Day 1
Maidstone, To: Offekerque, Pas-De-Calais, 62370 (FR) 80.38 miles
Day 2
Offekerque, To: Arlon, Luxembourg, 6700 (BE)Via: Ypres 244.03 miles
Day 3
Arlon, Luxembourg, 6700 (BE) To: Königsfeld Im Schwarzwald, 242.43 miles
Day 4
Königsfeld Im Schwarzwald, To: Constance, 55.83 miles
Constance, To: Zuoz, (CH)Via: Friedrichshafen, 88045 (DE) 168.22 miles
Day 6
Zuoz, (CH) To: Lecco, 23900 (IT)Via: Pontresina, (CH) 85.41 miles
Day 7
Lecco, (IT) To: Bergamo, (IT) Via: Varenna, (IT) 58.05 miles
Bergamo, 24122 (IT) To: Malpensa, (IT) 130.05 miles
50.05 miles plus add 80 miles for overnight south of Malpensa
Day 8
Malpensa, To: Brig (CH) Via Simplon pass 102.09 miles
Day 9
Brig, (CH) To: Brig, Via: Oberwald and Rhone Glacier, Furkapass, 83.12 miles
Day 10
Brig, To: Troyes, Aube, (FR) 307.56 miles
Day 11
Troyes, Aube, 10000 (FR) To: épernay, Marne, 51200 (FR) 69.81 miles
Day 12 "SRS"
épernay, Marne, 51200 (FR) To: Maidstone 253.46 miles
Day 12 "TB2"
épernay, Marne, 51200 (FR) To: Sains, Ille-Et-Vilaine, 35610 (FR) 323.91 miles
Day 13 "TB2"
Sains, (FR) To: Saint-Pôtan, Côtes-D'armor, 22550 (FR) 43.50 miles
Day 15 "TB2"
Saint-Pôtan, To: Maidstone via Le Touquet 383.66 miles
TOTAL MILES "SRS" 1626.98
TOTAL MILES "TB2" 2384.05
Thursday, 31 July 2008
Monday, 28 July 2008
Sunday, 27 July 2008
Rafting Link !!
Link for all Rafting photos - HERE http://www.garbely-adventure.ch/fotogalerie/events-2008/2008-07-16-magnificent-7-rafting/
Note Jock's face during practice on dry land !!!
Friday, 25 July 2008
Sunday, 20 July 2008
MAG1 - COMMENT - "FOR ME ITS BEEN RADICAL ! A VERY SOMETIMES BITTER SOMETIMES V SWEET EXPERIENCE " THANKYOU ALL FOR THE SHARED UPS N DOWNS !
JUST WANT TO SAY ! JUST LIKE LIFE NOWT IS ALL ROSES EH! ..... WISH THAT IT WERE ........... HOWEVER MANY MORE UPS THAN DOWNS OVERALL AND ITS ALL PART OF THE ADVENTURE OF LIFE EH! PEOPES. GOOD LUCK AND THANKYOU ONCE AGAIN TO ALL WITHOUT EXCEPTION. BOMBS X X X
The Fab 4 live on - ( just )
This is Mouldy reporting live from Brittany, on Bomber's log-in.
So, the Mag 7 mutate into the Fab 4, and just like a caterpillar mutating into a crysalis, that is what happened on our departure from Epernay. Benger Snr. and Mouldy split the driving and decided to do the Brittany leg in one hit, while the not-so-fab remains, hibernated in the rear accommodation. As usual, Mrs. Sat nav, picked the best route !!! Straight thru Paris in the rush hour. Several changes of underwear later, we were heading due west towards the land of the Bretons, where Father's Day is very confusing for the locals.
When the matchsticks in Mouldy's eyes finally rotted away, he grudgingly gave the helm to Nav's Benger, and tried to get some shut-eye in the co-pilot's seat, 100 miles later, coming to with a rick in the neck. By this time Navs Benger had resorted to chewing a plastic bottletop, the water having run out miles before, and seemingly content to continue doing the same.
With consultation, it was decided to call a halt, and try to get some zzzz's, an Aire-de-Stationement was found in the book and we finally pulled into "Sains", 46 miles short of destination, and collapsed in various heaps within "Thunderbird 2" at around 3.30 am.
Dawn saw the motley crew almost refreshed and breakfast scran was hastily assembled.
The last leg was done in good time, and Mrs. Sat nav did a good job, directing us to the home of Marie and Al, in Brittany.
For those not in the know, back in Blighty, Marie had forbidden Bomber to bring his "Pikey" mates, in their Murtahomes, to their residence, so true-to-form, Bomber ignored all advice and did it anyway. Al had been pre-warned but Marie was not aware.
On arrival, a drive-past recce was done, to sus out the best approach for a wind-up. The in-car entertainment was set for bad Country-and-Western, the camcorder was set up and procedures and comms checks carried out.
As we pulled up outside the right residence, with Bomber hiding in the back, we tooted the horn and Marie crossed their courtyard to speak to us from behind the boundary fence. Her face said it all ! Yet another bunch of bloody tourists asking the way.
Navs Benger then proceeded to ask her if we had found the right place, showing her the book of overnight stops. She tried to say that her house was not listed, and was not a stop-over place.
On a pre-arranged signal Bomber rang Tim's mobile and he answered, cutting Marie dead and stating " Yes lads, we've found the place, parking is a bit tight but we should be able to get you all in. The place has a washing machine, showers, and a washing line, so come on ahead."
By now Marie was getting fit to give us the big heave-ho, when Bomber, unable to contain his excitement, appeared alongside Tim in the passenger window, to the exclamation of "F****** W***** " in typical lady-like fashion from Marie. Jeremy Beadle would have been impressed !!
The rest of the day was a blur of empty bottles followed by a particular good evening at the only local hostelry, well-named " Le Nautil' " where proper care was taken to consume the correct liquids for mutual oblivion. Unable to set up Bomber with the only single woman in the village, on account of her not liking his beer-muscle, she then took a shine to the junior member of the Fab 4, who, due to excessive over-indulgence, played the part admirably.
The trek back to "Chez Al and Marie" was then commenced in the early-hours along the dark half-mile of country road, with the blind leading ( and supporting ) the blind. In true hospitable fashion, the Landlord's wife appeared in her car to make sure the well-blotted Ship's company arrived back safely.
Bedtime arrived with a mad scramble for the best berths, Bomber choosing the en-suite double, complete with satellite TV, and the porn channel. For him, after his "Herm" this was the Ritz, and it may have turned his head. Unfortunately for him, the TV had a uk plug on it and no facility for conversion to froggy sockets, so, no PORN.
Daybreak arrived with all in good form ( surprisingly ), and a muster was called prior to a foraging trip in Thunderbird 2, to the local Super U, to obtain victuals for the afternoon's essential BBQ. Needless to say, Bomber disappeared in search of the elusive "sticker". Following sufficient re-fuelling of both Thunderbird 2 and the ship's company, we arrived back in good order for another helping of our host's hospitality, namely a magnificent BBQ with suitable refreshments.
And this, dear readers, is where we are at present. If my tryping starts to get erratic, it is because I am forced to down copious amounts of Pimms, sitting in the glorious sunshine, in the courtyard, while being force-fed with substantial amounts of perfectly-barbecued amounts of meat.
Laters
Me
So, the Mag 7 mutate into the Fab 4, and just like a caterpillar mutating into a crysalis, that is what happened on our departure from Epernay. Benger Snr. and Mouldy split the driving and decided to do the Brittany leg in one hit, while the not-so-fab remains, hibernated in the rear accommodation. As usual, Mrs. Sat nav, picked the best route !!! Straight thru Paris in the rush hour. Several changes of underwear later, we were heading due west towards the land of the Bretons, where Father's Day is very confusing for the locals.
When the matchsticks in Mouldy's eyes finally rotted away, he grudgingly gave the helm to Nav's Benger, and tried to get some shut-eye in the co-pilot's seat, 100 miles later, coming to with a rick in the neck. By this time Navs Benger had resorted to chewing a plastic bottletop, the water having run out miles before, and seemingly content to continue doing the same.
With consultation, it was decided to call a halt, and try to get some zzzz's, an Aire-de-Stationement was found in the book and we finally pulled into "Sains", 46 miles short of destination, and collapsed in various heaps within "Thunderbird 2" at around 3.30 am.
Dawn saw the motley crew almost refreshed and breakfast scran was hastily assembled.
The last leg was done in good time, and Mrs. Sat nav did a good job, directing us to the home of Marie and Al, in Brittany.
For those not in the know, back in Blighty, Marie had forbidden Bomber to bring his "Pikey" mates, in their Murtahomes, to their residence, so true-to-form, Bomber ignored all advice and did it anyway. Al had been pre-warned but Marie was not aware.
On arrival, a drive-past recce was done, to sus out the best approach for a wind-up. The in-car entertainment was set for bad Country-and-Western, the camcorder was set up and procedures and comms checks carried out.
As we pulled up outside the right residence, with Bomber hiding in the back, we tooted the horn and Marie crossed their courtyard to speak to us from behind the boundary fence. Her face said it all ! Yet another bunch of bloody tourists asking the way.
Navs Benger then proceeded to ask her if we had found the right place, showing her the book of overnight stops. She tried to say that her house was not listed, and was not a stop-over place.
On a pre-arranged signal Bomber rang Tim's mobile and he answered, cutting Marie dead and stating " Yes lads, we've found the place, parking is a bit tight but we should be able to get you all in. The place has a washing machine, showers, and a washing line, so come on ahead."
By now Marie was getting fit to give us the big heave-ho, when Bomber, unable to contain his excitement, appeared alongside Tim in the passenger window, to the exclamation of "F****** W***** " in typical lady-like fashion from Marie. Jeremy Beadle would have been impressed !!
The rest of the day was a blur of empty bottles followed by a particular good evening at the only local hostelry, well-named " Le Nautil' " where proper care was taken to consume the correct liquids for mutual oblivion. Unable to set up Bomber with the only single woman in the village, on account of her not liking his beer-muscle, she then took a shine to the junior member of the Fab 4, who, due to excessive over-indulgence, played the part admirably.
The trek back to "Chez Al and Marie" was then commenced in the early-hours along the dark half-mile of country road, with the blind leading ( and supporting ) the blind. In true hospitable fashion, the Landlord's wife appeared in her car to make sure the well-blotted Ship's company arrived back safely.
Bedtime arrived with a mad scramble for the best berths, Bomber choosing the en-suite double, complete with satellite TV, and the porn channel. For him, after his "Herm" this was the Ritz, and it may have turned his head. Unfortunately for him, the TV had a uk plug on it and no facility for conversion to froggy sockets, so, no PORN.
Daybreak arrived with all in good form ( surprisingly ), and a muster was called prior to a foraging trip in Thunderbird 2, to the local Super U, to obtain victuals for the afternoon's essential BBQ. Needless to say, Bomber disappeared in search of the elusive "sticker". Following sufficient re-fuelling of both Thunderbird 2 and the ship's company, we arrived back in good order for another helping of our host's hospitality, namely a magnificent BBQ with suitable refreshments.
And this, dear readers, is where we are at present. If my tryping starts to get erratic, it is because I am forced to down copious amounts of Pimms, sitting in the glorious sunshine, in the courtyard, while being force-fed with substantial amounts of perfectly-barbecued amounts of meat.
Laters
Me
Saturday, 19 July 2008
Day 11 - .........and there's more!
Just when we thought the day was finally over, there was more incidents along the way. We arrived in the port of Calais and as luck would have it we got pulled over by the customs officials. Jan P got out of the murtahurm and unlocked the back door. The customs officer's first question was, "is the dog inside?" Jan P replied, "yes, a fuckin big Scottish one." The door opened and Big Jock barked at him. Once Big Jock had been shellacked for pissing around with one of Her Majesty's officials, the customs officer asked Big Jock to open various cubbyholes whilst he shone his torch around. Things were going great until the customs officer said, "what's in there?" Big Jock said, "Bombers bog - you don't want to go in there!" to which the customs officer took one look and replied, "too right I don't," and went off muttering something about, "I can't be arsed with all that shit." Big Jock wondered how the customs officer new about Bomber's emergency dump in Epernay? Fuckin hell, those customs officers are good!
Once the search was complete we went to see the French ferry man and gave him our reference number, which I hasten to add was arse about face. Eventually he found our booking and let us have an earlier ferry - two hours early; happy days, things were beginning to look up. (Don't count your chickens!)
Once on board we noticed the ferry was full of Eastern Europeans and Irish bog trotters. Big Jock and Jan P went shopping with the last of their Euros and George spent his on beer - good lad, hardcore to the last. "You can be proud of him as your new son-in-law Benger!"
After spending just over an hour looking at the finest set of tangos yet to be seen this trip, like a couple of well moulded Chivas jellies, the Spit Roast Special got off the ferry and managed to dodge British customs at Dover. Lucky really because it was at this point Jan P and George noticed that SRS had no lights. Side lights yes, full beam yes, but the normal night driving configuration? No! The council house murtahurm had a bloody power cut. Jan P drove the 30 miles to Maidstone via Leeds Castle, upsetting all the drivers on both sides of the road by driving with his full beam on. We even got passed by, not 1 but 3 police cars but didn't get pulled - the gods had finally looked favourably on us, or had they?
After parting company with George at Leeds Castle, I've never seen so much gear loaded into a Ford Focus - it was like an episode of "Challenge Anneka," Jan P and Big Jock made haste for junction 5 of the M20 and safety. On reaching junction 5 it had a big sign saying "road closed," the shit just kept on coming! Undeterred Jan P and Big Jock carried on to junction 4 and did an about turn back south eventually reaching the safety of Bengers house some 10 minutes later.
Spit Roast Special was stripped of Jan P and Big Jocks gear, well most of it. On driving back to London, Big Jock realised he'd left all his shirts, trousers and special agent suit hanging up inside SRS. He is currently sat in his underpants typing this blog! Bomber, get back here and bring my clothes with you!
Hopefully this should now be my last entry as Keeper of the Blog. I hope you enjoy the final installments and the book should be published early next year and will be in WH Smiths for £11.99 - TTFN
Once the search was complete we went to see the French ferry man and gave him our reference number, which I hasten to add was arse about face. Eventually he found our booking and let us have an earlier ferry - two hours early; happy days, things were beginning to look up. (Don't count your chickens!)
Once on board we noticed the ferry was full of Eastern Europeans and Irish bog trotters. Big Jock and Jan P went shopping with the last of their Euros and George spent his on beer - good lad, hardcore to the last. "You can be proud of him as your new son-in-law Benger!"
