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The story so far...
So there they were - Riga Old Boys On Tour. Seven venerable members of the most elite club in the land,
each clutching their own annual pass to mayhem and merriment, otherwise known as the Kieldrecht Tournament
in Belgium. Our intrepid gang of old geezers (no naked flames within three hundred metres) had negotiated
the hurdles of the Channel, the jaw-dropping contents of John’s plastic bags, Paul’s navigation and the
Ericmobile. All this and the Boys still had not done "Business". How would they fare? Would they play fair
or would beer and saveloys achieve their foul design? Read on and the fog may clear...
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Chris and Andy tuck in
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Daylight all too soon swept the room and first to action was Eric. Clutching a magazine he crept out of HQ in
a very furtive manner. Some of the others later regretted their request to borrow Global Marketing Management
and Business Strategy Monthly, despite Eric's exhortations that it was "a mag for people on the rise". With
Eric gone and an unusual syncopation to the growing chorus of birdsong in the air, the others reluctantly hit
Wide-Awakes-Ville. Hosed, emptied and valeted, the happy band of heroes forsook vehicular transport for Shanks'
Pony to wend their way back to the tournament venue and the first two big events of the day - Paul's second
movement and breakfast (but not necessarily in that order).
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One (or in Valde's case, two) surprisingly good breakfast later and with Eric's twinkling eyes re-installed into
the Old Boys' firmament, it was time to "strut their stuff". A local outfit provided the first opposition and
were promptly thrashed three-nil in a three-sets-to-fifteen-rally-point-scoring system. Had the captain of this
side, the local chips-with-mayonnaise fryer, known his opposition better, an offer of free frites for the
tournament would have secured his side victory at the minor cost of his own bankruptcy. Fortified, or should
that be fiftified, by victory and surprisingly abstemious in both liquid and solid nourishment, "Die Oude
Skidmarken", as the Flemish hosts translated Martin's nom-de-corps, embarked on Game Two - a Dutch team that
took their nationally to heart by including women in their team. "Les Skids", as the Walloon population of
Belgium now nicknamed our veterans, took the first set with consummate ease. Cue increase in women in the
opposition's line-up from a token one to two - a blond bombshell of Pamela Anderson proportions (and tall)!
Despite all the best efforts of John and Paul, every hitter Chris tried at four unerringly found the block,
as eye and ball could not be found in the same plane. Sets level, the Dutch coach sensed victory. His master
plan formulated, execution came in shapely brunette form. All thoughts of jumping, in a vertical direction at
least, were far from the collective Riga mind and the result became a foregone conclusion. As the disjointed
team skidded out of contention, defeat left its own distinctive taste in their mouths. So desperate was their
plight that some sought recompense in the scurrilous rumour that at least four of the team had finished in the
top ten of the adjacent Dyke Vaulters competition.
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If that defeat was bad, the next was worse. The Dutch Frau had only spanked their bottoms. The German opponents
in the next contest rogered them silly. Barely able to piece together a credible score in any of the three sets,
the Old Farts' advance into the bulge of the tournament was in danger of nascent strangulation, which oddly
enough was how some of the team felt about one of their comrades. To be fair (the only time in this monograph if
I can help it), the Jerries were younger (hardly difficult), fitter (ditto) and contained at least three
"ringers" (lack of planning on the part of the Selection Committee). So although doom and gloom did descend on
"Les Vieux Pumpetiers" as the French now referred to our troop - better than "Bunch of Old Losers" as the
Leicester lot were heard to remark - it was not so Private Frazer-like that a refreshment of the inner man
could not dispel.
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What are you bunch of old losers doing here?
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A beer here. A hot dog there. Perhaps another beer. A French stick salad "pole" to help soak up the beer.
Then another to wash that down. Fries with mountains of mayonnaise and ketchup. "Go on then, I'll have another,"
"Those burgers look nice." "Beer anyone? Just one for the court." The refreshment of the inner man was
proceeding to plan. The only slight blemish was that the plan only involved Valde. Although his capacity was
staggering to behold, the others were left chasing left-overs, and beer, and ice creams, and beer, and waffles,
and beer, and...
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The ROBOTs find the beer tent
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Fractionally after Long Time No Pussy were called to combat, Game Four for the ROBOTs was announced.
Surprisingly for such an international tournament the opposition was Belgian - a fact not lost on Chris but
then few things had been found on coach Nason that day - money, a pass, conceptual reality of a nine-by-nine
metre area. However, cometh the hour, cometh the man and Nason did come good. The delay whilst the court was
re-laid did wonders for the recuperation of the team and as Nason rang the changes (cap on, cap off, sunglasses
on, etc), the opposition were bedazzled into defeat - especially when the Nason hat was off and the sun shone
at a certain angle. Day One therefore ended with a level of equanimity - played four, won two, lost two; sets
for six, sets against six.
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Whilst it was hard to find the words "hot" and "sweaty" in the same sentence as "Old Boys in action",
nonetheless olfactory decorum and a distinct lack of facilities back at HQ demanded a trip to showers - cold,
only men for the use of. Re-invigorated - and after a quick return trip to HQ - re-attired, the collective of
coffin-dodgers were ready to hit the town. Before anyone could determine whether the town was ready for Riga,
the deep voice of Valde tabled the food question. Whilst most men do not live by bread alone, there are always
Eksts-ceptions. Having established the previous night a dearth of eating establishments in the village, the
band faced two choices - neither of which involved starvation or a liquid only diet - return to the tournament
site and consume what they had left of burgers, chips, hotdogs, waffles, French sticks, ice cream etc or hope
that two sets of rested wheels would convey them to the next village to achieve collective fulfilment of their
empty bulges. As six brains mulled over t his tricky dichotomy, the seventh used his visual perception and
uncanny ability to bring confusion to any clear-cut issue to establish a third way.
