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!