Some called it the Worst Tour Ever; some The Tour That Never Was; some dubbed it The Magical Mystery Tour. Tour Organiser, Andrew Carslaw for some arcane reason decided to keep the destination from the rabble.
But. There are no secrets in Carslaw Towers and Dominic had discovered the destination. Or had he? Confidently – and there may have been some alcohol involved – he let slip amongst his coterie that the destination was Market Harborough, a pleasant market town of some 23,000 souls on the Northampton/Leicester border. Pleasant Tudor style buildings, some quiet pubs and restaurants, small enough to ensure that the tourists would be bumping into each other in the evenings, large enough to provide a variety of bars, pubs and restaurants. Tripadvisor and Google utilised. Most people content with their learnt knowledge. And still Captain Kirk – I mean, AC, was keeping his counsel. Had he played a blinder by misleading his own son. A quiet word with the driver, Tony. What you got on your SatNav, then, Tony? Markey Harborough, was the reply. Good stuff. My research still held then.
So. The day dawned. Bags packed. Toys stowed away. The tourists began to gather at Swanswood where Toni and Kelly ensured that the libations to the Gods of Touring and Travel were in plentiful supply. The usual miscreants, the ne’er-do-wells, the vagabonds and gypsies, the Saga Louts and Tour Virgins gathered. There were some missing though. Robbie Hayes had decided that he would drag a whole raft of experienced players to Lyon to help celebrate the end of his independence, and although this trip was a few weeks later, those on the Lyon trip found that the financial strain would be too much. Thus, without disrespect to those present, the playing strength looked worrying short of numbers. AC was unconcerned. ‘We’re strong enough. Both opposition teams are missing several players too. We’ll be OK’’
The hour of departure was upon us. We filed to the coach, specially adapted with a Stannah for John Hawtin and Digby Staples, and a maximum capacity toilet for Dave Wiltshire. A new innovation, supplied by Catering Manager, Steve Beale, in a moment of sheer genius, was an in-flight drinks trolley, Harry Pattison being the Trolley Dolly. And off into the wide, blue yonder. Well, actually the A2 and all points North.
First stop was the rather pleasant Fir Tree at Woburn Sands, where copious amounts of refreshment of the alcoholic variety and some decent grub had been laid on for the intrepid band of travellers. There was still some discussion as to the eventual destination. Most of us were still confident that it was to be Market Harborough. But all the time, the knowing grin on AC’s face planted a seed of doubt. Never mind. A wandering troubadour entertained us with a song or two, and then for some reason, decided to join us on the coach for the next part of the journey. Had he been offered a short term contract? Was he merely scrounging a lift to Market Harborough? Had he been made promises by AC for nefarious purposes only known to AC? Or, had he been kidnapped? Whatever. But the further we went, the more the look of happiness on the troubadours face began to morph into a look of ‘What Have I Done?’.
So. Market Harborough. There’s the sign. The coach thundered on. It began to dawn on us that AC had played a blinder. Misinformation that Goebbels would have approved. It became more and more likely that Leicester was the destination. Even the Chief Helmsman, Tony, had been in on it. And there we were. Rolling into Leicester. A town whose only previous claim to sporting fame had been Leicester Tigers, Gary Lineker and Mr. Motivator. But now it was gripped with Leicester Foxes Fever, their football team on the verge of one of the unlikeliest footballing triumphs of all time. Every shop, every factory was bedecked with blue and white, urging their football team on to the Impossible Dream. Mind you, I bet there weren’t too many of these banners about last year when they were a few points away from relegation. But I digress.
Dominic met us on a street corner to guide us the last few hundred yards to our temporary habitation. And we got lost. Chief Helmsman Tony showed his prowess at reversing a 45 foot coach round a few tight corners and one way streets and we finally made it to the Ramada Encore, a 115 room hotel, ranked 18 out of 41 hotels in Leicester by Tripadvisor. There, too, to meet us was Darren Campbell, who had travelled from Scotland to be with his old mates and muckers. It emerged that AC had in fact originally booked us into a hotel in Market Harborough, but, horror of horrors, this original hotel did not have the two most important and fundamental requirements of a Vigo Tour Hotel, namely, a bar or breakfast. Up until very late, that was all AC could find until he lucked into the Ramada. Thus, Leicester instead of Market Harborough. ‘’But it’s OK, lads, there is a hen party booked in tonight’’, stated AC. As the hen party consisted of various members of what appeared to be an extended family, including the bride’s granny, mother and children – her own – as well as several male members of the family, the youngster’s expectations of moving in on the bridesmaids, who would have made a decent front row – albeit for the Vets – were sorely diminished.
