Australia - Part 2

A short night’s sleep (well 20 hours for Nigel but you get the picture) left them wide awake and raring to go and after a spot of brekkie (and some volleyball for Boris) they set off into the city for some touristy type nonsense. Sadly the fantastic weather of the day of their arrival had broken and it was, rather miserably, raining.

Boris had been inveigled upon to take them to a museum and despite living here for 8 years it turned out that his knowledge of his home town is a little lacking and he took them to the only museum he knew the totally rubbish (shurely post-modern? – ed) Museum of Sydney and they now know more than they ever felt they wanted to know about the first Governor’s mansion.

Boris’s abject failure in the museum stakes was duly punished and he was sent of to sail in the pouring rain whilst they walked the streets, in the same pouring rain, in search of the Museum of Australia and, crucially, a stuffed crocodile.

Eventually the drowned rats did so locate and the Museum has clearly been laid out with idiots like them in mind as it had a stuffed crocodile located just past the ticket booth. Sadly the poor beast is rather poorly lit.

Their need for taxidermed crocodilians duly sated another burning thirst had to be sated and one of the bars by the Opera House was lucky enough to get their custom.

A quick ferry trip back to Manly and Nigel and our subject popped into the wharf bar for a quick sharpener. A group of girls kept on looking their way before one of their number, sadly the least attractive one, wandered over and posed the puzzler, “what fucks like a tiger and winks” to our subject; when, after much agonising he replied, “I do not know” she just winked at him.

Clearly that was all too much for them so they shot off for another late afternoon nap.

Australia - Part 1

After a mammoth flight eventually they arrived in Sydney first thing in the morning and quickly jumped on the ferry over to Manly to meet up with Boris. Booking into the hotel was a bit of a challenge (Nigel’s usual lack of patience not helping matters) but with a quick break to wander back to the ferry to meet up with Glenn eventually they were all gathered and after a quick dip in the ocean the beers started at a sensibly early hour in Charlie’s bar.

As is becoming increasingly common his accursed bank has placed a ban on his card whilst abroad and so he is reduced to tapping up the lads for his supplies of funny money. Glenn gets the thanks for the lunchtime drinks and Boris for supper.

Despite their bravado the lunchtime drinks could not last and a nap was the order of the day before their now reduced numbers went out for supper (Nigel being too insensate from jet lag to make it out of his bed).

His lovely friend Sam and her new husband Wayne came down to meet up with him in Hugo’s (a new painfully trendy bar on the water) and catch up on all their respective news (Sam is a very new mother) before the three lads squeezed in some quick late drinks in the Wharf Bar (passim).

Australia - Bangkok

Imagine our joy as he settled down in his dog class seat only to be approached by the chief steward who, having checked he was travelling alone, ushered him up the stairs to the fat cat class seats. A lovely night's sleep stretched out on a fully flat bed has left him feeling very refreshed as he sits in the Business lounge at Bangkok airport waiting for the 'plane to be refuelled.

Meanwhile Nigel has spent the journey so far stuck at the back and so incensed was he at the shocking fact that our subject got upgraded whilst he, a gold card member, was not that he made, by all accounts, quite a scene. Clearly the stewardesses have seen that sort of nonsense before and sorted it out by pouring red wine all over him.

He is now prowling the airport searching for a new clean shirt.

Australia - The prologue part 2

Our customer services team has noted our most recent comment and we can only apologise to our poor reader. We trust that this latest Australia trip will provide some material for you to return to the happy fold.

Australia - The prologue

After a few weeks well deserved break your very hard working correspondent is being despatched by the editorial team to cover the latest visit to Australia by our subject. This trip features Naughty Nigel, Glenn, Dogs and Boris.

Matters have started well as he confidently declaimed to Nigel a few days ago, "don't be silly Nigel of course one does need a visa for Australia it is one of the colonies."

Imagine his joy at being corrected at check-in (by the splendidly named Suzicassandra). A few telephone calls to Australia and the greasing of some palms fortunately had matters resolved. Nigel's mood at being informed this happy news as he sat on the Heathrow Express can only be guessed at.

Nigel, shocking flying snob that he is, is truely appalled at the idea of travelling in the back of the plane, "do they even have movies back there?" being his latest outburst.

Next stop Bangkok.

The cycle of life

A weekend of camping with Christine, Chris, Glenn and Hila in the New Forest started poorly with his arrival nicely timed after sunset - try putting a tent up in the dark and see what we mean.

Thanks however to the fine BBQing skills of his splendid chums his mood was much improved and even more so as they set of cycling the next day through the woods. It is fair to say that cycling is not his natural activity (he last cycled 10 years ago and stopped when his bike was nicked (much to his relied)) and his good cheer was tested to the max when he managed to get lost but the physical activity gave him a good feeling about himself.

Of course all good things come to an end and so Sunday dawned with a storm - try taking down a tent in a monsoon and see what we mean.