After spending just over an hour looking at the finest set of tangos yet to be seen this trip, like a couple of well moulded Chivas jellies, the Spit Roast Special got off the ferry and managed to dodge British customs at Dover. Lucky really because it was at this point Jan P and George noticed that SRS had no lights. Side lights yes, full beam yes, but the normal night driving configuration? No! The council house murtahurm had a bloody power cut. Jan P drove the 30 miles to Maidstone via Leeds Castle, upsetting all the drivers on both sides of the road by driving with his full beam on. We even got passed by, not 1 but 3 police cars but didn't get pulled - the gods had finally looked favourably on us, or had they?
After parting company with George at Leeds Castle, I've never seen so much gear loaded into a Ford Focus - it was like an episode of "Challenge Anneka," Jan P and Big Jock made haste for junction 5 of the M20 and safety. On reaching junction 5 it had a big sign saying "road closed," the shit just kept on coming! Undeterred Jan P and Big Jock carried on to junction 4 and did an about turn back south eventually reaching the safety of Bengers house some 10 minutes later.
Spit Roast Special was stripped of Jan P and Big Jocks gear, well most of it. On driving back to London, Big Jock realised he'd left all his shirts, trousers and special agent suit hanging up inside SRS. He is currently sat in his underpants typing this blog! Bomber, get back here and bring my clothes with you!
Hopefully this should now be my last entry as Keeper of the Blog. I hope you enjoy the final installments and the book should be published early next year and will be in WH Smiths for £11.99 - TTFN
Day 11 – Final day for Jan P, Big Jock and George
Big Jock awoke at 9.45am and his first words were, “what the fuck happened?”
All was soon to be revealed but not before breakfast. The lads walked down to both bars but the lazy French can’ts were still in bed! Thankfully Mouldy got the bacon on the go, James buttered the bread and Bomber made the brew. Benger exclaimed that he had never seen anyone so stressed making the tea before (referring to the tirades coming from Bomber in the Spit Roast Special).
Bomber then reminded Big Jock about his community service and employed him washing the dishes. He was rewarded with a lovely cup of coffee and a shellacking about the missing Steve McQueen poster! Big Jock, confused, fucked off to ditch the gash. (Mad Raving Geordie Bastard!)
Big Jock then went to investigate the French thunder box, armed with his trusty pampers arse wipes and concluded the clattie (Scottish word for unwashed, unclean, smelly, stain on society bastards) French twats could have at least provided a throne to sit on and there was no way Big Jock was going through the “point and shoot” procedure and was going for a disabled dump! Big Jock returned to the murtahurms and received a severe shellacking about the tour being late setting off and why couldn’t he have gone earlier? Big Jock then, in good old British fashion, produced the same sign the English archers displayed at the battle of Agincourt and stuck up both his string fingers.
The tour continued to Champagne and whilst on the road, Benger gave Bomber a telling off over the airwaves about straddling the white line whilst driving. Jan P reckoned that Bomber was doing this because the cross-eyed fuckers eyes were pointing inwards. Benger said that when Bomber sat his driving test all you had to do was drive along the white line in your horse and carriage. Bomber replied, “PSV, ADR, wind your feckin tits in septic!” Bomber then claimed premanuptia in France and that he had the god given right to shag all the first-born French women and officially turn them English, just like his forefathers had done to the Paddy’s, Welsh and Jocks when they were conolised by the English. Big Jock said the word was colonized and that he would cut off Bomber’s average sized cock if he came out with anymore of his cheek! Jan P said, “I never knew two inches long was the average length of a penis. That must make mine Titanic in size.” Bomber said “Just because yee weigh 12 stone, 6 stone of it cock, wind yer feckin tits in. You two bastards will be walking to fuckin Calais if I hear another peep oot o yeez!
We eventually arrived at Épernay after a beautiful drive, albeit on the wrong side of the road, through the champagne vineyards. After pulling into one of the champagne châteaux’s we found out that we had arrived during their lunch hour and decided that nosebag was definitely order of the day. Benger struck up a rapport with some of the local French ladies and found out the opening times of the “Castle of Champagne” but we all decided it would be better to visit the most famous champagne house of them all and we went and booked our places for a tour around the Moet & Chandon châteaux. After securing an English speaking guide and a time to be back, it was back on the hunt for nosebag. Benger, Jan P and George went to a café, whilst James, Mouldy, Bomber and Big Jock went on the hunt for the Golden Arches. Bomber had whined for two days about feasting on a Mackey D but sadly he was still to be disappointed, because without his satnav he was fucked and we never did find the McDonalds.
The fab 4 went back to the café and found the other 3 who were already boozing, well Benger and George certainly were. The most delightful waitress in France brought out the menus and the general consensus was that she had a fabulous pair of tangos but the last Englishman she was with must have cum in her mouth. She was a right miserable shite and she worked really hard at trying to be as unhelpful as possible! At one point Big Jock asked for a coca cola and was given a resounding “non!” A few minutes later he had a glass of coke put in front of him. Either she had a really good sense of humour and us Brits just didn’t get it or it really was the worst week of her month, if you get my drift?
The food when it came was absolutely gorgeous – you can’t fault the French for their prowess in the kitchen. Benger was slightly miffed for having to share a plate of cheese with Mouldy, but Mouldy had decided that that was what they were having. Perhaps letting Benger make his own mind up every now and again might be nice Nick?
The bill was paid and the waitress was given a nice tip, “don’t eat yellow snow!” The boys then departed for their tour and things started to look up when Blandie introduced herself to the magnificent 7 – she was just a little bit gorgeous and then some. The tour took a good hour and culminated in a lovely glass of champagne. Group photos were taken and the boys agreed it was the best way to finish off the tour before the advance party headed back to Blighty.
A few souvenirs were purchased and then it was full speed back to the murtahurms to swap over George’s gear from T2 into SRS. Bomber moved what little clean kit he had left into his new house for the next few days, and stole the feckin satnav. It was at this point that George realized his suits had been traveling on the roof since Souz and he will be sending Bomber the dry cleaning bill when he returns to Blighty. Enjoy the rest of your holiday Bomber but don’t spend too much!
Much hugging and shaking of hands took place, and secretly even a few tears were shed, eh Bomber? I’m away to turn off the gas – my arse! So the Spit Roast Special and Thunderbird 2 parted company with James having the last laugh and drenching the new crew of SRS with a massive water pistol – twat!
A few minutes down the road the crew of SRS realized they were running on vapours and remember Bomber’s famous last words, “Aye yeel be ah reet lads, and yeel find a petrull station nae bothah.” So Jan P, George and Big Jock had the words come back to haunt them when the French equivalent of the AA came to tow them into Rheims. Cheers Bomber, we’ll send you that bill also.
Safely fuelled to the brim the crew of SRS headed speed fast, strength 3 to Calais and a nice warm shower and comfortable bed. Assuming there are no more incidents to report this will be my final entry as Keeper of the Blog. A big thank you to all my readers and I may come back on for an encore over the next few weeks.
Addendum: A big thank you to the Benger boys for putting a big pink tie on the Spit Roast Special promoting “Girls on tour.” We wondered why all the gay French truckers were beeping/waving their horns at us. You bastards, we didn’t discover it until we got on the Calais ferry. Revenge will be sweet – I guarantee it!
All was soon to be revealed but not before breakfast. The lads walked down to both bars but the lazy French can’ts were still in bed! Thankfully Mouldy got the bacon on the go, James buttered the bread and Bomber made the brew. Benger exclaimed that he had never seen anyone so stressed making the tea before (referring to the tirades coming from Bomber in the Spit Roast Special).
Bomber then reminded Big Jock about his community service and employed him washing the dishes. He was rewarded with a lovely cup of coffee and a shellacking about the missing Steve McQueen poster! Big Jock, confused, fucked off to ditch the gash. (Mad Raving Geordie Bastard!)
Big Jock then went to investigate the French thunder box, armed with his trusty pampers arse wipes and concluded the clattie (Scottish word for unwashed, unclean, smelly, stain on society bastards) French twats could have at least provided a throne to sit on and there was no way Big Jock was going through the “point and shoot” procedure and was going for a disabled dump! Big Jock returned to the murtahurms and received a severe shellacking about the tour being late setting off and why couldn’t he have gone earlier? Big Jock then, in good old British fashion, produced the same sign the English archers displayed at the battle of Agincourt and stuck up both his string fingers.
The tour continued to Champagne and whilst on the road, Benger gave Bomber a telling off over the airwaves about straddling the white line whilst driving. Jan P reckoned that Bomber was doing this because the cross-eyed fuckers eyes were pointing inwards. Benger said that when Bomber sat his driving test all you had to do was drive along the white line in your horse and carriage. Bomber replied, “PSV, ADR, wind your feckin tits in septic!” Bomber then claimed premanuptia in France and that he had the god given right to shag all the first-born French women and officially turn them English, just like his forefathers had done to the Paddy’s, Welsh and Jocks when they were conolised by the English. Big Jock said the word was colonized and that he would cut off Bomber’s average sized cock if he came out with anymore of his cheek! Jan P said, “I never knew two inches long was the average length of a penis. That must make mine Titanic in size.” Bomber said “Just because yee weigh 12 stone, 6 stone of it cock, wind yer feckin tits in. You two bastards will be walking to fuckin Calais if I hear another peep oot o yeez!
We eventually arrived at Épernay after a beautiful drive, albeit on the wrong side of the road, through the champagne vineyards. After pulling into one of the champagne châteaux’s we found out that we had arrived during their lunch hour and decided that nosebag was definitely order of the day. Benger struck up a rapport with some of the local French ladies and found out the opening times of the “Castle of Champagne” but we all decided it would be better to visit the most famous champagne house of them all and we went and booked our places for a tour around the Moet & Chandon châteaux. After securing an English speaking guide and a time to be back, it was back on the hunt for nosebag. Benger, Jan P and George went to a café, whilst James, Mouldy, Bomber and Big Jock went on the hunt for the Golden Arches. Bomber had whined for two days about feasting on a Mackey D but sadly he was still to be disappointed, because without his satnav he was fucked and we never did find the McDonalds.
The fab 4 went back to the café and found the other 3 who were already boozing, well Benger and George certainly were. The most delightful waitress in France brought out the menus and the general consensus was that she had a fabulous pair of tangos but the last Englishman she was with must have cum in her mouth. She was a right miserable shite and she worked really hard at trying to be as unhelpful as possible! At one point Big Jock asked for a coca cola and was given a resounding “non!” A few minutes later he had a glass of coke put in front of him. Either she had a really good sense of humour and us Brits just didn’t get it or it really was the worst week of her month, if you get my drift?
The food when it came was absolutely gorgeous – you can’t fault the French for their prowess in the kitchen. Benger was slightly miffed for having to share a plate of cheese with Mouldy, but Mouldy had decided that that was what they were having. Perhaps letting Benger make his own mind up every now and again might be nice Nick?
The bill was paid and the waitress was given a nice tip, “don’t eat yellow snow!” The boys then departed for their tour and things started to look up when Blandie introduced herself to the magnificent 7 – she was just a little bit gorgeous and then some. The tour took a good hour and culminated in a lovely glass of champagne. Group photos were taken and the boys agreed it was the best way to finish off the tour before the advance party headed back to Blighty.
A few souvenirs were purchased and then it was full speed back to the murtahurms to swap over George’s gear from T2 into SRS. Bomber moved what little clean kit he had left into his new house for the next few days, and stole the feckin satnav. It was at this point that George realized his suits had been traveling on the roof since Souz and he will be sending Bomber the dry cleaning bill when he returns to Blighty. Enjoy the rest of your holiday Bomber but don’t spend too much!
Much hugging and shaking of hands took place, and secretly even a few tears were shed, eh Bomber? I’m away to turn off the gas – my arse! So the Spit Roast Special and Thunderbird 2 parted company with James having the last laugh and drenching the new crew of SRS with a massive water pistol – twat!
A few minutes down the road the crew of SRS realized they were running on vapours and remember Bomber’s famous last words, “Aye yeel be ah reet lads, and yeel find a petrull station nae bothah.” So Jan P, George and Big Jock had the words come back to haunt them when the French equivalent of the AA came to tow them into Rheims. Cheers Bomber, we’ll send you that bill also.
Safely fuelled to the brim the crew of SRS headed speed fast, strength 3 to Calais and a nice warm shower and comfortable bed. Assuming there are no more incidents to report this will be my final entry as Keeper of the Blog. A big thank you to all my readers and I may come back on for an encore over the next few weeks.
Addendum: A big thank you to the Benger boys for putting a big pink tie on the Spit Roast Special promoting “Girls on tour.” We wondered why all the gay French truckers were beeping/waving their horns at us. You bastards, we didn’t discover it until we got on the Calais ferry. Revenge will be sweet – I guarantee it!
Day 10 - Switzerland to champagne heaven
Everyone got back from Bar Tropic at 3am, and although Charles Manson and his boys had shown an interest, their hunger for lilywhite ass was not yet at its peak and the boys survived. Big Jock had turned in early because he was still on community service.
Big Jock was first up and had yet another Hollywood shower, this time lasting 20 minutes. When he returned he noticed that Jan P had risen from his sarcophagus. The story behind this was that Jan P had been related to the Liverpudlian pharaoh “Ta fuckin Ra” because he looked like a mummy when he sleeps. He shits you right up he does!
Big Jock took a trip to the Bakers for some pastries because this would ensure that everyone would have a nice coffee break during our long journey to France. He would have got fresh rolls but Mouldy had already arranged this with Donald and they were promptly delivered at 8am. You have to be up very early to get one over on a merchant sailor!
Benger cooked a stunning breakfast of egg and ham rolls and the emanating smells did the trick and got everyone else up. The magnificent 7 broke camp, squared up with Donald, found Mouldy’s lost wallet and headed for France after lots more currency exchanging and money laundering.
Our first stop was to buy diesel and a license to travel on the Swiss roads. We’d apparently been driving illegally all this time. Cost us £40 though, so it looked like the Swiss authorities had the last laugh. General consensus – Switzerland is fuckin expensive! Bomber was banned from the airwaves because he was frankly taking the piss, so much so that the French government wanted us to buy a license because Bomber had set up an illegal radio station! Big Jock removed the radio and Bomber was tied up, gagged and chucked in the murtahurm toilet – noisy annoying bastard.
Our next stop was prior to the French border and we had the chance to spend the last of our Swiss Francs. This turned into a synchronized dumping session and a hastily prepared lunch and posh coffee stop which included the aforementioned pastries. Bomber had been released so he could take part in this, as he was turning into Diabetic Dave and we know how much trouble he is!
Thunderbird 2 made a quick pit stop to change drivers, where Tim “Ayrton Senna” Benger took over the reigns of Thunderbird 2 from Mouldy and then we made full speed for France. After an uneventful trip across the French border where the Gendarmes didn’t give a fat rat’s arse about who they let into France because Bomber was still with us, Benger decided to challenge a French murtahurm driver to a jousting competition on a narrow French river bridge. Unfortunately Thunderbird 2 faired the worst in this duel and lost her Port wing mirror. Mouldy did a quick A Team repair and Bomber put the kettle on. Once coffee and tea had been consumed, the murtahurms continued on their journey with various insults being exchanged over the airwaves between Benger and Bomber. Bomber is now claiming that Thunderbird 2 has been sold, and is now in the hands of the council.
