THE ‘’WHAT CAN POSSIBLY GO WRONG TOUR’’
It’s that time again. The time when we kiss our loved ones goodbye as we embark on another 48 plus hours of drinking, dancing, carousing….oh, and a bit of rugby. Well, actually it is all about rugby, bonding with your team mates, discussing tactics and the direction the Club is going. The drinking, dancing and carousing mere incidentals.
So with those last loved- ones’ instructions ringing in our ears – ‘Be careful’….’Try not to drink too much’….’Try not get arrested’……the boys begin to assemble at Swanswood. Tour Supremo, Andrew Carslaw, has laid out the splendid Tour shirts, Kelly and Rian have laid out the splendid bacon butties and Tony and Paula are raedy behind the bar, pumps primed as they say, to begin breakfast.
One by one, the Tourists being to filter through the door, resplendent in their Number 1’s – well, some are resplendent in other costumes. Jeff in his usual smoking jacket, dapper as Hong Kong Phooey, whilst Mark is dressed in his usual Leprechaun outfit. Why Leprechaun? He’s not Irish, certainly not magic. Ah, it’s the size thing. I gotcha. New boy, Kieron, is a skinhead, complete with Superman shirt. Superskin? Padge looking like a stable lad – that’s stable as in the equine sense, not the mental state. Far from it. Deano can always be relied on to trump everyone, and he arrives dressed as Pope Unpious the First – spectacular. Apparently getting funny looks when filling the car with diesel. But wait. What’s this apparition coming across the car park? It’s not one, not two but three Oompah Loompahs – Chris, Lee and Tom – faces as orange as Tom’s barnet. Then one of our more senior Tourists – Diggers – has entered into the spirit and arrives dressed as Rambo with a string vest – ah, wait a minute – it’s Rab C. Staples. I see it now.
It’s Breakfast Time. Bacon baps (shouldn’t there be a comma there ?) and beer. The BBB Breakfast. Keep yer kellogg’s K. This is what they want.
Coach time. The fags load up – bags on the coach that is and we file on board a rather splendid new coach. Mark the Driver looks a tad wary but we assure him we have three rules on Tour. Never Spoil The Coach. Never Spoil The Hotel. And WGOTSOT. Little does he realise that within a few short hours he is contemplating professional suicide. But more of that later.
After all, What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
Seats are filled in the traditional way. Old Farts towards the front, gradually dropping in age towards the rear – not necessarily in physiological terms, more mentally in some cases, until we arrive at Dave’s Dark Den - the rear seat. And so the coach leaves making a pleasant detour through downtown Vigo before embarking on the long journey to our destination. Long? Well, if there are problems we can always walk home. Or get a taxi. Not far to Newbury. Probably only costs about a ton to get from Newbury home. But who would want to get a taxi home from a Vigo Tour? Never gonna happen.
Anyway, the first stop is about ten minutes into our journey (seemingly) so the lads can refuel with their chosen nourishment – Burger King, Kentucky Fried Road Kill or David Cameron’s favourite – Cornish pasty. Naturally, Brent the Physio opts for the healthy option – salad. Back on the coach – Pilchard even finds his way back this year – probably got GPS tracking on his phone . In flight entertainment is that classic thriller – The Goonies – followed by the usual training film as our destination gets ever closer.
But first, more refuelling for the lads. The chosen hostelry is The Rising Sun, Woolhampton. The charming Jenna & Carly struggle to cope with the coachload, and all too soon, utter the dreaded words. ‘’Sorry, lads, no more Guinness’’. Aghast, the party troop back on the coach and a couple of minutes down the road, we find The Plough at Thatcham. The most delightful landlady, a Thai lady, welcomes the party and soon, the locals are being entertained by Deano, still dressed as the Pope. Beer flows readily, so readily in fact that one of the younger members of the party suddenly takes a shine to one of the locals of the female persuasion. I have to say that she is rather similar in looks to the legendary Gummy Nelly of Nottingham, who , allegedly, looked after the University students back in the seventies, but I digress. Suffice it to say that our local lass looked as if she needed to visit the local National Health dentist and spend a few thousand on new choppers. But did this deter our intrepid young hero? Nay, nay, thrice nay, as he indulged in a short (but sweet) game of tonsil hockey before sadly being summoned backj to the coach.
