The pre-Vaughngate years: The Memoirs

Sir David? Is this you?

Thu, 27 Apr 2006 13:03:33 +0200

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The First Response

Tue, 11 Apr 2006 09:27:30 +0200

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A Letter of Complaint

Mon, 10 Apr 2006 12:21:57 +0200

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Newsflash

Wed, 05 Apr 2006 17:10:39 +0200

"Thorpedo resurrected as 'bot!"

I was just watching John Raven's Newsround and saw a the above story, amazing news and a coup d'etat for the AVS!

Flinty so eloquently and tragically prescribed the great Sturry and Anglend left-handers tragic demise at the hands/steel plates of the McGrathbot. However, Flinty left in tears without noticing 'that Bruv' crouched in the corner (just having coming back from his cameo appearance in Eastenders where the PVS tried to sell him on Alfie Loon's stall - they didn't!)

In seeing the McGrathbot spasticate our Thorpedo into molten milch, that Brother scampered away tail between his ears and off to the cricket nets just off of New Road, where Bothie and Boycie were having a net session. They were recalling pre-V days when beating the Cons, 'Stanis, South Aficaaners and co was third nature. That Brother roared (he can't speak) at Boycie and Bothie and with their ESP they could tell that there was trouble at mill. Off they skated to Williamson Hills where they were just in time to gather the molten larvae remnants of the Thorpedo in Boycie's panama. "What now" I hear you viewers shout?

Well, they went to visit eminent Doctor Dr. Abdullah Abdul Guru Guru Tandoori, who was the man responsible for putting together the charred remains of Stewie back then in 1994. In fact, when Boycio and Both arrived Dr. Tandoori was treating the Stewbot at that time - he was having a new copper spleen and mechanic bladder fitted.

"HOW WOZ HE?" Shouted the Stewbot as they entered in his robotic voice, but with a slight Surrey twang.

"Shoot oop, Alec, me and tut beefy is 'ere to see tut Doc. We’ll 'ave a wee net wit' the laters." Retorted Boycie

Boycie and Bothie explained the situation to Abdullah, who fortunately and coincidentally had a mould in the shape of Andrew Strauss and some loose limbs and former body parts of former dead AV cricketers (you know Malcolm Marshall, David Gowers, Viv Richardson, Adam Hollioake, Mike "Hodgson" Atherton etc), in addition to all sorts of metallic and electronic gadgets. Guru Guru spent some time and put together a quite unique droid. A mixture of molten Thorpedo juice, Lord Vivian Richards arms and feet, Gowers's legs and Hodgson's kidneys, spleen and old todger, this combined with a steel spinal column, aluminium skull, an electronic central nervous system and robotic brain - all in the shape of Straussie!

Man, we have ourselves a Straussmachine from the remnants of the great Thorpedo - the Thorpedo is semi dead, but his soul lives on in the body of the Straussmachine; we also have all the attributes of some of the great AV batsman enhanced by modern technology!

I for one cannot wait for the Series against the 'Stanis - this baby is gonna do some damage!

However, the McGrathbot, Evil V and Fletch are still at large for this crime - what next? If you spot a snivvelling, wee-smelling, smirking drunk on a street corner supping Evil V's blood or you hear the sporadic thuds and a cranking mechanical sound in a neighbourhood near you - you know what to do. As Shaw Tyler used to say - "Keep them pierced!"

If you have any insider information, email the editors of Wisden or contact Kent Police - under no circumstances approach these men/drunks/droids....

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Gambling Nightmare

Wed, 05 Apr 2006 16:14:43 +0200

I have some very...distressing news...i must try and keep a lid on my emotions so that i can get this story onto the forum...

I was in Ladbrokes, as usual, checking the form for the 3.15 at Wogbury. It was one of those perfect days where the sun was shining, birds were singing and such like. Anyway, i was standing there, the old chap in one hand and a fag in the other, bracing myself to lay an Aryton on 'Cop and Half' to romp home on the nose, when the door to the bookies swung open.

I don't know what it was that gripped my innards, but i came over all * like, as if, as if, there was something evil in the air. I took evasive action and grabbed the nearest Racing Times and lifted it high to cover my face.

Next thing i know, i hear this noise like this. Zggggggh-ka, Zgggggggh-ka. followed by slow, dragging footsteps.

It was the noise of a powerful machine, the sound of cogs grinding and motors turning. Whoever was sloping in behind the machine was clearly Brahms and Liszt.

One by one, the working class gobshites that frequent the establisment fell silent. I peered over the top of my newspaper and nearly soiled myself in surprise.

Standing there, bold as brass, were the gruesome twosome of Evil V and the Mcgrathbot, each holding bags with pound signs carefully embroidered onto the material. The Mcgrathbot's bag was much bigger, about the size of two adult cows and approximately a million tonnes in weight. Evil V's face and clothes were covered in old evil v's blood and he smelled of poo and wee.

