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The story so far...
Part One: The Invasion
Part Two: The Battle of the Bulge
Date line: Kieldrech Belgium. Seven aged members of the Riga collective had established HQ close
to a volleyball tournament. Using the ruse of exertion in that event to mask an excess of drinking,
eating and other foul sports, they had acquitted themselves with equanimity on Day One. A night on
the town in the care of a young nurse had restored their vitals and despite running the gauntlet of
a bee-bopping Nason at the tournament disco, all had returned safe if not completely sound. But would
they remain noiseless for long once they entered the Land of Nod? Would Day Two bring any Noddy
performances or would they be Big 'Ere(s) in Belgium? The crystal clears. Peer in and find out...
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Morning broke to a cheery sun beckoning the bold, and not so bold, of the world to join it in
celebration of a new day. At HQ, things were also stirring. To the curious passer-by, the sound
emanating from the upper floor of the Bibliotheca could easily have been a tuba band in very-out-of-practice
practice. To the knowledgeable, the Boys were firing on all cylinders, thanks to the previous night's imbibition
of Tabasco and beer. Eric, fearful of damage to his reputation and in danger of olfactory overload, once more slipped
quietly away, clutching his mag, in search of the solitude, comfort and fresh air of breakfast. Of the remainder,
only Chris seemed restless. Rolling from side to side he appeared to be still reverberating from last night's head-banging
session or was the legendary Nason brain wrestling with a cunning master plan that would take the Old Farts to bigger
and greater things?
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Certainly Paul had achieved bigger and greater things - he proclaimed as much on his return from his first visit of the
day to the facilities. This news was greeted by a collective sharp exit, not necessarily fired by a desire to conjoin
with Eric in a digestive warm-up to the day's proceedings, perhaps more by other evacuation needs that would now be
frustrated at HQ. Martin, however, had needs of another kind high strength cod liver oil. Whilst the grimace on his
face as he rose from his bed could have been interpreted in a number of ways, "Mister Average Age" (of the Old Farts
anyway) claimed his knees were in dire need of lubrication. Rapid calls on his mobile established that his "supplier"
was otherwise engaged with a select group of Premiership footballers eating Sunday lunch (at 9 am?!). So the Riga
Treasurer was forced to part with a small fortune to secure relief in liquid form from John, the only other available
source in the vicinity. John later claimed that at that hour his hearing was not all that it should be or was it because
he had "slept" sandwiched between Fog Horn Miervaldis and Ghetto-blaster Eksts and the resulting treatment of Martin's
predicament by Syrup of Figs was entirely unintentional. On the other hand it didn't prevent him from collecting the Sweep
for the Largest Single Evacuation on Tour!
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What a team!
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A breakfast (or three, Valde) later and the Boys were ready for action Sunday papers, a comfortable armchair, a small
refreshing beer or five. Unfortunately for them, they were not at home. They were in Belgium. At a volleyball tournament.
And they were expected to play. Where were those midnight church bells now?
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As furrowed brows reached Neanderthal proportions and the nightmare of yesterday's performances on court came back to him
with haunting reality, coach Nason's eyes saw a red mist. But wait, this was no occult ocular abstraction. There standing
before him, resplendent in their fragrant, similarly shaded T-shirts (Paul's clean and freshly laundered, John's crumpled
and sweat stained) were his two setters. Determined as he was not to repeat yesterday's errors, his key men, poring over
'The Setter's Art Volume One Five Hundred Different Play Calls from Position One', appeared to be singing off a
different hymn sheet no change there then. It was now that the craggy chasm crosser spread the seeds of his early
morning tossing and turning to the assembled company the front court setter system. With a wary eye on double-entendre,
he declared "no penetration." Tough call. Paul and John blustered but the collective expellation of air as five beer guts
hit the turf showed that once more Nason had come good.
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The first test of the new system met with resounding three-nil success and the Old Boys were on the move again
particularly Paul but then again he had more motions that most. The dilemma that had faced the passers on Day One pass
the ball to the setter in red had now been refined to 'pass the ball to the red setter at the net' and success ensued.
The only slight blip in this rubric occurred when a dog wandered across court and the dichotomy reappeared. However, a
time-out and the addition of a preposition refocused the team.
