff up ready to head back to Benidorm on Wednesday.

Whilst I was away my girlfriend had to cook for herself and did very well, - apart from setting fire to the microwave whilst putting a jacket potato into orbit.

The photos by the way are of me outside Elland Road football ground with the statue of our legendary captain from the seventies Billy Bremner (which looks a little bit too much like Charlie Drake in my opinion) and the hi-tec"facilities" at Hawkhill Social Club for the smoking fraternity.

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ENGLAND BEACH SOCCER LATEST: THE WORLD CUP WILL HAVE TO MANAGE WITHOUT US!

Well. We were right to be wary of Portugal has it happens, they stuffed us 6-1. We could see the difference in the stature of the teams immediately, as they rolled up in the deluxe coach, these ex world cup winners looked altogether the slick professional sportsmen that they are, and it didn’t quite cut the cloth when England limped into town on a tandem and side car.
Despite the score line, we were not disgraced, indeed after the second period we were only 2-1 down and more than holding our own, but Portugal’s sheer class and superior fitness told in the end.
Nigel was suitably enough impressed to make moves to offer his bar up as Benidorm’s official England beach soccer HQ, he wanted to endorse them and to publicise the matches, after all, his work on local radio could be of good use to them. After several e-mails and a couple of phone calls to the chief organiser and manager Nigel invited them round to the bar for a chat and a cup of tea, the idea was that they’d bring some posters and T shirts and what have you. Despite him and Yvonne going to the trouble to put out the welcome mat, AND a few sarnies, and Nigel delaying a trip to Gibraltar to greet them, (the piddling little job on his car that the garage had managed to stretch from 24 hours to three days may have had a bearing on his decision as well, on that one),but they never showed bless em.
Through work commitments I could only make the final four minutes of their knockout game against the Ukraine the next day, (I still saw three goals), but a packed stadium was mute as we were routed 6-0 in a performance that the official website described as “abysmal”. We just couldn't get the ball off them by all accounts, they were obviously superior, but I can't agree with their goalkeeper sitting in that deck chair for the last ten minutes, rolling a fag and making sand castles with his feet. It's just so unprofessional.

Our standing in beach soccer was underlined the next day as the Ukraine were pummelled 8-3 by Italy. Couldn’t help but thinking that a couple of egg mayonnaise sandwiches and a sausage roll a piece could have made all the difference to their performance, but I guess we’ll never know.
Mind you compared to Spain and Italy and the like we are at a distinct disadvantage as far as practice goes I would imagine. Can just see the lads now, stood all windswept and piss wet through, freezing their nuts off on the sea front at Skegness or wherever it is they practice, having to clear the pitch of seaweed, green slime and the odd stray turd. I can just picture it.
“Come on lads, unbutton yer dufflecoats, and pull down yer balaclavas, we’ll just about get ten minutes before the tide comes in”.

England win football match on penalties sensation!.

I'm busy at the moment planning my next trip home, to Gloucester, for the cheese rolling, but in the meantime I've found another way to occupy my time.