I maintained my cool as the scene unfolded before my eyes. One of cloth capped regulars lost control of his nerves and screamed 'A BOT! An evil BOT!' before diving through the glass window.

The Mcgrathbot started his menacing walk and slowly gathered pace in the manner of his metronomic run-up at the crease. He reached the counter, with evil v sawggering languidly behind him, burping and coughing like a vagrant.

The shopkeeper, to his credit, stood his ground and glared at the PV troublemakers.

"Can i help you gentlemen?"

The Mcgrathbot opened his robotic mouth.

"ONE - BILL- ION - POUNDS - ON - THE - CONS - TO - BEAT - THE - WORLD - ELEV - EN"

His voice made me feel physically sick.

"Sorry Gentleman," said the bookie, "PV scum aren't allowed to bet on the Aussies."

"WHAT?!" screamed Evil V, dropping his swag in horror, "What did you say?"

And with that, the bookie pulled at his face, and to my shock, it came off in his hand! Even more amazing was the face behind the mask...it was the THORPEDO!

Evil V put his hind to his mouth. The Thorpedo reached under his desk and pulled out his favoured bat, the 'Wiltshire Twenty-Sixer' and pointed it at the rogue captain.

"I should have done this a long time ago Michael. I know what you've done and i know what you've got in store for the Super Test. You are a scumbag Evil V. I've been watching you for the last few days with That Brother!"

Evil V cowered.

"This is for the AVs!"

"Glen! Kill him!' Evil V screamed.

I dropped my newspaper as i saw the Mcgrathbot move his head towards the Thorpedo. I shouted out to him, but it was too late.

Two red beams of ultra-beam shot from the 'Bots eyes and struck Thorpey square in the back. The customers started to scream from within their hiding places all over the shop.

With a tear in my eye rushed at the pair and pulled my AV magnet from my pocket, a gift from Harmie. Sensing the magnet, Mcgrath dropped his money, which fell straight through the floor all the way to the earth's core, it was so heavy. He then activated his boosterboots and flew through the ceiling to safety. I made for Evil V, who was sniffing and crying, but he spat into my eyes. His saliva must have contained some evil poison of some description, as it burned. Such a deep burn!!!

As i staggered, V ran out of the door like the coward he really is. Blindly i tried to find my friend The Thorpedo, but was it was to have been in vain.
I wished that Harmie could have been with me, as we would have surely been able to confront the pair together. It was just too late.

Too late.

The police told me, an hour or so later, that the great Thorpedo had been melted by the Mcgrathbot's nuclear gamma-rays. My heart felt bruised. Thorpedo was a true AV and like a brother to both Harmie and myself. True he was a bit weird, but he was one of us.

So forum readers, it is a bitter and most terrible story that i tell and it pains me to be the one to tell you all, but better from me now than reading it in the tabloids later.

Graham 'the Thorpedo' Thorpe AV RIP
long may you be remembered.

Thank Bothie for Harmie's magnet. It saved my life!

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It went a little like this...

Wed, 05 Apr 2006 16:03:25 +0200

GUPPY!
takes you back doesn't it? the smell of sawdust and resin, splitsecond glimpses of Geoffory, hogan fumbling under the desk after a Clandillon flashback, marvellous!

Think again my friends, all was not as it seemed.

CGSFB was famously steered by the steady captainship of 'slim' Jim Ronceford, a man of integrity and iron will, an old-school AV of the highest order. Beneath him were the loyalists, the hornet, timish, smalltimish, fielder and so on. Between them they kept the Holcombe flag flying!

However, there was a sinister stench of unrest.

It all started with Atherton's (Scudder's) 'accident'. Some say it was say it wasn't his fault and i would believe them, but they don't know the half of it.

Not many of you know that Athers died on that suburban hilltop and never lifted a bat again. His place on the squared circle was taken by televison funnyman Leslie Crowther from the hit show 'Come on Down!' to avoid a state of national panic.

I shall tell you all here and now that it was not 'senna driving' that polished off the Scud, it was a bomb. The same style of bomb that was found in the Stewbot's wicket. Who was responsible. Do i have to tell you? FLETCH!

Many strange events happened, some of which i am hazy with my recollection, some i am too horrified to give you the details. However the rebellion uprising forced Ronceford's 'resignataion'. Bodge, Le Franc, Gardener and St-John, they all had their palms sullied by the blood of his dismissal. We tried our best to supress the coup. We planted disorientating signs, we tried to barracade 'les fumeurs' in their den of vice, but nothing would work? What was stopping us? Pontoon (Field) that's who! Enraged by the wet paint, he set about getting as many of us over to Fletch as possible! Baz T went first, Matty G followed, Shylock Hyland and Knee high Nye were only too glad to sign up after enduring a horrid childhood having to dance for crusts and sell special favours for attention.

