Cashing in

This has been a busy weekend, on Saturday my parents called over to help me clear the back garden. I haven't touched the thing since I moved in in January and it had become a jungle, especially with all the recent rain and sun combination. There are as of yet undiscovered rain forest tribes crawling out of the dense foliage every so often, so I decided that it was time to trim it all back. My father is a landscape gardener so I knew it would be in good hands. It actually only took a couple of hours to do, but during that time we cut back the dense overgrowth to uncover several Inca cities and a Mayan temple in ruins. I rewarded their hard work by serving burnt meat from the barbecue and we finished the lavish meal with cake.

Wow, you can see the floor...

Whilst I was up to my elbows in shrubbery Craig called and told me he was mading good on his promise to call up as he and Alix missed my birthday BBQ last weekend. Alix's car had developed problems just outside of Nottingham and they had decided not to risk the journey up to York. This weekend, however, the car was working fine and they duly arrived, even before I'd got out of bed. Jesus, it's a Sunday, what time do you people think I get up at? I said rather than mooch around in York we should take advantage of the good weather and head out to the coast. So we did. The rest of York had the same idea it would seem by the traffic jams on the A64. Eventually battling through the traffic we made our way to Boggle Hole and I had a nostalgia trip. I haven't been this way for about seventeen years ever since we used to go on holiday there as kids. Every year for seventeen years we would descend on a tiny cottage on the edge of the wolds, close to Ravenscar and overlooking the sea. It had no running hot water, no inside toilet, very little electricity and it was so dark at night that you could quite clearly see the milky way. As a kid, I hated it, it was so isolated and there was nothing to do, except occasionally go to Scarborough to play on the arcades and lust after that copy of Richtofen's War which was for sale in a model shop that is now an Italian restaurant. Nowadays, I would fucking love it. The misanthropic isolation of the place really appeals to me these days. I'd buy the place, get a load of cats and a rifle and withdraw from society.

Is there anybody out there?

So we headed down to the beach at Boggle Hole and I was surprised by the change in the place. First off they local council had gotten rid of the rope bridge that crossed the chasm you had to pass over before hitting the beach. They'd replaced it with a fucking road. They'd even got rid of all the massive jagged rocks that marked the passage to the coast. The rocks with the skulls and bones of previous visitors scattered on them. At least that is how I remembered it. (that's a joke, but there honestly one time we went there and there was absolutely no one on the beach, completely deserted, apart from a pair of shoes with socks tucked into them resting on a rock. The shoes owner never appeared while we were on the beach. A possible suicide? But then why would you take your shoes off if you were going to top yourself?)

Britain's most beautiful suicide spot...

These days it just seems to be full of fat Geordie chavs with bulldogs and damp picnic sandwiches. At least that's the impression I got from Sunday's visit. We had a quick lunch at the youth hostel whilst discussing the fiscal state of America (We know how to party!). A trip out to the coast is not really complete without a quick look in on Robin Hood's Bay and this was no exception. Since Alix and Craig were now too late to get back to Nottingham for the evening they had planned, I brow beat them into heading up the coast. They were quite easily swayed as I had the car keys and it's a long walk back to York where Alix's car was parked. In the sprawling metropolis that is Robin Hood's Bay I made the two of them sit on the same spot that we used to sit on as a family and have our photo taken, year after year. I don't have any of those pictures to hand, but believe me, little has changed in all that time:

'SIT ON THE FUCKING WALL!!'

As we descended the steps into town Craig told me about Geocaching, the universal game of hide and seek. Apparently there was four Geocaches in the vicinity of RHB and my interest was piqued, so we set about looking for the first. It was located under the steps of the path heading to the cliff tops. We found the location with Craig's mobile phone GPS and Alix and I began scrabbling about under the wooden steps. As we had our heads buried under the boards, a walking couple came past and asked what we were up to. I told them I had dropped my keys. Then we 'fessed up and told them about Geocaching. They wished us luck in our search and it seemed to work as Alix immediately found the box! It was packed with kid's toys, a log book, other Geocacher's visiting cards and such. So Alix threw them all over the cliff and then smashed the box to pieces, so no one else would get a chance to find it.

No one else will ever find this!

On this high, we decided to try and find another one. On the way we stopped off at the Dinosaur 'Museum'. Well, with free entry, how could we refuse? It wasn't a museum. It was a book shop with some fossils on the wall. What a fucking rip off.

