Choice Cuts 17

THE CONFESSIONS OF A HOOKER (?)

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Part 3

Day 3 of the Tour was a rest day. A day to recover from the excesses of the previous days, and to send postcards destined to arrive later than their senders. The early hours were spent by Keith Westray doing King Alfred impressions with his socks and a microwave oven, which gave the morning's repast a rather quaint flavour. Others had viewed the landlord's bizarre collection. Just what he collected I'd rather not mention, but he must have visited an awful lot of barber shops and chemists. If you find my description a little vague, (a criticism recently levelled at me by a diminutive referee of Irish extraction) Mick Page explained it thus: "The landlord's wife is French, and he showed us some of her letters."

Rumour had it that Pooley had combed his hair, it being Sunday, but I have photographic evidence to the contrary. I do know that Graham Parish had a bath two baths in fact, in a conveniently situated horse trough from which, I might add, no horse ever drank. The first time, he neglected to remove his clothes, but this was remedied on the second occasion. Seconds later, a naked form was observed dunning across the Hotel forecourt, much to the amusement of the other guests. Just what they found amusing I didn't enquire, still, little things........

Soon after that, most people went to church Whitchurch, that is, to get the morning papers. After noting that Berry Hill (who had beaten us 48 3 on Friday) had beaten Raybrook (who we were to play on Monday) by only 12 9, we all got in the coach and headed back up the A40 - on a sightseeing trip to nearby Symonds Yat. Needless to say, with Westray, K. navigating, we saw all the sights three times before arriving at Symonds Yat only minutes before opening time. Symonds Yat, for those of you with only a rudimentary appreciation of 'O' Level Geography, is a high rocky outcrop affording magnificent views over the surrounding countryside. By far the best view was at that time deemed to be in the general direction of the nearest public house. This particular pub was 3 miles away by road, or mile down an almost sheer cliff face. I will not insult your intelligence by asking which route you think was taken.

With Sherpa Roscoe leading at a pace reminiscent of Wednesday evening training sessions (he was in danger of sobering up for the first time since we set off), in less time than it takes the pound to drop 10 cents, we were happily ensconced in "The Ferryman", having narrowly avoided losing Phil Goulding in the River Wye on the way down. Having drunk the pub's entire stock of Newcastle Brown, the task of returning to the waiting coach at the top of the hill was easy. A very disorderly line made its way straight bac up from where it came. Well, as straight as the quantity of alcohol imbibed would permit. The task was made a little difficult towards the end by the more agile members of the party who, on reaching the top, started rolling rocks downhill at those less able mountaineers below.

On arriving back at the Hotel, the landlord was prevailed upon to open the bar before dinner so that we could have an aperitif or ten. After dinner, it was decided by the college of cardinals present that the evening should be dedicated to some ordination. For those not acquainted with Cardinal Puff, the following may not make a lot of sense but here goes anyway. Pooley was first, and succeeded at the 5th attempt. Luckily, Malc Newing had had the foresight to sit Dick near a door, and managed to open it just in time to allow the contents of Dick's stomach to leave with the minimum of fuss. Next followed Graham Parish who completed the ritual 3 times, being disqualified on technicalities before finally being ordained. Jess Harvey tried, but failed. Trevor Barwick had a rather rough time, being reduced after numerous unsuccessful attempts to pleading from a prone position to be allowed to recite the value of pi to 7 decimal places, but since no-one was capable of checking this admittedly worthwhile feat he vowed to have a bath to sober up and try again.

Four hours later, he was found partially clothed on the bathroom floor, mumbling something about .167 recurring. Rompers McClelland, after intensive training, proved his worth by drinking a bottle of Dinnefords, while Cuddles Huddleston, coached by his Ma and Pa - Al Morrison and Wingnuts McLaughlin, was also successful. Pete Johnston succeeded in drinking his pint, but by the time he had finished, he wished he hadn't started. This was largely the fault of Graham James, who had added his own very special ingredient to a sample of Samual Smith's Best Bitter, thus turning into what was later described as Jimmy Riddles Pail Ale. A number of people having partaken of this beverage, they were of the opinion that it tasted better than a certain national brand, though some couldn't tell the difference.

After all this, a serious singing, drinking and silly game session was ruined by Pooley's inability to count beyond seven, and by complaints from other Hotel guests. Finally, the landlord closed the bar at about 4 a.m., leaving us a 3 gallon bucket full of beer, but not his wife, despite many eloquent pleas. So ended our "rest" day. Don't miss the next newsletter, when you'll find out how the rest of the Rugby went.

Malcolm Parish