Mental Oriental: As Piedmonte flourish thousands of miles away the team’s manager enjoys more unorthodox pastimes
SAMIR Nasri has urged his manager not to come back from Australia in case a return ruins the club’s fantastic run of form.
The French midfielder scored twice for Piedmonte on the weekend which, added to goals from Shane Long and Steven Gerrard, helped fire the club second in the Kenna League.
It is the Piedmonte manager’s best league position since he came second in the Kenna eight years ago, and all while the Englishman tours a former penal colony in the southern hemisphere.
Now his players have demanded their manager stays away from the club, claiming they can do a better job without him.
“The way we’re playing, we hope the boss never comes back. It’s no secret that the boss is a bit of a xenophobe, and I think certainly for me and some of the lads in the dressing room have got a renewed focus from not having to sing Jerusalem before games or being forced to drink a popular brand of weak English lager on Friday nights,” said Nasri, who’s enjoying his best run of form since joining the Kenna in 2008.
It’s not the first time the Piedmonte manager’s British bulldog mentality has been called into question. Overseeing years of steady decline at former club Thieving Magpies, his decision to pick English-only players was thought to have been vindicated just over a year ago. Lasting legacy was short-lived.
If the Piedmonte manager can tear himself away from hostilities in Adelaide for a few moments this weekend, he’ll be hoping his side can get something out of their Canesten Combi Cup group stage match with Hairy Fadjeetas.
Despite goals from Aaron Ramsey and Yoan Gouffran on the weekend, the Fadges slipped to third in the table.
Both managers are yet to win any Kenna league or cup silverware.
Red mist: Afterwards the mood changed dramatically when he realised the player he’d just bought was out injured for the rest of the season
IT HAS never been remarked upon that any team won a top-level football league because they ‘transfer windowed well’.
In the brief hiatus between the end of the season in May and the start of the World Cup in June, whoever the winners are will be noted for their long-term strategy, the conviction instilled into the team by the manager and most of all their luck.
They may have signed a useful player in January who immediately gels with his teammates, but that will only be a footnote in the side’s chronicle of success.
The Kenna League takes pride in reflecting this particular nuance of modern football. In every Kenna season to date, the winning manager’s preparations in the summer, his approach to the auction, the core of team purchased therein and good fortune, has decided the campaign.
That’s not to say that transfer windows are obsolete, despite the Pikey Scum manager’s claim today that his Senderos/Jenkinson swap in the last window was like ‘rearranging the deckchairs the Titanic’. To remain competitive Kenna managers must ensure their peripheral players are making appearances – it’s little surprise that three of the bottom four managers didn’t attend the October window.
Transfer windows are as integral to the Kenna League manager as they are to the Premier League manager, but for the most part of the season they must both rely on the finite resources at their disposal.
Which is why other, much less exclusive fantasy football competitions have got it wrong.
If any manager wants to remind himself of the superiority of the Kenna all he needs to do is enter the ‘official’ Fantasy Premier League.
At this point it would easy to list the many faults of this contest, that everyone ends up with pretty much the same players in their team, the ridiculousness of picking a captain and vice captain each week, the folly and oversight of not giving prominence to manager darts entrance music, but the argument will be kept to one strain – transfers.
The season is one long transfer window. The manager is essentially picking his team from one squad of every player in the Premier League. No player is off limits. How does that mirror the game?
Of course, the banner advertising on each page hints at why the FPL wants ‘managers’ to keeping checking back on their selections for the upcoming week. The Kenna suffers from no such obstacle to improving manager experience, as the trifling amount of visits to these pages testify.
But satisfying sponsors at the expense of sophistication is nothing compared to FPL’s single biggest foible.
The crucial period of the FPL manager’s week is time between Friday morning and Saturday lunchtime, between squads being announced for the weekend’s fixtures and the cut off point for making changes to your team.
So why does the chairman kick himself every week five minutes into the Saturday early game on the Kenna HQ kitchen radio? Because for any self-respecting Kenna manager this 36-hour ‘transfer window’ is dedicated to planning, executing and recovering from a Friday evening’s entertainment after the working week.
Almost exactly a third of the way through the season it’s a welcome reminder of why the Kenna was founded, and why the preferred time for the next Kenna transfer window is a Friday night.
It’s also the best way to explain why the chairman is bottom of every FPL league he’s entered.
Canesten Combi Cup – group stage standings after two match weeks
Taking on the whole network during licensed hours would be optimistic and unnecessary, so on Saturday 2 November 2013 just after 1pm tipplers gathered at Kennington underground station to visit a pub for each stop of the Charing Cross branch.
The route offers excellent highlights of London’s famous landmarks and includes a river crossing. As always, this review is provided to advise and entertain the prospective pub crawler, walker or tourist. Here’s the itinerary:
Kennington – The Prince of Wales
Waterloo – The Kings Arms
Embankment – The Princess of Wales
Charing Cross – The Harp
Leicester Square – The Porcupine
Tottenham Court Road – Bradleys Spanish Bar
Goodge Street – The Rising Sun
Warren Street – The Prince of Wales Feathers
Euston – The Crown and Anchor
Mornington Crescent – The Lyttleton Arms
Camden Town – The Worlds End
Each heading below links through to the pub profile page on the excellent Beerintheevening.com.