Went down to the beach to support the England beach football team yesterday. It was a pretty well guarded secret of a competition I have to say, when they first started erecting scaffolding down there, word had it they were building some new state of the art sea defences, either that or there was a circus in town. It came as a bit of a shock then when it transpires that England football team are involved in international football after all this summer.
These matches are qualifiers for the world cup finals to be held later on in the year in Marseille and yesterday we were playing Estonia. The stadium they have erected is actually quite impressive and we had a decent view of proceedings high up on the gantry, level with the halfway line. Of course beach soccer isn’t a recent phenomenon, as far back as the early seventies Derby County were playing it in the old first division every other week, - The Baseball Ground they called it.
We seemed quite evenly matched with our eastern rivals, but managed to forge into a two goal lead due to a dubious penalty (it would later be apparent that all penalties in this form of football are dubious), and wonderfully constructed goal which was volleyed home by our best player “MC”. That’s the initials he had on his back anyway, and through a little bit of research, it turns out that his name is Gian Carlo Giancovich, though he looks a bit more of a Gonzales to me, but anyway, he qualifies for England and we’ll take him.
As the game wore on Estonia gradually wormed their way back into it, and by the final whistle they’d got it back to 2-2. We murmured that it probably wasn’t a bad result really as we stood up and prepared to leave, - but hang on, there was no hand shaking or bollocking of the referee, or any other obvious signs the game was over, maybe we were going into extra time?. With no explanation of the rules anywhere we had no idea what was going on, but immediately sat down when they kicked off again. The kick off consists of one bloke teeing the ball up for a team mate who blasts it goal wards only to see it sail into the goalkeepers chest or fly over the bar. The pitch is about a quarter of the size of a normal footy pitch but they play with full size goals, it’s five a side and the substitutions are constant stream of players coming on and off and it’s hard to keep track. The period of extra time came to an end, - would it now be penalties?, ah, no, they came out and started all over again, by this time both teams looked knackered, they were looking longingly at the scoreboard clock and were pleading with the referee to throw them into the sea. Eventually this extra, extra time finished and we did indeed have penalties, but even then we hadn’t a clue how many they had to take and as soon as the Estonians missed one, the England team (who bizarrely only wear one, instead of three lions on their shirts) celebrated wildly. So we had won! – on penalties at that!, the first time I could remember any England team doing such a thing since we beat Spain in “Euro 96”, - I was hooked, - “ENGER-LAND, ENGER-LAND, ENGER-LAND”.
After swatting up on the internet when I got home, it turns out that they play three periods of 15 minutes, you’re not allowed to have a draw, so if it’s level after that, it goes to a 3 minute period of “golden goal”, and if there’s no score after that, it’s penalties. So there you go, - you know as much as me now.
Today the game was against Georgia, so off I toddled down to the stadium, it was confirmed to me that England were playing in there, but was slightly surprised to see that the crowd was a bit sparse. I Watched the tail end of Gemany’s game, in which they scored a late winner and went berserk, and then waited for us to make an appearance. We didn’t. The two teams that appeared didn’t include England, and it turned out that our game had been brilliantly scheduled on the little toss-pot pitch next door. In Wimbledon speak, the pitch next door is like an outside court as apposed to the centre court next to it. The few seats available here had long been snapped up and the rest of us had to stand shoulder to shoulder peering through a wire fence, whilst next door the stadium hosted The Outer Hebrides versus The Peoples Republic of Nowhere In Particular. All this in front of a crowd that consisted of about half a dozen Englishmen who were obliviously watching the wrong match, a couple of immigrants selling roses and a bored looking Chihuahua.

To be honest our game wasn’t the greatest, and I wondered if, like me, the Georgian players had been on the internet checking out the rules of the game the day before, as they didn’t seem to know exactly what was what. They were built to last, rather than for speed, and were uncompromising in the tackle. There was a good atmosphere though, probably with us being crowded into such a small place and the volume went up steadily as we started scoring goals. A Georgian defender was felled with a volleyed cross that caught him square in the plums, and the trainer was cheered vigorously when he jogged on carrying nothing more than a bottle of water. He patted the prostate Georgian on the back, took a swig of the water, and ran trotted back to the touchline!. They don’t even have the “magic sponge” round these parts.
Probably the highlight would have to be one of the Georgians getting booked for dissent, at this, the crowd gave a huge ironic cheer, and when the seething midfielder then gave an obscene gesture toward the stand, he was sent off, to even louder cheers. We won 4-1, we’re on a roll, but we play Portugal tomorrow, and they’re shit hot apparently.

"Hare pie scramble and bottle kicking" at Hallaton

SUNDAY 23rd MARCH
I arrive at East Midlands airport only about half an hour behind schedule. When the plane touches down it’s snowing, it suddenly dawns on me that I’ve not actually seen snow for God knows how many years, and for a second or two I’m captivated by the sight, as a small child would be.
Terry is waiting for me and he pumps my hand with a firm shake in arrivals, it’s the first time we’ve met since I headed back after my last summer hols last August and we catch up on what’s been going on in the interim.
At this point I’m feeling genuinely excited as we discuss which of the barmy
festivals that I’d earmarked as possible trips, we can actually make. I had in fact listed around twenty of these, but in reality will probably only manage about half. I had originally planned to travel alone, visualising tramping around with a chunky rucksack on my back and spending hours in draughty train stations and bus stops with nothing but Test match cricket on my portable radio for company. I figured that public transport in England would present a formidable strain to my inner strength, will to succeed, and my wallet as well no doubt, and anyway, I haven’t got a driving licence, so that’s that then. When I first muted this idea to friends and family it didn’t surprise me that Terry would be up for a couple of the bawdier ones, with his natural competitiveness and wanderlust, a few of these shindigs are right up his street.

