Just as our conversation started, the famous Cote d’Azur spring sunshine suddenly poured into the 8m2 studio where we were sat semi-comfortably on our immaculately clean, grey bed-sofa hybrids. The symbolic nature of the weather turning was not lost on George Dean, the startlingly young cricket administrator with a rapidly growing reputation and zest for facilitating matches at home and abroad. “Yeah, I’ve been looking forward to the season finally starting” he admitted, tipping back a harshly bitter Nespresso. Sitting there, you couldn’t doubt his conviction. Like namesake George Osborne and Jennifer Lopez’s character in Maid and Manhattan, Dean divides and juggles his time between several full time jobs – in his case - in order to maximise his consumption of cricket. A former Oxford graduate and Strategy Consultant, his primary role is as Chairman of CTCCCC, the world’s first Cycling Cricket Club and with an already impressive list of foreign tours under its belt. When not huddled over spreadsheets, Wunderlists and his personal gmail account in his small cricket administration office under the Railway Arches in Loughborough Junction, he is private Chauffeur, punchbag and possible rent boy to Billionaire wideboy Mark Dixon – founder and CEO of Regus and leader of a vast and relatively pointless business empire which also includes peddling low grade Rosé wine. It is a quite remarkable workload for a 28 year old man in a serious relationship (who also holds a passionate, time-consuming and non-remunerated role in a professional catering entity) but Dean takes it in his stride.
When asked who has been his main inspiration, Dean is quick to admit that Phillip Harvey, Prehistoric and lopsided Chairman of the Philanderers CC and fellow vegetable-or-mineral composition had given him a lot of guidance – voluntary and involuntary. “He achieves a phenomenal fixture list for a club without a ground” Dean explained. “He really shows what you can achieve as a Chairman with only a computer, email account and large swathes of spare time at your disposal”. It’s easy to see why comparisons are starting to be drawn between the two men, and why Dean is already touted as a possible future leader of the Philanderers.
It had taken quite a few weeks of unanswered phone calls, emails and tweets, but Dean had eventually agreed to meet with us during one of his brief sejours in Monaco, where Dixon’s office is based. We leapt at the chance and flew to France – although realised on arrival that a certain amount of patience would be required in our endeavours to reach him. When we phoned the Regus office we were told initially that he might be picking grapes in Provence, then that no, he was in fact on a private jet to Barcelona with Dixon. Undeterred, we waited patiently at Nice airport and were rewarded when Dean finally showed up, looking resplendent (if much thinner and darker skinned than we had expected) in a charcoal suit and red tie, brandishing a tablet with the CTCCCC logo on it. He apologetically explained that it was an unusually busy day for him and that he was shortly to pick up the CTC squad themselves from arrivals. “Do you always pick up your clients personally?”. “Teammates mate not clients”.
Almost immediately, six of the squad appeared (I understood this was ‘The Batters’ Flight’) and greeted me and my cameraman enthusiastically. I was struck by the starkly different profiles of the men – including one who slightly resembled a grizzly bear, a tall athletic looking man with oddly skinny legs, and a short red headed man with a thick beard. “This is actually my first tour” the latter explained. “So much of the trip was arranged up front, I basically didn’t have to do anything - and I didn’t have any other plans this weekend”. This would be a recurring theme when I chatted to the team – that Dean was so thorough in his efforts to organise entire trip itineraries, that his teammates would shrug, realise it might be quite fun to tuck into some expat half trackers in the sunshine somewhere on the continent and transfer him money. He was even willing to cater for bespoke itineraries – I heard that the Wicket Keeper was about to fly out for just 24 hours – meaning the itinerary had to be re-jigged and segmented to accommodate him. Dean muttered something about it being an unusually admin-heavy tour, said we’d catch up tomorrow and wearily got into a huge minibus to drive to Monaco. I could hear shouting and see plumes of cigarette smoke coming out of the minivan as it pulled off into the distance.
When we found them the next day, the squad were in good spirits – after a night watching the Masters, they’d had a long lunch in the sunshine and been to two vineyards to do taste some of the local rose. Did it measure up to Dixon’s own stuff over in Provence? “I don’t know mate. I drink lager when I’m there.” was Dean’s response. The only note of désaccord seemed to be a cigarette burn in the passenger seat of the bus, for which thickset batsman Pemberton was allegedly responsible.