The French roads are a fuckin nightmare with more bumps and lumps than a grab a granny night in Joanna’s nightclub. Jan P insists on driving the Spit Roast Special like a fuckin Ferrari and Bomber is not helping Big Jock’s heart problem by encouraging the can’t! I’ll have yer eyes oot ya fuckers, I tells ye a will!
Thankfully we reached the French tolls roads, which were much flatter, and Jan “Nicky fuckin Lauder” P could drive as fast as he wanted. Big Jock stuck on his earphones and settled down to some Metallica played extremely loud in order to blot out the thoughts of ploughing through the central reservation and ploughing up a French farmers field free of charge. Now that just wouldn’t be right would it?
About 30 minutes into Metallica Big Jock needed a drink to enjoy the full force of the heavy metal thunder and spotted a nice bottle of Italian Valpollicella. He asked Bomber if Spit Roast Special possessed a corkscrew to which Bomber replied “somewhere.” After a frantic search lasting 8 years and 3 months, which ended with the discovery of a pizza cutter, Big Jock gave up and decided to go teetotal. Bomber did offer to push Big Jock’s cork in, to which Big Jock replied “not while I have my strength you big gay bastard” and he reiterated that he wasn’t having any of that heemersexer shenanigans on this tour, no matter how gay the local population were!
We eventually reached an Aires (French lay by) which had a burger bar, pizza bar and booze bar. Unbeknown to Bomber and Jan P, Big Jock had swallowed all the red wine within the Spit Roast Special and had turned into a drunken version of Shrek! He came through between the pilot (Bomber) and co-pilot (Jan P) demanding that Joe Jackson “it’s different for girls” be put on the juke box as a reminder to Bomber that the fairer sex are always difficult to understand. Big Jock was then subject to the first of many shellackings from Bomber about it being alright for him because he had the lovely Janina and that she would be told all about his lazy pampered ways and the destruction he had caused in his mobile council squat!
The next part of the blog will not be written from Big Jock’s memory because he doesn’t remember a thing, but will be a written account from the rest of the magnificent 7 of what happened between Big Jock consuming his last bottle of red wine and waking up this morning in the Spit Roast Special.
Bomber – All the lads had gone over to the burger and kebab house for nosebag but Big Jock decided that he wanted pizza and went to the other bar. Half way through my nosebag Big Jock came back and started raving about some bird being at the bar in her pyjamas. This got the attention of the rest of the crew who proceeded full speed to the pizza bar, only to see the aforementioned lovely departing into the distance. Big Jock was then offered a lovely pizza but only managed to eat one slice and gave the rest to us. Perhaps this was payment for what was to come.
James – I noticed that Big Jock had not come back from the shitter and went to investigate. My initial thoughts were confirmed and he was asleep on the throne. Much banging of door ensued and I eventually woke him up and escorted him back to the table. Whilst at the table Big Jock decided to go to sleep and if I hadn’t been so quick thinking he would have ploughed backwards and smashed his head into the concrete – mad bastard!
George – What a struggle it was to get the big fellow into bed. It took 4 of us to manage the task successfully and in the process, Bomber’s Chinese calendar received some battle damage. Quick thinking and some psychological warfare from Benger (“your missus wants to speak with you but only when your in bed”) eventually got Big Jock to sleep. The range of movement on his stomach was incredible, from Lynford Christie to Lynford Gorge! Christ can that fellow snore!
Mouldy – I had a quiet night in until Big Jock got back. He came into Thunderbird 2 and was promptly told there was no party here! I then heard him tell the rest of them that Mouldy’s place was open for refreshments, so I leaned out my window and shouted, “no it’s fuckin not!”
Benger – Inverted snoring springs to mind. I have never known anyone to snore breathing out before!
Jan P – The big man nearly broke his port ribs when he got back to the Spit Roast Special. He also blocked the gangway so none of us could get in for a drink. Thankfully Benger solved this with the threat of Big Jock’s missus.
So as you can see it was an eventful night for Big Jock; there in body, but certainly not in mind.
Big Jock was first up and had yet another Hollywood shower, this time lasting 20 minutes. When he returned he noticed that Jan P had risen from his sarcophagus. The story behind this was that Jan P had been related to the Liverpudlian pharaoh “Ta fuckin Ra” because he looked like a mummy when he sleeps. He shits you right up he does!
Big Jock took a trip to the Bakers for some pastries because this would ensure that everyone would have a nice coffee break during our long journey to France. He would have got fresh rolls but Mouldy had already arranged this with Donald and they were promptly delivered at 8am. You have to be up very early to get one over on a merchant sailor!
Benger cooked a stunning breakfast of egg and ham rolls and the emanating smells did the trick and got everyone else up. The magnificent 7 broke camp, squared up with Donald, found Mouldy’s lost wallet and headed for France after lots more currency exchanging and money laundering.
Our first stop was to buy diesel and a license to travel on the Swiss roads. We’d apparently been driving illegally all this time. Cost us £40 though, so it looked like the Swiss authorities had the last laugh. General consensus – Switzerland is fuckin expensive! Bomber was banned from the airwaves because he was frankly taking the piss, so much so that the French government wanted us to buy a license because Bomber had set up an illegal radio station! Big Jock removed the radio and Bomber was tied up, gagged and chucked in the murtahurm toilet – noisy annoying bastard.
Our next stop was prior to the French border and we had the chance to spend the last of our Swiss Francs. This turned into a synchronized dumping session and a hastily prepared lunch and posh coffee stop which included the aforementioned pastries. Bomber had been released so he could take part in this, as he was turning into Diabetic Dave and we know how much trouble he is!
Thunderbird 2 made a quick pit stop to change drivers, where Tim “Ayrton Senna” Benger took over the reigns of Thunderbird 2 from Mouldy and then we made full speed for France. After an uneventful trip across the French border where the Gendarmes didn’t give a fat rat’s arse about who they let into France because Bomber was still with us, Benger decided to challenge a French murtahurm driver to a jousting competition on a narrow French river bridge. Unfortunately Thunderbird 2 faired the worst in this duel and lost her Port wing mirror. Mouldy did a quick A Team repair and Bomber put the kettle on. Once coffee and tea had been consumed, the murtahurms continued on their journey with various insults being exchanged over the airwaves between Benger and Bomber. Bomber is now claiming that Thunderbird 2 has been sold, and is now in the hands of the council.
The French roads are a fuckin nightmare with more bumps and lumps than a grab a granny night in Joanna’s nightclub. Jan P insists on driving the Spit Roast Special like a fuckin Ferrari and Bomber is not helping Big Jock’s heart problem by encouraging the can’t! I’ll have yer eyes oot ya fuckers, I tells ye a will!
Thankfully we reached the French tolls roads, which were much flatter, and Jan “Nicky fuckin Lauder” P could drive as fast as he wanted. Big Jock stuck on his earphones and settled down to some Metallica played extremely loud in order to blot out the thoughts of ploughing through the central reservation and ploughing up a French farmers field free of charge. Now that just wouldn’t be right would it?
About 30 minutes into Metallica Big Jock needed a drink to enjoy the full force of the heavy metal thunder and spotted a nice bottle of Italian Valpollicella. He asked Bomber if Spit Roast Special possessed a corkscrew to which Bomber replied “somewhere.” After a frantic search lasting 8 years and 3 months, which ended with the discovery of a pizza cutter, Big Jock gave up and decided to go teetotal. Bomber did offer to push Big Jock’s cork in, to which Big Jock replied “not while I have my strength you big gay bastard” and he reiterated that he wasn’t having any of that heemersexer shenanigans on this tour, no matter how gay the local population were!
We eventually reached an Aires (French lay by) which had a burger bar, pizza bar and booze bar. Unbeknown to Bomber and Jan P, Big Jock had swallowed all the red wine within the Spit Roast Special and had turned into a drunken version of Shrek! He came through between the pilot (Bomber) and co-pilot (Jan P) demanding that Joe Jackson “it’s different for girls” be put on the juke box as a reminder to Bomber that the fairer sex are always difficult to understand. Big Jock was then subject to the first of many shellackings from Bomber about it being alright for him because he had the lovely Janina and that she would be told all about his lazy pampered ways and the destruction he had caused in his mobile council squat!
The next part of the blog will not be written from Big Jock’s memory because he doesn’t remember a thing, but will be a written account from the rest of the magnificent 7 of what happened between Big Jock consuming his last bottle of red wine and waking up this morning in the Spit Roast Special.
Bomber – All the lads had gone over to the burger and kebab house for nosebag but Big Jock decided that he wanted pizza and went to the other bar. Half way through my nosebag Big Jock came back and started raving about some bird being at the bar in her pyjamas. This got the attention of the rest of the crew who proceeded full speed to the pizza bar, only to see the aforementioned lovely departing into the distance. Big Jock was then offered a lovely pizza but only managed to eat one slice and gave the rest to us. Perhaps this was payment for what was to come.
James – I noticed that Big Jock had not come back from the shitter and went to investigate. My initial thoughts were confirmed and he was asleep on the throne. Much banging of door ensued and I eventually woke him up and escorted him back to the table. Whilst at the table Big Jock decided to go to sleep and if I hadn’t been so quick thinking he would have ploughed backwards and smashed his head into the concrete – mad bastard!
George – What a struggle it was to get the big fellow into bed. It took 4 of us to manage the task successfully and in the process, Bomber’s Chinese calendar received some battle damage. Quick thinking and some psychological warfare from Benger (“your missus wants to speak with you but only when your in bed”) eventually got Big Jock to sleep. The range of movement on his stomach was incredible, from Lynford Christie to Lynford Gorge! Christ can that fellow snore!
Mouldy – I had a quiet night in until Big Jock got back. He came into Thunderbird 2 and was promptly told there was no party here! I then heard him tell the rest of them that Mouldy’s place was open for refreshments, so I leaned out my window and shouted, “no it’s fuckin not!”
Benger – Inverted snoring springs to mind. I have never known anyone to snore breathing out before!
Jan P – The big man nearly broke his port ribs when he got back to the Spit Roast Special. He also blocked the gangway so none of us could get in for a drink. Thankfully Benger solved this with the threat of Big Jock’s missus.
So as you can see it was an eventful night for Big Jock; there in body, but certainly not in mind.
Day 9 - White water rafting and inside the ice tunnel
Morning broke in the shadow of the Swiss Alps and slowly but surely the magnificent 7 arose one by one. After a wonderful Hollywood shower lasting 15 minutes Big Jock began his community service and got cracking with assisting Chef Benger in the galley. Marco Pierre-White has fuck all on Tim Benger and that’s the truth. Last night’s shellacking had obviously sunk home. Chef served up a wonderful breakfast and all conversation stopped as the boys fed their hunger.
After a major wash and tidy up the boys piled into T2 and headed for the White Water rafting experience at Oberweld. The journey through the little Swiss villages was picturesque but this didn’t alleviate the fear building in Big Jock’s eyes. This fear was further fuelled by stories of Bomber’s previous rafting experience in the Dominican Republic. It was commented by George and Benger that as we got closer to our rendezvous Bomber had also taken on a quiet demeanor all of a sudden.
The satnav got us to Oberweld but Mouldy was convinced we were in the wrong place. If only he’d looked out his drivers window he would have noticed the 30 ft sign promoting the river rafting company logo, ha, ha. Various comments were heard bringing his eyesight into disrepute. “Should have gone to spec savers” was the cry!
Their instructor Daniel met the magnificent 7 and it was decided to firstly have a beer and try to calm the nerves of those amongst the group who were apprehensive about the impending river ride. (It didn’t work – Big Jock was still bricking it)
The three German guests turned up on time; always efficient are the Germans, and we now had enough to crew the raft. Things began to happen in earnest and everyone was kitted out with a wet suit. Bomber and Big Jock looked like a pair of fenders and should have been hanging from the side of the Titanic and not rafting down the River Rhone. Perhaps that way Titanic might still be afloat today.
Things began to get worse for Big Jock when his life jacket wouldn’t do up. Fear was slowly turning to panic. Once fully kitted the rafters boarded the minibus and were taken to the start point. A training session took place, which saw James dragged into the boat by his life jacket. Big Jock thought “Christ, if that happens to me I’ll slip out of my life jacket and drown.”
The raft set off and immediately hit rapids. The look on Big Jock’s face was a picture. James and Jan P took great pleasure in soaking each other before the German kids and their dad joined in and world war 3 was in full swing. Everyone was getting a drenching but more so Benger, Bomber, Mouldy and Big Jock who were piggy in the middle and got soaked from both directions. Everyone was wet and loving it, well, maybe not Big Jock, ha, ha.
Daniel the instructor then decided to give Big Jock the opportunity he was waiting for since starting the tour, total Command over the rest of the magnificent 7. Big Jock became Captain of the raft and had to steer the crew through the rapids without causing any injuries. A big responsibility but someone had to do it, ha, ha. At first the lads were running into the bank, trees, rocks, even bridges! After a while though Big Jock got the hang of it and was becoming quite skilled at steering. Daniel said to the crew that Big Jock was doing really well, at which point Big Jock crashed the raft and crew into a large rock and nearly capsized the raft sending everyone in for an early bath. I suppose it was tempting fate on Daniel’s behalf.
Daniel then told Big Jock to keep the raft steady and told everyone else to throw their oar in the middle of the raft and stand up on the outside of the raft. With everybody convinced this was a balancing act, Daniel ran up the middle of the raft and pushed everyone overboard. (Very funny to watch, ha, ha.) James climbed into the raft and attempted to pull Big Jock into the river but somehow Big Jock had welded his feet to the deck and, although fit and strong, James couldn’t shift 19 stone of petrified elephant!
When Bomber was thrown in we didn’t realized until afterwards that he had landed on his oar and it was now shaped like a boomerang – ideal for scooping water up and soaking crew members.
Everyone eventually got into the raft and carried on down the river. Big Jock was then demoted to paddles class II and Daniel took overall charge of the raft; this was where the real rafting began much to Big Jock’s dismay. At one point Bomber couldn’t paddle because he was in hysterics laughing at the look on Big Jock’s face and the terror in his eyes. It was extremely funny and great fun – well worth the £40 per head. It will probably be Big Jock’s last attempt at rafting though.
After the rafting experience the company laid on bread, cheese and orange tea. The food and beverage was most welcome and once the socializing was complete it was time to settle the bill. This was done in good old magnificent 7 fashion with a flurry of different currencies being exchanged between crew members and the final total reached in two currencies but no one knew how.
With mathematical equations still running around everyone’s head, Mouldy got the hot dog sarnies and soup on the go – good old Mouldy.