The Prince of Wales: The pub carpet and an awful shirt offered military enthusiast Sutcliffe a chance to demonstrate urban camouflage
A gem anyone would be happy to call their local. The Prince of Wales is set in the corner of a quiet square with a couple of tables and chairs outside, and a cosy snug.
Sutcliffe, Binksy and the Kenna League chairman became the only three crawlers to continue their unblemished attendance record. They were joined by the Young Boys of Vauxhall manager, the Still Don’t Know Yet manager, Lady Norman and sundry others.
One pint down, the short walk to Kennington station was taken for the route’s only tube journey. Unlike the two previous crawls, the sun was out.
Crawler comments
Sutcliffe: What can I say? Nice choice of carpet (matched my shirt). Quiet backstreet boozer. I think we shocked the locals.
Dazza: Nice area. Standard pub. Impressive carpet design like Sutcliffe’s shirt, although I think the shirt had more stains. People outside seemed confused why we were taking a photo.
There are many other pubs closer to Waterloo station but they cannot compete with this firm favourite, let down only by the lack of apostrophe in the signage.
The public bar and saloon bar are served by a central counter with a singular recruitment policy. The curious conservatory area out the back was closed and pieces of a fireplace blocked a door onto the Victorian splendour of Roupell Street.
An open fire roared in the public bar where Rounders and Simon were found Kenting it up. The former Wandsworth Window Lickers manager arrived and within minutes was telling his Nurburgring story to the first person who listened.
Drinks finished, the crowd walked back past Waterloo station, alongside the Royal Festival Hall and over the River Thames, where Simon’s story of investigating Kent dogging spots as a local reporter prompted Binksy to enlighten everyone with the phrase ‘seagulling‘. Car windscreens will never look the same again.
Crawler comments
Sutcliffe: The ‘back’ was closed due to building work which meant we had to squeeze into the tiny public bar. Nice place with staff who are very understanding when you’re drunk (from experience). Unfortunately it’s usually full of rich local bankers and lawyers who wish they were working class (a la Jamie Oliver) complete with plummy mockney accents and flat caps from Harrods. Some of the team fitted right in here.
Dazza: Small and pokey. Quite dark and bloody hot in there.
The Wandsworth Window Lickers manager: A lovely pub, as always serving up some delicious beer. Shame about having a chimney by the front door.
Overshadowed by Charing Cross station, the Princess of Wales is a fairly generic central London pub with not much going for it except some interesting ales. The 50p game began.
Sutcliffe: I don’t really remember much about this one which is probably as good a description as it needs.
Dazza: Bit more trendy, very sporty. Expensive drinks. Steep stairway to the toilets, or maybe I was starting to feel drunk at that point, not sure. Michael Buble (not in person I hasten to add, that would be awesome) playing in the toilets which was nice to whistle to while taking a piss.
The Wandsworth manager: I believe that this was the introduction of the first 50p. Well done the chairman for seeing it off. Average pub, nothing to report.
Crossing the Strand, crawlers were treated to one of the West End’s more compelling pubs.
The Harp has a great range of beers, although patrons are made to enjoy them in a narrow, crowded atmosphere. Unusually for an Irish pub, singing is not allowed. The sour member of staff who ordered crawlers to stop made one wonder if, for a place named after a stringed musical instrument, the barmaids should not appear more regularly plucked.
Having claimed the chairman in the Princess, the 50p game struck the Still Don’t Know Yet manager, who was still complaining of a night shift and three hours’ sleep.
Crawler comments
Sutcliffe: Cosy, little place (small and over-crowded) with an impressive collection of beer pump clips.
Dazza: Impressive collection of beer mats. Narrow pub with beer-goggle looking staff behind the bar. Lots of portraits on the wall, can’t remember who they were of though.
The Wandsworth manager: Interesting boozer with a seven per cent beer called Black Jesus, not for the faint-hearted, no-one manned up. I was given serious grief for drinking from a bottle. In hindsight I wish I had stuck to these.
The Porcupine sits halfway up Charing Cross Road in a swirl of tourism. Refraining from any jokes about the place being a bit pokey or full of pricks, more crawlers found themselves necking pints of ice cold, gassy lager because of the 50p coin dropped into the bottom.
Her Maj: The cause of much necking
Being part of the Nicholson’s chain, the décor goes for the ‘Olde London like Jack the Ripper used to take a drink there guv’nor’ that few of that pub franchise manage to pull off. The Porcupine is no exception.
Crawler comments
Sutcliffe: Dull, touristy, but a reliable watering hole
Dazza: I think the Still Don’t Know Yet manager 50p’d me in there. I managed to pass it on to Martin’s mate. Sutcliffe has a photo of him holding the 50p. Sutcliffe got rather excited as it was really in focus!
