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Andy to Chris. John to Paul. Chris to Valde. Paul to Eric. Valde to Martin. The seamless transition
from one player to the next showed the "Boys" were on form and ready to "roll" - and that was only the
logistics of getting seven pre-pubescent OAPs into two cars and heading for Dover! First stop Thurrock.
Paul was not to be denied his second breakfast or evacuation of the day, and so, like a pride of lions
sating themselves on the kill, the others quaffed coffee and buns like they were making a fashion
statement. John, of course, had already made his, but the rest would live to rue their derision of his
Jesus sandals.
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The ROBOTs arrive in Holland. Hang about chaps! The tournament is in Belgium!
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As Thurrock became a mere memory for the less senile of the band, Dartford beckoned. Martin in his sleek
Jaguar led the way. Windows down, CD player blaring Latvian Beer Drinking songs it was no wonder the
motorway cleared around our posse of ancients. Then disaster! Eric, suddenly in the lead, was befuddled
by a strange voice in the back seat, not to mention the Latvian Beer Drinking songs, and roared off down
the A2/M2. The others delayed at the Toll, trying hilariously to make up one pound in the smallest
denomination coins possible, clung to the M25. The parting was such sweet sorrow as the trio of Eric,
Paul and John regained their hearing at last. Waves of nostalgia now wafted over these three veterans
as they relived past trips down these same roads. Each landmark brought a new remembrance. Paul's fourth
dump of 76. Chris's yawn of 79. Paul's ninth dump of 83. Ernie's pull of 82. Paul's marathon twenty-third
dump of 87. Oh the joy! Oh the harbingers of doom!
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Eric's car ate the miles to Dover like the beers in prospective consumption that night. M25-M20 pah!
No sooner had the boys cocked their snook than their snook was erred. For miles they crawled as four
lanes became three, then two, then one. Far from being plain, their sailing - if at all - was in jeopardy
(a small province of France known for its prickly horticultural flora). At last the cause of their
frustration hove into view. Recovery was in progress of a Latvian Beer lorry that had self-combusted due
to sound waves resonating amongst its cargo of strong ale. Although police suspected foul play, Eric
passed through the subsequent road check thanks to Paul's own foul play - a pre-cursor to his third "pass
through" of the day.
Hurried phone calls formulated a new "modus cockeredus" and Calais was denoted as the fresh rendezvous
where our inseparables would become inseparable again. With the advance party having established a
bridgehead in a bijou café when the reinforcements finally arrived, our intrepid allies then made the Big
Push for Belgium, armed only with directions and an insatiable thirst for beer.
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Martin's Jaguar (exceptionally well appointed and with a class-leading Whole Life Cost package that makes
the vehicle both affordable to the man-in-the-street and the thinking man's transport of choice) consumed
clicks at a rapid rate of knots. Eric's wheels had Durch. They had Vorsprung and lots of Technic. In
fact so much Technic that the choice of motive propulsion became mind-boggling. Foot power from an infant's
size two to a Meade Mighty fourteen. Pedal power with so many options of double-clangers, triple-clangers
and Shimano gears that the combinations were endless. Then there came steam power, denoted in kettles.
Horse power from Shetland pony, through Shire horse to thoroughbred stallion (Shergar?). Finally came
petrol power, delineated in CCs, all the way from one to eighteen hundred. By the time the Ericmobile was
in motion, Martin was long in the gonestakes, having put the Jag into "Naturally excreted nourishment
propelled via a pre-heated excavating implement" mode. As Eric had thoughtfully purchased a map of Belgium
(on the cheap showing, with heavy dark sweeping arrows, the numerous crossing points from Northern Europe
into France), Martin was forced to put the Cat into "Does anyone really go at this speed for this long"
mode. While Eric caught up, the spearhead of Chris, Andy, Martin and Valde turned off the Latvian Beer
Drinking song CD - clear roads mattered little now - and while-awayed the time playing Chris's favourite
game of guessing the number of hairs on the left arm of each alternate muleteer that they passed.
When the two cars finally collided, sorry, met, Valde was in heated debate with the Great Adjudicator over
the issue of whether moles, and thereby the hairs on moles, counted as part of the arm or whether they
were an appendage to the arm. Fortunately for the rest, Paul's impending fifth movement provided the
imperative for group motion and pedal hit metal once more.
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Where was the tournament again?
