Saturday's Shenenigans

Gordon trying to remember what that reminds him of

We had agreed that reveille would be at 08:30 the following morning, coordinated by Bill the Bell who would man the phone to ensure an adequate turnout for breakfast. Four out of five were fit to muster at that time, the recalcritant being Gordon the Ungodly ("Eight o'clock!?! That's an ungodly time to get up on a Saturday morning!").

Having secured and dispached breakfast, the Godly amongst us repaired to the pleasures of London: Tottenham Court Road to puruse the delights of 9800-baud autodialling modems, Wardour Street to examine the closed exteriors of broadcast equipment suppliers, and the Museum of Moving images to look at, well, old films I suppose.

Gordon had the best of it, presumably lying in his scratcher adorned by some mulatto bedchambermaid with little English but lots of understanding.

A rendezvous was made at 12:00 prompt at the bisrot/bar below the St. Giles Hotel for the purpose of acquiring lunch, which was taken in Garfunkels. Much telephone activity was undertaken here, including the passing on to Al the Scribe's wife the essential information that he was currently scoffing a Spaghetti Bolognese with Stella Artois, which unusual event (the telephone call, not the scoffing or the Stella) prompted her indoors to remark that he was well pissed. And this at 12:00 of the day, with hardly a drop of tincture having passed his lips.

We then set off hot-foot to BBC Broadcasting House where an appointment for 14:00 had been pre-arranged by our illustrious etc., etc.. Bill and Gordon were 5 mins late, but we decided that keel-hauling was impractical, given our location and the lack of convenient keels. There followed a fascinating behind-the-scenes tour of BH lasting two hours, during which Gordon the Ungodly became seriously dehydrated, having not consumed alcohol for close on twelve hours.


Proof that we actually DID visit the Beeb at White City

We made our appointment with the bar on the Strand next to Charing Cross Station a good 35 minutes ahead of schedule, and proceeded to sample the delights which Herr Carlsberg had prepared for us. The first pint was just Carlsberg (ie. shite) but they also had Carlsberg Export, which we purchased in eager anticipation. What we hadn't anticipated was that we would be given an insight into the old saw "Let's all, go down the Strand (have a banana)" as thon pint was definitely second cousin to a banana milkshake. It got better as it went down, but not so good that we wanted to stay for another.
We decided therefore that we should repair to another bar for a change, hopefully one selling Tennent's. Al the Scribe was commissioned to enquire regarding the contents of the taps of one such establishment, and reported that they held a small stock of Tennent's Pilsner on the premises, so we went in. Much to Al the Chair's delight, it was quickly noticed that their main line was Carling Black Label, upon which we fell with gusto. Much silliness thus ensued, with those of the party who were in possession of these spazz phones (ie. every bugger but me) calling each other to check on the loudness of their respective ringing tones ("I'll show you mine if you show me yours" was one line which springs back to mind from out of the alcoholic mist).	Me trying out one of them Spazz phones
At one point, just before this Carling phase of the evening, the Spazz Brothers were standing in a group outside a shop, when a phone was heard to ring. "Is that you or is it me?" was mutttered by all as they tapped their persons to locate the source of the ringing (which, by someone not attuned to the finer points of Spazzery, could clearly be heard coming from the shop). After a time (see how the details are becoming less focussed as this report progresses) we got an Italian meal in Il Paradiso e Inferno, with two bottles of white house plonk to accompany the fizzy water which, unaccountably, we were suddenly quite keen on.


Me burning my gob off	Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee
The meal was followed by a visit to a pub (the reader will by now be getting the hang of this weekend) where some controlled drugs were imbibed (pint-shaped) accompanied by deep and philosophical verbal punch-ups involving the declaration of entrenched positions and the reiteration of self-evident truths (ie. an argument about sex, drugs and so on). We agreed, however, that freedom of choice was important. I can't remember why we agreed that - you know how it is with Carling Black Label. Al suddenly discovers that his drink has turned into a camera After some more booze (research into the consumption of exotic substances) we returned to the hotel where Al the Scribe's batteries gave out and he went to bed (at 12:30, alone, honest luv). History does not relate whether he actually made it to the bed, and Al's not telling (as he can't remember). The remainder of the party were strangely silent about their further activities that evening, but someone offered a story about going to McDonald's for a burger at 02:00. When asked why they went there, the story was that it was because they couldn't find a Dunkin' Donut. Sad. I have no proof of their trip for a burger, except that since they were all present and correct at breakfast the following morning, without recourse to a stomach pump, it must be lies.