Showing posts with label insecure dave. Show all posts
Showing posts with label insecure dave. Show all posts
Thursday, 31 December 2009
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Killing Time
The quiz had kept us up late - we'd waited because of CDWM and we'd waited for Tom to finish a job application - so there weren't many heads over the parapet first thing. It was my turn to do bread and breakfast, so I went to the boulangerie on my own to collect what was needed. I managed to explain, in french, that I was feeling a little tired because of all the wine. The baker smiled and titled her head at me. "Are you staying in the chateau?" she asked. I nodded. She nodded, knowingly.
Breakfast became brunch became lunch as more people rose and the day warmed. Vinny, Skinner, Tom, Hannah and I filled a box with beers, and went down to the river to fish. I wasn't bothered about fishing, really, but I was very interested in the box of beers. Insecure Dave and Dom followed on. We found a sandy cutting through the reeds that led down to a sunny spot by the river. I shudder to think of what the channel we were fishing in was designed for. It certainly wasn't natural. Vin soon tired of fishing, and Skinner seemed restless too, so we went back to Ventenac. We took a different route through the vineyards, and were set upon by score of flying ants. "France is a load of shit!" said Skinner, "this is horrible."
The team re-convened on the small balcony, and we drew cards for murder.
"We are about to play a game of murder, most horrid." Murder is a game. It's a little bit like mafia,, a little bit like wink murder, and a little bit like something else. This is how it works: a murderer is chosen at random and in secret, using playing cards. The murderer has a killing period, perhaps 24 hours from the drawing of the cards. In that time they must commit at least one murder. A murder is committed by the murderer presenting their victim with (semi-)realistic means to carry out a real murder. The victim is now dead in the context of the game, and must lie still until discovered (within reason). The only information that the dead can give to the living is an 'autopsy report' detailing how they were killed and the approximate time of death. The other players conduct informal investigations amongst themselves, based on whatever factors they think are important. At the end of the killing period, there is a trial, and all the players cast a vote to say who they think is the murderer, and therefore who they think ought to be hanged. After the hanging, the real murderer reveals themselves. If the murderer gets away with the murder, they win. If the right person is hanged, the others win.
We had drawn cards, and the killing period had began. The game was on.
Breakfast became brunch became lunch as more people rose and the day warmed. Vinny, Skinner, Tom, Hannah and I filled a box with beers, and went down to the river to fish. I wasn't bothered about fishing, really, but I was very interested in the box of beers. Insecure Dave and Dom followed on. We found a sandy cutting through the reeds that led down to a sunny spot by the river. I shudder to think of what the channel we were fishing in was designed for. It certainly wasn't natural. Vin soon tired of fishing, and Skinner seemed restless too, so we went back to Ventenac. We took a different route through the vineyards, and were set upon by score of flying ants. "France is a load of shit!" said Skinner, "this is horrible."
The team re-convened on the small balcony, and we drew cards for murder.
"We are about to play a game of murder, most horrid." Murder is a game. It's a little bit like mafia,, a little bit like wink murder, and a little bit like something else. This is how it works: a murderer is chosen at random and in secret, using playing cards. The murderer has a killing period, perhaps 24 hours from the drawing of the cards. In that time they must commit at least one murder. A murder is committed by the murderer presenting their victim with (semi-)realistic means to carry out a real murder. The victim is now dead in the context of the game, and must lie still until discovered (within reason). The only information that the dead can give to the living is an 'autopsy report' detailing how they were killed and the approximate time of death. The other players conduct informal investigations amongst themselves, based on whatever factors they think are important. At the end of the killing period, there is a trial, and all the players cast a vote to say who they think is the murderer, and therefore who they think ought to be hanged. After the hanging, the real murderer reveals themselves. If the murderer gets away with the murder, they win. If the right person is hanged, the others win.
We had drawn cards, and the killing period had began. The game was on.
