The Archive

Rocked

Having been turfed out of gainful employment on Friday, Running Dave suggested that the consultants (who all happen to be close friends) really could do worse than having a day trip to Brighton on the sunny Monday this week.

The man is a genius.

After a leisurely breakfast, followed by a leisurely wait at the station for Unfortunate Nickname Paul as he wrestled with signal failure, points problems and the wrong kind of sunshine, we made it to the South coast.

And it was, I must say, marvelous.

Although, have you ever noticed, as soon as the sun peeps from behind the clouds in this country, the tabloid front pages immediately respond with 'Phew! Britain Scorches" headlines and, without exception, a photo of a beatiful young woman in a bikini on a beach or in a park enjoying the weather?

Well where on Earth do they get those women from? We trawled up and down the beach (for the refreshing walk you understand) and how many hot bikini babes did we find? (Clue - as many as beginner women at a salsa lesson).

We even wandered on to the nude beach (accidentally. No really.) and I have to say I now understand why they keep that lot hidden behind a long pebbly hillock. So much old, heavily sun-exposed skin, I thought I'd stumbled into an exhibition of sculpures all made out of walnuts.

Still, undaunted, we went on to play a highly competitive game of crazy golf (it wasn't that crazy though. I'd call it a mild personality disorder golf course at best) where Paul discovered that his will to win was no match for his will to ogle.

On the crucial putt, the long-sought bikini girl finally walked by (two of them in fact! Just like buses eh? Shapely buses. In bikinis. Mmmmm bikinis.) and THUNK, Paul wildly mishits the ball, losing his team the game. Not that his team mate noticed at the time either.

So after I WON the golf (slighly aided by my partner, who did all the actual winning of the holes while I stood on the sidelines making disparaging comments) we went for a nice drink at the marina.

Now I'm not sure if you know Brighton, but the marina is essentially a very nice area of bars and restaurants and such, slighly diminished by the fact that you have to walk through a car park (complete with authentic urine and junkie aroma) to get there.

Still, point being we got there, drank the afternoon away and a first class time was had by all.

Hurrah!

Now, has anyone got a job I can have please?

ps on a side note, on the day, a new term was invented for, erm, stomach disorders.

It's known as the Gladiator Dump - "At my signal, unleash hell".

posted by Peter The Great @ 11:47 AM