On Ian.

I got a call the other night, out of the blue.
"Hello mate," said the strange voice on the other end, "it's Ian."
"Ian? Ian who?" I ask.
It transpires that it was a boy I went to school with. He'd gotten my number off of facebook, and fancied a chat. The last time I saw Ian was about 1990. It's staggering to think that I was younger then than the number of years since I last saw him (20 years ago, when I was only 18 or so). We reminisced about things at school, some of the people we knew and what had become of them. The boy who had been killed in a car accident outside his house, the other boy who died from a heart attack 6 years ago, the boy who drew on his lounge wall by mistake as he slid down it with a pencil in his back pocket in a drunken stupor.
After I left South London to live with my father in Reading, I only had a handful of friends who came and visited. Ian was one of them. On the weekend of my 18th my father stayed away. He knew that the house would be a 'no fly zone' after two teenagers had their fun. He was right. On the Friday night we all met up in a pub called the Century, no longer there but it was nicknamed locally as the 'cemetery' for the dead atmosphere. We also met up with my Dad's girlfriend's kids, and were just merrily drinking away when a young girl appeared.
"Are you Rik?" she asked.
Innocently, I nodded to the affirmative.
"I've got something for you," she said as she threw off her jacket.
"I'm gonna kill you Dad!" I shouted, as she led me into the middle of the pub. A large roar went up from the patrons at the bar, and a large ring of spectators formed as she knelt me down and started her act on me. I have to say I was so sweet and innocent back then, I was shocked. I don't remember much, apart from that she smelt of Johnson's talcum powder, and that she put my head between her chests and wobbled, but not a lot happened.
Anyway, that Saturday we went to the formal 18th birthday dinner. We went to a posh restaurant called the French Horn, in Sonning. I'd dressed up in my best chinos and shirt with tie, but still was rejected entry unless I took a jacket or blazer in with me. I know that the meal cost in excess of £100 each. My father dropped me off and then left to his other girlfriend(eventually wife number 3)'s place, knowing the weekend was going to go downhill.
It was on the Sunday things went awry. We popped to the local shop, where Ian got a curry, and I got a French Bread Pizza. Oh, and some bottles of Merrydown Cider. All 13 bottles of it, that we shared between us. The 13 x 1.5 litre bottles of Merrydown cider. By 6 I was paralytic, and went to bed. I remember Ian waking me to tell me that my Dad was on the phone (he was lying), and I was unable to move. Then I had to move. The toilet was calling me, and that's where I wasted most of the cider. I remember heaving louder and harder than I have ever before or since, the entire neighbourhood must have heard me. I also remember hearing Ian downstairs, pissing himself laughing. The next day he went home. We stopped in Burger King, and he pigged out. I don't think I could stomach any food for a week. I have to say, I never ever got that drunk again. I also don't like French Bread Pizza any more.
No idea why, mind.

On selling your car

Dear Webuyanycar.com
Thank you ever so much for your kind offer. I was pleased to try your website after your most inspiring advert with a newscaster singing "We buy any car" gave me the strongest compulsion to see if my car was worth anything to your good selves. But before I go any further, I'd like to clarify some things. I bought this car from a well known online auction website not 6 months ago, for a bargain price of £405. I have been assured by a friend in the industry that I did really well to get it at that price, because apparently the Polish residents like Saab because they're easy to swap from right hand drive to left hand drive. They buy the cars, swap them over, and then take them to Poland where they make a huge profit.
I am contemplating selling my car towards the end of the summer, and I thought it would be a nice surprise to see how much my car is worth. I have a car buyer's guide and that tells me it isn't unreasonable to expect my car to fetch £1000, so imagine my delight when you offered me £70.
I thought I misread it. "£70?" I asked myself. "Are you having a laugh?"
I then read the small print, thinking maybe that's on top of a statutory payment, or they give you back anything you'd want from it like the CD Player. But, oh no, they then charge you an administration fee of £49.99 (+ vat) for buying it from you. So, I'd get not even a crisp £20 for my trouble? Whilst your offer is sorely tempting, I'd sooner fill the car with drugs and take my chance as a drugs mule across to mainland Europe, with the hope I'll end up in some flea-bitten jail, a cell mate called "meat" and a slightly salty sore bottom rather than take you up on your offer.
But thank you for taking the time to consider my sale.

