From Paris to Piraeus, via Plumpton (and Dusseldorf)
Two weeks since I saw last corresponded, dear reader, two whole weeks. Never before has my commitment to the ethereal cause found more wanting and, dare I say it, never again…
By way of mitigation, let me explain. You see, I’ve been a rather busy bunny, what with one thing and another.
As regular readers will know, I was in Paris in mid-November. Since then, the whirling dervish of the world of work has been unrelenting. Aside from a day out at Plumpton, which I’m afraid I can’t offer too much commendation to, I have been slaving feverishly over a hot PC for my registered charity paymasters.
Indeed, when not a slave to them, I have been a slave to my own affections for my lovely: the upshot of this combination being neglect of you, my dear reader.
Last week was murderous, as I was working away in the Greek port town of Piraeus, near Athens. Very long days, and pretty long nights (Mythos is a very fine beer, and the seafood was exceptional!), saw yours truly wrung out by Friday.
Worse was to follow however, as for me, it would not be a flight back to London and a weekend of R&R.
Oh no, thanks to exquisitely poor planning on my part, I’d agreed to play in an old man’s football tournament in a town called Heiligenhaus, near Dusseldorf in Germany.
It turns out our team were representing the fine city of Basildon, who are twinned with the aforementioned town.
It also turned out that Basildon has an excellent drinking pedigree, but a particularly poor footballing one. I got to Dusseldorf, via Munich, around 7pm and taxi’d directly to the Old Town (or Aldstadt) for some beer and the dirtiest pork knuckle you ever saw.
Altbier (literally ‘old beer’) is the local grog, and very quaffable it is too. Akin to our bitter, but served cold (I can hear the CAMRA members groaning down their pipes as I write!), it goes down a treat.
Comes up quite well too, judging by one of my chums reverse peristalsis efforts…!
Saturday was the day of the tournament and we played a league format against six other sides from all over Germany.
The Berliners were very good, but the winners were Duisburg Nord. What? How did FC Basildon fare? Well, the less said the better I think, but suffice it to say, we came in seventh of seven, tailed off.
In fairness, given that we are not footballers (except me, and I’m hardly Maradona), we acquitted ourselves as well as could be expected, and surpassed the best previous performance by a Basildon unit, by scoring five goals.
Indeed, we scored three against the winners (two from the boot of your humble scribe). This was remarkable on the basis that the winners only conceded five goals in the entire tournament. And three were against us!
We had a German ringer playing in goal for us. Valdi, for it was he, was a pretty good cat until he injured his hand in the fourth game. He insisted on playing on, to his credit / stupidity.
It has since been revealed that he broke two fingers, and tore the ligaments in a third. Our very own Bert Trautman! Alas, for Valdi, he will miss seven weeks of work, as he is a mechanic. He’s a folk hero in Basildon now though (scant consolation)!
Saturday night saw us all congregate at the local ale house for (a lot) more beer, and some decent grub. The Germans love their beer and their meat, so we clean living boys (ahem) were in our element.
Highlight of the evening, apart from the bizarre raffle (where prizes ranging from a particularly offensive looking wurst / sausage to – I kid you not – a car hazard triangle, and a set of Samurai kitchen knives!), was undoubtedly our late night / early morning singalong, where we tried to teach the locals ‘Roll out the Barrel’ at 2am.
This was followed by the most ironic rendition of ‘We Are The Champions’ I’m ever likely to hear. Brilliant.
Sunday was payback day. My legs disowned my body, my body wasn’t talking to my legs, my arms had serious amnesia and thought they’d drowned in a canoe of Wearside.
Actually, talking of canoes, Saturday night’s 4.30am finish, was topped and tailed nicely by Sunday morning’s 10.30 am appointment at the Heiligenhaus Canoe Club (I kid you not).
Brilliantly hosted by a man you would not trust around small children, he cracked open the altbiers and laughed quite humiliatingly at my request for caffeine… He then poured himself half a pint of white wine, and beamed, “I only ever drink wine… in the morning!”
The Good Lord only knows what this man sups post meridian…!
After the canoe club, there was just enough time for a Greek lunch in the darts club (I’m really not joking), before I headed for the airport.
Much concern about cancelled flights later, and I managed to get on the only steel bird into London that night (storms cause the remainder to be cancelled).
This week has been no less hectic, so again, I offer my apologies for failing to communicate.
I will find some time to write something actually related to horse racing over the weekend, and to update on the latest state of affairs in the Nag Fantasy Football League.
