23 July 2004
10 June 2004 - Bye Jarv
Seamus and I went along to a party to celebrate Jarv leaving London forever. Good riddance to the old boot. We'd already passed a happy half hour drinking beer in the Roadhouse, so after we'd tucked into good quantity of champagne we decided to play it safe and call it a night. It was early, we weren't too drunk, and we had better adventures to see to in the morning.
Alas, what a plan but for the call of cachaca. As we stumbled along the Strand to Charing Cross I suddenly recalled what I have spent more time doing with Seamus when we were alone together than anything else (well, apart from not speaking to each other on coach journeys): drinking caipirinha in Rio. Nostalgic, we ducked into Smollensky's to grab ourselves one last drink, and then one last drink turned into two, or three, or four… I don't know, my entire nervous system was so sore the next morning I couldn't bear to remember. Ah, but they were good.
3-9 June 2004 - something wrong
I spent an entire week working on the same sodding report. It's a great report. I mean, it reads really well and is full of murder and intrigue and other adventures. But still, it took up all my days, most of my evenings and much of the weekend, and most likely will only ever be read once, by a bunch of people I've never met, and then filed in a drawer marked confidential.
2 June 2004 - bye bye Emily
Only weeks after Emily's triumphant return to British shores, the British authorities decided they didn't want her anymore and instructed her to move back to the US. This was very upsetting - the Tongs use Emily to secure shipments of curious American friends and Kool Aid - however it seemed Her Majesty's decision was final and so we all met up for a last drink to bid her farewell. We started at the expensive retro bar at the bottom of Centrepoint, but that sucked so we went to My Old Dutch for some good old pancakes and beer instead. And then, mopping away the last vestiges of vanilla waffle from her lips, Emily vanished into the night as mysteriously as she had first arrived.
Also, Spim blew his nose which apparently they don't do in the US. It lurched us onto the brink of an international incident.
29-31 May 2004 - road trip to Wales
Saturday... As an emergency measure to celebrate Siben's birthday the Tongs took a road trip down to the Royal Forest of Dean for the long weekend. I had anticipated a lovely, lush forest in which we would camp between the trees and awaken to find rabbits gamboling in the bracken, but in reality it was some sort of refugee camp. Once we had managed to talk our way past the camp guards, and been tricked out of all our money by the humourless Kapo, we set off to find a space to camp. There wasn't a single tree in the entire site - they had all been swept away to make more room for campers - and so we found ourselves driving through overpopulated fields desperately seeking a space to set up. In the end we found a piece of ground that sloped just steeply enough that no one else wanted it, but not so steep it would be impossible to sleep.
Once we had made camp (i.e. thrown up our tents and secured a supply of alcohol), we made a delicious barbecue and set about draining our cider reserves. This involved a great deal of play fighting, running around the forest and squarking out monkey calls to the children on the other side of the valley.
Sunday... I was shocked the next morning to find the five of us had got through fifteen bottles of cider, a box of beer and a box of wine. I was even more startled when it transpired Si and Mnki had not been drinking. Ah so, I was so desperately hungover it was not possible to think. After a doze and a hearty breakfast there was just enough time to laze around doing nothing for the rest of the morning, which we did with panache.
Around midday we decided to explore the forest, and set off on a long walk which took in forests, rope bridges, yats and rivers. We built up quite an appetite with all the hiking, and around two hours later we found ourselves at a lovely rural pub by the river with a perfect little beer garden. To our utter horror none of us had thought to bring any money, and so the pub was as good as a malevolent mirage. Distressed and upset, we plodded heartbroken back to the campsite to get our wallets and - Sunday licensing laws being Sunday licensing laws - ended up driving forever through the surrounding countryside seeking a pub that could serve us lunch. We ended up, predictably, in the backyard of a Wetherspoons, eating their curiously bland burgers and drinking some very fine ales.
Monday… The next day we headed off to the FergalHaus in Stroud for a slap up meal in the garden. Thanks to Fergal's splendid father we all learned rather more about what AP Herbert had to say on the subject of the sundial than any of us ever wished to know. Then we were off to SpimHaus where I learned rather more about tortoises than was necessary. Finally I got to go home, for a heartwarming reunion with my sweet, sweet bed. I confess, there is a lot to be said for sleeping on the cold ground under a thin sheet of polythene, but I still maintain my bed is the superior.
27 May 2004 - City of London Road Race
I do the city run each year to raise funds for WhizzKids, a charity for broken and spastic children. I came 1,020th this year, according to the official results. This is an astonishing achievement not only because it means I ran the course in just 29 minutes and 8 seconds (and beat 1,828 other runners), but also because I didn't actually enter the race at all. I actually felt a little ill, and decided to bail and go home instead. It was good, though: I got to eat pasta and watch Hollyoaks, neither of which you can do when you're running along the South Bank in the rain.