LIES!!

The second Geocache was located near the church on the hill. Craig's attempt at the Azimuth Brutale ended with us standing in a children's playground looking shady, so we had to go the sensible and long way by the roads. In the church we had answer a few puzzles to give us the coordinates for the next box. Literally, seconds after fathoming the riddle Craig's phone died and we were bereft of finding the cache. The sense of loss and bitterness was unparalleled. I am unashamed to admit I wept like a Frenchman for a full hour. I was inconsolable at this hubris. That bastard McKibbin had screwed me over for the last time. I got in the car and drove away from them both without looking back. I hope they are both dead.

Still missing, please contact the Police if you see them

Dinner Dirt

Since allowing TV into my life, I have been lapping up its various treasures. Its lush and gossamer tube glow washes over me like the waves of a velvety ocean. I am comforted by its soft and plump bosom like pillows of the scheduling. Like a baby wrapped in swaddling, I drool and gurgle whilst prostrate on the sofa transfixed by the flickering images parading in front of me like marionettes in a puppet show. Wading through the various delights offered up I have found some programs that I actually enjoy watching. One of these is Dinner Date; ITV's answer to Come Dine With Me.

Come back CDWM, all is forgiven!!

At its core is a cooking show, but Dinner Date is soooooo much more than that. With the heavy burden that remains of the baggage created by Cilla Black, ITV seem unable to commission any show that doesn't involve some form of dating. Cilla's Blind Date was a massive hit for ITV and they always fall back on this
safety net when they need a competition to the other channels success stories. What about Take Me Out? That Saturday night dross where desperate single men were paraded like a piece of meat in front of thirty desperate, lonely and love hungry women. The vast amount of oestrogen was overwhelming even from the TV screen. ITV's obsession with hooking people up borders on a secretive breeding program where only photogenic (suntanned, bright white teeth and well groomed) couples are allowed to procreate in order to give TOWIE a cast well into the future when the present ones collapse under the weight of their fake tits or shrivel like prunes in their sunbeds.

You can and will be replaced by younger and better looking specimens from ITV's breeding ponds...

Well, this time ITV have upped the ante. They have taken the classic timelessness of CDWM and twisted it beyond all recognition in Dinner Date. It is like Jeff Goldblum after crawling out of the molecular transformer in The Fly, the bastard offspring of two forms of life. In this case, CDWM and Blind Date. The genetics of the two shows have been spliced together and we gasp in awe at the hideous beast that pulsates and thrashes around in front of us. We bray and clap as it tries to stand up on weak legs but collapses into a panting slavering heap time and again.

Get up, your public is waiting!!

Why is it so entertaining? Allow me to explain: A singleton is asked to choose three dates on the strength of five menus. This is the first elimination stage. Five hopefuls are instantly whittled down to three because the diner prefers rocket salad to haloumi brioche. Talk about separating the wheat from the chaff. Woe betide you if your menu isn't up to scratch. You have been judged on what food you think would make a good meal. How dare you think I might like braised steak, you filthy little oik, how could you even begin to think that Eton Mess is a perfectly normal dessert? The disgusting swill you are planning to serve me isn't fit for human consumption, try again, you fucking loser! Get back to masturbating yourself to sleep in tears on your piss stained mattress, you miserly cur.

In my hands I hold the power over life and death...

It would appear that all the people in the show have been recruited on the strength of their careers, they all appear to be soulless office types that work in advertising, accountancy, mergers and acquisitions or public relations (whatever the fuck that is...). They all appear to be perfectly groomed, plucked, tucked and fully loaded with make up. And that's just the men. The are vainglorious bastards, the kind of people I would crush with steamrollers as soon as I get in to power. I'd have them bound up and laid out in rows in football stadia, then slowly run industrial machinery across them, film it and show it on TV instead of the sports channels.

First up against the fucking wall...

I digress. The lucky diner then gets to meet each of the final three and have a dinner with them. This is where we get to see the interiors of the flats that the hosts live in. They are all the exact same flat pack, chrome and wood interiors that lack any depth of imagination or singularity. All of them are spotless, soulless places, just like their owners.

You could cut the atmosphere with a knife... But I'd rather cut my own throat...

