School rugby trip

In 1978 I was a skinny 16 years old and like my peers, had an umbilical like affinity to beer. Infact anything alcohol related. I suppose it was the fact that we shouldn't yet be drinking that gave it the mystique that surrounded it. We also thought we had the capacity for enormous quantities, despite falling over after a couple of pint shandies. Nothing has changed and I still lack that capacity. Thankfully, I also lack the beer belly that nomally accompanies such volumous drinking. Back then, I went on a school trip to Murryfield to see Scotland play France. I'd been there before on previous trips. Only this one turned out to be a bit of a headache. Literally. In the days leading up to the trip, we were all called into the assembly room where the headmaster left no doubt what the rules were: NO DRINKING:- Any boy caught trying to board the bus with alcohol would have it confiscated and he wouldn't be allowed on the bus. He would be required to present himself at the headmaster's office first thing Monday morning. Any boy subsequently caught in possession of alcohol would be left at Murryfield and not allowed on the bus back to Dundee. His parents would be notified and expected to collect him from the stadium. He too would be required to present himself at the headmaster's office first thing Monday morning. Any boy returning to the bus after the game, having consumed alcohol, would not be allowed on the bus and his parents notified and asked to collect him from the stadium. Oh, and no smoking. So there you have it. Alcohol was clearly their biggest concern, but don't smoke either. The trip through was unmemorable. So much so, that I can't remember it. I can't remember the trip back either, but that we'll come to in a bit. Arriving in Edinburgh, we seperated from the teachers who had accompanied us. No doubt they were quite happy with that arrangement and headed straight to the nearest bar. Joined up thinking prevailed and we passed by the first pub and headed for the second where we managed to purchase a few beers and enjoy the hospitality of some enthusiastic (if not very drunk) French supporters. Inside the ground, the beer continued to flow, and thanks to the hospitality of the Frenchmen, so did the brandy. The last I remember, was a 10 minutes into the first half. I was standing on one of the supports for the crowd barrier, feeling a little tipsy. Apprently my fall was not only from grace, but onto the crowd in a very drunken mess and drunkenly unconscious. Thankfully my friends made sure I was okay and managed to prop me up against the barrier where I would remain until one of them managed to find a teacher. Thankfully, the teacher he found was one of the good guys and he carried me to the bus. Unfortunately (and I can't blame him), the driver refused to let me on the bus and left me in the care of (lets call him) Mr Bisset. He then carried me from the stadium to the train station where he phoned my father and waited with me until he arrived. I suppose in those days, the drive to Murryfield from Dundee would have been at least 90 mins, and obviously the same going back again. Well I wakened on the floor of my dad's car as we turned into the driveway at home about 4 hours later. Panic suddenly set in as I realised where I was. Surely I was in for absolute hell. With a calm voice that scared the shit out of me I was told to climb out and slowly I staggered my way into the house and into bed. Obviously dad knew the hangover I would suffer would be worse than any punishment he could hand out. He was right. Sunday was a living hell. The point at which you realise things can get worse and move from - oh my god I'm dying, to oh my god - I'm not getting out of this that easily. 

Mum's soup helped, but just gave me ammunition to projectile vomit until sleep helped ease the explosions going off in my head.

By Monday morning, I was no longer hungover, but still felt like shit. A sort of combination of general illness, shame and fear of the unknown that lay ahead as I faced the wrath of the headmaster. Would I be expelled and bring shame on my family? Or would I be writing lines for the next 6 weeks? Sure as a cat's a hairy beast I would be grounded for the next 10 years.

As I walked into the school grounds, people looked at me differently. Word had spread and everyone already knew I was the one who had been drunk to the point of unconsciousness at the rugby. 

The first class lasted about 2 minutes before I was summoned to the headmasters office. Oh shit. I walked there as slowly as I dared, putting off the inevitable for as long as possible.  

The headmasters office had one of those traffic light systems outside, with the red light showing he was busy. As I approached I feared the worst, especially when I heard the raised voices within. One of the other teachers who had been on the trip was having a shouting match with the headmaster. 

The 5 minutes I was told to stand there felt like a life time. Finally the door opened and a very red faced teacher stormed out, staring daggers at me. Turned out he had been caught with beer on the return bus trip and was in deeper shit than me. I was told what a disgrace I was and dismissed with little more than a dented pride. 

I never did find out what the final score was until I researched it for writing this tale of woe. 

France won 19 - 16

Downhill on the way back

A long time ago I was asked to help out with a trip to Belgium for local school children. Not being adverse to a free holiday I thought to myself, how difficult can it be? Well, if you ever get the chance, don't do it.

We were to meet at a local primary school where the bus would pick us up. At 6pm. That means that 30 primary school children will be fed and watered, filled with sugar and all sorts of "E" numbers AND be hyper at the start of the holiday. What had I let myself in for? And why? As a favour to my ex mother-in-law, the teacher who had arranged the trip. 

By the time the last of the kids arrived and luggage was packed, my ears hurt from the volume generated by such small people. The floor of the bus was already wet and sticky from spilled juice and some of the kids had changed into pyjamas for the overnight journey to Belgium. There were pillows, sleeping bags, cuddly toys and anything else you can associate with children's bed time, but they were all so hyper, there was no chance of any sleeping, that's for sure. 