I’m off for a well earned lie down and a glass of altbier…
Ciao Pronto!
Matt
By way of mitigation, let me explain. You see, I’ve been a rather busy bunny, what with one thing and another.
As regular readers will know, I was in Paris in mid-November. Since then, the whirling dervish of the world of work has been unrelenting. Aside from a day out at Plumpton, which I’m afraid I can’t offer too much commendation to, I have been slaving feverishly over a hot PC for my registered charity paymasters.
Indeed, when not a slave to them, I have been a slave to my own affections for my lovely: the upshot of this combination being neglect of you, my dear reader.
Last week was murderous, as I was working away in the Greek port town of Piraeus, near Athens. Very long days, and pretty long nights (Mythos is a very fine beer, and the seafood was exceptional!), saw yours truly wrung out by Friday.
Worse was to follow however, as for me, it would not be a flight back to London and a weekend of R&R.
Oh no, thanks to exquisitely poor planning on my part, I’d agreed to play in an old man’s football tournament in a town called Heiligenhaus, near Dusseldorf in Germany.
It turns out our team were representing the fine city of Basildon, who are twinned with the aforementioned town.
It also turned out that Basildon has an excellent drinking pedigree, but a particularly poor footballing one. I got to Dusseldorf, via Munich, around 7pm and taxi’d directly to the Old Town (or Aldstadt) for some beer and the dirtiest pork knuckle you ever saw.
Altbier (literally ‘old beer’) is the local grog, and very quaffable it is too. Akin to our bitter, but served cold (I can hear the CAMRA members groaning down their pipes as I write!), it goes down a treat.
Comes up quite well too, judging by one of my chums reverse peristalsis efforts…!
Saturday was the day of the tournament and we played a league format against six other sides from all over Germany.
The Berliners were very good, but the winners were Duisburg Nord. What? How did FC Basildon fare? Well, the less said the better I think, but suffice it to say, we came in seventh of seven, tailed off.
In fairness, given that we are not footballers (except me, and I’m hardly Maradona), we acquitted ourselves as well as could be expected, and surpassed the best previous performance by a Basildon unit, by scoring five goals.
Indeed, we scored three against the winners (two from the boot of your humble scribe). This was remarkable on the basis that the winners only conceded five goals in the entire tournament. And three were against us!
We had a German ringer playing in goal for us. Valdi, for it was he, was a pretty good cat until he injured his hand in the fourth game. He insisted on playing on, to his credit / stupidity.
It has since been revealed that he broke two fingers, and tore the ligaments in a third. Our very own Bert Trautman! Alas, for Valdi, he will miss seven weeks of work, as he is a mechanic. He’s a folk hero in Basildon now though (scant consolation)!
Saturday night saw us all congregate at the local ale house for (a lot) more beer, and some decent grub. The Germans love their beer and their meat, so we clean living boys (ahem) were in our element.
Highlight of the evening, apart from the bizarre raffle (where prizes ranging from a particularly offensive looking wurst / sausage to – I kid you not – a car hazard triangle, and a set of Samurai kitchen knives!), was undoubtedly our late night / early morning singalong, where we tried to teach the locals ‘Roll out the Barrel’ at 2am.
This was followed by the most ironic rendition of ‘We Are The Champions’ I’m ever likely to hear. Brilliant.
Sunday was payback day. My legs disowned my body, my body wasn’t talking to my legs, my arms had serious amnesia and thought they’d drowned in a canoe of Wearside.
Actually, talking of canoes, Saturday night’s 4.30am finish, was topped and tailed nicely by Sunday morning’s 10.30 am appointment at the Heiligenhaus Canoe Club (I kid you not).
Brilliantly hosted by a man you would not trust around small children, he cracked open the altbiers and laughed quite humiliatingly at my request for caffeine… He then poured himself half a pint of white wine, and beamed, “I only ever drink wine… in the morning!”
The Good Lord only knows what this man sups post meridian…!
After the canoe club, there was just enough time for a Greek lunch in the darts club (I’m really not joking), before I headed for the airport.
Much concern about cancelled flights later, and I managed to get on the only steel bird into London that night (storms cause the remainder to be cancelled).
This week has been no less hectic, so again, I offer my apologies for failing to communicate.
I will find some time to write something actually related to horse racing over the weekend, and to update on the latest state of affairs in the Nag Fantasy Football League.
I’m off for a well earned lie down and a glass of altbier…
Ciao Pronto!
Matt
posted by Matt at
16:22
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