Then the hosts are asked to rate the diner out of three, which doesn't leave much room for manoeuvre. It's either, 'I like them', 'I'm indifferent', or 'get them the fuck out of my house, they have already tried to chloroform me!' This voting has very little to do with the outcome of the show and the final blow is left to the diner. They choose, on the strength of the dinners offered up, who they would like to see again and go out for a meal in a restaurant. This is where the show delivers its fatal strike. All three hosts are instructed to get up in their finest clothes and await the knock at the door. Two of them are delivered a meal for one, which they get to enjoy whilst dressed in their best bib and tucker. The show ends following the winning couple to the date and getting a round up on the meal. But I would far prefer for the show to focus on the losers, filming them while they weep like babies dressed in a ball gown as they shovel down their Weight Watchers Spag Bol.

'What is love?'

So, anyway, I sent off my application.

Drug of the Nation

It was my Birthday last week and my parents rocked up in York partially to take me out for a meal which never happened as we'd all eaten separately earlier in the day anyway (they had fish and chips. I had chorizo and bean soup. I know you are gasping for the details...). They were also up to deliver my birthday presents. One of which was a Sudoku toilet roll. The other was a TELLY!! Yes! My first Telly ever! It's massive. It sits in the corner of the room demanding attention. It cries out for my affections, and boy, do I give them. I can't stop watching it. There are paint smears on everything I own, the vapor rub is lying on a table of filth, Christmas cards to which I never reply, my eyeballs absorb only blue filtered light. I'm a TV casualty. I have watched everything from Come Dine With Me, Dinner Date (there will be a blog post on this at some point...), Coach Trip and even The Apprentice (I joined this late and only just caught the very last episode. It appeared to consist of a load of uptight badly made-up shit bags trying to peddle garbage to a prune in a suit , I'm glad I missed it). All the good shit. In fact, that was all there was that was worth watching over the weekend. Hopefully there will be something good on this week. I'll be using it mainly to watch DVDs

Not only did I get a telly, but I was also given a plastic Paratrooper and a Hurricane Styrofoam glider from Kirky, a mug with some Vikings on it from He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named (Tarquin Sheen had a shit fit when he found out details of his violent past were on display on this very blog and that they came up on a Google search. He threatened me with physical and psychological trauma and so from this point on I shall refer to him as He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named), a bag of Kola Bottles from Sam and a Justin Bieber sticker book by Moogdroog. The book came with six stickers, so in her ever inventiveness, she conscripted He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named to help make a few extra stickers to place in the album to start me off. Here they are for your perusal. I have no glue to stick them in the book, so I will have to use spunk.

Milky Milky

I was sitting on the steps of the Minister last night waiting for Sam to show up for food and drinks (I got a frantic call off of her at about 8:10: Her 'I'm a bit lost, I can't find the Minister!' Me 'What do you mean? Just head towards it' Her 'I can't see it' Me 'It's the biggest fucking thing in York, you can see it from everywhere, it's the thing that looks like a big church [drawing laughter from a family sitting close by]' It seems she was in the only place in York that the Minister is invisible from, given that you can see the fucking thing from Bridlington, she'd broken a new world record). As I was waiting I was earwigging on one of the many Ghost Walks that operate through York, morning, noon and night. This one was being run by a  young lad who was a bit self conscious in his top hat and cape (more people should wear capes. The Red Army did in World War Two and look where it got them!). He wasn't particularly funny or erudite. It got me thinking, just imagine if you were on holiday and had decided to take the wife on a ghost tour to spice things up a bit and it turned out to be a bit shit. What a waste of money that would be normally, but last night, I counted no less than three Ghost Tours all operating at the same time within spitting distance of one an other. Imagine if you'd fallen in with the crap one, but there, just in earshot were two others, where the audience were either guffawing with mirth or screaming blue murder through fear. Yours was a plodding, pedestrian retelling of the history of York through the medium of ghosts whilst the other punters were having the times of their lives. I'd be angry and upset about this turn of events and would probably spend the remainder of the tour feeling bitter towards my guide. He wouldn't have got a tip that night, I can tell you. In extreme cases you might even find yourself running between the different groups trying to ascertain which one was the best. There should be some kind of tour guide police, there to keep all the groups separate so this situation would never arise. I should be in charge of tourism in York. I'd also keep a check of the tour guides and if I thought they were crap at their jobs I'd have them publicly hanged in King's Square.