On the way back into Monaco we briefly chatted to Dean about what induced him to organise these trips in the first place. “Make no mistake, it’s a lot of work” he admitted, throwing the bus round another sharp corner. “And yes I do absorb probably 75% of the costs out of my own pocket. But the lads seem to really enjoy it, so I sort of keep going again each year”. In Dean’s defence, the group do seem to be in very good spirits; not least when they are joined by another three cricketers – resembling a chipmunk, a convict and a cripplingly shy gymnast respectively. Whilst enjoying some cold beers by the beach, the group are accosted by none other than retail tycoon Phillip Green – who gets the better of them in a brief sledging match on the way to his yacht.
I want to ask George about his life partner, Katie, and how supportive she is of CTC’s busy schedule which includes 8-a-side and indoor cricket, and sometimes full outdoor matches in summer. “Make no mistake, she doesn’t like sport” George explains. “I try to really pack in the admin when she is out for brunch. And when I’m at work obviously”.
I decide to catch up with Dean and the group again that evening, and the beer is flowing. They’ve been for a curry (10 lamb bhunas, I’m told), which Pemberton still seems to be grumbling about, and are headed for the famous Monaco Casino. They are quite smartly dressed. Dean is wearing a blue suit which I hear him refer to as ‘a party suit’. They go to the Casino and not long after entering, Rudkin, the youngest member of the group and supposedly their most talented batsman, has lost €50 within 2 minutes and is already ‘under watch’ from the security guards and banned from buying more drinks. “We are where we are” he slurs and wanders off to find another bar. After further bad luck at the tables, the introduction of a rogue female to the group and further players being placed under watch, they retire to Café de Paris in the famous Casino square where things start to implode. Just as one of the players is turned fully upside down to drink a beer amid chants of ‘Disarray in Beausolais!’, we grab a quick word with Dean. “It’s a Leo Sayer job” he mutters cryptically. “We Go Again”. Exhausted, we try to keep up with the group as they trawl an Irish pub, a bar filled with the delegates of a Plastic Surgery conference and a very strange discotheque where Power Rangers bring out the Jeraboams of champagne. Time to call it a night.
The next day the club are to play a 35 over match against little known Riviera CC and I decide to tag along to try to understand if the existence of the tour is somehow explained by the high octane competition of a fixture. My editor reluctantly agrees to extend my flights. When I turn up, it all looks a bit lethargic and Cassels B is already out (for 0 from the first three balls) and Pemberton and Rudkin are not looking all that steady. But they weather the storm and reach 64 before Pemberton’s stumps explode. In at 4 is Hesketh, the shy looking one, who looks so competent at cricket I have to ask some of the other players what he sees in taking part, but nobody really knows. Him and Rudkin bully some mixed bowling (credit to Riviera CC’s quartet of Asian seamers who do an ok job) and put a lot of runs on the board before Hesketh is out for 56, snicking off to Roomi who can definitely bowl. The artificial track is a snick-off wicket and Brookes, who also looks a skilful player in what I’m told is his second cricket game of the decade also succumbs to a nick for 18 odd. The Gingerm’n, Brennan, looks like a hitter but is spectacularly castled for a duck by the same bowler.
At the other end, ten runs short of a century, Rudkin braces himself as Kaleem sends down a very short, slow loopy bouncer. Rudkin is through the shot about 3 seconds early and the ball drops gently onto his swede. He hits the deck amidst concern, before we shout for him to man up and get on with it. He duly gets to his feet and completes his century a few overs later with a superlative drive through point. I’m told by Cassels on the boundary it’s his second hundred in as many games, but that he does have a strange inability to get out of the way of innocuous short balls.
Something bizarre happens shortly afterwards – the convict lookalike, who I am told is called Hammond, supposedly another youth cricketer of some repute, scoops his first delivery to point and is pouched - with one of the best catches I’ve ever seen by a village level – and both teams erupt with joy. Hammond is cheered and jeered off by his teammates who are laughing hysterically, whooping and shouting ‘Hammo Nil’. Gradually learning the players’ nicknames, I watch as The Cat (21) and Shagger Shaw (26*) bolster the CTC innings with some good strokes and they reach an impressive 267-9 with Dean himself the only man not to bat.
