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The fourth Allstars tour, and for the first time, a foreign destination. The inspiration came from Garreth, who had seen an article in a newspaper travel section about Menorca CC in the Balearics, who host touring sides each weekend. I got in touch with the club, and the deal was on. It proved to be one of the easier trips to organise, and the combination of convenient dates and an attractive venue prompted a record-breaking tour party of no fewer than seventeen. And what fine men they included, with two first-time tourists in the form of Richard Thompson and James Abrahams (of whom more later). As we looked ahead to the trip, we were all excited by the prospect - and we were not to be disappointed. From broken limbs and controversies with little Turkish men, to poignant Dire Straits tributes and spectacular goalkeeping headers, Menorca 2005 was to prove the tour to end all tours.
Most of us made an uneventful journey to the airport by train, apart from Garreth, that most natural of motorists, who decided to enliven proceedings by having his car break down on the way to Gatwick. You will notice that we are all wearing our Allstars tour t-shirts. These did not arrive from the screen-printers quite as envisaged. My idea was to stylishly combine the club colours by having a discreet red pinstripe run down the right side of the black shirt, in a way similar to the England 2002 football World Cup strip. This was rather lost in translation, and what we actually got was a fat scarlet oblong, which started somewhere around the nipple and ended above the waist. The effect produced was to make it seem as if we were all wearing our squad numbers, but each of us was number 1.
This is simply no better way to prepare for a tough overseas cricket commitment than spending three hours in an airport terminal bar drinking loads of pints of Guinness. So as our plane was severely delayed, we duly saw the afternoon out in this manner. Jason quickly set to work in businesslike fashion to outline the Tour Rules. As regular attenders on tours and stags know, Tour Rules are a simple set of conventions designed to maintain good conduct and propriety while on tour, and also prescribe the disciplinary action to be taken should a rule be breached. Tour rules are very much based on common sense and are drawn up in accordance with normal human logic. On this tour the rules were:
Saying 'to be fair' or 'to be honest'
This is the cardinal sin, and is often referred to as a 'Peter Beardsley', or just 'the offence'. It is punished, obviously, by having to drink a Mount Gay: a shot each of whisky and dark rum, poured into the same glass. As you'll see, Mount Gays came to figure very large on this particular tour.
Making a mistake during the drinking game '21s'
Losing a round of FHM Top Trumps
Saying the word 'fingers'
Saying the word 'drink'
These are punished by drinking two, erm, fingers, of your, erm, drink. Are you starting to get the idea?
Being the 21 in a game of 21s
In this case, the penalty is to finish the remainder of your drink.
Jason stood up, and over the course of fifteen minutes proceeded to explain the rules with the utmost precision and diligience, deftly clarifying all ambiguities and patiently emphasising the main points. He then sat down, and immediately said 'to be fair', and had to drink a Mount Gay.
After we eventually landed in Menorca, we were very excited to discover that the minibus we'd booked turned out to an entire proper coach, enabling us to pretend during the drive to the hotel that we were some kind of real professional touring squad, or on our way to play in an FA Cup final. There then followed a startling scene at the hotel, when we walked into the lobby to be greeted by the sight of two hundred old ladies. It transpired that the Hotel San Luis in S'Algar catered almost exclusively for people on Saga holidays. We were the youngest guests there by a margin of about forty years. It was as if we'd wandered on to the set of Cocoon. If you can picture a collection of unassuming pensioner couples enjoying a tranquil break in the sun, each relaxing over a gin and tonic before settling down to dinner - and then seventeen drunk and squabbling idiots march in wearing stupid t-shirts, you can imagine some of the head-turning impact our arrival made.
Once checked in, we headed into the Menorcan capital Mahon in search of nightlife, only to find that almost everywhere was closed. We at length happened upon an interesting venue named Bar Texas, in which we proceeded to enjoy one of the most celebrated nights in Allstars history. The in-house entertainment at Bar Texas revolved around the simple axiom of taking it in turns to stand on a table and sing along loudly to rock songs. As you would expect, Jason was very much in his element, but it fell to Devers to steal the show. Atop his table, James led the way in a deeply moving rendition of the Smokie classic Living Next Door To Alice. Via a subtle adaptation to the original lyric, the whole bar rose with one voice to give full meaning to the unforgettable chorus of 'Devers? Devers? Who the *fuck* is Devers?'
So lost in music were we, that it only gradually dawned on us why there weren't many women present in the establishment that evening. Bar Texas was a gay bar.
We spent an uncharacteristically civilised morning by the hotel pool, and after a spot of lunch headed down to the match.
The set-up at Menorca CC was very impressive. The club was formed in 1985, mainly from English ex-pats, and in 1992 opened their present ground in Biniparrell. In the process they have carved a lovely cricket venue out of what was originally a rocky field, and built a splendidly appointed pavilion and bar to boot. Much hard work and fund-raising has been put in over the years to maintain the facilities, which included a high-quality artificial wicket. In such lofty surroundings, we tried to be on our best behaviour...