Suitably fed and watered the lads traveled to the Rhone glacier. The road was very narrow with sharp bends and sheer drops; if we had decided to topple over the side it would have been certain death and the end of the blog. To ensure this didn’t happen the crew ensured that Bomber, Benger and Big Jock were sitting on the opposite side of the murtahurm away from the steep drop, and even though it meant Mouldy was on two wheels all the way to the top, it meant the boys were safe and the blog continued.
When we got to the glacier it was ice creams all round courtesy of Bomber – cheers Bomber. We climbed down and went inside the Rhone glacier, source of the River Rhone and what a fantastic experience that was. Well worth the drive, the 5 Franc entrance fee and the freezing temperatures. Perhaps next time it might be a good idea not to go inside a glacier in a T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops. Mouldy has taken a video and hopefully it will get posted soon.
On the way back to the murtahurm, and much to the horror of Benger, James insisted on doing an impression of a Billy goat. Climbing up on a rock with a couple of thousand feet of sheer drop is not good for your dad’s heart.
The drive back was uneventful except for two small incidents. Whilst descending from 5800 ft, a mountain biker overtook Mouldy and T2! He was a bit mad and definitely had a death wish, eh Mouldy?
The last incident happened about 3 miles from base camp when 3 gorgeous beauties tried to thumb a lift in Thunderbird 2. Mouldy drove past saying, “no room, sorry”. They could have sat on our laps Nick, you spoil sport! Probably our only opportunity to speak to the fairer sex this trip, after sending back the MILFS and Mouldy kyboshed it – bastard.
Back at base camp Benger rustled up a terrific spaghetti Bolognese and then the final hours were spent drinking at Donald’s bar before heading to Bar Tropic for a night out with Charles Manson and the boys from “The Hills have Eyes!”
After a major wash and tidy up the boys piled into T2 and headed for the White Water rafting experience at Oberweld. The journey through the little Swiss villages was picturesque but this didn’t alleviate the fear building in Big Jock’s eyes. This fear was further fuelled by stories of Bomber’s previous rafting experience in the Dominican Republic. It was commented by George and Benger that as we got closer to our rendezvous Bomber had also taken on a quiet demeanor all of a sudden.
The satnav got us to Oberweld but Mouldy was convinced we were in the wrong place. If only he’d looked out his drivers window he would have noticed the 30 ft sign promoting the river rafting company logo, ha, ha. Various comments were heard bringing his eyesight into disrepute. “Should have gone to spec savers” was the cry!
Their instructor Daniel met the magnificent 7 and it was decided to firstly have a beer and try to calm the nerves of those amongst the group who were apprehensive about the impending river ride. (It didn’t work – Big Jock was still bricking it)
The three German guests turned up on time; always efficient are the Germans, and we now had enough to crew the raft. Things began to happen in earnest and everyone was kitted out with a wet suit. Bomber and Big Jock looked like a pair of fenders and should have been hanging from the side of the Titanic and not rafting down the River Rhone. Perhaps that way Titanic might still be afloat today.
Things began to get worse for Big Jock when his life jacket wouldn’t do up. Fear was slowly turning to panic. Once fully kitted the rafters boarded the minibus and were taken to the start point. A training session took place, which saw James dragged into the boat by his life jacket. Big Jock thought “Christ, if that happens to me I’ll slip out of my life jacket and drown.”
The raft set off and immediately hit rapids. The look on Big Jock’s face was a picture. James and Jan P took great pleasure in soaking each other before the German kids and their dad joined in and world war 3 was in full swing. Everyone was getting a drenching but more so Benger, Bomber, Mouldy and Big Jock who were piggy in the middle and got soaked from both directions. Everyone was wet and loving it, well, maybe not Big Jock, ha, ha.
Daniel the instructor then decided to give Big Jock the opportunity he was waiting for since starting the tour, total Command over the rest of the magnificent 7. Big Jock became Captain of the raft and had to steer the crew through the rapids without causing any injuries. A big responsibility but someone had to do it, ha, ha. At first the lads were running into the bank, trees, rocks, even bridges! After a while though Big Jock got the hang of it and was becoming quite skilled at steering. Daniel said to the crew that Big Jock was doing really well, at which point Big Jock crashed the raft and crew into a large rock and nearly capsized the raft sending everyone in for an early bath. I suppose it was tempting fate on Daniel’s behalf.
Daniel then told Big Jock to keep the raft steady and told everyone else to throw their oar in the middle of the raft and stand up on the outside of the raft. With everybody convinced this was a balancing act, Daniel ran up the middle of the raft and pushed everyone overboard. (Very funny to watch, ha, ha.) James climbed into the raft and attempted to pull Big Jock into the river but somehow Big Jock had welded his feet to the deck and, although fit and strong, James couldn’t shift 19 stone of petrified elephant!
When Bomber was thrown in we didn’t realized until afterwards that he had landed on his oar and it was now shaped like a boomerang – ideal for scooping water up and soaking crew members.
Everyone eventually got into the raft and carried on down the river. Big Jock was then demoted to paddles class II and Daniel took overall charge of the raft; this was where the real rafting began much to Big Jock’s dismay. At one point Bomber couldn’t paddle because he was in hysterics laughing at the look on Big Jock’s face and the terror in his eyes. It was extremely funny and great fun – well worth the £40 per head. It will probably be Big Jock’s last attempt at rafting though.
After the rafting experience the company laid on bread, cheese and orange tea. The food and beverage was most welcome and once the socializing was complete it was time to settle the bill. This was done in good old magnificent 7 fashion with a flurry of different currencies being exchanged between crew members and the final total reached in two currencies but no one knew how.
With mathematical equations still running around everyone’s head, Mouldy got the hot dog sarnies and soup on the go – good old Mouldy.
Suitably fed and watered the lads traveled to the Rhone glacier. The road was very narrow with sharp bends and sheer drops; if we had decided to topple over the side it would have been certain death and the end of the blog. To ensure this didn’t happen the crew ensured that Bomber, Benger and Big Jock were sitting on the opposite side of the murtahurm away from the steep drop, and even though it meant Mouldy was on two wheels all the way to the top, it meant the boys were safe and the blog continued.
When we got to the glacier it was ice creams all round courtesy of Bomber – cheers Bomber. We climbed down and went inside the Rhone glacier, source of the River Rhone and what a fantastic experience that was. Well worth the drive, the 5 Franc entrance fee and the freezing temperatures. Perhaps next time it might be a good idea not to go inside a glacier in a T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops. Mouldy has taken a video and hopefully it will get posted soon.
On the way back to the murtahurm, and much to the horror of Benger, James insisted on doing an impression of a Billy goat. Climbing up on a rock with a couple of thousand feet of sheer drop is not good for your dad’s heart.
The drive back was uneventful except for two small incidents. Whilst descending from 5800 ft, a mountain biker overtook Mouldy and T2! He was a bit mad and definitely had a death wish, eh Mouldy?
The last incident happened about 3 miles from base camp when 3 gorgeous beauties tried to thumb a lift in Thunderbird 2. Mouldy drove past saying, “no room, sorry”. They could have sat on our laps Nick, you spoil sport! Probably our only opportunity to speak to the fairer sex this trip, after sending back the MILFS and Mouldy kyboshed it – bastard.
Back at base camp Benger rustled up a terrific spaghetti Bolognese and then the final hours were spent drinking at Donald’s bar before heading to Bar Tropic for a night out with Charles Manson and the boys from “The Hills have Eyes!”
Day 8 - Minxie leaves, I thought Charles Manson was dead?
T2 departed early doors to drop Minxie off at Malpensa airport, Milan. Bomber, Jan P and Big Jock were rudely awoken at 6.50am by an irate garage owner who started making gestures like the Pope in Vatican square i.e. crossing himself – spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch style. This was quickly translated by Big Jock who told Bomber and Jan P that we had to lift our tents and get to fuck!
Bomber promptly climbed into the cockpit in his pants and drove us a few metres down the road to safety. His Chief’s knicks had the desired effect and the garage owner locked himself in his garage until we had gone.
Once SRS was relocated it was discovered that we had to rendezvous with T2 at Malpensa airport. What a fuckin adventure that turned out to be! The brief stated that we were to follow the signs for Malpensa airport but at one of the roundabouts the road was blocked off. SRS then spent the next 30 minutes going round Italy in circles but getting nowhere fast. In fact at one point we ended up in a farmers field! At last we got back to the initial road block only to find that Italian drivers ignore all road signs and we were soon following this little black Fiat Uno along the blocked off road.
After being chased by the carabiniere, police helicopters and jumping an unfinished motorway bridge, SRS picked up the previous trail and headed on for Malpensa airport, successfully reaching their destination in time for breakfast. After a coordinated dump the crew of SRS were treated to yet another of Benger’s famous breakfast feasts – happy days.
It was planned to head back into Switzerland and try to reach the Matterhorn. This route took us through the Simplon Pass and the scenery was spectacular. Lots of photos and videos were taken and will hopefully be posted when the whole crew returns.
Many stops were made along the Simplon Pass courtesy of Mouldy – every 15 metres I think? The two crews took in the view and a few beers to boot, oh and yes the little Italian waitress was very nice. The Swiss army did take a few pot shots at the murtahurms with their tanks but you could clearly see why they stayed neutral during the world wars – their aiming was feckin pish; missed by miles a tells ya! Stick to your knives lads and leave the tank warfare to the British army, ha, ha.
The lads spotted a male Ibex (large deer) on the side of the mountain but Blind Pete (Bomber) said the only thing he could see through the “come closer scopes” was his own feckin eye. “Feckin iBox, wot Feckin iBox, I thought you played music on one of those chameens?” The crews also stopped off to climb up a large slope to visit a massive stone parrot disguised as a war memorial. I thought the Swiss didn’t fight wars; perhaps it was a dispute over a cuckoo clock or who could blow the biggest horn. PS. If you find out whom that was that could blow the biggest horn, can you inform Bomber!
After the climb and lots of group photos, the murtahurms were replenished with H2O. James insisted on getting everyone wet, insisted on getting his pants off and his bare arse out. Lots of photos and even a video was taken then the journey resumed.
We arrived at a campsite but the rules were absolute silence after 10pm. The magnificent 7 unanimously agreed that this could not be achieved and we left in search of alcohol Nirvana. 5 minutes down the road we found alcohol Nirvana. A small campsite owned by Donald (lovely man), which had hot showers, toilets, a bar, a pub, and he even offered to cook chips for our BBQ. Big Jock was in murtahurm heaven and was seen giving Donald a big bear hug to show his gratitude. Donald said a blowjob would suffice but Big Jock was not getting involved in any of that heemasexer pish.
We had a fantastic BBQ prepared by Benger on the facilities provided by Mouldy and cooked by Jan P and George. It was really appreciated and eaten swiftly by James, Bomber and Big Jock. Big Jock’s absence from the washing up was duly noted and Bomber made a mental note to shellack him at the next opportunity for being a feckin lazy can’t.
A great night ensued where banter was flying from all directions, stories of old were being told, by the old, and songs were being sung, by the old and by the young. I’m a poet and I didn’t even know it! Donald and Marie-Anne joined when the reception bar closed at 10pm. Mouldy got his laptop out and we were all shown the video clip of James’ lilywhite ass pissing around with a fresh water hose in the Simplon Pass. Afterwards everyone retired to T2 for a nice glass of Port and a jamming session with Mouldy on the guitar and Bomber and Big Jock on vocals. Bomber and Big Jock also had a feeble attempt at trying to get a tune out of Benger’s didgeridoo and much laughter was heard, especially from Aires Rock in Australia or is it France? Benger, help me out here!
As the troops bedded down for the night, Bomber and Big Jock found a boozer. Whilst in the boozer Bomber and Big Jock came across Charles Manson and the cast from “The Hills have Eyes” and soon realized these were the guys that made James exit the “Hicks Bar” earlier in the evening. Bomber and Charles became best of friends, exchanged dogging spots and both agreed to give Big Jock a severe shellacking about his previous misdemeanors with the washing up and his continuous insistence to be lazy at every opportunity. Big Jock felt like he was at an impromptu Courts Martial and decided to take his punishment like a man, but not from Charles Manson. This had been the best day of the tour so far and Bomber and Big Jock returned to camp at 0300.
Bomber promptly climbed into the cockpit in his pants and drove us a few metres down the road to safety. His Chief’s knicks had the desired effect and the garage owner locked himself in his garage until we had gone.
Once SRS was relocated it was discovered that we had to rendezvous with T2 at Malpensa airport. What a fuckin adventure that turned out to be! The brief stated that we were to follow the signs for Malpensa airport but at one of the roundabouts the road was blocked off. SRS then spent the next 30 minutes going round Italy in circles but getting nowhere fast. In fact at one point we ended up in a farmers field! At last we got back to the initial road block only to find that Italian drivers ignore all road signs and we were soon following this little black Fiat Uno along the blocked off road.
After being chased by the carabiniere, police helicopters and jumping an unfinished motorway bridge, SRS picked up the previous trail and headed on for Malpensa airport, successfully reaching their destination in time for breakfast. After a coordinated dump the crew of SRS were treated to yet another of Benger’s famous breakfast feasts – happy days.
It was planned to head back into Switzerland and try to reach the Matterhorn. This route took us through the Simplon Pass and the scenery was spectacular. Lots of photos and videos were taken and will hopefully be posted when the whole crew returns.
Many stops were made along the Simplon Pass courtesy of Mouldy – every 15 metres I think? The two crews took in the view and a few beers to boot, oh and yes the little Italian waitress was very nice. The Swiss army did take a few pot shots at the murtahurms with their tanks but you could clearly see why they stayed neutral during the world wars – their aiming was feckin pish; missed by miles a tells ya! Stick to your knives lads and leave the tank warfare to the British army, ha, ha.
The lads spotted a male Ibex (large deer) on the side of the mountain but Blind Pete (Bomber) said the only thing he could see through the “come closer scopes” was his own feckin eye. “Feckin iBox, wot Feckin iBox, I thought you played music on one of those chameens?” The crews also stopped off to climb up a large slope to visit a massive stone parrot disguised as a war memorial. I thought the Swiss didn’t fight wars; perhaps it was a dispute over a cuckoo clock or who could blow the biggest horn. PS. If you find out whom that was that could blow the biggest horn, can you inform Bomber!
After the climb and lots of group photos, the murtahurms were replenished with H2O. James insisted on getting everyone wet, insisted on getting his pants off and his bare arse out. Lots of photos and even a video was taken then the journey resumed.
We arrived at a campsite but the rules were absolute silence after 10pm. The magnificent 7 unanimously agreed that this could not be achieved and we left in search of alcohol Nirvana. 5 minutes down the road we found alcohol Nirvana. A small campsite owned by Donald (lovely man), which had hot showers, toilets, a bar, a pub, and he even offered to cook chips for our BBQ. Big Jock was in murtahurm heaven and was seen giving Donald a big bear hug to show his gratitude. Donald said a blowjob would suffice but Big Jock was not getting involved in any of that heemasexer pish.