A quick livener at the bar, a quick ablution stop and suitcase dump and change of clothes – that sounds wrong. Not a dump IN the suitcase, just dump the suitcase in the room. We are, after all, not savages. Well, perhaps some of us aren’t. Anyway. I digress.
The Tourists began to split up into their usual groups. The Saga Tour went off in one direction in search of food. The Merchant Massive went off in another direction in search of whatever the Merchant Massive get up to. The children disappeared in search of suitable entertainment befitting their age and proclivities. And, that’s where I shall leave the first part of the account.
I can, however report on my journey into the streets of Leicester. I tagged along with the rest of my Saga group and found Digby in a cavernous pub, but we decided that was too big, too impersonal so we dragged a protesting Digby from there into a smaller pub which if it does appear in TripAdvisor, it would probably be in the footnotes under ‘’Avoid’’. But it was cheap. Decorated with sawdust – and that was on the walls. A few gnarled and suspicious looking locals nursing pints in dark corners. You get the picture. We knew it was a mistake when an aged harridan began to chat up one of our number. What’s so unusual about that?, you may ask. Well, the fact was that our friend was actually unconscious and propped up between the bar and the cigarette machine, snoring gently at the time. When another person of the female persuasion started dancing to the juke box – and she was bigger than Jacob French and with more facial hair – we realised that we had made a mistake and beat a hasty retreat. We began to wend our way back to the hotel, where a rather splendid Curry House was right next door. The party member, semi-conscious, was dumped in an armchair whilst we perused the menu. Where he promptly sunk into a korma. ‘’Table ready, sirs, but what about your friend?’’ ‘’He’s OK, leave him there. He’s fine’’. So there we left him whilst we ate an excellent, though pricey curry.
I cannot speak for the rest of the tourists and their adventures that night, but slowly, the tales unfolded over breakfast. The usual tales of derring-do, of mischief and monkeyshines, of shenanigans and immoderation, began to emerge. Sometimes it is necessary to shield the readers from the identity of the miscreants, but those of you that have toured will probably recognise the offenders. Suffice it to say, that the same names seem to be hauled before the Tour Court with unfailing regularity.
And thus Judge David Oliver, donned his wig and robes and presided over Court, Day One. Prosecutor was Steve Dunn, co-Defence Nick McPherson and Ben Paget, Sergeant-at-Arms Big John Ingram. Bailiff was Elliot Stickings.
First case. One of the party had apparently spent over £170 on MacDonalds consisting of 8 fillet o’ fish, 15 Big Macs, 10 Chicken sandwiches, 8 Double Cheeseburgers, 12 large fries, 12 orange juices and a bag full of sauces. The reason was a bit unclear. Two theories emerged. He had entered the premises, mistaking it for a house of ill-repute and asked for £200 quids worth of nosh. He was a bit bemused to find that nosh has a different connotation in the Midlands. The big M sign might have been a bit of a give-away but obviously there was alcohol involved, and a visit to Peppermint Hippo had roused his libido. However, he maintained that he had received several requests on his mobile to bring back some Maccy D’s but when he returned to the hotel with his haul, there was no-one in sight. Unfortunately, a crucial bit of evidence – to whit – the aforementioned mobile phone was missing. With nothing electronic to back his story he was, naturally, found guilty by the Hanging Judge. Apparently, he was discovered sitting in a bath full of tomato sauce. ‘’More like a bath full of regret’’, opined Ben Paget.
Another Member, obviously disoriented away from his usual bucolic surroundings in the concrete jungle of a big city, had been unable to find his room, and had drawn what he thought were a few hay bales together to pass the night away until he was discovered by a rather shocked chambermaid in the morning and who helped him track down his room. But at least, he actually found the hotel. One of the members betrayed his ex-military training by not actually finding the hotel at all. Commandeering a hansom cab, he instructed the driver to carry him round until he recognised the hotel. ‘’You’ll recognise it, mate’’ he told the driver’’, big place lots of glass and concrete’’. So too, another of a musical background who being slightly more impoverished walked round searching for the hotel, eventually finding it after a two hour journey of self discovery. No doubt, gathering material for another ditty. ‘’On a tour of one night stands, suitcase and guitar in hand….’’
