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It was a dark and stormy night as we find our band of chancers heading for Hollyhead; sneaking out of London, creeping out of the office, slipping away from the restaurant, slinking away from the shop, sideling out of the depot a few hours before knocking off time. Lets get a move on, another dive weekend awaits; its definitely without a doubt most certainly going to kick ass and you don’t want to miss a minute of it do you?
 
 

Well, some of us got a lift with Greg and Joe. Ten minutes into the journey, crossing Chelsea Bridge, he took the first wrong turn. By the time we got to Heston services your man had had enough of driving; he slid into the passenger seat, cracked open a Stella, rolled an herbal cigarette and that was the way it was for the next ten and a half hours.

By about the six hour mark, when we were getting calls asking where on earth we were (Aberystwyth, if you’re interested), we stopped at a chippie in the middle of nowhere for a quick bite. If The Slaughtered Lamb was a chippie, it would have been this one. So we sat on the side of the road, in the dark, eating our chips. Only by chance did we look up at a road sign...

 
None of us entirely trusted our eyes but Greg, ever a man to call a spade a spade and, fatefully, the map reader, exclaimed “Ah Jaises, but isn’t that the place we’ve just come from not two hours ago and may the lord take my soul if I’d be after telling ye’s a lie?” More mad giggles from Jo and Greg and another four hours in the car, back to Porkmedog and up the fast coastal road where traffic moved like treacle, if the treacle were stuck behind a tractor in the dark for miles and miles and miles and miles..
 

With Joe’s “Alvin & The Chipmunk’s” tape blasting we finally got to Hollyhead and waited for Mark to guide us the last few miles. Come on, those two drop-outs from the Ook Ook Chimpanzee School Of Map Reading hadn’t managed to get a single turning right in the last eight hundred miles, why rely on them now? Well, the boys rescued a few Stellas from the pile of empties and Rizzlas on the back seat and skinned up a honkin’ rollie to ease the waiting, and the local plod pulled up to keep us company. Well, the reprobates had to lean against the car just to stay upright, but I can honestly say that I hadn’t been drinking at all that evening.

Plod: Evenin’ lads, all right?
Greg: Sure ‘nuff officer sir (lean, wobble, hic, giggle)
Plod : Nice car, is it the 2.5l V6? So why’dja go for the little spoiler then?
Greg: Ah well, the big spoiler’s for boy racers really, innit, looks a bit wank.
Plod : Reckon so, looks all right on mine though. Evenin’.

Thanks Greg, very smooth.

 
 
Thankfully Mark (surprisingly delicate feet that lad, wouldn’t you say?) and Alice arrived shortly after and led us the final few miles at lightning-speed, stopping for a short rendition of the Welsh National Anthem (Delilah, what else?) along the way, and thus came to an end ten and a half hours in the car with Bert & Ernie.
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