| "Hello Mate!" |
| People often ask the Rudey's (that's us) and Skin (Chris) how they keep so remarkably in shape, while they live a lifestyle of cheap cider. Well the answer is six mile walks, and nutritious food. "But when and where can you do this?" I hear you ask. Well, on our drunken evenings, the kebab van at Larkhill is a welcome place to walk to, even if it is a six mile round trip! The journey to the van usually takes about an hour, (though it seems about ten minutes) and there are usually a great number of us who go. The journey, while being fun, is also incredibly dangerous, and takes place over various busy roads, parks and housing estates. When you arrive, you are welcomed by the smiling ocupants of the van, who have informed me that they are Kurdish. You are also safe in the knowledge at this point that drinks love burgers, which is a handy piece of information. You know that you are in safe hands when the two grinning chefs say "hello mate, can I help you?" However, conversation is usually limited after this point. |
| After getting to the van, we order our food. There is a fantastic selection on offer, including the obvious doner and chicken kebabs, burgers and drinks, and also, the as yet untasted by myself 'egg and cheese in bun'. On top of such scrumptious morsels, you can make the most of a selection of sauces, chili, ketchup, and mayonnaise. Then comes the salad. The kebab/burger/bun is loaded with lettuce and raw onion, and chunks of tomato, plus a few green chilis, if the chef is in a bad mood. I once had three, as he knew I was too drunk to know what I was eating. My toilet did the next morning however. When you have got your food, you can sit in the dining area, or, as it is sometimes known, The small piece of tarmac dangerously closely located next to a busy road. After you have risked life and limb climbing to the kebab van, you know that it was all worth it when you have finished. Saying goodbye to our Eastern European friends, we start the journey home. |
| The way home usually takes about a day, or, more realistically, three hours. We don't know why it takes longer to get home, it just does. Perhaps because there isn't the promise of a spicy piece of meat at the other end of the trip, or maybe it's just the fact we've sobered up. The way home also includes heartburn, sore eyes, (if you've slipped with the chili sauce and rubbed them) and a few breakages from various falls, throws and runs. The journey back to Figheldean can also present us with many oppurtunities for anarchy. By anarchy, I don't mean helping to overthrow governments, (and meeting politicians, Presidents and monarchs is understandably a rarity on these nights) I mean stupidity. Japes such as scaring the occasional cow, turning round a road sign, throwing grit salt, snapping a branch, dropping a tissue, or something equally evil and depraved are the sole preserve of a journey home from the "van". It's also not unusual to see old school friends on the way back. Either walking home from somewhere themselves, or pissing on a fence, for instance. Both of these events have been encountered by myself. |
| By the time you have reached your home, you are ready for bed. You are by now cold, but safe in the knowledge that you are full, with a hearty meal inside of you. Your legs also ache at this point, although you won't feel this until you wake up the next morning, especially if you have to play football at 10:30 am in the Salisbury and District league division three. Although this is no-one's fault but your own. Sometimes, you think it might be easier to just have a sandwich or a pizza at home, or to perhaps not drink at all. But then you start to reminisce as you imagine those smiling faces, waiting to say "Hello mate!". You go all bleary eyed as you think of the taste of a Kurdish creation, and perhaps most importantly, you suddenly remember that nothing in this world can be wrong as long as drinks love burgers. |