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Florence finally takes charge
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Belgium acquired and Paul's hand on the navigator's helm, coupled with the urgency of his need, should
have propelled our brethren to their appointed abode in double quick time, even if the Ericmobile was
taking the lead. However, no sooner were our heroes within spiking distance of their target than a
closed road forced a scenic exploration of the Belgian countryside. As Eric branched off into a land of
dykes and canals, the interior of Martin's car resembled a scene out of Dad's Army as each occupant took
turns to give their Corporal Jones impression. Before judgement could be reached and after negotiating several
cows, a few sheep, some angry Belgians and a lot of suicidal cars hammering along in the opposite direction of
the single track road, the convoy emerged back into civilisation. The wild grin on Paul's face declared that he
still knew where they were and as the Ericmobile lurched into "What this fast? Wow, scary, isn't it?" mode,
Martin's Cat transmoggified from playful kitten to growling carnivore in his attempt to keep up with the now #
electrified lead vehicle. As the cars twisted and turned across the Belgian landscape, Eric played Jerry
to Martin's Tom. At last, a roundabout and an articulated lorry proved a roundabout and an articulated lorry too far and the gap between the two cars became unbridgeable.
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With the others Arnhem-bound, the grins on Eric's, Paul's and John's faces lasted all the way to the
tournament venue. However, their plans to secure pole position in the dorm (close to an opening window but
within a short stagger of "nocturnal facilities") were doomed to failure as the absence of a local organiser
and a Tom-on-heat reunited what a roundabout and an articulated lorry had rent asunder. A helpful man in a
white Transit van offered to show them the way. So with the Ericmobile in "Wee! This speed thing's quite fun"
mode and a frisky Cat licking its lips in anticipation, off the enlarged convoy went. Only on reaching the
van's destination did Baldrick's plan come to fruition. Somewhere lost in the translation "dormitory" had
become "street-party" and so our ancients were in the wrong village!
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They say the darkest hour is just before dawn but in the gathering gloom of that Belgian August evening,
the dark around our once-happy band of Old Farts (Martin's jovial but accurate nom-de-guerre for the Band
of Brothers from Riga) was the thickest darkest densest dark that ever graced Christendom. There was
nothing for it but to return to the tournament venue and try again. In the blink of an eye, their objective
was seized. This time they secured the path-finding services of a more appropriate sort altogether - a
septuagenarian cyclist. The sedate journey did allow storming plans to be developed and, having got over
the initial confusion caused by having no Normans in the troop, arrival saw a flawless execution. Paul
quickly marked the building as the Home of the Legends by having his sixth dump of the day. The kitchen of
the establishment was deemed an appropriate HQ. Ample floor space for the serried rows of sleeping units.
Microwave to reheat those essential kebabs. Hot and cold running water. First floor opening windows.
And a double bowl sink, one for use, one for abuse.
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Beers at last
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Bivouacked, the Boys headed for Kieldrecht and party, party. Four artic trailers strung out over the length of
the main street provided a variety of music to satisfy all tastes. A greater number of hostelries sought (and
failed) to sate the combined thirst of 380 years as the Company made themselves easy. Why they did this was
anyone's guess as even one beered-up over-fifty is hardly an attractive proposition, let alone seven chained
together via an invisible umbilical cord. Nostalgia reared its familiar head as empty stomachs demanded food
and saveloy hove into mouths, swiftly followed by chips, burgers, chicken wings...
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All the witches had long since given up looking at their watches when, one-by-one, each old soldier succumbed
to sleep. It was only then that the sagacity of Andy and Valde's choice of sleeping position - under some tables
- became apparent. Oh the experience of age as they slept undisturbed by the nocturnal manoeuvres of the rest.
Andy in particular took full benefit from his positioning as not only did it enhance the resonation of his
snoring but also sheltered him and his proboscis from the rain of shoes and other heavy objects aimed in his
direction. Martin also partook of undisturbed repose thanks to a set of Ben's earplugs and failed to even
register the fledgling Rave in the hall next door that endangered the veterans' collective slumbers.
A Hagrid-like intervention from Valde snuffed out this Dutch-led disturbance of the night, much to the relief
of the Unasleep who expressed their thanks by unlocking the door and letting him back in.
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To be continued...
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In the next instalment:
- who brought the "mag" for the tour?
- Did the team have its chips - or did they live to fight on?
- What other dietary tips can be gleaned from the ROBOT diet?
- Can Belgian beer really refresh the parts of ROBOTs that other beers can't?
- "23" Is that really the answer to the meaning of Saturday night?
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Author : non huthog JoB, Photos : Vast lEd kiss
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