...although Jason was keen to maintain the photgraphic spirit of the Isle of Wight.
As ever on a gloriously warm sunny day, I lost the toss and we fielded. For most of Menorca's innings, we bowled pretty well, especially Chadders, and took our chances in the field. At one point we had them 99 for 6, only to find, as if often the case, that the oppo had hidden their best batsman down the order. His name was Jeff Barker, Menorca's captain, whose quickfire 46 from number eight helped the home side to a robust 40 over total of 215-9.
For some, though, the excitement was simply too much to bear.
Sadly, our batting was a disaster. An early order collapse in the face of good bowling hastened us to an irrecoverable 17-4, and featured our trump card Chris Hipwell leaving a ball which took out his middle stump. Only Dave Halladay, with 43, made much of an impression, and after 40 overs we were 119-8 and had lost by 96 runs.
There was a nice little ceremony after the match, in which the Menorcans gave us a souvenir picture to take home.
Saturday's team: (l-r, top row) TAR Haddow Allen, JFG Devlin, MCD Bovill, AC Clements, JN Nixon, CR Gould, DA Halladay,(bottom) N Chadwick, CG Hipwell, †J Terrett, *MJC Haddow-Allen.
After alarming the pensioners some more during a few sharpeners in the hotel bar, it was off to El Toro for the gala dinner.
Many people are fond of a quick nap after dinner; I prefer to take mine during the main course.
The meal then closed in the traditional manner: the restaurant keyboardist struck up a sprightly version of Dire Straits' Walk Of Life, and we got up and danced hand-to-hand with the other diners.
For more on this memorable event, click here
And so we danced out of the restaurant to the accompaniment of Mark Knopfler's inspirational melody...and nearly into a fight. A group of burly locals took umbrage at the jaunty way we tapped on their car roofs, and began threatening us in loud and unintelligible - to us - Spanish. We somehow managed to talk our way out of it, and left to hit the bars of Mahon once more. At some point later a hardcore quartet of Jason, Chadders, Rahoul (who had by now acquired the wonderful nickname 'Sweetlips') and me arrived at a club.
Even by my own standards, I excelled myself that night. I remember going into the club and ordering another vodka Red Bull; the next thing I knew it was 12.30pm next afternoon and Tristan was waking me up to get in the minibus to the match. My memory of what happened in between is a little hazy. With the help of eyewitness accounts, I have established the following:
I stood alone on the dancefloor making speeches to an imaginary audience.
I for some reason hugged a small Turkish man in the lavatory; he interpreted this in an unambiguously amorous way. I then introduced him to all 6'3" and eighteen stone of Jason, whom he assumed was my boyfriend. He then looked very scared and began apologising to Jason profusely. I am not making this up.
Back at the hotel, I went to sleep on the lawn at 7am. Early rising guests walked past me bemusedly on their way to breakfast.
At around 8.30am, hotel reception rang my brother in our room. "Look out of the window", he instructed Tristan. "Your friend - he is on the grass!" On which information he came down to retrieve me.
Throughout all of this, I did not lose my camera.
On arriving at the cricket ground for Sunday's match, I was still - how can I put this? - a little on the tipsy side. James Terrett, our captain for the day, had to choose a couple of players to leave out of the XI, and his task was made that bit easier when I collapsed to the ground immediately after alighting from the coach. So I ended up playing for the oppo instead, and watched Menorca's innings from the pavilion while talking drunken bollocks to anyone who would listen. But I do remember that the combination of a stronger home side batting line-up, and our bowlers' collective hangovers - Chadders had also spent the night al fresco - made for a tough session in the field for the Allstars. David Sheffield's 58 and M Morris's 59 saw Menorca to a 40-over total of 224-5.
I myself was required to field during our reply, and inspired little in the way of confidence by lying down and groaning between overs. Menorca's bowling was also stronger for this match, and their pacemen secured an early clutch of LBWs to effectively end the match as a contest within twenty overs. But pride was restored by a characteristically rumbunctious innings from Chris Hipwell - 64 from just forty balls, including ten fours and two sixes. The game was brought to a close by an entertaining little coda: with the Allstars nine wickets down, Menorca captain Russell Day brought me on to bowl, and with my seventh ball I had James Abrahams caught behind.
The Menorca 2005 tour squad (minus Mike Bovill, who'd only been scheduled to stay till Sunday morning, and Tristan, who'd wandered off somewhere): (top row, l-r) JJ Nixon, AC Clements, RP Pordes (scorer), J Abrahams, MJC Haddow-Allen, N Chadwick, GA Duncan, CR Gould, VR Bhansali, (bottom) CG Hipwell, AM Williamson, DA Halladay, J Terrett, JFG Devlin, RM Thompson.
St Anne's Allstars CC secretary Maxie Allen presenting Menorca CC former secretary David Sheffield with an official replica Allstars cap.
David, me, and Sunday's captains - James Terrett and Russell Day.