Car joy

We are delighted to be able to report that the problem with the gears on his car is no longer much of an issue, not, as you might expect, because it has been fixed but because the engine has blown up.

It is currently in a garage somewhere in the boonies but it gets better for reasons too dull to bore our gentle readers with the nice man from the AA had to take it to the nearest garage without him. Of course the kind AA man provided him with a piece of paper with the number of the garage and he's lost it.

So he has no idea where the car is and no way of finding out.

Too cool for school

Phoebe is clearly taking after her Uncle in the coolness stakes.

Global warming

As some of our more well read readers (do we have any? - ed) may know some fringe scientists are suggesting that we are in for a period of climate change (the theory is apparently called global warming) and this summer would appear to give some credence to their crazy theories with almost constant rain, or so it seems, through this "summer".

This has been a bit of a challenge for our sports correspondent as so far our subject has only managed 14 balls (sic) of cricket this season (as compared to 14 games last season). He is getting rather irked twiddling his thumbs with nothing to write about particularly as it looked like, at the beginning of the season, our subject might finally snaffle his 100th victim behind the stumps for his firm.

Today should have been the great annual match against Bill Owen's XI but, would you believe it, the weather has ruined it once again. Will he ever get a match in?

More car trouble

The good news is he has at least managed to get his car to a garage (thanks to a chum from work (a chum who looks suspicously like Danny de Vito))...the bad news is that the part is currently on back-order and is not expected this side of Christmas.

Fingers crossed that the duck-tape engineering does not hold that long and pretty please let it break at some particularly inoportune and amusing moment.

More birthdays

Evie's turn to be a year older this time and to mark the occasion the sister arranged a BBQ (brave considering the summer we are having) attended by the usual suspects and their brats (shurely charming kids? - ed).

With the car knackered (passim) he rented a car for the weekend and whilst nothing corners like a rental nothing fails to accelerate as well as a really cheap rental and so actually getting there was a bit of a challenge but by setting off a day early he just made it there in time (although still earlier than Vanessa and Guy who's tardiness is almost as legendary as GG (NAG)'s).

Astonishingly the rain held off although the wind did manage to find a way to blow the BBQ smoke all over everyone and for a moment the kids were lost in the smog (much like the athletes in the Olympics).

As the day wore down our subject fell asleep on the sofa with Phoebe and Guy and Vanessa's dog which, considering his hatred for all things canine, was quite the sight.

Car trouble

His jalopy has died, according to the lovely man from the AA the gear linkage has fallen apart.
One would have thought that was terminal or at least very serious but thanks to the wonders of duck tape and cable ties the said lovely man from the AA was able to fix it and send him on his way. Astonishing.

Birthday bash

With the cake (passim) devoured attention turned to his actual birthday and the celebrations planned for that day.

With thanks to Christine a splendid supper was arranged at The Salt Yard in the smoke and a very eclectic group gathered (Chris and Christine, the mother, the sister, the brother in law, Gay George (Not Actually Gay), Helen (Mrs GG (NAG), Crofty and Alison.

With Christine choosing the sherry and GG (NAG) the wine a splendid amount of alcohol was put away leading to the telling of some real horror stories and some astonishing revelations.

Special mention must be made for Alison's gift which certainly qualifies as remarkable.

The terror of increasing years...and decreasing faculties

He has made it very clear in the past to the mother than in the event of the first sign of senility, or a damp cushion, she can expect a one way ticket to Beachy Head but as we all know time is the fire in which all our souls are consumed and he too ages.

It is, of course, his birthday on 5 August making him a Leo

Grrrr

Having enjoyed himself immensely at Thea's birthday party, on the day after all the family descended on the mother's house for sunday lunch and, to mark his birthday, enjoy a cake.

A couple of weeks ago Gay George (Not Actually Gay) had observed to him that a mutual friend of theirs who is 5 years older than GG (NAG) was, "ancient, he's like nearly 40" which was a particularly charming comment bearing in mind GG (NAG) is 5 years younger than our subject but clearly GG (NAG) has started something rolling and as this picture of the cake demonstrates even his own mother thinks he is nearly 40.



That said we rather think it demonstrates that the mother can no longer tell the difference between a 6 and a 9 and that one way ticket may be coming quicker than expected.

The joys of a Mankini

A stag do to report gentle reader although those of a nervous disposition need not turn away too soon on this occasion.

This time it was for Ben (some bloke he works with) who has already had his "real" stag do in Vegas but was set up for a "work" stag do.

In many ways prudence was the watchword of the stag. The evening started off in Totos, passim ad nauseam, where, conveniently, their employers had laid on some free drinks to make the first friday of the month.

