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Weekend (re-mixed and re-formatted)
As Alex said, on more than one occaision, and most annoyingly at 4am this morning when he knocked on the door of my room because he'd gone clubbing and his room-mate Ralph hadn't and Ralph and my room-mate Floyd were now in Ralph and Alex's room, anyway, as Alex said, many, many, times:
"What a fantastic weekend."
Okay, let's start with Friday, shall we, as that is where it all began. Although there was a point on Saturday when Dan, the stag, was singing Wet Wet Wet's 'Wishing I Was Lucky' in the Pitcher and Piano, which was captured for posterity by Adam, that pretty much defines the whole weekend. That and Dan coming away from the racecourse nearly 200 quid up. Anyway, Friday.
Friday, well, the very early portion at any rate, is covered elsewhere in my LJ. I left my flat just after ten, and headed into town. I picked out a pair of trousers I liked, but they needed alteration, and I needed that alteration straight away, as I wanted the trousers to wear over the weekend. The shop couldn't do it, as they didn't have a tailor in that day. The dry cleaner over the road couldn't do it in time. So I was stuck with two pairs of light-coloured smart trousers, instead of one light and one dark pair. A minor niggle. Headed off to work, did some work, then off to Kings Cross at 4 for the 4.30 to York.
The train was running a little late, but aside from Alex blathering on and giving the cabbie from the station to the Hotel some stick for not doing a U-turn on the dual carriageway, we eventually made it to the pub, met up with the rest of the stag party, and got on with the serious job of getting bladdered. This was adequately achieved, and we all piled into The Gallery, a pretty typical provincial club, though I was a little miffed to discover that the steps that led down to what I assumed was the cloakroom, did, in fact, lead to another dancefloor. Whatever. Hammered, dancing, attempting and failing miserably to chat up women, and being gallantly 'rescued' by Alex, Floyd, and Ralph (there's a funny story about Floyd, a meat feast pizza, and a Chinese takeaway; but it's not my story, and I wasn't there, so I won't be telling it), we made it back to the hotel at some point, and crashed into bed.
Saturday morning saw sixteen bleary-eyed blokes staggering into the Little Chef by the hotel at about 11 for breakfast. Suffice it to say, that, partly due to the fact that the entire sixth-form population of Tadcaster would appear to work there, I am now put off from ever eating in a Little Chef ever again. I could rant about their appallingly slow, useless, and largely anonymous service (you'd *never* get the same treatment in, say, a branch of Denny's in the States, which is pretty much the equivalent of Little Chef over there; and you food would arrive quicker, and better-cooked, and in the right order, regardless of how busy it is) - and I appear to have. Well, Saturday was race day. Timeform Charity Day at York. A seven-race card.
What can I say. What an experience. Glorious sunshine, warm lager, horses, and wall-to-wall drop-dead gorgeous women in fantastic outfits. I even managed to talk to one or two of them, if only briefly (and always to bemoan my luck - more of that later). Being Mr Clueless when it comes to the horses, I had planned my strategy in advance. Ignore anything that was said by Dan, Adam, or Simon (the supposed 'experts') and just put a tenner to win on each of the selections from a tipster in a newspaper. I duly did this, and managed to lose seventy quid. It's a pity I didn't either (a) use the other tipster from the same paper, as I'd have had two winners and made a clear profit; or (b) followed up on my prediction that my horse would lose in a photo finish in the sixth race, and it duly obliged me by doing so. Dan, though, was nearly two hundred quid up, after his spectacular blatant punt on the last race. Alex was happy, too, having gone with the same horse. I and the rest of the course was on the odds-on favourite, which came in well back.
It needs to be pointed out now that, for most of the afternoon, Simon, Adam, and I had camped out right by the rails just past the furlong post, in an area where alcoholic drinks were supposedly not allowed. Although it didn't appear to be much of an impediment to those around us, we didn't have any beers between the start of the first race, at 2, and just before the start of the last race, at 5.20. For the last race, we'd re-joined the main group, who were in an enclosure where the beer flowed freely. So by the time we left at six, a good number of us had been drinking pretty constantly, in hot, direct sunlight, since 1.
Half of us, myself included, headed back to the hotel to change. The other half went straight to the pub. We had a nice relaxing changeover (Floyd remarking that sitting round in a hotel room drinking beer and chatting to your mates reminded him of being on a day off on tour [with a rock band, of which he used to be a member]), and got a cab back into town.
By then, my sunburn had well and truly set in - with the exception of two very distinct white lines where my sunglasses had been (in retrospect, it would probably have been a good idea to wear them out into town). This was pointed out by a number of my fellow party members.
Anyway, more pubs, and a dawning realisation that Dan was utterly trolleyed. So we come to the Wet Wet Wet rendition in the Pitcher & Piano, so lovingly captured in digital form for ever (and soon to be appearing on my desk - either that, or the one of Marv attemting to hump a picture of a model in a shop window). We splintered after that, some going for curries, Alex attempting to cajole me into going clubbing (I was feeling ridiculously sober, so was able to rebuff his advances with ease), so it was Adam, Simon, and I who were first back to the hotel. Others soon followed, but I didn't notice them, as I was asleep, until my 4am rude awakening by Alex who attempted to engage me in conversation before deciding it was time to go to sleep and promtly doing so.
Aside from the mistake of having breakfast in Little Chef again this morning, it all went smoothly. I jumped in the first of the two cabs I'd ordered to take us to that station, Alex, Ralph, and I turned up there just as they were announcing that the 12.24 to London was just arriving (it was running late), so we hopped on that instead of the one we were supposed to be on and back in London before 3.
And that, as they say, is that. Except, if I may point out, that the quality of catering on trains has improved vastly, if the quite excellent spicy chicken focaccia I had is anything to go by. Oh, and boy, am I glad to be rid of Alex for the time being.