When the team take to the field to defend their total, the contrast in enthusiasm is notable. Dean is dehydrated but effervescent. He is shouting and clapping his large hands together, but is also visibly struggling with a sore back. I notice that some of the players look weary and are drinking beers in the outfield. I’m again struck by how immobile and out of shape the team are given their relative youth. They are forced to assemble a slip cordon entirely composed of injured players (Dean, Pemberton and Brennan), and even their most athletic looking player (the older but less haggard Cassels) doesn’t cover the ground very well when he runs.
A Japanese player who appears to be called The Beef Thief from Neath opens the bowling for CTC. Unfortunately for Riviera CC, they are never in the chase. The Beef Thief takes two – the first brilliant caught by Pemberton at slip, the second gobbled by the top heavy Cassels E at mid-off. At the other end, Hammond bowls too well (miraculously one of his wickets was a looped slip catch pouched by Dean)and has to be taken off after three overs to make a game of it. Dean calls for some ‘pus’. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but the two Cassels brothers take over the bowling duties. They get whacked about a bit, and one of Riviera’s Asian guns scores quite a few. Cassels B is out of puff after 2 overs and is replaced by Brookes who at one point takes two wickets in two balls before failing to make the hat trick ball count. I notice all five bowlers have the same action and it’s all a bit samey. Hammond at fine leg tells me the spinners are all injured, including Rudkin with a lump on his head. “George has been trying to sign a left armer for years”, he tells me. “He once spent an entire Saturday in November loitering around the Brockwell Park nets trying to find one before he gave up”.
Back at the match, eventually Brookes gets the breakthrough and it quickly disintegrates for Riviera who have nonetheless got their score up to a respectable 170 odd. The last two batsmen are local lads who are about 12. Brookes steams in with an effort ball and obliterates the first youngster’s stumps. There seems to be a palpable sense of relief that the match is almost over. There are no toilets at the ground and the players are in disarray. Rudkin is urinating on the boundary every 90 seconds and Cassels B has gone off to find a bush. Brookes seems to sense this and goes back to his long run – according no clemency, he runs in hard again and finds the Yorker he needs to castle the second 12 year old. The game is over and the players trudge and hobble off - I hear about six use the word ‘disarray’.
As they sink a few beers with the opposition I manage to grab a quick word with Dean. He is tired and hot and his skin looks even more scorched than usual. He closely resembles a recently varnished wooden coat stand. “I’m pleased. It’s another good win for the club”, he tells me. The team are going to tour Rwanda next year and I get the impression that this has been a reasonable dry run. I notice Dean hasn’t batted or bowled during the match and ask some of his teammates about his ability as a cricketer. “He works quite hard at his game mate.” Rudkin tells me. “Turns it big” before excusing himself and heading back into the bushes. “He’s pus” says Hammond without looking at me or breaking stride. I’m left to form my own conclusion so assume that George is better at cricket than his other favourite sport, rugby. I picture him as a probably former county junior player, batting 5 or 6 and keeping it tight in the middle overs when his fitness allows.
I still don’t feel I fully understand what motivates the man, so I decide to have one final chat with him, back in the bedroomless studio. When I turn up, there is a scene of relative carnage and I immediately realise the timing of my visit couldn’t be worse. Dean is kicking the Cassels brothers, Beef Thief and Shagger out and into the café next door. “Bear with me mate, I just want some time to clean up the…..LADS FUCK OFF TO THE CAFÉ!”. There’s a brief moment of peace, but just as I’m asking him where he sees his career going, Hammond, Hesketh, Brookes and Brennan turn up. I watch as Dean walks around in his underwear, tidying, whilst the others antagonise him with remarkable skill. It’s an impossibly awkward situation for an interview and I can’t get a word in edgeways between Hammond’s bouts of verbal crucifixion of his captain. Dean is still not dressed and is sweating into his tight white briefs. “I usually command a bit more respect than this” he says to me. “They’ve just got their tails up a bit today but it’s not usually like this”. I time this episode and reckon it takes them over an hour to leave the studio.