Having laid down a free base level of beer they had to move on and, time being short, persuaded Ben to save some by swimming across the Floating Harbour rather than walk round it. None of our correspondents has ever heard of anyone being stupid enough to go for a swim in the fetid, and stagnant, waters of the Floating Harbout but Ben was duly persuaded to dive on in there. We say persuaded but being honest the glowering menace of Dropper (not a sentence we ever expected to write) really militated against a consensual approach.

Having recovered his cloths and dried off somewhat they ended up in a restaurant for some grub and to save clothes poor Ben was "persuaded" again to don a Mankini and strut his stuff.



To save time, and to save them being thrown out, he simply pulled his jeans back over himself and the mankini...a decision he was to regret later.

The meal over they ended up queuing outside a bar to get in when our subject, genius that he is, decided to help Ben out of his mankini and to save time to tear it off him. Picking him up by the front and back and simply letting gravity (and his testicles) rip through them was perhaps a cruel option and the squealing (vaguely reminiscent of a piglet being castrated) will haunt your correspondent for years to come. We understand the damage is not permenant.

Like buses...

Having spent the weekend with his family having not seen them for months he has obviously got the taste for it and repeated the dose this last weekend although this time for Thea's 6th birthday.

Her birthday this year was a "Build-a-Bear" party at the Bear Factory and as one would expect our subject demonstrated his usual maturity by insisting on building a bear himself (at little Evie's expense).

His full uncley duties were however called upon keeping Phoebe entertained

but as to be expected by the end of the party no-one was talking to him save, astonishingly, Evie

Angels instead?

We have literally been inundated at Bogun Towers with enquiries about his family who have in recent weeks disappeared from these pages but fear not gentle readers they are still alive he has just been neglecting his filial duties. With some gentle pressure he has cracked and headed down for a weekend.

A weekend in the garden soaking up the rays and playing with the kids ensued and despite previous evidence to the contrary it would appear that the girls are perhaps not as fundamentally evil as we had first thought but might even have angelic tendancies as these remarkable photos appear to demonstrate:-

Letters to the editor

Not strictly letters to this editor but a rather amusing pair of letters nonetheless to the editor of the Western Mail:-

SIR –

I am a Welshman and proud of it and I sing the National Anthem with the best of them, but because I don’t speak the language, I feel no less a sense of national pride because of it.

Sadly, over the past few weeks, there have been a series of vitriolic letters in these columns ostensibly about tourist provision but clearly anti- English in terms of linguistics and people.

I’m sorry, but I feel ashamed of fellow Welshmen who feel that they must lambast the English devil for the troubles of the Welsh language, troubles which they exacerbate through their own intolerance.

My experience is that these so-called incomers (be they English or eastern European) who have “taken over” the tourism industry in the views of your correspondents, are sincere people who are here because they love Wales, its people and its environment.
The language is not forgotten. In several towns in my own mid-Powys where English prevails, tourists are regularly treated to choirs singing in Welsh and some visitors even seek out Welsh-language church services.

Take this much farther and I cannot see great waves of visitors flocking here just to hear but not understand the language of heaven.

Your correspondents want the National Eisteddfod put on the general visitor itinerary. I went there for the first time last year and did not feel welcome. I asked directions in English and was ignored, leaving me feeling lost – I know the effect it would have had on me had I been an English visitor encouraged to go there by tourist publicity.

Welshmen should unite under a multi-hued banner called “Welshness” and not try to exclude men like myself, the Welsh who express themselves through English. If the language were offered to me with a smile and not a threat (“you will not get a job if you don’t speak Welsh”) then there would be no need for those xenophobes who write with such a scowl in their pen.

ALAN DAVIES
Tremont Road, Llandrindod

SIR –

I totally sympathise with Alan Davies and his letter (July 12) complaining that the Welsh people do not show deference to their monoglot visitors from across the border.

I have had similar experiences when visiting countries in Europe.

I have entered shops in France where everyone was speaking English until I and my wife appeared, at which point all the people started to speak French.

The Germans are even worse, openly speaking their language in front of easily-influenced children who do not know better.

My wife and I have now decided only to speak our mother tongue in the privacy of our own house with the doors locked and the curtains drawn. We have also instructed our neighbours not to speak Welsh to our cat.

D MORRIS
Tresaith, Ceredigion

Kent

The joys of a Friday night stuck in traffic are rarely a great deal of fun but if it is the precursor to a weekend with some great friends the advantages easily outweigh the tedium.

This weekend just gone he headed down to the Gower to camp with the Pofydd, Chris and Christine and Glenn and Hila. The joys of the great British attitude (at the appalling Gower Arms) to service rather left them hungry and miserable ("sorry we've stopped serving", "but its five to nine and your sign says you serve until nine", "we've stopped serving") was saved thanks to the very fine Beaufort Arms (and their rather splendid lamb curry with half and half (half chips, half rice).