Then, there was the member who, upon entering a cocktail bar, ordered 3 Long Island Iced Teas, because the cocktail waitress was ‘so pretty’.
One father had requested that a responsible adult to look after his Tour Virgin son. As the ‘responsible adult’ happened to be Pestus Maximus, he was charged with gross stupidity, failing to provide care for his first born, and child neglect.
AC was charged with fraud. Misleading the Tour Party, claiming a surcharge of £20 for the hotel (because it had a bar and breakfast facilities), abducting the Fir Tree Minstrel (who by the way was never seen again: SOCO and Forensics could find not a trace of the troubadour in AC’s room which had been forensically cleansed), and posting Tweets on his Twitter account #ColeslawTours.
One member was charged with grooming. Apparently he had gathered together a party of younger members, escorted them to a Rolf Harris Convention and plied them with alcohol. He was found guilty and was forced to wear an Uncle Brent costume whilst attending his duties.
Dunn Minor had got lost so phoned his best buddy. ‘’Ben, I’m lost. Do you know the name of the hotel?’’ ‘’Yes, thanks.’’ Was the reply and Ben promptly disconnected.
Club skipper was accused of ass-salt-ing Pestus Maximus in the Fir Tree but was found not guilty on the grounds of diminished responsibility. On Maximus’ part, not Nicks.
Thus, the court was wound down, the Tour Kitty replenished with the fines imposed, the selection of jars of baby food and noxious potions which had been festering in the Oliver household for several decades depleted, and Tour Fag dresses handed out, the party decamped to the destination of our first Tour match – Coalville.
Coalville are a decent club, Level 7 (we are level 9 to give you some context) who play in Midlands 1 East. They have their own driveway (we’re doomed), floodlights (we’re doomed) two story clubhouse (doomed, I tell thee) and about five pitches (doubly doomed). They fielded a mixture of 1st and 2nd XV’s with a few Vets.
Vigo starting XV.
B.Paget (capt); P.Checksfield, E.Stickings, N.McPherson, A.Fitzgerald; R.Fitton, D.Carslaw; J.Ingram, B.Buckland, Jeff Miles; M.Lingham, J.French; D.Dunn, Josh Miles; G.Smith.
Replacements: G.Rawlings, L.Henderson, D.Billington, M.Gregory, B.Holcombe,
Referee: Tony Gardner (Leics.)
Coalville started strongly as Vigo tried to shake off the excesses of the previous evening. With McPherson and Henderson hitting the tackles and Carslaw in his usual hyper-active mode, Vigo were holding on – just – but a double whammy of tries by Matthew ‘Metro’ Wesson and the outstanding Joe Rumming, converted by himself, rather set Vigo back on their heels. Coalville’s superior strength, pace and continuity looked to be all too much for Vigo. But, gradually the alcohol was getting flushed through the system by the adrenaline of a match. Vigo began to make inroads. Dunn and Carslaw made ground, Vigo recycled the ball and it was Coalville’s turn to retreat. Perhaps, it was not going to be an easy romp against an exhausted touring side after all. Another Coalville attack broke down and Vigo got the ball wide to Adam Fitzgerald. Some might say it was a hopelessly shanked clearance kick that found Adam on the wing. Others (well, just Nick – whose kick it was) might say it was a superb crossfield kick into space. Whatever. Fitzgerald was in space and off he went, bouncing aside would be defenders with pace and power until eventually brought down after 50 metres. But Elliot Stickings was inside and finished off by jogging to the posts. Carslaw kind of converted with ales than convincing kick. But, no pictures on the scorecard. Two points are two points however un-aesthetic the execution. As Coalville reeled, Vigo hit them again, Stickings stepping in and out, the Coalville defenders suffering from twisted blood and strolled over between the sticks a minute after his first try. Again Carslaw added the extras, this time with a tad more sex appeal.
Joe Rumming replied with another fine try to restore the lead before Vigo were forced into a whole raft of replacements. Injury, Father Time, probably Ebola, were striking down Vigo players and Coalville took advantage of Vigo disruptions, Jordan Cooper striding through for a half time lead of 22-14 for the home side.
