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HIGH DAYS AND HOLIDAYS.
Stuart Vernon29 Jun 2018 - 07:32
The final whistle of the season always signals a step change for the Alies as blazers are exchanged for polo shirts and even shorts!
The Alies had been whirled around on an exciting, emotionally charged carousel all season but on the final Saturday in April at around 16.30 hours the brake lever was applied at Wilmslow and along with a portmanteau of recollections they were thrown off. But like travellers returning from places far and wide they brought with them a multitude of stories many of them of the swashbuckling variety, with thankfully a few of the others falling into the horror category.
So there was plenty to reminisce about at Cocktail Hour and an opportunity to wind down but early doors the numbers were down at the Round Table, which had mysteriously shrunk to one of the rectangular variety, eat your heart out Sir Percivale, or even Doctor Foster.
Matron, who was doing her rounds, observed that attendance at the Round Table was shrinking, after she had given the Major chapter and verse ahead of his heart MOT. Only the Accountant, Major, Muggy, Maximus and Press Secretary made it to some of the early sessions, although the Treasurer, Mr Chips, Solicitor, Platelayer and Sutty popped in and out. The Tiler appeared, his hand swathed in bandages after losing the fight with an angle grinder or some other flesh eating machine; two fingers good, no thumb bad, as Snowball might have said.
Holidays, plus matters medical all caused a drop in numbers but there was a surprise visit from the Fitter, who managed to chasse along in between perfecting his Paso Doble, tuning up his tango and honing up his hornpipe ahead of a “Strictly Cruise.” Hey ho! What shall we do with a drunken sailor early in the morning? Answer; stick him into a giant Wurlitzer and pull out all the stops!
Long before the Fitter, aka the “Burnley Bopper,” aligned himself with the Allen Key fraternity he showed an interest in the art of Terpsichore; he did try tap dancing but kept falling into the bath, he was no better at Morris dancing, yes you have guessed it dear reader, he kept slipping off the bonnet! Slap! Slap!
A fully charged up Major, after he had drained the National Grid having his ticker jump started, turned his attentions to organising the Alies Annual Barbeque at his stately pile. It was an opportunity to show off his new all singing, all dancing gleaming state of the art barbequing kit. An early glimpse at the North Premier fixtures hinted at an away game at Alnwick on October 13 so the Major was able to sketch out some travel arrangements for Friday 12, including train times and a hotel for an overnight stay before returning on the coach; early days of course, but Major’s Tours is never slow in building up an itinerary.
A relaxing Cocktail Hour was disturbed when Prosecco Ruth, winding down after a holiday, received a call that a group of travellers had been spotted in the area. The barricades quickly went up, locks were checked as the banner, “None Shall Pass” was unfurled.
The Major texted Diaphanous Daphne to organise an arms drop but before the first sten gun could be loaded aboard a waiting Chinook “Operation Hedgehog” was scaled down, glasses were topped up, the Tiler ordered another goblet of gin despite some challenging un-politically correct comments from Mint Cake, and normal service was resumed.
At the barbeque the Major’s new toy was on full bore, the Oslo Maple was swaying in a gentle breeze, tree creepers were creeping, trains were heard rattling along the West Coast line and the table was groaning under the weight of cans, bottles and nibbles, as seven of the finest, Major, Solicitor, Treasurer, Doctor Foster, Maximus and Minimus and the Press Secretary gathered for the BBQ and slowly sipped their way through an afternoon of nostalgia and thoughts about the future.
Doctor Foster was an early arrival having struggled with the 24 hour clock but was soon scurrying to and fro after being given the role of the Major’s batman. Later Doctor Foster gave a graphic description of the antics he had observed on a boat moored in the Bay through his steamed up binoculars. Apparently the mainbrace had been liberally spliced, there was plenty happening in the rigging and on the planking, and the mainmast remained very upright. A scene unfolded that was a cross between “Love Island,” “Carry on Cruising,” “Moby Dick,” “The Navy Lark,” “Poldark,” with a touch of “Rum, Bum and Concertina” thrown in for good measure. Remember all this took place on Morecambe Bay, not St Tropez, Nice or Ibiza!
