Too Many Crooks

Chapter 9 – A mishap at a carvery

After beating off The Sun in a vicious bidding war, The Gaffer is proud to announce our serialisation of Ian Crook’s autobiography, ‘Too Many Crooks’. The ex-Norwich hero’s book promises to lift the lid on a tumultuous career, and a much-anticipated chapter will reveal the truth about Delia Smith’s Complete Illustrated Cookery Course. This week, Ian recounts a mishap at a carvery.

Crook carveryAs we used to say, “There’s normal for Norfolk, and there’s normal for Norwich”. How else to explain the chain of events that led to me and Jeremy Goss hopping over fences and legging it through back gardens in the small hours while dressed as medieval knights and with members of the local constabulary hot on our heels? But hold up, I’ve started celebrating before I’ve even applied the finish (a mistake Chris Sutton made more than once). Let’s go back to the beginning.

It was the season after we’d been relegated from the Premier League, 95-96, and most of the boys were still confident we’d be back on MOTD with Des and the gang before long. “You can’t keep the Canaries caged (or in Division One)” was the motto we’d stuck on the door of the dressing room – although with hindsight, we could have probably chosen a more appropriate metaphor.

Still, the banter was as good as ever and the Thursday Club had survived downsizing from the Harvester in Norwich city centre to a carvery out near the ring road. You’ve got to cut your cloth accordingly – I got a good deal from Rumbelows that meant I could hang on to the Sky dish but I’ll always regret having to offload that Rover 400 – she ran more smoothly than Efan Ekoku oiled up on a few rum and cokes.

Anyway, this particular week me and Gossy had lost a forfeit in training after Ian Butterworth bet that we couldn’t convince Gunny the correct pronunciation of the word “quiche” was “kwich”. Gunny, who to be fair has got more between his ears than he has on top of his head, saw right through it and Butters imposed a dress code on us for Thursday’s revelry: Knights of the League Table.

Gossy loved the limelight as always and really went to town on his outfit, turning up at the restaurant in a full suit of armour, complete with breastplate, helmet and iron shin guards. He’d even stuck the lid of a thermos down his jockstrap – complete disregard for basic hygiene, had Gossy. I’d managed to get hold of a leather jerkin and some chainmail and thought I looked the business, though Spencer Prior told everyone I’d come as Baldrick from Blackadder, which pissed me right off.

The evening was going down the usual route, with everyone tucking into the ales. Daryl Sutch was flicking peas at Rob Newman, who hates all vegetables, when Butters noticed that the waitress had been serving us Greene King – the Suffolk brewer that had just become the Tractor Boys’ shirt sponsor.

Gossy, who’s never been able to handle his IPA, kicked off, calling the girl a “Shitswich tart” and making a few post-watershed suggestions about her and George Burley, which I thought was a bit strong. We were swiftly ejected, before I’d even got started on my surf’n’turf, and as we left through the foyer our luck took another turn for the worse.

A group of Carrow regulars recognised us on their way in and one immediately started on at Gossy for missing an open goal the weekend before. Well, Gossy looked more confused than Mike Milligan faced with a simple two-on-one and assumed the whole incident was part of some practical joke. “Is this for bloody Beadle’s About, or something?” he yelled, grabbing the punter by the cheeks and waggling his mush. “Come on Jeremy, you can take the rubber mask off now!”

You could tell straight away the guy wasn’t pleased with the comparison – he had two fully working hands, for a start – and he took a swing at Gossy. Unfortunately his knuckles deflected off Gossy’s armoured chest, rendering him a bit more like Beadle than he was before and sending Gossy flying back through the door we’d just exited – which would have been fine, if it had still been open. Instead Gossy found himself lying in a pile of broken glass and MDF.

Amongst all the palaver, the waitress must’ve called the cop shop as the sound of sirens quickly filled the air. Obviously the lads scarpered faster than you can say “at Her Majesty’s pleasure”. Gossy took off but the boys in blue were already in pursuit on foot, so we headed through some allotments and on to a local estate.

Approaching the back of a row of terraced houses, Gossy scrambled straight over a fence, with yours truly close behind. We’d made it through several back yards, and figured we’d thrown PC Plod off our scent, when I got myself in a tangle worthy of a Danny Baker bloopers video and ended up dangling from a garden wall by a nail, caught by my own chainmail. As Gossy turned to help me out, a security light flashed on and he stepped in a bucket, going arse over tit in a pile of clanking metal.

The patio door opened, and who should we see silhouetted against the kitchen light but our old manager Mike Walker. He’d been tending to the rose beds Gossy had just crashed through since his short stint with the Toffees had ended the season before, and right now he looked like someone had pissed in his shoes. Again. “What the bloody hell have you boys been doing?” he shouted, face redder than Robert Ullathorne that time he fell asleep on the sun lounger in Torremolinos. Gossy, sharp as ever, a ready response: “It’s been a knight to remember, boss.”

Needless to say, the ex-Gaffer was livid.

Next time Ian talks about his collection of classic Brit Pop albums …

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