The preamble ramble
Those who are easily offended or find themselves looking for the quest for truth or accuracy should turn back or f*ck off now. This report is not for the faint hearted or incontinent. Those who are tasked with writing history may embezzle facts and exaggerate events. There is no difference with this work to any other historical account you may read. - Shakins
The build up to this years tour of duty saw training of the best ignored, fitness laughed at and preparation for another onslaught into the Balkans left for another day. But the day eventually dawned and the old and incontinent mingled with the young and incapable to meet the growing menace of rugby being spawned invetro from the former Ottoman Empire. The shambolic obstruction of the booking desk confirmed there was the usual organisation, a theme that would repeat like a wet chair in a nursing home.
Unlike the “regiment”, the Quintin foreign legion sported veterans from past crusades,
invasions and incursions to lands to the south of Blighty. David “two combs” Hoff, Ian “Tartan electric blanket” Adcock and Andy “McNab” Wilson showed up for the mission. Unavailable for the tour were Chris “I’ve wet em again” Ryan, Mike “I want me mam” Curtis. We did however have a virgin with form in the shape of Bob “Bruce Lee” Bisley. Little did he know that he’d be drunk, abused, wedgied and sleep in the corridor before the day was out. So much for training to excess.
Angry man “NNNNNOOOOO”, began his laments of doom and misery, a hero of a man on cowards legs. Another tale of woe that would come to the fore later. Not mentioning Pookesku’s accidents in the holy Roman Catholic trousers in front of “NNNooooooo”, was also the order of the day, but unfortunately he couldn’t hold himself back, this was another tale for later.
Friday 21st
An early start and was the meet time for a flight at some time later that morning. Shirts were distributed to ensure no one would become lost at the airport or at any time on tour, even at the risk of causing air crashes. It was noted that one of our props had not been bulking up for the tour, Antonio was put under a crash weight gain regime from that moment on, virgin feeders were on strict orders to keep him full at all times. Unlike the present tours worst roommate who claimed “I’ve been looking after my body for some time, my genitals however I’ve ignored as it can stand up for itself”. A fine example and words indeed, something he would come to regret, more of that later. Tour Hoff was dressed and readied for action, a fine figure in leather and hair. Time keeping was sorted with our Kiwi sporting the clock with night light and the tour rabbit “Izzy”, was handed for safe keeping to Alex, what could be simpler? We are on tour, so no points for that open goal.
After wearing out our welcome in the bar and bidding farewell to the hen party to Prague. No imagination there ladies, we headed for the plane. Once onboard it became apparent we had a Lethario of epic proportions who held up passengers getting on for 30 minutes whilst talking to the stewardess’s. On take off this onslaught of spittle and breadcrumbs continued for hours in the vain hope of boring the recipient into submission. It was at this point the excuse for more food was used and Lethario L (L) reportedly asked for a kebab. A kebab at one mile above the ground. What are the chances of that? Non apparently. Tour living dead was hidden under a blanket having passed away somewhere over France, his hairy offspring was unconcerned even when necrophilic acts were offered to the highest bidder. We all landed with all our parts in the same order and location as take off and the living dead miraculously rose from his shroud. With honeymoon appendages at the ready we headed for the coach.
This was the start of a series of giant administrative cock-ups that tour organiser faced with increasing boldness and as the tour progressed, his speed and disappearing silhouette increased with each embarrassing indiscretion. Tour taxis were ordered and most tourist paid the usual 7 levs to town, well there was one car who reportedly paid 49 levs, what a rip off. About £18, ooh that had to sting, especially if you are a cab driver in London, oops! The Hotel Slavianska Beseda was ideally located in the middle of town and that’s about the most complimentary thing they have had said in years. With admission into the EEC in 9 months, they look forward to many more friendly clients from their pals in the Union. Decorated by Stalin’s’ grandmother, you couldn’t knock the eastern influence and taste of the myopic vodka fuelled octogenarian.
With the customary 20 minutes to find the room, wreck another, use all the toilet roll and change for the evening we met in reception for the night out. In crocodile formation the tourists walked for a long time to find the restaurant recommended on the tinternet by tour organiser. Eventually stopping long enough to urinate to such an extent tour guide Pookesku was forced to guide the wayward legion into a nearby wine bar. It looked posh, but the beer was still cheap. Tour organiser went in search of the foodery. Fines were administered for foolishness in the first hours of tour and the usual General Bolt called once the foodelry was located.