Over the years, in his various ramshackle vans, we’ve managed to get lost on just about every trip we’ve ever undertaken together, but he’s come prepared this time. He produces one of those printouts that you can get off of the internet that gives you directions, literally from your door to your destination. It’s a journey of around 15 miles, and we only take the wrong turning a couple of times – a tremendous success rate.
Thinking back, some of Terry’s dilapidated vehicles have more closely resembled something out of Whacky Races than anything that should be allowed out on to a public highway. This latest, ten year old Renault Kango white van is luxurious indeed compared to some that I’ve seen. I full remember a 1980 yellow ex council Ford Escort van with a dodgy gearbox that he picked up at auction for £75, “no reverse, and occasional second gear if you’re lucky” – as was stipulated in the auction brochure, (he’d just been deported from Australia, so funds were at a minimum). He sold potatoes from out of the back of that at the side of the road for a year until he got the money together for a one way ticket to South Africa.
I recall him telling me that when he put it up for sale a gullible young man came round to look at it and wanted to take it for a test drive. Terry said he could drive it fifty yards to the end of the road and back, (he didn’t want to risk him getting in to second gear), and when the lad sat in the drivers seat and wound the window down, it fell out on to the road. As quick as a flash he said “Ah, that’s the only thing wrong with it!”. I think that might have been the same van whereby the windscreen wipers packed up during a storm coming back over the “Snake Pass” from a blind date debacle in Blackpool in the winter of 92. I hung out of the passengers window pumping away with a shammy leather, blindly wincing against the elements, struggling to breathe and biting on raindrops, my left hand turned blue and I lost the use of my lower jaw but we somehow made it home.
I’m not sure, but this could have been the same vehicle that he picked me up in when he was working in Torquay. I got in, and as I groped at the space where a seatbelt should be, he pulled up at some traffic lights and I was suddenly and brutally impaled to the windscreen by a six foot metal spike.
“Sorry about that mate, - it’s me latest venture, - pig on a spit”. The pub where he worked as a doorman had allowed him to barbecue a full grown swine, slice it up and shove it into a bread bun for a “pig bap”. One day he’d sell pork, and the next he’d sell chickens. Once, on my birthday, before we could go out on the drink we had to first do a “chicken run”, and decked out in my best shirt and strides I grappled with the stinking poultry loading it on to this special contraption whereby you could get about a dozen of the things revolving above the flames. It took ages, and as we stood in the deserted car park I took umbrage and sloped off for a pint. When I came back Terry asked me to think up a slogan for his blackboard to bolster the non existent sales, I scribbled something before sternly marching back into the pub. I’m not altogether sure that “Fancy a f***** chicken?” did a lot for business, in fact I know it didn’t because he never sold one of the pesky things all night and we returned home sober.
We spent a whole day spraying “Tel’s Pigs & Poultry” on the side of the van one Saturday afternoon, only to see half of the letters fall off with the first drops of rain. He spent the rest of the season advertising “Tel’s igs & Pou”.
As a foot note, I’d decided to wind him up by sending him a spoof letter pretending to be from the health and safety. It took me ages in that pre computer age, getting the officious dialogue just right and then getting mum to type it out at work. I’d got to the stage where I was trying to work out how to get a Torbay post stamp on it and was sat in my bedroom racking my brain, when the phone went. It was Terry. He only phoned me up once in a blue moon, and I thought something was up. I slumped disgruntled on to the foot of our stairs as he told me of his latest venture selling ice creams. He sounded hugely enthusiastic as he told me of his daily slog up and down the beach doing a roaring trade, totally illegal obviously, and when I asked him what happened to “Pigs & Poultry”, he says,
“Health and safety closed me down!”
The last vehicle before this latest one was a classic, a red 1988 Renault Extra, converted to a disabled vehicle with a dirty great big window in the roof and a wheelchair ramp. It had a cross of St. George painted onto the bonnet and he used the wheelchair ramp to ease in his cement mixer. He bought it off a farmer who’d been using it as a chicken coop and stacked hay on the roof rack, it was £200 and once he’d cleaned out the eggs and giblets and fixed up the back bumper with coat hangers it was as good as new. It was his pride and joy and a sad day indeed when it recently went up for sale on Ebay for 99p. It actually went for £230!, so, £30 profit don’t you know!
.
As we suddenly arrive in Hallaton, - a real blink and you’d miss it job, we immediately fall in love with the place. This is not difficult to do. Set amidst miles of rolling countryside with a very pleasing tiny village square complete with the ancient buttercross monument betwixt picturesque eye catching cottages and a charming 400 year old country Inn called The Bewicke Arms. All of these buildings have thatched roofs, transporting you back to another age and as Terry pulled up on the road side he sighed “Oh yesss!”. I knew what he meant. The sleet started up again as Terry uncurled himself out of his seat and toward the pub, we needed directions to the campsite as we’d failed to locate it first time round. He was chortling as he returned, apparently as soon as he’d walked in the place somebody had shouted, “He’s a big un, we’ll have him!”.

