September

[Sweder]

Sadly no running to report.
The Lewes Downland 10 looks like being rather more than the usual test of stamina; I’ll be lucky to survive without the need for medical attention. Yet I’m determined to start (and finish) this local race, if nothing more than to jump-start a fulsome return to downland running on the never-ending quest for fitness and form.

Stockholm was a short, sweet affair. Lashings of hard work, unexpectedly devoid of nights on the town and only two pints of Murphy’s to speak of. I’m in the departure lounge of the Stockholm Skansvka airport, a location as related to Stockholm as Lydd is to London. A pre-dawn dash through starlit tundra saw me rudely deposited outside the Ryan Air terminal, the stark stucco block already teaming with travellers no doubt pondering the wisdom of saving a sheckle or two on their pan-European treks. Last night was the pick of the bunch. A short trudge into the modest knoll of Alvsjo (attempts to pronounce this result in gleeful cries of gesundheit!) took us to a pizzeria who’s speciality turned out to be a chicken curry affair that fair took the breath away.

Cheap beer and exotic food safely stashed we traded tales rude and glorious long into the night. The subjects span dizzily from personal disasters through travel stories and into the realm of traversing North America. As often happens the focus swung onto bars and more particularly where one might find the best Margaritas. My claim was for Café Adobe, a Tex-Mex bistro and favourite all-day brunch haunt of the OTC crowd in Houston. Adobe flogged a beast of a cocktail, a top-shelf rocks-n-salt monster comprised of several fine tequilas, Grand Marnier and a dash of jeau ne se quoi. Standing alone it knocked you silly. After a morning sweating around one of the swampy municipal golf courses on the south side a couple of these sent one into a euphoric state; instant party juice. Sessions at Adobe involved a hastily scoffed collection of eggs any style, fajitas, quesadillas and Chimichangas washed down with Dos Equis or Corona before the tequila fest started in earnest.

I recalled one such occasion where, in the space of a few short, rocket-fuelled hours the following occurred. First up an old mate who’d travelled with us to Texas some years before and had been sucked into te vortex of the American Dream returned, replete with new wife. It soon became apparent to those of us who loved and cared for this young man that he had been well and truly duped into shackling himself to partly educated yet undoubtedly trailer-park produced White Trash. When pressed he confessed that the first time he’d laid eyes on his spouse she had indeed been sliding her impressively curvy lines around a dimply lit pole. It was less of a shock then that when our pal took himself off to the gents his beloved proceeded to try and cop off with anything in trousers. Sadly our friend to umbrage at our desperate attempts to flag up this capricious behaviour and the pair duly left in a huff.

Some hours later I had occasion to visit the bathroom. On the way down a long and precarious staircase I encountered Kitty, a sweet Irish filly who, like many of her kith and kin was nannying in the Lone Star State. Kitty had tucked away an impressive haul of liquor having been in situ since eleven a.m. She giggled at me, clad as I was in baggy shorts and large loose golf shirt, looking somewhat bedraggled. I return the compliment, pointing out her delightfully chic bib-and-braces ensemble. We hooted as we discussed the impact of out swapping clothes during this bathroom break, and then the tequila took firm hold. Before I knew what was happening I was hopping about in the gents trying to squeeze my ample frame into Kitty’s togs. It should be pointed out at this juncture that the fair maiden was of diminutive and of delicate construction. I on the other hand was at my optimum fighting weight of fifteen stones and 6’1”. No great shock then that exchanging gear was proving something of a challenge for one of us. Finally, undercarriage tightly clasped in the stretched crotch of Kitty’s outfit, I hobbled painfully into the stairwell. Those Irish eyes brimmed with tears of hysteria as the poor girl, looking for all the world like she’d been zapped by a shrink-ray, collapsed into fits of uncontrollable laughter. Recovered we teetered back up towards the sun deck to surprise our friends. Unbeknownst to me, whilst I’d been stuffing myself into this contorting straightjacket a contingent of some ten or so Norwegians had arrived and taken their places upstairs. Not just any Norwegians, these. No, these were colleagues and associates of some years standing, respected contemporaries in the world ofr oil and gas events. Imagine teir surprise – nay, horror – at seeing this contorted figure of a man, a man they thought they knew, stumbling through the doors into strong sunlight, much the worse for drink, adorned in a small woman’s garb.
It took a while to live that one down I can tell you.

Later still, the mood somewhat mellowed after a number of hours dedicated to debauched tale-telling and consumption, me still trapped in this slowly-expanding restraint, we lost another of our party. This gent, known to those here who visited Almeria this January, is a quiet soul, never one to seek or steal the limelight. A consummate sportsman he’d played well that morning and, in his own quiet way, had steadfastly celebrated his hard-fought victory on the golf course with an unusually large selection of cocktails. During the raucous exchange of garbled nonsense that ensured our man took to leaning back on his chair, feet hooked around the table leg, rocking gently back and forth. Suddenly, without warning and marked only with a strangled cry, the felloow overbalanced, tumbling head over heels off the back of his chair, through the fire escape door and down a long flight of stairs. Aghast we staggered to our feet, fearing the worst as we peered over the balcony only to see our friend complete his descent with an admirable forward roll up onto his feet, step off the curb and nonchalantly as you please hail a taxi. Stunning performance and one that will live long in the memory. There can be no doubt that such a calamity would ordinarily have seen him carted off to Houston General, destined for confinement in miles of plaster. We can only conclude that the Margaritas saved him; a salutatory lesson for us all.

As the tears and laughter flowed in our little pizzeria in Alvsjo I ventured to teach two of my companions, a French-Spanish lady with huge Doe-eyes and a smile to break your heart, and a petite American girl from Albuquerque New Mexico with a machine-gun delivery and twinkling eyes, to speak with an Irish lilt. Some years ago the then Motorhead drummer, the incomparable Phil ‘Philthy Animal’ Taylor, had worn (to death and without washing) a T-shirt bearing the phrase that would accomplish this in no time.

‘OK, now all you have to do is repeat these words after me. Whale,’
‘Whale’
‘Oil’
‘Oil’
‘Beef’
‘Beef’
‘Hooked’
‘Hooked’

‘Now, put it all together and say it as a phrase.’

Sometimes the very oldest of jokes are still the best.
I’m somewhere high above Scandinavia now, headed for Paris Beauvais airport, Ryannair’s interpretation of Paris (they certainly like to push the boundaries these boys), where I’m due to be collected by SP, Captain Tom and Kev The Northern Lightweight en route to our Golfing Society Autumn Tour on the outskirts of the city of lurve. We’ve already identified a decent-looking Irish pub mere metres from our abode. It promises to be a blinding tournament.

Please forgive the errors and typo’s. I’m now (at time of posting) recovering from round one with the crew in Enghien-les-Bains, a secret gem on the north-east side of Paris where the girls are stunning and Guinness comes in at just under nine Euros a pint.
Ay Carumba!