On Jeremy Clarkson

"Jezza" as he likes to be known to his friends (both of them), is one of the BBC's biggest assets. Turning what was a drab and boring car show into a worldwide phenomenon is no mean feat. But his presentation style and commentary meant that in the years that the BBC weren't requiring shares in Good Year or Michelin, he was doing documentaries on different subjects.
In the series "Speed," he took to finding what makes it so exciting. Is there a link between testosterone and the excitement? So, to demonstrate this, he went on what was at the time, the biggest rollercoaster in the world, the Pepsi Max at Blackpool. Did he enjoy it? Well yes. His mother, however, didn't. (Am I wrong to find this funny?)

The next series he did was all about Extreme Machines. Be it the world's most powerful tank, or a hydroplaning powerboat at 150mph, he covered it. At the time, he was the only British citizen to get an invite to fly in a two seater F15, the aircraft of choice of most of the US Navy and Airforce for fighting and bombing. It was all going so well. The pilot told him how flying the plane would stop him being nauseas, but deep down inside knew that the boys back at base had taken a book into which minute he would first puke. Apparently the pilot won.

But by far and away the best series he did was his first, all about motoring in countries around the world. One of the episodes sees him going to Cuba. The revolution in 1959 had meant that 1950s American cars are now devoid of spare parts. This means that the locals have had to improvise. Watch as two guys take a knackered Caddy roof, a hammer, some paper, some scissors and a pair of tin snips, and make a rear wing.
Enjoy.

A nice easy musical walkabout.

Here, mainly for TDT's love of music, is a small quiz for you.

1. What nationality are the Cardigans?

2. What was Roxy Music's first hit single?

3. What was the title of Joe South's only UK Top Ten hit?

4. What was the title of Ten Years After's only hit single?

5. What was the title of the hit duet between Roberta Flack and Peabo Bryson?

6. Which 1960's group reached No 5 in the album charts with "The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter"?

7. Which 1964 No 1 begins: "We've already said..."?

8. Which family went "Walking In The Rain" in 1973?

9. Who had a hit in 1966 with "Stop Stop Stop"?

10. Which group featured Walter Becker and Donald Fagen?

11. Which rapper had a hit in 1990 with "Mama Gave Birth To The Soul Children"?

12. Which song begins: "In my dreams I'm a western hero, riding my palomino"?

13. Which song features the lines, "Meet the new boss, same as the old boss"?

14. Who had a hit with "Rebel Rebel"?

15. Who had "One Love" in 1990?

Answers, as always, on a postcard (or in the comments box). You can google it, but that would be cheating, and the only person you're cheating is yourself.

Fun with Helium

Just to brighten your gloomy and depressing Monday, John and I took a trip to Frankie and Benny's yesterday. We enjoy the food, good beer, and most importantly, the helium balloons.
Need I say any more?

Is a job more than just a name?

You know the sort of thing. I'd like you to nominate the names of people you've known over the years that have a name not dissimilar to their job. Let me give you some examples.

• Larry Speakes. Ronald Reagan's Whitehouse spokesman. (There was also a myth that the head of the kitchen was also called Larry. Larry Cook)
• John's Hospitality and Catering teacher, Mrs. Mayo.
• A customer of mine, who has a company that makes high pressure systems to clean out sewer systems. Nigel Drane.

Do you have any to add? Please to be commenting...

And have a good weekend y'all.

On an expensive month

Don't you hate it when you get a month that is like no other in terms of money? Well, mine's here. This month I have to pay for...

• Car Tax
• MOT
• My phonebills (plural. Mobile and landline.)
• A hotel in London for the end of May
• Tickets to a motorsport event in Crystal Palace Park
• A surprise or two around London itself at the same time.
• John's scooter MOT
• John's provisional driving licence
• John's CBT
• John's Insurance
• John's Tax

Skint is not the word.

The mystery of the missing comedy duo.