Hang some fucking sense into them

I was idling these thoughts when a rather shabbily dressed elderly gentleman, dragging a shopping trolley behind him, shuffled up in front of me. I took him for a gentleman of the road. He nodded at the Minister and said (in a Welsh accent) 'Have you been in there?' I told him I hadn't been in there for about three years. It's true. The last time I was in I went up the tower, suffered vertigo and have never been back since. He took this as an invite and sat himself down besides me. I didn't mind, I was alone and waiting and company passes the time. I did mind his smell though, he smelled of cows. Which, as it turns out was rather apt as he was an ex-cow farmer from Cardiff. We got chatting, he told me he'd been in the RAF for two years during his national service. My interest piqued I asked him if he was a pilot. He said no, medical and my interest waned. He told me he was up in York for the Great Yorkshire Show and was particularly interested in the cows, which was no surprise, given he'd spent all his life (bar two years) milking the fuckers. He told me some story about some chap he'd heard on the radio who's pig had won the best pig in the village title, I responded by saying it was a title to be proud of, no doubt. Just then another Ghost Tour turned up (the fourth one within fifteen minutes, Jesus, someone is making a lot of silly money at this game) and he started to show his true colours. As the punters filed past us he started belting out hymns at them as though to bless their sins away for listening to stories about ghosts. I just sat and laughed. It was just then that I got the above mentioned phone call and made my excuses to Mr David Williams (as was his name), and left to meet Sam. I would like to say that this encounter went some way to patching up my absolute hatred and revulsion of the Welsh, but it just served to indicate that I was right all along. Seriously though, he was a nice guy and I hope he enjoyed the cows.

Proper Beauty

I'm off to the pub quiz tonight, everyone is invited, except for you, 'cos you're a cunt. I'm taking Nathan's bass back for him (he lent it to me this weekend so I could do some recording. I only managed to get the drums laid down...). I have taught myself to play some of the funky bass lines from Seinfeld so I can do a bass run when we either get a question correct or Paul says something sassy.

Time, Gentlemen

Friday night was the bi-millennial On-Site drinks do. About three years ago Kate had cast the Runes and they had indicated this date and as fortune would have it, the stars were also in alignment (for the first time in 10,500 years). So it was decided that we lowly few, we band of bastards, should gather on the field of conflict and drink as much as humanely possible. Getting the crew from On-Site together to drink is such a painful task that it only occurs rarely and even then the full compliment of twits is not realised. Berny needs to get a babysitter (for himself), Brucey is off dropping children all over town at various Rainbow Brownie meetings, Ryan is up to his nuts in guts, Kate has been told the wrong fucking time, Logan Josh is off at some non-existent 'gig'. It's just too hard for one person to handle from an organisational point of view. It's akin to handling the logistics of the Afrika Korps and their landings at Tripoli. We had a date, as decided by the Gods and held on to it for our lives, come what may. So it was with certain trepidation that I approached the Maltings wondering who would be in there, or who would even turn up at all.

You sure we got the right day?

I shouldn't have worried, approach to the Maltings netted us Kamil and Berny, lurking in the streets like Burke and Hare. Upon arrival, I immediately saw Sir Stanners setting about a ruffian with his swagger stick. After clubbing said hooligan to the floor, Stanners (half cut from three days binge drinking) greeted us (Myself, Lauren and Steve, making a guest appearance. That's Lauren and Steve making a guest appearance, not me. I'm not a guest, I'm an employee. Oh, never mind) and the rest of the cunts duly filed in. We drank, we swore, we drank some more and by and by Logan Josh appeared as if out of nowhere. The bouncers wouldn't let him in due to his appearance and we made plans to meet him at the Akhorne. In the Akhorne were various people I'd met at Josh's birthday party, albeit not in military uniform this time. I spent my time there braying at Barry's muscle shirt and talking to Mrs Josh about buying cats. Despite a protracted argument with Josh about the logistics of 'all coming back to mine' rather than 'all getting a fucking taxi into the middle of nowhere (Huntington), getting pastis forced down our throats and then having to get another fucking taxi back on ourselves back to mine', myself, Lauren and Steve crashed out at some ungodly hour, drunk as cunts. Meanwhile, Stanners followed some young doris back to hers waiting for the rohypnol to kick in. A good night was had by all.

Thank fuck that's over for another forty years...