Just a short way to Newbury, we were informed by Tour Chief Carslaw. I mean , what could possibly go wrong now? I mean, just imagine that the built –in breathalyser should read that the driver had been drinking and immobilised the coach. Can’t happen, Mark the Driver hasn’t touched a drop. Unfortunately, the accumulative effect of 40 odd tourists breathing out a miasma of beery fumes sent the breathalyser bonkers, and the engine refused to start. The result was another coach was summoned whilst an engineer immobilised the breathalyser, a delay of two hours.
So back to the Plough and more of the excellent Dr Hexter’s Healer, a local brew. Our President, using his legendary charm, persuaded the landlady to provide a tray or three of samosas and spring rolls, a much lauded move. Our young lothario attempted to recapture the magic of his first visit with Toothless Tanya, but , alas, she was decidedly cooler so he opted for a quick kip against the wall instead. Eventually, a replacement coach arrived and we all trooped back on board, by now, slightly even worse for wear. The replacement driver was of a less cheerful character than our beloved Mark and was soon bemoaning the state of his coach as the last crumbs of samosas and spring rolls were sprayed around.
And thus, the intrepid tourists arrived at The Chequers, Newbury, a very pleasant hostelry just off the main street. Within minutes, apparently, several members had posted pictures of their rooms on Facebook, so enamoured of the facilities were they. As we gathered in the bar before venturing forth to sample the delights of Newbury, our two coaches arrived. No, not the vehicular coaches, rather the rugby coaches, Robbo and Elliot. So excited was Robbo, that he found it necessary to divest himself of all his clothes and run into the bar. The Manageress was, shall we say, less excited and was soon uttering threats that the whole party would be ejected if such an occurrence were to happen again.
So the bars and pubs of Newbury were inspected by all and sundry and found to be rather amenable. There seemed to be something for everyone, bars with music, bars with grass floors, bars with young, nubile locals – and, indeed, not so nubile, it has to be said. Even, reputedly, a gay bar!! Needless to say, Pilchard was soon finding it necessary to challenge a 23 stone, 6’ 5’’ bouncer to a spot of unarmed combat, as is his wont. In fact, so impressed was another of our youngsters that he, too, decided to follow his example. Fortunately, wiser souls were on hand to drag the two miscreants away before they were introduced to Reading General. Thus, the evening proceeded to pass, if not sedately, then rather raucously.
Needless to say, we shall draw a veil over the proceedings of the evening. After all, WGOTSOT. Allegedly.
And what could possibly go wrong? Apart that is from the Mystery Cab Home, when one of our newest signings decided that he missed his poor old Ma so much he leapt into a taxi, and demanded the startled cabbie to ‘’Take me home’’ and promptly passed out, to be shaken awake……… in Sidcup – an hour or so later and a few bob lighter. Of course, ‘home’ meant the temporary residence of our hero – The Chequers’, just a mile or so from his last watering hole, but how was the poor cabbie to know that?
Naturally, the tales of the previous evening began to unfold round the breakfast table. Ah, breakfast, advertised as a buffet Full English Breakfast, one of the highlights of a hotel stay. I mean, what could possibly go wrong with a Full English? Well, I suppose if the first thirty hungry (and a tad hungover) tourists ate their usual quota, which is roughly enough food to keep a typical African township in victuals for about three months, leaving nothing for the last twenty to arrive at the breakfast table, then there might be a tiny bout of whining and whingeing. In fact, the whining and whingeing became a tad shrill, and to their credit, the hotel staff came up with some more plates of food for the latecomers. (Next day, however, armed guards were posted at the buffet, enforcing the rules – one tomato, one rasher, one sausage, etc etc. Poor old Pete nearly fainted from starvation.)
Court, under the beady gaze of Hanging Judge Oliver, was called and the tales of the evening unfolded. Naturally, the victim of the Mystery Cab Home was fined heavily in absentia for deserting his comrades. Callum Brice was called to the witness box to explain how he thought he could get away with borrowing Jeff Smith’s driving licence as proof of his age to enter a club. When you see that Callum looks about 13, who probably needs to shop in Mothercare for clothes and is ginger too, it comes as no surprise to discover that the driving licence was confiscated and Callum (and Jeff too) were threatened with swingeing penalties for attempted deception, fraud and general foolishness.
