Morecambe v Darlington Travelogue
DATELINE 13 FEBRUARY 2010. MORECOMBE. LANCASHIRE.DEPENDING on which eye you are looking through, there are two views of Morecambe.
Either it is a shabby Edwardian seaside town populated by teenage mums and abandoned dog turds, where the wearing of the burka should be compulsory, or it is a shabby Edwardian seaside town offering one of the warmest welcomes in England.
Both ways, it is the birthplace, some 60-odd years ago, of the legend of bookmaking that is Walter Pyrah.
And so it was to celebrate this belated milestone that we ventured north in an eight-strong crew sponsored by Whatthebookiessay.com from Euston for 36 hours of sporting mayhem with a centrepiece of Morecambe FC versus Darlington in a Coca-cola league 2 tussle.
It was inevitable that, given the company, the punting would begin as soon as the train doors clicked shut and even before it had eased out of the station.
So, let’s introduce the players for the Wally Pyrah “Return of the Legend” Roadtrip 2010.
Other than the man himself, there’s Andy Pyranha –scion of the Pyrah dynasty who spent the trip clearly demonstrating that he has not inherited a single strand of the DNA which made his father such a winner in all things sporting.
Scott Piecha, grubby tabloid sports ferret and chief supplier of ruthless piss-taking to the above.
Bill Esdaile – former Grand Fromage of Sporting Index and now, as MD of Square in the Air Sports Betting PR firm, chief plate spinner for punters everywhere.
The youngster, David Wild, general factotum and obsequious greaser to the above. Clearly looking for promotion.
Tim “The Power” Harrison, chief supplier of dry and incautious wit as son/brother-in-law. Top man but crap at darts.
And by no means least big Tony Harris who was to display the strength of an ox and a spine of custard on the bowling alley.
Oh, and me, your tall, raffish, successful and enormously-endowed natural winner, McDowell. Ahem.
So, three £20 sit and gos on the train later (Piecha 2, McDowell 1, Pyrah A, nil). We arrive, via Lancaster, at the far from salubrious York Hotel in Morecambe, my room offering the delightful vista of the railway line. Still, we were oop North and a boarding house is what you get. The broad smile and hearty handshake of mein host - former Sergeant Major, Mick – making up for any shortfall in opulence.
It is a swift turnaround as, after a quick application of the local foaming cleanser to set us up, we toddle off, skipping over the turds, to Morecambe’s tiny but decently appointed ground.
A huge sign on one side of the stadium, well, the only side of the stadium actually proclaims the match has been sponsored by Whatthebookiessay.com and welcomes the return of Morecambe’s second most famous son.
Wally is to judge the man of the match as we are ushered into a sit down lunch of meat, gravy and something with custard.
The table conversation is all about the (very) large number of bets the Piecha/Pyrah axis has placed on the match. Utilising a complimentary £100 bet from Blue Square, Wally has lumped his half on a single 9/2 bet on Morecambe’s striker Phil Jevons to score first. Piecha and Pyrah are looking very pleased with themselves, having concocted a betting masterplan involving several arbitraged Yankees on a combination of first scorers, corners, number of fans, letters in the programme etc.
The big race at Newbury is second on the list of chat when the brute Denman, much fancied to give Kauto Star a run for his considerable money in the Gold Cup this year, is up at 2.40 on odds of 1/6. No-one is backing that least of all me, even with AP McCoy aboard. So it was a relief when he collapsed like a cheap stool at the last.
I fancy his next ride in the 3.05, Get Me Out of Here. This is exactly what Bill is saying when he foolishly offers McDowell a starting price of 8s. The horse crosses the line at 6/1 and Esdaile is peeling off 160 big ones for the tall, cocky bastard with the nose like a pickaxe.
This only leaves Wally, Andy and Scott to do the honours by meeting the team on the pitch – Wally hanging his head in shame at their shameless grandstanding – waving at the capacity 1765 crowd like gibbons on heat.
Our continuous gambling throughout the game (on corners, free kicks, throw-ins, number of seagulls passing overhead etc) seems to discombobulate our compatriots in the director’s box but masks the fact that the game is a bottom end of League 2 classic with balls being sliced into the sea instead of goalward, crunching tackles in ankle-deep mud and goal mouth scrambles that are more like, er, scrambling.