The campsite was just around the corner, but it was deserted. No campers, no staff anywhere about and no reception area either. We parked up on a lush piece of grass, a bit over lush as it turned out. We stepped out on to the turf and the water came to halfway up our boots, this could present a problem. We did a quick recce to see if we could find any signs of life of which there were none, so Terry phoned the contact number. He was then informed that we had been cancelled as the campsite was waterlogged, and they had telephoned us to let us know. This was a bare faced a lie. Rather than get into an argument, our ever helpful friend said the line was breaking up and his parting shot was,
“Whatever you do, don’t park on the grass!”.

We retired to the pub to discuss the next line of action, we would have a pint and mull over the possibilities from there. We inquired if they did bed and breakfast there and were told that they did indeed, but they were, not altogether surprisingly, full. However if we wanted to go and have a word with Carol in the tea rooms, she might have a place for us. She told us that she had accommodation, but she too was full, she however phoned another B and B and said that a friend of hers called Sally would put us up for the night in her place which was outside the village somewhere and gave us directions. We got lost. We called in on some farm or other which was the only life we came across in this green and laid back land, “Even the sheep don’t move” observed Terry.
We were greeted by a sign that warned, “Beware – our dogs bite”, and as we climbed out of the van a busy looking Collie regarded us with mild curiosity but didn’t savage us to death, or if it did, I didn’t notice it. The farmer knew of our Sally and cheerfully gave us directions and sent us on our way. I think we only took a couple of wrong turnings more before we arrived at Medbourne Grange Farmhouse in the delightfully named village of Nevill Holt.
The well spoken elderly lady answered the door,
“Alright luv, I’ll just get me gear”, said Terry. So much for formal introductions. She treated us with cautious geniality as she led us to our room. The stair wall was bedecked with several framed drawings of a cock fight, hung in sequence. First, the two birds staring each other down, then, a bit of flapping of wings and the odd displaced feather, and finally, one bird laid at the others feet with it’s throat torn out while the others beak dripped blood. This must be the family room I thought.
The room itself was pretty much what you’d expect, very clean, comfortable to plush with two beds and a couple of inviting burly looking duvets laid on top. I couldn’t help thinking that we were in for a damn sight more comfortable night than we would have had in that tent, or curled up in the foetal position in the front of the van, (it would have to have been the front as the back was full of power tools).
Our host then gave us our keys, one for the front door and one for the bathroom, (although there was a bolt on the inside), but not one for our door. When we asked why this was we were told that they didn’t have any trouble with security round these parts. Well maybe not, but we could have easily been a couple of burglars down from the north in search of a change of scene, had she thought about that?. And why a key for the bathroom?, which we were told to lock as we left.
“Surely you lock it when you go in!”, Terry pointed out, not unreasonably. So, to sum up, she didn’t mind you having no security whatsoever in your room, but was panic stricken in case somebody broke in and wanted to have a bath, - or worse!.
She then inquired if we were “running”, this must have been the local term for taking part in the bottle kicking, as we had been asked the same question in the village earlier on, and weren’t really sure what they meant.
“I’m not” I said, almost apologetically, “but he is”, pointing to my chum.
She observed him as if he had just broken wind on her new sofa, and before she had chance to speak Terry said mournfully,
“Don’t look at me like that, - it scares me half to death!”, a rather strange remark to someone you’ve just met I thought.
We just had time for a quick shower, I noticed that I’d under loaded my toilet bag and shouted over,
“You got any shampoo?”, back came the reply,
“Use soap, - same stuff, different label”. Right you are.

It was now about tea time, so we thought we’d head back to Hallaton and get a bite to eat, we guessed it must be at least a couple of miles so I zipped up my jacket and Terry buttoned up his cardigan. It had stopped snowing but it was still freezing. After about an hour we conceded that it might be a bit further than a couple of miles, we suddenly weren’t sure if we were going the right way, there were so many little winding roads adorned with countless signposts for villages we’d never heard of. Places like Horninghold, Blaston, Stockerston, Welham, Langton, East Langton, Church Langton, Slawston, Glooston, Stonton Wyville and Eye Brook Resevoir. We’d not caught sight of another human being or vehicle on the roads even, just mile upon mile of moor, gorse bushes and the odd cow. Farm animals round these parts obviously weren’t used to seeing human beings close up and would first stare, and then rush towards us thinking we were the farmer with per chance a pocket full of hay, this became a re occurring theme. We became increasingly desperate recalling landmarks that we were sure we’d passed earlier.
“I recognise that church!, the one with the big bell on it!”, I volunteered hopefully.
“So that means that Hallaton’s just round the corner”. I think we walked another forty five minutes after that.
“What about that broken blade of grass there, you can’t tell me you don’t remember that!”. I think we were experiencing a mirage or something similar, the cold was getting into our bones, and we were very thirsty.