Off to the restaurant and several courses were consumed, wines of the best, beers of plenty. Tour Noel was ordained and made a series of challenges to any tourist standing within wedgie distance of him. Songs were sung, customers frightened and food thrown, then it was announced the glass is empty and I’m half full and we moved onto the host’s local. The hosts were thin on the ground but we made up for their lack of attendance by drinking their share as well. The present and incumbent worst room mates room mate made the enlightened announcement that JJ Murphy’s was an Irish Pub. This only confirmed that even when dimly lit, you can still tell from a distance what a twit he is.
After several local beers tourists appeared to move onto several locations. An unhealthy amount had already become fixated on kebabs and had scoured the town in search of the delicacy. Several other tourists found the local night Club. During the evening “Izzy” became detached from an ear and virgins showed locals how to dance. Bangla dancing by unscrewing a light bulb with the left hand while messing up a small boys hair with their right. Several night clubbers making their way home later after finding the local kebab supply, one of which was slapped for not paying. Heinous. Only in the morning did it become apparent how bad the night had become. A truly hideous start to the first day. Those who tried to find any late night TV will have noticed the programs were all foreign with Bueno estente, svinky pinky, Chris Waddel, etheth ethey, Butros Butros Garly, repeated with terrible regularity, there was nothing to do but sleep. Easier said than done with someone chain sawing a rutting hippo in two in the bed next door.
The love ferret excelled himself with his hobby career and Cilla Black impersonations. During the night the incumbent worst room mate was replaced by even worse room mate, kebab eating, shame, it could get no worse. Gentlemen of England were holding their cheap manhood whilst those abroad in foreign fields and bushes were awake and introducing the class and sophistication of south west London to Sofia. Tourists thus arrived for the pre-game warm up in a sad state. Tour bouffant, L, the new worst room mate on tour, it was all too much to think about. It was apparent there were hobbledy hoy on tour.. This was an evening to forget to remember.
Saturday 22nd
Running on fumes, kebab remains and 3 hours sleep, breakfast was missed completely or some caught the first sitting going to bed. Meeting in reception and taking the air, the smell of stale alcohol and other bodily pongs was tremendous. Last minute runs to the sandwich shop, the Kentucky and we were told to form a blob and head for the Radisson. Within minutes there were stragglers and those who were tempted by the pub. For the tourists who made it, they were welcomed by the local tramps with their bottomless pizza pockets. Once more tour organiser began to get a paedophiles sweat on as the bus hadn’t turned up, after a few more phone call’s we were off to the Cathedral and the tour bus. Swiftly blamed on a translation problem, apparently Radisson is very similar to the pronunciation of das cathedral.
Off to the park, a quick change Alf Rescue and we were ready to take on the mighty of Sofia in the form of JJ Murphy’s (AKA Murphy’s misfits). They appeared to be a nice bunch of expat’s and colonial types along with a selection of local talent. Supporters in pink and the team decked in the traditional scarlet and green we were ready to go.
Whistle, kick off by Q’s ..two three four and Gayvorsku had launched himself with his Germananic square head into the fair ginger eyebrow of Capt. Birdseye. 4 seconds play and Chocolate prop had virtually flaked out. The Stream whose face makes Darleks hide behind the couch threw in to four lines of people, missing all of them. On one occasion even trying a quick one to his handsome brother and missing the pitch. The new worst room mate demonstrated how his fractured hairline had led to a massive hair loss. Electric Adcock was tackled once and went off for a rub down from Bob Bisley. We also had NOOOO, hit his finger, strike the ground, clutch the hand, scream the agony and swear the word (feck) and go off to join the queue for a military massage. Shocker of the day was tour organiser show boating, weaving and side stepping to score a winner late in the second half. Even this wasn’t Smithed to take the game. I can’t remember, the score was about 19-17, but game three and captain ginger butter had the honourable title of undefeated in the Balkans for a second year or third game. Ginger butter is not, on this occasion, the marks left in ginger ladies knickers. It was a very close and fair game with Murphy’s just being pipped in the last few minutes. Warm beer and a quick change and we were treated to an international.
