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SUMMER RECESS RAMBLINGS.
Stuart Vernon24 Jul 2022 - 09:50
A chance to wind down, trim the wick and expose battle scarred limbs to the sunlight.
For a number of Alies the end of term gently petered out, there was to be no proms although Halbro Finals Day and Players Presentation Evening did provide something extra, and then blazers and ties were packed away, summer gear was the order of the day.
Morse and Robocop popped in for a chat and soon had an early Round Table session rocking with tales of the truncheon when they pounded the beat; could be a good book lurking there methinks!
The Major, who never travels without his stick these days, found himself joined by Doctor Foster with such an aid, this was briefly an essential item for the Good Doctor after his sun kissed exertions aboard his yacht in the waters of the Aegean. Well, that was his explanation. They were quite a matching pair as they lurched around the bar prodding their merry way from stool to stool with their “walking canes.” Could their next fashion accessories be a cravat in Vale colours and a pair of spats-shoe covers?-allowing them to strut down The Lane with an “independent air?”
Following the end of season there is brief interlude, some might say a return to normality, but quickly the topic of away day excursions rose to the surface and various venues are tossed into the ring. Ideas were floated but always at the top of any agenda were the availability of decent ale and food. The initial proposals provided enough ammunition for the Major to retire to his tent to draw up itineraries.
“Major Tours Inc.,” had investigated the arrangements for a circular jaunt, taking in a number of local hostelries, but because the rate of rickshaw hire had risen to stratospheric heights it was decided to convene at “The Level Crossing,” at noon and let nature take its course.
On arrival the Major quickly cast his experienced eye on the selection of ales on offer and when the samples were passed around the Sommelier, Woggle and Press Secretary all made the appropriate noises when slurping, holding the glass to the light, giving it a swirl and then the thumbs up.
A £20 kitty was quickly agreed unfortunately the one proffered by the Sommelier was deemed illegal by the observant barman because it was of the paper variety. This from under the mattress note, led to the Sommelier being forced to answer a series of searching questions such as how many had taken up residence beneath the Slumberland and were there any large paper fivers?
Woggle solved the problem, contacting Rishi S, who was able to confirm that paper twenties were legal tender until September. This news came as a huge relief to a perspiring Sommelier who took full advantage of sitting beneath an air conditioning unit that was blasting out. In the meantime it was suggested that if the Sommelier wished to keep the presses rolling in the woodshed he should invest in a laminator and change the serial numbers on a regular basis.
A table was secured which afforded an excellent view of the signal box and a painting of Hest Bank Station which was much admired. The fire extinguishers stood shoulder to shoulder at the head of the stairs leading to the toilets, a reminder to Scoop, as if he needed alerting, to what damage they could inflict when they launched an unprovoked attack on his blind side. The Last Tango in “The Level Crossing” left its mark! You make one mistake.
The quartet had just settled to enjoying the sauce when the Platelayer and Doctor Foster arrived to toss their twenties onto the table and of course an embarrassed Sommelier was forced to squirm through the episode surrounding paper money.
As always with gentlemen of a certain age, matters medical surfaced. The Major explained in great detail his latest course of treatment for arthritis, although the Sommelier's attention wandered and was caught shuffling through his twenties prior to a bank transfer.
A toast to absent friends was proposed and supped which was the cue for the Major to ring one of the absentees, Maximus, who was on pooch duties. Rather than announcing himself with the voice of BT he let rip with an ear splitting impersonation of a wolfhound being castrated which was not appreciated by Maximus who immediately pressed the red button. Any further attempts at telephonic conversations went straight to the answerphone in the kennel.
Orders were taken for food, including a bun for the barman, by the Platelayer who toddled of to the nearby beach cafe to collect a delicious selection of bacon and sausage buns.
The Alies's intellectual compass swung wildly on its gimbals but was always far north or south of any politically correct bearing. Mr Chips popped in for a brief visit and appeared relieved that Scoop and the fire extinguishers were still upright!
It had been a most agreeable afternoon session, although the Platelayer and Doctor Foster had to endure a noisy journey along the prom aboard the kindergarten special.
At the following Cocktail Hour Maximus easily deflected any discussion about anything mutt related and before Miss Kerry Blue's, “Canine Handbook” could be kindled into life the circulation of the first team fixtures for 2022/23 took centre stage.