We had a fantastic BBQ prepared by Benger on the facilities provided by Mouldy and cooked by Jan P and George. It was really appreciated and eaten swiftly by James, Bomber and Big Jock. Big Jock’s absence from the washing up was duly noted and Bomber made a mental note to shellack him at the next opportunity for being a feckin lazy can’t.
A great night ensued where banter was flying from all directions, stories of old were being told, by the old, and songs were being sung, by the old and by the young. I’m a poet and I didn’t even know it! Donald and Marie-Anne joined when the reception bar closed at 10pm. Mouldy got his laptop out and we were all shown the video clip of James’ lilywhite ass pissing around with a fresh water hose in the Simplon Pass. Afterwards everyone retired to T2 for a nice glass of Port and a jamming session with Mouldy on the guitar and Bomber and Big Jock on vocals. Bomber and Big Jock also had a feeble attempt at trying to get a tune out of Benger’s didgeridoo and much laughter was heard, especially from Aires Rock in Australia or is it France? Benger, help me out here!
As the troops bedded down for the night, Bomber and Big Jock found a boozer. Whilst in the boozer Bomber and Big Jock came across Charles Manson and the cast from “The Hills have Eyes” and soon realized these were the guys that made James exit the “Hicks Bar” earlier in the evening. Bomber and Charles became best of friends, exchanged dogging spots and both agreed to give Big Jock a severe shellacking about his previous misdemeanors with the washing up and his continuous insistence to be lazy at every opportunity. Big Jock felt like he was at an impromptu Courts Martial and decided to take his punishment like a man, but not from Charles Manson. This had been the best day of the tour so far and Bomber and Big Jock returned to camp at 0300.
Day 7 - Can it get any worse Big Jock?
After a fitful sleep the murtahurm crew awoke to, yes, you’ve guessed it, rain.
By the time Bomber and Big Jock awoke from their slumber, Jan P and Mouldy were nowhere to be seen and Thunderbird 2 was gone. Big Jock was by now suicidal because the prospect of his promised hot shower in the lakeside hotel was slowly but surely diminishing before him. Word had come through that the MILFS and Minxie were being evicted early i.e. 10.30am and not 12 noon and with the time fast approaching 10.28am Big Jock’s dream of Hollywood bliss had been snatched away. (“It’s a fuckin camping holiday Big Jock – get with the fuckin program Pampers Man!)
By the time SRS had reached the hotel car park, the MILFS, Minxie and the Thunderbird 2 crew had planned their day and were shooting off to catch the ferry to Bellagio. Benger and No.1 son tried their best to rally everyone’s spirits, bless their hearts, but Bomber and Suicidal Sid had decided to take their bad moods and bad weather the long way around to Bellagio via the Italian equivalent of the Khyber Pass (Dodgy Roads “R” Us).
SRS reached Bellagio in one piece thanks to a good old British lorry driver who led the way. A parking spot was procured then Bomber and Big Jock went for a hearty brunch of Minestrone soup and pizza. The T2 crew had also safely reached Bellagio by ferry and they were destined to meet up with the crew of SRS in due course.
Benger and his merry band of murtahurm pirates took Bellagio by storm, shopping and quaffing champagne cocktails. I hasten to add here that James thought they were shit and he could definitely make better Bellini’s back home.
Fully fed and watered Bomber and Big Jock showered, separately I hasten to add, then they got their glad rags on and went lakeside to drink a lovely bottle of Chianti classic and trough one of the largest fruit sundaes known to man. What a way to get your 5 a day, it was divine, yum, yum.
At around 4.30pm SRS took off back along the Khyber Pass and parked at the Pikey campsite. The Pet shop Boys and Erasure were still playing strong, so Bomber and Big Jock settled down and awaited the arrival of the T2 crew.
With the whole crew assembled the murtahurms headed off for Milan and the impending departure of the MILFS. Once this had been achieved and the MILFS were safely on a flight to Blighty, the murtahurm crews and Minxie went on a magical mystery tour courtesy of Bomber’s satnav. The fuckin machine lied like a cheap Chinese menu and after crossing our 100th roundabout, passing our 50th new road (that wasn’t even on the fuckin satnav) and going down the wrong road a few times, we eventually parked up for the night in a ………., wait for it………. fuckin petrol station. Another first for Big Jock to go with his Pikey campsite and top French dogging spot! Mouldy came to the rescue for a 2nd night running and cooked up a wonderful mixture of casseroles before we all turned in.
By the time Bomber and Big Jock awoke from their slumber, Jan P and Mouldy were nowhere to be seen and Thunderbird 2 was gone. Big Jock was by now suicidal because the prospect of his promised hot shower in the lakeside hotel was slowly but surely diminishing before him. Word had come through that the MILFS and Minxie were being evicted early i.e. 10.30am and not 12 noon and with the time fast approaching 10.28am Big Jock’s dream of Hollywood bliss had been snatched away. (“It’s a fuckin camping holiday Big Jock – get with the fuckin program Pampers Man!)
By the time SRS had reached the hotel car park, the MILFS, Minxie and the Thunderbird 2 crew had planned their day and were shooting off to catch the ferry to Bellagio. Benger and No.1 son tried their best to rally everyone’s spirits, bless their hearts, but Bomber and Suicidal Sid had decided to take their bad moods and bad weather the long way around to Bellagio via the Italian equivalent of the Khyber Pass (Dodgy Roads “R” Us).
SRS reached Bellagio in one piece thanks to a good old British lorry driver who led the way. A parking spot was procured then Bomber and Big Jock went for a hearty brunch of Minestrone soup and pizza. The T2 crew had also safely reached Bellagio by ferry and they were destined to meet up with the crew of SRS in due course.
Benger and his merry band of murtahurm pirates took Bellagio by storm, shopping and quaffing champagne cocktails. I hasten to add here that James thought they were shit and he could definitely make better Bellini’s back home.
Fully fed and watered Bomber and Big Jock showered, separately I hasten to add, then they got their glad rags on and went lakeside to drink a lovely bottle of Chianti classic and trough one of the largest fruit sundaes known to man. What a way to get your 5 a day, it was divine, yum, yum.
At around 4.30pm SRS took off back along the Khyber Pass and parked at the Pikey campsite. The Pet shop Boys and Erasure were still playing strong, so Bomber and Big Jock settled down and awaited the arrival of the T2 crew.
With the whole crew assembled the murtahurms headed off for Milan and the impending departure of the MILFS. Once this had been achieved and the MILFS were safely on a flight to Blighty, the murtahurm crews and Minxie went on a magical mystery tour courtesy of Bomber’s satnav. The fuckin machine lied like a cheap Chinese menu and after crossing our 100th roundabout, passing our 50th new road (that wasn’t even on the fuckin satnav) and going down the wrong road a few times, we eventually parked up for the night in a ………., wait for it………. fuckin petrol station. Another first for Big Jock to go with his Pikey campsite and top French dogging spot! Mouldy came to the rescue for a 2nd night running and cooked up a wonderful mixture of casseroles before we all turned in.
Day 6 - Rain, rain, feckin rain
At around 9am Big Jock realized that there was movement within T2 and began to drip all over Mouldy about the feckin weather. Mouldy was quick to point out that the normal way to initially greet people in the morning was, “Good morning!” Suitably shellacked, Big Jock bid Mouldy good morning and then continued with his tirade about the rain. He was promptly handed a lovely cup of coffee by Mouldy and then told to “Shut the fuck up – I know its raining Big Jock, I do wear glasses you know.”
Benger, dressed in his white pants, said that we were off for breakfast and the prospect of nosebag calmed Big Jock to a frantic murmur. Mouldy, Benger, James, Bomber, Jan P and Big Jock all headed for croissants, rolls and jam with lashings of hot coffee. Bomber did moan about there not being cheese and ham but was promptly told by Big Jock that the kitty couldn’t afford the extra 3 francs for this extravagance. Bomber was not happy but Big Jock had saved a few more pennies and was ecstatic, ha, ha.
At this point Benger, in mid flow, was attacked by the only poisonous species of spider in Switzerland. James came swiftly to his dads rescue and slung the spider into a designated safe area (anywhere away from us). The spider landed on a small child loafing in the vicinity, which promptly ran out with the aforementioned spider – screaming!
After their extremely healthy breakfast it was off to the pub to stabilize the equilibrium and bring their bodies back to the normal state of semi-drunkenness. The MILFS and Minxie turned up and then eventually George joined us. George is Mag 7 and is joining for the remainder of the tour. The bar began to fill with George’s workmates and friends and was definitely the place to be until 2pm when the crew really needed to make a move and get George’s bags on board. It was at this point that the Murtahurm travelers realized that George may have been a teacher but it most definitely not Mathematics.
Having insisted that he was only bringing two bags, it is believed that he missed the zero off his initial calculation and what he should have said was that he was bringing 20 bags! His gear was thrown into the Spit Roast Special along with James and Big Jock. It was at this point that Thunderbird 2 was reclassified as a private residence and the Spit Roast Special was reclassified as a council residence (or coonsill murtahurm in Geordie dialect). James and Big Jock certainly felt like asylum seekers – without any benefits though!
Bomber drove to rendezvous with T2 and George’s additional kit was distributed between the two Murtahurms. After this mammoth task and the retrieval of Bomber’s two mobile phones from the log pile, Benger and Jan P turned up to offer their assistance, loafing gits!
All packed up, the convoy 10 personnel strong, departed for lunch in St. Moritz. Jan P was not impressed by his first experience of Rosti – he had more oil on his plate than JR Ewing had on his Southfork ranch – but Bomber got his Swiss sticker for the Spit Roast Special, so happy days all round.
Gentle maneuvering saw the convoy depart St. Moritz for Lake Como (Leerk Keermo) in Italy. The scenery on the journey was breathtaking and the sharp bends were frightening; a bit like the gases being emitted from the arses of James and Jan P. George had made his escape to some Italian friends’ place because he obviously spotted the dark clouds that we had been dragging behind us on our trip from Switzerland to Italy. Yes, we’re in Italy, Lake Como and it’s fuckin raining yet again! We had definitely upset the gods and I could see that we would have to make human sacrifices and pretty soon. The MILFS began to look like potential volunteers (or pressed men, should they put up a fight).
After desperately trying to find a half decent campsite, (lies all lies I tells ya) we ended up in a campsite, sorry, Pikey fuckin campsite complete with traveling circus, the Pet shop Boys, Erasure and a shitload of gay Italian truckers. Big Jock had completely wrapped by now because he was expecting a nice hot shower but his immediate future looked like his shower may not consists of hot water but something slightly sinister. He would likely get a cap busted in his ass or worse (in his ass!)
The MILFS had long since disappeared to a lovely plush Italian lakeside hotel with running water, showers (hot), probably a bath and a decent menu. At this point Minxie looked at Big Jock’s face, which resembled the approaching thunderclouds and decided to bug out and follow the MILFS example by seeking some home comforts in the hotel. James and Benger thought, “hotel means bar, bar means beer, and followed suit.
Mouldy in the meantime refused to have his spirits dampened by Big Jock or the weather, so he poured himself a spirit of his own (a very large Scotch) and settled down to watch “Al Murray, pub landlord” on the DVD. It was a great move and brought smiles to everyone’s face, yes everyone – good old Mouldy.
Midnight came and the boys turned in to watch the mother of all lightning storms. It pished down all night – again!
Benger, dressed in his white pants, said that we were off for breakfast and the prospect of nosebag calmed Big Jock to a frantic murmur. Mouldy, Benger, James, Bomber, Jan P and Big Jock all headed for croissants, rolls and jam with lashings of hot coffee. Bomber did moan about there not being cheese and ham but was promptly told by Big Jock that the kitty couldn’t afford the extra 3 francs for this extravagance. Bomber was not happy but Big Jock had saved a few more pennies and was ecstatic, ha, ha.
At this point Benger, in mid flow, was attacked by the only poisonous species of spider in Switzerland. James came swiftly to his dads rescue and slung the spider into a designated safe area (anywhere away from us). The spider landed on a small child loafing in the vicinity, which promptly ran out with the aforementioned spider – screaming!
After their extremely healthy breakfast it was off to the pub to stabilize the equilibrium and bring their bodies back to the normal state of semi-drunkenness. The MILFS and Minxie turned up and then eventually George joined us. George is Mag 7 and is joining for the remainder of the tour. The bar began to fill with George’s workmates and friends and was definitely the place to be until 2pm when the crew really needed to make a move and get George’s bags on board. It was at this point that the Murtahurm travelers realized that George may have been a teacher but it most definitely not Mathematics.
Having insisted that he was only bringing two bags, it is believed that he missed the zero off his initial calculation and what he should have said was that he was bringing 20 bags! His gear was thrown into the Spit Roast Special along with James and Big Jock. It was at this point that Thunderbird 2 was reclassified as a private residence and the Spit Roast Special was reclassified as a council residence (or coonsill murtahurm in Geordie dialect). James and Big Jock certainly felt like asylum seekers – without any benefits though!
Bomber drove to rendezvous with T2 and George’s additional kit was distributed between the two Murtahurms. After this mammoth task and the retrieval of Bomber’s two mobile phones from the log pile, Benger and Jan P turned up to offer their assistance, loafing gits!
All packed up, the convoy 10 personnel strong, departed for lunch in St. Moritz. Jan P was not impressed by his first experience of Rosti – he had more oil on his plate than JR Ewing had on his Southfork ranch – but Bomber got his Swiss sticker for the Spit Roast Special, so happy days all round.
Gentle maneuvering saw the convoy depart St. Moritz for Lake Como (Leerk Keermo) in Italy. The scenery on the journey was breathtaking and the sharp bends were frightening; a bit like the gases being emitted from the arses of James and Jan P. George had made his escape to some Italian friends’ place because he obviously spotted the dark clouds that we had been dragging behind us on our trip from Switzerland to Italy. Yes, we’re in Italy, Lake Como and it’s fuckin raining yet again! We had definitely upset the gods and I could see that we would have to make human sacrifices and pretty soon. The MILFS began to look like potential volunteers (or pressed men, should they put up a fight).
After desperately trying to find a half decent campsite, (lies all lies I tells ya) we ended up in a campsite, sorry, Pikey fuckin campsite complete with traveling circus, the Pet shop Boys, Erasure and a shitload of gay Italian truckers. Big Jock had completely wrapped by now because he was expecting a nice hot shower but his immediate future looked like his shower may not consists of hot water but something slightly sinister. He would likely get a cap busted in his ass or worse (in his ass!)