We stood fast though. We stood fast. Under UTAF, our own form of early militant AVism, we would not give in to the dirtbags.

And what is the point of this story? I shall tell you.

Whilst V was pulling the wood over the nations eyeballs, smashing the cobblers for sixes, Fletch was sniffing around the old CGSFB patch searching for new blood to keep alive the evil V. You see, Vaughno can't get by on pernod, milk and gin anymore, now he needs pure virgin's blood to stop himself from turning dead.

We need help, can anyone give advice for the next steps? Can anyone refresh my memory and fill in the gaps between Atherton's crash and The Proi-st CGSFB revolution?

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Early signs of AVism, all in our own backyard.

Wed, 05 Apr 2006 15:33:33 +0200

Fresh from a repeat viewing of Robocop 2, Smith and Stevens set about doing over Living's underground dwelling? Why? It made no sense at the time? Now it makes perfect sense. That pink duster was more symbolic than we could have possibly imagined!

We were told that Livings had his boat race reconstructed due to some kind of Scudder incident? We believed them, why shouldn't we. The 'Jaguar Spectacular' was a respected man, master of the clotoris, very much in the style of a pre-herne bay survey era Gary 'dishy' Grouse.

I shall now tell you the whole (and the real) story.

Livo (Benaud) had suffered the same bomb planting incident as the scud (Athers) and the Stewbot. Ecstatic by his mal-practice, Fletch gathered the quivering jellylike corpse of Benaud from his E type and took him to the secret underground lair beneath Edgbaston mountain to mould him in the style of a furturist pro-v. It was laborious and painful work, but he succeded. Benaud, fresh with his remoulded face, was introduced back into CGSFB society. Only two people discovered this, the true AVs, Smudge and former member of Weg and spoon, Mairk S.

Collier may have had a man's willy, but they had real balls!

They didnt prevent Benaud from handing over Gotting (Hick) to Fletch, but they raised awareness of the cause at a time when AVism was in its infancy. For that we must respect those brave boys.

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Boycie, as i remember him best!

Wed, 05 Apr 2006 15:20:38 +0200

"Uncle Boycie..." i said one night at one of our informal 'pyjama' parties, "What's the difference between a good cricketer and a bad cricketer?"

"Eee flint'ee," he mumbled as he tucked me into the top bunk, "That's right easy that is. A good cricketer plays wit' straight bat and good feet. A Bad cricketer plays wit' willy tucked between his legs so he looks like a woman wit' a hairy front bottom. Thats why that fat tw@t Gatting can never pick out t' ball in't corridor of uncertainty."

With that he gave me a little peck on the forehead and wished me a good night. His breath smelt of ale and greyhounds.

It is a fond memory and a lesson that i carry in my heart nearly twenty years later.

Uncle Boycie had been like a father to me in my formative years, dressing up as father christmas and watching me at the school sports day. I never knew my real father. He had been melted by a rogue Gowerbot whilst i was still just a child.

I remember Uncle Boycie pushing harmie and I on the swings. He would take us to the park in his regulation blazer, tie and panama and watch harmie bowl heads up bouncers into my face, then mop up the blood with his club hankie.

If you are reading this now, Boycie, i just want to say thanks. Thanks for being there to bath me and teach me how to read and spell and learn about Good and Evil in cricket.

Thanks Boycie, you are a true AV

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PART 5 - "Cwaig Gween... Get out!": By Craig Green (Flinty)

Sun, 12 Feb 2006 17:54:37 +0100

The top maths scolars sat attentively awaiting their instructions from the learned Professor Barley (Ron Lobek). All that is, except for a trio of scruffy n'er do wells names Harmie Flinty and Parrott.

The assembled brainboxes represented the cream of Holcombian mathematical talent. All the usual suspects were there, Alistair Stone (Steven Hawkins), Jackson (Hesseltine) and Ian Mitchell (Isaac Newton). Interesting Ian knew ALL the facts.

Harmie was taking notes and drawing straight lines with the long edge of 'Bolly', which remains to this day the longest set square ever to be produced since the Cold War ended in 1865.

"Excuse me Mr Barley" piped Mitchell, "When are we going to move onto molecular equations, you see, i need to know ALL the facts."

Mr Barley laughed. He smelled of B&H and raw grated nicotine. He also had a ridiculous lisp and had a silly voice akin to the ducklike squawking of Herne Bay's dishy 'Grouse' Rouse.

"In good time Ian, in good time."

Parrott was known for two things, having a shovel foot on the soccer pitch, and being a bit of Joker in the Pack. He was fond of poking Flinty in the ribs and hitting him on the head (known as a Jabberwocky) whilst calling him 'as obstinate as a mule'.

Anyway, on this special day, in the shadow of the smokers den, Parrott (later to become Veron) was finding amusement by telling Flinty and Harmie 'hilarious' new jokes of his own creation.

"Flinty, flinty!" he whispered rather too loudly, "What did the window cleaner say to the old lady? Look before you leap!"