It’s seemed like a long few days, but the group seem to consider the tour a success, and I find myself impressed by the camaraderie on display. I feel I want to learn more about who ‘Davoe’, ‘Jack’ and apparently I really need to see Rutt’s arm, Pearson’s high elbow and Gimpsan’s ‘heavy ball’, whatever that is. One part of me never wants to see these arguably despicable men ever again, but part of me wants to sign up for their next tour. I ask George about the possibility of this, only half-jokingly. “Oh, Rwanda 2018? Sorry mate, sold out”.
And that was, stumps.
B.L.R. Cassels
When asked who has been his main inspiration, Dean is quick to admit that Phillip Harvey, Prehistoric and lopsided Chairman of the Philanderers CC and fellow vegetable-or-mineral composition had given him a lot of guidance – voluntary and involuntary. “He achieves a phenomenal fixture list for a club without a ground” Dean explained. “He really shows what you can achieve as a Chairman with only a computer, email account and large swathes of spare time at your disposal”. It’s easy to see why comparisons are starting to be drawn between the two men, and why Dean is already touted as a possible future leader of the Philanderers.
It had taken quite a few weeks of unanswered phone calls, emails and tweets, but Dean had eventually agreed to meet with us during one of his brief sejours in Monaco, where Dixon’s office is based. We leapt at the chance and flew to France – although realised on arrival that a certain amount of patience would be required in our endeavours to reach him. When we phoned the Regus office we were told initially that he might be picking grapes in Provence, then that no, he was in fact on a private jet to Barcelona with Dixon. Undeterred, we waited patiently at Nice airport and were rewarded when Dean finally showed up, looking resplendent (if much thinner and darker skinned than we had expected) in a charcoal suit and red tie, brandishing a tablet with the CTCCCC logo on it. He apologetically explained that it was an unusually busy day for him and that he was shortly to pick up the CTC squad themselves from arrivals. “Do you always pick up your clients personally?”. “Teammates mate not clients”.
Almost immediately, six of the squad appeared (I understood this was ‘The Batters’ Flight’) and greeted me and my cameraman enthusiastically. I was struck by the starkly different profiles of the men – including one who slightly resembled a grizzly bear, a tall athletic looking man with oddly skinny legs, and a short red headed man with a thick beard. “This is actually my first tour” the latter explained. “So much of the trip was arranged up front, I basically didn’t have to do anything - and I didn’t have any other plans this weekend”. This would be a recurring theme when I chatted to the team – that Dean was so thorough in his efforts to organise entire trip itineraries, that his teammates would shrug, realise it might be quite fun to tuck into some expat half trackers in the sunshine somewhere on the continent and transfer him money. He was even willing to cater for bespoke itineraries – I heard that the Wicket Keeper was about to fly out for just 24 hours – meaning the itinerary had to be re-jigged and segmented to accommodate him. Dean muttered something about it being an unusually admin-heavy tour, said we’d catch up tomorrow and wearily got into a huge minibus to drive to Monaco. I could hear shouting and see plumes of cigarette smoke coming out of the minivan as it pulled off into the distance.
When we found them the next day, the squad were in good spirits – after a night watching the Masters, they’d had a long lunch in the sunshine and been to two vineyards to do taste some of the local rose. Did it measure up to Dixon’s own stuff over in Provence? “I don’t know mate. I drink lager when I’m there.” was Dean’s response. The only note of désaccord seemed to be a cigarette burn in the passenger seat of the bus, for which thickset batsman Pemberton was allegedly responsible.
On the way back into Monaco we briefly chatted to Dean about what induced him to organise these trips in the first place. “Make no mistake, it’s a lot of work” he admitted, throwing the bus round another sharp corner. “And yes I do absorb probably 75% of the costs out of my own pocket. But the lads seem to really enjoy it, so I sort of keep going again each year”. In Dean’s defence, the group do seem to be in very good spirits; not least when they are joined by another three cricketers – resembling a chipmunk, a convict and a cripplingly shy gymnast respectively. Whilst enjoying some cold beers by the beach, the group are accosted by none other than retail tycoon Phillip Green – who gets the better of them in a brief sledging match on the way to his yacht.