The late Breakfasteers were punished for eating breakfast during Court Proceedings and were forced to eat a further breakfast. Unfortunately, the extra breakfast was of the Cow & Gate baby food variety, which didn’t necessarily agree with the digestive tracts of our heroes, and the window was quickly opened as one after another voided their stomachs of a mixture of stale ale, greasy breakfast and Cow & Gate Delicious Apricot and Rice Pudding. Hold on to the thought of this growing pool of vomit beneath the window. More will be revealed at a later date.
One of our newer signings was fined for attempting to hire Wilf to look after him. As it was felt that Wilf would have trouble looking after himself, it was decided that Kieron was guilty of Criminal Foolishness. Toby Skinner was called up for attempting to pay a £2 Spoon Club fine by cheque. However, Dave Dunn , Defence Counsel, managed to get his client off with a brilliant defence strategy. As this was Dave’s first successful defence in three years, everyone got so excited that they completely forgot the successful strategy, which was a shame, so historic the occasion. David was, for once, left speechless by his stunning success and promptly retired whilst at the top.
Apparently, one of the pubs had a punchball machine, which fought back against Luke Vint, and won by a TKO. Whilst the average score was about 500, Pete – quite possibly the best prop in the world – managed about 12. Court proceedings were interrupted by one of the Colts retching out of the window, obviously just remembering his escapades with Toothless Tania from the day previously, and adding to the pile of foreign matter beneath the window. (Don’t forget this growing morass. It will all become clear later ( not the pool of puke, the explanation). A private prosecution was brought against Chief Snitch Graham Smith, a man who makes Lavrentiy Beria look like a pussy. Our President, Nigel, had brought on tour a radio controlled rat – or Siberian Hamster, as Paget would have it – and was amusing all and sundry by letting the little blighter run round various bars and pubs to the consternation of the denizens of said bars and pubs. It all became too much for Jock as he was attempting to wolf down a huge portion of Chicken balti, whilst the clockwork Siberian Hamster was whizzing around his feet. So he emulated Freddie Starr and bit it’s head off.
Naturally, the evening would not be complete without more Pilchard stories. Finding himself utterly lost, Pilchard phoned the hotel asking for directions from Waitrose. As you would have to pass the hotel to reach the Chequers, most people found this rather puzzling. Eventually, our hero managed to hail a cab. ‘’Chequers Hotel, please, cabbie’’, he mumbled. The taxi driver pointed to the hotel, about fifty yards away and drove off. Pilchard then decided to request hotel reception for various services i.e. how to turn the television on, how to get hot water, how to turn the bedside lamp on etc etc. After the 23 rd call, the receptionist stated that if ‘’You ring once more, I shall personally come up to your room and stab you through the eye with an ice pick’’, our hero decided to desist and go to sleep.
And so, it came to our first match against Thatcham RFC. A pleasant afternoon was in prospect. Six Nations on the telly in the Thatcham RFC, an afternoon in the sun supporting our own heroes, followed by England vs Ireland, several gallons of ale and an evening of listening to Dave sing from his vast repertoire of semi-autobiographical rugby songs. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?
As it happens, star centre Luke Vint missed the coach so had to grab a cab to get to Thatcham (The local cab companies must have thought all their Christmases had come together when Vigo RFC hit town). The party arrived at Thatcham RFC to find it was actually a hockey club, and the bar would not open until the hockey club had finished their game about two hours hence. The team we were due to play were actually double booked and were in Oxfordshire somewhere so the Third XV were trying to raise a team but at the moment only had 11 players. Whilst, the non-players wandered off into the neighbourhood in search of a pub with a television, we chanced upon a member of the intended opponents who informed us, ominously, that he played for Gillingham Anchorians when he was in the area, bur ‘’even he couldn’t get in the first team’’. Oh dear, we thought Thatcham might be a step too far for a boozed up, hung over and weakened Vigo RFC. (As it happens, the reason ‘even he’ couldn’t get in Anchs’ first team was because he would probably struggle to make the A XV ). But more of that later.