The MILFS had long since disappeared to a lovely plush Italian lakeside hotel with running water, showers (hot), probably a bath and a decent menu. At this point Minxie looked at Big Jock’s face, which resembled the approaching thunderclouds and decided to bug out and follow the MILFS example by seeking some home comforts in the hotel. James and Benger thought, “hotel means bar, bar means beer, and followed suit.
Mouldy in the meantime refused to have his spirits dampened by Big Jock or the weather, so he poured himself a spirit of his own (a very large Scotch) and settled down to watch “Al Murray, pub landlord” on the DVD. It was a great move and brought smiles to everyone’s face, yes everyone – good old Mouldy.
Midnight came and the boys turned in to watch the mother of all lightning storms. It pished down all night – again!
Day 5 - The boys and girls do St. Moritz
With the last 4 days committed to tinternet Big Jock headed back to SRS in the pishing rain with only his Clingfilm umbrella for protection. Trying desperately to avoid lightning strikes, Big Jock looked like a slightly plumper version of Gene Kelly doing his “singing in the rain” performance.
On arrival at SRS, Mouldy was spring-cleaning Thunderbird 2, again! He was also dripping about having to trim his facial hair with scissors because the phantom phlan phlinger had run off with his beard trimmer. So keeping his distance from “Mouldy Todd, the murderous barber” Big Jock questioned the whereabouts of the other renegades. He was told that Bomber was racked and had been since flaming out at 8am. Minxie and the MILFS were in the health spa and Benger had taken No1 son and Jan P to Hotel Castell for a small aperitif.
Big Jock decided that at some point skin would cease to remain waterproof and therefore declined the offer of a half hour trip up the hill with Bomber. Yes, Bomber had finally risen from the dead! 5 minutes later Bomber was back at the Spit Roast Special, mouthing obscenities about “Feckin moontans, feckin pishin rain, day ah look like a feckin Billy Goat?” Big Jock thought, “Well you’ve made a start with that feckin old mans grey beard, oh drunken hairy one!”
The MILFS, who had made a very brief appearance and the Castill 3 arrived back at Thunderbird 2 about 5pm. Benger and James questioned Bomber about the appearance of his bare arse, again, and Benger is convinced that Bomber’s arse only gets bared when he is in the vicinity! Big Jock and James both walked off muttering about Heemasexers under their breath, and James began to question his conception having now convinced himself that his dad was Heemasexering with Bomber.
At 6pm there was a flurry of activity around the Murtahurms and suddenly the area was awash with Special Agents in dinner suits. Dr No (Big Jock) continued to insist that he wasn’t going to the meal in St. Moritz because he had caught repetitive strain injury from his Tinternet session. This was quickly dismissed as a ploy to avoid spending money and 001, 002, 003, 004 and 005 did not believe a word of it. Dr No then feigned illness, weather, AIDS, MRSA in fact anything to avoid spending his hard earned cash, which he liked to hoard and then count when no one was around. The Special Agents had sussed out his real motive for declining the offer of posh nosh in playboy heaven – after all, they were Special Agents.
So the boys and girls went to St. Moritz, gobbled and quaffed to the tune of £550 plus a £70 round trip in a fast black, and by all accounts the meal was delightful, as was the booze and of course the company doesn’t need mentioning.
Big Jock had a cheese and ham sandwich but don’t have any sympathy for that tight fucker.
Bomber arrived back at SRS around 2.30am, Jan P was slightly later at 7pm. James had been abusing him again; “you’re reliving your youth again aren’t you Jan?”
The MILFS kept texting Bomber until nearly 4am with Big Jock being awoken with every beep fuckin beep! Bomber’s 2nd phone is now keeping his first one company in the pile of logs next to the railway line!
PS. As usual it pished down again all night, beginning at 7.30pm and it is still pishing down now as I write this at 8.40am.
Big Jock can only conclude that Switzerland is as wet as an elephant’s orgasm, so you can keep your fackin toblerones you caannts!
On arrival at SRS, Mouldy was spring-cleaning Thunderbird 2, again! He was also dripping about having to trim his facial hair with scissors because the phantom phlan phlinger had run off with his beard trimmer. So keeping his distance from “Mouldy Todd, the murderous barber” Big Jock questioned the whereabouts of the other renegades. He was told that Bomber was racked and had been since flaming out at 8am. Minxie and the MILFS were in the health spa and Benger had taken No1 son and Jan P to Hotel Castell for a small aperitif.
Big Jock decided that at some point skin would cease to remain waterproof and therefore declined the offer of a half hour trip up the hill with Bomber. Yes, Bomber had finally risen from the dead! 5 minutes later Bomber was back at the Spit Roast Special, mouthing obscenities about “Feckin moontans, feckin pishin rain, day ah look like a feckin Billy Goat?” Big Jock thought, “Well you’ve made a start with that feckin old mans grey beard, oh drunken hairy one!”
The MILFS, who had made a very brief appearance and the Castill 3 arrived back at Thunderbird 2 about 5pm. Benger and James questioned Bomber about the appearance of his bare arse, again, and Benger is convinced that Bomber’s arse only gets bared when he is in the vicinity! Big Jock and James both walked off muttering about Heemasexers under their breath, and James began to question his conception having now convinced himself that his dad was Heemasexering with Bomber.
At 6pm there was a flurry of activity around the Murtahurms and suddenly the area was awash with Special Agents in dinner suits. Dr No (Big Jock) continued to insist that he wasn’t going to the meal in St. Moritz because he had caught repetitive strain injury from his Tinternet session. This was quickly dismissed as a ploy to avoid spending money and 001, 002, 003, 004 and 005 did not believe a word of it. Dr No then feigned illness, weather, AIDS, MRSA in fact anything to avoid spending his hard earned cash, which he liked to hoard and then count when no one was around. The Special Agents had sussed out his real motive for declining the offer of posh nosh in playboy heaven – after all, they were Special Agents.
So the boys and girls went to St. Moritz, gobbled and quaffed to the tune of £550 plus a £70 round trip in a fast black, and by all accounts the meal was delightful, as was the booze and of course the company doesn’t need mentioning.
Big Jock had a cheese and ham sandwich but don’t have any sympathy for that tight fucker.
Bomber arrived back at SRS around 2.30am, Jan P was slightly later at 7pm. James had been abusing him again; “you’re reliving your youth again aren’t you Jan?”
The MILFS kept texting Bomber until nearly 4am with Big Jock being awoken with every beep fuckin beep! Bomber’s 2nd phone is now keeping his first one company in the pile of logs next to the railway line!
PS. As usual it pished down again all night, beginning at 7.30pm and it is still pishing down now as I write this at 8.40am.
Big Jock can only conclude that Switzerland is as wet as an elephant’s orgasm, so you can keep your fackin toblerones you caannts!
Thursday, 17 July 2008
MILF’s Arrival & Departure – a.k.a. Dee, Karen?? Or Milf 2 and Chickess!
“It’s all part of the adventure” – you can say that bloody again!
Friday afternoon, Standsted Airport @ 12 Noon.
MILF 2 asks: - “Excuse me Miss where does this plane land?”, “do you like surprises?” asks the flight attendant, “you bet” said Milf 2. “Don’t ask that! They will think YOU are a bloody terrorist” said Chickess - RUDE!
Departing with Ryan Air - who will charge you a bloody fortune if you desire more than one pair of shoes!! Ok 5, plus iPod and hair straightens, 90 Euros if you don’t mind. I should have known at that point to quit whilst ahead, I never learn and decide to get on the flight anyway.
Things improve to be greeted by the wonderful Mag. 7 (one Mag still missing? I’m starting to think one is an imaginary friend to make them look more popular!?).
Jo Cook (now renamed and he’ll explain) – was looking a little wet (says it was beer, not sure I still believe him) probably down to excitement at meeting Milf’s
Disappointment set in again when Milf 2 overhead (via Nick’s video recording – thank you Nick) Mag 4 quoting – “Look at the size of her arse!” NICE!
So the journey continued to Zuoz in Switzerland - Views amazing, food and drink fantastic and company even better!
There we stayed for a couple of days, frequenting “The daughter”. Milf 2 escorted to hotel by Mag 1 & 4 via Fireman’s lift as still refusing to go home!
The next day girls went to Spa (via a very high Mountain and electric fence- ask Minxie?!) which was highly entertaining, Cloth or De Cloth – that is the question?
Evening Meal in St Mortiz – interesting, beautiful location, very handsome men (Reservoir Dogs still spring to mind, although my money is on Mr Black) and even better looking ladies, clearly table next to us! Milf 2 agrees to share “fondue” with the lovely Mag 4 – bad move!
Next day our departure to Lecco (or is it shit hole, not sure -LOL), where we arrive to a well provided ‘site’ to set down for the evening. Small problem the “Pikies” had taken up the use of all facilities. So in fear of getting involved in a bare knuckle fight, losing and gaining an ugly dog, girls leave and go to nearest hotel for a quickie (oh err misses) at the bar next door. Not so sure of the locals, suspect “hemosex” activities and men in bar has hair in bun, scary!?
Last day (thank God, sorry did I say that out loud – joke!?) we depart for Lake Como and Berlagio, small shopping spree prior to lovely lunch (although no Pizza) and eventful Ferry Trip, was the Captain a poor driver or did we not notice our stop behind us!?!? – GEORGE!!!
Back in said vehicles and our journey continues to Milano airport to get rid of MILF’s , sorry drop them off.
Milf 2 decides the SRS2 has more beer onboard so therefore decides to jump ship (so fickle) and travels with Mag 1, Mag 4 and twins – great ride boys!
At Airport - Chickess on standby, MILF 2 keen to go to the loo (clearly too much beer consumed in SRS2).
Goodbyes said (thank god they have left) and flight departs for Luton (London)!
Thinking all drama behind me now - How wrong was I – Chickess’s bag lost, somewhere between Milan and Luton – OH HAPPY DAYS.
Until next time, will there be one, don’t hold your breath!
Thanks for the memories, sorry for the bad ones and enjoy the rest of your trip. An amazing person once said to me ‘fair wind (don’t be rude) and following sea’!
Be good if not be careful!
Yours Milf 2 xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Friday afternoon, Standsted Airport @ 12 Noon.
MILF 2 asks: - “Excuse me Miss where does this plane land?”, “do you like surprises?” asks the flight attendant, “you bet” said Milf 2. “Don’t ask that! They will think YOU are a bloody terrorist” said Chickess - RUDE!
Departing with Ryan Air - who will charge you a bloody fortune if you desire more than one pair of shoes!! Ok 5, plus iPod and hair straightens, 90 Euros if you don’t mind. I should have known at that point to quit whilst ahead, I never learn and decide to get on the flight anyway.
Things improve to be greeted by the wonderful Mag. 7 (one Mag still missing? I’m starting to think one is an imaginary friend to make them look more popular!?).
Jo Cook (now renamed and he’ll explain) – was looking a little wet (says it was beer, not sure I still believe him) probably down to excitement at meeting Milf’s
Disappointment set in again when Milf 2 overhead (via Nick’s video recording – thank you Nick) Mag 4 quoting – “Look at the size of her arse!” NICE!
So the journey continued to Zuoz in Switzerland - Views amazing, food and drink fantastic and company even better!
There we stayed for a couple of days, frequenting “The daughter”. Milf 2 escorted to hotel by Mag 1 & 4 via Fireman’s lift as still refusing to go home!
The next day girls went to Spa (via a very high Mountain and electric fence- ask Minxie?!) which was highly entertaining, Cloth or De Cloth – that is the question?
Evening Meal in St Mortiz – interesting, beautiful location, very handsome men (Reservoir Dogs still spring to mind, although my money is on Mr Black) and even better looking ladies, clearly table next to us! Milf 2 agrees to share “fondue” with the lovely Mag 4 – bad move!
Next day our departure to Lecco (or is it shit hole, not sure -LOL), where we arrive to a well provided ‘site’ to set down for the evening. Small problem the “Pikies” had taken up the use of all facilities. So in fear of getting involved in a bare knuckle fight, losing and gaining an ugly dog, girls leave and go to nearest hotel for a quickie (oh err misses) at the bar next door. Not so sure of the locals, suspect “hemosex” activities and men in bar has hair in bun, scary!?
Last day (thank God, sorry did I say that out loud – joke!?) we depart for Lake Como and Berlagio, small shopping spree prior to lovely lunch (although no Pizza) and eventful Ferry Trip, was the Captain a poor driver or did we not notice our stop behind us!?!? – GEORGE!!!
Back in said vehicles and our journey continues to Milano airport to get rid of MILF’s , sorry drop them off.
Milf 2 decides the SRS2 has more beer onboard so therefore decides to jump ship (so fickle) and travels with Mag 1, Mag 4 and twins – great ride boys!
At Airport - Chickess on standby, MILF 2 keen to go to the loo (clearly too much beer consumed in SRS2).
Goodbyes said (thank god they have left) and flight departs for Luton (London)!
Thinking all drama behind me now - How wrong was I – Chickess’s bag lost, somewhere between Milan and Luton – OH HAPPY DAYS.
Until next time, will there be one, don’t hold your breath!
Thanks for the memories, sorry for the bad ones and enjoy the rest of your trip. An amazing person once said to me ‘fair wind (don’t be rude) and following sea’!
Be good if not be careful!
Yours Milf 2 xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Saturday, 12 July 2008
Day 5 - Souz, the morning after.
It pissed down all night, again! Big Jock was awoken by giggling and noises around 3.30am and this was apparently the transfer of MILF luggage from murtahurm to hotel. Dropping back to sleep he was then awake for the arrival of Jan P, penniless but happy at 5.30am. Giving up on sleep Big Jock lashed up and stowed his hammock and was suddenly knocked for six. No it wasn't yet another ice cold shower courtesy of SRS but the sight that greeted him out of the rear window. Bomber and James 10 feet in the air on top of a pile of logs, drinking beer and exchanging pleasantries. All was going well until Bomber dropped his mobile phone which is now situated 5 feet below where he was originally standing and 6 feet inside the pile of logs - and there it remains in the pouring rain. I can't wait to read the insurance claim.
Hopefully the others will discover we have Internet here and post some blogs but don't hold your breath because there are quite a few bars. Suffice to say I had a lovely breakfast this morning and I have now spent about 5 hours transferring my tour diary to blog.
I must away soon and get changed for this evening and St Moritz.
I'd just like to say hello to all my readers. I hope you didn't desert me during our lack of Internet and I'd ask that you remain patient through the next stage. Thank you.
PS. It is still raining but the thunder and lightning have also made an appearance. Deep joy.
Day 4 - Kloisters, Souz, Sleep
The first stop on the way was a roadside service station where the MILFS went to powder their nose and Benger went to peruse the midget porn (Feck my dwarf, or words to that effect).
The drive through the mountains of Switzerland was extremely picturesque and whilst driving through Kloisters we took time out to sample some foaming ale at one of the friendly Gausthofs. It was a bit of a noisy visit because it had been "party on" in T2, but it was a very pleasant stop and it gave the MILFS a chance to shellac Bomber about his missing moustache hair. There was also a conversation about diabetes, bottoms and bananas but it is not printable and has therefore been erased from my memory.