Back in a1984 a comedy duo appeared on our TVs for the first time. Gareth Hale and Norman Pace were a couple of ex-PE teachers from South London, with my sense of humour. By 1988 they went on to be one of the hottest properties on ITV, winning award after award for their warped and hysterically funny sketch shows. They had a whole group of characters that would re-occur, the most famous of which was the Two Rons. The two doormen that were there to protect them on the show, and kept an eye on proceedings. One was very hard and astute (Pace) and the other was as thick as two short planks (Hale).

(now I know my father will appreciate this... It's his level of humour)
In the first series they went for the shock factor. Things like the cat in a microwave which outraged hundreds of viewers made them all the more famous. They also had an affinity with the North, and loved to take the pee out of Yorkshire folk with such gems as the Northern Calypso and "Yorkshire Airline"


And so finally, to my video of the week. My personal favourite is also BLS's, where they do the simplest and cheapest sketch ever. Take two comedians and two torches. It's the Power Cut.
Enjoy

The tale of a special boy...

Following a pretty uneventful pregnancy, where the mother suffered with morning sickness for the duration but that was the most notable thing, I was woken at 4:40 am.
"I think I'm having contractions" she said. "I'm taking a bath to see if they calm down."
The baby was past due by 2 days, and it certainly was feasible for an appearance to be made. Eventually we agreed it was time to call the ambulance, and we arrived in the maternity unit at about 6:30 in the morning. On the radio was playing "mmmm mmmm mmmm mmmm" by the crash test dummies, and it was a glorious sunny day. The nurse came in.
"Have the waters broken?" she asked.
"I don't think so," she replied.
"Well let me take a look anyway, and see how you're doing."
Just at that moment Chris let out a cry. "Oooooh. I think my waters just broke. It felt like a trickle down my leg."
"Are you sure," asked the nurse, "it normally comes out a lot faster than a trickle."
She did some sort of litmus test, and sure enough it showed the waters had broken. The contractions were about every half an hour, and weren't very painful. So we were moved up to a ward to wait for the long haul.
Chris started to walk up and down the ward, in the hope that it would bring on the labour a bit stronger. After some 9 hours, (and about 24 miles of walking up and down the ward), we were moved back down to the labour ward. The nurse did another inspection and said that she was about 3 cm dilated, and that it wouldn't be long now. Meanwhile, Chris was enjoying the benefits of gas and air, and was gurgling away with glee.
At about 10 o'clock, and whilst the nurses were changing over, something happened on the baby's heart monitor. Alarms started to go off and the heart rate went through the roof. I tried to call the nurse but they were too busy sorting out changeovers, so they said they'd be there asap. When the nurse did appear she said that it was probably the baby finally fully engaging into position and was it was ready to go. Now the contractions started to come thick and fast.
Chris was complaining about the pain. She had a tens machine, gas and air and had had an injection in her bum for pethidine. All weren't enough, but she was sure she didn't want an epidural, so she had to make do with what she had. The contractions were only a minute or so apart, and eventually the nurse said "ok, she's had enough." A quick examination showed she was still only 3cm dilated, and in their words "the baby's going nowhere."
Suddenly a doctor, an anaesthetist and several other plebs appeared. They did their work quickly, anaesthetising the nether region so that a large incision could be made to allow passage for the baby. Using forceps akin to a couple of frying pans, they grabbed hold of the head, and as another contraction came (with the added line "I need the loo") the baby's head appeared. The contraction subsided but it was still not out. "I don't care, just get it out of me" she cried in anguish. "Are you sure? If you're sure?" said the midwife with the tefal forceps.So they pulled, and out it came. It was 12:14am. The midwife held the baby up...
"It's a girl, it's a girl!" he shouted.
"no it's not," I said, seeing the willy...
"Oh yeah," he said, turning the baby round.
Suddenly something strange started to happen. He went limp and blue, so they dashed him out of the room. He came back in a few minutes later, all back to normal and letting out that tired cry.


16 years ago today. Happy Birthday John.

On fine quandries.