Seamus and I went along to a party to celebrate Jarv leaving London forever. Good riddance to the old boot. We'd already passed a happy half hour drinking beer in the Roadhouse, so after we'd tucked into good quantity of champagne we decided to play it safe and call it a night. It was early, we weren't too drunk, and we had better adventures to see to in the morning.
Alas, what a plan but for the call of cachaca. As we stumbled along the Strand to Charing Cross I suddenly recalled what I have spent more time doing with Seamus when we were alone together than anything else (well, apart from not speaking to each other on coach journeys): drinking caipirinha in Rio. Nostalgic, we ducked into Smollensky's to grab ourselves one last drink, and then one last drink turned into two, or three, or four… I don't know, my entire nervous system was so sore the next morning I couldn't bear to remember. Ah, but they were good.
3-9 June 2004 - something wrong
I spent an entire week working on the same sodding report. It's a great report. I mean, it reads really well and is full of murder and intrigue and other adventures. But still, it took up all my days, most of my evenings and much of the weekend, and most likely will only ever be read once, by a bunch of people I've never met, and then filed in a drawer marked confidential.
2 June 2004 - bye bye Emily
Only weeks after Emily's triumphant return to British shores, the British authorities decided they didn't want her anymore and instructed her to move back to the US. This was very upsetting - the Tongs use Emily to secure shipments of curious American friends and Kool Aid - however it seemed Her Majesty's decision was final and so we all met up for a last drink to bid her farewell. We started at the expensive retro bar at the bottom of Centrepoint, but that sucked so we went to My Old Dutch for some good old pancakes and beer instead. And then, mopping away the last vestiges of vanilla waffle from her lips, Emily vanished into the night as mysteriously as she had first arrived.
Also, Spim blew his nose which apparently they don't do in the US. It lurched us onto the brink of an international incident.
29-31 May 2004 - road trip to Wales
Saturday... As an emergency measure to celebrate Siben's birthday the Tongs took a road trip down to the Royal Forest of Dean for the long weekend. I had anticipated a lovely, lush forest in which we would camp between the trees and awaken to find rabbits gamboling in the bracken, but in reality it was some sort of refugee camp. Once we had managed to talk our way past the camp guards, and been tricked out of all our money by the humourless Kapo, we set off to find a space to camp. There wasn't a single tree in the entire site - they had all been swept away to make more room for campers - and so we found ourselves driving through overpopulated fields desperately seeking a space to set up. In the end we found a piece of ground that sloped just steeply enough that no one else wanted it, but not so steep it would be impossible to sleep.
Once we had made camp (i.e. thrown up our tents and secured a supply of alcohol), we made a delicious barbecue and set about draining our cider reserves. This involved a great deal of play fighting, running around the forest and squarking out monkey calls to the children on the other side of the valley.
Sunday... I was shocked the next morning to find the five of us had got through fifteen bottles of cider, a box of beer and a box of wine. I was even more startled when it transpired Si and Mnki had not been drinking. Ah so, I was so desperately hungover it was not possible to think. After a doze and a hearty breakfast there was just enough time to laze around doing nothing for the rest of the morning, which we did with panache.
Around midday we decided to explore the forest, and set off on a long walk which took in forests, rope bridges, yats and rivers. We built up quite an appetite with all the hiking, and around two hours later we found ourselves at a lovely rural pub by the river with a perfect little beer garden. To our utter horror none of us had thought to bring any money, and so the pub was as good as a malevolent mirage. Distressed and upset, we plodded heartbroken back to the campsite to get our wallets and - Sunday licensing laws being Sunday licensing laws - ended up driving forever through the surrounding countryside seeking a pub that could serve us lunch. We ended up, predictably, in the backyard of a Wetherspoons, eating their curiously bland burgers and drinking some very fine ales.
Monday… The next day we headed off to the FergalHaus in Stroud for a slap up meal in the garden. Thanks to Fergal's splendid father we all learned rather more about what AP Herbert had to say on the subject of the sundial than any of us ever wished to know. Then we were off to SpimHaus where I learned rather more about tortoises than was necessary. Finally I got to go home, for a heartwarming reunion with my sweet, sweet bed. I confess, there is a lot to be said for sleeping on the cold ground under a thin sheet of polythene, but I still maintain my bed is the superior.
27 May 2004 - City of London Road Race
I do the city run each year to raise funds for WhizzKids, a charity for broken and spastic children. I came 1,020th this year, according to the official results. This is an astonishing achievement not only because it means I ran the course in just 29 minutes and 8 seconds (and beat 1,828 other runners), but also because I didn't actually enter the race at all. I actually felt a little ill, and decided to bail and go home instead. It was good, though: I got to eat pasta and watch Hollyoaks, neither of which you can do when you're running along the South Bank in the rain.
