Leaving the ever-charming land of Guinness and returning to a dreary England, it took a reunion with some old highschool friends to get the spirits back up. Flying into Birmingham and travelling onto the town of Great Malvern in Worcestershire I met up with Doyle and Liv for a few days of drinking, great meals and occasional moronic endeavours.
The friday night saw us hitting up the local for a couple quiet games of pool and a chance meeting with the ‘rain man’. An old bar fly who manage to corner me and explain that everywhere he goes it seems to rain. He went to Australia and all it did was rain during a time of huge drought. The locals where he was visiting, stunned by this sudden change in weather, asked him if he wouldn’t mind going to Broken Hill where it hadn’t rained in two years. Sure enough a visit from this magical man of mystery and it began to rain. The people you stumble across ey?
Off for several more drinks at a bar in the town centre concluded with us happening upon a stainless steel Coors drink tray, (ingeniously misused to open beers) and a wet floor witches hat, that resulted in an argument with an overly stressed and agresssive young motorist. Fun and games.
The following day brought along with sore heads, a visit to Worcester, which has a well-known and pretty impressive Cathedral sitting on the river. After suffering through several hours of shopping it was time to gather materials for the construction of a beer bong, an anomaly it seems to the English.
Sporting this new found tool at a local 21st spiralled rapidly into a long evening of beer bongs, drinking games, stupid dancing and ultimately the fateful last appearance of Desmond. Thinking the time was right for Desmond to bust a move on the dance floor, the carnage soon began. A mob of bloody english, no doubt mortified by the worst defence of the Ashes in it’s entire 124 year history, decided to take their vengance on the hapless inflatable Kangaroo, who was soon hanging limp from the rafters.
Not to be perturbed the beer bongs continued on with a final triumphant beer at 8.30 in the morning atop the highest hill in Malvern in the blistering, dark, bone-chilling cold