Red nosed and blue cheeked we joyously entered The Bewicke Arms and ordered a couple of pints of I.P.A bitter, I located the money in my pocket but couldn’t grip such was the numb feeling in my fingers. You know, like one of those rip off crane things that you get in amusement arcades whereby you manage to locate the teddy bears head snugly in the jaws, but when it comes to actually lifting the thing up it suddenly loses the will to live at the critical moment, and you’re left swearing and shaking your fist at the glass.
By now we were pretty damned hungry, and after a few inquiries realized to our horror that there was nowhere to eat, not in the pub, not a café, or a chip shop, nothing. We’d have to travel at least five miles for the merest smell of something warm. So it was decided to have another pint, - (Caudles bitter this time, a very “woody” tang we thought and an acquired taste,- and we certainly acquired it), and a packet of salted nuts to fend off starvation.

Having warmed up considerably we decided to check out the one other pub in the village, The Fox Inn, we were given directions whilst at the same time being urged to return later. The character in question mentioned that there was a female singer on later and judging by his actions, she either had a chronic shoulder problem or overly large breasts. (it transpired there was nothing wrong with her shoulders).
We knew the village was tiny so it couldn’t be far and kept heading for the nearest lit up window. However we were stopped dead in our tracks every time, as, obviously they don’t draw their curtains round these parts, and were always greeted by the sight of some be-slippered householder sat down watching the telly or sipping from a mug.
The Fox Inn had somewhat younger clientele, student types, and we ushered our pints of Black Sheep bitter over to a prime spot in the corner next to a roaring log fire. It had only been a short walk, but we were freezing again and the crackles and pops of the spitting flames cheered us as we lazed back into our seats wringing our hands triumphantly.
“I think we’ve copped on a gud un ere boy”, Terry had really fallen for Hallaton. We always call each other “boy”, it stems from when we first met at Pontin’s Holiday camp in Devon in 86. Terry was the lifeguard and I was on the entertainments team – blue coats we were called. We used to meet in Terry’s hut by the pool for a cuppa or the odd tin of lager, he’d have the radio on and would be listening to “Steve Wright in the afternoon”. There was an imaginary character on there called Sid the manager and he’d always come on the phone line and shout “Hello boy!”. We nicked it and have been using it ever since. Another thing is that we never call him Terry, if it’s not “boy”, then it’s “Tel”, this is a very cockney thing of course but we had a few of those at Pontin’s, they all called him that, he liked it, and that stuck as well.
By now we were feeling very cosy indeed and all we could think about was trying to ensure that we didn’t have to walk all the way back again later on. We’d had the good sense to snap up the business card of “Big Dave”, Hallaton’s only taxi driver which was thrust at us by the ever helpful Sally earlier. We phoned him, only to discover that, on this, his busiest weekend of the year, he was laid up in bed with the flu – oh shit!. He said that there might be a couple of taxi’s lurking around from outside the town, but he couldn’t do anything for us. That’s it, we were snookered, and as we chuntered our way back to The Buicke Arms we realised that a taxi wouldn’t have been much good to us anyway, as, in our semi inebriated state, we couldn’t for the life of us remember the name of our bed and breakfast. We remembered the word “Grange”, but that was about it, so you could just imagine the conversation with an out of town taxi driver, say, from Bradford, as we frantically plucked out names at random and gave some half arsed directions. No, we’d be better off walking, but we’d need some more anti freeze down our necks first.

The Buike (see, we’re on first name terms already) had filled up substantially since we had left and the aforementioned lady accordionist was in full swing, so to speak. There was another guy who also played the accordion, and a girl who was sat with them who was playing one of those over size tambourine things, you know, the thing you play with an over sized cotton bud thing. I’m not sure if she was with the band or just a customer who felt the urge to join in, it was a bit like that, very informal and pleasing on the ear. No microphones or sound system or anything, just all very folkey and we sang along with odd song that we knew – there were mainly Irish songs – probably because they came from Ireland. There was a lovely laid back atmosphere in there, and after a few more pints of Caudles bitter and a few ignored hints for a lift, off we went once more into the breach, “I’m going outside now, I might be some time” came to mind.