Harmie laughed into his hand at the sheer rubbsihness of the joke.

As everyone knows, Flinty has a very serious problem with the giggles, just ask anyone who attended Gatting's wedding recently.

"Flinty, Flinty...what did the baker say after closing his shop for the night? Never look a gift horse in the mouth!"

Harmie and Flinty now started chuckling like a pair of loon, but unbeknownst to them, Barley had been watching them lark about with a look of contempt. Parrott picked up on the bad vibe coming from Lobek and got his head down amongst his algebra. Parrot never gets caught. Harmie soon followed suit, sensing that trouble was brewing. But Flinty, poor Flinty, he just could seem to stop. In fact, he was so inspired that he thought a joke up of his own and wanted Parrott to hear it. Their was an exciment in his voice.

"Parrott, Parrott, here's one for you..." he said very loudly.

With an almighty roar, Lobek shattered the room's academic silence.

"CWAIG GWEEN....GET OUT!!!!!!"

The room fell silent, punctured only by the occasional titter of Harmie's and Parrott's giggling.

Well, what a shock. Flinty stood up slowly with the eyes of the room upon him, shuffled past the rows of the desks and left the classroom.

After waiting outside for a few moments Flinty thought, 'i'm off!' and went for a little walk about the school gorunds.

The classroom was still in shock at the surpise ejection of the people's favourite Flinty Flintoff. Lobek must have picked up on this as well. 'Maybe', he thought to himself, 'by making an example of Flinty, i may make people suspect that i practice PVism. I better get him back in and make an apology!'

He cleared his throat and said in his calmest and clearest voice, in the direction of the door.

"Come in Green."

There was no reply.

"I said come in Green!"

Again, nothing.

"CWAIG GREEN COME IN!"

But of course, Flinty was nowhere to be seen. He had gone for a walk! Harmie and Parrott chuckled to themselves at seeing Flinty made an ass of.

Later that day, we all looked back on the incident and laughed and Hoggard made Flinty feel better by attempting to bugger Lee Ells, much to the amusement of the embryonic Anti-Vaughnites.

They got their revenge on Lobek some months later. Spoon and Robocop 2 infiltrated Lobek's sinister underground lair and 'did it'.

The two partners in crime came bounding into the common room, red faced and shaking with excitement.

"Look what we did!" shouted Robocop 2.

WE followed them down the winding tunnels to Lobek's den, rubbing our hands at the prospect of seeing a room well and truly trashed. The room, however, was immaculate. Plush leather furniture and important looking books dominated the room.

I threw a confused glance at Harmie, who shrugged his shoulders believing this to be one of 'mairk's' silly jokes. But the felons were still laughing and congratulating themselves.

And then i spotted it.

Carefully placed in on the wall, poking out at right angles, was a long, pink feather duster.

We legged it back to common room and celebrated by organising an impromptu funk circle and grooving to Beethoven's 5th, of course.

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PART 4 - Graeme Le Saux: By Craig Drury (Harmie)

Sun, 12 Feb 2006 17:33:39 +0100

'Twas 1997, Harmie (Drury) and Flinty (Greeno) were now living ensemble in Field Avenue, Canterbury along with their friend Hoggard (Welsh/Vince) and enemy Mullally (Will). One November Saturday afternoon, Harmie had been out shopping in Canters High Street (for Ringo Starr related relics) with "that girlfriend" (Burke). They had had an unproductive, but enjoyable day's shopping in the Ringo Starr capital of the south east d'Angleterre. On returning home to Field Avenue, they were greeted by Hoggard:

"Hello friends, I trust you enjoyed your Ringo Starr related shopping spree in East Kent's premier cathedral city?"

"Indeed we did Hoggie. I hoped you had a good afternoon listening to Starkey on your 1964 Music Centre whilst perusing your pornographic literature, merely for artistic purposes, of course! Where's the much hated northern one, Mullally and where's our good friend Flinty?"

"Well Harmie, Flinty is in Ashford at a Jazz exhibition with that teacher woman and Mullally is busy this afternoon. He has gone to UKC library to do some Saturday afternoon study, he is then going to play Roller Hockey with some foreigners: what a nob!"

So, our two friends enjoyed an afternoon of Brian Lara on the Megadrive, darts on the stairs and snooker on the children's sized snooker table in the "lounge of many bottles", whilst listening to the football coverage on Radio 5. That girlfriend watched attentively without participating (girls were banned from such strenuous activities).

At 5.15pm, there was a bang and crash as Mullally returned. The front door was slammed and there was a clatter of plates, crockery and cutler as he entered the kitchen. The three real people currently in the house went to see what the northern monkey was doing. They entered the kitchen:

"Eh, alright, I've just been up tut library at UKC, you know, wanking over't books and then I was at tut Sports Centre playing some Roller Hockey with foreigners, you know" exclaimed Mullally, as if these actions were something of which he should be proud. He continued:

"Eh, what was tut football scores? How did Town get on?"