As you know, when I went out to Ireland I got done for speeding. 132kph in a 100kph zone. This equates to 80 in a 60mph, but is speeding, all the same. When I was stopped, the copper took my name and address, and said that a fine would be sent, but that if I didn't pay it then nothing would be done about it because they can't chase it up. This, in everyone's mind including my own, meant that it wouldn't turn up.
It did. Arriving home after what was one of the longest and most chaotic days of my life ever on Friday, I had a quick scan of the post before going to bed. The envelope gave away the bad news when it said "Return to Co. Tipperary" on the back, and sure enough inside is the report that I have to pay €80 by the end of April or face a larger fine of €120. Now this is where I ask your help. What do you reckon I should do?

• Pay now, and get it out the way.
• Leave it, they'll never follow it up.
• Leave it, and if I get stopped say I never received the penalty notice.
• Leave it, and if I get stopped say I had paid it.
• Leave it and if I get stopped then offer to pay.

Bearing in mind, I'll be living over there in the summer. This means the chances of me getting found out and caught up with are quite high. But, then again, would they be expecting me to pay? Answers on a postcard please.

Goodbye, dear Ireland

So we're leaving today, but not on a jet plane (along with the rest of Western Europe). The car's survived the potholed roads, we've survived the high costs, and my liver's on strike. I've learnt how to pronounce a lot more in Irish, I've seen Father Ted's House. I've been done for speeding, and gotten off. I've taken 6 hours to do 200 miles, and this afternoon I'll take 4 hours to do the same.
I've put up a satellite dish, set up a new DVD player, played immense amounts with a VoIP phone, and wired a stereo into TDT's TV. I've tidied her cupboards (local word 'press'), I've experimented with my cooking, I've done some classics. I've slept late, I've gotten up early. I've seen hail, snow and sunburn. And now I have to pack. Have a good weekend, and see you back in Wales on Monday.

A tale of Ireland

This is a tale of Kerry. Kerry was a girl from Ireland, and she had to write a limerick.

There was a young lady from Clare
With a most enormous pair
She got a long pin
and stuck it right in,
and with a loud pop found they were nothing but air.

Yes. Even she knows it's offaly bad, and she was getting down about it. She didn't want to be a munster, so she decided to have a chicken sandwich with her favourite mayo an trim'd all the crusts off. She then went to see her friend, Don Egal, who came up with a proposition for her.
"I want you to kill someone?" Don said.
"Kill? Dare I ask? Kill who?" She enquired
"Kill Kenny," he informed her.
"Can't you ask Ross? Common as he is, he'll get a(gal)way with it."
"But I can't trust him. He's grassed on Tyrone before now, and Aleix swears he'll put him undermeath 6 foot of dirt. Sligo to jail if I'm not careful."
"What about a gun? Will I need Armagh?" she asked.
"That's easy, we'll get Carlo(w) to get one for you. As for the body protection, just shoot him twice. Dublin up always works."
She took a boat, made from an upturned Ford (so it was a (w)exford) Focus that had been a limo in a previous life (yes, a Water Ford, and yes a long Ford), and then decided she didn't want to kill Kenny, so she went on the run. She Cavan and moved to London, Derry her boyfriend came with her, and they lived happily ever after.

Just county on me...

Possibly my oldest favouritist track

I remember watching Swap Shop on Saturday morning, like I always did. One week Noel Edmonds introduced a remake of a classical piece of music with a cartoon video, and although I was less than 10 years old, I new it would be one of my favouritist pieces of music forever more. Mixing classical music with a rock track is such a superb idea.

Some 25 years later, and I again find a classical piece with an upbeat rhythm, and again I get goosebumps. One of those tracks that is in my top five, it's by a complete unknown called Joolz Gianni, and takes loads of modern influences and mixes them with a full orchestra and what sounds like a bassoon.
"Silver"
Enjoy.

Putting you out of your misery...

We're going to do something not taxing and a bit more fun this week. But first, the answers to last week's brainteasers.


1. This was easy. The Taj Mahal, and TDT got it first.

2. Again, it was easy, and again TDT got it. The Eiffel Tower.

3. No one got that this was the Pyramids. How many world famous landmarks are there in the desert???

4. Possibly the most photographed building in the world, it's the White House. TDT got it again.

5. I was impressed with Debster's suggestion of Big Ben, but no, it's the Coliseum in Rome. Debster gets half a point for impressing me!