A splendid breakfast thanks to Glenn and Hila started Saturday off quite marvellously before they set off for a long walk around the Gower, 2 miles down the beach they found the Ilwych Bay Hotel and, as it was to transpire the end of their walk. A Leo Sayer at his age is a rare (and usually very painful) thing but by mixing up the alcohol with tea (we give up) saw him through to chucking out time without disgracing himself.

Sunday they had all arranged to go "canyoning" (i.e. throwing oneself down a river) but sensibly in light of his pathetic history with watersports (passim) he claimed that his eye surgeon had said he could not do it and so joined Polly and Hila sitting it out and simply walking up and down the river (much more rational behaviour we feel).

Big M small organ

A quick trip down to London this week to see his poor forgotten mother and the splendid Rib Robs for lunch. A lunch more than enlivened by Rib Robs spendid news.

A fine luncheon yes but a truely terrifying taxi ride followed (not good for the digestion) thanks to a taxi driver with Tourette's, "You'll never guess who I had in the - fucking - back of the taxi last - bollocks - week, guv."

His driving was shit as well.

Sheep on the town

Still stinking of wet sheep he and Naughty Nigel headed into town to join Gay George (Not Actually Gay) and the lovely Helen to help Helen celebrate her birthday.

Kicking matters off (well laying more layers of beer and wine down on the already well stocked system (passim)) in The Living Room off Regent's street (where the unpleasant smell of sheep quickly cleared an area large enough for them all to enjoy although no doubt did damage to their takings for the evening) before the evening ended over supper in a local Italian.

Waking up Saturday with yet another hangover he set off from Naughty Nigel and TCO's place for Euston in plenty of time to make the train he had been promised would get him up to Stafford in plenty of time to enjoy his day of racing Ferraris (a birthday present from last year from Dennis). Imagine his delight to discover that the idiot at Traintracker had been looking at the weekday timetable and then see his face sink further as he realised that the entire West Coast mainline was shut for the weekend for engineering.

The utter joy at realising he had a day of sitting in a very slow moving train going all the way round the houses rather than a day of driving cars very fast is impossible to describe.

Fortunately the people who run the driving day have agreed to let him re-arrange if he brings some paying friends this time and Naughty Nigel, Gay George (Not Actually Gay) and the splendid Chris and Graham have agreed to come along for the next trip, although he may have forgotten to mention to them he needed their assistance.

Getting the taste of it again

Clearly Gay George (Not Actually Gay)'s influence is a good thing as having just about recovered from his hangover (passim) he jumped on a train down to London town and for supper with Naughty Nigel and TCO in readiness for a day at the test on Friday.

A day at the cricket with Naughty Nigel is always going to be a rather drunken affair but with the addition of TCO to his domestic arrangements they do now at least involve a certain amount of very fine food.

Despite the fine food they did not miss out on the fine booze either although, at one stage (11.15), Naughty Nigel did remarkably suggest that perhaps it was a bit too early to be drinking. Fortunately his concerns were assuaged when they spotted the happy scene two rows in front of them of a father with his two sons (and one rapidly emptying bottle of wine), they felt quite virtuous after that.

The first storm-burst was a rather tedious interruption to the day not least because he got soaked. A great value (hmm perhaps not) jumper was quickly picked up from the Lord's shop to keep him warm until the second storm-burst which soaked the blasted thing leaving him smelling of damp sheep for the rest of the day and night.

Back to basics

As many of you will have noted there has been a distinct lack of reportage from us over recent weeks at Bogun Towers due to a complete lack of activity from our subject who has been a very dull boy.

In an effort to get back into the socialising saddle and in response to our constant nagging to provide us with material Gay George (Not Actually Gay) came up to visit this last week and in their usual way they went out and got battered. A load of beer, several bottles of wine and some fine food from San Carlos (Italian) left them asleep on the sofa and nursing hangover's Tuesday morning.

Keen to ensure that they were really getting back into the swing of things Gay George (Not Actually Gay) came back up to stay on Wednesday evening and, bar the addition of Dennis to the mix, the evening went exactly the same way (save the restaurant was Asha's (Indian)) and the next morning was amazingly a repeat.

Photo-journalism at its best

The photo-desk here at Bogun Towers has in the past done some sterling work but they are all in a strop today having been totally cast in the shade by our friends at The Times:-

Arghh Jim Lad

With one useful eye he is now sporting a rather fetching eye-patch.

My doesn't he look spiffing.

In the Kingdom of the blind the one-eyed man is king

Much to our dismay he has been wittering on about getting his eyes lasered so he can do away with his glasses, we say dismay as long-term readers will recall the various tales of woe of glasses lost and broken that have enlivened these pages from time to time.

Well having talked about it for ages he has finally got round to having it done and much to our joy it has gone heinously wrong and he is basically blind in one eye.

Now as operations go having some bugger hack the front of your eye off, then burn your cornea away (the smell of burning flesh is a real treat) and then having that same bugger gently smooth the bit of your eye he has hacked off back down with a little brush is pretty much up there as being rancid as hell but having it all go wrong is pretty funny, well for us at least.