The Wandsworth manager: Another 50p in play, goosed! Here starts the slippery slope, besides that not a bad boozer.
Bradleys Spanish Bar: No room inside, mild bedlam outside
This bar’s website has a whole section dedicated to their ‘pride and joy and centrepiece’ – a jukebox that plays vinyl. As they crammed into the tiny bar area of Bradleys five pints down, many crawlers were rebuked by staff for knocking into the music box and causing it to skip.
Retreating outside to the quiet street just behind Tottenham Court Road station, a pint of Cruzcampo became the first casualty of the day when it smashed into the pavement.
This is a great bar, if you’re one of the five people in it.
Crawler comments
Sutcliffe: Nice Spanish back street bar. I imagine it has character but I was getting too pissed to remember at this stage. I remember Dazza getting shouted at for repeatedly bumping into the vinyl jukebox. Someone dropped their pint. I think we disgraced ourselves.
Dazza: Wasn’t this one the Spanish bar? Really small. I fell against the jukebox and skipped the track which the locals didn’t like. Someone dropped a glass outside so I’m sure the regulars loved us frequenting their dark pit of a bar.
The Wandsworth manager: Classic “don’t touch the f*cking jukbox” I believe was heard as someone again made the record jump. First breakage of the night and 50ps flying round all over the place.
The Rising Sun: Costume cobwebs were the day’s consistent eyesore
Calls throughout the day to watch the football were briefly met when crawlers filed into a packed Rising Sun. Several large screens high up on the walls of this airy pub transmitted events from Ashburton Grove to a sea of upturned faces.
Crawler comments
Sutcliffe: Don’t remember this one. I think Dazza didn’t come in due to mounting drunkeness.
Dazza: Really crowded. Much bigger bar. Lots of sport on TV. Took me ages to find the toilets (which were right by the front door). Getting seriously pissed. Eyesight starting to blur.
The Wandsworth manager: Aresnal were on, the beer was a flowing and it was starting to get a little bit messy. Very windy outside.
The Prince of Wales Feathers: Alcoholism, unmasked
The third and final pub of the day named after Welsh royalty, the Prince of Wales Feathers is an expansive place. It was still early in the evening and the party largely had the floor to themselves. Finding themselves ahead of schedule, everyone had a second drink.
It was there that the Young Boys manager paid for an ill-advised wager on Australia to beat England at rugby that afternoon. As an Englishman, there are few better sights than a Welshman having to down a glass of pink gin because your country won a match they shouldn’t have due to a controversial refereeing decision that infuriates Australians.
Crawler comments
Sutcliffe: Posh and polished but I don’t remember any character. I do remember Dazza having to sit this one out and walk up and down the street outside to try and avoid throwing up. I was talking to him with the aid of a doorway’s support when I was subtly informed by the owner of the flat above to stop ringing his doorbell with my shoulder. Someone wussed out (Martin?) and bought themselves a cup of tea instead of beer. £3.75 for a cup of tea, £4 for a pint of Peroni.
Dazza: Can’t remember much about this one. Really drunk. Had to take a breather outside.
The Wandsworth manager: My usual piss stop on the way home, so good to have a pint in it for a change (the pub not the…). I believe that Barry White made an appearance here. It would have been a good idea to get some food in at this point.
On the other side of Euston Road, the Crown and Anchor offers a pleasant bar area. Apparently the place does good food, but if in Drummond Street it’s better to try one of its amazing traditional Indian restaurants.
Dazza: I wandered off somewhere when we got to this pub. Managed to find my way back before everyone left. The Pirate joined us here I think, looking like Marty McFly with his life preserver.
The Wandsworth manager: Well, I remember walking up from Warren Street, even looking at street view things aren’t that clear. Did we pick up the Pirate at this point?
The Lyttelton Arms: “Whoa! Take it easy on the jig there, Dazza”
A key lesson learned from the number 38 bus route pub crawl was that minimal time between pubs leads to shaky decision making later in the evening. By walking between each boozer, crawlers are given adequate opportunity to take some air and regulate their intake. The tactic was paying dividends at this point in the night. Except that no one remembers what happened in the Lyttelton.
Crawler comments
Sutcliffe: …
Dazza: Sobered up a bit here. Didn’t take much notice of the pub. Crap report. Hit the lemonades!
The Wandsworth manager: Erm…not sure if I made this one, no memories….hhmmmmm.
Massive. Absolutely massive pub in the epicentre of Camden. Heavy metal blared as crawlers entered the final drinker. Memories are dim, but there really was all sorts in this place. And it smelled.
Crawler comments
Sutcliffe: Can’t remember this one at all but it must have been dull because I didn’t even take a photo.
Dazza: Gothic overload. Couldn’t tell who was dressed in their usual night gear and who was dressed for Halloween.