6. The Great Wall of China. No one came close.

7. Admittedly it's not from the Republic of Ireland, but it's Irish so I thought TDT would get it. She didn't. Neither did anyone else.

8. I bet Pseudonymph's kicking herself now. The Sydney Opera House

9. This was hard before it was distorted. Table Mountain in Cape Town, South Africa.

10. Best. Bridge. Evah. TDT made the typical 'Merkinisation' and called it London Bridge. Then BLS stole the points with Tower Bridge.

Ok, so this week, I'd like your comments (lurkers 'n' all) on your best or worst memory of me. What reminds you of me? What single image defines what you think of me. Please, give me and TDT a laugh.

On tourist attractions

This area's gorgeous. It's very scenic, it's very countrified and it's also very friendly. Unfortunately, up until now, it's also been impossible to see because it's been a) foggy, b) icy or c) both. And so, as the bright yellow object in the sky made an appearance towards the end of last week, we headed out with TDT's mum (TDP, for that will be her nickname from now on) to find my ultimate tourist attraction. As mentioned before, Father Ted was filmed in this area (watch out for the house and also the cliffs of Moher), so I'd always wanted to see the most famous "Parochial house" from Craggy Island.

We knew roughly where it was, but TDT's insistance that "I've past it before, so I know where it is" meant we drove around country lanes for 2 hours, before we stopped and looked it up on a map. We were close, but were in the wrong ball park. It didn't help that it's not exactly pinpointed anywhere on the web, so I thought I'd do all Father Ted fans a service, and post a link to it's exact location here.

As you can see, it's a little bit run down. Apparently it'a just a normal family living there. In the summer they offer tours (for a small fee, of course) but the inside of the house not surprisingly isn't anything like the series. The other thing was the fact that even though it's probably one of the most famous places in the area, there was no mention of it anywhere. No signs, no plaques, nothing. And yet, people still find it easily enough, and even whilst we were there there was another car, also getting pictures. They were impressed with a tame black lamb that they were getting a cuddle from, and my retort of "is it a small lamb, or just far away?" made me feel like a fan. Which, being honest, I am. It was a great series, and apparently the locals (TDT included) don't find it funny because it makes them look silly. But I have to say that's the whole area's charm. When Arthur Mathews and Graham Linehan wrote it, they came up with comedy gold, and the untimely death of Dermot Morgan ('Father Ted') put a stop to what would have gone on to become one of the greatest series of all time.
Become a fan, you know you want to. Ah, go on.

Go on.

Go on.

Go on.

Go on.

Go on.

Go on.

Sad News

It is with great regret that I inform you that the Rikaitch has sworn never (ever) to drink again. It all started so innocently, as TDT's neighbour popped over last night.
"Fancy a quiet drink?" she asked, solving the dilemma of what we were to do that evening. So, we headed off down about 9ish to the local cough and slurp in the village. It was here that I found I had an aversion to drink. I was on a mission to prove this by drinking as much as I could.
I succeeded.
You know that feeling after too much drink. Conversations that half exist. Snippets of things that are so far in the back of your mind that the horror that they might have actually happened in reality. Things like TDT and the neighbour swapping bras.

Need I say any more? Have a good weekend y'all.

Dirty Dishes

Apologies for lateness of post. In one of those "I've just woken up, and my mind is still not in gear," moments, Meany (TDT's brother) turned up first thing to help me put up a dish so that she can get UK Sky TV.

As you can see, we've done a sterling job. I haven't got the box set up yet, but I'm going to do that later when I've had a couple of beers and I can really screw it up.

*sigh*, I could get used to the Irish lifestyle.

On Ear Worms

Can't. Stop. Hearing. This.

Weird Al's Version of Tell Me Why.

Enjoy.

Brain Strain, but easier.

First of all, the answer to last week's questions.