Harmie replied in an inquisitorial style: "We don't know or care how town got on, Mullally, speaking of which, where's your Grimsby tea towel? Also, did you see the big football news?"

"No, wot newz?" The northern one asked; Hoggard was only too happy to answer:

"There was a tragedy at Stamford Bridge involving Graeme Le Saux. He went in for a headed challenge, went A over T and landed on his head. He was motionless on the pitch for some time thereafter..."

"Eh, is 'e 'urt?" Asked Mullally in a typically stupid style. This time, Harmie reverts:

"Le Saux went over on his head and broke his neck, his head came right off: He's dead!"

"Oh fooking 'ell, this is a tragedy, I'm well gutted about this, you know" the northern one ranted. He went on to reminisce about the French-named former Chelsea and England ace. He then phoned his friend, probably another northerner or maybe a foreigner:

"Eh, did you 'ear about Greame Le Saux? He's dead, a tragic accident, you know..."

"What d'ya mean he's not... Those scruffy coonts must 'ave been winding me up, you know."

Of course we were winding him up: this is a tale that is evidence of the fact that all Northerns are as thick as pig shit. Thank you for listening readers...

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PART 3 - The match of the century: By Craig Drury (Harmie)

Sun, 12 Feb 2006 16:55:08 +0100

It was 1992 and early May; the cricquet season had just begineth. We - CGSFB - were all set to face our Auld rivals Sir Joseph Williamson's Mathematical School Rochester or the Math School for short (or just "scum", as we were wont of calling them). As with all our games against other Kentish schools the game was scheduled for a Wednesday afternoon. 'Twas a gloomy half-caste day, it had been raining all morning, this had now ceased, but the cloud cover was still prominent and temperature had not lifted above an unseasonably cold 13 degrees centigrade.

As our school was too tight to hire a coach or minibus, 11 intrepid Bothies set off at midday from Maidstone Road, Chatham, on a 1.5 mile trek, to our Rochester rival school. Of course, en route, we prepared for the big match by stopping off at the chippie and Paki shop on Patterns Lane and stuffing our faces with fish and chips, ice polls, chocolate and numerous bottles of cheap imitation colas and lemonades (i.e. Rola Cola, Macaw, Panda Pops and Pespi). We arrived at the Math School tired from our journey and feeling sick from our feast. We changed into our whites (or creams really) and headed for a net while our skipper, Nick Hill, tossed up with the Math School toff of a capitaine. Obviously, we lost the toss and the Math School elected to bat on a lifeless wicket. Mr Gardner (or Boris) informed us that it was not the usual 25 over aside limited overs match, but a "timed match", with start being at 1.30pm and close being 6.30pm. We did not fully understand this, but soon grasped that this was real cricquet, the like of which our heroes Bothie, Goochie and Gowers played in Test Matches against the Cons and Stanis.

So, the scene is set. The Math school innings is best forgotten from the Chatham point de vue. With the pitch as dead as door knob Harmie's (Drury) pace and bounce (even at the tender age of 14, he was somewhere up around 93mph) was useless and, as he was carrying the Chatham bowling attack, by 4pm the Math had declared somewhere around 265/4.

CGSFB came out around 4.15pm and had 2 hours 15 minutes (probably about 45 overs in quick children's overs) to get the 266 needed for victoire (just a notch under 6 an over). Alternatively, they needed to bat out until 6.30pm to claim the draw. The sun was now starting to appear and the pitch was quickening up. As usual, Mr Gardner made sure that those rubbish players that were too useless to bowl, batted first (unfortunately, they were equally as poor at batting). So, with the likes of Alan Williams and Barry Walton coming in up the order, it was no surprise when with still over an hour and three quarters to bat, Chatham were 36/6. A lost cause, you may think.

"Incoming Batsman: Harmie" blasts out the PA announcer (obviously, there was no PA announcer at a 3rd year cricket match; I have just added that for effect).

Harmie, as well as being the best bowler in the team, was easily the best batsman, but down the order due to political correctness; he was a pragmatist though, even he would not be able to instigate a run chase of over 240 from somewhere around 35 overs, especially with a load of spastics still to come in. He set his stall out early, he would be putting that big size 7 down the wicket and blocking for his life. It wasn't long before Chatham were 43/7 as Barry Thomas decided that the best approach was to try and smash every ball out of the ground for 8; off he went, caught at mid wicket.

"Incoming batsman: Hoggard (Welsh/Vince)" the (fictional) PA announcer blasted out with relish.