Not unexpectedly, the first aid kit was put to use before we even set off and as we (adults) settled down in our seats at the frot of the bus, there was bedlam behind, including wailing, crying and frantic waving as we started our journey. Thankfully the bus had a toilet, cos the first call for it happened after about 500 yards, and was the start of a never ending queue throughout the night. By Longforgan, there was the first shout of "are we there yet?" Not quite I replied, only 5 minutes gone and another 20 hours to go.!!!!

Normally, I would go from Dundee to Perth, down the A9 towards Glasgow then south to Dover from there. Our bus driver decided to go via Kinross and the A977 to Kincardine. This gave me an idea. Why not pass the time winding up the curious kids? 

As we approached Kincardine Bridge, I asked if any of the children had seen or heard of the movie " Bridge on the River Kwai". Quite a few claimed to have seen it and were so excited when I told them they were about to cross it. The excitement spread and fame shone like a   beacon from those who claimed to recognise it. One even claimed her dad helped build it. Not bad for a dad whose own father would barely have been alive at the time. 

After a stop at Southwaite services - that's a joy I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy- for a change of driver, we continued down to Dover and the ferry to  Zeebrugge. 

The devil in me emerged again mid crossing here when one little cherub switched on her pocket radio that had lovingly been tuned to Radio Tay and her favourite DJ - Ally Bally. Imagine her dismay at it now picking up a French speaking station. I calmed her by saying that we were close to France, so Ally Bally was speaking in French. Happy again, but none the wiser, she left content to listen to Radio Calais or some such similar crap.

Keeping the kids safe and occupied on the ferry was a chore, so why not take them for a tour of the boat?  If in doubt, make it up. They don't know, don't care and lap up the professed knowledge like a cat with a saucer of cream. 

At one point, land was nowhere to be seen and a curious young lad asked "how does the driver know where to go?" Actually a very good question, but easily answered with a trip to the back of the boat. As we all stood there looking at the line of churned water formed in our wake, That streched back as far as we could see, I said " do you all see that white line painted on the water?" In unison there was a confident but primary school slow "yes". Well that line runs all the way to Belgium and the driver follows it all the way to where we are going. Gullible doesn't cover half of it. Maybe this trip wasn't going to be half as bad as I expected.

My mistake was claiming to be the font of all knowledge. This sheer stupidity caused a ceaseless barrage of questions, some nautical and others obtuse, but ever the source of fun. 

One serious pupil asked a sensible question of the "are we nearly there yet" variety but framed in a more intellectual way. "How long does it take to get to Belgium on the ferry?" Whilst I don't remember now, I did know at the time and accurately recounted the journey time. This also have me the opportunity for some more fun by explaining that whilst it took that long to go there, the return journey would only be half that time, cos it was downhill!!! Hook, line and sinker. 

No doubt when some of them got home they would have argued black was white with their patents that the ferry home was downhill, that the driver followed s white line painted on the water, that Ally Bally  broadcast from Dundee to Calais in French and that they all travelled over the bridge on the river Kwai. 

They all had great time and learned a lot (ranging from the truth, to something like the truth, to Hans Chritian Anderson) and came back richer in spirit and wiser in culture. 

Did I enjoy my school trip! Yes.

Would I do it again? ....  I'd rather staple my tongue to a burning building!!!!!

Holland is full of surprises.

I live and work in The Netherlands. Work involves a 25 minute train commute from Rotterdam to The Hague and actually, it is the most relaxing way to start and end the day. No more fighting through traffic, queues a mile (sorry kilometer) long followed by the frantic search for a parking space. The Hague itself is a fantastic place to go to on a daily basis. It is truly the most amazing, beautiful and wonderously historic of towns. Almost like a fairy tale really. An eclectic mix of wonderously stunning historic buildings and quirky modern architecture. I hope I never become accustomed to it, 'cos its a joy everyday and nothing surprises me anymore. Naturally, such a fantastic place is full of beautiful women so it takes someone extraordinary to stand out from the crowd... so to speak. Well one did. The other day I was on the tram heading from work to the train station when I saw her. Very attractive, and pleasing on the eye (or eyes if you still have both). She was about 30 - 35 years old, approximately 5 feet 8 inches tall with shoulder length blonde hair which was immaculately coiffeured and bouncing like that advert for "Silvekrin". She was slim and sexy, with bumps in all the right places and wearing a seductive and very fetching dark coloured business suit, the skirt of which was just above the knee (actually above both her knees, 'cos she still had two legs). The shoes were a simple pair of black slingbacks with about a 4" heal - high enough to stretch and accentuate the calf muscles and lengthen the legs, but not too high to appear sluttish. Her briefcase was sleek and stylish Italian leather and even complimented her designer handbag perfectly. She just oozed sex appeal. She was class and she knew it. So did everybody else that saw her. But, I hear you ask, if there are so many good looking women working in The Hague (and there are), then why was this one so memorable? Well, when I saw her she was travelling about 15 miles per hour down the main street on her skateboard. Each to their own!!!!!