Flown in specially, Hungary met the Bulgarian national side in their national rugby stadium. The Quintin fairly male voice choir was in fine voice and serenaded players and fans alike with many a tune until we did that Welsh number and found out there was a sheep sh@gger on the pitch. Failed Mexican waves, the entertaining bear mascot, the inaugural virgin 100 metre sprint. We also saw the complete failure of McNab to assassinate the highly trained security patrol. His leopard crawl in luminous pink and green was doomed from the start, especially with a sponge hand taped to his foot. Mullet, Umpalumpah, and Waterman 7 could do little to stop a one sided match and Hungary took the game for some qualifier of the world cup.
A quick drink in the local bar, a decorated giraffe and obligatory self ridicule. Blazer and non tour clothing offences punished. On the way back the bronze relay statue was decorated by virgins and various sponge hands. Back on the coach and a trip back to the Cathedral. With warnings of a quick turn around and the promise of food, tourists were given no time for a proper wash or poo-poo and we were ordered to meet for an evening with our hosts. Knowing the long meaningful stare but not knowing the meaning, meant lateness was not an offence to be party too.
Off to JJ Murphy’s for another night with our hosts. The food was prepared for hours and too many drinks were consumed before the all day breakfast arrived close to the following day. Tour Noel was challenged to a sausage eating competition, this being the fried variety not the rude private variety. Brother of new worst room mate (AKA fractured hairline), showed tour Noel he was not the man of legend his name sake was. Murphy’s Missfit’s Lincoln stepped forward to the plate to take on Izzy minder in an international, nay world series spoons competition. In can only be said that the competition was sadly one sided with the colonial cousin receiving a lesson in cutlery and table manners. More drinks, and the poo-poo in the prawn came out. If Quintin was a prawn there is always a bit of poo-poo in it. It would take the Living Dead until Sunday to punish his wayward offspring for the display of talking cr@p. The tourists began to wander off into the town, the bright lights, the smell of kebabs the bangla dancing were too much for people. There was more over consumption of kebabs during the evening and beer consumed, this would be felt the following day. There was heinous decadent Western excess from the capitalist visitors.
It can only be said that tour Bouffant, hairline fracture and L were out again. A fine display of hair or lack of it in the wee hours. TV was more bueno estente and the promise of Scorchio in the morning and Scorchio it was. During the night there was an accident in the Hoff’s room. The porcelain telephone was damaged beyond repair by buns or persons unknown. A true Pooroit mystery who had murdered the Balkan Bog? Despite bottom inspector threats, no culprit was every found to this crime, Gerald. No stool pigeons, fingered slag’s or old lags came forward to grass anyone called Gerald for the crime at all.
Sunday 23rd
Early risers were treated to a tour of churches and discussions on urination up the back of tramps. The promised floods and plagues of locusts were apparently south of the country and the ground was baked hard ready to break the fall of anyone who tried lying horizontally in the air. With more early morning, last minute, energy drinks and local sandwiches and we were off to the Cathedral and the waiting bus. Apparently they had now agreed this was the better pick up spot. The bus began to head for the snow line and fears of oxygen narcosis and altitude sickness were used as excuses for beer injury and not playing.
The driver showed some fine navigation and a tremendous display of the three point turn, several times in fact. The Bearded lady was seen and on offer to anyone with any energy. Eventually we stopped and walked into the wilderness. Sundays opponents were a mix of local teams and Murphy’s, there were also some lease lend offerings from Quintin. Coyness in the middle of nowhere and the team like sheep used the changing rooms rather than the Alf Rescue approach the previous day in the middle of town??
Onto the park and a fine display of touch line wheezing, bile vomiting and fag smoking ensued. Kick off and with minutes, Nooo and his brave body were threatening to take to the park, he never did having retreated again. The old boys resplendent in their luminous tour socks let experience and their rested bones keep the game in reach. Turn coat Pookesku, demonstrating why he is the worst catholic since Genghis Khan managed to score (without dropping or generally b@llsing it up) twice. The Hoff was determined to wind up Ginger Butter and half time saw a very serious talking too from captain Butter. The fat Hoff was to be denied and Pookesku was to be ridiculed.
