IN 1963 I ventured forth to play in the Lancashire League, as a naïve nineteen year old.
There was a hint that life was about to change for me when I boarded the SS Stratheden from Outer Harbor near Adelaide. After a couple of seasons of flying to cricket matches, I was told it would be five weeks before we arrived at Tilbury Docks just outside London, where I received confirmation that I was in for a culture shock. After glancing at my immigration form, the Customs Officer looked up and said, ‘You mean British, don’t you?’
He was referring to my entry under ‘Nationality’. My response was swift and to the point: ‘No. I’m bloody Australian.’
In between departure and docking the sea was generally calm, but life among the group of passengers I teamed up with was often rather tempestuous.
The first stop was Fremantle and shortly afterwards I met the Water Polo man for the first time when he joined our poker-playing group. This group consisted of Ernie the dentist, John the avid Victorian, and Eric the tobacconist, plus myself. Once the Water Polo man joined we became a tight-knit group and it was rare for an invitation to be issued to an outsider. That was mainly the result of the anti-social antics of a tight-fisted Scotsman.
Somehow the Scotsman talked his way into the card-playing group for one night. Despite partaking in every round of drinks he failed to part with any cash, even after all the other players had bought at least twice. Buying wasn’t a great financial hardship as each drink was unencumbered by duty and a beer cost three pence. It was the principle that mattered and it bothered some more than others.
John the avid Vic was dealing when the Scotsman deliberated long and hard over his hand. Exasperated, John could take no more. ‘You haven’t shouted a bloody drink all night,’ he exploded, ‘the least you can do is buy a card.’
This resulted in a heated confrontation from which there were a couple of positive upshots. The Scotsman bought a round and he never again asked to join the game. That incident was also the main reason why the group didn’t feel the need to expand.
These card games ate up hours of time on the boat, which was no bad thing. At around 650 kilometres a day the SS Stratheden wasn’t likely to break any speed records. There were days when, even though I had struggled to cover the twenty yards (twenty-three metres) required to obtain the school swimming certificate, I felt I could’ve dived overboard and beaten the chugging liner to the next port.
The card games were also educational. From Ernie the dentist and Eric the tobacconist, I learned to play prudently. I’d boarded the liner with only fifty pounds in my pocket so thrift was important. Although, incredibly, I still had some money left over on arrival at Tilbury, I wasn’t to know this would be the case during the journey.
I learned to bet according to my hand, not to show any emotion and to bluff judiciously. Actually there was no need for me or any of the other three to try and deceive opponents, as the Water Polo man did enough bluffing for everyone at the table.
It wasn’t just a case of ‘money burning a hole in his pocket’, he’d never heard the last half of the saying about knowing when to hold ’em, and when to fold ’em. To be fair to the Water Polo man, Kenny Rogers’ hit song The Gambler didn’t make the charts until 1978.
On occasions the Water Polo man would finish up with an unbelievable hand. He’d buy four to a flush, three to a full hand, and when he was really desperate he’d add four cards to a solitary ace.
It was hard to know when the Water Polo man was bluffing because nearly every hand he would take an enormous punt. If just occasionally he’d thrown in a hand when he failed to buy any cards of consequence, he’d have sent the rest of us broke in a hurry.
But that wasn’t the Water Polo man’s objective; he revelled in the art of bluffing, he enjoyed the company and he wasn’t driven by money. His biggest thrill was when he pulled off a miracle and then saw the look of horror on his opponents’ faces when he revealed his hand to show he wasn’t bluffing.
Cards weren’t the Water Polo man’s only outlet for thrill seeking. He didn’t drink and he was up early before anyone else to do countless laps of the small pool. Once he’d done his fitness work he was ready for action and there were no boundaries to where he might find his entertainment.
In Colombo, we hired a couple of rickshaws to do some sightseeing downtown. I found myself in the same rickshaw as the Water Polo man. The lad pulling our rickshaw was doing a good job by normal standards but he wasn’t fast enough for the Water Polo man’s liking. He decided a race with the lad pulling the rickshaw carrying Ernie and Eric would be a good way to liven up proceedings.
If Benny Hill had ever needed a stand-in for his comedy song video for The Fastest Milkman in the West, it was the Water Polo man and not Ernie who would’ve been ideal for the part.
With the race nearing completion without the result being obvious, the Water Polo man stripped his belt from his trousers and, using it as a whip, sent his man diving across the imaginary finish line in first place. The Water Polo man was a hard taskmaster but he was generous and his rickshaw boy went away with a big smile on his face.
For the next few nights there was no more drama on board than you would expect with beers at three pence, a group of male card players and a lot of late nights. I had decided early on that women were out of the question on the boat; this was a simple mathematical equation with a bit of high finance thrown in.
There were about ten blokes to each woman and there were also a lot of very rich ‘cockies’ – that is to say, large land owners, rather than just farmers – on board. With a dwindling fifty pounds as my only ammunition, I figured that entertaining women on board would amount to futility of the same magnitude as some of the Water Polo man’s less successful card-playing gambles.
However, the Stratheden’s arrival at Port Said in Egypt brought heightened anticipation of some excitement. Because of the shallow harbour the liner had to dock about 400 metres from the wharf and a series of pontoons had been strategically placed for the passengers to walk on to reach shore. Walking on floating pontoons is easy – running on these slowly bobbing floats, as I was to find out, is akin to sprinting on a series of evenly spaced inflated inner-tubes.
