Beware the psychotherapist of Berkhamsted

He was a perfectly credible character: bespectacled, reasonably well dressed, somewhere in his early 50s. He sidled up to me as I struggled with my bag having stepped out of East Finchley underground station.

"I'm terribly sorry, I really don't know how to put this." He looked flustered. "I've just visited one of my clients; I'm a psychotherapist, and I've just had my wallet stolen." I immediately offered my sympathy, but he wasn't looking for sympathy. "I have to get to Berkhamsted and I need £15. I hate to ask you this, but can you possibly lend me the fare? I'm really sorry."

At this point, alarm bells began to ring in the back of my brain. I stammered something incomprehensible.

"Look, I know what you're thinking, but let me assure you..." He paused. Then came his killer line, his unique selling proposition: "Do you know Lawrence at the bakery on Market Place?" As a reasonably loyal customer of said bakery, I did know Lawrence well enough to know his name. He's a genial and affable sort; the kind of person you wouldn't think twice about helping. "I'm his brother", he exclaimed.

It was, of course, the most brilliant line. How on earth could I ever let myself not help Lawrence's brother in his hour of need? I wouldn't be able to live with myself. I envisaged Lawrence telling me about his poor brother getting mugged in this leafy London suburb, his failure to elicit the help of a passer-by, and my feeble attempt at feigning surprise and disgust.

I pulled £15 out of my wallet and thrust it into his palm. "Please let me have your mobile number and I'll arrange to pay you back", he said, and pulled an old-fashioned mobile from his pocket and dialled my number into the phone.

As soon as he'd turned in the direction of the station I knew instinctively that I'd never hear from this stranger ever again. I knew in my heart of hearts that I'd been had, been diddled, and for a moment I felt stupid and gullible. But then again, had I refused, I'd have felt mean spirited, callous and inhuman. But by the time I returned home I had put the whole thing out of my mind.

It wasn't until a few weeks later, while on the phone to my brother, that I was reminded of the incident. "A strange thing happened to me on the way home the other day", I said. "A complete stranger managed to wangle fifteen quid out of me in a few seconds. Said he was a psychotherapist and had just been mugged."

"What did he look like?" came my brother's swift response.

"He was in his 50s, well spoken, thinning hair, fairly innocuous I'd say."

"He wasn't going to Berkhamsted was he?"

"Bloody hell, how did you know?"

"I don't believe it, I got diddled by the same bugger last week coming out of the Wigmore Hall."

On hearing this, I have to say that I felt a great deal less stupid. Anyone who can pull a fast one on my elder brother has to be pretty bloody good. This guy knew exactly how to make his victims search their own souls and question their own sense of compassion and fair play.

I have since learned that this particular confidence trickster has taken in a number of well respected journalists. So if by chance a respectable, well dressed man should approach you in the street and ask politely for £15 to get to Berkhamsted, I'd urge you to administer a sharp, well aimed knee in the knackers and continue on your way.

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds 

The Poet's and Peasants' XI

If you have read ‘England their England’ by A G Macdonell you will be familiar with the famous description of a village cricket match set in the home counties during the 1920s. It’s one of those quintessentially English pastimes that has barely changed since the Edwardian era. And I say this from experience.

Back in the days when I barely had a grey hair on my head, my older brother and a good friend decided over a few beers to form a cricket club, despite the fact that neither were particularly skilled exponents of the noble game. However, the idea was enthusiastically put about and within a matter of days, enough friends and friends of friends had expressed a keen interest to join.

My brother, being a lawyer, drew up a constitution which was duly presented to all those who had promised their support, and at the first ever meeting, which took place at The Cheshire Cheese public house in Fleet Street, certain key decisions were put to the vote. As a result, the cricket club was to be named the Poet’s and Peasants’; the official club colours were to be Green (for the grass), blue (for the sky) and gold (for the beer); and most importantly, the club was going to have to appoint a Poet. After much discussion, it was decided that Mr Alan Gibson (now sadly no longer with us), who was at that time writing a regular column for the Times newspaper would be the most suitable candidate to approach on the basis that his pieces captured the spirit of the game and were arguably some of the wittiest to be found in any of the nation’s sports pages. So a letter was drafted, agreed upon and posted to Mr Gibson.

Within a week Mr Gibson responded, and in the most charming terms accepted the honour of having the title Club Poet bestowed upon him, on the one condition that at the beginning of each season, a bottle of the finest malt whisky would be dispatched to him forthwith.

On this basis we had secured an eminent poet even though we didn’t have our own ground, or for that matter, much cricketing nous. Indeed, many of the founding members were professional musicians who were paranoid about their fingers, and refused point blank to field anywhere near the batsman for fear of damaging their precious Phalanges and Metacarpals. One Chris D Freeman, a double bass player, would field the ball with any part of his body except his hands and managed quite miraculously during one memorable game to take a catch between his knees. Needless to say, the poor batsman thought he was seeing things.

We got to play on some truly pretty village grounds. One such ground in Kent was the home of the Coddrington Cobblers. Like the Peasants, they were a very weak but enthusiastic team of delightful individuals, and before the match began one of their players confided that very few of their matches ever continued beyond the tea session. It soon became apparent why this should be, for in place of boundary markers were substantial barrels of local beer which the fielding side could enjoy at their leisure between overs. Seeing that we had plenty of musicians fielding on the boundary, much of the ale was consumed during the course of play (I’ve yet to meet a musician who doesn’t like a jar or five). And as it turned out, the tea was by no means the usual curled up sandwiches and stewed tea. No, instead the wives and partners of the Cobblers had prepared a feast of gargantuan proportions. So it was very much a case of food and drink stopped play.

The Poet’s and Peasants’ went on to enjoy ten consecutive seasons, including three tours in Devon, and during this time many colourful characters had at one time or other played for us.

There was the eccentric and brilliant historian Ronald Hutton (now Professor Hutton); the late John Macleod, a wonderful batsman and baritone who also happened to be the Laird of Skye; the club’s original co-founder, Bramwell Tovey (now the composer and Artistic Director of the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra), Thos Hodgson, a talented all-rounder (now a distinguished barrister in Sydney, Australia); Jonathan Milner a very fine batsman (now also a distinguished barrister, but over here); Tony Jenkins, our opening batsman and talented golfer who also drove trains on the London Underground; Oliver Heald (now a Conservative MP); Peter Greenhouse (now an eminent consultant in sexual heath); and of course Chris D Freeman who still plays double bass and was in fact the only member of the club to have his name appear in Wisden magazine, thanks to a piece written by our esteemed poet, the late Alan Gibson.

These days, every time I find myself driving through a village on a summer’s afternoon and pass the village green with its men in white flannels and that inimitable sound of leather on willow, I think back to those days of the Peasants, and for a second I feel a twinge of jealousy.

Photograph (from left standing): Stephen Greenhough, John McLeod, Nick Patrick, 
Chris Freeman, Mike Iland (Seated): Alex Pearl, Tony Garrett, David Pearl, Bob Collins, 
Mike O'Donell, Bramwell Tovey

Alex Pearl is author of Sleeping with the Blackbirds