The crawl had finished way ahead of schedule and presented the central committee with dilemma. Follow the Edgware line to the superb Enterprise in Chalk Farm or the High Barnet line to The Abbey in Kentish Town where Sutcliffe’s mates were having a party? The bearded wonder successfully pushed for the latter and the crowd traipsed up Kentish Town Road for shooters and dancing.
Crawler comments
Sutcliffe: Bonus extra pub to join my friend’s birthday party. After the initial setback of Lady Norman farting (which cleared the room) and then blaming it on me, I warmed to this place. I vaguely remember someone losing a jacket and some very over the top Halloween costumes but I was quite far gone now. The chicken kebab in New Cross Gate made the long slog home worth it.
Dazza: Was this the bonus pub? Lady Norman lost her coat and Tim farted, which caused the back room to clear and many disgruntled people.
The Wandsworth manager: Vague recollections of dancing with the Pirate and attempting to chat to anything with boobs, skirt and a pulse.
Conclusion
Having organised three London transport-themed pub crawls in 12 months, the central committee patted themselves on the back at how simple and entertaining the Charing Cross branch event had been. Everyone was in good spirits, the crawl had finished way head of time and even the weather held out.
But there was something missing, and it wasn’t until the hangover had finally subsided a couple of days later that it became apparent. Blunder, or the lack of it, hadn’t visited itself on anyone. Nothing went wrong. No one truly disgraced themselves. No peculiar locals sharpened their pitchforks. The whole crawl was as functional and unobtrusive as most of the taverns visited. Even Sutcliffe lost interest in taking photos by the end.
Plans are afoot for a crawl of the Croydon tramlink in spring. The central committee can only hope the locale throws a few curved balls. Perhaps dropping into the New Addington pub where an infamous regular once turned up with a machete would be a start.
Cup rules were amended by Kenna HQ at the beginning of last season so that goals scored rather than points would decide the result between two opposing teams.
The new arrangements made it easier for managers to follow their team’s progress over the weekend. At the time the move was widely praised in the media as a masterstroke of the chairman’s administrative acumen.
The Young Boys manager, who didn’t enter last term’s Kenna for suspicious reasons thought to be counter-revolutionary, said: “This is ridiculous. When did this rule change? What a joke changing it to goals. What’s next? Why don’t we have a cup based on assists or clean sheets or yellow cards?
“This is symptomatic of a Kenna leadership which becomes more and more authoritarian with every season. He treats the league like his own personal fiefdom, making up rules to suit his team whenever it suits and punishing managers on a whim. Why do you think he founded the manager experiences department? It’s just a pseudo secret police unit to use as a means to control the docile management in the league.”
Reacting to the defamatory and provocative comments made by the Young Boys manager, the chairman retained the munificence and wisdom that has so often been characteristic of his time in office.
He said: “The Young Boys manager is free to air his views about cup regulations and I would be very keen to hear his thoughts face to face. I’ve arranged for representatives from our manager experiences department to collect the manager from his home and bring him here for questioni….further dialogue.”
Concussed: “Everyone stop a minute. Just tell me again what I’m doing here?” (photo courtesy of York Vision)
HUGO Lloris may still be struggling to remember his daughter’s name and feeding his cat drawing pins after Sunday’s knock to the head, but the clean sheet means he’s made it into the Kenna team of the season so far.
Unusually for a Frenchman, the FC Testiculadew goalkeeper represents one of the best value for money of the eleven over performers, scoring 45 points for his £500k auction price tag.
Yaya Toure is the most cost-effective purchase with 57 points for his £500k. Alongside Leighton Baines, the Ivorian midfielder is one of two players featuring for league leaders Headless Chickens.
Defenders Dejan Lovren (Team Panda Rules OK) and Winston Reid (Dulwich Red Sox) are the season’s surprise packages, notching up a combined 94 points for £17m.
Like Reid, St Reatham FC‘s Kyle Walker also scored 44 points but missed out on selection due to his larger £17m signing fee.
Sergio Aguero (KS West Green) is so far repaying his manager’s £39m with 73 points. The player of the week is also the league’s top scorer.
Kenna team of the season so far
Points: 551
Value: £170m
Goalkeeper Hugo Lloris (£0.5m) – FC Testiculadew – 45
Defenders Dejan Lovren (£8.5m) – Team Panda Rules OK – 50
Leighton Baines (£17m) – Headless Chickens – 49
Jan Vertonghen (£7m) – Northern Monkeys – 45
Winston Reid (£8.5m) – Dulwich Red Sox – 44
Slim: Mo Farah has dismissed the chances of rival London Somali immigrant the Spartak Mogadishu manager retaining the cup (photo courtesy of Sean Hinks)
MO FARAH has launched a scathing attack on Spartak Mogadihu’s chances of defending their title in the Kenna cup contest.
“Yarrrrr! If ye be askin’ me, ye chance o’ that lily-livered scoundrel in ye thrush goblet be shipwrecked. Lallana apart, the rest o’ his side be a shower,” said Farah from next to his gold postbox in Teddington, south west London.
