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