MURRAYFIELD-DAFS CC DERBY 2001 TOUR

MURRAYFIELD-DAFS CC 2001 DERBY TOUR REPORT

The Great Mufs Tour of Derbyshire- The Secret Diary of Sicknote (mentally) Aged 12 and a half

What a tour! What a scream! On Friday afternoon, a whole adventure awaited. Soon I would see things no man should see, and experience the unbelievable, the uncomprehensable and the sheer mad and bad. I would like to introduce you, the reader, to the following to give you a flavour of the insanity to follow:

Detour to Tintwistle Totty

A Boca Full-Moon over Nottingham

A pub miscalled "Sober(s)"

"Obstacle" Pool

A 12 Fingered Fine

Trial of a President

Cheesy Derby Disco

Dazza's Lost Hour

Breakfast Beer at Morrisons Supermarket

The Tragic Reign of Captain Charley-Bala

Retro-Man

The Unfeasibly Lardy Tattooed Ladies of York

Kurdish Kebab Van

The Gypo Transport Cafe

Anyway, are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.... once upon a time...

Sickie's Diary - Day One

Well it all began where much of the social lunancy has begun this year....at Berts Bar. 4pm they said to meet. I hurried along Princes St with a cricket bag stuffed solid. Damn... I had forgotten the comedy breasts... never mind Darryn has a pair anyway. Co-incidentally I bump into his missus while changing buses. Into Berts I stagger just on four. No-one about. Good start. Never mind- I'm right Hank Marvin so time for a quick pie, the start of a weekend of quality nutrition. Andy soon arrives, swiftly followed by Charley-Bala. No Mother. Dozy bugger has probably nodded-off. A phone call later and Hubbard arrives. And we are off. Paul suggests using his car as well. We decide not. A decision Paul was to regret later. Away we go with great anticipation - destination Nottingham.

An hour later a contact is established with the other Friday travelling crew, Captain Kidda and Richie Sorrella. A co-ordinated stop of military precision is arranged at the Wimpy at Killington Lake Services. More "nutrition". Bala is a bit unsure of his spicy bean-burger and even more suspicious of his chips. They were gratefully received by me, still famished despite a Hot'n'Spicy Chickenburger. Perhaps I should have had two Berts pies earlier. Away we set off again. But in different directions. Andy has a set of instructions from the AA of the shortest route. I have the task of navigation using it. We skirt round the Manchester ring-road - its a bit new (well it is 10 years since I lived there). Andy's route seems ok in theory (and in the dark when one cannot read a map and spot the hilly bits). We reach Glossop, I get turning wrong and get shouted at. Still the detour only took 5 minutes. Through the delights of Glossop and onto some twisty roads we go. Perhaps this route is not so clever. Andy's motor certainly doesn't like going up hills much- nor overtaking slowcoach drivers ahead of us- Andy seems somewhat reluctant to use his lower gears - new car for him I think- obviously hasn't found them yet. When we hit the metropolitan colossus of Tintwistle we begin to realise we have seriously boobed, though some passing Tintwistle totty flashing thigh briefly raises our spirits. Then back to rainy, windy (as in curvy) roads. We aint gonna make Nottingham pub life by 9pm now surely! To make matters worse, we keep on passing pub after pub... agony. Paul despairing whines that he has lost the will to live.... Bala sits quietly, imagining the view... no doubt wondering why Andy takes him on these huge detours. At least no tank encounter this time like their Freuchie marathon.

After an age we emerge from the lower Peak District into Chesterfield and then its motorway... hurrah... but then its a big jam. How can this be at quarter to ten at night? Bloody roadworks. Pubs by 10:30 we now declare. Darryn calls us. No doubt they have their feet up in the hotel, supping beer by now as they had gone via Stoke and Derby. I was waiting for the first exclamation of Dumb-Ass-F**ks from our inspirational skipper. But no... they were on their 20th circum-navigation of Nottingham city centre looking for the hotel. So in the end we arrived at our luxury? hotel not long after them. A swift check-in and dump of our bags and we were supping ale... how sweet it tasted. And a 24- hour bar...hmmm ... that'll come in handy later (and does). We quiz our most lovely Mine Host as to where we should head for late-night beer action. She directs us to The Ocean, just round the corner. An ocean of young neds more like. Still it had a great balcony with which we can check out the sights. Quite gruesome. I'm the first to summon courage/lunacy to descend onto the dance-floor. Its a bit techo and Ibiza-clubby. Still not bad fun till Time is called and we file out. I engage a local youth in chat. Bad idea. Somehow I have insulted him and his bird. What did I say? Its stand off time as I introduce into the debate diplomacy in the finest style of George Bush. This doesn't seem to work. Someone drags me away by the arm to the Kebab van before armageddon. The first of many kebabs for some. So then its back to the hotel for more beer.

