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The power of independent trucking
Jul. 6th, 2003 10:46 pm... So I steam (no, charge) north to Andoversford for Small Brother's stag-night warmup. Ed Price rolls up not long after, and we decamp to the averagely welcoming Kilkenny. SB's mate Derek is already there, so we get stuck into the beer and talking bollocks. Within the hour, some bright fellow wonders out loud where Andy Mustoe's hiding. In the pub down the road, as it turns out. He's quickly persuaded to join the malarkey. After chucking out, we repair to Derek's, where there is more beer. Derek & SB potter off and crash out at this point, leaving self & Ed to work out our own arrangements.
Within seconds, Ed's old 318i is howling through unlit country lanes in the direction of Humblebee. I soon discover that the seatbelts don't work, but I'm too drunk to care. Or rather drunk enough to actively consider this a Good Thing. Whatever. Humblebee still smells the same. The telly is still wired to the PA and video that I left behind. Ed cranks it to 11 and we spend the next I-don't-know-how-long pogoing/moshing/falling over to American ska-punk (some random version of 'Take on me' becomes... Familiar by the end of the night) and toasting each other with some 'brandy' that came in a 2l plastic container. Though given the conversation earlier in the evening, it could just as well have been glyphosate. Eventually, I stagger outside to stand on the picnic bench stolen from a pub and greet the dawn breaking over the lights of Long Lartin prison.
Some number of hours later I awake in the folded position on the sofa. I am slightly cheered to discover that Ed is also in shit order. After several restoring mugs of tea, he gives me a lift back to SB's house where I left the car. SB's off out to deal with bridezilla, so I resolve to wander homewards via Gloucester, where I am particularly random.
Within seconds, Ed's old 318i is howling through unlit country lanes in the direction of Humblebee. I soon discover that the seatbelts don't work, but I'm too drunk to care. Or rather drunk enough to actively consider this a Good Thing. Whatever. Humblebee still smells the same. The telly is still wired to the PA and video that I left behind. Ed cranks it to 11 and we spend the next I-don't-know-how-long pogoing/moshing/falling over to American ska-punk (some random version of 'Take on me' becomes... Familiar by the end of the night) and toasting each other with some 'brandy' that came in a 2l plastic container. Though given the conversation earlier in the evening, it could just as well have been glyphosate. Eventually, I stagger outside to stand on the picnic bench stolen from a pub and greet the dawn breaking over the lights of Long Lartin prison.
Some number of hours later I awake in the folded position on the sofa. I am slightly cheered to discover that Ed is also in shit order. After several restoring mugs of tea, he gives me a lift back to SB's house where I left the car. SB's off out to deal with bridezilla, so I resolve to wander homewards via Gloucester, where I am particularly random.