Basically the latest news is that they inadvertently cut a new astygmatism into his left eye which leaves him mildly unhappy. Being told they can put it right but it needs another operation (as above) has not improved his mood.

He has ordered an eye-patch to help the vision...from a "specialist" web-site, goodness knows what it will be like.

Fame at last

We are delighted to report from Bogun Towers that we have achieved that highlight of any web-based publication and gained recognition from Google.

Try googling "The Bogun" and note we come at the top of the list.

At last.

Yet another false dawn

After the glory of yet another Grand Slam for the Welsh this seasons hopes have been high in our subject for at least a reasonable showing on the tour to South Africa this summer, indeed at one stage he was so optimistic he was trying to get tickets, and so he invited round the Pofydd and the Nidur for the game this past weekend.

As usual being Welsh is just another exercise in having one's hopes crushed mercilessly on the rocks of reality but at least on this occasion he was able to share the horror story in the company of his splendid Welsh chums. Frankly if you are going to have a TV the size of a small country watching sport on your own is a pointless exercise.

In traditional style he was soon treating the twin imposters of success and failure alike and after a fine meal out we quaffing the champers in Hotel du Vin until the early hours.

Moutaineering

For some time now he has been threatening to join GG (NAG) on a training climb of Scafell Pike (GG (NAG) is doing the 3 peaks challenge later in the summer) always with the secret hope that the training climb would never actually happen but disasterously last weekend the dreaded climb finally arrived.

As is to be expected some proper preparation was thrown well out of the window and having met up with GG (NAG) and the rest of his team for the challenge (Tom, Lucas and Maurizio) at the Scafell hotel on Friday night they sat up until the early hours (much to the irritation of the landlord) slowly drinking themselves into a stupor.

Despite this they stil managed to be up at 0630 ready to start their assault on the mountain at 0700. A quick dash up in some splendid weather saw them on top of the mountain by 0900 (despite GG(NAG)'s efforts to lead them to the summit of Esk Pike instead only saved by some quality map reading from our subject).

As this was a training climb the only option was then to run down and off they set. 40 minutes later there they were at the bottom of the mountain wondering where the car was. A quick discussion with a local later and they realised they had come down the wrong side of the mountain and their only option was to climb back over and down again.

It is fair to record that our subject had hit his personal wall and blown all his energy on the run down and the climb back over and down was very slow and dull but eventually around 1300 they finally found the car again much to his relief.

GG (NAG) astonishingly suggested that the fault for this lay with some shoddy map reading by our subject and it would be right of us to record that he did indeed have the map when they set off on their run down. Idiot.

A new career? - an epilogue

Possibly the most bizarre of the very bizarre events we have had the pleasure to comment upon came towards the end of the splendid weekend when Christine's boss approached our subject and asked him if was available for hire for other events.

Self-evidently he was a smidge tipsy.

A new career? - Part 4

The last day of the great weekend dawned with our subject first up (having been last to bed, we are getting disturbed at his sleep shortage) tidying up, well rather aimlessly moving stuff around so it looked like he had been up to something.

Boris appeared rather sheepishly having ended up sleeping in the spare lounge for reasons not entirely clear although certainly nothing to do with our lad's snoring, oh no.

With some cricket arranged for the Sunday to give everyone something to do rather than getting bladdered a number of the gang turned up in some frankly shocking attire. First Dafydd as Maggot then Churchy as a septic and finally Boris as a smug bastard.

The cricket was, if one was honest, a little village with rather too many small children involved for us purists at Bogun Towers but we must commend our subject's efforts to do something about that, competing for catches with the 5 year olds and generally hurting them (the highlight being crashing down on one kids ankle with an almighty crack...and tears) although sadly the kids just could not be put off.

Eventually as the day drew on many sad goodbyes had to be said and pretty soon numbers were getting low, the taffs (Pofydd and Nidur) set off and reported back from the M20 that it was blocked and they were parked up (and Polly bizarrely was sunbathing on the carriageway) and our subject quickly used this in an effort to persuade Naughty Nigel and TCO to stay the night (as he, Boris, Mr and Mrs Churchy were with the happy couple). Naughty Nigel was somewhat difficult to persuade and so our subject promised to tell him once Nia had let him now the road was clear. Of course he didn't actually keep to that promise as else he was bound to head home.

The group eventually made their way into Sandwich where a prescient publican put them in a private room to let them regale each other with their appalling stories and raucous humour.

A few quiet drinks back at the house topped off a truly brilliant weekend, easily the best wedding he has been MC of.

A new career? - part 3

And so time for the entertainment to start, to whit, the speeches which meant the start of his duties.