I want to ask George about his life partner, Katie, and how supportive she is of CTC’s busy schedule which includes 8-a-side and indoor cricket, and sometimes full outdoor matches in summer. “Make no mistake, she doesn’t like sport” George explains. “I try to really pack in the admin when she is out for brunch. And when I’m at work obviously”.
I decide to catch up with Dean and the group again that evening, and the beer is flowing. They’ve been for a curry (10 lamb bhunas, I’m told), which Pemberton still seems to be grumbling about, and are headed for the famous Monaco Casino. They are quite smartly dressed. Dean is wearing a blue suit which I hear him refer to as ‘a party suit’. They go to the Casino and not long after entering, Rudkin, the youngest member of the group and supposedly their most talented batsman, has lost €50 within 2 minutes and is already ‘under watch’ from the security guards and banned from buying more drinks. “We are where we are” he slurs and wanders off to find another bar. After further bad luck at the tables, the introduction of a rogue female to the group and further players being placed under watch, they retire to Café de Paris in the famous Casino square where things start to implode. Just as one of the players is turned fully upside down to drink a beer amid chants of ‘Disarray in Beausolais!’, we grab a quick word with Dean. “It’s a Leo Sayer job” he mutters cryptically. “We Go Again”. Exhausted, we try to keep up with the group as they trawl an Irish pub, a bar filled with the delegates of a Plastic Surgery conference and a very strange discotheque where Power Rangers bring out the Jeraboams of champagne. Time to call it a night.
The next day the club are to play a 35 over match against little known Riviera CC and I decide to tag along to try to understand if the existence of the tour is somehow explained by the high octane competition of a fixture. My editor reluctantly agrees to extend my flights. When I turn up, it all looks a bit lethargic and Cassels B is already out (for 0 from the first three balls) and Pemberton and Rudkin are not looking all that steady. But they weather the storm and reach 64 before Pemberton’s stumps explode. In at 4 is Hesketh, the shy looking one, who looks so competent at cricket I have to ask some of the other players what he sees in taking part, but nobody really knows. Him and Rudkin bully some mixed bowling (credit to Riviera CC’s quartet of Asian seamers who do an ok job) and put a lot of runs on the board before Hesketh is out for 56, snicking off to Roomi who can definitely bowl. The artificial track is a snick-off wicket and Brookes, who also looks a skilful player in what I’m told is his second cricket game of the decade also succumbs to a nick for 18 odd. The Gingerm’n, Brennan, looks like a hitter but is spectacularly castled for a duck by the same bowler.
At the other end, ten runs short of a century, Rudkin braces himself as Kaleem sends down a very short, slow loopy bouncer. Rudkin is through the shot about 3 seconds early and the ball drops gently onto his swede. He hits the deck amidst concern, before we shout for him to man up and get on with it. He duly gets to his feet and completes his century a few overs later with a superlative drive through point. I’m told by Cassels on the boundary it’s his second hundred in as many games, but that he does have a strange inability to get out of the way of innocuous short balls.
Something bizarre happens shortly afterwards – the convict lookalike, who I am told is called Hammond, supposedly another youth cricketer of some repute, scoops his first delivery to point and is pouched - with one of the best catches I’ve ever seen by a village level – and both teams erupt with joy. Hammond is cheered and jeered off by his teammates who are laughing hysterically, whooping and shouting ‘Hammo Nil’. Gradually learning the players’ nicknames, I watch as The Cat (21) and Shagger Shaw (26*) bolster the CTC innings with some good strokes and they reach an impressive 267-9 with Dean himself the only man not to bat.
When the team take to the field to defend their total, the contrast in enthusiasm is notable. Dean is dehydrated but effervescent. He is shouting and clapping his large hands together, but is also visibly struggling with a sore back. I notice that some of the players look weary and are drinking beers in the outfield. I’m again struck by how immobile and out of shape the team are given their relative youth. They are forced to assemble a slip cordon entirely composed of injured players (Dean, Pemberton and Brennan), and even their most athletic looking player (the older but less haggard Cassels) doesn’t cover the ground very well when he runs.
