Lost In Fullham : Day 1

A few weeks ago four of us headed out into town (Chancery Lane) to have a few pigs ears, and to then into Covent Garden or Piccadilly or one of those equally well known places that confuses me, particularly when I'm heading towards inebriation, and I'm surrounded by 3 of the most impossibly chaotic individuals in London today. At some point during the early evening, we all lost track of time and in conjunction with the marvellous directions of TheShearer and DJD, it was evident that there indeed was a trainwreck approaching.

One of the first stops was a Weatherspoons pub, which without music - or any sort of ambience for that matter - was absolutely rancid. Sure, the drinks were relatively cheap, but with the lads on the tear, the last thing that was on the agenda was a quiet night at Weatherspoons. As the group was about to depart TheShearer got talking to a couple of 'lovelies', which led to the following response:-

TheShearer, "So, what do you ladies do?"
NotSoLovelies, "I'm an accountant and she works in administration."
CBJ, "I'm a fruit-picker",
TheShearer, "I sell 'The Big Issue'",
MBC, "I'm a performance artist",
DJD, "I own a kebab shop!"
NotSoLovelies,"Ohhhhh!"

It's a strange day when 6 people all fail to tell one line of the truth, as it was obvious from their demeanour, attire and appearance that they were professional eaters.

With our introductions and farewells quickly sorted, we high-tailed it out of there, for want of well-worn cliche, well not really for want of, more likely because I am to writing what Gary Ayres is to coaching.

MBC was once again in the mix, and for a moment it looked like he was going to put the moves on some kindhearted Brit who was giving CBJ directions to the area that the motley four was fast walking away from. Thankfully good sense prevailed, and our direction-giving heroine was able to escape unscathed from MBC's entreaties.

The lads strode on, and - having not had a brew for 20 minutes or so - we started looking for a bar, which - if you've been to London, you'd know - is akin to trying to find burnt out and highly overrated musicians at a U2 concert. In other words, it's decidedly easily, and whats more, you know it's true.

The four of us wander into some Irish-looking pub, to be served by some Polish guy struggling to speak English, and order a round of spirits, so he customarily pours us all doubles, but then TheShearer pulls the master stroke, and asking the poor Pole bastard if he'd pussied out and only given us singles - which we all knew he hadn't - pretty much forcing a free-handed addition of spirits, and additional burden to the flagging sobriety.

As we stumbled out of the pub, we found that we were pretty much on the banks of the Thames which was nowhere near our planned destination, and as it was almost closing time, there was only one thing that could save us.... the Embankment Walkabout! Wait, did I say it could save us? I was wrong on that front, the 'trainwreck' mention earlier in the day was what really beckoned.

The game-plan changed pretty quickly as the 'snake-bites' started kicking in, and before you could say "TheShearer may go AWOL", he went AWOL, but that's not particularly surprising, that's for sure. There have been many famous Aussie disappearances, and although Azaria and Jaidyn are two such examples, TheShearer's ability to disappear puts Copperfield to shame, and puts him on a level playing-field with the aforementioned duo.

MBC, CBJ and DJD kept up the vigil and leaving no stone unturned, they scoured the walkabout for TheShearer, but alas, he was obstinate in is absence. So the Embankment Four, as they were never referred to as, were soon reduced to three, but as the rules of these stories dictate, things were to change, and not necessarily for the better.

Unbeknownst to the casual Walkabout patron - if there's such a thing - the trio were all in search of nirvana, in whatever form it may take. For CBJ, it was seemingly the need to totally embarrass himself on the dancefloor doing arguably the world's worst Eminem impression, whereas MBC was trying to convince a group of PWC Accountants that home-made porn was indeed the purest form of entertainment, but the average punter could have easily mistaken the impetus of such endeavours, due to DJD's world record attempt of dancefloor/table consummation of relations, but that's a whole other story.

Ok, perhaps it's not!

As the lads were making their way to a less stacked section of the Walkabout, DJD suddenly stopped, and motioned for the boys to halt, and halt they did, for they knew the look in his eyes, it was the look of a hunter before taking down some large and exotic prey, and it was also the look that signified something more dangerous, the look of a man about to indulge in unspeakable acts, which - if this were not written from - should end here.

CBJ and MBC had not only stopped their forward advance, but they'd withdrawn to a respectful distance, for want of a diversion from the fact that they were sickened and appalled at what they feared was about to take place, not to mention that the diversion was the word 'respectful' in the first place.....

Many things can be said about DJD, and irrespective of the descriptors that are sometimes used, three word combinations were the order of the day - or moment - at this point.

'What the fk?'
'How the hell?'
'Fastest pickup ever!'

The events that transpired were to inexplicability as Lebron James is to teenage basketballers, seriously! MBC and CBJ turned to each other, shrugged, and started stockpiling canned foods and bottled water for the coming Apocalypse!

Any casual observer - for want of possibly the greatest oxymoron in history - watching the spectacle unfold could easily be excused for thinking they had front-row seats to an 'Ultimate Fighting' match-up with two grappling gurus. None of the bystanders were certain as to whether or not the event could be considered Greco Roman, but one large and surly bouncer knew what it was, and after three or four minutes of scrutiny from mere inches away, it was evident it was something he didn't approve of, and with some surly - and rather burly - bouncer gestures and bouncer grunts and grimaces, it was obvious that he wanted DJD and GrapplingLawyerChick to cease and desist all activities at once. Which they did, kinda, before renewing their table-top tryst with renewed vigor. But the damage was done, the digital camera had already found it's mark.

Unawares of the commotion, DJD and GrapplingLawyerChick continued, causing merriment to MBC, CBJ and GrapplingLawyerChick's friends, which included PWC-Recruiter, PWC-Accountant and AnnoyingCanadian, which upon reflection, represented one helluva collection of monikers to fit into one mini-cab, but stranger things have happened. Bangladesh vs Australia, for example. Then again, that never happened......

However, only one thing could stop such momentum, but since there weren't any UN Peacekeepers nearby, things continued unabated, until the ugly lights came on, and all and sundry were ushered from the premises, including the above assortment of aliases. With the realisation that the night was coming to an end - and possibly the apocalypse - consensus amongst the rank and file was to relocate to Fulham, and with surprising ease, a mini cab was found, and the journey began.

Packed 7 deep in the mini-cab, the ubiquitous 'ominous foreshadowing' was ringing in the ears, but like any adventurers testing their mettle, the boys held on, fighting off asphyxiation and the unwanted attention of 4 upwardly mobile professionals intent on only one thing, and what a fight they put up.

AnnoyingCanadian:- I'm NOT from America, I'm from Canada!
MBC:- Isn't Canada in North America?
AnnoyingCanadian:- No!
MBC:- What the?
CBJ:- It's near Texas, MBC, you dolt!
AnnoyingCanadian:- I'm not talking to you anymore.

And no word of a lie, she didn't!

Not even in part II...