Bill mitigates his book by trousering the sweep.
Still, Jevons nails the first of Morecombe’s two goals, netting Wally £225. “Mind you, since it is Andy’s account, getting paid might be tricky,” he adds, wistfully, pouring a coffee after the game.
Pyrah and Piecha conduct the first of numerous “what went wrong?” post mortems as Wally selects as man of the match someone who was almost anonymous throughout the game and was in fact substituted after 11 secs. No-one notices but it is mentioned that the winner is married to a Page 3 girl from The Star who has “really big tits”. Thank goodness for that.
And it’s off on Shanks’ pony into Morecambe for more Faeces Hopscotch and few more pints of delicious Lancashire ale.
Until we found a bowling alley.
“I’m brilliant at bowling,” announces the master. “I have my own ball, glove and even a bag for my ball... But I’ve got a really bad back so I’ll just run the book.”
The rest of us line up in a seven-player single game comp. A fiver in and the book is opened, big Tony hammers down the first ball and flattens the lot. Strike. Bill falls flat on his face and Andy hits the gutter. Twice. Wally’s pen is furious with pricing as Big Tony spares the second frame. I stick £2 on his at 7/1 and the price comes flying in to 3. Five frames into the match, Tony is streaking ahead with brother in law Tim coming in behind. McDowell effortlessly flits from blinding mastery to total incompetence, twice double striking. Piecha is content just to fling the ball down with maximum velocity.
But Tony won’t let go. Another strike. Price flies into 11/8 and I put down a score for a decent winner.
But horror of horrors, while the rest of the field flap, The Youngster is showing tremendous rear leg style and scoring steadily. Tony has a small wobble and Tim strikes and then spares. It is all in the balance. Disaster for the McDowell book. Tim nails Tony by just two points. 124 to 122. Then McDowell double strikes and needs to spare the last and score at least five to win. With nerveless panache he flattens eight and pockets the sweep.
Wally is chuffed to have made a couple of quid on his impromptu book but deeply ashamed of his son, who with characteristic over-optimism has placed a bet on himself at 33/1 to win. He is last by a distance. (McDowell 3, Piecha, 2, Pyrah nil).
Then to the Kings Arms on the front, opposite the statue of the town’s most famous ex-pat, Eric Morecambe. It was here the young Wally cut his teeth on beer and punting because his Dad used to run the pub (and unofficial book), until an unfortunate 150/1 reverse in the 1947 Grand National necessitated the family moving off to Croydon. In the middle of the night, presumably.
We find a pool table. Killer is on the cards. Big Tony shows a talent for pub games and wins the first and is followed by partner in ale Tim.
Then to the dartboard and more killer. The Youngster creams in with a triple 2 and immediately knocks out the fancied Tim without throwing a dart. Wally, showing that his gift for agile mathematics is not matched by hand eye co-ordination, sprays darts around the games room like tungsten confetti. He soon follows.
He joins the still sulking Tim on the rails as the last five battle it out. But beer-related munchies has got the better of the remainder of the group and the nearest the bull decider is won by McDowell. (McDowell 4, Piecha, 2, Pyrah nil).
A huge meat and chips fest follows before retiring to the splendour of the York Hotel and its cast of pissed-up karaoke singing locals. It is observable that a reasonably-priced dentist would have his work cut out in this town.
Tony, Tim and the Youngster empty the quiz machine of change and a final game of poker (McDowell 4, Piecha 4, Pyrah, nil) is carried out before advanced drunkenness sends us all to bed.
Finally, on the train home, one last sit and go is arranged. Our maths is failing as is the enthusiasm. It is clear we are past our best and there is just time for Piecha to clear up the very last game.
Final score: Piecha 5, McDowell 4, Pyrah senior, 2, Tony, 2, Tim, 1, Esdaile/Wild, 1, Pyrah junior.... er... nil.
Author: Mr Steve McDowell | Tea Boy | www.iball.me
Comments
The BOSS | 19 Feb 2010 at 09:26
Have to say though, I was totally wardrobed by the end of the night, totally duveted.
pmgxiekpw | 11 Apr 2010 at 01:58