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Five minutes later, John led the rest out of HQ and on towards the edge of the village. Keeping in single file
and well spaced (they did not earn their epithet of "Old Farts" for nothing), they ensured that their progress
was unseen by anyone - well anyone without the benefit of a large chest, short skirt, tattoos and hanging out
of the door of a local hostelry. Distracting though this scene was and willing though the mind was, cold reality
twinged 380 years of collective muscle and the group moved on to satisfy other hungers at a small inn, nestling
by a roundabout. Showing no fear because he could hardly see anything clearly in those bottle-bottomed glasses
of his and employing the confident stride of a man second only to Valde in the food stakes, John, in his lead
position of the team, entered the establishment immediately. The others sensibly held back as the spectre of
guitars, banjos and squealing pigs filled their minds. After a few minutes of silence, they entered, fearful
that their ace (look John bought me a beer - OK?) setter was either being held to ransom or being added to the
night's menu. Instead they found him in deep discussion with a young dark haired woman. Having checked her
credentials - a college master's degree in paediatrics and geriatrics - John pronounced that the establishment
was suitable to meet all the needs of "Die Oude Skidmarken" - the collective's fame had indeed spread far
and wide.
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Chris finds it all too much
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Shown to a brace of tables on the patio (indeed the Old Boys' reputation had preceded them) and in the process
of ordering the second round of beers, Valde raised the food question once more with Anna, the name of the
delightful care assistant assigned to our volleyball dinosaurs that evening. To much consternation, and
rumbling stomachs, she pronounced the kitchen closed at seven. A careful explanation by Martin that there
were but seven plates to fill caused a knowing look to appear in her eye and she scurried off to find the
manager. This woman, who also doubled as the cook, surveyed the assembled mass, a third round of beers being
delivered to the table and saw enough Euro signs to declare that food was indeed on and merely needed selection.
Martin, keen for seafood, inquired about the cook's clams. Unfortunately due to the hour, clams were not on
the menu but if anyone fancied a nibble later, she assured the Boys that there would be enough to go all
around. By a process of elimination, spaghetti bolognaise was deemed the repast of the evening. The cook
promised a "hot and spicy" one and sashayed off to the kitchen. To some the resulting meal had the requisite
piquancy to tickle their taste buds, for others like Paul the addition of odd bits of spaghetti and meat to
a mini-lake of Tabasco fulfilled his yearning and refuelled the parts that had made him a living legend amongst
"les Skids".
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The boys eating again!
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Anna ministered to most of the Boys' whims, although like her manager, her seafood supplies were equally
unavailable for perusal. She did however provide a steady stream of beer, bread and nuts, as well as giving
"les vieux garcons" an introduction to Belgian culture, lifestyle and etiquette. There was a certain hum about
the inn as the shadows drew longer, helped in no small way by our heroes' adoption of the team scent - Brut 69.
Whether it was this heady mixture of scents or the thought of other cents but Anna became increasingly bolder,
offering the team a wide variety of tipple options. Knowing the confusion that reigned whenever choice was
proffered, not to mention the inevitable delay in receipt of the consensed libation, John and Paul, being the
only team members capable of multiple choice without the aid of a slide-rule, theodolyte or safety net, quickly
seized the initiative and round after round of different beers appeared at the ancients' elbows. OK so it was
one. And it was raspberry flavoured ( how appropriate).
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Replete and with Valde having set the quiz question for the night - Lottery-style in keeping with it being a
Saturday night - "How old is Anna?" - the creaking contingent of codgers weaved their way back to the heart of
the village and delights more full-bodied than the petite Anna. Eric, last to enter the new hostelry, was nearly
consumed by the cleavage of the inn's greeter. Extracted by Paul with some effort and restored to full health by
a mouth-to-beer resuscitation, Eric declared that the winning number was "23". Unfortunately collective
short-term memory loss deprived the winner of his moment of victory. Despite the dulcet tones of Eddie Wally
(another nostalgia shot and excuse for tales of meat cleavers, midnight sprints and Ernie in full flow)
and the ample charms of the bar proppers, Nason was in need of beat - and that meant a return trip to the
tournament site and the big tent.
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Beers caringly caressed to extinction in hand, the Boys chilled to the music and numerous rounds of chips.
Indeed so many rounds of chips were consumed that there was a danger that they might return to HQ sober.
However, tipped the wink that the frites fryer was flicking through a Roller brochure, John demanded copious
quantities of beer determined to frustrate the Germans in Belgium again. As midnight drew near, twin dangers
ushered the group towards their dorm. The first was the prospect of combined epileptic fit as the strobe lights
in the disco reached fever pitch - or was the light just set at the wrong angle to a head-banging Nason. The
second was more real. As the village church clock struck twelve, would our collective of coffin-dodgers really
turn into winning volleyball players?
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To be continued...
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In the next instalment:
- Has Nason a cunning Plan for Victory?
- Will it involve Sylvester Stalone as the token but pivotal American?
- Will Martin's encyclopaedic geographic knowledge be put to the test once more, or will the others know where the toilets are in HQ by now?
- Has Nason had enough nocturnal manoeuvres for one weekend or will he get that "sinking" feeling once more?
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Author : John on Boghut, Photos : Vas ist dE lks
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