Harmie goes up to the incoming batsman and Kurt Cobain lookalike:

"Hoggie, we need 223 off of 30 overs here; we have no chance of victoire, my good friend. Do you remember the great football film 'Escape to Victoire’ with Silvestre Stallone, Ricky Villa, Eusebio and Michael Caine playing both himself and Bobby Moore. Well, in that classic film, the allies were down 4-0 v the Nazis at half time and with great guts and determination they came back to draw the match 4-4. They were not greedy, as had they gone for the winner, they may have been got by the Nazi sucker punch on the break and lost the match. They drew the match and walked off the field and to freedom as heroes. Do you want to be heroes like Caine/Moore and Stallone? I'll be Stallone; you be Moore (with longer hair). What say my friend? Dig in; stay pragmatic; we can draw this match!"

After Harmie's great Churchillian battle speech bringing back memoires of Dunkirk, the Math School bowler approacheth the wicket: Hoggard facing his first ball.... Crack, straight drive for four. Harmie shouts to his batting colleague:

"Good shot Hoggie, but remember, we are going for the draw, so you just need to dig in and block them out for the next 95 minutes".

Next ball, Hoggard drives to a fielder in the covers:

"Yes" shouts Harmie.

A nano second letter he realises the situation and the hypocrisy of his call:

"No, go back old son."

The cloth-eared Hoggard carries on running, in comes a decent throw, the bails are taken off by the keeper and Hoggard carried on running to the dressing room “run-out”.

"Silvestre (Kempie)" exclaims the (fictional) PA, now not even bothering with the "incoming batsman". Silvestre walks to the wicket.

Harmie (now dropping the role of Escape to Victoire Silvestre Stallone; as having two Silvestres out there would be just too damn confusing) gives his little pet talk to the new batsman (dropping the Escape to Vistoire analogies that fell on death ears with the preceding batsman). Silvestre seems more receptive to Harmie's instructions. So, at approximately 4.58pm, with just over 90 minutes to bat and CGSFB now 49/7, needing over 200 to win and the last two recognised batsman out there, the game appears lost.

Silvestre and Harmie plug away. They are still there at 5.28pm, Harmie gets off the mark with a single. At 5.39pm, Silvestre gets a run. The Math are starting to get a little rattled, when at 5.47pm, Harmie gets his second and the partnership's third and final run.

There's a cry from some of the chavs (i.e. Barrys Thomas and Walton; and Jimmy Peach) from the Chatham balcony:

"What are you two idiots doing out there, you divs. We're never gonna win if you keep blocking." It seems that the morons didn't understand the concept of a timed match.

By 6.16pm, the Math were getting really desperate, their teacher/umpire's face was becoming ever redder and contorted with rage; at the other end/square leg, old Boris' smirk was growing bigger by the second. The Math had now resorted to bringing on their rubbish bowlers and tossing a few up to Harmie and Silvestre. This was to no avail, as Harmie and Silvetsre blocked, blocked and blocked again:

"No" was their only cry.

The only movements they made was to pat down the pitch after a delivery (every single delivery) and have a chat at the end of each over (about Megadrives and D-Day); both to waste a few more precious seconds. At 6.32pm the last over was bowled and our two heroes had won the day. They put on a partnership of 3 in over an hour and a half; Chatham still well over two hundred behind with 3 wickets remaining had drawn the match. They went off to rapturous applause from half a dozen of their team mates (2 or 3 of the chavs did not applaud as they thought CGSFB had lost the match and Harmie and Silvestre were culpable).

Today, some 14 years later, this story is still told in CSFSB assemblies: Harmie and Silvestre will forever be Holcombe legends....

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PART 2 - Beginnings: By Ed Mehen (Clarke)

Sun, 12 Feb 2006 16:35:22 +0100

"In the beginning was the word, and the word was 'Cricquet'."
(Genesis, Ch 1 v1)

Of all the things that stick in my mind, apart from the shrapnel of course, then it is the day when I (Clarkey), my brother Rob Key, and my friends Damon Hill and Les Dennis Waterman, all got drunk after a successful cricket match against local rivals, The Boxted.

It had been a tight match that had involved lots of swearing, which at the time affected me deeply as my parents, McGrath and Minogue (Warne), had brought me up a good clean Catholic girl. It had also involved a lot of physical abuse, but i have since had therapy to cope with the ongoing pain this has caused.

These negative tactics used by our rivals had the effect of forging a strong team ethic and when myself and Waterman had knocked off the winning runs we ran off the field quickly to embrace the rest of our heroic team, and also to avoid the false teeth that the losing team were by this time kicking at us.

I was lifted high up in the air by my team mates and they carried me all the way to the bar where, in true club cricket fashion, I was ordered at gun point to get the first round in. I happily obliged after the first bullet had lodged behind my left knee, and we all drank to victory and avoided the angry stares of our defeated rivals.

After draining the clubhouse of all liquids, we staggered out into the late summer evening and hit the many neon bars and slapper filled clubs of Colchester town where we all attempted to break the world record of "Loudest raucous song sung by a victorious cricket team, on a Saturday, in Colchester, in 1995, and that...", a feat we easily achieved.

