Communiqué Number One.
I have promised you tales from my invasion of France, and tales I shall present.
As you know, Nanny thinks it is better for us not to choose whether not to drink ourselves to death, or do anything like that, but she feels we should be disincentivised by her placing a ruinous tithe upon that which a Chap craves. To whit - Fine virginian rub, Excellent Burgundy and other comestibles which intoxicate, soothe or enlighten one. In fact, she is so stern about what a Chap chooses to do to himself that some of the more colourful tinctures of enlightenment she seeks to prevent us from having at all! Obviously we are not to be trusted with our own lives, and cannot think for ourselves. But enough of my Anarcho-dandyist libertarianism.
A while ago myself and co-conspirator decided that we were to wipe the eye of Nanny (again!) and smuggle ourselves onto the continent, befriend some of the locals, get them to part with their finest wines, cheeses and patés and repair at once to home, under the very nose of the revenue men! Whence home at the 'winehead' we were to split our booty and go home to communue with the swag.
The rest of the tale shall be split into a number of sections to keep it simple, and to stop me spending all day on here and try and be productive at my personal hamster wheel.
Wednesday 8th November 20.00 GMT B(Booze)-Day -1
Arrived at Base camp 1 (Baghsot) and prepared for an extremely early start in the time honoured fashion. Four pints of local ale and a bottle of Fixin Clos Napoleon Premier Cru, plus an oversized dinner each to prepare us for the joys ahead.
Thursday 9th November 02.45 GMT B-Day.
Rose at an hour appointed for those enslaved in 'trades' and clomb aboard the chariot for the frontier. A flask of Earl Grey, a flask of weapons grade coffee and two rounds of parsnip sandwiches were to be our companions as we crept across the south to our secret rendezvous.
Co-conspirator had arranged with a sympathetic French boatman, based at a quaint fishing port to be our carrier across the chops of the channel.
A quaint fishing port, yesterday.
Imagine my horror when I discovered that we were actually to board one of the ghastly contraptions above. Stuck on a ferry with the underwashed! Still, we get to watch the Chavs being sea-sick. Nature knows best.
Despite all this, the chaps here seem terribly well organised, and instead of lurking on some dingy quayside awaiting a darkened lamp from a furtive sea-dog - an engaging and comely young lady in a flourescent jacket seemed only too willing to help us, and even gave us a ticket for these contrivances. She then asked if we were going to France to purchase alcohol - with a conspiratorial wink. She even went on tell us how much we can 'get away with' under the noses of the revenue types. Worringly, though, she did seem to dwell on how many cans of lager we could carry, and knew nothing of a suitable apothecary to purchase laudanum.
It would appear that these coves are entirely complicit in spiriting enterprising young types such as us into France, leaving me with a sense of satisfaction and the knowledge that we wouldn't have to slip past the revenue cutters lurking off the downs.
Thursday 9th November 0515 GMT B-Day
We board the ferry. To our surprise, not a white van man in sight. However, there are a large number of Eastern European Truck Drivers, in identical shell suits, clutching small hold-alls and twirling their 'tasches nervously. They appear to be straight out of central casting. Nothing on the boat was open, including the drivers' lounge, so these sinister looking coves were left to stump about the deck glaring at everyone. I find a corner of comfort, and let morpheus drape his soothing cloak.
To Be Continued...................