He rather presciently introduced David, the bride's father, as "the incomparable Mr David Hannis" and certainly we at Bogun Towers have never heard a speech to compare to it. The opening line of "one gets all kinds of brides, some are fat." was certainly a brave call and probably not saved with the second line, "and some are fetching, now Christine fetch me a beer".

From these rather unpromising foundations he did manage to somehow save it and delivered a splendidly emotional speech.

Next up the groom. Sadly the highlight was one of the heckles. Whilst explaining that he had realised he was being welcomed to the family some while back because David entrusted him with the keys to the camper van Wombat, the best man, called out, "still not welcome in the house then."

One is usually expecting the best man to be given a gift of cufflinks but breaking with that rather dull tradition Chris presented Wombat with a pair of ice axes. Engraved ice axes.
We do wonder what the poor engraver must have thought when asked to work his magic on them.

And so to complete the first part of the evening the great Wombat took to the stage. A hugely entertaining tale of skiing in a sumo suit, their (Chris's friends) despair that he would ever meet a decent girl and their joy at him proving them so wrong.

With the speeches out of the way the feast could begin. To add some excitement each table was entrusted with carving its own joint, somewhat less excitingly our subject had to deliver a Health and Safety lecture about how to use the carving knives.

Next up in the entertainment was a Neil Diamond soundalikey. Despite our subject's best endeavours to get some decent material to introduce him he opted out of introducing him, truthfully, as "just in from the Cock and Bottle in Ilford" and set
on "just in from Vegas".

Despite these unpromising beginnings he delivered a quite splendid set of all the old favourites before handing over to the DJ and the amateur night entertainment.

Each table had been invited to lay on their own entertainment and 3 tables took on the challenge.

First up was Nia who belted out that great Welsh song, Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogochn. We can safely say she has a fine pair of lungs.

The highlight of the entire weekend was to follow with Izzy Wombat volunteering to do a solo of Take That's "The Stars are Coming out Tonight"...on Helium. Words cannot begin to do justice to the sight of Izzy surrounded by her sister, mum and dad passing her Helium ballons at regular intervals whilst she banged out the tune. One of the funniest things we have ever seen.

And finally the one minute version of Four Weddings and a Funeral was a real treat for any thespians in the crowd and we thank the Pofydd, Mr and Mrs Churcy, Matt and Olwen, Sarah and Chris for their fine performances.

And so with the entertainment out of the way his last duty slowly hove into view and he grandly announced, "Ladies and Gentlemen it's been an emotional wedding...even the cake's in tiers." and the splendid cake (constructed by TCO) was cut and finally he could start drinking.

By this stage in the evening our reports tend towards the vague but your correspondent, in deference to our subject's relative abstinence, was, similarly, abstemious and so we can report that the evening finally closed with a few hardcore stalwarts swigging scotch and smoking cigars (with a couple of people (Boris and Harriet) gently snoring in the corner).First up, of course,

A new career? - part 2

And so the big, no make that enormous, day arrived...and it was raining, we say raining but we mean pouring. All in all not a great start to the festivities.

Determined to ensure the plan was kept to Christine sent out her friends to complete the planned walk in light of his oh so very sensible clothing. Chris's friends were much wiser and hid inside and avoided the ridiculous nonsense that was getting soaked and stung by stinging nettles.

Pleasingly the walk at least did have the pleasure of a pub at its end, less pleasingly just as he started to get into some pints of Spitfire one of Christine's friends turned up with instructions to "keep an eye on him" or in other words stop him getting drunk, very tedious.

This friend is however married to a German fellow and inspired by the Spitfire ads in the toilets he descended into comic German accent time. Oh dear.

Before matters could get completely out of hand the decision was taken to head back to the house and very fortunately a van outside offered them a lift. Some might suggest that jumping in the back of a transit with French plates with 14 other people just 10 miles from Dover is not the most sensible course of action but as usual common sense went for a burton.

Back at the house he finally got ready and dressed up in his circus ringmaster get up.

So finally with him ready the great event could happen and in the flash of an eye it was done.




With the formal parts of the day done, the fun could begin and so the mob descended upon the champagne. Sadly, again, he was barred from drinking but fortunately he had smuggled a hip flask in and was swigging away when out of view of his controllers.

A new career? - part 1

And so at last the great celebration of the nuptials of the lovely Christine and the splendid Chris. For reasons still to be satisfactorily explained Christine's father had suggested that our subject should be Master of Ceremonies for the happy day and so he had great fun with his tailor acquiring a toastmaster's jacket.

Finding the thing not fitting the day he picked it up was not really very helpful and necessitated the assistance of a courier to actually get the damn thing to him.

The weekend itself was being held on a country estate in deepest darkest Kent and with about a million police on patrol the journey down was not desperately exciting however to cheer everyone up on the Friday night the mothers were hosting a splendid supper and keeping everyone stocked up on booze.

