That was the weekend, that was

TWO-AND-A-HALF-HOURS!

That is the time it takes to travel between Birmingham and London (in either direction) by Virgin Trains in the early 21st century. Once upon a time the travel time was 90 minutes.

And so, a Saturday and Sunday in Brummagem rather than, as originally planned, Royston Vasey.

Ah, Birmingham. The second city. Location of the worst major railway station on the planet, and home to a number of bibulous people of my acquaintance.

A somnolent train journey followed by a half-hour wait while pax_draconis broke all speed records driving down from the aforementioned Royston Vasey to New Street. Expect reports of sonic booms and shattered windows tracking his route south. Thence to a watering hole in some unidentified section of the city for BEER. A cheerful nattering ensued whilst we awaited the onset of Ser Smitty and Norty Phil. More BEER and natterage interrupted by the passing of two conventions - one, seemingly a Bounty Convention consisting of a bunch of particularly hairy blokes in summer dresses. Oh dear. The second may or may not have been a meeting of the Warhol Appreciation Society, or a Midwich Cuckoo reunion. Either way there was an awful lot of blokes in cheesy blond wigs wandering down the street. And worryingly Master Race it all was, too.

Smitty and Norty decided then to go on the prowl and wandered off on what they grandly named a "Booty Hunt."

And so to chez Rob and nyarbaggytep where, after a trip out to the local Chinese Restaurant, we were joined by mrcook. At some point it had clearly been decided that red wine is going out of fashion. So we drank. Lord, we drank enough to float a battleship. More natterage, some frothing and a great deal of chortleage.

At some undefined point in the evening, we were rejoined by Messers Smitty and Norty, fresh from a successful evening's boozing, but a rather less successful Booty Hunt. This latter is probably due as much to Norty's incessant hiccupping as it is the duo's inherent unattractiveness.

And more wine was consumed, and further mirth ensued.

Shortly after Norty had passed out, he acquired the word 'Geek' hastily and artlessly written on his forehead in eyeliner, courtesy mrcook, and a curly moustache, goatee and Emperor Ming eyebrows, courtesy, Ser Smitty. Should you fail to believe this, there is a permanent record of the event courtesy nyarbaggytep and her Camcam1. With luck, this historic video record will at some point find its way onto the web for all to enjoy. I am lead to understand that pax_draconis has the requisite free webspace…

Talking of said gentleman, it appears that a combination of copious gallons of wine laced with the Devil's Jizz that is Aftershock, he devolves into a giggling jelly. Quite what was happening in the recesses of the Andrews' mind is unknown, but for a full twenty minutes he was incapable of doing anything but gibbering with mirth and howling as a mad thing, with laughter. It is a frightening sight reminiscent of those seaside laughing policemen of yore. Only bleached and pierced. Shudder.

I am faced with the worrying realisation that I am probably immune to red wine2. As the rest of the party descended into drunken merriment, I found myself astonishingly sober despite having matched them drink for drink.

6.50am, after a restorative coffee, bed.

Bed in a room with a massive latex dragon called Terry 3.

Life returned to the household sometime around midday, and a far quieter afternoon was spent avoiding alcohol, eating pizza and watching Things To Do In Denver When You're Dead on DVD. Of course, Smitty and Norty had long since left on the first bus of the morning at about 6.30, and pax_draconis had to dash back to Royston Vasey to attend to gardening and wallpaper stripping stuff which is outlined briefly in his own LJ. He was ably substituted by Ser Barrett.

I think that we may need to repeat the experiment in the not too distant future.



1. To the spectators' universal disappointment, Norty was too tired and emotional to go ballistic as had been anticipated. He merely washed his face and went back to sleep. Still hiccupping.
2. This may not be entirely true as I had a 15 minute cold sweat and borderline delerium tremens at about 3.30.
3 Or, indeed, Trevor, as pointed out by ashenkat

That was the weekend, that was

TWO-AND-A-HALF-HOURS!

That is the time it takes to travel between Birmingham and London (in either direction) by Virgin Trains in the early 21st century. Once upon a time the travel time was 90 minutes.

And so, a Saturday and Sunday in Brummagem rather than, as originally planned, Royston Vasey.

Ah, Birmingham. The second city. Location of the worst major railway station on the planet, and home to a number of bibulous people of my acquaintance.

A somnolent train journey followed by a half-hour wait while pax_draconis broke all speed records driving down from the aforementioned Royston Vasey to New Street. Expect reports of sonic booms and shattered windows tracking his route south. Thence to a watering hole in some unidentified section of the city for BEER. A cheerful nattering ensued whilst we awaited the onset of Ser Smitty and Norty Phil. More BEER and natterage interrupted by the passing of two conventions - one, seemingly a Bounty Convention consisting of a bunch of particularly hairy blokes in summer dresses. Oh dear. The second may or may not have been a meeting of the Warhol Appreciation Society, or a Midwich Cuckoo reunion. Either way there was an awful lot of blokes in cheesy blond wigs wandering down the street. And worryingly Master Race it all was, too.

Smitty and Norty decided then to go on the prowl and wandered off on what they grandly named a "Booty Hunt."

And so to chez Rob and nyarbaggytep where, after a trip out to the local Chinese Restaurant, we were joined by mrcook. At some point it had clearly been decided that red wine is going out of fashion. So we drank. Lord, we drank enough to float a battleship. More natterage, some frothing and a great deal of chortleage.

At some undefined point in the evening, we were rejoined by Messers Smitty and Norty, fresh from a successful evening's boozing, but a rather less successful Booty Hunt. This latter is probably due as much to Norty's incessant hiccupping as it is the duo's inherent unattractiveness.

And more wine was consumed, and further mirth ensued.

Shortly after Norty had passed out, he acquired the word 'Geek' hastily and artlessly written on his forehead in eyeliner, courtesy mrcook, and a curly moustache, goatee and Emperor Ming eyebrows, courtesy, Ser Smitty. Should you fail to believe this, there is a permanent record of the event courtesy nyarbaggytep and her Camcam1. With luck, this historic video record will at some point find its way onto the web for all to enjoy. I am lead to understand that pax_draconis has the requisite free webspace…

Talking of said gentleman, it appears that a combination of copious gallons of wine laced with the Devil's Jizz that is Aftershock, he devolves into a giggling jelly. Quite what was happening in the recesses of the Andrews' mind is unknown, but for a full twenty minutes he was incapable of doing anything but gibbering with mirth and howling as a mad thing, with laughter. It is a frightening sight reminiscent of those seaside laughing policemen of yore. Only bleached and pierced. Shudder.

I am faced with the worrying realisation that I am probably immune to red wine2. As the rest of the party descended into drunken merriment, I found myself astonishingly sober despite having matched them drink for drink.

6.50am, after a restorative coffee, bed.

Bed in a room with a massive latex dragon called Terry 3.

Life returned to the household sometime around midday, and a far quieter afternoon was spent avoiding alcohol, eating pizza and watching Things To Do In Denver When You're Dead on DVD. Of course, Smitty and Norty had long since left on the first bus of the morning at about 6.30, and pax_draconis had to dash back to Royston Vasey to attend to gardening and wallpaper stripping stuff which is outlined briefly in his own LJ. He was ably substituted by Ser Barrett.

I think that we may need to repeat the experiment in the not too distant future.



1. To the spectators' universal disappointment, Norty was too tired and emotional to go ballistic as had been anticipated. He merely washed his face and went back to sleep. Still hiccupping.
2. This may not be entirely true as I had a 15 minute cold sweat and borderline delerium tremens at about 3.30.
3 Or, indeed, Trevor, as pointed out by ashenkat