- The MacBook in front of me
- a seat in the garden (rapidly cooling)
- a breeze to stop me from passing out all day
- my car back
- a bruise on the inside of my right upper arm the size of Tanzania (equal-area projection)
- the satisfaction of having hit 9 of my first twelve clay pigeons yesterday on Dr Mr Bridger's stag do.
- a waiting bed
I've also decided that I've got to end it with the Essex Boy. Which is going to kill me, but it needs to be done.
Anyway, on brighter notes again... Yesterday was mighty craic. After a rapid dash to Field & Trek to buy a hat, then a spur-of-the-moment t-shirt, I drove over to Dr Bridger's place and met Guildford Mike and Best-Man Mike (for the first time, I think, always hard to tell). Bacon sandwiches were duly provided as Mr Scriv, Mr Fluff, Rowan and the highly edible James all turned up. I'd cleared out the Plan B so as to offer it for transport reasons, so Mr Bridger, myself and the two Mikes all clambered in and hoofed it down to Midhurst where we were met by two extremely calm, rational and very friendly huge-gun experts. After determining that I was probably right-eye-dominant, the instructor (a fuzzy-faced young bloke called Tony), wearing a rather pricy-looking check shirt, pressed shorts and a club tie took us back up the hill whence we'd come and introduced us to the weighty feedback associated with firing a twelve-bore double-barrelled shotgun.
There is quite a kick, I should point out, but no the kind that throws you back into the bushes behind you. However, you're still very aware that you're firing something powerful. I can see how some people would enjoy it, although I'm not sure a career in shooting things really beckons for me.
I was third up in our party of five, and the instructor seemed rather impressed when I hit everything after the first three of my twelve shots.
Not as bloody impressed as I was. I was shaking a little towards the end, a mixture of excitement and shock. Anyway, post-first round, we cycled through the five of us again, and I hit half of the following dozen clays. The next trap was a bit more disastrous, but I think the reason was the slightly agonising injury I'd inflicted on myself when the butt of the gun hadn't sat in exactly the right place and I'd somehow managed to wedge it inside my forearm. The resulting pain really didn't aid my aim at all.
At the end of the first two traps, we'd already been there for over two of the two-and-a-half hours our session was scheduled for, so we ambled back to where we'd met the instructors to find the other five eejits all reclining in a gazebo waiting for the ten-man shoot-off (not shoot-out, it's importat to state). Messrs Scriv and Fluff pulled off a rather stunning 10 / 10 shots on their gos, to the extent that we started questioning Fluff's pre-lab back-story. (Mine about being an unassuming scientist who just happened to grow up in the Irish borderlands seemed to be reasonably rock-solid after I calmed down and started deliberately missing a lot on trap 2. I only hit 7 / 10 on the final round. Phew!)
So Fluff vs. Scriv came to pass, and Fluff pulled off a resounding victory. I seem to remember that he scored 9 against Scriv's 8 but I might be doing them a disservice.
After this, our instructor recommended a rather lovely local hostelry (the duke of cumberland) and we repaired there for a few ales (only one at the start in my case). The craic was already good, but the troops started getting hungry and I wanted no more part in the incidental sobriety, so we made for Bridger's place and more bacon sandwiches. This time, with the aid of a cheeky chalotte, coriander and chilli jelly. It was da bee's very knees. And it primed us rightly for the first round of grown-up drinking in the good old Royal Oak. Where the barmaid, Merc, drew "I AM MERC'S BITCH" on James's arm. And revealed her top-heaviness's underwear. Matt was in heaven with his telescopic lens... Etc.
Thence to the Maloncho Tandoori (much maligned by me over the years, but rather impressive yesterday), where we were the only people in the place when we sat down. Out presence probably didn't help them draw in loads of people, to be honest, but the form was good all round and at no point did things get aggro (good crowd, so it was very unlikely anyway).
Pub umihir a do was the King's Head on Quarry St. The clientelle was depressingly like something from Hollyoaks, and we sat in the corner wondering how bad it would be if they reintroduced military service so all these young upstarts would at least get a haircut. But we stayed for a couple then moved on to the old staple that is Rogues (well, if you live up the other end of town, at any rate). Got a table in the back sufficiently surrounded with railings to prevent anyone (particularly the impending groom) from falling off the bench, but not so far up the back garden that we had to negotiate stairs. Perfick!
By the time midnight came round and the staff were getting bolshy about us sitting outside, we'd been on the sauce for quite a while. And considering that James, on his jean-wearing return to the Royal Oak, had got the ball rolling with tequilas all round, we were somewhat the worse for wear. Although none as worn as Mr Bridger. Hence, hats off to Best Mike for a job well done. And a stag actually brought safely back.
Ceri would've had his guts for garters, anyway, so it was probably partly motivated by self-preservation.
More on this soon if I have time. I'm calling up to Essex Boy tomorrow night. Wish me luck. Meanwhile, the Aussie is at the World Gay Event that is Madonna's tour calling at Cardiff tonight, after he's been away at Twae Kwon Do Camp (yoo-hoo, etc.), and Lord Simon is on his long-touted holiday in El Gouna, splashing around and taking photos of fish. I dropped him off on Friday morning and took his Astra for the day.
Whatever it takes to get him out of the country for a bit of peace and quiet, eh?
There's lovely.
(P.S. Now listening to Born of Frustration by James, now that I've spun all of L.S.'s Now DVD tracks onto the new machine. Which I'll come up with a name for if I love it any more!)