Our next part of the journey took the murtahurms on a 12.5 mile train trip through the mountain, however, not before Jan P had crashed SRS into the toll booth; okay you clipped it slightly with your wing mirror but I do have artistic license when writing this and my story sounded better.
Big Jock did not enjoy the trip through the mountain on an open train, one iota! He was quoted to say "Short trip through the mountain my arse! Half a bastard hour more like", and every minute spent going through his procedure for escaping vehicle fires in tunnels. "That journey was a cross between Harry Potter's hogwarts express and Lord of the Feckin Rings! Fuck my tall pointed wizardy Gandalph hat, that's all I have to say on the subject." Big woos.
Once we popped out the other side of the mountain it was plain sailing to Souz (if your name was Colin Macrae!) The scenery was awesome but the bends were even better. We arrived in the restaurant with 1 minute to spare - well done Benger. Sadly I had to crash out after a glorious meal because I'm getting old, but I await the stories that will no doubt come to my attention in due course.
PS. It never stops raining in Switzerland. More to follow once internet connectivity is regained.......
Day 4 - Lake Constance and the arrival of the MILFS
Our first sight in Lake Constance was of a Cuban virgin rolling fresh cigars between her thighs (we wish), but we did see a Cuban lady rolling cigars. Bloody marvellous I tells ye! We then
headed off to get some supplies from the supermarket and whilst there, we had lunch in the restaurant above. Mouldy and Big Jock must have smelt more rich than usual today because the rest of the crew members moved to another table to eat their fodder. Big Jock believes that the elite should always be segregated from the riff raff and that was why Mouldy and him were sat at the top table whilst the rest of the brigands were deposited aft in the cheap seats. Cheeky bastards!
After another run in with the feckin jormans at passport control, we managed to find a ferry that would take us across the lake. We still can't fathom out why Bomber took a left up a dead end street but it put Mouldy into a flat spin and we all agreed that he really should start smoking his cigars again. This trip is definitely not the time to give up!
Benger got a bit irate with the Ferry Marshall because his mastery of the English language was poor compared to Benger's which was brilliant. Suffice to say that we got on the ferry but the Ferry Marshall had had the last laugh. We landed 14 miles shy of Friedrichshaven - the bastard had put us aboard the wrong feckin ferry. How does it go Bomber? "Feckin jorman bastard!" Big Jock kept on thinking "this is feck all like the Heroes of Telemark" but wasn't taking any chances and kept his passport and cash close by during the crossing.
Once on the other side we all headed to the airport and the impending arrival of the MILFS. After many attempts to park a murtahurm in a space designated for a SMART car, it was off to the bar for refreshments. There was an escape attempt made at this point by Benger, James and Bomber, who had took it upon themselves to head into town for some liquid courage, but their escape attempt failed at the first hurdle. Big Jock, who could read German, noticed that the boys were waiting on the wrong side of the road for the bus. When he quizzed them about the timings of the bus and the trains into town he quickly realised it was safer to herd them back into the airport bar for their safety, and so that it would be them greeting the MILFS and not him!
Whilst taking in the sun on the rooftop terrace bar and topping up their tans prior to the MILFS arrival, Bomber and Benger heard a squeal from behind them and turned around to see Big Jock covered from head to foot in beer. Big Jock had leaned on a metal guardrail that had constantly absorbed heat since sunrise and which had attained the temperature of Piper Alpha. The prompt removal of his arm from the aforementioned hot spot had culminated in him throwing his beer all over himself. Bomber and Benger nearly laughed out a kidney!
Whilst preening himself and making a damn fine effort I hasten to add, Bomber enlisted the help of young James to assist him in the removal of some unwanted facial hair. Bomber is now missing a patch of moustache below his right nostril because James got a bit too enthusiastic and took a larger handful than was actually necessary. Bomber's moustache is now lopsided, ha, ha.
"H" hour arrived and the MILFS were greeted by two panting puppy dogs. The large pool of saliva surrounding them was embarrassing. First impressions certainly counted.
We are now on route to Souz via Kloisters.
To be continued................
Day 4 - A rendezvous for disaster? (Meeting the MILFS)
It is now 5am and having had too much sleep, I Big Jock, am up writing yet another blog entry. There is definitely no rest for the wicked, especially when you're as bad as me! So here goes.....
At last the rain has decided to fack off and pester some other bastard, so it's blue skies all around for the arrival of Da Milf 2, Chickess and Minxie (not a MILF I hasten to add). Bomber has been sat up all night waiting for this day to arrive, and can only be compared to a young child waiting for Santa to empty his sack. I hope for all our sakes that you get to do likewise and soon! Now for fecks sake go back to sleep and stop annoying me with your constant renditions of "The plane boss, the plane - feck off tattoo!"
We all left Konigsfeld at 8.30am; it would have been 7.45am but the Phantom Phlan Phlinger had chucked a Phlan in Mouldy's thunderbox (sacrilege I tells ya) and now there is a witch hunt taking place - DNA sampling and bared arses all round I believe! The rules clearly stated there were to be no turds deposited unless in extreme emergencies. Anyway, I digress.
After much discussion about who would empty the toilet, we eventually hit the road. On the road to Singer we stopped off at a roadside WC and everyone took it in turns to use the German thunderbox. There was however one member of T2 who didn't appear for the morning ritual.... "James, are you the Phantom Phlan Phlinger?" Ha, ha. (He denies everything Mouldy)
Big Jock took much flack from all directions for his persistent use of Pampers baby wipes, but as Big John Morgan would say, "any fool can be uncomfortable."
Bomber gave us our first German language lesson whilst we were all gathered around "Uncle Nick's Tea Wagon", and it went something like this:
"Ja, ja ich gute, fich meiner arsch, das este fantastische."
When asked, "where did you learn your German, Bomber?" He replied, "Anal crusaders 5 lads!"
We were soon back on the road and arrived around lunch time in Lake Constance on the German/Swiss border. We had arrived to do lunch but Big Jock thought we were going to die of hunger because the Swiss border guards had run off with our passports. We did manage to blag our way across and our guns, ammunition and cannabis remained concealed throughout.
Day 3 - Departing Luxembourg for Germany
On leaving Luxembourg we had the mother of all drives to Konigsfeld. Big Jock decided on a change of scenery; in all honesty he was told to "feck off oot me murtahurm ya miserable wee bastard" by Bomber, so Big Jock travelled the last part of the days journey in T2. On this leg he found out that Mouldy had every musical track known to man on his laptop, plus some tracks still waiting to be discovered! ("Much, much better than Neil Diamond and The Mamas and Papas ya ald Geordie can't!") Don't worry, they become friends again later on in the blog.
The scenery driving through France and into Germany was excellent, and much better than the flash of Bomber's arse that we all got this morning - yes we have the photos to prove it and the photos of Bomber's arse (unpublishable). Arriving in Konigsfeld just before 11pm it was decided to kip down for the night in another of Mouldy's favourite dogging sites. This one even had a real dog!
More to follow......
Day 3 - Our arrival in Luxembourg city
On arrival in the capital of Luxembourg (Luxembourg; a lot of thought had obviously gone into that then?), the magnificent 7 (there are still only 6 of us) headed towards the nearest bar to plan the strategy for averting our impending hunger. After much deliberation about the size of various tangos, the shapes of various legs and the firmness of various arses, it was agreed to go for steak and chips.
The meal was top notch gorgeous and the glasses that the beer came in were not far off either. It took a lot of persuasion and pleading to make the waiter part with them; even the offer of a cash bribe from Bomber and Benger was turned down, so we reverted to Scouse mode. James performed an old Paul Daniels magic trick and promptly made the glasses disappear - in front of the waiters eyes I hasten to add. The aforementioned glasses are now staring at me from across the table in SRS - cracking magic trick James, perhaps you could do something similar with the contents of the Bank of England? Wishful thinking I suppose.
Day 3 - Heading for the capital, Luxembourg
Thursday began in earnest with a hot shower and a lovely breakfast courtesy of Benger and Mouldy. It was then decided to break camp, but not before Bomber had picked up the plastic box from the rear of his murtahurm and poured last night's rain water all over himself. Poor bastard was drenched, ha, ha, funny though. Not only had he been beasted during young James' morning PT session, but he now looked like a drowned rat. Hey Bomber, sympathy is in the dictionary between shit and syphilis!
At this point Bomber had decided that Thursday had started so badly, he would return to his fart cart, hoping to restart the day later on in the journey, perhaps when we reached Luxembourg city. So Bomber detailed Jan P off to be duty driver of SRS. Imagine his surprise when he poked his head out from beyond his curtains to see Jan P sat in the back of SRS whilst we were on the move! Young James was promptly told to take his foot off the accelerator, apply the handbrake and "Feck off" out of the driving seat. It really had started so badly for Bomber this morning, ha, ha.
Day 2 - Leaving Belgium behind
It was decided to continue to Luxembourg and find a Gucci campsite from Mouldy's extensive choice of locations. T2 would be following SRS much more closely than last time due to the fact that SRS now had Satnav! 70% of the next leg was driven in the pouring rain and buffeting wind, the visibility was shite and the scenery was likewise. The tour stopped off for a brew halfway, and came to the aid of a German damsel in distress who's car had run out of radiator water. Our good deed done for the day we crossed the Luxembourg border and the scenery suddenly became fantastic. Even John Cox put in an appearance and whizzed past us in a VW Golf (ask Benger because I don't understand either)
We eventually reached a murtahurm park on the Belgian/Luxembourg border and it had all the mod cons, hooray! Electricity, running water, hot showers, a lovely little blond behind the bar, a bar, yes, a bar which we didn't kick the arse out of, much!
Both murtahurm crews stayed in the bar until closing time, exchanging pleasantries, spinning stories and selling toilet paper to the highest bidder - Benger, ya bastard! All because he was caught short with a Galapagos turtle's head up his arse thinking his knickers were an iceberg lettuce. Apparently Sir Alan Sugar is looking for a new apprentice!
As the bar approached closing time and Mouldy began to lose the power of speech, the conversation got around to the swimming pool opening hours. The couple who owned the campsite said the pool never closed unlike the bar, so with this said, James picked up the owners wife and deposited her into the pool and then did the exact same to everyone else on the tour except Mouldy. The cold would have killed the old man stone dead, so with that in mind Mouldy swiftly became the official photographer.
With much splashing and jocundity, the magnificent 7 enjoyed the healing waters; well most of them did. Big Jock left the pool quicker than he entered it; in fact I don't even think he got wet! Funniest thing you've ever seen, he was like a hippopotamus on ecstasy trying to climb up the side of the pool. If only he had looked behind him he would have noticed the steps, ha, ha.
With the laughter receding we all headed to T2 and drank ourselves to sleep, whilst trying hard not to wake up the neighbours (but we failed miserably).
Day 2 - Destination Luxembourg
It pished down all night!
The Spit roast special was awoken to a rendition of the Royal Navy's "call the hands" at 08.52am, which I have to admit was warmly received by .......... no bastard!
Big Jock received a severe shellacking from Bomber and Jan P, with the added threat of having his mobile phone inserted so far up his South West passage that he'd be dialing his next number with his teeth! Thankfully the scene was completely different on Thunderbird 2, where they had been up for hours and were fully dressed and fully fed.
So some of us had a nice breakfast, others didn't. Bomber had Wheaties (bastard), Jan P had a day old egg sarnie and Big Jock had a large bunch of red grapes because the thieving pikey twats in Spit roast special kept nicking his provisions. "It's like living with a pack of raccoons I tells ya!"
With the weather still shite we headed to Ypres for a nice lunch at Vivaldi's and they didn't disappoint us. After lunch we had a good look around the Menin Gate, where Mouldy and Benger found the regiments that their grandfathers had served in during WW1.
(Addendum: whilst trying to write this, Bomber has been yip yap yip yapping in my starboard lughole and it has been feckin damn annoying ....... so shat up you Geordie caan't)
With the heavens in full flow Big Jock bought himself a ladies umbrella to fend off the ensuing H2O but it was as much use as a cling film windscreen on the space shuttle endeavour.
We headed off to Tyne Cot cemetery and the Spit roast special lost touch with Thunderbird 2.
(Addendum: For ease of typing, Spit roast special will now be referred to as SRS and Thunderbird 2 as T2)
Communications are now down and the tour has ground to a sudden halt. In good old traditional British fashion, the kettle is now on. More to follow shortly.......
T2 arrived about 20 minutes later and after lots of shellacking and disagreements about one-way streets and which direction you should travel down them, the boys went off to pay their respects to the fallen.
Day 1 - Final Re-entry
Young James finally got back in from work and we all got ready to leave for Dover. After many showers and jelling up sessions, James was finally ready to leave for Dover. Correction; after James had his final dump, looked in the mirror - again, jelled up and applied various after shaves, we tasked young Nicola to take the group photographs, and then we were off to Dover.
Well, not quite; we went to the nearest titty bar in Maidstone and had a few pints of foaming ale whilst watching scantily clad young ladies remove what was left of their clothing. Bomber got the eye in the titty bar - from a bloke, so we made a swift departure before any heemasexer shenanigans took place.
Imagine Bomber's dismay to find a parking ticket attached to his murtahurm when we eventually found where we had parked. On closer inspection it was a £1,000,000 fine for parking in a space not designated for Geordies. It had been delivered by the crew of Thunderbird 2, ha, ha. Nice one Mouldy, what a cracking bite!
To alleviate further confusion:
Murtahurm 1 (Spit roast special) - crewed by Bomber (aka Mag 1), Jan P (aka Mag 5) and Big Jock (aka Mag 6)
Murtahurm 2 (Thunderbird 2) - crewed by Mouldy (aka Mag 3), Benger (aka Mag 2) and James (aka Mag 4)
All other titles have been dispensed with from my postings.
Back to the story; We eventually left Maidstone, and for those who said we wouldn't make it out of Calais because we would be on the piss there, you were wrong - we didn't even make it out of Maidstone before we got on the piss, ha, ha.
Heading for Dover we didn't encounter any further dramas except Big Jock shouting and swearing at Bomber's car stereo for not complying with his iPod. It would be assimilated and like it! Normal service was resumed at Fat Boy FM when we reached the A20.
The two-way radio system between murtahurms was shite, to say the least, so Jimmy Nail was turned up on Fat Boy FM and Bomber was singing like a canary, Big Jock was farting like a Devon cow and Jan P was gagging like a porn star.
We pulled in to Dover and nearly got on the ferry, but the oldest member of Thunderbird 2 had to empty his colostomy bag and Big Jock needed to grab his final Burger King!