Tour Manager Carslaw was, by now, getting a few pelters, but help was on hand. Pilchard and the legend that is Bob Fitton volunteered to get together a few players who were not scheduled to play that day, return to the hotel to gather their kit and play for Thatcham so as to ensure opposition for Vigo. So off they went, whilst the rest of us settled in front of the telly with a few pints of foaming ale. It was then realised that Pilchard’s volunteers were all Tour Fags, wearing dresses (as is the custom), and indeed Pilchard, on the whim of the Hanging Judge, was wearing a very short, rara skirt, thus presenting a pretty picture in the streets of Thatcham or indeed at the cab rank.
Eventually word filtered back from Thatcham RFC, or rather Thatcham Hockey Club, that the second team were returning from Oxford, having had their game called off, and would provide opposition after all. Thus, poor old Pilchard and his merry band were not required after all. Rather rudely, ignored, Pilchard was left on the sidelines muttering darkly.
The non-players returned to the Thatcham RFC fortified by a few beers and ready for an entertaining match. And our heroes did not disappoint. Led by Dave Dunn, whose pre-match ritual (and indeed during- and post-match) appeared to be taking a healthy swig from a flagon of scrumpy) Vigo set about their opposition with some gusto. Tries by Dunn and Wilford in the opening minutes gave Vigo an early lead, pegged back by Thatcham’s big centre, Chris Bell, bursting through for a try, converted by Matt Gibson. Luke Vint was rewarded with some powerful running with a fine try, before Tom Emmitt was denied a try by putting his toe-nail in touch. Robbo was forced from the field by injury, not as it happens suffered on the field of play, but rather falling out of the shower that morning, and Jeff Smith trotted on to give his usual whole-hearted display. Once again, Dunn roared away from the back of a scrum to decimate the opposition, before unselfishly (and probably uniquely) actually passing. Toby Skinner was the beneficiary and jogged over. A typically expert pass from Wilford then set up Phil Checksfield to dance over, and finally Dan Norton was within range and kicked the conversion.
Thatcham hit back and the referee awarded a penalty try as Vigo did something very naughty at a breakdown – probably Dunn farting, or breathing scrumpy fumes over his opposite number -, which again was converted by Matt Gibson, just before the interval.
Vigo rang the changes as the previous night’s excesses began to take their toll, but it didn’t seem to affect Dan Norton who annihilated a Thatcham player in the tackle, Nick Haigh picking up the pieces (along with the ball) to score, Norton converting. Norton then added a further try, alertly tapping a penalty and darting through a surprised Thatcham defence. Our Pete, demonstrated that not only is he the best prop in the world, but a mighty kicker too, deftly drop-kicking the conversion. Is there no end to this man’s genius? Rob Hayes and Andy Wilford combined to send in Luke Vint for a try, before Vigo , naturally, began to tire. A gallon of ale, a visit to Pizza Hut at about two a.m. , three hours sleep and Cow & Gates Baby Balance Mamma’s Macaroni is probably not on the recommended list of pre-match routines in Stuart Lancaster’s New Look England, let alone Vigo RFC, and indeed, the Vigo Machine began to wind down quite dramatically. Tries by Darren Osborne and Adam Hunter gave the scoreline a little more respectability before the referee blew an end to proceedings and Dave Dunn finished the last of his scrumpy.
Lo and behold, the Clubhouse was now open and the ale (Three B’s) was an amazing £2 a pint. I’ll have some of that, was the general consensus. Thus, further refreshed we all settled down to watch England demolish Ireland, before the bar ran out of draught beer, and horror of horrors, Guinness. So, leaving a few behind to entertain the locals, the majority of the party returned once more to sample the delights of Newbury by night, and its myriad bars and restaurants.
Unfortunately, the majority of pubs – in fact , all of them, seemed to have rather loud music and your correspondent, whose ears were, by now, bleeding from excess noise was forced to roam the streets in search of a rather quieter establishment. Thus, the evening’s festivities passed unwitnessed.