Many pundits have agreed with Farah’s assessment. Even after making changes at the transfer window the Spartak boss has struggled to get the best out of his team, which this week slipped into the relegation zone.
In Northern Monkeys the Somali manager will have an easy enough opening group C stage fixture this weekend, but tougher challenges await, particularly in the form of Headless Chickens, who maintain their place at the top of the Kenna table.
Responding to Farah’s comments outside the club’s Spyglass Hill training facility, the Spartak Mogadishu manager said: “Ye addled scurvy dog should be comin’ out from behind ‘is gold postbox an’ sayin’ ‘is words to me fore. I be makin’ ‘ee kiss the gunner’s daughter an’ no mistake! Yarrrrrr!”
The weekend cup action kicks off a schedule of five group games to be played over the next three months (5 November, 26 November, 10 December, 7 January and 21 January).
On each cup weekend Kenna teams will compete head to head to score the most goals, with three points awarded to the winner and one apiece if they draw.
The top four teams from each group will go through to the knockout phase, playing two legs in the last 16 in February, quarter finals in March, semi finals in April and the final taking place on the last day of the league season.
Reflection: The Young Boys manager stressed the importance of grooming teenagers (photo courtesy of Paul Walsh)
THE YOUNG Boys of Vauxhall manager has welcomed plans allowing teenagers to make their Facebook profile public.
Campaigners claim the changes to privacy settings will encourage cyberbullying and unsavoury interest from adults, but the Young Boys boss is convinced the added scouting potential will increase his team’s chances of identifying football talent and improve their chances of winning a second Kenna title.
The Welsh manager needs all the help he can get this season after suffering a catastrophe at the first transfer window earlier this month, despite signing in-form Andros Townsend.
He absentmindedly bought too many midfielders and fell foul of the Titus Bramble ruling. The team’s best midfielder was removed by the league and replaced by Operation Yewtree suspect Rolf Harris as a forfeit.
A tactic to raise quick cash by selling Vincent Kompany also backfired when only £5m was paid for the Belgian by fellow strugglers St Reatham FC.
The Young Boys had to settle for an injured Martin De Michelis as replacement. The Argentine defender joins Harris, Townsend, Nathan Redmond and Sone Aluko as new signings at the club, which failed to climb above 18th place in the weekend back from the international break.
The Young Boys manager remains upbeat. He said: “Everyone knows that the secret to future success is to groom the best talent from an early age. These Facebook changes to teenage privacy settings will let us target boys as young as 13 – a key age in their development both as footballers and people.
“Some parents can be a little overprotective of their children at this age, but they shouldn’t be concerned. Here at the club we regularly help our youngest, most impressionable players to escape distractions and focus on their game. It’s just me, Rolf Harris and 10 Young Boys in a flat in Vauxhall. What could possibly be untoward about that?”
Norwich: “Think about it. No one had ever heard of Oxford before Inspector Morse. I mean, this could really put Norwich on the map.”
THREE days, two cyclists, one master of light entertainment.
With the summer fading fast Sutcliffe and I decided to finally get our act together and organise a cycling tour.
The Normandy landing beaches were too much to arrange in a week, so we went for something a lot more achievable: Norfolk, the home of Alan Partridge.
On Friday 6 September we found ourselves on a train from London Liverpool Street to Norwich mid-morning. Matters of accommodation and route had been taken care of by Sutcliffe.
We would take in the Norfolk countryside so eulogised by the fictional broadcaster, as well as a couple sights made famous by his work.
The account below will hopefully provide some useful advice to anyone planning a cycle trip in north Norfolk. It also contains references to Alan Partridge.
Having taken a few minutes outside Norwich rail station to inspect a map showing the extent of the city centre’s pedestrianisation, we set off heading north on the A140. I was on my Trek 1 Series road bike, Sutcliffe his mountain bike with slick tyres.
Just after passing Norwich Airport we bared left onto the B1149, going six miles past Horsford before turning right towards Oulton Street.
Three miles, a right and a left turn later we arrived outside Blickling Hall, or as Alan Partridge once tried to convince his Ukranian girlfriend, Bono’s house.
Blickland Hall: “This is Bono’s house, eureka. Those spiky trees I think are Joshua Trees.”
The Bucks Arms next door served adequate sandwiches – the bread was a little dry – and a good pint of Aspall cider. Or two.
Fed and watered we took in the National Trust property which boasts “the biggest collection of hatchbacks in the country” and “the sort of dog the Nazi’s used to chase Steve McQueen”.
We were still taking photos and worrying other visitors when it started to rain. Continuing north we went through Erpingham, Aldborough and Suested.
There is plenty of woodland here, and it was wet going in the narrow lanes as the raindrops dripped from the leaves above. By the time we got to Metton we were soaked.
A brief consultation in the pouring rain led to the decision to forego a visit to Cromer Pier, scene of the epic finale of Alpha Papa, and head straight to the youth hostel Sutcliffe had booked in Sheringham.
A soggy climb up through Great Wood vindicated the choice.
Sheringham: “Youth hostelling with Chris Eubank.”