Cast List for Ventenac
To ease the confusion of the casual reader, this is a dramatis personae of those who were lucky enough to attend the wonderful week at Ventenac:
The Venezuelans
Audrey
Tani - a vicious expert at le babyfoot
The Bristocracy
Julia - mater familias
Jamie
Dominic
The Duets
Colin and the Lovely Jane
Tom and the equally lovely Hannah
The Soloists
Insecure Dave
Skinner
Chaz - with a soft "sh", as in Charlene
Vinny
DTR
For the geographically minded, our movements over time were:
Vinny and I arrived on Saturday, with the Venezuelans, the Bristocracy and Insecure Dave already in situ. The Duets arrived by car on Sunday. The Venezuelans left as Skinner and Chaz arrived on Monday, with Insecure Dave leaving the next day. The core group consisted of the Bristocracy, the Duets, and the Soloists, except Insecure Dave, who sadly had to leave early. Vin and I left next, on Friday, with Chaz following the next day. And on Sunday, exeunt except the Bristocracy.
The Venezuelans
Audrey
Tani - a vicious expert at le babyfoot
The Bristocracy
Julia - mater familias
Jamie
Dominic
The Duets
Colin and the Lovely Jane
Tom and the equally lovely Hannah
The Soloists
Insecure Dave
Skinner
Chaz - with a soft "sh", as in Charlene
Vinny
DTR
For the geographically minded, our movements over time were:
Vinny and I arrived on Saturday, with the Venezuelans, the Bristocracy and Insecure Dave already in situ. The Duets arrived by car on Sunday. The Venezuelans left as Skinner and Chaz arrived on Monday, with Insecure Dave leaving the next day. The core group consisted of the Bristocracy, the Duets, and the Soloists, except Insecure Dave, who sadly had to leave early. Vin and I left next, on Friday, with Chaz following the next day. And on Sunday, exeunt except the Bristocracy.
Sunday, 25 October 2009
Of all the bars in the South of France, you had to walk into mine.
An early riser's lot is a good one. Vin hadn't enjoyed my snoring, and I was eager to see the chateau by day. Our hellish trip to Carrefour meant that it was dark when we arrived yesterday, and I hadn't had a chance to bathe in its glory. I went downstairs, met Julia in the kitchen and headed out to the patio.
I looked up and back at the chateau. Its vastness towered over four floors, three bold rows of cream and cherry red window arches. At ground level was la cave, a basement with a slouchy sofa and table football. Above, up the external stairs to the first floor, stood a narrow balcony with doors to the grand country kitchen and long dining hall. The drawing room, to the east completed that floor. Above, on the second floor, three grand bedrooms, and above that three more. A terraced garden led down to the pool. It’s a stunning place.
As I gazed upwards, Jamie leaned out of a window and yawned. I waved up at him. He smiled and came down the stairs.
Jamie and I walked out through the village with Teg, past vineyards and villas and down to the canal. We saw a hunter in a camo jacket and fluorescent orange cap, shotgun cocked, seeking out small game. We Bonjour!-ed cheerfully with passers-by, and wandered down to the boulangerie for fresh bread. The mayor has a tannoy system set up around the village, proclaiming their decrees. I felt like I was in another world. Perhaps I was.
The canal, with the wine cellar to the left and the chateau to the right and top of the photo
We returned to the fold, to find that there had been no news of Skinner. He’d been missing since about 3am on Saturday morning, and it was now Sunday lunchtime. On one hand there was every chance that Skinner could make it on time. All it would take was that he would find Daryl, pick up his gear and dash to the plane. On the other hand, worry was rising amongst us. Frantic calls from friends in Sheffield and Belgium hadn’t got us any nearer to finding him, and had stirred us up rather.
Although I mock the Ibiza Uncovered crowd for frequenting English bars on the Costa del Sol, I was glad we found a few ex-pats for the Liverpool United game after the hell of Carrefour. Vin was less pleased that they were mostly Mancunians, and almost entirely United fans. So it goes, I guess. Tom and Colin arrived with Jamie as the match was drawing to an end, so we had a beer.