High altitude Ebola stuck with several nose bleeds and retirements, the second half saw the finest display of hair in motion since the Harmony hairspray advert as tour bouffant sprinted elegantly down the wing in a vain hope of catching someone much younger. The unbelievable happened. Tour organiser and show boater did it again, coming in with his telegraphed side step and bangla hip swerve. He scored again snuffing out the opposition and a second win for the undefeated Quintin in the Balkans. Admittedly Quintin were miles ahead by this stage but lightening, well decrepit shuffling does strike twice. The crowd went wild, well not really. Tour undead played despite the grafting and we saw Antoine finish the game with a fine display of vomiting. Strange as it was widely reported that he was in fact refused a kebab the night before. God only knows what was left on the pitch. A quick change and cold showers and a quite afternoon on the terrace overlooking the town looked on the cards. It wasn’t to be and awards and fines were administered for players of merit and low quality. The country quiet and tranquillity was ruined by shouting, singing, screaming and verbiage. Age and experience said stay where you are, the court has no friends or favourites, but the henchmen ushered us onto the bus. Time expired and we bade our fare wells and the last chance of sanity before the court.
Orders and threats of retribution were issued for late comers and a warm welcome to all tourists and virgins for the Bulgarian session of court. Tour Hoff as presiding judge, tour organiser as prosecution, new tour worst room mate (AKA fractured hairline) defence, and his brother as bailiff.
Crimes and punishments of note.
It should be noted that the list of crimes, accused and punishments are long and comprehensive however for the benefit of the court and the memory of the senile below are a selection of heinous infringements to good taste and general misdemeanours. Defence counsel was of the usual quality, wasting the court and accuser’s time by turning up. Breath taking impertinence was shown by many of the guilty nay inadequate defendants, with the exception of Vines who showed more breath holding impotence.
The offences
Name Crime Punishment
Kiwi Dave Being lost, too many kebabs Taped to vines
All virgins beating the bear A shot
The bear losing to the virgins A shot
Capt. Birdseye Wearing mascara on one eye To dress as a woman
Highlander/Gordon Being immortal/the living dead To fight to the death
Sting Being refused Dress as
Chippendale/oiled by Vines
Various culprits Gluttony of kebabs Dogging Capt. Birdseye
Living dead Not controlling his son Use of the belt
Izzy Carrier Losing an ear Shot/Confidential to take
a bullet
Dyke Being Dyke Being taped to
Kiwi/Vines
Hong Kong Phooey Colour blind/ripped off Decorated by virgins
Virgin Queen Failure to assassinate security guard Shot
Mel Gibson/Maylee Sisterhood indiscretion Shot
Angry man Cowardice and refusal muscle display with tour Noel
There were many more crimes, but it is also appropriate to report the blindside forwards were absent or cowardly in the extreme in taking their punishments. Tour Stream the elder and No will be wearing a lot of yellow next tour. Memorable moments were the deballasting problems encountered with messrs Vines, Dyke and Kiwi, although it is reported they managed without crossing the plasma beams. Americans came to observe and were punished for turning up. Capt. Birdseye had managed to pull a dogger and was seen skipping and looking in jewellery shops on the way back to the hotel. Like loves young dream, but his own jewellery caused an irreconcilable rift when a hand went down his drawers. There was no wedding.
It was the last chance to say good bye to the hospitable people of Sofia and many tourists threw caution and Zlotys up the wall for a final night. I can only report that age, stamina, Easter Sunday and fines had all taken their toll, so there was less late night fast food and many tourists looked remarkably chipper for their return trip. It was also our last chance to say thank you to Murphy’s who were excellent hosts.
Monday 24th
Bags in reception, smells in the lobby and thousand yard stares, the Gardening Club waved good bye and good riddance to the Riff raff, Hoy polloi and Dyke. It was time for some culture with the cultured and Mr Bouffant. Tour organiser had managed to book several extra days to random tourists, more administrative difficulty. Luckily having been thrashed by the undead the bearded son with the plague of eyebrows was able to get home, others had to stay and endure.
Gardening Club – The first rule of gardening club. Do not talk about gardening club
11.30 am Monday 24th May
Tour organiser assured us that the bus company had done it again, the tour was Tuesday, this denied our tour guides Pookesku and Gaynovoski a trip to the Monastery at Rila. A sad reflection of tour organisers’ shambolic approach and a disappointment to our tour guides who had been waiting since Thursday for the chance to guide us around their country. Pookesku had a heavily pregnant wife to feed and make her a lesser danger to shipping moving up into the mountains. Instead we were forced to use the fabled Shakins tour guide book.
