Nicky Allt - Here We Go Gathering Cups In May

W alking the atmospheric boulevards of old Marseilles, eventually reaching dockside, I found the bar where Id sat and spoken to a wizened old Frenchman all those years ago. Presuming hed be part of the incoming tide by now, I never bothered to ask the owners of his whereabouts. Patrick Le Duveneh, Marseilles fisherman, had told me among many pearls of wisdom that hed have his ashes scattered at sea the next time I visited his Southern French port. Yeah, thats what he called it: his; like he was the yacht-owning, wrinkly Popeye version of the southern King of France.

Almost thirty years since I last breathed the intoxicating whiff of Gauloise smoke, sea air and Gallic streets, I let the scenery, sounds and a sprinkling of Mediterranean salt water wash over me. Noisy ocean waves crashed into boats and rocks with a densely defiant thud that proclaimed, I am the sea. Like Patrick, I too loved everything about the ocean. Along with old briny, I also loved these rough and ready portside settings bit like Naples, bit like Hamburg, bit like Liverpool. The rougher the setting, find the right people and, warmer the welcome.

Thinking how Id gotten here last time, penniless after another European trek, myself, Fast Eddie and Joey O had started out at William Hills betting office outside Liverpools Lime Street Station. With no real intention other than to pass time and see what Fast Eddie could do with his just-cashed giro cheque, we talked about the buzz of hitting the road. Arriving back from places like Amsterdam, Geneva and Cologne, story-laden, hungry for more, with a travel bug nipping away at toes and backsides that made sitting or standing still for five minutes seem like a life sentence, we badly wanted off.

Small, blue, betting-office pens between teeth, nervously biting at the over-chewed tops, we talked of where wed like to take off to, there and then, if a big pools win came in (pipe dreaming, as we didnt do the pools), or, if wrinkly Lester Piggott romped home on a decently priced filly to put a nice, fat, bundle in your back bin. You know, as a dreamer does, as a kid does, as you do. Fast Eddie, pinpointing Monaco as his beloved destination, grinned to himself, tearing another betting slip from the metal container on the wall. Asked why hed chosen a rich mans dining table as the place hed cash his chips, he replied, If all those tax-dodging fruitcakes were spending money there, and the place was riddled with gambling casinos, Id be aboard glistening yachts, rolling dice under the stars every night with pop stars and princesses.

A long-winded answer by our own in-house gambling fiend, his mid-afternoon dream got sliced when Joey O, countered, Who are you kidding, Betting-Office Balls? On yachts! You only have to bunk the Royal Iris ferry across the Mersey to Birkenhead and youre spewing your ring soon as the engines kick in!

He was right about Eddies seafaring legs, but it was only a harmless dream. Defending the lads answer, I responded, Well, where would you choose then, Joey the rock-hard pirate?

Id get right off to the Caribbean. Money goes a long way there. Its sunny, theres loads of cricket and, theres a thousand black beauties to wine and dine and take to those boss reggae clubs!

Loving cricket in school, since getting tuned into Bob Marleys Exodus by a calypso Scouser, he listened to nothing but reggae music. I understood his choice, till Fast Eddie butted in: Ha! Crickets a load of shit! Sitting there, bored off your skull with a big bag of money to spend!

Yeah, hes got a point there with the cricket, I offered.

Nah, youve got no culture, youse two. Crickets a game for lords. Id be a lord in the Caribbean. Yeah, Lord Joseph of Trinidad, or Barbados or Jamaica, thatd do for me.

Kingston is in Jamaica isnt it? I quizzed.

Yeah why? asked Joey.

Cos Kingston is one seriously rough gaff and youd be mugged, battered and robbed within a week.

Clocking me for a moment, he asked Alright smartarse where would you go then?

Without a thought I snapped back, Marseilles!

Marseilles? Joey O goes, thats even rougher than Kingston!

Wanting to be different, not choosing the obvious glitter-paved tinseltown, Id been reading a book about the mystical French port, something with French Connection similarities and uttered the first thing that came to mind.

And your reasons? enquired Joey O.

Well, it sounds like a mad dockland place full of gangsters and molls, and you could shoot into Monaco for a blast like Eddie said, but live with real people and not all those phoney rich pricks when you needed to get your head together. He looked at me for the briefest, turning to Eddie for opinion. Eddie had grown disinterested, already studying the riders for the next giddy-up ride. Marseilles, yeah, thats where Id go right now no passport, no bags, nothing!

Right now, yeah, youd go right now? Eddie had rejoined the chinwag, speaking through teeth still clenched around a small, blue plastic pen, his eyes glued intently to the TV screen above. Well, if this wins, lets go, right now, yeah? The Monaco Grand Prix is on this week and Ive always fancied a bet on those nutcase car drivers. Anyway, its Lester Piggott in the next and, guess what, the skinny little fuckers not even favourite!