The ferry crossing was uneventful except that Benger and Mouldy forgot to pick up James on departure and the Spit roast special gained an extra crew member or should I say playmate? James now has an arse like a Japanese battle ensign - that will teach you to arrive unannounced young man,...... young man!
We have now stopped for the night in Mouldy's favourite dogging site, just south of Dunkirk (Ayres rock, I think). After a gentleman's glass of port and a few salty sea stories we are all off to bed. The time is now 3.18am (European time).
At last we have resumed connectivity with Tinternet
I am now writing this on an apple mac which has a really strange, sort of QWERTY keyboard, but being a Swiss appliance response will be slightly erratic. Please bear with me. What follows is the final part of day 1 and the next 3 or 4 days; I can't remember what year it is at the moment! So here goes:
Tuesday, 8 July 2008
Day 1 - afternoon update
For the record, Bomber was not loafing in his scratcher but was in fact working on making his murta hurm spic and span for the arrival of No.2 spit-roast twin (Jan P). Navs Bengar, James and LogOff continued to work hard earning pennies to swell the coffers of the booze and big eats kitty. Bomber, BigJock and Jan P went into town and ensured that all available foreign beer tokens were procured for the trip.
The trip back to the canal was fraught with danger because BigJock drives like a 15 year old without a license, and after an argument between Bomber, BigJock and Yoda (BigJock's satnav), it was agreed that Yoda knew exactly where he was going, BigJock was a Jedi master and Bomber didn't have a clue how to speak Jedi and his navigation was shit!
It was agreed that Bomber would stow the shopping and Jan P and BigJock would go to the pub to discuss strategies for France and Belgium (just like old times). LogOff arrived about 5pm and has serviced the spit roast special in preparation for the dangerous channel crossing this evening.
A good day had by all. Stay tuned to see if Yoda and Bomber kiss and make up. Stay tuned to see if Bomber finds the channel. The night trip looms and the boys are ready and raring to go for the arduous tasks ahead. More to follow when French Internet cafe is found.
Day 1 - morning update
For the purpose of my war correspondent role I am now dispensing with Mag and using real names. It's a lot easier and much more efficient "vorsprung durch technique"
BigJock kipped on Nav Bengar's sofa last night but was kept up most of the night by Bomber's dogs' impression of a f*ckin windmill. She was chasing her own ars*hole all night and I fear that this will happen to every female that resides in "The Spitroast Special", so be warned!
Navs Bengar got up around 6am and mentioned to BigJock to help himself to breakfast. Navs Bengar is now down at Asda buying some more provisions for the cottage - fat Jock bastard!
James has left for work. Bomber is still horizontal and is soon to receive a rocket up his arse because we need to purchase some foreign beer tokens from the Post Office. Gerry is still to appear and LogOff will be back to crack the whip and beat us all to death for lack of preparation and planning at around lunch time.
The milfs have been busy blogging and planning their strategy for foreign invasion (sounds sexy) and stalking behind enemy lines.
More to follow in due course, so keep posted.
BigJock kipped on Nav Bengar's sofa last night but was kept up most of the night by Bomber's dogs' impression of a f*ckin windmill. She was chasing her own ars*hole all night and I fear that this will happen to every female that resides in "The Spitroast Special", so be warned!
Navs Bengar got up around 6am and mentioned to BigJock to help himself to breakfast. Navs Bengar is now down at Asda buying some more provisions for the cottage - fat Jock bastard!
James has left for work. Bomber is still horizontal and is soon to receive a rocket up his arse because we need to purchase some foreign beer tokens from the Post Office. Gerry is still to appear and LogOff will be back to crack the whip and beat us all to death for lack of preparation and planning at around lunch time.
The milfs have been busy blogging and planning their strategy for foreign invasion (sounds sexy) and stalking behind enemy lines.
More to follow in due course, so keep posted.
Monday, 7 July 2008
The calm before the storm!!
Evening Mag's and Damilfs!!!
Well down her at the cottage it seems rather chaotic, mag 1 is out defumicating the Murtahurme!! Mag 2 seems confused at the events of the evening and is now stripping down to his pants as he is having hot flushes!!! Mag 4 is stuffing chilli in gob and trying on shoes his personal shopper brought him! Said personal shopper has kept Hon Mag 8 very happy by taking her on very successful shopping spree!!! Mag 3 i expect will already be packed, organised and ready to go! Mag 6 is sat with Mag 2, Mag 4 and Hon Mag 8 debating what he should do with himself! All in all typically male attitudes no preparation or packing, no pampering! Daughter theif has just came in and is sneaking a look at Mag 2 'nutz' apparently!
Anyway hon mag 8 is more organised has been shooping and will pack tomorrow! I expect ill get last minute urgent calls tomorrow for last bits and bobs then come and wave you all off!!
Rather concerned about Mag 5 as dont seem to have heard a lot from him yet!!
Anyway hope you all get a good nights rest before you head off on your epic journey!!
Love always Minx xxxx
Well down her at the cottage it seems rather chaotic, mag 1 is out defumicating the Murtahurme!! Mag 2 seems confused at the events of the evening and is now stripping down to his pants as he is having hot flushes!!! Mag 4 is stuffing chilli in gob and trying on shoes his personal shopper brought him! Said personal shopper has kept Hon Mag 8 very happy by taking her on very successful shopping spree!!! Mag 3 i expect will already be packed, organised and ready to go! Mag 6 is sat with Mag 2, Mag 4 and Hon Mag 8 debating what he should do with himself! All in all typically male attitudes no preparation or packing, no pampering! Daughter theif has just came in and is sneaking a look at Mag 2 'nutz' apparently!
Anyway hon mag 8 is more organised has been shooping and will pack tomorrow! I expect ill get last minute urgent calls tomorrow for last bits and bobs then come and wave you all off!!
Rather concerned about Mag 5 as dont seem to have heard a lot from him yet!!
Anyway hope you all get a good nights rest before you head off on your epic journey!!
Love always Minx xxxx
DAMILF 2 - "setting a few rules prior to departure"
Afternoon all
Felt it necessary to provide you boys (oh how I wish) with a few DAMILF rules prior to departure, these shall be adhered too at all times!
1. Under no circumstances may two men share an umbrella.
2. It is OK for a man to cry ONLY under the following circumstances:
(a) When a heroic dog dies to save its master.
(b) The moment Angelina Jolie starts unbuttoning her Blouse.
(c) After wrecking your boss's car.
(d) When she is using her teeth.
3. Any man who brings a camera may be legally killed and eaten by other MAG’s.
4. If you've known a guy for more than 24 hours, his sister is off limits forever unless you actually marry her.
5. Moaning about the brand of free beer in a mate's fridge is forbidden. However complain at will if the temperature is unsuitable.
6. No man shall ever be required to buy a birthday present for another man. In fact, even remembering your mate's birthday is strictly optional. At that point, you must celebrate at a strip bar of the birthday boy's choice.
7. In the murtahurms - the strongest bladder determines pit stops, not the weakest!
8. When stumbling upon other blokes watching a sporting event, you may ask the score of the game in progress, but you may never ask whose playing.
9. You may fart in front of a woman only after you have brought her to climax. If you trap her head under the covers for the purpose of flatulent entertainment (commonly known as a Dutch oven), she's officially your girlfriend.
10. It is permissible to drink a fruity alcohol drink only when you're sunning on a tropical beach ... and it's delivered by a topless model and only when it's free.
11. Only in situations of moral and/or physical peril are you allowed to kick another guy in the nuts.
12. Unless you're in prison, never fight naked (well may be Saturday night, if you are very lucky)
13. Friends don't let friends wear Speedos. Ever. Issue closed.
14. If a man's fly is down, that's his problem, you didn't see anything.
15. Women who claim they 'love to watch sports' must be treated as spies until they demonstrate knowledge of the game and the ability to drink as much as the other sports watchers.
16. A man in the company of a hot, suggestively dressed woman must remain sober enough to fight.
17. Never hesitate to reach for the last beer or the last slice of pizza, but not both, that's just greedy.
18. Never allow a telephone conversation with a woman to go on longer than you are able to have sex with her. Keep a stopwatch by the phone. Hang up if necessary.
19. The morning after you and a girl who was formerly 'just a friend' have carnal, drunken monkey sex. The fact that you're feeling weird and guilty is no reason for you not to nail each other again before the discussion occurs about what a big mistake it was.
20. Thou shall not buy a car in the colours of brown, pink, lime, green, yellow, orange or sky blue.
21. The girl who replies to the question 'What do you want for Christmas?' with 'If you loved me, you'd know what I want!' gets an Xbox 360 or aPlaystation- End of story.
22. There is no reason for guys to watch Ice Skating or Men's Gymnastics. Ever.
23. Never wear a man bag to work.
24. We've all heard about people having guts or balls. But do you really know the difference between them? In an effort to keep you informed, the definition of each is listed below:
'GUTS' is arriving home late after a night out with the guys, being assaulted by your girlfriend/wife with a broom, and having the guts to say, 'are you still cleaning or are you flying somewhere?
''BALLS' is coming home late after a night out with the guys smelling of perfume and beer, lipstick on your collar, slapping your wife square on the ass and having the balls to say, 'You're next fatty!' - "lovin it"
Be good if not be careful - remember firm punishment will be issued to any MAG not sticking to the rules!
Yours always DAMILF 2.
See you in paradise!
xxxxxxxx
Felt it necessary to provide you boys (oh how I wish) with a few DAMILF rules prior to departure, these shall be adhered too at all times!
1. Under no circumstances may two men share an umbrella.
2. It is OK for a man to cry ONLY under the following circumstances:
(a) When a heroic dog dies to save its master.
(b) The moment Angelina Jolie starts unbuttoning her Blouse.
(c) After wrecking your boss's car.
(d) When she is using her teeth.
3. Any man who brings a camera may be legally killed and eaten by other MAG’s.
4. If you've known a guy for more than 24 hours, his sister is off limits forever unless you actually marry her.
5. Moaning about the brand of free beer in a mate's fridge is forbidden. However complain at will if the temperature is unsuitable.
6. No man shall ever be required to buy a birthday present for another man. In fact, even remembering your mate's birthday is strictly optional. At that point, you must celebrate at a strip bar of the birthday boy's choice.
7. In the murtahurms - the strongest bladder determines pit stops, not the weakest!
8. When stumbling upon other blokes watching a sporting event, you may ask the score of the game in progress, but you may never ask whose playing.
9. You may fart in front of a woman only after you have brought her to climax. If you trap her head under the covers for the purpose of flatulent entertainment (commonly known as a Dutch oven), she's officially your girlfriend.
10. It is permissible to drink a fruity alcohol drink only when you're sunning on a tropical beach ... and it's delivered by a topless model and only when it's free.
11. Only in situations of moral and/or physical peril are you allowed to kick another guy in the nuts.
12. Unless you're in prison, never fight naked (well may be Saturday night, if you are very lucky)
13. Friends don't let friends wear Speedos. Ever. Issue closed.
14. If a man's fly is down, that's his problem, you didn't see anything.
15. Women who claim they 'love to watch sports' must be treated as spies until they demonstrate knowledge of the game and the ability to drink as much as the other sports watchers.
16. A man in the company of a hot, suggestively dressed woman must remain sober enough to fight.
17. Never hesitate to reach for the last beer or the last slice of pizza, but not both, that's just greedy.
18. Never allow a telephone conversation with a woman to go on longer than you are able to have sex with her. Keep a stopwatch by the phone. Hang up if necessary.
19. The morning after you and a girl who was formerly 'just a friend' have carnal, drunken monkey sex. The fact that you're feeling weird and guilty is no reason for you not to nail each other again before the discussion occurs about what a big mistake it was.
20. Thou shall not buy a car in the colours of brown, pink, lime, green, yellow, orange or sky blue.
21. The girl who replies to the question 'What do you want for Christmas?' with 'If you loved me, you'd know what I want!' gets an Xbox 360 or aPlaystation- End of story.
22. There is no reason for guys to watch Ice Skating or Men's Gymnastics. Ever.
23. Never wear a man bag to work.
24. We've all heard about people having guts or balls. But do you really know the difference between them? In an effort to keep you informed, the definition of each is listed below:
'GUTS' is arriving home late after a night out with the guys, being assaulted by your girlfriend/wife with a broom, and having the guts to say, 'are you still cleaning or are you flying somewhere?
''BALLS' is coming home late after a night out with the guys smelling of perfume and beer, lipstick on your collar, slapping your wife square on the ass and having the balls to say, 'You're next fatty!' - "lovin it"
Be good if not be careful - remember firm punishment will be issued to any MAG not sticking to the rules!
Yours always DAMILF 2.
See you in paradise!
xxxxxxxx
Penultimate - The day before Day 1
Well folks,
This is the first of many diary entries from the Magnificent (spelt correctly) 7's official war correspondent, Mag6 (BigJock). It all started for me at 3.20am when I crawled from my "scratcher", made myself smell nice and then drove from Plymouth to Maidstone via London. After falling through the front door at work and nearly breaking my already damaged right wrist, I thought it prudent to get in the car and depart for Maidstone sharpish, before any other strange happenings befell me. There will be enough of them to contend with on tour.
Mag1 (Bomber) had been working all neat (night to non-Geordies) and reluctantly got in the "Spitroast Special" and I followed him down to Mag2 (Nav Bengers), via the Dartford Crossing I hasten to add. So much for a cheap trip to Europe; the bastards charged me a pound to cross their bridge. Bloody daylight robbery I tells ya!
So we're at Mag2's gaff; he's working all day and Bomber is making excuses about being up all night and is going to bed - puff. I am awaiting the arrival of Mag3 (Logoff) in the hope that he will come over the boozer and start this trip off royally, but I have a feeling I will be drinking alone. Bad practice - no man should ever drink alone!
Keep a sharp look out for my next installment, which will be posted soon.
This is the first of many diary entries from the Magnificent (spelt correctly) 7's official war correspondent, Mag6 (BigJock). It all started for me at 3.20am when I crawled from my "scratcher", made myself smell nice and then drove from Plymouth to Maidstone via London. After falling through the front door at work and nearly breaking my already damaged right wrist, I thought it prudent to get in the car and depart for Maidstone sharpish, before any other strange happenings befell me. There will be enough of them to contend with on tour.
Mag1 (Bomber) had been working all neat (night to non-Geordies) and reluctantly got in the "Spitroast Special" and I followed him down to Mag2 (Nav Bengers), via the Dartford Crossing I hasten to add. So much for a cheap trip to Europe; the bastards charged me a pound to cross their bridge. Bloody daylight robbery I tells ya!
So we're at Mag2's gaff; he's working all day and Bomber is making excuses about being up all night and is going to bed - puff. I am awaiting the arrival of Mag3 (Logoff) in the hope that he will come over the boozer and start this trip off royally, but I have a feeling I will be drinking alone. Bad practice - no man should ever drink alone!
Keep a sharp look out for my next installment, which will be posted soon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)