In no time we were treated to the Cathedral we had been waiting outside every day since we arrived. Next some old place of St. George, lots of places with onion spires, double and treble crosses, the changing of the guard, it was a tour without compare. Gaynovoski was furious with the quality and knowledge on display, Inglish bastardo was heard through his beer and Gatorade breath. On to the monument in the park, it then began to deteriorate. The monument to 1300 years of oppression was surrounded by a corrugated iron fence and falling to bits. Lasting a full 15 years it was now tatty. We were then refused entrance to the cultural centre and the top floor viewing gallery. Onto the bridge of lovers (a walkway over the dual carriageway). We could take no more and stopped for some refreshment. Tour organiser wanted to see the river, others the national stadium, others another pub. After a rest we were off again the river was a 6 foot wide open sewer, the stadium a stadium surprisingly. Off to the Russian liberation/occupation monument. Still in reasonable condition, but showing signs of some stripping to make a marble base for a modern bathroom. All very eastern European, and time for pop and ice cream. Later we saw the mausoleum of the last governor of Bulgaria, gawd bless im.
Our tour guide Pookesku was overcome with the excitement of the tour, on his return and with comical timing he had miscalculation in the lift with a dry fart. Unfortunately his only pair of long keks were blasted with this slattery guffette. He returned after a scrape down in his last pair of shorts for the evening.
Dinner with steak at Flannigans, a few beers and off for some 10 pin bowling. It can only be reported that Mr Angry was rubbish and was even funnier for getting frustrated and becoming more angry with being rubbish. Smithed it, Smithed a few, especially when I dropped the ball on purpose. Winner with a ridiculously high almost professional score was Pookesku who only wished he had been playing for roubles for his wife and family. Who knows what these foreign pant filling types get up to. He did leave a nice tip for the maid in the bin covered by some crisp wrappers mind, nice chap. Part wedgied, well worn and soiled under crackers.
The night deteriorated, I am Immortal became mortal with drink. Pookesku had to borrow a pair of long trousers to get in the casino from Prince Albert the elephant seal of love. Having defaced his holy Catholic Trousers he was now looking like coco the clown in a tatty blazer, they went off to gamble their last levs away.
Tuesday 25th
In the morning our two tour guides left for the UK with dreams of council houses and social security. The morning saw a late start and another bus organised for the Radisson. A risky pick up as the EU were in town, but no matter the bus arrived and the remaining tourists were off to the monastery. This trip took three hours there. The countryside was rolling with trees, fields, more trees, fields of this and that and some horrible eastern tower blocks and shut down factories. These were the main sights for the wayward monastery hunter. No matter this was one of the biggest tourist sites and an international heritage site. There were a lack of Eddy Stobart, so dead dog counting was the sport developed enroute, more so on the way home.
Into the hills, forests, trees, steep valleys and snowline above us we turned into the last straight and car park with the monastery ahead. “I don’t like it” was uttered and we debussed. We thought 2 hours would be OK. The tour was over with a slow walk in about10 minutes. Rasputin and his boss the Abbott miserable git showed up so there was no entry if you were in shorts. Luckily there was a bar. Rila is a monastery with few monks, an old church with medieval paintings of various biblical scenes. The outside is dormitories in a square around the central church. Fully restored with EU cash you can hardly see where it was burnt down. More laps of the place and the vain search for the last loo roll ate up more time and it was soon time to go.
Off to the hotel again and dog counting. The arrival score was 7 dogs, 3 cats, 1 badger, a fox and various animals of undetermined origin, or mystery meat. The evening was another civilised meal and a drink at the Bulgarian Army officers Club. The sophisticated should have found this place earlier, it was were the posh totty were. For those with more money than sense, the casino beckoned again.
Wednesday 26th
A civilised start to the day and the hotel manager presented the bill for broken toilets, doors and beds, which came in with a huge price tag of €80. It has to get more expensive when they join the EEC, if only they knew what’s coming. Breakfast and a last look at the market, shopping for souvenirs and a packing up. Flights home were uneventful except tour organiser took the blame again for the flight being late. Elephant seals’ Kalashnikov was a source of concern with security and had to be stowed in the hold. Back in blighty the customs took a special interest in the souvenir, was it expensive??..
With fondled farewells the gardening club departed for home. Another fine tour and cultural extravaganza for the gardeners. Good effort.
PS. Apparently one tourist who left his card behind the bar was advised he had been done for a princely £500 for some expensive plonk. Oops and beer was so cheap. There was obviously some food involved with that sort of bill.
Chris “chuffer Phooey” Roberts