Many many weekends ago, in the days of yore when I never played Dofus obsessively and constantly, James and Jake managed to coerce an invite out of our course leader to his farm down in Kent.
Geoff a man who has often mumbled to himself during course meetings and happened to mumble to James and James on one inebriated instance about his place “
Welcome to come anytime, camping mumble mumble field mumble mumble so lovely mumble mutter”.
It is highly possible that had he been sober such a reckless offer to students with upcoming holidays and joblessness would never have been made.
Unfortunately for Geoff his generous albeit slightly drunken invite was ruthlessly taken up by J & J and the rest of us being first rate scroungers all tagged along to the poor mans house in Adisham.
We all sort of meander to Victoria at a relative time. I say relative only because there was a clear time but no Foz being present to yell at us for unpunctuality we let it slide into general lateness.
Having no leader we all sort of wander around helplessly looking for trains and ticket deals. G. and a random gang of 3 non-illustrators bought tickets and boarded a train before a shocked Eoughan, James and I were even in the que.
Those bastards couldn’t fucking wait? Seriously what the fuck.
While London might have been grey, wet and full of Islamic terrorists Kent was warm, sunny and golden.
We are told on good authority that the station house at Adisham serves as a bordello after hours. On the wall behind it are scrawled in graffiti the words “Welcome to hell”. It begins to dawn on me why Geoff would want to move here. I reiterate my statement that Geoff secretly has the libido of a Arab stallion.
We are forced to wait as Geoff and his monster truck are dragged away from the lagers he and the traitors who ditched us are already tucking into.
While James and Eoughan recklessly run through the wheat fields I stand on the edge expecting at any minute an enraged a farmer on a tractor who will come whizzing along with a giant pitchfork and a scarecrow handing off the bonnet to lynch us for destruction of property and trespassing. What can I say? I’m such a cheerful carefree sort of person.
I promised Georgina I would write about visiting Geoff’s place, but I must to admit, I really have nothing much to say about it. It was a day I’m happy to gloat about in person but nothing much happened as such.
We sat around, eat, drank, made merry, jumped on his son’s trampoline, watched Geoff fiddle with the fireplace as he told us all about his adventures when he was a jolly sailor sailing on a boat full of gay Dutchmen who performed a very odd cure for sea sickness that involved them strapping him down onto the galley table and shoving cotton wool in his ears. You know how these gay Dutchmen are.
(I thought the sailor story might go to a fairly dodgy place at one point but it thankfully it took a very PG turn in the end)
The thing about feeding cats, especially the stray ones (which my mother insists on doing thus adding to her growing collection of assorted cats and then complains about how many shes got now – darling the kittens keep falling off the cupboard I’m so worried etcetera etcetera. Mom stop fucking feeding them, I have yelled many times) is that from then on you can never get rid of the little adorable bastards and they cute lil’ faces aww squishy squishy *ahem* anyway…
Geoff’s wife (18 years his junior we are told. Go Geoff!), who cooked us a lovely picnic meal and therefore made the massive mistake of feeding a gaggle of rabid starved artistes. She’ll never get rid of us now. Like an STD we’ll keep coming back. Perhaps next time to pay a visit to the lovely station house brothel.
The brothel lights were twinkling as we made our way home at twilight (So poetic no? Twilight would be about 10 o clock in summer, Geoff was finally rid of us poor man) and shone a welcoming homely shade of blood red from the one single bulb hanging on the ceiling of a room.
As we trudged up the station path we heard a melodic voice near a night-vision-green and flickering light saying oh so sweetly,
“PLEASE BE WARNED THIS STATION HAS 24 HOUR CCTV SURVEILLANCE PLEASE BE WARNED THIS STATION HAS 24 HOUR CCTV SURVEILLANCE”.
You could hardly even see the welcome to hell sign. It was a very romantic night only interrupted by the occasional blood curdling shrieks from behind the bushes (perfectly normal on a Saturday night to be honest).
As we stood on the platform Geoff was accosted by a very lovely, charming and gregarious young lady (the source, it would seem, of those shrieks) who came out from the afore mentioned bushes. She beelined for us in a determined but totally wasted wobble (I was suddenly struck by the remarkable parallel to Onnalin) to warn us all in the nicest possible way to get the fuck out of Adisham.
“Who the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you?? I ain’t see you around here before? I’m been here my whole fucking life I ain’t never seen you before. I fucking ‘ate this place mate. Why the fuck are you here? I’m fucking…I’m fucking going to Canterbury mate I’m going to get fucking ..get fucking wasted mate”
Geoff suggested mildly that perhaps she should go to London to discover her potential. (I love that he would think of giving a drunken woman a pep talk about London)
“London mate I aint going to London mate its fucking full of terrorist innt it? I don wanna get blown up mate….You shouldn’t go to London you’ll get blown up…..I don have any fucking potential mate I’m fucking….I’m fucking nothing mate…. I ain’t never been nowhere except here mate my whole life I’m normally a lovely person you know”.. she slurs….“but I really don’t give a FUCK right now”
Geoff pats her on the arm.
We finally board our train and take the bottle of wine we nick from Geoff (my god are we an appalling bunch of moochers) and go off home. We purposely didn’t offer to play cards with the ditchers on the way back. Humph! Serves them right!
Eoughan beats me in Chinese Bridge. Curses on Eoughan’s phony baloney Irish god. By Zarathustra and Ahura Mazda I shall get him back next time!
Sometime I really miss the third world privileges of doing as you please. Mumbai seems so sweet and innocent at this time, free from all the clamping down of civil liberties under the guise of ‘democracy’ in the first world. Democracy in quotes. Yeah thats right. I’m a rebel.
I heart Mumbai – smoke everywhere you like, drink cheap, so nice warm all the time. Aw.
I’m really curious as to how Geoff found out that the station house doubled up as a whore house after hours.
I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent explanation.
Hey, no slander on this here blog. No indeedy.