The night before the morning after.
What horror story is going to unfold this time you are asking yourselves. I know, you won’t believe me when I say none, but it’s true! You are in for a bloody good laugh however.
I’d split up with the woman I loved and was living in a bedsit in Worthing back in 1985 and I had done my damnedest to restore contact with all the guys I used to know. In the fullness of time Easter came round and it was suggested that we went down to the New Forest for the weekend. So off we went; me and my red 400-4 with Slim on the back, Al on his CB750 and Rob on a CB900.
The journey down to the New Forest was tough for the 400-4 until we pulled over under a bridge on the motorway near Fareham, had a fag and deposited Slim onto the back of Rob’s bike thus making my old girl capable of sensible speeds. (For those of you who haven’t worked it out, Slim wasn’t!)
We finally arrived at the campsite adjacent to the Balmer Lawn Hotel in the early afternoon, drove in straight past the site attendant, found our pitch and then walked back to pay the man who was less than pleased with us.
The afternoon passed away with us putting up the tent, getting food and generally being idle. The evening saw us being lured into the bar of the hotel by the promise of cheap beer... and cheap it was. Courage Directors at 50p a pint! After an evening of rowdy drinking we left the bar only to be confronted by a two-fold obstacle; fresh air and a 300 yard walk in the pitch dark over roots and through trees to get back to the tent.
The trouble with fresh air is that it is bad for you. You can sit in a smoky, crowded bar, drink all night, walk around, go for a pee and have no problems what so ever. As soon as you step outside, however, and breathe in that fresh air, it goes straight to your head and you become intoxicated. Which is what happened. You know that queasy feeling in the pit of your guts that lets you know that the merest hint of fried breakfasts or of anything vaguely lavatorial will make you puke, so you concentrate on walking, trying to ignore everything else that is going on around you. Of course it doesn’t work. One of the others ( I was too drunk on fresh air to remember which) was walking passed a skip and the urge to chuck his cookies was too much, so over the side of the skip his head went and the retching began. As did the chain reaction. Whether through laughter or the thought of what was going on, all four of us had eventually assumed the position around the car park barfing to our hearts content and scaring the straights. After that it was “simply” a case of trying to negotiate our way back to the tents, in the dark, through the trees and over tree roots, all the while resisting the urge to burst into wild, raucous laughter.
At this point, the astute amongst you all, my dear audience, will have noted that, other than the journey to the New Forest, there has been no mention of bikes…or disasters. Suffice to say that, in the second episode of this tale, all will be revealed as will what S.A.D. stands for. ;)
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