And there was much rejoicing....

By the end of the night we were all either falling over, puking, or falling over AND puking at the same time. Taxis were hailed, batting orders were discussed and drunken snogging of slappers was achieved, and the night was over. But in our haste to get home we had forgotten about Waterman! We had not seen him for the last two hours of revelry and no one could see him in the crowd. In the end it was left to me to go back into the last few clubs we had been in to try and find him. But he was no where to be seen. I traced our steps back through all the bars we had been to but still could not find him. in the end i was about to give up when I heard a faint voice singing quietly down a back alley. As I moved toward the sound i felt a growing sense of amusement as I had seen this before, and LO! and behold! there was Waterman, pi$$ed out of his tiny mind and singing "Everytime you touch me, I become a hero" to a brick wall. Poor guy.

I had to hold his head out of the window of the taxi all the way home, as the driver had threatened us with castration if we puked in his cab.

The evening was over. We had all learned a valuable lesson, and then immediately forgotten it.

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PART 1 - "THE CHATHAM 3": By Craig Drury (Harmie)

Sun, 12 Feb 2006 16:30:29 +0100

The scene is set... It was a "quite warm", sunny May day (not actually May Day itself, a day within the month of May.) ‘Twas a Saturday, Saturday before bank holiday Monday (the second bank holiday of the month in fact!) The setting was UKC, it was 8am in the morn, a young Vaughno (Botley) and Harmie (Drury) get out of their (separate) beds. Both of them are young students studying the art of cricquet and life in general. They both live in digs in Darwin College, Vaughno has a double room, but mysteriously lives alone, Harmie a single room (this is completely incidental to the story by the by). Our two intrepid aventureurs wander on down to Darwin college canteen for a mother fucker fry up. As ever, they bump into various people on the way, people they see every day (but, of course, never talk to) such as inter alia the scary women, the Ken Bates/Richard Attenborough/Alwyn Crawshaw lookalike, the John Cleese and the bespactled Cliffe Richard look-alikes and 3 "Libby Kenedies". Oh yeah, they briefly stop off at "the missing link" too to shout out "Dave" very loudly at a corridor in the pretence that someone called Dave lives there - he doesn't of course, they are being silly! They polish off their mother fucker in haste and head of to Canterbury "town" centre.

It takes our two heroes approximately 46 minutes to get to their intended destination "Netto". They are not rich students born with "gold spoons" in their respective mouths (unlike those rugger toffs in Woody's who get on their wicks with their songs about willies and bums), so they only purchase the essentials from Netto: chocolate, crisps and cans of beer - Stella, Carlsberg and Kestrel, of course. Rucksacks loaded up, they head off back to UKC, they have an appointment with Rutherford College and the Sky Sports showing Common Room. It was the second ODI v the Cons, (I can't remember the series score, but it was at the Ovals). Our two friends were there just in the nip of time for the innings start and they opened up their rucksacks, removed the lagers, crisp and chocolate; the fun commenced - Choco, crisps and warm lager "what more do you want?"

The day passed in a haze, the Cons got a half decent score and our two conquerors were necking the Carlsbergs and Stellas like their was no tomorrow. It was not until approximately 5.33pm, that they realised they were supposed to meet Flinty. A little dazed and safe in the confidence that Michael "Atho/Hodgson" Atherstone was on his way to a ton and leading an England victoire, they left their seats for the first time in the day and went to look for Flinty (Greenock) (this was pre-Mobile phone days, you see, so this communication medium was unavailable). They wandered aimlessly and fortunatously bumped into the aforementioned Flintlock, who for some unbeknown reason was a wandering about like a bassoon around Eliot College. They grabbed him by the throat and our 3 amigos headed off to Keynes College to watch the England v South Afrikaaner fussball match at Old Trafford. Flinty and Vaughno had sunk all the Carlsbergs and Artois and all that remained was Kestrels. So, all three of our heroines started on the strong stuff (2.8% of pure alcohol). By 7.30pm, and full-time in the Voetbol (which incidentally ended Engels 2 - 1 Boers), the boys were absolutely hammered on "Kezzies".

Not perturbed, they headed off to the lights of ol' Canterbury town (bare with me guys, things are a bit hazy from now onwards!) They went to some pubs and stuff (will skip over this bit as can't remember times or venues) and ended up the Penny Theatre, where they danced the night away with each other (no girls of course - that would be considered "g@y"!) They enjoyed their time at the Penny Theatre, but had to leave and not for the first time (does "Snodland" ring any bells with anyone?), they went on a (pre-Glover) rampage. Firstly, all three of them jumped in the back of a stationery lorry in the Penny Theatre car park, why? - don't ask me? Next, they stumbled (quite literally) 'pon a trolley and they took turns to physically smash each other into the barriers outside Sainsbury's. The trolley could be used more sensibly than that surely?