I was also on Telly again the other night, only as a photo though. Blink and you'd miss it, but follow this link below and I appear in the first fifteen minutes. I wouldn't bother with the rest of the show. It's shit and I'm not in it.

HISTORY COLD CASE: THE YORK 113

Intermission

I was chatting with Kamil last night and he said I should post more of Tarquin Sheen and my's textual relationships, so this is one that happened on Friday:

Me: Bite it you scum

Him: You make me sick. I mean literally sick. When I got your last text i sicked up all over myself.

Me: Good

Him: No it is not good. I was on a hot date with a babe. Some of the sick got on her too.

Me: Right. Now I know you're lying.

Him: All right it wasn't a date. And there was no babe. But i was sick all down myself.

Me: That was probably nothing to do with me anyway, just coincidence that i sent the text at the same time.

Him: Is there something i can do for you? Some of us have work to do.

Tea's Up

A trio of octogenarian amateur archaeologists stumbled onto site the other day. It was my own fault, I'd told them they should come back and see how work was progressing when they tipped up on site last week and proceeded to almost walk under the wheels of a fully loaded Moxy. Archaeology is about people after all and therefore people have an interest in it, so I don't actually mind amateur archaeologists, even when they are telling me that the desk based assessment (DBA) that I am basing my knowledge of the site on is wrong. The DBA with its map regression and thorough search of the local Sites and Monuments Record for any known archaeological features and/or previous excavations. The DBA that is studied by the county archaeologist prior to any decision to go ahead and excavate a proposed development site. I don't even mind them telling me that their 'local knowledge' allows them to pinpoint exactly where the stash of buried Jewish gold left by the Nazis after World War One is, through a study of a copy of the 1398 vellum bound Ordnance Survey map that they discovered in the loft of the house once owned by Lord Screaming Sutcliffe of Rudston. They can even tell me that a study of the Ley Lines shown on said map draw a Star of David with a Crown atop that overlay the village of Fimber and this is the precise point the gold must be and we are digging in the wrong place. No that doesn't bother me at all. What does fucking bother me, is them turning up half way through my fucking tea break so I have to walk around showing them various holes we've dug and making up some bullshit story about how I know what the fuck is going on. They said they'd be back to see how we progress. I said make sure it's not between ten and ten thirty and one and one thirty, so I can enjoy a nice relaxing cup of fucking tea that I deserve for wading through tons and tons of chalk and clay compacted by four millennia of top soil.

 

I've got blisters on my fingers...

Tuesday was an interesting night. I met a girl I have not seen for five years. We had left off on what could be called acrimonious terms back in 2006 but I heard over the weekend she had come a little unstuck in her personal life and I thought reconciliation may be in order, coincidentally she was now living half an hour down the road. She needed friends and as we were once close, I thought I'd man up, swallow my pride and see if she wanted to meet up for a little bit of friendly support. I passed on my details through a mutual friend and it turns out she did. It also turns out little has changed, the man she once married is still an arsehole (as I always thought) and her Top Five Celebrity Shags are still the same. I had a great evening with her talking shit, catching up and generally putting a big tick in the 'Good Alex' tick box; God knows, I need a few more of those right now.

I shit you not, today I had a text conversation with Tarquin Sheen that went like this:

Me: Your turn (this is a reference to Battlefield Academy, a turn based computer game we were playing)

Him: Who is this? How did you get my number? If you contact me again I'm calling the police.

Me: it IS the police

Him: In that case the guy you want is called alex sotheran, he lives in york. He can tell you were the bodies are. I had nothing to do with it.

Me: Funny, he said the same of you.

Him: All i did was drive the car. I didn't even know what was in the bin bag. He said he'd cut me up if i didn't help him. I'm as much a victim as those girls.

Me: The ones we are investigating aren't girls. Would you care to tell us more?

Him: Shit. I'm not saying anything until I see my lawyer.

Me: You will. We'll beat it out of you.

Him: You can't do this. I know my rights. This is police brutality.

Me: What rights did you show your victims?

Him: THOSE WHORES HAD NO RIGHTS! THEY GOT WHAT WAS COMING TO THEM, THE FILTHY CUNTS!

Me: Erm. OK. Time out. This is not the police. I was just kidding. Jesus.

Him: Uh i knew that, i was joking too, i never killed anyone.

Me: We'll soon find out. I've forwarded this little conversation onto the police. It's up to them to find out the truth now.

