Away to Foreign Shores
June 2002 saw the brigade troop off to northern France just as the rest of the country was settling in to celebrate the Queen’s Jubilee. She need not have worried however, for there was a corner of some foreign field that was forever England, where the Union Jack fluttered proudly all week…even if we were the only people to see it.
A Very British Affair
The dining room was a veritable bastion of Britishness, a place where the empire lived on and Wellington’s defeats of Napolean were the hot topic of conversation (as long as you could stay awake and had played the right computer game).
What’s more, French TV showed the World Cup so we could watch all the really important stuff. Vive le wallchart!
As the port made it’s way round the table, and Janette puffed on her cigar, we were proud to be British. If only John could have remembered the words to the national anthem our week would have been complete.
There were always some however prepared to take their devotion to the flag one step too far. Shirl should really have known that this hat was just not his style, but then again if you remember Norfolk you would have to say it was an improvement. What’s more in case you forgot this is what he looked like last year…
It had to happen…Lovely Boys…
Imagine the scene, you’re sat around the table talking about the speed of battleships and whether the license fee should be spent on spreading the global appeal of the BBC, urged on to further debate by your lovely supporting other halves, when some one suggests touching tongues. Disgusting? Immature? Or a problem needing to be halved?
Well theirs seemed to be a moment to savour. Tongues spotted across a crowded room were soon wagging their way to each other with a little bit too much enthusiasm. Alan looked on, briefly distracted from his fourteenth yogurt as like electric eels at a seventies disco, their tongues danced the night away.
Lazy Sunny Afternoon
The sun shone briefly on one day, when the boules got serious and the bbq justified the price tag. Chris took to the task with typical white wine in hand, until Jackie decided to step in and make sure his sausage was well and truly cooked.
Of course, no group holiday would be complete without some competition or other to get the adrenaline flowing. Boules was no.1 for a while until John started to win, then table tennis was the thing to be seen playing, before Outburst made its appearance. This was actually a game, as opposed to a request for some one or other to have a moan (we’ll not mention any names here, but if ever you do start a game with this individual make sure you have enough pens handy).
Some of the team got so scared they took to hiding themselves in their sweatshirts. Unfortunately the person who sold him “discreet attire for the sporty man” was having a larf – the only genuine gap being left in his wallet rather than the one on his jumper. It seems such a shame that young Freddie, the life and soul of many an evening is going to end up just the same. Is there nothing we can do?
Is this man really Ricky Gervaise…?
We spent a week with this man before we recognised him off the tele. Here we see him sitting plucking chest hair in a sophisticated sort of way whilst ensuring his fake rolex gets in on the shot.
The only prize he took this year was shared with his better half, when they won COUPLE OF THE YEAR. This was no fluke – evidence re-emerging from last year’s little outing suggests they must have been a close second even then…either that or they were trying to get into Readers Wives.
News just in!!!
It has been brought to our attention by the Jersey judge that there was a degree of cheating taking place during the Boules competition. Whilst Alan danced his way to defeat, some one was gaining an unfair advantage in the fashion stakes.
It was a cold and stormy night…
..and murder was afoot. Or an arm, or a leg. Wartime Casablanca was recreated in the French fields on this particular day, as we tried to solve the case of the murdered dancing gymnast thingy. I think. Having struggled for most of the night to open the wine, I missed the fact the window overlooked the garden, Suzie was in fact a man, and Herr Flick had turned up for the evening with a frighteningly large stick.
The scariest thing about the whole event was the fake accents, varying from Welsh through to genuine Kentish drawl. It’s just as well none of us had to try and ask for anything serious in French. Well, apart from those who visited the broken bone clinic in their attempt to clear up their small child’s ear infection. Where are social services when you need them?