Now things start to get a bit hazy in recollection.... A bunch of guys (also on a cricket tour) are in the bar. Somehow we (well me really) manage to fall out with them as well. Then it seemed that everyone vanished. I drank on - a 24 hour bar was too much of a challenge! More haze. I recall having to move to the lobby at some point as the hotel shift changes and that they want to shut the bar down. Next recollection... I am wandering the corridors upstairs. No idea why. Up more stairs, round a corner. But then what's this... this appalling scene in front of me? It looks like a rather familiar but totally naked South African lying prostrate, thankfully face down.... You could park a bike or two in there, matey. The laughter... it hurt so much. Desparate to get confirmation that I was not halleucinating I needed to find witnesses... I'm sure they will want wakening at 6am. First Andy, then Paul... but by the time an unwilling Hubbard is lured downstairs, there is no sign of the mystery naked man .... only the chambermaid's jacket, left no doubt, as she passed by in terror, to hide our man's modesty. Our man reappears in a shirt and we roar with laughter for a while. Then somehow I'm back in the lobby. Some Japanese tourists look bemused as they pass me on the way to breakfast. That time already?? Breakfast or bed for an hour or two? Bed wins.

Sickie's Diary - Day Two

Woken by Hubbard. Might have not even bothered with a room for all the time I spent in it. Never even unpacked anything. Had last night been a bad dream though? No, unfortunantly. The Crew gather and set off in search of sustenance. A greasy spoon is found and several hungry men devour a fine fry-up before adjourning to the pub to watch the Mersey Footy Derby. I am apparently recognised by someone in the pub who calls me Darryll. Sounds a bit girlie that.

Simultaneously car number three had blasted off from Edinburgh piloted by el Presidente. Telephone communications were established from Knutsford with them. Us Nottingham Outlaws failed to reach the County ground in time to see the last Derbyshire collapse of the season (were we even supposed to go?) but there was a traffic jam on the A52 that saw a 12 mile journey take 'a very long time'. Leicester playing at Derby County.

By mid afternoon, the time el Presidente's car arrived at the Clovelly, the Outlaws were on their way to making groundbreaking sporting history in a game which will soon become the centrepiece of Sunday Grandstand. Simple really, "obstacle" pool. Six players choose a pocket each and then build as many obstructions round the table as possible (plus two ash-trays in the middle of the table). If a player fouls, on or off the table, plays out of turn, has a ball potted in his pocket, hits the ash-trays, doesn't hit a cushion, etc there is a drinking forfeit. If a player drinks from the wrong hand or hasn't finished his fine in time- more fines. It got messy. And very messy. Soon fines of the order of twelve fingers and more became common-place. Triumphantly I recall knocking in an acute near impossible pot on the black. I roared with delight- fist punching air. The others roared with delight as they pointed out that I had forgotten to pot the black in my nominated pocket. A heavy fine swiftly followed. The obstacles, simple at first soon became great works of civil engineering genious - Thomas Telford would have been proud of the spiralling cue and foot-stool constructions. The bemused locals, forced to inch their way gingerly around the walls on the way to the gents, shook their head in disbelief. Others hearing great exuberant cries of "Six Fingers! Six Fingers!!!" were too afraid to come anywhere near for fear of penetration.