The hammer blow was delivered in the shape of a 12 club league with the seductive title of Regional Two North West. Fixtures begin on September 3 and end on March 11. Is this progress? Not on your Nelly! “It's rugby Flashman, but not as you know it.” Community rugby is in danger of withering on the bough. Can 10 league rugby be just a twinkle in the Cotton Oxford's eyes?
Still there was enough bone marrow to chew on and it brought a muddy glow back to the cheeks. The return of Rochdale to the list recalled memories of the Cemetery Hotel and Lisa Stansfield. A number of cherished venues remained on the list but alas the bond with Cumbrian clubs were broken, hopefully not for too long.
There was some nail biting rugby, Leicester Tigers versus Saracens to savour, along with a bowls of chips which Karan whisked onto the table at regular intervals.
There was an unexpected change of locale for the next gathering. The County Bar was a riot of colour and noise as the ladies and gents of Heysham Atoms were having a knees-up with some interesting patella on show. It was all highly spirited but too much for the eyes and ears of the Alies, who have had a sheltered upbringing, in addition they were physically incapable of subjecting their bodies to such earthy gyrations.
Alternative venues were mooted and after trawling through various locations, Maximus and Minimus suggested a foray to “The Brew House” on the nearby White Lund Industrial Estate. Following a show of hands the dynamic duo, plus the Platelayer and Doctor Foster, set off at healthy lick that would have put The Durham light Infantry to shame; the Major ordered a taxi for the Sommelier and Scoop.
Once inside the cab the driver asked;
“Where to gents?”
“We don't know!” was the synchronised answer.
Eventually the grey tissues began to respond and after fishing around in the depths someone recalled it was a brewery on White Lund with its own bar.
“Got it,” said the driver. He was aware of the plaice, and by the time the Shrimp Roundabout was negotiated a shoal of of piscine puns rose to the surface, including a few from the driver whose jaw was beginning to hake.
On arrival at The Brew House Maximus and Minimus had reserved a perch , while the Platelayer was having a whale of a time outside having a conversation with the locals. The Major hauled up a Bosun's Chair fashioned from a beer barrel, as the company settled down to a steady session with no carping about the choice of watering hole, which was no fluke. Supping excellent ale resulted in a familiar epithet being flagged up at regular intervals, i.e., “This is going down well,” which is always a sensible reminder, often ignored in most instances, that choppy waters might be ahead. But by leaving time, every one was breaming and buoyed up by the experience.
First to depart was the Sommelier. He checked his plumbing, gave the bag a tender squeeze before setting off on a 40 minute yomp.
Anchors were slowly raised, the flotilla began to split and headed towards the setting sun with the possibility of a tot of rum, a schooner of dry sherry or if the right buttons were pressed, a session with the concertina before night fell.
Forget about Ascot, Wimbers, Glasco, Proms, because nothing compares with the allure of a barbecue at Major's Command Post. Invites were sent out to the great and the good, a table was laid out, chairs arranged and the neighbours had been warned that the noise could well rise above a monastic levels but there was nothing to loosen the wax just the odd sortie into the sound barrier.
An ice bucket was strategically placed, its contents being replaced at regular intervals. The whole operation, code name “Paxo,” was overseen by the Major, from behind a top of the range charcoal burner. Vales were opened, switches thrown, knobs juggled with dexterity by the Major, as though he was at the console of the “Mighty Wurlitzer” at the Tower Ballroom.
Liquids were circulated a regular intervals before the Major declared that the turkey breasts were ready to be served. Gobble! Gobble! As was to be expected there was more than enough grub to keep the troops happy.
The calls for more wine was the perfect excuse for the Sommelier to produce a virtuoso performance with his corkscrew, arms were waved, knuckles went white, beads of sweat appeared on the forehead, muscles bulged and eventually the symphony,“Down with screw tops, up with corks!” ended with a flourish, and no white gloves to been seen.
Diaphanous Daphne captured the occasion digitally to leave a lasting photographic memory of a few hours of laughter and high jinks, interspersed with moments of reflection. Once again Daphne and the Major had proved excellent hosts.