Sunday evening. A few civilised poolside pre-dinner drinks, a spot of dinner, and then, would you believe it, another bar crawl, of all things. During the evening, Chris Hipwell came up with a piquant phrase to describe his innings that day: "going like a cunt on wheels".
On Monday, we had a day to kill before boarding our evening flight home, and passed the morning around the pool and seafront. And then we went for lunch...and the rest of the day was to belong squarely to James Abrahams.
The Mount Gay-llery
The tour was notable above all for a record haul of Mount Gays which saw the history books re-written. People seemed to be commiting the offence about every ten minutes, and local stocks of whisky and dark rum were at straining point. Jason had set the tone with his Gatwick gaffe, Chadders had scored consistently throughout, and even Big Gay Al got in on the act.
The final tally was estimated as:
| Jason Nixon | | 2 | (airport Friday, Monday morning at pool) |
| James Devlin | | 1 | (restaurant, Saturday evening) |
| James Terrett | | 2 | |
| Alex Williamson | | 1 | (Monday lunch) |
| Nick Chadwick | | 2 | (Monday lunch) |
| Chris Gould | | 1 | (Friday, Bar Texas) |
| James Abrahams | | 6 | (everywhere) |
James Abrahams's performance was beyond compare. A first-time tourist, he was neither sufficiently inured to the consequences of saying "to be fair" that he was able to avoid saying it, nor bodily prepared for the sheer toxic shock of consuming glass after glass of the foul drink itself. This was to lead him into very serious trouble.
The strain shows on James's face as he comes to terms with his second huge Mount Gay within twenty minutes. Monday's lunch had started promisingly with both he and Chadders committing early offences, to the avaricious delight of all witnesses. James duly saw his off, and the conversation continued. During a lull, James paused, gathered his thoughts, and cleared his throat. He raised his hand, and then with great clarity and emphasis said, very loudly: "to be fair...". Cue total uproar. We simply could not believe the magnitude of what had just happened. In some ways, the wisdom of an already wobbly James having another Mount Gay at this precise moment appeared at the time dubious. But tour rules are tour rules, and the waiter obligingly returned moments later with a Mount Gay of astonishing proportions. It must have been a good half pint. As he drained the glass with all the observable pleasure inherent in downing eight fluid ounces of mixed rum and Scotch, we could only look on and wince.
We made our way to the S'Algar resort's leisure complex, for a spot of pool. James was now starting to feel the effects of his double Mount Gay, and, while emitting feral wails of distress, fell into a nearby hedge.
Although by now neither at his most coherent nor agile, poor James was not to be deterred from joining in the football match. This was a hearty affair, chiefly memorable for Garreth's eye-catching goalkeeping. While awaiting our turn on the pitch, we'd watched some local youths play with great skill and not once allow the ball to ricochet over the perimeter fence into the trees beyond. When we played, we lost the ball four times in the first ten minutes. After one such occasion, when we'd finally retrieved the ball at great and painstaking length from the dense thicket, play restarted. There was an attacking move on Garreth's goal, and the ball was punted towards him at some height. Garreth pinned his arms to his sides, and shot up like a jack-in-the-box - heading the ball some forty yards directly up in the air and then over the fence. It was a header of such genuine perfection, so truly and sweetly did his head connect with the ball, that it would have absolutely impossible to have done on purpose. But it was hard not to be puzzled by why he'd done it. "I thought I was out of my area", he explained.
Deadlocked at 3-3, the match went to penalties, with Roger's strike sealing a win for his side.
Earlier in the game, James Abrahams and Alex had contested a crunching tackle, in which James fell heavily on his arm, although little was made of it at the time. As the afternoon progressed the Mount Gays tightened their grip on his ravaged nervous system, with devastating consequences. When our coach arrived at the airport for the flight home, I did a quick head count and noticed James was missing - before spotting him at the rear of the vehicle, urinating over its back wheel in full view of passers-by. At this point we were all wearing our distinctive red and black tour t-shirts. In the terminal James, also t-shirt clad, wandered into Duty Free for a look around, and walked straight into a display of gin bottles, smashing each one. The rest of us hurriedly changed out of our shirts.
During the flight, James began to sober up and started to complain that his arm was sore. After arriving home later, the pain grew worse and worse, and his wife ordered him to A&E to get it checked out. A x-ray revealed that he'd broken his arm. The Mount Gay had been sufficiently potent as to anaesthetise a broken limb.
Before leaving the hotel, Jason presided over a stirring tour awards ceremony, cleverly designed to ensure everyone was obliged in turn to drink a shot of what tasted like alcoholic Jif lemon.
The presigious Man Of The Tour Award itself went to me, for my Saturday night antics. The title brought with it a tasteful choice of gift, which shall provide a fitting closing image for Menorca 2005.
An apron, with a cock on it.
Other tours: Newquay, 2002 Isle of Wight, 2003 Belfast, 2004.
Maxie Allen
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