Pubs in Sheringham
Asking where was good to go in Sheringham at the counter in the youth hostel, the man behind it proudly informed us there were fishermen on the coast who couldn’t read or write. The enquiry was modified to include pubs.
It’s been a long-held view that seaside towns produce the worst pubs because they don’t need to produce good ones. When it’s sunny and everyone’s on holiday they’ll drink anywhere. Unfortunately we discovered this to be true of Sheringham.
The public bar in recent CAMRA winner the Windham Arms was the scene for first pint of the evening where there was a good range of beers and an excitable group of tradesmen playing pool.
Pint number two was in The Lobster, a pub more tourist-friendly but insipid. The Two Lifeboats on the seafront gave views of the sea, but the beer, the interior and the food all felt like it was assembled, fittingly, by Allen key.
We stopped into the Robin Hood for a nightcap on the way back – plenty of memorabilia on the walls, but like every other pub we visited lacked Friday-night zing.
Back at the hostel it turned out we were sharing the dormitory with a middle-aged man who spoke very passionately about welding. Sleep came in no time.
Don’t take the croissant option for breakfast at Sheringham youth hostel. Just don’t.
Sheringham: “Minor criticism – the egg and the beans were too close together. They can mix, but I want that to be my decision. Use a sausage as a breakwater.”
A seven on ten fry up and a bright, sunny morning were an excellent start to day two.
Before leaving town I popped into the brilliantly-named Fudgetastic to pick up a present for the war office – whose indifference towards to middle-distance cycling is dwarfed only by her indifference towards Alan Partridge.
It turned out the friendly lady in the fudge shop was a huge Partridge fan. Apparently some of the cast of Alpha Papa stopped by after filming had finished at Cromer and she’d met Sean Pertwee. I got the impression she’d wanted to do a lot more than sell him fudge.
Setting off at 10am west along the A149 we reached Weybourne after three miles up and down along small rolling gradients.
Just after Weybourne is The Muckleburgh Collection, a private museum of tanks and other military hardware. With quite a few miles to cover that day, we decided not to part with the £8 entry fee and settled for a peek through the fence.
This was fortunate. Sutcliffe gets a bit intense around tanks…
At Kelling we bared left onto Wood Lane and climbed up to join a national cycle route. It was around six miles from Sheringham I realised my waterproof jacket was still in the youth hostel drying room.
Rather than add 12 miles to my day while Sutcliffe gloated and dozed in a hedgerow I decided to get them to post it to me later (which they did). Anyway, the weather showed no signs of rain…
We passed through Wiveton, Langham, Binham, stopped for some Terry’s Chocolate Orange on the River Stiffkey at Warham and headed into Wells-Next-The-Sea.
Warham: “You might find some superficial damage to the box, but the chocolate’s perfectly edible. I’ve given them to all the ladies I know aged fifty and under. Over fifty just seems sarcastic.”
The rest of the coast may have gone into hibernation for the winter, but Wells was alive with tourists.
On the sea front we stopped at The Golden Fleece for refreshment. It was Sutcliffe’s round so I didn’t really see the inside. It gave the impression of being a bit ‘dog on a string’. Sutcliffe quite liked it.
An aperitif later we decided to dine on the Albatross, a pub pancake Dutch boat moored at the quay. It was full of families and the crepes took 45 minutes to arrive. Sutcliffe seethed and I lost count of the number of times he used the phrase ‘sh1tting out kids’.
After lunch we took the tourist cycle route around Pinewood Holiday Park, which boasted many static homes but to the ear no air bass being played.
The ‘cycle’ route became very sandy. It would be inadvisable to attempt this on a road bike. Even Sutcliffe’s mountain bike struggled.
Back on tarmac, we took the A149 to Burnham Overy Staithe rather than the more well-cycled route through Holkham Hall because Sutcliffe wanted to revisit the holiday cottage of his youth. One flashback to his first experience with an older man later, we turned left up to Burnham Market.
Most of the local folk we’d met in Norfolk had been friendly, helpful and even glad to see us. The women in the shop in Burnham where we stopped to get ice cream had such appalling customer skills it felt like we hadn’t given her a much-hoped-for second series.
The weather was fresh and sunny for most of the day, but somewhere along Burnham Road near Cresent Wood the heavens opened.
Crescent Wood: “It’s funnier than rain!”
Having brought two waterproofs with him, Sutcliffe was overjoyed as I pulled on his budget poncho. We took refuge in a hedgerow for 10 minutes as the shower passed over.
Needless to say, I didn’t have the last laugh.
At Ringstead we turned right and having nearly completing the day’s ride stopped at a cafe by the lighthouse in Old Hunstanton for tea and cake. In Hunstanton we checked in to the youth hostel and hit town.
Pubs in Hunstanton
Hunstanton: “How long did you put that in for Lynn? It’s hotter than the sun!”
Yet further evidence to prove the ‘seaside town pubs are rubbish’ theory was to be found here.