The AGM closed out the 2021/22 season but as new dawn tiptoed in Morse picked up the reins once again to become Chairman and Robocop was elected Press Secretary where his highly praised literary skills as a crime write will be put to excellent use. “Ask not the score was Hercule, but who don it?”
Morse and Robocop popped in for a chat and soon had an early Round Table session rocking with tales of the truncheon when they pounded the beat; could be a good book lurking there methinks!
The Major, who never travels without his stick these days, found himself joined by Doctor Foster with such an aid, this was briefly an essential item for the Good Doctor after his sun kissed exertions aboard his yacht in the waters of the Aegean. Well, that was his explanation. They were quite a matching pair as they lurched around the bar prodding their merry way from stool to stool with their “walking canes.” Could their next fashion accessories be a cravat in Vale colours and a pair of spats-shoe covers?-allowing them to strut down The Lane with an “independent air?”
Following the end of season there is brief interlude, some might say a return to normality, but quickly the topic of away day excursions rose to the surface and various venues are tossed into the ring. Ideas were floated but always at the top of any agenda were the availability of decent ale and food. The initial proposals provided enough ammunition for the Major to retire to his tent to draw up itineraries.
“Major Tours Inc.,” had investigated the arrangements for a circular jaunt, taking in a number of local hostelries, but because the rate of rickshaw hire had risen to stratospheric heights it was decided to convene at “The Level Crossing,” at noon and let nature take its course.
On arrival the Major quickly cast his experienced eye on the selection of ales on offer and when the samples were passed around the Sommelier, Woggle and Press Secretary all made the appropriate noises when slurping, holding the glass to the light, giving it a swirl and then the thumbs up.
A £20 kitty was quickly agreed unfortunately the one proffered by the Sommelier was deemed illegal by the observant barman because it was of the paper variety. This from under the mattress note, led to the Sommelier being forced to answer a series of searching questions such as how many had taken up residence beneath the Slumberland and were there any large paper fivers?
Woggle solved the problem, contacting Rishi S, who was able to confirm that paper twenties were legal tender until September. This news came as a huge relief to a perspiring Sommelier who took full advantage of sitting beneath an air conditioning unit that was blasting out. In the meantime it was suggested that if the Sommelier wished to keep the presses rolling in the woodshed he should invest in a laminator and change the serial numbers on a regular basis.
A table was secured which afforded an excellent view of the signal box and a painting of Hest Bank Station which was much admired. The fire extinguishers stood shoulder to shoulder at the head of the stairs leading to the toilets, a reminder to Scoop, as if he needed alerting, to what damage they could inflict when they launched an unprovoked attack on his blind side. The Last Tango in “The Level Crossing” left its mark! You make one mistake.
The quartet had just settled to enjoying the sauce when the Platelayer and Doctor Foster arrived to toss their twenties onto the table and of course an embarrassed Sommelier was forced to squirm through the episode surrounding paper money.
As always with gentlemen of a certain age, matters medical surfaced. The Major explained in great detail his latest course of treatment for arthritis, although the Sommelier's attention wandered and was caught shuffling through his twenties prior to a bank transfer.
A toast to absent friends was proposed and supped which was the cue for the Major to ring one of the absentees, Maximus, who was on pooch duties. Rather than announcing himself with the voice of BT he let rip with an ear splitting impersonation of a wolfhound being castrated which was not appreciated by Maximus who immediately pressed the red button. Any further attempts at telephonic conversations went straight to the answerphone in the kennel.
Orders were taken for food, including a bun for the barman, by the Platelayer who toddled of to the nearby beach cafe to collect a delicious selection of bacon and sausage buns.
The Alies's intellectual compass swung wildly on its gimbals but was always far north or south of any politically correct bearing. Mr Chips popped in for a brief visit and appeared relieved that Scoop and the fire extinguishers were still upright!
It had been a most agreeable afternoon session, although the Platelayer and Doctor Foster had to endure a noisy journey along the prom aboard the kindergarten special.
At the following Cocktail Hour Maximus easily deflected any discussion about anything mutt related and before Miss Kerry Blue's, “Canine Handbook” could be kindled into life the circulation of the first team fixtures for 2022/23 took centre stage.