Suitably lubricated(? as in pissed!), the Tour Kangaroo Court convened with Captain Kidd in the chair, Paul Hubbard QS (quite sober - somehow) prosecuting. The defendant, el Presidente decided to defend himself which caused the jury certain difficulties. He is allowed a defence? What kind of legal system is this? Despite persuasive advocacy on the part of the learned Mother Hubbard, el Presidente was found guilty of just one of five charges. That being a charge of Not having organised the weather. Or Something. It didn't matter -we just screamed GUILTY anyway. Questions were asked (and never answered) about the competence of the jury. Suspended sentence of a pint necked in one hangs over the Derby One

Some of the crew then headed next door for a curry whereas the rest headed into town to the bright-lights of the Friary. Somehow those of us that had stayed for the Ruby managed to meet up with the advance party. Gus and El Pres' had their sensible heads on and stayed. Just as well.... see later. A quality club was found in the basement of the pub. Cheesy disco. Cheesy dancing. Tasty totty. "Brilliant" declared Simpson. One by one the tourists disappeared into the night it seemed. Knighty and me stayed to the death. Problem was ... how the bloody hell do we get back to the "hotel"?? We cared not for a while as yet another Kebab House was sampled- the second for Mr Knight of the evening. While we munched our grub... across the city drama was unfolding. The rest had left the club... found a clearly disorientated Kidd - who had somehow lost an hour of his life- wandering outside the club. Rumour was he had been invited to sample the night-air by the bouncers. Back to the hotel they went. Issue. No key. A lot of shouting later, the el Presidente awakened from his slumbers to let the happy band back into the hotel. Meanwhile me and Knighty were ambling directionless in Derby city centre. Thankfully a taxi passed and we were rescued. We at least had a key!

Sickie's Diary (with a bit of help from El Pres)- Day Three

Sunday morning found some of the touring party raring to go others not so raring to go and one who wanted to sleep for a week. For the late risers there was the obligatory stop at Morrisons for breakfast - beer and pie for one. A sight of a bleary South African sat outside the supermarket surrounded by beer greeted many a Sunday morning Derby shopper. Enough to put them off their food shopping no doubt.

Then it was on to the Asterdale to play St Michael's and St Luke's.After heavy overnight rain, the ground was very soft (Gus whined about it being unplayable and that he might slip over - poor petal). But it dried quickly. Thankfully for El P that is. A further charge was looming, as the Kangaroo Court was about to reconvene in the shape of a lynch mob.

Chris Warne's parents and friends were in attendance as we set about the task of trying to win the Trophy back. Badly. To mark his final game for us we decided to promote Bala to captain. The reluctant skipper Bala won the toss and decided to bat only to be told that as the Sorrell convey needed to leave no later than 5pm, we'd better field first. That was after Bala had his pads on - ready to go out. I didn't want to go anywhere. Sitting on the loo was much more fun.

Now battle was joined. Whilst the express Sorrell captured an early wicket thanks to a stunning catch by Knight (how did he focus on the ball coming down from a great height), at the end of the ninth over the home side were 91 for 2. The other wicket falling to Simpson with el Presidente taking the catch at deep third man. The bowling was taking a right tonking at this point. Gus and the gallant Kidd put the brakes on (anything is better than 10 an over) and at the end of 30 overs the home side had amassed 187. Captain Kidd picked up four victims, Ian 'Murali' Shiels two with one apiece for Gus, el Presidente and Bala. It would be great to report that Bala's wicket came from an unplayable ball - it did but the batsman was coming round for the third time when it hit the middle stump, third bounce. There was some good fielding, some bad fielding and some eccentric fielding. I liked the idea of fielding while lying down and sleeping. It was all I wanted to do. They wouldn't let me. Anyway, Chris Warne's best pal, Adrian Bennett, playing his first game for 20 years took an excellent gully catch. However, he felt travelling to Muirhouse every week next season was not really feasible.

Tea was in the form of a barbecue in the warm sun before the reply commenced. Kidd played a cameo of 12, Sorrell perished for 4 and Bala played well for 28 before retiring as the Sorrell convey sped north. Paul Hubbard batted splendidly for 45 in his two visits to the crease; Andy knight managed precisely 42 less on his two visits being caught behind reverse sweeping second time. El Presidente 6, Shiels 9, Bennett 2 and McLean 4 all contributed whilst 'On the Buses' Simpson decided to see if he could smash the ball into the neighbouring football ground. He made 22, including two enormous sixes that fell just short of the football ground before bowing out. So, all out 142 and a defeat by 45 runs. As usual the Warne family were extremely generous to both teams with presentations of new sets of stumps and donations as well as awards for both sides. The Murrayfield/Dafs awards went to Paul Hubbard batting, Darren Kidd- bowling and Tony Simpson - man of the match. There is never a dull moment with him around.