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A happy beer was soon followed by another and although John and Paul still complained bitterly about the reduction in
their attacking options, further ale subdued their vocalisation of this undue cap on their creativity. Others wondered if
it might not have been better to have had them capped at a much earlier point in their life cycle. Still as burger
followed beer and the sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, life was good and got a bit better in the next match,
another victory. True it was a closer two-one verdict and a few cracks had appeared and not just because the shirts
were off in the baking sun and the shorts became a little too low slung but the Riga record now spoke glowingly.
Played six, won four, lost two. Satisfaction with their performance in the pool stage of the tournament was only matched
by that of beer on tongue and food in belly.
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The boys take a well-deserved rest
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The final two matches of this European foray assumed the similarity of identical twins. Set one, easy victory. Confidence
flowing. Fluency and potency abounding. Set two, abject defeat. Paths lost. Hope and sanity abandoned. Set three, early
and many offerings to the jaws of defeat, then a redoubtable and resolute rearguard action that saved the Riga bacon in
the nick of time. Two wins deserved of course and tenth place claimed in triumph. But how to mark this momentous event?
Post shower (cold, only winners for the use of), there was but one way beer, burgers, waffles, chips, ice cream etc.
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As the shadows grew long over the tournament, so Valde's mind turned to more substantial fare. With the day still young,
and the brains slightly addled with the alcohol, Andy Collins helpful suggestion that a visit to Holland would provide a
useful diversion for the evening, not to mention solid nourishment, was met with a non-too-considered approval. Paul's
initial enthusiasm for the idea was soon tempered by the realisation that Amsterdam was too far away and a nearer
community would have to be sought as the evening's entertainment venue.
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Waiting for the ferry
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Going Dutch meant that rags had to be glad and wheels put into motion. Eventually John's pleading that his hearing was
again at fault and the word "glad" hadn't reached him, together with a promise to buy the first round, allowed him into
the Ericmobile despite his state of dress and the convoy once more ate tarmac. Bumper to bumper the two vehicles twisted
and turned, rose and fell as klick followed klack and tick followed tock. Indeed so many ticks followed so many tocks that
a feeling grew that they would never reach their objective, despite the signs proclaiming 'Holland this way' at every
junction. Perhaps it was a cunning plan by the Dyke Diggers to foil the carefully crafted invasion strategy or was it
just crap map reading? Whatever, as the shadows grew longer, and the stomach rumbling became thunderous, a small town
appeared on the horizon. Like the rest of the conurbations that the Old Farts had left in their dust, this one too appeared
sleepy and closed but not quite. As the two vehicles swept onto the town square and the troop quickly fanned out to
cover all exits, one restaurant owner was a fraction too slow to close up. Valde threw himself into the doorway "to
prevent the place closing" (he claimed). Sobbing and begging the owner to stay open so that he could revittal his raddled
body (claimed the rest). And the others followed in a flash.
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'Antoine' showed the group reluctantly to the only table large enough to sate Die Oude Skidmarken's appetite and
'Antoinette' quickly provided beer (and soft drinks for the drivers) to quell any unruly bodies a lost cause, true, but
one the exuberance of youth sought to assuage. Menus studied, Martin posed the inevitable question of 'Antoinette'. Rich
in seafood though the Dutch culinary cornucopia is, the closest thing to clams that she could offer was mussels. Eric and
Valde, who at times shared John's selective hearing loss, chose the muscles in preparation for the night's exertions. Too
late their order arrived but after a little persuasion Jean-Claude disappeared back to Brussels and the real mussels
tureened themselves onto the table. With hot nutritious plates emerging from all angles to bewitch and fulfil the Old
Farts discerning palates and large gobs, only one diner now seemed sustenance-challenged. Martin, having accepted the
clam shortage, switched to Chateaubriand only to be denied though lack of supplies. Steak was also off, courtesy of a
deliberation too far and Paul's incisive setter's decision-making capability. Even the mussels became as scarce as Ian
Duncan Smith's chances of surviving a vote of confidence. With Antoinette feeling increasingly like a lamb going to the
slaughter, therein she had the solution to save her bacon and a roasted hock soon satisfied Martin's yearnings. (He later
complained that the white wine was at far higher than room temperature but by then the others were too well stuffed to
care).