Not by everyone, fortunately, as once again various misdemeanours and general foolishness was attested to in the next day’s Court. But first, a rousing chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ was sung to Rob Hayes on reaching the almost venerable age of 30. Balloons were provided along with a Quiche Lorraine in lieu of birthday cake (replete with a solitary candle)The legend that is Mike Bassett was cruelly brought to the witness box, having been observed drinking lemonade the previous day. He defended himself and explained to the Court that he hadn’t yet received his government heating allowance, thus was unable to afford a pint. Wiping a tear from his (bloodshot) eye, the Hanging Judge decided in Mike’s favour, displaying rare clemency. Dan Norton was also accused of missing most of his kicks at goal the previous day. Our Pete chimed in with a remark about having 100% record. So he was told to pay 100 % of Dan’s fine. More miscreants were brought forward and forced to drink various toxic potions or eat more of the Cow & Gate Creamy Mushroom & Noodles, which, needless to say, was soon deposited out of the window.
Then happened one of those life changing experiences. A putsch. Our very own Ernie Wise look-alike had been captured on someones i-phone dancing in a nightclub. Not only dancing, but granddad dancing. Not only granddad dancing but dancing to Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’. Not only granddad dancing to Abba’s ‘dancing Queen’ but (to gasps of shock and horror) totally alone. And it was all captured on i-phone. Ah, the wonders of the electronic world. Now here’s a thing. The Ernie Wise look-alike is no other than our very own Hanging Judge, so in fact he had to recuse himself on a technicality. Being Dave Oliver, however, he refused and tried to bluster his way through the case. It then came to light that, later in the evening, he had also had it away on his toes with The West Malling Massive’s whip. With overweaning arrogance, Judge Oliver attempted to dismiss the case, but with a secret signal the West Malling Massive rose as one and carried Judge Oliver across the room and defenestrated the once feared Hanging Judge. Now do you remember I asked you to bear in mind the various noxious mixtures that had been deposited out of this window? Well, there was Mr Oliver hanging upside down out of the window, his face mere inches from this pool of festering vomit, which after two days was beginning to fester, almost taking on a life of it’s own, like The Blob in the late, great Steve McQueens first leading role. Athletically, Judge Oliver managed to avoid landing headfirst in this noxious pool, but the strain was all too much and he promptly added his own contribution to the pool… which was apparently more than he had done the previous night. Which occasioned the Great Putsch.
With his authority severely diminished Judge Oliver (once he had finished his close inspection of the vomitorium and found his way back inside, declared the proceedings over and sent everyone off to clean their rooms, as best they could, and pack their bags.
Next stop, Reading RFC where those who had not played, and could still stand, were due to play Nick Haigh’s University team. As a contrast to the previous day, the coach was met by the President of Reading RFC, Craig Hunter, a thoroughly pleasant chap, who greeted the party and showed us round the impressive Clubhouse of Reading RFC. He informed us that there would be a match later between Gloucester Under 20’s and Berkshire, so our game would be a ‘curtain raiser’. Mercifully, we were to play on a different pitch, however.