We were lucky as it happened, the temperature was still sub zero but there wasn’t a breath of wind, the snow has ceased and it was a cloudless sky with a full moon, which meant we could actually see where we were going. The thought of scrabbling about in the pitch black had worried us somewhat, so much so that Terry had brought with him his pump action torch (no batteries required). He’s very proud of this piece of equipment and had given a practical demonstration to Sally earlier on in our bedroom, she had looked suitably impressed.
It took us a bit longer to walk back than it had to walk to Hallaton, this was probably due to the fact that it was mainly up hill, we were meandering rather than walking, and having to stop every ten minutes to water the grass verge didn’t help. The journey flew however in a haze of beer fumes and excited chatter, and we were gob smacked to find that it was about half past two as we strode up the long driveway to Medbourne Grange, (we’d set off about midnight).
We made a conscious effort to keep the noise down as we crept upstairs and up to our room, communicating with a series of grunts and finger pointing and we congratulated each other on resisting the temptation to climb aboard the authentic Victorian looking wooden rocking horse in the hallway.
The long hike and our new found love for Caudles bitter ensured that getting to sleep didn’t present a huge problem and Terry was dutifully snoring before I had chance to get my boots off.
The next thing I remember was the tell tale dull ache of the bladder at round about six o’clock, and as I tossed the duvet to one side, I felt a heavy lump in the front of my pants. This was not usual. This turned out to be my mobile phone!. It suddenly came back to me that I’d set my alarm so we didn’t miss breakfast, and as I’d had to insert my trusty earplugs to counter the rasping beside me, thinking that I would now no longer be able to hear it, I’d placed it in my undercrackers, presumably thinking that the vibration from the alarm against my genitals would buzz me back into the land of the living.

The breakfast was very good, we had the full “English” fry up of bacon, egg, sausage, tomato etc, I never normally eat fried food, but once I’ve had a few pints inside me my palate changes and I actually enjoy something that I’d normally turn my nose up at. There was toast and homemade marmalade and jams to follow, to be applied with a teaspoon – always adds a touch of class, the teaspoon, and a coffee percolator. I think that’s what it was at least, I’m not sure I’ve ever come across one in the flesh before but Terry impressed me hugely when, instead of staring at it as if it were a museum exhibit, like me, he pushed the plunger down as if it were normal practice. Coffee came out of it at any rate, and that’s the main thing.
As we bade farewell to Sally, Terry shouted,
“Come quick, there’s a donkey in your garden luv”, our host scuttled through from her living room only to see her well fed Golden Retriever gently lapping water from it’s bowl.

By 10 o’clock we’d driven back into Hallaton and as the police had closed off the village to traffic we had to park up about a mile away, after trying and failing to park in the official car park which was a waterlogged field, thoughtfully placed on top of a hill. The weather was once again bitter so we thought we’d go to the tea rooms for a cuppa, but they’d taken all the seating out, obviously fearing rioting pensioners, so we stood outside by the beer tent and consulted the official pamphlet. Although they were already serving alcohol, it was locals only inside the pub so we hung about in the car park not really sure what to do.
Neither of us were drinking today, Terry had to drive home at tea time, I don’t like boozing solo, and besides, it was too cold to grip a plastic pint pot.

From across the road the peal of bells of the church of St. Michael and All Angels announced the traditional bottle kicking service, the head of the parade who was the Warrener (game keeper) was looking resplendent in a long green velvet medieval costume and hat, in days gone by he would have held a real hare skewered on a stick, but, in these politically correct times he now carries a long staff with a bronze sculptured hare on the top. Also in period costume stands the bread lady carrying a basket of “penny loaves”. Next to these two on the church steps in a very authentic yellow, late nineties costume is a young man dressed as a Teletubby…….what the?. Obviously another custom passed down through the centuries. There had been a children’s parade earlier and one presumes he was a leftover from that.