The trip into the city was uneventful. There were no rickshaws for us to entertain thoughts of a second race and the card-playing group instead took in the sights. These mainly consisted of hundreds of colourful market stalls selling all sorts of clothing, souvenirs and trinkets. As the group got closer to the entrance gate on the return journey, the market stalls gave way to individual entrepreneurs selling these same goods.
Bored by now, the Water Polo man decided to liven up the adventure and went over to one of the salesmen. ‘What do you have here?’ he asked, pulling a rubber implement from the tray of goods.
‘Zis is ze cosh,’ came the reply in fractured English.
‘Does it work?’ asked the Water Polo man, as he playfully tapped the Egyptian on the head with what is often used as an extremely effective weapon.
This is when I started to sense there might be a need for speed across the pontoons. From everything I’d heard, it wasn’t a good idea to antagonise the locals. It was an even sillier idea to mess with the locals who worked around the docks. It became downright stupid when there were 400 metres of floating pontoons between the local entrepreneur and the boat you were travelling on.
Fortunately the Egyptian man gave a forced grin, which exposed only a couple of teeth just under his dark moustache. This created the impression of a man who had been required to defend his wares on more than one occasion.
My feet were starting to shuffle at a faster pace, which quickly turned into a light jog when the Water Polo man, having put down the cosh, picked up a knife from the same vendor’s tray.
‘What’s this?’ he asked the salesman.
Wary by now, the answer came back, ‘Zis is ze flick knife.’
‘Does it really work?’ asked the Water Polo man as he flicked the switch and the blade came flying out.
I didn’t wait around to see the Water Polo man then put the blade near the salesman’s throat. By this time I was through the gate to the wharves and onto the pontoons, doing the best I could to retain balance as they slowly moved up and down in the water.
Despite some unsteady moments I covered the 400 metres in good time. I didn’t dare look back as I took the gangplank two steps at a time, and it was only when I reached the upper deck that I ventured a glance at the pontoons. That’s when I saw the irate Egyptian salesman brandishing his fist at a fast-disappearing Water Polo man, who was charging up the gangplank as though the ship was about to depart.
This was enough excitement for one day and I decided to lay low and concentrate on the poker games. This plan worked perfectly until our stop at Marseilles.
When I flew into Marseilles in 2010 for a short stopover in the south of France, I found a very welcoming and almost sleepy airport. That bore no relationship to the city I encountered when, urged on by the Water Polo man, I decided to take a trip to Marseilles’ all-night bars in 1963.
I tried all sorts of excuses to avoid this adventure. ‘But Water Polo man,’ I explained, ‘you don’t drink.’
‘Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself,’ he countered.
‘But I don’t speak French,’ was my next argument, not bothering to mention that my struggles with English at school had rendered any thoughts of being bilingual a wasted effort.
‘That’s okay,’ replied the Water Polo man, ‘I speak the language.’
I was outpointed at every turn and that’s how we came to step off the Stratheden into a maze of bars that stayed open as long as anyone was prepared to part with their hard-earned to quench their thirst.
Slaking the thirst was easy but things started to go awry when the Water Polo man suggested we take a walk and see what the fairer sex in Marseilles were up to. Well, what a lot of them were up to was standing in doorways and making either suggestive movements or gestures.
Sensing a way out, I said, ‘This is a waste of time. I can’t communicate.’
‘No problem,’ laughed the Water Polo man, ‘you only need to know one word.’
‘And what would that be?’ I asked tentatively.
‘Combien,’ came the reply, ‘meaning, how much?’
And before I could protest any more, the Water Polo man had disappeared in the direction of the next set of bars on the waterfront.
Quickly left to my own devices and in a dark street that didn’t appeal as one that subscribed to the Neighbourhood Watch program, I figured it might be safer if I were behind closed doors.
‘Combien?’ I managed to mumble to a woman in an unlit doorway and before I had a chance to decipher the answer, the lady was shepherding me up the stairs of this rather dark and dingy building.
On about the third level I was pushed into a room and the door slammed behind me. At this stage I was starting to question my judgement; maybe the dark and dangerous-looking street wasn’t such a bad option.
Through a combination of mime and charades the woman convinced me it would be best if I took off my clothes and hung them behind the door. Getting undressed in front of a woman had never seemed less appealing.
Slowly I complied and I’d just finished putting my shoes and socks neatly in the corner when there was some loud banging on the door.
Now I was certain the dark and dangerous-looking street was a better option. I was beginning to consider that the chances of furthering my cricket career in the Lancashire League were fading fast. In fact, I was more concerned about the odds of me seeing the next sunrise.
After a couple of minutes of shouting and remonstrating with this unseen male in the hallway, I was pleased to see the woman close the door with still only the two of us in the room. Contemplating what might have caused the commotion, my thoughts were now oscillating between the ranting of an irate husband and the demands of an angry pimp. I wasn’t prepared for the answer the woman gave when she finally understood my question, ‘Who was that?’
‘It was zer police.’
I had never been in so much of a hurry to dress and leave an apartment in my life. I immediately headed for the nearest bar that was open and was delighted to find the Water Polo man seated and sipping on a soda water.
I didn’t know it at the time, but what could have been an extremely threatening experience with the customs and immigration man at the Tilbury Docks saying, ‘You mean British don’t you?’ would turn out to feel like someone holding up a welcome sign in comparison with my first visit to Marseilles.