Naturally the turkey was cooked to perfection, juicy and moist, the sausages firm and succulent, the salads were tempting. After absent friends were toasted there followed a gentle meander down the rich pathways that being on tour had carved out; incidents, characters, all combined to produce a rich mosaic of memories. Undoubtedly any tour, be they long or short, are significant events, memorable and special to those who were involved, even the rare ones that fell into the category of “one from hell!”
As a most uplifting few hours of meaningful conversation, even the rugby from South Africa was ignored, drew to a close Minimus’s rumbling stomach acted as the starting gun for a graphic description of an operation that had been performed on him a few years ago. Any discourse on matters medical for the Alies are guaranteed conversation stoppers and as the comedian Jackie Mason observed, with perhaps the Alies in mind, “It’s no longer a question of staying healthy. It’s a question of finding a sickness you like.”
Gilly returned to the Round Table after his adventures in the operating theatre, looking much fitter, a rosy glow to his cheeks, plus a new mobile phone, and a personal inventory of anecdotes and procedures, some very explicit and colourful, which entertained the Alies ahead of the final game in South Africa.
Following England’s egg-citing victory against the Boks, attention focussed on Bradders who was guarding a tray of eggs.
“Are those eggs hard boiled?” enquired one of the Alies.
“Try one,” replied Bradders, who launched one in the general direction of the Alies.
When the British Aerospace Humpty Dumpty Mark 2 hit the table you did not have to be a member of MENSA to come to the conclusion it was not armour plated. Splat went the ovoid! It was no yolk, because as “Dad’s Army” ducked glasses of wine went flying in all directions causing Maximus to shell out for another round.
Welcome back to the real world Gilly. Nothing has changed. Everyone is still quackers.
Still no news of the Alies’ summer joint although a tempting omelette of possible locations was whipped up, containing a tour of local micro breweries that have sprung up recently while some were getting quite excited about a trip from Oxenholme to Windermere on a service being run by West Coach Railways. The thoughts of being hauled off by a vintage diesel and slamming carriage doors brought beads of perspiration to a few brows; “Oh Mister Porter.”
So there was plenty to reminisce about at Cocktail Hour and an opportunity to wind down but early doors the numbers were down at the Round Table, which had mysteriously shrunk to one of the rectangular variety, eat your heart out Sir Percivale, or even Doctor Foster.
Matron, who was doing her rounds, observed that attendance at the Round Table was shrinking, after she had given the Major chapter and verse ahead of his heart MOT. Only the Accountant, Major, Muggy, Maximus and Press Secretary made it to some of the early sessions, although the Treasurer, Mr Chips, Solicitor, Platelayer and Sutty popped in and out. The Tiler appeared, his hand swathed in bandages after losing the fight with an angle grinder or some other flesh eating machine; two fingers good, no thumb bad, as Snowball might have said.
Holidays, plus matters medical all caused a drop in numbers but there was a surprise visit from the Fitter, who managed to chasse along in between perfecting his Paso Doble, tuning up his tango and honing up his hornpipe ahead of a “Strictly Cruise.” Hey ho! What shall we do with a drunken sailor early in the morning? Answer; stick him into a giant Wurlitzer and pull out all the stops!
Long before the Fitter, aka the “Burnley Bopper,” aligned himself with the Allen Key fraternity he showed an interest in the art of Terpsichore; he did try tap dancing but kept falling into the bath, he was no better at Morris dancing, yes you have guessed it dear reader, he kept slipping off the bonnet! Slap! Slap!
A fully charged up Major, after he had drained the National Grid having his ticker jump started, turned his attentions to organising the Alies Annual Barbeque at his stately pile. It was an opportunity to show off his new all singing, all dancing gleaming state of the art barbequing kit. An early glimpse at the North Premier fixtures hinted at an away game at Alnwick on October 13 so the Major was able to sketch out some travel arrangements for Friday 12, including train times and a hotel for an overnight stay before returning on the coach; early days of course, but Major’s Tours is never slow in building up an itinerary.