Several local people had inquired after our health, and seemingly everybody was aware of our long walk home the night before. One of these, who we took to be the landlord of The Bewike Arms told us of the policy to keep out outsiders from entering the pub,- (presumably so he still had a pub to go to the next day) but promised to give the staff “the nod” if we wanted to go in. We would surely take advantage of this offer, as standing about in a freezing car park had limited appeal.
We then went for a stroll around the museum, this took approximately forty five seconds of our time, it seemed to be a converted station master’s hut from the days when the village boasted a railway line. There were a couple of rusty old shovels, an oil lamp or two and a glass case with a stuffed Hare on a stick and other memorabilia of Hallaton’s most famous shindig.
After a failed attempt to enter the warmth and sanctuary that was the pub, we were eventually verified by our pal and allowed in. It was bliss. It was crowded to capacity, there was laughter and jollity, and our accordion friends were back again. We soaked up the atmosphere, weakened and had one last pint of Caudles bitter, and chatted with a couple of locals before squeezing out into the fresh air.
On our way out we saw Hare pie and the “penny loaves” being flung into a now substantial crowd, this practice, according to my pamphlet, originally was in order to feed the poor and needy of the parish, but these days, from what I saw later, are to be used as missiles.
The procession then headed for the village green, with, has tradition decrees three young men of the village holding the “bottles” up at the front. The term bottle is actually misleading, for they are not bottles at all but small wooden beer barrels holding about seven pints of beer each, and they are held aloft in one hand above the head. After another small ceremony at the strange conical monument known as the buttercross we then joined the parade up to the The Fox Inn. Here there is another pit stop, but nothing significant happened, we just seemed to be picking up the stragglers from the other end of the village and many headed for the beer tent. After a few minutes the band regrouped, the villagers fell in behind them, and off we went again.
The one thing which made us feel uncomfortable was that the band were actually a Scottish pipe band, all kilted and booted up for the occasion. This puzzled and annoyed in equal measures, and there were a few murmurings. I mean, could you imagine some ancient annual custom up in the Scottish Highlands with a few manic Morris dancers at the head of the parade, leaping up and down, waving their hanky’s and jangling their bells to the tune of “My Old Man’s A Dustman”. No, I thought not. Generations ago Hallaton had it’s own marching brass band, and obviously this has long since disbanded, but, quite frankly, a couple of blokes up front playing the spoons and washboard would have been preferable.

Terry now handed me his valuables, much as you did just before a scrap in the school playground, and once again we joined the parade on it’s last leg up towards Hare Pie Hill.
The thing that struck me was the respect that everybody gave to the whole procedure, and in the ever growing group there was almost silence, no shouting or larking about and as we headed up the final hill to the pitch (or killing fields, if you will), you could really feel as you were going into battle.
As the band reached the top of the lane we could see hundreds of people gathered in a field, and dozens more halfway up trees and hanging off of branches for a better view. I soon realized why. I was expecting some sort lull in proceedings while the two gangs of villagers sized each other up and jogged on the spot, and then a whistle or something. But no. No sooner had we turned the corner, I looked up to see what looked to be small rocks (probably bread rolls) being hurled, with some force, into the group where I was stood. This induced boos and general aggravation, and reminded me of those archers arrows that you would see fired in their thousands as a precursor to some huge battle in “The Gladiator” or “El Cid”. When a full tin of Fosters cart wheeled into the heavy dark sky, spraying out it’s froth like a Catherine wheel, it seemed to signal the frenzy that was like a huge rugby scrum with no referee. Terry shot off in the blink of an eye into the mass of arms, legs and bobbing heads, and I wondered if I’d ever see him again. It was only later that I found out that the tin of lager was coincidental and a chap throws the barrel up twice at the top of a field, and on the third time, as it hits the ground, this signals “the off”.
I took out my camera and tried everything to get a decent shot, but it was hopeless, apart from all those burrowing, straining and striving to get a hand on the barrel, there were all the spectators swarming around jumping up and down or on tip toes hoping to get a glimpse of something. If they managed it was more than I did, and I retreated to try and find a better vantage point, say from the brow of a hill or an air balloon.
The scrum ever so slowly, and with series of sudden breakaways made it’s way down the hill. The aim is to bring the “bottle” back towards your own village, in both directions the goal line is a stream. It struck me that Hallaton had a few things in their favour, firstly the hill back toward their village was shorter and steeper, and secondly, Medbourne – the other village would have to force their through two gorse bushes (flanked by barbed wire) before they even started the ascent to their stream. It’s hardly surprising therefore, that throughout the recorded history of this event Hallaton have dominated, save for a period after the second world war when the local Jocks from the nearby steelworks at Corby helped Medbourne out and enjoyed a stint of success, on and off for 30 years.
Nobody actually knows how long this ritual has been going on, some of the earliest records from the eighteenth century describe it as “an ancient custom” even then, and many stories abound of participant characters up and down the years. This is an extract from the official booklet by John Morison.

“A Hallaton man named Tommy Tyler was a spectator down by the brook. Ascending the steep bank was too difficult for him as he had a wooden leg. Alas he was caught up in the scrum and was tumbled into the brook, then in full spate. The buoyancy of his wooden leg and the strong current proved too much for him and he was carried off downstream and had to be rescued by others”. Beside this is a photograph of the man himself sat outside his house complete with Long John Silver type wooden leg in 1900.