The Students, all 40 in the squad were enthusiastically running through their warm up, stretching and sprinting, as our motley crew of over 40’s and teenagers stumbled onto the park. The spectators began to sense something cataclysmic was about to unfold and took their places on the sideline, rather like the Parisians would gather round a guillotine during the French Revolution, sensing blood and gore. Within minutes, the predictions were beginning to bear fruit. John Barnwell, Jez Gibbs and Mike Whelan were crossing the line, with two conversions by Tom Dunham. Our heroes were struggling to catch breath, let alone the hordes of students flying through their defence. Barnwell scored another, converted by Dunham. 26-0 down, humiliation beckoning, but Vigo are made of stern stuff and gathered their senses, blew away the cobwebs and who should set the Vigo juggernaut rolling but those two old grand veterans. Bob Fitton and Jock Smith. A twinkling run by Fitton and Jock finished off smashing over from fully 25 metres, rolling back the years. It was pointed out that after a weekend of debauchery, Jock was hallucinating and imagined the goalposts to be the Golden Arch of McDonalds and he was hurrying to order his Double Whopper, but that was a tad uncharitable. Jock in full steam ahead mode is a fearsome sight and the schoolboys melted before his charge. Our Pete arrived to bolster the scrum which had been taking a pummelling, and befitting possibly the best prop in the world, he immediately made an impact in the scrum. The Students began to go backwards. Andy Prizeman, another of the grizzled veterans, did what he has been doing for so long, expertly controlling the ball and scoring a pushover try. Not to be outdone by these old gits, Jake French then produced the pass of the weekend, an amazing behind the back perfect pass to Prizeman who promptly strolled over. Jake’s assurances that he had been practising this pass for several weeks fell, it has to be said, on disbelieving ears, but, no matter, the crowd were ecstatic. A team whose average age was nearer 40 (and that included half a dozen teenagers had fought their way back to 15-26. Needless to say the conversions were all missed. There must be some correlation between being on the razzle for 48 hours and a kicker’s radar. No doubt that kicking guru, Dave Alred, could write a paper about it, but nevertheless, Vigo had sent the crowd into raptures of delight. The Students, bemused by these old blokes rolling over them hit back with a fine try by Connor Bant but the last word fittingly went to Vigo. Dan Norton, such a fine footballer, crosskicked perfectly for Phil Checksfield to catch and score, a try worthy of a better setting than Reading RFC’s fourth pitch and rightly acclaimed by Vigo’s worthy supporters. One must metion the refereeing of Robbo, who gave a quite excellent display, warmly acknowledged by our own refereeing guru, Mr Oliver.
Game over, and everyone returned to the main pitch where Berkshire’s Under 20’s met Gloucester in the semi-final of the National Under 20’s competition. Two teams of very fit, very fast and well-muscled young men, produced a rather disappointing game, which only really caught fire at the end of the match. Scores level, Gloucester celebrated thinking they had won being the away team. But a home official pointed out in the competition rules that extra time would need to be played. Eventually, the favourites, Gloucester, won through to the final, which they had contested 4 times out of the last five years apparently. (They were to go on to thrash Hampshire in the final.) But Berkshire put up a splendid performance against their more favoured and bigger opponents. It was also noted that at least seven of the squad were at Reading University.
The Reading RFC club did it’s best to supply the Tour party with beverage and food, but, alas and alack, were unprepared for the gargantuan appetites of these Kentish visitors. Barrel after barrel was drained, packet after packet of burgers demolished, until there was nothing left but bottles of lager from far away places, and packets of Smith’s crisps. Thus, we left our fine hosts for the journey home. Definitely a place worth calling at on another day, so welcoming was Mr Hunter and Reading RFC.
Naturally, we were delayed on the World’s Biggest Car Park – the M25, but at least that gave Dunn Minor the chance to finish his repertoire of semi-autobiographical (and vary graphic) songs.
Once more, my thanks and all of the tourists to Andrew Carslaw for organising this Tour, dubbed The What Could Possibly Go Wrong Tour. An immense amount of planning and hard work goes into organising the Club Tour each year, and Andrew deserves every credit. Thanks too, to all those who provided the highlights of the Tour. From the Fancy Dress Tourists, to the Tour Fags; from Pilchard, who is always great value to Our Pete, who bears our leg-pulling with remarkable fortitude; from Mark the Driver to the girls who provided us with breakfast on Friday.
Gentlemen, it was emotional.

The Tourists (in no particular order)
Nick Haigh Luke Durling Jamie Elliott Mark Robinson Elliot Blackmore Matt Valentine Chris Judson Tom Emmitt Dan Norton Pat Norton Dave Wiltshire Steve Beale Mark Grassick Rob Hayes Alan Edwards Mark Murphy Andy Wilford Toby Skinner Jack Bird Callum Brice
George Rawlings Jake French Pete Merchant Dave Dunn Jeff Smith
Ben Paget Phil Checksfield Kieron Fenn Andy Carslaw Steve Dunn Nigel Merchant Digby Staples Mike Bassett Andy Higgins Lee Walker
Graham Smith Luke Vint Trevor Newnham Stewart Turner Matt Farrell Steve Wilson Dave Oliver Andy Hall Brent Parker Sam Fitton Andy Prizeman Bob Fitton Gary Buckland Mark Illsley