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A full three courses passed the lips of the Old Farts, not to mention a fair quotient of liquid of the "If I hold on to
the floor hard enough, I won't fall off" variety before time was called on the Dutch diversion. Map in hand, Paul led the
group on a short tour of the car park before the sober members of the platoon (thankfully the drivers) shepherded all back
to the vehicles for a sharp exit back to Belgium. Surprisingly, HQ was rediscovered in double quick time, perhaps thanks
to the lack of signs in Double Dutch. Indeed, HQ was recovered so quickly that fresh libation was called for, partly in
celebration and partly to satisfy the dearth of alcohol in the drivers' bloodstreams. As foot followed fall to the nearest
hostelry, each Fart tried in vain to assume the persona of a different Seven Dwarf. Despite a creditable attempt at
Sneezee, John was pipped at the post by Eric's Dozy, a true tour-de-force of thespianism.
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All too soon forecast was being compared to actual and the variances were looking normal. The outlook also appeared normal
foul becoming fouler by the minute. However, before sleep could envelope our tenth-placed tenants like a comfy old
cardigan with leather patches on the elbows and a missing button, there was time for the Quiz. Valde, as Master of
Ceremonies (he had the Quiz book), divided the room into teams Us against Them. No one had the heart to point out that
Us had all the Old Farts and Them had no one but hey, the Old Boys are always winners. It may be difficult to realise
immediately at what, except the obvious of course, but in their collective mind they were and that's all that matters,
especially at their age. Given the hour and the emotional state of some of the team, numerical questions proved a tad
difficult, especially as Chris had forgotten his slide rule. However, Martin came up trumps at the crucial moment and
with the timer beeping, Magnus Eksts baritoned, "I've started so I'll finish. Which town hosted the 2003 Eurovision Song
Contest?" Quick as a flash, Martin leapt in "Riga!" The crowd went wild, Us had clinched victory over Them, one to nil,
with forty-seven passes. The warm glow that spread over the faces of the Old Guys as they slid down into their sleeping
bags was only matched by the warm air emanating upwards from said sleeping bags as the night's exertions led to
exhaustions of their own.
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Only 4 left as 3 fall overboard
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The third Belgian morning in a row broke but was soon repaired which is more than can be said for some of the wrecks that
crawled out of their sleeping bags into the harsh sunlight spotlighting HQ. Without the benefit of breakfast facilities a
short hike away, Eric was confined to barracks and proved a restless resident. Valde too grew agitated as the prospect of
short-term food deprivation etched life-changing scenarios into his consciousness. With two of their number going
stir-crazy, the rest quickly realised that it was crazy not to stir. Several wind-ups later, all involving fat Burghers in
Brussels and the state of the Common Agricultural Policy as it affected prospective new entrants to the European Union,
shoe was compressed onto foot, leg into pant, sweaty shirt to plastic bag and sleeping bag to anywhere in the
Cat/Ericmobile that had room.
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"Rubber", "tarmac" and "burning" now found themselves conjoined in exquisite harmony as, having restored HQ to its previous
resplendent state, the Boys made a tactical withdrawal, fractionally after Paul's first deposit of the day. Not too long
afterwards, on a motorway that shall remain nameless to protect the innocent, our heroes swept smoothly to a halt outside
facilities suitable for assuaging the needs of both ends of "Les Skids" anatomies. As most contemplated the crisp morning
and revived their inner souls in the tranquil environs of the service station car park, Valde's soles were hot foot in
search of more substantial and tangible sustenance. The sight that greeted the others when they eventually entered the
restaurant was one to behold. On the one side, the once pristine display of culinary expertise was now laying in tatters,
great holes rent in its form and chaos reigning in every section. Ahead, the cashier was scratching her head, examining
for the umpteenth time the large and largely exhausted tally roll containing the catalogue of masticatory delight to be
enjoyed by the previous customer. The till display blinked knowledgably and succinctly "Tilt". On the other side, troughing
behind a mountain of food was Valde, his apparent fixed grin the effect of a cream bun too full.
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On the road again, the prospect of European bargains grew closer by the klick and before our ROBOTic David Dickinson could
say "cheap as chips", hypermarkets were being pillaged raw. All too soon, the Calais Ferry Terminal became the Dover Ferry
Terminal, the white cliffs a memory and the greyness of an August Bank Holiday Monday enveloped the intrepid troop with
the khaki blanket of normality. At home each basked in a rosy post-tournament glow. It was too good an experience not to
repeat but Belgium is, well, boring. So where should our intrepids trip next? France? Germany? The Mother Land?! Watch
this space
..
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Author : hung JB on hoot, Photos : diVEs stalks
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