Ominously black clouds were gathering on the horizon, a stiff breeze edging them ever closer. The temperature began to plunge as though the Angel of Doom was flying over the East Midlands – a harbinger of impending disaster. Well, nothing quite so dramatic although a hailstorm of Biblical proportions hit the pitch with some fury. The referee quickly took the players off the pitch in search of shelter though the force of the storm probably required the erection of Anderson shelters rather than the replacements’ boxes. This, of course, did not prevent Dunn Minor and Paget from stripping and re-enacting scenes from Dirty Dancing – you know the one where Jennifer Grey throws herself into Patrick Swayze’s arms. Perhaps the Dunn/Paget version wasn’t quite as graceful but was more exciting, the force of the hailstorms akin to a cluster bomb in WWII.
Upon cessation of the storm, Coalville set about the task of putting these Kentish upstarts firmly in their place. Their first teamers were too much for a tiring Vigo. A simple overlap gave Rumming another try, before their behemoth number 8 went through Vigo’s defence scattering players like Dongo scattering the Night’s watch at Castle Black. Eventually stopped by sheer weight of numbers, Vigo players holding grimly on as Dongo ground to a halt but the ball was recycled sweetly and moved swiftly to the wing for Connor Beasley to score. Both tries converted by the scorers, and Coalville had suddenly opened an imposing 36-14 gap. Things were beginning to look pretty bleak for Vigo and when Rumming made another incisive break for ‘’Metro’’ Wesson to score (Why do they call him Metro? ‘Cos he’s a f***ing tube’’.), converted by the man himself, the lead had stretched to an impossible 29 points.
But this is Vigo. Time after time this season, they have hauled themselves back from the depths. OK, so Coalville might have relaxed but Vigo hit hard. Henderson, McPherson, Buckland were upending their tormentors with percussive force, Carslaw and Pattison were making sharp little darts and Vigo charged. Unfortunately, more players were going down injured but in the Spirit of Rugby, Coalville lent the team a replacement wing (who just happened to be carrying a bit of timber and regularly played in the front row, but hey ho, the thought was there). With time running out, Vigo forced Coalville into a hurried clearance kick, Carslaw quickly threw it into Harry Pattison who scurried under the posts, Carslaw adding the conversion for a consolation score. 43-21 at the final whistle, in a good spirited match, extremely well refereed by Mr. Gardner.

Men of the match were respectively Coalville’s Joe Rumming, ex-Leicester Tigers, and Vigo’s Dom Carslaw (who, incidentally lost the drinking race. And he calls himself a student)
Back to the splendid Coalville clubhouse, where the alcohol levels were swiftly replenished, trophies and ties exchanged and those locals who were left were treated to The Dave Dunn Songbook, a mix of songs of such vileness that none of them can be repeated on these pages but are absolutely hilarious. Eventually a Coalville member gave a rendition of ‘Climb up Sunshine Mountain’’, resulting in the destruction of a dining table amid much hilarity, their barmaid was the subject of an ‘’Alhouette’’, and a tired but refreshed party re-boarded the Old Charabanc for the trip back to Leicester.

Upon return to the hotel, your correspondent was in a quandary. Whether to join the Saga Tours and another fine curry, or to accept a kind invitation from the kids to join them at the Red House, an all-you-can-eat for £14.95 estaminet. I decided to join the youngsters. Things looked a tad dodgy when, on queuing to be shown to our table and bench, a customer was being ejected, complaining long and hard about there being no food. Strange, as upon entering the cavernous dining hall, there seemed to be a food mountain of all sorts of ethnicity. It’s the only place where you can have chow mein, sweet & sour prawn balls, pizza, sausage, chicken korma, mash and beans - all on the same plate. Don’t knock unless you’ve tried it. After an hour’s grazing and feeling like Mr Creosote in the Meaning of Life, I contemplated my next move. To tag along with the youngsters to the Venom Lounge or Majestics or whatever hellhole youngsters visit or go in search of the Saga Tours.