1. Brad Pitt. TDT got this first.

2. Madonna. BLS gets the points.

3. Al Pacino. I was surprised nobody got this.

4. Philip Glenister, to commemorate the return of Gene Hunt.

5. Mel Gibson. BLS got it again.

6. Ricky Gervais. Not only difficult, but also unfunny.

7. Jonathon Ross. And yes, the suit gives it away. TDT gets the points.

8. Meg Ryan. TDT got this one first as well.

9. I know, I know, easy peasy. Whoopi Goldberg.

10. Harrison Ford. Well done Debi (via facebook)

And so, for this week, something slightly different. After the long weekend, I thought I'd give you something easier. I then played with the images, and decided this would be more fun. Below are 10 images of world famous landmarks. Can you name them?

1. Let's start off easy, shall we?

2.

3. I was surprised how fiendishly difficult this one came out.

4. Probably one of the most photographed buildings in the world.

5.

6. This one could be taken from space. Maybe.

7. Just for TDT

8. This one's HARD. Hard I tell ya!

9. And so's this one. Bonus 100 points if you get this one right.

10. And finally, another easy one of my favourite London landmark.

Ok, hands up who's brain now hurts?

Happy Easter

Best. Cartoon. Evah

Happy "gorge on chocolate eggs and feel ill" day.

The wrong kind of speeding.

And so, we find ourselves disembarking on the wrong side of the Irish Sea. John's fascination with the regionalised registrations takes a new twist as John and I try to work out every possible pair of letters showing each region. This novelty lasted me, oooh, about 20 minutes before John saw a new one.
"What's WW" he asks. Less than enthusiastically, I reply "Woo woo. Now, shut up about registration plates. Or this is going to be a very long journey."
"Oooh look, a Brit" he then says, spotting a UK registration.
"Is that surprising on the main road to the port that takes you to Britain?"
He gets the hint.
We head up the nice smooth tarmac towards Wexford, and all is good. No pot holes, then we turn off at a roundabout that would normally take you to Dublin, and the budget hasn't reached that far yet. Instantly, the road feels like a ploughed field. I can hear the mud flaps of the considerably lower Chemo scraping off the road as we hit one bump after another. In fact, at one point we took a large jump up and over something.
"Was that a speedbump?" asks John.
"No. One word. Ireland." came the reply.
"Ooooooh, 'k" he said with understanding tones.
Just outside a small town called New Ross, we were following a train of cars. They were all driving at 40kph (25mph in real money) following a horse trailer. The road split into two, and they all stayed in the crawler lane, so I decided that I'd take advantage and overtake them all in one hit. 80mph should do it, so I belted up the hill, and was just pulling over when I see a Garda, standing with his hairdryer.

He waves at me, so being the nice chap I am, I wave back. I then carry on, but at a more legal speed, and after 5 minutes or so I spot him accelerating up behind me. He pulls me over, and shows me his hairdryer, which is proudly boasting 132kph. He explains the limit was 100kph. I just feign ignorance.
"Driven in Ireland before?" he asks.
"No," I says, failing to mention the previous visits and TDT's motorised roller skate.
"Well you won't be much longer if you carry on like that. Do you have far to go?
"Ennis" I reply.
"Ennis? Blemmeh. That'll take you a while." he comments.
"Not at 132kph" I says.
*frown* he says.
He takes my details from my licence. He asks how I pronounce my address.
"Wales." I replied.
He then says they'll be forwarding a fine of €80 in the post, but if I don't pay it they won't follow it up. In other words, don't do it again.
The skies are slowly darkening now. It's nearly 8 o clock and we're chugging through the counties. We see the Bulmers/Magners factory, and John has to persuade me not to stop. It starts to rain heavily, real lumpy Welsh rain, the like of which Snowdonia sees every day. The roads are now quiet, and dimly lit. Pot holes are harder to avoid but the water now in them is cushioning the blow as I drive through them. The whole time I'm looking more and more wired, and TDT's texting me "where are you? How long?"
Eventually, I drive into the centre of Limerick, and the realisation I know where I am and how long it'll be until I'm at hers rings home. We're heading up the fairly quick dual carriageway and the rain's still coming down. The car's warning me it's cold, flashing ice warnings. And then, the final death knell as the rain turns to sleet for 30 seconds, before becoming full blown huge white streaks of snow.
What. The. Fuck?
Now, don't get me wrong, I don't mind driving in snow. When I can see road markings or the road's lit. The problem is, the last time some of the roads around here saw painting, was by iron age man drawing his hunting exploits. Cat's eyes are present, but again are very dim, and the main beam can't be used because of the snow. I find myself crawling along at 30mph on a road that allows 50, before finally getting to TDTs shortly before 10. Some 12 hours after I left home. And to cap it all, I have to the same in a couple of weeks, but this time in reverse.
Preferably without the copper and snow.