A relaxing Cocktail Hour was disturbed when Prosecco Ruth, winding down after a holiday, received a call that a group of travellers had been spotted in the area. The barricades quickly went up, locks were checked as the banner, “None Shall Pass” was unfurled.
The Major texted Diaphanous Daphne to organise an arms drop but before the first sten gun could be loaded aboard a waiting Chinook “Operation Hedgehog” was scaled down, glasses were topped up, the Tiler ordered another goblet of gin despite some challenging un-politically correct comments from Mint Cake, and normal service was resumed.
At the barbeque the Major’s new toy was on full bore, the Oslo Maple was swaying in a gentle breeze, tree creepers were creeping, trains were heard rattling along the West Coast line and the table was groaning under the weight of cans, bottles and nibbles, as seven of the finest, Major, Solicitor, Treasurer, Doctor Foster, Maximus and Minimus and the Press Secretary gathered for the BBQ and slowly sipped their way through an afternoon of nostalgia and thoughts about the future.
Doctor Foster was an early arrival having struggled with the 24 hour clock but was soon scurrying to and fro after being given the role of the Major’s batman. Later Doctor Foster gave a graphic description of the antics he had observed on a boat moored in the Bay through his steamed up binoculars. Apparently the mainbrace had been liberally spliced, there was plenty happening in the rigging and on the planking, and the mainmast remained very upright. A scene unfolded that was a cross between “Love Island,” “Carry on Cruising,” “Moby Dick,” “The Navy Lark,” “Poldark,” with a touch of “Rum, Bum and Concertina” thrown in for good measure. Remember all this took place on Morecambe Bay, not St Tropez, Nice or Ibiza!
Naturally the turkey was cooked to perfection, juicy and moist, the sausages firm and succulent, the salads were tempting. After absent friends were toasted there followed a gentle meander down the rich pathways that being on tour had carved out; incidents, characters, all combined to produce a rich mosaic of memories. Undoubtedly any tour, be they long or short, are significant events, memorable and special to those who were involved, even the rare ones that fell into the category of “one from hell!”
As a most uplifting few hours of meaningful conversation, even the rugby from South Africa was ignored, drew to a close Minimus’s rumbling stomach acted as the starting gun for a graphic description of an operation that had been performed on him a few years ago. Any discourse on matters medical for the Alies are guaranteed conversation stoppers and as the comedian Jackie Mason observed, with perhaps the Alies in mind, “It’s no longer a question of staying healthy. It’s a question of finding a sickness you like.”
Gilly returned to the Round Table after his adventures in the operating theatre, looking much fitter, a rosy glow to his cheeks, plus a new mobile phone, and a personal inventory of anecdotes and procedures, some very explicit and colourful, which entertained the Alies ahead of the final game in South Africa.
Following England’s egg-citing victory against the Boks, attention focussed on Bradders who was guarding a tray of eggs.
“Are those eggs hard boiled?” enquired one of the Alies.
“Try one,” replied Bradders, who launched one in the general direction of the Alies.
When the British Aerospace Humpty Dumpty Mark 2 hit the table you did not have to be a member of MENSA to come to the conclusion it was not armour plated. Splat went the ovoid! It was no yolk, because as “Dad’s Army” ducked glasses of wine went flying in all directions causing Maximus to shell out for another round.
Welcome back to the real world Gilly. Nothing has changed. Everyone is still quackers.
Still no news of the Alies’ summer joint although a tempting omelette of possible locations was whipped up, containing a tour of local micro breweries that have sprung up recently while some were getting quite excited about a trip from Oxenholme to Windermere on a service being run by West Coach Railways. The thoughts of being hauled off by a vintage diesel and slamming carriage doors brought beads of perspiration to a few brows; “Oh Mister Porter.”
Further reading