| It is Friday 10 September 1994, 19:19 local time: a motley crew of unstoppable reprobates all converge on the abode of our illustrious Chairman and Master of Ceremonies (Alistair Biggar), for a date with a taxi which will take us to the big silver bird poised to whisk us off down to the Big Smoke (s**t, that reminds me, I forgot my cigars) via an important appointment with a quick pint (see last year's definitions) at the Tap & Spile, Glasgow Airport's drinking establishment. | 
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Note: Last Year's Definitions of Swally Quantities -A Quick Pint = Three Pints A Couple of Pints = Five Pints A Good Swally = Haven't a Clue how many Pints I had Wasted = Wasted |
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| When
your scribe (Alistair Thomson) arrived at AB's, Bill
Goldie had already got his feet under the table (no doubt
in anticipation of the rest of his body following later
on in the evening) having transited from STV with
Alistair (the Chairman) via Rutherglen courtesy of
British Rail. They are, even as I type this, horsing into a ginormous plateful of anti-hangover glop. The two remaining members of the party (the two Gees: Gordon and George) are currently stuck in a traffic jam at Fenwick Moor, according to the message they relayed on their spazz phones (yuppies, the lot o' them, I don't know what the world is coming to, neither I do). The taxi arrived at 19:41, despite Gordon's haircut, and we were Whisked Orff (that's the guy who wrote Curry me a Biryani) to the airport. We boarded the plane at 20:50, after a pint in the Tap and a very yucky swally in the lounge. Both Alistairs bumped into colleagues from work (you just can't get away from them) but neither of their so-called colleagues bought anyone a drink. Having purchased a copy of the Evening Times, which carried a piece about Southern Sound Hospital Radio, we discovered that British Midland were giving them away free on the plane. I grabbed two, and Alistair the Chair and Bill each grabbed one. After a light meal and a heavy touchdown, Alistair the Chair announced that we were twelve seconds late. Furthermore, we had only had one free drink, and no wine with the meal! Flying ain't what it used to be. |
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Surprisingly, we
all arrived at the tube train at the same time, despite
an impromptu visit to the toilet during which
Al's attempt at indicating the correct direction to her was met with confused silence, but whatever he did, it worked, because she was spotted following him onto the tube train. These frenchies, zey 'ave no taste, no? On the tube (London's answer to perpetual motion), Gordon handed round the ceremonial rice paper upon which he had scribbled (in non-biodegradable green ink) the secret cellphone number of the rising lotus blossom, which we consumed with delight and inscrutability ( the number by the way is 0831 452260, and you should now eat this computer, chips and all, to safeguard the secret). Our co-travellers on the tube were no doubt convinced we were horsing tabs of some exotic but illegal substance. We arrived at the hotel at 23:36 (08:10 Tokyo time), to discover that they had no rooms for us. We were invited to the bar where free drinks were provided and duly imbibed, while awaiting our free taxi to take us to our upgraded hotel, the Strand Palace (on the Strand, surprisingly enough). At 00:47, a taxi arrived and whisked B and the Gees orff to the hotel, leaving the two Als to contemplate their respective navels (bet you haven't heard alcohol called that before). Not to worry, however, because another taxi arrived, looking for customer Arbuthnot to go to the Strand Palace, and that was clearly us. The poor taxi driver was obviously a stranger to London, as he had to be told that the Strand Palace Hotel was on the Strand. |
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| We checked in to the hotel,
where we noted its single tarriff of £99 per night, with
breakfast (full English) at £9.50 per mouth. This fazed
us not, as it was all pre-paid, and Al the Chair decided
that cigars were in order as we imbibed a soupcon of
amber nectar in the foyer. We calculated that as the original cost of the hotel was £29 per night, and the cost of B&B in the Strand Palace was £99, if we all sold our rooms at the Strand to some unsuspecting foreign tourists, then taking into account the free drinks were were given, we would have nowhere to sleep. As you can tell, we were getting quite well on, as it were. |
 Two of us Enjoying Ourselves |