I didn't hear another thing, so I'm guessing he's finally been rounded up.

Over the Top!

I have had a busy couple of weekends recently and have fallen behind with updating this blog on that score, so here I shall try to remedy it. It may turn into a long post, if it does, I don't care. Suck it up, use your phone to call someone that fucking cares, etc. I have been up and down the country in the past fortnight, I have been as far north in England than any man has ever been and I have also been so far down south that I actually ended up in France. Now, if you settle down in your seats, I shall tell you how...

Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up...

Knowing full well what crimes against humanity Tarquin Sheen is capable of I have dutifully avoided ever going to his house in Durham. I was duped, however, the other week when he invited myself, Moogdroog and Helen out for what he called 'a day of fun' at Lindisfarne. I assumed that the company of others would lessen the blow of horror that awaited in that dark corner of the country. I was wrong. His idea of fun was forcing me to drive for hours and hours even though I hadn't slept for four days. He kept me awake at the wheel by screaming at me through a megaphone every time I would start to drop off. Himself and his brother Nole, would punch me in the back of the head at every opportunity, usually when overtaking a large goods vehicle... Having been forced to drive to the edge of England (apparently Berwick is NOT in Scotland, no matter how many people I asked. Why they are flying Scottish flags all over the fucking place was never successfully explained, however...) and back down to Holy Island, he then frog marched the group over hill and dale to look at the Lime Kilns. He wouldn't even let us stop to admire the villager's jam collections. Moogdroog was concerned about this in particular; 'what if there was a jamergency' she was heard to say... We were death marched into the museum and had to wait whilst he read every single word on the museum displays. Since he can't actually read, this took quite some time. I amused myself by looking at the Viking stones on display:

Best thing in Lindsifarne

Back at Sheen's dungeon we were subjected to a two hour battering of the shite that is Game of Thrones before I was finally allowed to collapse into a fitful sleep on his cold damp cellar floor. The following morning Sheen and I went into Durham town, saying sad farewells to Helen at the cathedral. Tarquin gave me his own personal tour of the cathedral, which appeared to be split between the Catholic, Jewish and Greek Orthodox churches, if his explanations were to be believed. He also did it in a German accent for some unfathomable reason.

What a dump

This weekend just passed was the 1st of July and I hot footed it out of the country to France and the Somme, to the commemorations that were happening there. I have a passing interest in the Great War. I also have a passing interest in the aviation of the First World War. It came as a great delight and surprise that Peter Hart would be joining us for the trip. An eminent historian from the Imperial War Museum, Peter had written two books of which I was rather fond: Bloody April and Falling Aces, so it was with baited breath that wanted to meet him. What a fucking disappointment he was. All he did was swear at everyone, get drunk and belligerent and call everyone he knew 'a cunt'. I have never been more shocked in all my life. I never ever swear, especially in public, and to hear this man turn the very air blue gave me a funny turn. I will never look at his books in the same light again.

I used to like your books...

Weird things always happen when I go to France and this time was no different. We were sitting there relaxing, having a nice drink when a bunch of French farmers pulled up, eager to show us something once they found out there were archaeologists amongst our number. From out of the back of their car they pulled the fuselage tail section of a BF-109f. In immaculate condition...

Om nom nom...

They invited us to come and have a look at the other 'special stuff' they had in various barns across the countryside. Between them they'd built a museum that housed several aircraft engines they'd pulled out of the ground, all restored and displayed as only enthusiasts can...

Double om nom nom...

We were then took around various other farms to look at barn doors with Great War painting still intact, more rusted metal from various airplane crash sites, Great War graffiti on church walls and best of all a still working cannon from a BF-109 that had lain in the ground for seventy years!

DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA!!

Yes, being a nerd can sometimes have its advantages. To see more pictures from France, CLICK HERE. The rest of the weekend was made up of visiting the sunken lane at 7.30am on the 1st and paying our respects to the men who fought and died there. I also attended the Ulster Tower memorial service, where I got my photo taken with a real life Canadian Mountie and won a two Euro bet with Dr Kenyon, who egged me on to get my picture with her. Unfortunately I didn't win the five Euro bet which would have seen me wearing her hat...

The Mounties always get their man...

The afternoons and evenings were swamped with booze and I am still recovering two days later. Sorry, I've just realised none of this is actually funny. So I'll stop.