We started with a pint in Waterside Bar which was full of all sorts of human life clinging on to the summer season. The pub did offer a good view from Hunstanton’s west-facing coast and the sunset.
Feeling peckish we dined in Fishers of Hunstanton – a fully-licensed fish and chip shop – for a mountain of tasty food and bottled Peroni. It being the interval, we washed down dinner with a couple of drinks at the Princess Theatre bar nearby before heading over the green to the Golden Lion Hotel.
Hunstanton: “Which is the worst monger? Fish, iron, rumour or war?”
Sitting amongst the retirees in the hotel bar, we were quietly enjoying that most precious commodity in Norfolk, free wifi, when an unusual noise came from behind Sutcliffe which for once didn’t originate from his alimentary canal.
The only other time I had heard the metallic, vibrating sound was during an episode of Alan Partridge when he meets the Hamilton’s Water Breaks video production team in the bar the night before filming.
I surpressed a few moments of inner mirth as it dawned on us that a man was using an electrolarynx. He left with his wife before we had a chance to offer him a pint of lager, a G&T and a Baileys.
Having not stayed in a British youth hostel since a school trip to Stone Henge, by Sunday morning I made some curious observations of that particular accommodation.
Youth hostels in Latin America and south east Asia, likely due to climate in those regions, are full of dark, exotic, young people, bright eyed and smiling. As ready to swig the local jungle juice as buy a pillow case full of marijuanua from friendly locals.
From the available evidence in Norfolk, the inhabitants of English hostels share the same wide eyes, but it’s more of a fixed stare, growing more vacant as drops of rain gather on the windows.
In place of bikinis, ethnic jewellery and ‘holas‘ are Berghaus jackets, Ordnance Survey maps and awkward social skills. Sutcliffe was in his element.
Sandringham: “You took that on the bus? Sonja, anyone who knows us might have thought it was me inside there. Me wearing a bear costume. They’d think I’d lost it again.”
After crushing Sutcliffe’s morale over 18 holes at Blackbeard’s Adventure Golf, we followed the A149 south (Lynn Road) for a couple of miles before turning left at the Norfolk Lavender Centre.
A brief push uphill to Sedgeford and we rejoined the national cycle route through Ingoldisthorpe, on to Sandringham House. We stopped to get our picture taken with an oversized squirrel.
The cycle route struck through a forest before hitting the A149, or a tarmac way parallel to the main road. Peeling off right the last few miles went through the quaint village of Castle Rising before the suburbs of King’s Lynn and the train station. We hadn’t seen a single BP petrol station in three days.
King’s Lynn: “Jet from Gladiators to host a millennium barn dance at Yeovil Aerodrome. Properly policed, it must not, repeat not, turn into an all-night rave.”
Pubs in King’s Lynn
Enjoying status as an historic port, strategic coastal town and the birthplace of Alan Partridge, I always thought King’s Lynn would be a classy, Cheltenham-on-sea type of place. I was to be heavily disappointed.
Our chief concern was to find a good pub for lunch to celebrate the completion of our tour. Even with technology at our fingertips this was an impossible task.
Upon request a chubby policeman on duty in the pedestrianised town centre suggested Weatherspoons. The sun has certainly set on King’s Lynn’s glory days.
We decided to try the Crown and Mitre next to the River Ouse. Aside from the interesting pint of obsucre German lager, a poor choice. We weren’t from around those parts.
King’s Lynn: “You feed beefburgers to swans.”
And so we fell into the beer garden at The Globe, a Weatherspoons pub bursting with the living wage and all the finesse of turning up to a funeral in a Castrol GTX bomber jacket.
Two beers and a burger later, with the theme tune from Black Beauty in our ears we returned to the station to bring our stay in Norfolk to a close.
For those thinking right now that a visit to Blickland Hall and a weekend cycling round Norfolk hardly constitutes a ‘Tour de Partridge’, I’ll leave you with the words of Alan himself: “You could try Watchdog, but I think they’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
Coming round he knew he had at least broken a rib. His shoulders ached too and he could feel his wrists burning behind his back. The cold concrete pressed against his cheek, the throbbing in his ankles. He was bound to a chair, upturned so that he was lying on the floor in a sitting position. His head hurt.
As the synapses of his mind came to terms with the situation his heart pounded in his chest. Why was this happening? He tried to think back to his last memory but his mind was ablaze and it just made the pain in his head even worse. He opened his eyes.
A wall. Cold and unforgiving like the floor on his face. Mouth dry, except the blood, his blood, he could taste. Blood and, was that turrón? It hadn’t been long since he’d last snacked.
Minutes passed. He cast his mind back over the evening. He was on a business trip in Boston. The flight from London was pleasant. It was on the firm. The conference had been work, but interesting, and there were some good people, with chat and laughs and company credit cards behind the bar.
That seemed like another era now. It smelt of damp and there were no windows so he assumed he was in cellar or basement or whatever English speakers called them. The light was dim so guessed it came from a single, low watt bulb somewhere behind him. He tried to move but immediately whatever bound him cut into wrists and ankles. He wondered if he’d ever see Mornington Crescent again.