A Japanese player who appears to be called The Beef Thief from Neath opens the bowling for CTC. Unfortunately for Riviera CC, they are never in the chase. The Beef Thief takes two – the first brilliant caught by Pemberton at slip, the second gobbled by the top heavy Cassels E at mid-off. At the other end, Hammond bowls too well (miraculously one of his wickets was a looped slip catch pouched by Dean)and has to be taken off after three overs to make a game of it. Dean calls for some ‘pus’. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but the two Cassels brothers take over the bowling duties. They get whacked about a bit, and one of Riviera’s Asian guns scores quite a few. Cassels B is out of puff after 2 overs and is replaced by Brookes who at one point takes two wickets in two balls before failing to make the hat trick ball count. I notice all five bowlers have the same action and it’s all a bit samey. Hammond at fine leg tells me the spinners are all injured, including Rudkin with a lump on his head. “George has been trying to sign a left armer for years”, he tells me. “He once spent an entire Saturday in November loitering around the Brockwell Park nets trying to find one before he gave up”.
Back at the match, eventually Brookes gets the breakthrough and it quickly disintegrates for Riviera who have nonetheless got their score up to a respectable 170 odd. The last two batsmen are local lads who are about 12. Brookes steams in with an effort ball and obliterates the first youngster’s stumps. There seems to be a palpable sense of relief that the match is almost over. There are no toilets at the ground and the players are in disarray. Rudkin is urinating on the boundary every 90 seconds and Cassels B has gone off to find a bush. Brookes seems to sense this and goes back to his long run – according no clemency, he runs in hard again and finds the Yorker he needs to castle the second 12 year old. The game is over and the players trudge and hobble off - I hear about six use the word ‘disarray’.
As they sink a few beers with the opposition I manage to grab a quick word with Dean. He is tired and hot and his skin looks even more scorched than usual. He closely resembles a recently varnished wooden coat stand. “I’m pleased. It’s another good win for the club”, he tells me. The team are going to tour Rwanda next year and I get the impression that this has been a reasonable dry run. I notice Dean hasn’t batted or bowled during the match and ask some of his teammates about his ability as a cricketer. “He works quite hard at his game mate.” Rudkin tells me. “Turns it big” before excusing himself and heading back into the bushes. “He’s pus” says Hammond without looking at me or breaking stride. I’m left to form my own conclusion so assume that George is better at cricket than his other favourite sport, rugby. I picture him as a probably former county junior player, batting 5 or 6 and keeping it tight in the middle overs when his fitness allows.
I still don’t feel I fully understand what motivates the man, so I decide to have one final chat with him, back in the bedroomless studio. When I turn up, there is a scene of relative carnage and I immediately realise the timing of my visit couldn’t be worse. Dean is kicking the Cassels brothers, Beef Thief and Shagger out and into the café next door. “Bear with me mate, I just want some time to clean up the…..LADS FUCK OFF TO THE CAFÉ!”. There’s a brief moment of peace, but just as I’m asking him where he sees his career going, Hammond, Hesketh, Brookes and Brennan turn up. I watch as Dean walks around in his underwear, tidying, whilst the others antagonise him with remarkable skill. It’s an impossibly awkward situation for an interview and I can’t get a word in edgeways between Hammond’s bouts of verbal crucifixion of his captain. Dean is still not dressed and is sweating into his tight white briefs. “I usually command a bit more respect than this” he says to me. “They’ve just got their tails up a bit today but it’s not usually like this”. I time this episode and reckon it takes them over an hour to leave the studio.
It’s seemed like a long few days, but the group seem to consider the tour a success, and I find myself impressed by the camaraderie on display. I feel I want to learn more about who ‘Davoe’, ‘Jack’ and apparently I really need to see Rutt’s arm, Pearson’s high elbow and Gimpsan’s ‘heavy ball’, whatever that is. One part of me never wants to see these arguably despicable men ever again, but part of me wants to sign up for their next tour. I ask George about the possibility of this, only half-jokingly. “Oh, Rwanda 2018? Sorry mate, sold out”.
And that was, stumps.
B.L.R. Cassels