Escape from York

My old mate Andy called up to York this weekend. It's the first time he's been out of the tiny Welsh hamlet that he lives in. He was looking at Marks and Spencers and saying 'Wow! I've never seen anything so big! It's bigger than our barn! Imagine how many chickens they have in there!' I've not seen Andy for about five years when I worked for Cotswold archaeology and lived in Wales. You will recall this is where my deep-seated hatred for Wales and the Welsh manifested itself. Andy is OK though, he's from Little England in Pembrokeshire, the only pocket of civilised Wales that exists. When we finally chase the Welsh into the sea and make the whole Principality into a safari park like Kruger, we could turn Pembrokeshire into a 'Traditional Welsh Miner's Village'. A place where the tourists could stay and experience life as a subhuman Welsh and soak up the atmosphere and coal dust.

 Relive the past in our 'traditional pretty Welsh Village' purpose built accomodation

Anyhoo, I took Andy out to meet my work mates and some of their mates. Alia and Helen upset the poor lad by talking about looking at the their vaginas in mirrors. The following evening was a far more sedate affair at the Black Swan folk festival, lorded over by Trev, York's premier Ghost Tour leader and the unfunniest man in Australia. He strutted about all night like a retarded Peacock on heat. The Black Swan was the basis for a bit of a get together for some old Yorkian students organised by Sarah and to which about five of us turned up... Sarah had warned me that there would be Morris Dancers in attendance, but thankfully none emerged during the time I was there.

The Horror...

During the day I showed Andy the sights, sounds and colours of York. He found the walls too high for his delicate constitution so I took him through town instead. We bumped in Laura peddling archaeological 'experiences' to unsuspecting members of the public, we also took a ride on a steam train at the National Rail Museum and went in the Yorkshire Regiment's museum because it was cheap. The cheapness was our undoing as we were accosted by some street crazy who seemingly had an illegal collection of Great War rifles hidden away in her house. She followed us around a few exhibits telling me the history of the Great War through the medium of Blackadder. I explained to her and her partner I was a member of No Man's Land and she asked me if I had an interest in the First World War. I told her it was only a passing interest.

 

 Nope, no interest at all in the First World War...

Later on found us sheltering from the rain and looking at the 25lber gun outside the Castle Museum. We were just discussing firing it at Clifford's Tower and knocking one of the corners off (but not without first having recorded it at 1:20 scale, it is a scheduled monument after all, Andy pointed out) when a little lad of about 7/8 years old walked over and the conversation went thusly:

Him: Wow, can I have a look at this gun please?
Me: Of course, it's not mine Kid. Knock yourself out.
Him: Could I destroy the world with this?
Me: Probably not, you might need something bigger, like an 88.
Him: How does it work? Can I blow up a building?
Me: Not without a lanyard and I think the firing mechanism has been welded up.
Him: I'm a child of mass destruction.

You can't make this stuff up...