A Long, long time ago three drunken A level students decided to would be a good idea to drive a Citeroen Dyane to Morocco. The idea was to do it on beer and cigarettes and maps were not allowed. Sadly, the trip never got of the ground and we all trudged off too work. Twenty-two years later the trip is back on, in a big old Jag no less. I can't go due to uke commitments, but the "Unsuitable Gentlemen's Club" is born.
The trip, along with Robert's daily haiku can be followed here
My friend Rubbery Chapploe puts it better.
21:00 (10/05/06) T minus 81 hrs and counting :
"Now lets get this straight. Captain Spug and the Spinester (AKA Les Biciclettes unsuitable, AKA the dukes of uke) were supposed to be on this mission. In fact it was the brain child of young Norm, cooked up on a lethal brew of sixth form coffee and bum fluff. We were to take the citroen dian, as soon as our release papers were signed and head south, in a cloud of hashish smoke, to the city of amusing hats (possibly via the town of quim AKA Qum in the land of morocco). The last great European road trip.
No sooner had the ink dried on our A level failure certificates however and the wee fella embarked on the first of a string of unsuccessful marriages. The big one sold himself into a life of slavery in the computer mines and I opted for indolence and petty alcoholism and the dream was lost.
It was only resurrected twenty years later in a pub somewhere in London as a 40th year jape. Once again on the momentary fervor of a misplaced margarita. Need I mention that it was from the lips of Mr. F, that it came, now emerging from his 85th marriage to the lovely Svetlana Miopica. As word spread, the bandwagon filled and it wasn't long before the wheels were creaking at the axel.
As the unserious dropped one by one and the Dukes (peace be upon them) fell further under the thrall of the tiny guitar (it's alright ma I'm only
ukeing) and others became ravening psychotics, The party dwindled to two. My self and Morriati. We are the unsuitable gentlemen. The pictures you see above (or is it below) represent a hiccup only. Farah-Fawcet (our nearly red Jaguar XJ6 4.2L, straight six, automatic, £230, lover, beast, mother, glory, hotel, car) is purring like a kitten somewhere in the wilds of Wiltshire.
Sunday 5am (40 years and a fistful of regrets too late) the journey begins. I will be sending daily Haiku to this site and my friend will no doubt be sending photos of himself, dressed as a gay in the souks of old morocco. I hope you enjoy the ride.
Shoo kran, nihna rooh al ann, enchallah!