With Boris and Churchy (and of course Mrs Churchy) having flown in for the occasion a great deal of nostalgic catching up was engaged in in the usual way before, rather astonishingly (and possibly a first), our subject was the last man standing and was up until the early hours on his own drinking and reading Private Eye.

Boris was of course delighted to be woken up (they were sharing a room) by the sound of his best Tourette's impression having smashed his head into the very low roof-beam in their room.

Limonhella

A relatively quiet weekend ... was planned. Finding himself at home for the first time in ages with no plans he invited his splendid chum Gravy round for some supper and being the splendid fellow that he is he brought some dessert.

Splendid but stupid as he turned up with a bottle of Limoncella for dessert.

Much as our subject likes alcohol in all its forms there are some more specialist drinks that approach the edges of what he enjoys and half a bottle of Limoncella certainly tested those edges. Certainly the hangover the next day pushed him through the edge.

Walking duties

Another year, another birthday and this time it was his sister's although not a special birthday or anything interesting like that. Summoned therefore to London to celebrate it with her he spent the majority of the weekend playing with her crazy brood.

He did manage to get out of uncle duties for Sunday night and escorted TCO to Katie Melua's end of tour concert and party at the Royal Albert Hall. The Walking service is a new string to his bow and we doubt likely to be taken up by many other young ladies but TCO seemed tolerably satisified with his company albeit her camper friends spent the night encouraging him to have an affair with her.

It has to be recorded that Katie is so tiny that whenever she picks up an acoustic guitar it looks like she is about to play the cello but as concerts go it was pretty good.

The party whilst sounding glam was far from it in a dingy damp basement at the RAH and not exactly populated by the beautiful people. It comes to a pretty pass when our subject is one of the best catches.

Shop 'til you drop

Mrs Pofydd and the delectable Nia have been to visit for the ostensible reason to see him but the rather truer reason that they needed to go shopping for the upcoming nuptials of Chris and Christine.

His promise to show them around the shopping haunts of Birmingham lasted all of 5 minutes in a heinously crowded TK Max before he rang away screaming something about the foul touch of hoi polloi. Some 5 hours later they appeared back at the flat to find him relatively restored to health and ready for a night on the tiles.

As is usual with two girls who's apparent motto is "every conversation is an intervention" (they both work in the social services side of life) a robust evening of difficult personal questioning followed over some great dim sum at Must followed by some fine cocktails at HdV.

Towards the end of the evening the barman approached them to take their final orders (as they were not resident) and to describe the look on his face as shock when our subject turned to Mrs Pofydd and asked, "shall we get a room then" would be a major understatement.

Plenty more alcohol flowed back at the flat before the evening ended in the early hours.

The girls were up and lively very early on Sunday night and keen to return to the shopping fray. Suitably steeled he managed to last the trip second time round although as they were shopping in House of Fraser and its ilk rather than Primark et al this is not such a surprise.

A killer in our midst?

With the nephew providing the draw he headed to London for another weekend and, to avoid the horror of too much time with the kids, he had managed to fit in a night on the pop with Naughty Nigel and GG (NAG).

A night in the West End is rarely dull and this one did not disappoint possibly due to NN and his rather odd decisions to pace their session drinking Peroni Gran Reserva (6.5%). Having failed to book anywhere for supper (thank you Nigel) they had to settle for a bite to eat at Zizzis...in the basement...with a hen party.

The mind boggles as to how tragic it must be to aspire to a night out at Zizzis as one's last hurrah before the doom and gloom that is matrimony but to find that the only males in sight are those three must really be depressing.

When one of the vaguely non-ugly ones wandered over and complemented him on his shirt there were bemused looks all round, these swiftly turned to outrage when she revealed that she had been dared to go up to the nearest attractive man and complement him on his shirt - outrage from GG (NAG) and Nigel for coming second and third and from our subject for his best feature being his shirt.

Being street and down with the kids they headed off for a rather "urban" nightclub where they rather stuck out like (white) sore thumbs. A quick couple of beers later and the sight of a young lady collapsing to the floor and being rapidly surrounded by a growing pool of red fluid was enough to send them on their way. Suspiciously she collapsed just as GG (NAG) walked past her, we do wonder about that kid.

A taxi ride home from a very illegal taxi should have topped off the night but finding the lovely TCO back at Nigel's the scotch was dragged out for a nightcap, ouch.

A much calmer Sunday with the kids
was the restorative including a splendid (and very long) game of pooh sticks. Having to carry the oldest two home from the park was, however, a killer.

The latest cast member

After three botched efforts (Thea, Phoebe and Evie) his sister has finally produced an heir and first grandson for the Mother. We are of course very excited here at Bogun Towers about the news and look forward to the Nephew's future appearances (although we may have to wait 12 years or so before the stories about him involve drink).

Kayaking horrors, again

Our longer term readers will recall the disaster that was his last kayaking trip with Glenn. For our shorter term readers who cannot be bothered to track back the basic details are he nearly drowned.