Back at base, Jane and Hannah had arrived too. They’d driven down from Dover, which must have been beautiful. We ate, we drank, we drank some more, and retired to the cave. Insecure Dave, the Bristows and the Venezuelans were in another league when it came to playing le babyfoot. I was humiliated throughout. Dom and Vinny started to play music, and we smoked and drank and sang like Gomez.
The evening ended with Dom, Tani and me sitting downstairs listening to Roots Manuva and Belle and Sebastian through my phone. A reefer, and another, and another. Dom went to bed, and Tani asked me to show her how a tie is tied. My hands brushed on the skin of her collarbone as I tied the knot. I could feel her breath on my hands as I pulled it tighter. An erotic moment. Reader, I did not kiss her, although I wish I could say that I did.
I looked up and back at the chateau. Its vastness towered over four floors, three bold rows of cream and cherry red window arches. At ground level was la cave, a basement with a slouchy sofa and table football. Above, up the external stairs to the first floor, stood a narrow balcony with doors to the grand country kitchen and long dining hall. The drawing room, to the east completed that floor. Above, on the second floor, three grand bedrooms, and above that three more. A terraced garden led down to the pool. It’s a stunning place.
As I gazed upwards, Jamie leaned out of a window and yawned. I waved up at him. He smiled and came down the stairs.
Jamie and I walked out through the village with Teg, past vineyards and villas and down to the canal. We saw a hunter in a camo jacket and fluorescent orange cap, shotgun cocked, seeking out small game. We Bonjour!-ed cheerfully with passers-by, and wandered down to the boulangerie for fresh bread. The mayor has a tannoy system set up around the village, proclaiming their decrees. I felt like I was in another world. Perhaps I was.
The canal, with the wine cellar to the left and the chateau to the right and top of the photo
We returned to the fold, to find that there had been no news of Skinner. He’d been missing since about 3am on Saturday morning, and it was now Sunday lunchtime. On one hand there was every chance that Skinner could make it on time. All it would take was that he would find Daryl, pick up his gear and dash to the plane. On the other hand, worry was rising amongst us. Frantic calls from friends in Sheffield and Belgium hadn’t got us any nearer to finding him, and had stirred us up rather.
Although I mock the Ibiza Uncovered crowd for frequenting English bars on the Costa del Sol, I was glad we found a few ex-pats for the Liverpool United game after the hell of Carrefour. Vin was less pleased that they were mostly Mancunians, and almost entirely United fans. So it goes, I guess. Tom and Colin arrived with Jamie as the match was drawing to an end, so we had a beer.
Back at base, Jane and Hannah had arrived too. They’d driven down from Dover, which must have been beautiful. We ate, we drank, we drank some more, and retired to the cave. Insecure Dave, the Bristows and the Venezuelans were in another league when it came to playing le babyfoot. I was humiliated throughout. Dom and Vinny started to play music, and we smoked and drank and sang like Gomez.
The evening ended with Dom, Tani and me sitting downstairs listening to Roots Manuva and Belle and Sebastian through my phone. A reefer, and another, and another. Dom went to bed, and Tani asked me to show her how a tie is tied. My hands brushed on the skin of her collarbone as I tied the knot. I could feel her breath on my hands as I pulled it tighter. An erotic moment. Reader, I did not kiss her, although I wish I could say that I did.
Saturday, 24 October 2009
I was just pissing by
“Let’s write a pub quiz on the plane to France!”
“Yes, let’s!”
“What rounds should we include?”
“How about Politics and Global Economics?”
“Yes!”
Organising the organised fun to follow, Vin and I hammered out the skeleton of one of our contributions to the evening entertainment schedule for the week ahead. Sat to my right was a young woman who might have been fifteen, and might have been twenty-five. It was impossible to tell, so I kept the flirting very mild, and pre-watershed. She sped the journey for me, and I like to think I did for her too. No harm done.
France rose up, an autumnal golden brown, and met us as we descended into Perpignan. My first memory of France is following the sharp shadow of the aeroplane wing on the runway surface with my eyes, and being greeted by the grand Pyrenees. Wow! The airport is tiny, like a 1970s shopping centre in its décor and its mood. Jamie was delayed. “Hang tight, and get a beer.” We didn’t need telling twice.