Sanity prevailed and I left the kids in search of my peer group. Amazingly navigating the back streets of Leicester , by now rather taking on a Sodom & Gomorrah feel, I found myself back at the hotel, to find it deserted. No Saga Tours; no other Vigo tourists; not even the Hen Party From Hell. So, I bagged a corner table by the window, ordered a succession of Bombay Sapphires and contemplated the Tour so far. I have to say, my preference is for smaller venues. Big city tours tend to leave the party too widespread, but there is a wider variety of clubs, restaurants and Maccy D’s. At least there are no canals disguised as side streets to catch the unwary. I ordered another Bombay and contemplated the ramifications of Brexit? Of the new Captain. Of the choice between Hillary or Trump. So I had another Bombay, knowing that I would be mortgaging the next day for a few hours of drunken slumber. But , heigh ho, I’m not a prophet or a priest, or a Wise Man from the East. I don’t know the answers, I just ask them. I know the words; sometimes I get them in the right order. I waited the arrival of the rounders and bounders and midnight ramblers and slowly but surely, they began to return. So I had another Bombay and listened to more tales of derring-do and calamity. Unfortunately, the surfeit of Bombay had, by then, rendered my brain incapable of
A) speech
B) memory
So I waited until the morn for the accounts to be rendered at Morning Court.
But firstly, before Court opened, AC handed out the Official Tour Shirts, adorned with the legend – Market Harborough 2016. As the closest we had been to Market Harborough was a sign on the A50, AC was immediately charged with fraud, but successfully pleaded Double Jeopardy and was found innocent (ish).
Maximus Pestus was again hauled (in chains) before the Court. Apparently, he had been heard knocking at David Oliver’s room at 4.30 in the morning whispering ‘’Adam’’. Other charges were redacted and will remain closed for 23 years.
Blackheath Bruce was charged with impersonating a rugby player. Deciding he wanted to have one last game against Coalville, he was introduced mid-way through the second half, promptly had to field a high ball, sliced the clearance kick into touch, was immediately trampled all over and gored by Coalville’s Dongo, pulled a groin muscle, spent five minutes trying to catch the attention of the management team (Messrs. Dunn Sr. and Merchant) silently imploring the hook, eventually limping off to the tender ministrations of Uncle Brent and his Magic Sponge.
Various other minor misdemeanours were dealt with, fines and forfeits administered, before it was time to leave a (relieved) Ramada Encore to make our way to our final opponents – Vipers.
Again, a good club – Level 7 – (but it’s alright, lads, most of their 1st XV are on a stag weekend. - But the rest weren’t ). Another two story clubhouse (doomed), floodlit training pitch (doomed) and a giant car park with Coach spaces (doomed, I say, doomed) playing in Midlands 2.
Vigo starting XV

N.McPherson; P.Checksfield, E.Stickings, D.Winstone, D.Billington; H.Pattison, D.Carslaw; T.Spear, M.Gregory, JeffMiles; A.Hall, J.French; L.Wiltshire, L.Henderson; D.Dunn
Replacements: A.Fitzgerald, B.Buckland, B.Paget, R.Fitton, Josh Miles.
Referee: Nick Houghton (Leics.)
Vipers were using the match for their Presidents Match, and with other Junior touring teams from Sheffield and Wimbledon playing curtain raisers, there was a big crowd. Whether it was the excitement of
A) The opposition being Vigo – all the way from Kent
B) Leicester F.C trying to win the Premiership at The Theatre of Dreams and being televised
C) The barbecue catching fire – but luckily Leading Fireman Steve Dunn took charge and covered the barbecue, adjoining fancy cake stall, the supply of burgers and sausages, and several spectators in foam

that contributed to the frenzied atmosphere or a mixture of all three, the match eventually got under way, and it was obvious that the nights of carousing had finally caught up with many of our intrepid heroes. Stiffened by the arrival of Messrs. Dave Winstone, Alastair Hall and Tom Spear, Vigo resisted initially but Vipers were soon into their stride. Winning a penalty, they tapped and went, Brad Harding receiving the ball in space to score. Vipers had serious pace at full back in Joe Chinnery and on the flanks in Mark Sherwin and Jack Hughes and were stretching Vigo’s defence all over the field. Second row Andy Simms burst through to add to the score before Vigo settled down. Needless to say, a combination of the hedonism and Vigo players getting to know each other, didn’t help but Vigo began to get their act together. Elliot Stickings and Phil Checksfield were beginning to show their paces, Nick McPherson (in his last game as Captain) was counter-attacking from deep, whilst Dave Winstone started to run hard at the Vipers’ defence. Vipers now realised they were in for a match. A superb run by Dave Winstone, fast, hard and direct at the heart of the Vipers’ defence opened up the home side and Dave dived over under the posts. The conversion amazingly missed, but Vigo were on the board. Within minutes, Phil Checksfield scored a brilliant individual try, slaloming through a bemused Vipers’ defence, turning and twisting to cross in the corner. Scores level after half an hour of play.
