Big Jock awoke after another late session at Benger's Palace. The lads had stayed up until the early hours listening to great music, upsetting the senior lock-keeper and supping vast quantities of red wine. Big Jock felt like he'd put his head on backwards and whilst scurrying around for some headache tablets, cursed the day that Tim Benger was born. After a quick breakfast at Happy Harry's Heart-attack Hostel, the drunken duo headed into town to secure the best price that day for Euros. Tim was totally convinced that the current recession was brought on by the laziness of the British workforce. He made this assumption on failing to get served in any shop he entered, so thoroughly pissed off, it was back to the nearest boozer for more lager beer and a good old drip (moan). The ferry trip down to town and back saw more foaming ale sunk and the pace of drinking was beginning to take effect on Big Jock's health.
At 4 o'clock the rest of the gang began to assemble, starting with Mouldy, shortly followed by Tim's brother Ben and dragging up the rear as usual was Bomber and Jackie (making a guest appearance and putting a stop to Bomber's constant profanities - NOT!) After a wonderful scoff of smoked salmon and Chieftain Haggis, lovingly prepared by Egon Mouldy, the Thunderbird 2 was packed up and the tour was underway.
A short stop to pick up Pamper's arse wipes for Big Jocky's delicate botty, the motley crew were Dover bound. It was from this point that things took their usual downward spiral - the ferry crossing was cancelled but no one had the decency to inform us, the crossing was re-scheduled to 4 o'clock in the morning (6 hours late) and Big Jock "I'm never sleeping in a fuckin' murtahurm ever again," slept in a murtahurm....... again, ha, ha.
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