Well, it soon was, it was used as the receptacle it was intended for. Road signs, street signs....

"Harmie, I am kicking this keep left bollard with all my force, but I cant budge the buggar" shouts Flintlock. Harmie has a go...

Harmison retorts: "No, Flinty, this runt is wedged, it must be stuck to the concrete with something very strong, such as superglue or duck tape".

"Get out the way, yous, let Vaughno at it!". Vaughno kicks the keep left bollard with all of his young might and succeeds, such passion!

"That did the trick, well done Vaughno, in the trolley, old son" cheers Harmie and Flinty in unison.

The trolley was now getting full with the aforementioned keep left bollard, Canterbury greyhound track and various other road and street signage. Off our 3 very merry fellows went on their jolly way happily singing along to "You'll Never walk Alone" causing no person any harm when a police car pulled up.

"Hello lads, have you had a good evening?" enquired the WPC.

"Yeah..." was the reply from the 3 bandits.

"Have you been shopping lads? I think you better be coming with us" she reverts.

"Sorry, we'll put them back officer!" mumbled one of the 3 swines, now barely coherent.

Their offer to return the shopping items from whence they came was declined by the WPC. I wonder which snitch phoned the Old Bill and grassed up our 3 central characters? They were just having a bit of fun: Was it one of the local Canterberarians whose front door had been subject to knock down ginger and in whose garden our heros had urinated? Who knows? Who will ever know? Who cares? Anyway, there was now two police cars and one police van at "the scene". So, in jumped Harmie and Vaughno into car one and off went Flinty in t'other, he cut a lonesome but merry figure. The police van was loaded up with the various signage, keep left bollards and a trolley. They soon arrived at their destination: Canterbury police station. They were taken into a back room by a young filth, who after laughing at them, emptied their pockets and stated:

"I can't believe they've brought you in for this: Ha! Ha!"

In turn, each of our young wipper-snappers had to fill out (scrawl - they had now lost the ability to read or write) some form. Whilst doing this, the other two gesticulated (Nescafe handshake, flying Vs, single finger salutes etc.) to t'other, who laughed along merrily at the "joke". Big joke! It was less funny when they were shown to their cells (female cells) for the night. Despite being a little afraid, they all had a good night's sleep in their separate cells, only awoken by a maniac in an adjacent cell howling and barking like a cat and Harmie pulling the emergency chord at 3.30am requesting a glass of water from "room service".

At 7.30am, the idiots were awoken by the fuzz and presented with breakfast: sausage casserole - delicious! After wolfing down this delicious feast and drinking a steam hot cup of piss tea, they were in turn taken to see the duty sergeant, PC big Welsh bastard.

First, it was Vaughno's turn. Mugshot and fingerpints were taken by the friendly, but moustachioed PC, who stated he thought the boys were unlucky to be arrested for, after all, what was just a bit of fun. In his day acts such as this and scrumping (for he was in the young scrumpers guild) would have been met with a ticking off and a flicked ear "my how times have changed" was his parting comment. V was passed back his property and taken to meet Mr bastard, who exclaimed to young V:

"You have let yourself down, you have let your university down, you have let your parents down, boyo. We should tell your university about this, which would render you unable to stay in university accommodation in future years. But I won't on this occasion." He also, in an attempt to redicule Vaughno, read back his statement of the night before. He quoted:

"we're sorry officer, we thought it was funny at the time, but now we realise the joke is on us". The bastard continued: "Too right, English, the joke is on you, but can you see anyone laughing? I'm not laughing am I, boyo?"

With this, V was "cautioned" (however, strangely no yellow card was shown) and was warned that another such indiscretion within 5 years would mean a court appearance and criminal record. With that, Vaughno was on his way, seriously hungover, unshaven, dirty and smelling of booze and poo. He was ashamed, but extremely pleased with himself. The story was repeated half an hour later for young Harmie, then Flinty some 30 minutes apres cela, both in a similar such disgusting state.

They all returned to UKC separately, the walk that usually took approximately 46 minutes, strangely took about twice that length of time, but they all met up at midday at Vaughno's double room. They looked at each other for a couple of seconds and without any form of choreographing, all burst out in fits of laughter:

"We were arrested!" they proclaimed with much amusement and pride.

That was the story of the Chatham 3...

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The pre-Vaughngate years: The Memoirs

Sir David? Is this you?

The First Response

A Letter of Complaint

***Newsflash***

Gambling Nightmare

It went a little like this...

Early signs of AVism, all in our own backyard.

Boycie, as i remember him best!

PART 5 - "Cwaig Gween... Get out!": By Craig Green (Flinty)

PART 4 - Graeme Le Saux: By Craig Drury (Harmie)

PART 3 - The match of the century: By Craig Drury (Harmie)

PART 2 - Beginnings: By Ed Mehen (Clarke)

PART 1 - "THE CHATHAM 3": By Craig Drury (Harmie)

Newsflash