So here are just some random points from each day.
Ok, deep breath, release, and GO:
Saturday
We saw a bat in the car park.
I didn't want to go. I considered purposefully falling down the stairs when I got up, in order to break something small and relatively painless ie. my toe.
We listened to a CD on the bus. It had the most RANDOM acoustic remix of Wonderwall EVER on it. No, seriously, this was bizarre. He sort of lengthened random words, then added pauses, eg:
Today is gonna be the... day that theeeeeeeeeeeeeeir gonna... throwitback...to... YOU!
It was shit. Once we were in Hamsterland, Croucher got lost. I made a mistake in the previous blog, in saying the lake was in Haziwinkle; this was incorrect. The lake was actually the Amsterdam Bos, and nobody had a fucking clue where the hell it was. I mean, for fucks sake. So we were sitting in Wilko's bus, following Croucher's bus all across the farming reigons of Amsterdam. Amusingly, we saw EVERY traditional Nederlands stereotype in the space of an hour: Dykes (tee-hee), Clogs, Windmills, and a lack of hills. The only thing we didn't see were latex-clad ladyboys smoking spliffs while taking dumps on top of leather-boy scout uniform wearing bondage slaves. But I get enough of that at Steve's house, I don't need much more, to be honest.
But COME ON, Croucher. At least look up where the damn lake is next time. It was hilarious, we went into so many random car parks etc; and Wilko's language got more and more foul as the day went on and we progressed through my REM CD. By the time we were at 'Nightswimming' he was theatening GBH on our beloved rowing leader. Well, not really beloved. But we arrived eventually.
Then we found out that Mr Nimmons (one armed guy, boatie coach) had died, and that was quite sad. Not on the actual trip, of course. That would have been bad. He was in Portugal. And to think; I was the last one to ever get the Mr Nimmon's award. Well, technically, it was that wankerish J15 who got it this year, but he's probably gay, and I'll beat it out of him. I'm only kidding. I couldn't beat an egg sandwich out of a damp paper bag. What do I say? I know not.
Sunday to Saturday
Everything sort of runs together at this point. I can literally not remember anything, except for a few perks:
I learnt that I can stroke the boat. Now, I can't be bothered to properly explain what that bit of boatie terminology means, so you will just have to use your imagination. Knock yourselves out in the imaginamanation department. However, with Simon (SEXY) behind me, I had all the amusement I needed. I know, it's not big, it's not clever, but it is FUCKING HILARIOUS to wind him up, eg:
(the balance in the boat is off)
Simon (fuming angry): Get the BALANCE...
Me: Simon says get the balance!
Simon: SHUT UP
Me: Simon says shut up!
Simon: *angry spluttering sound*
Ben: Calm down, Simon.
Me: Simon says rub your head!
*Ben rubs his head*
Hahahha. Or:
Cox: Bowside, row on.
Me: Yeah, bowside, sort it OUT.
Simon (who is on bowside): Arghhhhrgh.
Now I think about it, it's not that funny, but it was in the boat, ok? Screw YOU.
Then the first eight ran rampant with a razor on one fateful afternoon. After taking off Hudspith's eyebrows, they look out half of one of Sasha's. Hahahahha, Hudspith looks like such an orc. He is ODD, with a capital ODD. So, indeed, ODDodd. And then Curry got his head shaved. Seriously, I reckon he brought it upon himself. I mean, you would have to be a total fuckwit to allow a bunch of overexcited boaties to give you a haircut. But he was bought over by their promises of fancy 'speed lines'. Hmm. Here it is in excruciating detail:
1: They start to cut a line in his hair. Nobody has any clippers, so they just use beard trimmers and some blunt hair scissors.
2: They end up cutting a fat chunk of hair out, in a roughly triangular stylee shape.
3: In order to sort this, they just cut some more out. Somebody, in an attempt to 'even it out', shaves a hunk off.
4: The original hairdressers run off, but some more join in. A huge crowd forms in the bathroom where this is taking place.
5: Somebody tells Curry that 'it'll be fine', but cracks up laughing halfway through. An honest to goodness gay boatie is consulted. He suggests making a cool looking racing stripe. Curry now looks like a reverse monk.
6: A huge bald patch is now hacked/created.
7: Linacre wanders in, sees the 'do', and cracks up laughing. Curry looks miserable. The entire boat club is now crammed into the hotel room.
8: The rest of Curry's hair is taken off with some low-battery beard trimmers by Linacre.
9: Curry looks pissed off.
ALSO, I had no idea that so many of my fellow boaties were such wankers. WANKERS. I mean that literally. Not one of them could go for a week without jerking off. IT'S ONE WEEK. At least I have some damn self-control. And then they all went off and bought porn, then looked really pleased with themselves. Great, you spent your parent's money and bought some nasty low budget lesbian porn dvds. Well bloody done. But stop looking so superior. Porn is, basically, pretty pathetic, when you get down to it. You saw some boobies, now please stop being so over-excited.
Although, Boner did once again manage to live up to his nickname. That was amusing.
Ho hum. I can't be bothered to type more. Mr Fisher is a dude, with his random australian country rock, most of which revolves around drinking and sex. Dude. DUDE.
Raise your hand if I rule.
Oh, so that's everyone. Tee hee hee.
Cow bullets: Amoonition.
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