The hammer blow was delivered in the shape of a 12 club league with the seductive title of Regional Two North West. Fixtures begin on September 3 and end on March 11. Is this progress? Not on your Nelly! “It's rugby Flashman, but not as you know it.” Community rugby is in danger of withering on the bough. Can 10 league rugby be just a twinkle in the Cotton Oxford's eyes?
Still there was enough bone marrow to chew on and it brought a muddy glow back to the cheeks. The return of Rochdale to the list recalled memories of the Cemetery Hotel and Lisa Stansfield. A number of cherished venues remained on the list but alas the bond with Cumbrian clubs were broken, hopefully not for too long.
There was some nail biting rugby, Leicester Tigers versus Saracens to savour, along with a bowls of chips which Karan whisked onto the table at regular intervals.
There was an unexpected change of locale for the next gathering. The County Bar was a riot of colour and noise as the ladies and gents of Heysham Atoms were having a knees-up with some interesting patella on show. It was all highly spirited but too much for the eyes and ears of the Alies, who have had a sheltered upbringing, in addition they were physically incapable of subjecting their bodies to such earthy gyrations.
Alternative venues were mooted and after trawling through various locations, Maximus and Minimus suggested a foray to “The Brew House” on the nearby White Lund Industrial Estate. Following a show of hands the dynamic duo, plus the Platelayer and Doctor Foster, set off at healthy lick that would have put The Durham light Infantry to shame; the Major ordered a taxi for the Sommelier and Scoop.
Once inside the cab the driver asked;
“Where to gents?”
“We don't know!” was the synchronised answer.
Eventually the grey tissues began to respond and after fishing around in the depths someone recalled it was a brewery on White Lund with its own bar.
“Got it,” said the driver. He was aware of the plaice, and by the time the Shrimp Roundabout was negotiated a shoal of of piscine puns rose to the surface, including a few from the driver whose jaw was beginning to hake.
On arrival at The Brew House Maximus and Minimus had reserved a perch , while the Platelayer was having a whale of a time outside having a conversation with the locals. The Major hauled up a Bosun's Chair fashioned from a beer barrel, as the company settled down to a steady session with no carping about the choice of watering hole, which was no fluke. Supping excellent ale resulted in a familiar epithet being flagged up at regular intervals, i.e., “This is going down well,” which is always a sensible reminder, often ignored in most instances, that choppy waters might be ahead. But by leaving time, every one was breaming and buoyed up by the experience.
First to depart was the Sommelier. He checked his plumbing, gave the bag a tender squeeze before setting off on a 40 minute yomp.
Anchors were slowly raised, the flotilla began to split and headed towards the setting sun with the possibility of a tot of rum, a schooner of dry sherry or if the right buttons were pressed, a session with the concertina before night fell.
Forget about Ascot, Wimbers, Glasco, Proms, because nothing compares with the allure of a barbecue at Major's Command Post. Invites were sent out to the great and the good, a table was laid out, chairs arranged and the neighbours had been warned that the noise could well rise above a monastic levels but there was nothing to loosen the wax just the odd sortie into the sound barrier.
An ice bucket was strategically placed, its contents being replaced at regular intervals. The whole operation, code name “Paxo,” was overseen by the Major, from behind a top of the range charcoal burner. Vales were opened, switches thrown, knobs juggled with dexterity by the Major, as though he was at the console of the “Mighty Wurlitzer” at the Tower Ballroom.
Liquids were circulated a regular intervals before the Major declared that the turkey breasts were ready to be served. Gobble! Gobble! As was to be expected there was more than enough grub to keep the troops happy.
The calls for more wine was the perfect excuse for the Sommelier to produce a virtuoso performance with his corkscrew, arms were waved, knuckles went white, beads of sweat appeared on the forehead, muscles bulged and eventually the symphony,“Down with screw tops, up with corks!” ended with a flourish, and no white gloves to been seen.
Diaphanous Daphne captured the occasion digitally to leave a lasting photographic memory of a few hours of laughter and high jinks, interspersed with moments of reflection. Once again Daphne and the Major had proved excellent hosts.
The AGM closed out the 2021/22 season but as new dawn tiptoed in Morse picked up the reins once again to become Chairman and Robocop was elected Press Secretary where his highly praised literary skills as a crime write will be put to excellent use. “Ask not the score was Hercule, but who don it?”
Further reading