On driving further west than ever before.

When Twat O'Leary decided to pull his Ryanair planes out of Shannon, I found that my planned Easter trip to TDT was slightly more convoluted. I could get there easily enough, but I couldn't get back. So, in a moment of insanity, I decided it might be fun to drive instead. This meant that either I got Chemo suitably waterproofed or I caught the ferry from Fishguard to Rosslare, and then a drive almost completely across Ireland. This was going to be an adventure, and would be fun for John as well. I also wanted to surprise TDT by appearing at her front door. I told her I would be over, but didn't say when. I also laid seed to her imagination by telling her I couldn't afford the day ferry so I would be arriving in the morning after catching the night ferry. Unfortunately, I wound her up a little bit too much and got her so fed up with my winding her up, in the end I couldn't be cruel any more and revealed the truth.
We left early on Monday morning, just after 9:30am. Stopping at a friend's en route for a cuppa and to drop off a DVD, we finally arrived into Fishguard at 12:30, ready for the 2:30 sailing. I'd decided I was going to take over rather a lot of stuff. Easter Eggs, Vodka, Coke, White Cider, light bulbs (!), you know, the usual sort of thing. So, as we started to move up the queue and into the Custom's inspection shed, my bottom started to pucker. Arriving in the open ended hangar, everyone was having their papers checked. About half were being led to one side, and they were having to empty their cars out. This was not a good thing. Sure enough, I get to the front of the queue, and the Copper smiled at me. I smiled sweetly back, and he just put his thumb up to me. So I put my thumb up back. He then looked skyward, before signalling "move on." No asking for documents/passports, no pulling over to empty the car, no marigolds and orifice searches. Result.
The last time I was on a ferry was with my father, crossing the channel back in 1991 to go to his place in Germany. It was an hour or so, and when you're young, it's easy and fun. This time we were looking forward to it. Promises of cinemas, free arcades, bars, restaurants, children's play areas, all were getting me looking forward to 3 and a half hours of fun. Yes, me, not John. He was a typical teenager, with the usual reaction of "meh! Whatever." I was disappointed. The arcade was mostly empty, and only had 2 machines. Both weren't free. The 'cinema' was two projection screens showing Sky News. The children's play area was a rectangle of carpet with some large padded cubes on it. After a walk around deck where it was a) fucking cold and b) fucking wet, we ended up going to the bar where I had a pint (or two) and settling down at the back of the ship for a kip. The sea got rougher and rougher. I was coping well, but John wasn't.

Note how the wake of the ship moves, and the horizon moves up and down. It didn't seem that rough, but the occasional crashing noise and subsequent shudder told me that the ship was pitching up and down through the waves. Eventually we moved form the back, so I could go and get something to eat. The rest of the ship was littered with pissheads and bodies of people trying to sleep off the sea-sickness. John and I were having much merriment at trying to walk in a straight line, but actually ended up looking more pissed than the pissheads. We sat in the restaurant for half an hour, but being that out of sight of the horizon for that long made John even greener, so we headed back up onto deck. The sea was foggy, visibility was very short, but all of a sudden John got a text. "Welcome to Vodafone Ireland" it said. I realised we were within range of a transmitter, and then suddenly out of the gloom came a harbour wall. We went to the stairs ready to disembark, our car was right at the front of the ferry. When we got downstairs and back to the car however, they let the rows go first, so we were actualy let off about half way down the queue.

Then began the drive across to TDT. That will follow tomorrow, with added woe from being done for speeding.