But what a fantastic weekend, as he so rightly put it.
"What a fantastic weekend."
Okay, let's start with Friday, shall we, as that is where it all began. Although there was a point on Saturday when Dan, the stag, was singing Wet Wet Wet's 'Wishing I Was Lucky' in the Pitcher and Piano, which was captured for posterity by Adam, that pretty much defines the whole weekend. That and Dan coming away from the racecourse nearly 200 quid up. Anyway, Friday.
Friday, well, the very early portion at any rate, is covered elsewhere in my LJ. I left my flat just after ten, and headed into town. I picked out a pair of trousers I liked, but they needed alteration, and I needed that alteration straight away, as I wanted the trousers to wear over the weekend. The shop couldn't do it, as they didn't have a tailor in that day. The dry cleaner over the road couldn't do it in time. So I was stuck with two pairs of light-coloured smart trousers, instead of one light and one dark pair. A minor niggle. Headed off to work, did some work, then off to Kings Cross at 4 for the 4.30 to York.
The train was running a little late, but aside from Alex blathering on and giving the cabbie from the station to the Hotel some stick for not doing a U-turn on the dual carriageway, we eventually made it to the pub, met up with the rest of the stag party, and got on with the serious job of getting bladdered. This was adequately achieved, and we all piled into The Gallery, a pretty typical provincial club, though I was a little miffed to discover that the steps that led down to what I assumed was the cloakroom, did, in fact, lead to another dancefloor. Whatever. Hammered, dancing, attempting and failing miserably to chat up women, and being gallantly 'rescued' by Alex, Floyd, and Ralph (there's a funny story about Floyd, a meat feast pizza, and a Chinese takeaway; but it's not my story, and I wasn't there, so I won't be telling it), we made it back to the hotel at some point, and crashed into bed.
Saturday morning saw sixteen bleary-eyed blokes staggering into the Little Chef by the hotel at about 11 for breakfast. Suffice it to say, that, partly due to the fact that the entire sixth-form population of Tadcaster would appear to work there, I am now put off from ever eating in a Little Chef ever again. I could rant about their appallingly slow, useless, and largely anonymous service (you'd *never* get the same treatment in, say, a branch of Denny's in the States, which is pretty much the equivalent of Little Chef over there; and you food would arrive quicker, and better-cooked, and in the right order, regardless of how busy it is) - and I appear to have. Well, Saturday was race day. Timeform Charity Day at York. A seven-race card.
What can I say. What an experience. Glorious sunshine, warm lager, horses, and wall-to-wall drop-dead gorgeous women in fantastic outfits. I even managed to talk to one or two of them, if only briefly (and always to bemoan my luck - more of that later). Being Mr Clueless when it comes to the horses, I had planned my strategy in advance. Ignore anything that was said by Dan, Adam, or Simon (the supposed 'experts') and just put a tenner to win on each of the selections from a tipster in a newspaper. I duly did this, and managed to lose seventy quid. It's a pity I didn't either (a) use the other tipster from the same paper, as I'd have had two winners and made a clear profit; or (b) followed up on my prediction that my horse would lose in a photo finish in the sixth race, and it duly obliged me by doing so. Dan, though, was nearly two hundred quid up, after his spectacular blatant punt on the last race. Alex was happy, too, having gone with the same horse. I and the rest of the course was on the odds-on favourite, which came in well back.
It needs to be pointed out now that, for most of the afternoon, Simon, Adam, and I had camped out right by the rails just past the furlong post, in an area where alcoholic drinks were supposedly not allowed. Although it didn't appear to be much of an impediment to those around us, we didn't have any beers between the start of the first race, at 2, and just before the start of the last race, at 5.20. For the last race, we'd re-joined the main group, who were in an enclosure where the beer flowed freely. So by the time we left at six, a good number of us had been drinking pretty constantly, in hot, direct sunlight, since 1.
Half of us, myself included, headed back to the hotel to change. The other half went straight to the pub. We had a nice relaxing changeover (Floyd remarking that sitting round in a hotel room drinking beer and chatting to your mates reminded him of being on a day off on tour [with a rock band, of which he used to be a member]), and got a cab back into town.
By then, my sunburn had well and truly set in - with the exception of two very distinct white lines where my sunglasses had been (in retrospect, it would probably have been a good idea to wear them out into town). This was pointed out by a number of my fellow party members.
Anyway, more pubs, and a dawning realisation that Dan was utterly trolleyed. So we come to the Wet Wet Wet rendition in the Pitcher & Piano, so lovingly captured in digital form for ever (and soon to be appearing on my desk - either that, or the one of Marv attemting to hump a picture of a model in a shop window). We splintered after that, some going for curries, Alex attempting to cajole me into going clubbing (I was feeling ridiculously sober, so was able to rebuff his advances with ease), so it was Adam, Simon, and I who were first back to the hotel. Others soon followed, but I didn't notice them, as I was asleep, until my 4am rude awakening by Alex who attempted to engage me in conversation before deciding it was time to go to sleep and promtly doing so.
Aside from the mistake of having breakfast in Little Chef again this morning, it all went smoothly. I jumped in the first of the two cabs I'd ordered to take us to that station, Alex, Ralph, and I turned up there just as they were announcing that the 12.24 to London was just arriving (it was running late), so we hopped on that instead of the one we were supposed to be on and back in London before 3.
And that, as they say, is that. Except, if I may point out, that the quality of catering on trains has improved vastly, if the quite excellent spicy chicken focaccia I had is anything to go by. Oh, and boy, am I glad to be rid of Alex for the time being.
But what a fantastic weekend, as he so rightly put it.