Carrefour. Shopping, or hellish riddle, designed to confound les rosbifs? To my mind, the jury is still out. Let's divide up the shopping list between us, said Jamie, and collect the food for the night's meal. Of course, that'll make things much faster. Right? Wrong. My list included a very specific type of yoghurt, some milk, and some herbs - herbs with French names quite different to their English names. I don't think we covered tarragon in my GCSE class. What might have taken twenty minutes in Tesco Burnage ended up taking more than an hour. We didn't even bag up our vegetables properly. Our checkout girl ended up serving us in English. "Humbling, isn't it?" said Jamie as we walked to the car.
We picked up Tani and Audrey in Narbonne, and dropped our eggs at the garage. Alors! A quick trip to the halal grocer, and we were equipped for Insecure Dave's wonderful quiche and soup.
The news broke over dinner that Skinner was missing in Belgium, with neither his phone nor his passport. Daryl was going apeshit searching for him. What could we do? Not much from France. It's Skinner, he'll be okay, right? I hope so.
We spent the evening boozing. After insisting that we give Tani le splash to celebrate her birthday, I ended up convincing the Venezuelans to accompany me down to the pool, "for a look." Suckers? Not quite - I gave Tani my phone as insurance that she wouldn't get dunked. We swung our legs, sitting on the garden wall with stubby beers, and looking into the Canal du Midi. We talked about the UK, and the glory of the BBC. As we sat there, a van pulled up and stopped on the humpback bridge. Three men got out, stood in a row on its brow, and, in synchronised triplicate, unleashed a torrent of piss right into the canal. The ducks laughed, and we did too.
“Yes, let’s!”
“What rounds should we include?”
“How about Politics and Global Economics?”
“Yes!”
Organising the organised fun to follow, Vin and I hammered out the skeleton of one of our contributions to the evening entertainment schedule for the week ahead. Sat to my right was a young woman who might have been fifteen, and might have been twenty-five. It was impossible to tell, so I kept the flirting very mild, and pre-watershed. She sped the journey for me, and I like to think I did for her too. No harm done.
France rose up, an autumnal golden brown, and met us as we descended into Perpignan. My first memory of France is following the sharp shadow of the aeroplane wing on the runway surface with my eyes, and being greeted by the grand Pyrenees. Wow! The airport is tiny, like a 1970s shopping centre in its décor and its mood. Jamie was delayed. “Hang tight, and get a beer.” We didn’t need telling twice.
Carrefour. Shopping, or hellish riddle, designed to confound les rosbifs? To my mind, the jury is still out. Let's divide up the shopping list between us, said Jamie, and collect the food for the night's meal. Of course, that'll make things much faster. Right? Wrong. My list included a very specific type of yoghurt, some milk, and some herbs - herbs with French names quite different to their English names. I don't think we covered tarragon in my GCSE class. What might have taken twenty minutes in Tesco Burnage ended up taking more than an hour. We didn't even bag up our vegetables properly. Our checkout girl ended up serving us in English. "Humbling, isn't it?" said Jamie as we walked to the car.
We picked up Tani and Audrey in Narbonne, and dropped our eggs at the garage. Alors! A quick trip to the halal grocer, and we were equipped for Insecure Dave's wonderful quiche and soup.
The news broke over dinner that Skinner was missing in Belgium, with neither his phone nor his passport. Daryl was going apeshit searching for him. What could we do? Not much from France. It's Skinner, he'll be okay, right? I hope so.
We spent the evening boozing. After insisting that we give Tani le splash to celebrate her birthday, I ended up convincing the Venezuelans to accompany me down to the pool, "for a look." Suckers? Not quite - I gave Tani my phone as insurance that she wouldn't get dunked. We swung our legs, sitting on the garden wall with stubby beers, and looking into the Canal du Midi. We talked about the UK, and the glory of the BBC. As we sat there, a van pulled up and stopped on the humpback bridge. Three men got out, stood in a row on its brow, and, in synchronised triplicate, unleashed a torrent of piss right into the canal. The ducks laughed, and we did too.
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