The joy of being a writer for this missive is our subject's total inability to learn the lessons of life and so we find ourselves writing about another kayaking disaster.

The splendid Glen has been agitating for some time that they should get a group together and go kayaking on some river near the Pofydd's place in West Wales and he finally got his wish this past weekend and Naughty Nigel, our subject, Glen and his very lovely girlfriend Hila all pitching up at Pofydd's for the weekend.

Saturday was a relatively calm day on Nant y Mawch (the local resevoir) and some gentle paddling was had and there was scarcely an indication of the fun that was to come.

A night out in Aberystwyth at a turkish BYO restaurant was their self-appointed reward for surviving the first day. We are not sure however that Naughty Nigel quite got the idea of a BYO as he turned up with a bottle of port, just a touch cheeky.

The Orangery as usual proved a thumping disappointment and the pub after was just full of sad fat old men on the pull (and that was even before our subject and Naughty Nigel got there).

Sunday dawned bright and fair and off they set to shoot the rapids on a stream in the shadow of Cader Idris.

Things started relatively safely and he managed at least 100 yards before taking his first tumble in and frankly that would be the motif of the day, 100 yards paddled, 100 yards swum (well desperately trying to get out of an upside down Kayak and then being swept down the river until he hit a bank) and then 10 minutes of pulling the blasted boat out of the water, emptying it and starting all over again.

After 3 odd hours of this he was properly bored and indeed pissed off. The fact they had gone less than third distance was not helping his mood. And so like a complete wuss he gave up. The others carried on and he lugged his boat up to the nearest road and set in to wait for them to come and pick them up.

2 and a half hours it took them to do so. He was beginning to get close to being properly cold and miserable but like an angel a very lovely local lady stopped to check up on him (it should be observed that this road sees about 3 cars an hour) and seeing his state popped home and came back with bananas, plenty of hot tea and biscuits. This splending samaritan was a real life saver and the look of jealous rage on Naughty Nigel's face when they finally pitched up to discover him drinking hot tea was priceless.

The samaritan asked only one favour in return and we are happy on his behalf to grant it. Anyone considering a holiday in Snowdonia should visit her website - www.caderidrisholiday.co.uk. He has also asked us to apologise to her for lying - he claimed that he had put a hole in the boat rather than 'fessing up to a stranger that he is a chicken.

Baldy

GG (NAG)'s bathroom has a set of paired mirrors allowing him to see the back of his head for the first time in a long time and so he has finally been forced to accept that Dennis's jokes about his bald spot are in fact not humourous but merely factual observation.

He now finds himself disturbingly conscious of it and has been taking a keen interest in the trichologist adverts on the TV.

A syrup beckons we think.

Asleep on duty

Barely rcovered from the port surfeit the only sensible solution seemed to be a litre of pinot grigio and a bottle of pudding wine with GG (NAG). Some might suggest this would not be the most prudent way to end a weekend but, hey, hang caution is, fortunately for us, his watchword.

An early rise to get down to Bristol for a night on the pop with Hoots and Aqua Ben (the earliness of the rise due to work not the drinking).

He made the usual error of trying to keep pace with the young 'uns and ended up in his usual state.

The Higgs Boson

His mother will be most unhappy with us revealing that she has had yet another birthday and to mark this happy event he treated her to a weekend of his presence.

Fortunately her daughter, son-in-law, three nieces, brother and sister-in-law were there as well which must have mitigated the worst of it.

As the evening wore on we rather suspect that the discussions about various elementary particles and whether super string theory requires 10 or 11 dimensions to work may have had something to do with the half-gallon of beer, bottle of Rioja and half-bottle of port they had each thrown down. We fear the nerdy aspects of such a conversation can only be attributable to underlying nerdiness.

He claims that his thick head the next day was due to the very serious debates and rigourous intellectual dexterity. We can think of another explanation, see above.

A Young Professionals Booze Cruise

After a sad absence of too many months from these pages we are delighted to announce the return of Hoots to the cast of current characters. After many failed attempts at arranging a night out on the sauce at last they managed to fix things up for an evening out in Brum.

We are told that most women have a recurring nightmare of turning up at an event to find someone else wearing the same dress, fortunately neither of them are women or things could have got messy as they both opted for exactly the same cloths. Only the slightly darker colour of Hoots's geography teacher jacket enabled them to be distinguished (well and Hoots's more unkempt hair).

With so many bars to chose from they played it rather safe with All Bar One, Pitcher & Piano and then a different All Bar One. A little middle of the road young professional we think.

A good skinful inside you always puts one in the mood for the munchies and with all the curry houses empty and his cupboards nearly as bare they had to settle for a "feast" of pasta, a tin of chopped tomatoes and some frankfurters. We did not know that sort of meal could be cooked other than in student Halls of Residences.