Slowly moving his head around to try and see what was behind him he froze with fear. Standing right there was a silent person looking down. The silhouette of the light kept the stranger’s face in darkness, but he could make out an athletic figure and the glint of a knuckleduster.
“Where am I?” he began to demand, but his mouth and throat were so dry he choked on the words.
The shadowy figure took a step back and the creak suggested he’d taken a seat on a table, saying nothing.
“What do you want from me? I have money. Take it. Just please let me go. I haven’t done anything. I don’t know who you are,” the adrenalin was firing now and the pain all over his body numbed a little as he pleaded. The stranger was unmoved.
“People know I’m here. When I don’t turn up tomorrow questions will be asked. They’ll come looking for me. I was the website’s top salesman last year. I’m a big deal. It’ll be reported back to Spanish embassy. You’ll be in big trouble,” the last threat was a bluff, no Castilian diplomat would ever concern himself with a missing Catalan, but he had to try something to get this man to talk. The suspense was killing him.
The stranger took a deep breath. “How are PSV Mornington getting on?” he asked in a southern drawl. He may have been asking the time.
“PSV? My football team?” he spluttered. Whoever the American was he was well briefed.
“Only I heard you weren’t faring too well this season,” said the American. Texas. That was the accent.
“Well, the season is only just beginning. Gutierrez and Cazorla are returning from injury, and Charles N’Zogbia will surely find form soon,” this was surreal, under the circumstances the last thing he expected to be explaining away was his team’s lack of creative spark in midfield.
“You didn’t feel you could improve your team?” said the Texan.
Panic. Blind panic like he’d never experienced before gripped his whole body. The tensed muscles pinched his broken rib and he let out a small gasp. A tear formed in his eye.
“Because if my team was bottom of the Kenna League,” continued the sinister stranger, “I would probably make changes at the first available opportunity. I would at least front up to wear the Bramble jersey.”
He knew only too well where this was going and the outlook wasn’t good. It was clear this American was acting on behalf of Kenna HQ. Rumours were everywhere of the ruthlessness of the league’s manager experiences department. Stories of players mysteriously disappearing in the night from team hotels or managers returning home to find the family pet nailed to the floor were far from uncommon.
“Okay, okay, I know I missed the transfer window. It’s just, I felt I couldn’t improve the team and this trip took priority. And I didn’t want to face the shame of wearing the Bramble jersey,” he admitted.
“I may have to teach you something about priorities,” said the Texan and with that knelt down behind the chair.
There was a swish of movement. The stranger grabbed his head with one hand and with the other used a pair of pliers to take hold of the manager’s front tooth.
“No! No!” screamed the PSV manager into the American’s tool. Tears were rolling onto the concrete.
“Where will you be for the February transfer window?” demanded his interrogator.
“I think I’m due to speak at a dinner for Catalans UK,” the American took firmer grip of his head. “No, no wait! I’ll be at the window. I promise, I’ll be at the window!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, absolutely. I’ll be at every Kenna event from now on. I promise,” he pleaded.
The Texan maintained the position in silence for 30 seconds or so, as the manager felt the cold steel of the pliers in his mouth and a warm sensation fill his trousers.
“You see that you do. These bruises will heal, but a missing tooth, that’s a lot of work for your dentist. Don’t go to the police. You were never here, chorizo boy.”
With that, the Texan released his tooth, quickly cut the ropes around his wrists and left the room with an aplomb the PSV manager thought he recognised from the football pitch.
Just before he passed out from the pain and the shock, he caught a glimpse of the stranger’s face in the dim light of the bulb.
THE KENNA League is only 17 per cent English, according to Jack Wilshere.
Only four managers come from below the Watford Gap to qualify as English under the midfielder’s nationality test.
The largest portion of managers, 52 per cent, fail to meet Wilshere’s English test point blank as they hail from ‘the Norf’.
Another 13 per cent of managers who come from Wales were dismissed as ‘facking sheep shaggers’.
Of the rest of the league 13 per cent are Catalan – or in Wilshere’s opinion ‘facking Spanish in’it, sangria cants’ – and four per cent Somali.
Wilshere, who is currently signed for Kenna outfit Judean Peoples’ Front, said: “It’s a facking disgrace all these Johnny Foreigners comin’ over here with a soppy bollocks brand of football. If it were up to me we’d put ’em all on the banana boat they came here on and send the buggers ‘ome.
“I don’t trust these Spanish. I heard they eat their tea at midnight. What the fack is that about? That’s over six hours after you’re s’pose to. And I mean seriously, a Somali? In London? Who does ‘e think ‘e is? Mo bleedin’ Farah? I actually quite respect Mo for ‘is runnin’ and stuff, although if me daughter brought ‘im home that would be a different facking story.”
Jack Wilshere’s English test includes eating pie and mash, smoking ‘Silk facking Cat’ and walking like ‘a bit of a geezer’.
