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Shall we try another one then?
Ok

Once upon a time............(only kidding)

The Club Run

Eventually of course we’d have to go on a club run.
For Larry and I this posed a number of problems…not the least being that we didn’t really want to go on one and in fact our reluctance was probably delaying our getting our backpatches, as was the fact that we hadn’t done any number of the other tasks and duties which are the lot of the lower life forms in club circles….from emptying ashtrays in the clubhouse to beating up chickens or whatever.
You see the problem was we were getting on a bit and ,given the choice between an evening of partying with the lads to the strains of a clichéd seventies rock band, we’d both really rather have headed off to Gower and watched the sun go down with a pint or few in the Kings Head.

But , we reckoned, the annual camp was ‘do-able’ and we could always bog off home if we got tired of it all.
And, to be fair, the run down to Hampshire was only mildly excruciating….I mean what could be more pleasant than pottering down the inside lane of the M3 with 30 outlaw bikers at 50 mph?
50 Bleeding miles an hour, I asks you, Why?
Its to show ‘presence’ apparently and the fact that many of our ‘bros’ rode their Harleys with apehangers which probably would guarantee circulatory problems in later life had nothing to do with it…I’m sure.

On arrival things got off to a good start with the setting up of the club Marquee Something about organising pi*s ups in breweries springs readily to mind, as does the peculiar image of a two dozen bikers struggling in a circle with the tent in a grotesque parody of medieval Maypole ceremonies. But up it went after only 2 or so hours whilst Larry and I tried hard not to catch each others eyes for fear of a sense of humour outbreak…..these guys just didn’t do the self-referential stuff, you know.
Then there was the trip into town….consisting of the chapter descending on some poor innocent village for a couple of hours and generally being seen in all its glory.
We reckoned though that this ‘cruising down main street’ on the bike stuff looked set to severely limit opportunities for the consumption of ale so instead we walked through the woods enjoying the warm summer early evening stroll.
As a result we arrived back at camp well into the evenings festivities and slightly the better for drink too…not that anyone noticed as they too had managed to celebrate in the style of bikers the world over…yep, they were stoned and pi**ed…the lot of them.

We dutiful took our places in the tent and joined what clearly was passing for conversation that evening.
All was going swimmingly (No- I really mean that) when our Pres produced the bong.
Now, dear reader, if you’ve led a sheltered life, you may be wondering what a ‘bong’ is.
Well basically it’s a pipe with a small water bottle attached underneath, the idea being that the miscreant fills the bowl with drug/household bleach of their choice and lights up…the water gently cooling the resultant ingestion.
It was at this point that I began to look and think.
First I looked at the water bowl in horror as our Pres proceeded to fill this with Jack Daniels. Prior to top loading the bowl with a mix of Gawd knows what. I mentally made myself a note. ’On no account Al, are you touching whatever that is.’ Clearly though to save face some explanation would be required and the pipe was now being passed round, coming ever closer to our side of the table.
Finally it was in my hands and at last in a stroke of what I still consider to be pure genius I announced in my finest outraged Scottish accent I could muster ..”Whit the hell’s you lads tryin tae dae to us? Jack Daniels? I’ll no be drinking any of yer colonial moonshine fir anybody’s sake.” Reaching into my cut-off I produced a hip flask of Isle of Jura single malt and gave a ceremonial swig before passing the bong on to a good natured round of cheers and cat calls.
I Still maintain that Larry could have used the same excuse. Instead I watched fascinated as he put bong to lips and inhaled deeply.
Very deeply.
There followed a collective silence which probably lasted mere seconds, though to me it seemed as though the world stood still.
Larry however did not stand still.
First he stood up stiffly and correctly as best army protocol would dictate (To the cognoscenti this was always been a bad sign with Larry) .Bowing to the chapter he turned an unusual shade of Chartreuse and then projectile-vomited the contents of his stomach in the direction of our Pres, before marching out the tent and stumbling in the general direction of his sleeping bag.
I waited.
There was a stunned silenced followed by an ominous sounding question from the Pres ”Does your mate make a habit of doing that?” he said in a voice tinged, I think, with not a little awe.
“Pretty much so” said I as nonchalantly as I could muster and the party re-started, picking up where it had left off before.
Only once a little later in the evening was the incident alluded to when the Pres edged over to me, keen apparently that he shouldn’t be found to be showing any concern for the fallen. “Is your mate all right, do you think?’ he muttered and I suggested we go take a look.
Larry had reached his tent, a bulge in the wall of which suggested that someone, or something, was now inside though utterly motionless.
I gave a concerned kick at the bulge. It groaned.
“He’s fine” says I and we walked slowly back to the party.
Within a week or so we received our colours.

Al

hahahahahaaaaaaa!

Great!

Keep it up. A good read.

That is one hilarious tale there. ' Can hardly wait for the next episode.

Keep em coming!

great tale!