Thanks to the Warnes and the St Michael's and St Luke's boys for a great afternoon. Next year we hope to retrieve the trophy.

The remaining travellers departed after the presentations. Me and Andy went for - you guessed- more beer. It would at least hopefully stop me shaking from the dreaded DTs. We chatted for a wee while with some of the Lukes boys- one who looked the spit of Jack Russell or some throwback to the 1970s. Retro-man we thought. He had a strange habit apparently of parking his battered old Volvo in the middle of the sports-ground strangely well away from the car park. (sorry- you had to be there). I'm sure he had his reasons. It confused the hell out of the old doorman - who looked as if he had stepped straight out of a Guy Ritchie underworld film. The doorman had thought it had been stolen and abandoned there. Retroman reasoning was to park it there to avoid it getting stolen.

We depart for the motorway- a nite out in Newcastle now is not feasible. We aim for York. How Andy can stay awake and drive is beyond me. I'm the nodding donkey. We arrive late. Be kind to us York is all we ask. We drive round in a few circles looking for a suitable place to stay. The first sign York may not be the place one would think it is appears as we pass a street where the police have taped off a section of the pavement. Looks a bit serious that. A murder we were to find out later. Round the corner - there are people getting helped into an ambulance. What sort of place is this? A hotel is found but the bar is closing. We enquire what is open. Two options emerge - one near - one far. We chose badly. The clue was in the stifled snigger in the barman's suggestion of Toffs nightclub. We were too knackered/desparate for beer to spot it really at the time.

And so to Toffs we went. Front door looked alright. Lobby ok-ish. Bar-area a bit dim in terms of lighting. Carpet a bit sticky underfoot. Slighty stale odour (and hint of latent violence) in the air. Not very many people. Even less mildy attractive ones. Hmmmmmmmm. Get a beer and re-evaluate I thought. It is a Sunday I suppose. Strange that the ladies all seemed to sport tattoes. And were on the lardy side. We cling to the bar as if our lives depend on it- though deliberately I think they had designed it without a rail to hold onto. It fills up slowly with more cave-women. Three particularly large ones tower behind me at the bar. One seems ok from the rear. She turns round. She is wearing an eye-patch. This is a pinnacle moment. Do we flee? No. It seemed in keeping with the lunacy experienced on tour that we had to see it out to the end. With great foolishness I even venture onto the dance floor amongst the swirling lard. Andy's knuckles go white as he clings to the bar.

Somehow we emerge alive. Yet again a quality nutritional moment arrives in the shape of the Kurdish Kebab Van man. Donner meat and chips - just to make a change. We chat to a man in the queue. He tells us about the murder. And that he knows who did it. We tell him about our lucky escape. Then back to the hotel and at last sleep...oh blissful sleep.

Sickie's Diary - Day Four

Two weary men wake early. Andy has to get to his motor by 8:30 to get a parking ticket. Rather him than me. And so once more we hit the open road for home. The tour was not done without one last comic moment. At Scotch Corner hunger finally sets in. We find a Truckers Cafe seemingly perched in the middle of a quarry. It looked even less promising when we find the car-park taken over by a number of Travellers' caravans. Clothes hang from trees, bushes, fence-posts -everywhere. Other drivers simply turn around and head back to whence they came. Andy's nice alloy wheels look inviting I think. A classic fry-up is well-received. It will keep us going for the long walk home. With not a little forboding we wander back out to the carpark. No pile of bricks and car intact. And so the end drew near as we made our way home - chilling to Ibiza tunes and The Smiths. Hang the bloody DJ indeed. Quality. I await my copy Mr Knight, thanking ye kindly. Phew...what a weekend. Time now to rest a weary liver.

The End

Photographic evidence of the weekend debauchery below. 95% of original photos somehow taken in Nottingham- many not here... coz they were a bit blurry...and someone didn't use the flash (rich). Sadly none of the glorious Boca at the Moon. Police artist impression of the offending dumb arse **** instead will follow soon. Not too many cricket ones either, funny enough.