Vipers had drafted in a former player – Steve Fraher – who had left for Kettering due to work commitments. As Kettering are in Midlands 1, the difference was apparent. With the speed of a flanker, the hands of a back and the buold of a middleweight boxer, the hooker was everywhere,his class and experience a salutary lesson to show where our players need to be if they want to be taken seriously. Everything seemed to revolve around Fraher, and it was no surprise when a superb passage of paly involving the hooker-playing-flanker gave Jack Hughes room to tear down the wing for a try, converted by Harry Berry.
By now, the outstanding Stickings had been carried off the pitch with an ankle injury, and with him went a lot of Vigo’s attacking threat. Checksfield and Winstone were still a handful, but the depradations of the Tour were beginning to make themselves felt. The remarkable Jeff Miles was forced off, reluctantly – his 47 year old body finally broken. Dave Dunn was magnificent, hair flying in the wind as he showed what might have been with a bravura display, and Dom Carslaw , who plays for Vipers during University term time,was outstanding, but Vipers had too much firepower for the Villagers. The Vipers won a line-out, chipped the ball forward and Fraher crashed over the line to extend the lead. Vigo survived another kick and chase, Harry Pattison getting back just in time to prevent another score for the Vipers before Calvin Close broke through too many missed tackles for another try for the home side.
By now, the scrums were uncontested, Vigo having used up all their resources and Vipers took the opportunity to introduce some of their very promising Colts. Dave Dunn set off on a typical buccaneering try but was called back for (apparently) having a foot in touch which was called by a replacement, not the linesman) which left a sour taste. The referee refused to use the electronic proof captured on your correspondent’s camera and thus Vipers lead was intact.Luke Henderson (unluckily penalised for a typical Henderson tackle), Josh Miles, Ben Buckland represented Vigo’s youth with great success, Jake French bashing about the pitch , but the Vipoers were able to relax. A quite mesmerising passage of driving and offloading by the home side bought them another try, by Mark Sherwin, converted by Harry Berry before the excellent referee blew (Mercifully?) for time. President Bob Watson presented Vigo with a plaque and tie, and welcomed us to his Club before the players retired to the Clubhouse for well earned and fully deserved refreshments.
Man of the Match were respectively Dave Winstone for Vigo and Steve Fraher (understandably) for the Vipers. Phil Checksfield was Awarded Player of the Tour, a richly deserved award.

The end of the Tour, the players and tourists alike drained after a typical Rugby Tour,just waiting for that moment when AC would announce the departure. Jaded and tired….that is until, the arrival of a party of girls from a Hen weekend, clad in mini-skirts. Suddenly, the youngsters perked up and came to life. Sadly, however, Chief Helmsman Tony insisted the Coach had to leave. We bade our farewells to our hosts, and began the journey back to Kent.
Another excellent Tour over, superbly organised once more by Andrew Carslaw.
This was The Tour That Never was.

Gentlemen, it’s been emotional.

Touring Party:
Andy Carslaw, John Hawtin, Digby Staples, Nigel Merchant, Steve Dunn, Trevor Newnham, Stewart Turner, Graham Smith, Peter Dalton, Bruce Holcombe, Dave Oliver, Steve Beale, Shorne Henderson, Jeff Miles, Brent parker, Gary Buckland, Bob Fitton, Sam Fitton, Ian Chapman, Martin Lingham, Harry Pattison, John Ingram, Dave Wiltshire, Josh Miles, Adam Fitzgerald, Ben Buckland, George Rawlings, Luke Henderson, Max Gregory, Phil Checksfield, Elliot Stickings, Dan Bilington, Jake French, Nick McPherson, Matt McKinley, Dave Dunn, Ben Paget, Stefan Francis, Liam Wiltshire, Dom Carslaw, Tom Spear, Alastair Hall, Darren Campbell.