Getting some decent photos was proving nigh on impossible, and try as I might, as soon as I got near to the action I was bundled to one side or was forced into retreat as the scrum suddenly changed direction and swirled towards me. Moving quickly was becoming increasingly more difficult, partly due to the cold eating into the legs, but mainly due to the thick layer of mud and dung that stuck tight to the soles of my boots. For the first time though I caught sight of Terry’s cardigan, and it flapped in his wake as he waved his arms directing the younger recruits here and there, covering any likely counter offensive and burrowing forward, head down when the drive was on. It was now too that I spied “Laa-Laa” our Teletubby friend, somewhat surprisingly getting stuck in with the best of them, his pristine yellow outfit now deeply skidded in brown. I would have liked to have seen the woman face in the fancy dress shop when he sheepishly handed that costume back in.
A few casualties now were evident on the hill, The Hallaton charge was in full flow and a young Medbourne foot soldier sat on the grass blinking his eyes and cradling his front upper false teeth in his palm. A few yards further down, another youngster, shoulders heaving with exhaustion, his rugby shirt in tatters was refusing a sip of beer from a sympathetic bystander, and all in all the first “goal” looked imminent.
The blizzard took hold again, and the thought crossed my mind that the best place to be would be down by the stream, the thought of the battle raging in and around the swamp at the bottom of the hill had me reaching for my camera once more. We were however robbed of this spectacle when a sudden breakaway by a solitary individual, sneakily, first casually idling out of the scrum with the “bottle” at his side, and then sprinting down the hill, flamboyantly raising one arm and pointing one finger into the air, much in the style of Steve Ovett all those years ago. One nil!.

Terry didn’t look any the worse for wear and had clearly enjoyed the experience. We presumed that now, we’d all troop back up the hill and start all over again, so we waited, and waited,…….and waited. Everybody sauntered off towards the beer tent which also housed a rather odd ball band of musicians who went in for rhythmical shouting rather than the more traditional approach of singing, We had seen them set up earlier, we hadn’t seen any instruments as such, apart that is apart from some strange long sticks with bells and a hob nailed boot attached to the bottom! – sort of punk rock Morris dancers. They were all dressed as pirates, all long hair, frilly shirts and buckled boots. They had been playing all the while the bottle kicking had been going on, their tunes intermittently penetrating the inclement weather and toward our reluctant ears. The only tune I could actually recognise was “Lets twist again” by Chubby Checker (except they sang “Lets get pissed again, like we did last summer”).
We hung about for well over an hour waiting for something to happen, both with enthusiasm ebbing away. We didn’t really know what to do now, we could hardly try and get back in the pub, what with Terry looking like a motorcross rider, and anyway we weren’t drinking today.
Eventually we reluctantly decided to call it a day, as nobody seemed remotely interested in resuming hostilities, and anyway I had a liaison with Nigel at a pub just off the M1.
We tore ourselves off of the hill and back to the van, this was indeed an unsatisfactory conclusion, we didn’t even know the final score for goodness sake, - had Terry been part of a victorious team or what?!.
This also meant that we missed the celebrations. The winning team traditionally gather round the buttercross in Hallaton, (even if Medbourne win) and the man who won the first “bottle” is hoisted to the top of the ancient monument, balancing precariously on the stone ball holding aloft the miniature beer barrel. It is then ceremoniously uncorked, and he takes a slug of the now flat, and warm brew. I say he, and although this is a male dominated event, it’s an interesting fact that during the first world war it was the women of the two villages who carried on the tradition while the men folk were away fighting.
We found the pub, eventually, where I’d previously agreed to meet Nigel who had kindly agreed to put me up for the night before I was due to fly back the next morning. We decided to bob in for a pint while we waited for him.
“Hang on a minute, look at the state of you, I hope they’ve got a tap room, I think I’ve got a pair of tracksuit bottoms in my case you can borrow”. This was ignored. Terry simply kicked off his still wet and caked in mud work boots off in the foyer. We marched into the restaurant and ordered a couple of pints of Guiness, Terry sat on a leather sofa in his stocking feet, spattered in mud and stinking of sheep shit.
As he regaled Nigel with his story of how a bloke in the middle of the scrum, “bottle” in hand, and whilst going on a surging run, reached behind him into his rucksack, produced a can of beer and poured it down his neck whilst battling on one handed. And of the huge drunken guffaw that went up as a solitary sodden training shoe was launched into orbit, whilst the owner hopped out of the melee cursing.
As we both excitedly recalled our short time in Hallaton, we suddenly realized what a great time we’d had, we’d made one fatal error however, and that was not stopping on for another night, and therefore seeing the thing through properly. I think it goes without saying that we’ll have to return one day.
It later transpired that Hallaton won 2-0.

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