Ein episches Abenteuer

An epic adventure indeed. It took more than an erupting volcano to prevent our mission from occurring, and a contingency plan was formed. Sprocket, by some strange coincidence, was already stranded in Dusseldorf, and two of our party were stuck in work, so it was seven of us who boarded a VW transporter in Clayton, and headed off on a 557 mile trek to Dusseldorf. The trip down was pretty incident free, Sandro's mood swings from complete depression, to unbelievable optimism, kept every one's spirits up, until we found out that Queso's supposed European satnav, wasn't. Luckily I had printed off our route from Google maps, which did the job, but as we neared our destination, it became complicated. Once again, we had a lucky break, as I finally figured out how too use the GPS maps on my dog and bone. We arrived, checked in, met Sprocket and his mate, and took off around the Aldstadt, drinking loads of Alt and Killepitsch, of which I never heard of, but you can follow this link to learn more. After loads of both of these drinks, apart from the good Dr Shotgun (thankfully as it transpired) we KC took us too a place that did the best pork sarnies in the world. Sandro was so impressed he ate two, and even contemplated a third (he said he didn't want to seem greedy) In fact over our three day stay, he consumed a grand total of nine, and grew a curly tail. The other highlight of the evening was Shouty laying claim to drinking champion of Europe, after he destroyed a Germ,an chap foolish enough to cross swords with him. But things were about to take change for the worse, and one member was too find himself burdened with a whooping 25 Buffoon points ( this doesn't include the ten he got on the journey for telling us about his pikey trick) I am not allowed to fully relay the full ins and out's of what occurred. All I can say is that involved a wet bed, police and us looking for new accommodation the next morning. Shotguns dislike of both Alt and Killepitsch came in handy, as he was the only one capable of blowing clear, and being able to drive.


So the next day commenced with us in search of a new home, and it was not long before the first buffoon points were earned. We decided to try our luck in Cologne, and headed off in the direction of the Autobahn. The problem was that the good Doctor couldn't quite manage to get his head around the fact that in German, Cologne is in fact "Köln" After driving around aimlessly, I took an executive decision, and we headed back to Dusseldorf. The main reason was that the major was on his way, 1860 were playing there on Sunday, and Sprocket and Dessi had managed to avoid detection at our previous hotel. We would have spent the whole weekend shuttling back and forth, so as we crossed the Rhine back into town, I spotted a Holiday Inn, and we booked ourselves a trio of rooms. So after a small siesta, we were off again. Shotgun stayed in the hotel, enjoying the hospitality of some political party, if memory serves Die Liberlans, and Shouty roused me to go and meet up with Sandro and Queso. First though, I threw up most of the previous nights excesses, and tried to rouse Crespo who was having none of it. Then it was off to meet up at the Red Lounge in Carlsplatz. It was here we found Steve and San enjoying a few Kolschs in tranquil surroundings, which were soon destroyed by decibel charged Shouty, which gave San a headache. We also scored Dessi and Sprcokets first points of the trip, after their beer mat fight descended into a wrestling match, which lead too KC sporting a big fat purple ear.

The rest of the afternoon, and early evening was to be dominated by the Shoutster. We went to an Irish bar to watch the Manchester derby, hooking up with KC and Dessi, plus a freshly arrived Major. Th game was pretty poor, so the Right Honourable decided to start doing shots of vinegar. Then shots of vinegar with Ketchup. The Major, Sprocket and even El Grande Queso took part in knocking back his bevy of concotions. But with out a doubt the worst was his "starfish" It was a bit of lager, with vinegar, two types of mustard, a pinch of salt, pepper and lime, with a dollop of HP sauce. It looked like a turd floating in piss, and even Shouty looked at doubtfully. But not Dessi, who polished it off in one go. At this point Crespo made a PA, just as a confused Queso decided he best take a time out. I found him wandering around aimlessly, and pointed him towards a taxi rank. I my self decided a walk along the river back to our base would be good for the head, although it took me a while, as I got proper lost. After a power snooze, and a shower, I regrouped with Shotgun and Crespo, and went off in search of Shouty.


And he was in fine form when we found him. He had fallen out with Sprocket, and kept making up with him, before falling out with him again. I have video evidence of the state he was in, but he has asked I not post it. Finally he snapped out of it, and started lecturing Shotgun on how brilliant English culture was, and how shit Italian culture was. He even accused Crespo of being to stupid to invent the wheel. Major was ready to watch his beloved Spurs, so once again it was back to O'Reillys. Once inside, Shouty set about a group of Scots at the bar, telling them they were small folk, from a small country, and then telling a bunch of Londoners, that all they did was "Give it all that" and couldn't drink like a northerner, particularly the drinking champion of Europe, before going outside and passing out. It was on e of these two groups that we suspect of committing the Ketchup incident. The game finished, and we decided to get some grub, and hook up with San and Steve at, you guessed it, the world famous pork sandwich shop. Me and Shotgun were first to finish, so went collect Shouty, who was just beginning to come around. It was then that we noticed he was covered in Tomato Sauce, a big dollop was on his head, and he had gotten it all over his hands and arms. We cleaned him up and headed for the Red Lounge.

Now at this point you may be wondering why the Shoutster has not gained any buffoon points Well it is down to what happened next. Now he was still well plastered, only having been awake for about an hour. The Major, who was well greased by this point, got in a yard of Jagermeister, which a few ducked out of, which lead to Shouty knocking back about four of them. This lead to somebody daring him to drink a yard, ie 10 shots, of Killepitsch. He wouldn't agree at first, and as part of our mission to get him to do it, we waved all points scored up to then, and promised to get him back to the hotel. He agreed. I know a few of you have probably seen the video clip on Facebook, and I will post it on here tonight, KC is e-mailing me it when he gets in from work. At first he seemed to wear it well, but after half an hour he was destroyed. We took him for a coffee, but it had no effect. At on point he looked at Queso, told him he loved him, and tears trickled down his cheek. The next minute he was trying to take a leak on a busy street. The effort to get him home was immense, and not without it's fair share of incidents. Steve's ploy was to walk ahead, and he would follow, but this proved flawed, as we turned around to see him spark out on the floor surrounded by policemen. Once again we got him on his feet and moving, this time aided by Sandro, who appeared from nowhere. By now he was hitting the deck every five metres. The funniest one was when he stumbled, and put his hands on a car that was stopped at a red light. The panicked driver threw it into reverse, and once again tarmac beckoned. Finally we got him into his hotel room, and I left him in the recovery position. The it was off back down town.

And an excellent night it was, at our favourite after hours spot, Bannerman 6. The music ranged from old school house tunes too, crazy German folk songs, our favourite can be seen in the post below. Many new German friends were made, and the Kolsch was ice cold. Sprocket garnered some more points for his foolish rose trick, and Sandro ate some more pork sandwiches. The next day was football day, and the weather was cracking. I will do a full report later under an "Away days" thread, hopefully tomorrow. Shotgun scored another point, as he kept asking if Munich were at home, even though we were in Dusseldorf. After the game we met up with Sandro and Steve, who watched Arsenal go down to Wigan, which cheered up the Major no end, and a reprieved Trigger, who had kissed and made up with Queso. The rest of the afternoon was spent drinking lager and eating schnitzel by the banks of the Rhine, on a lovely sunny afternoon. Sunday night was spent, where else, at the Bannerman 6, after a steak dinner. Killepitsch and kolsch was the order of the day, and we stayed out till the club shut. The bouncer, Ludwig, was not to be messed with, although he did send us onto another club that was still open. Alas, only me, Shouty and Queso made it, Crespo and Dessi blagged their way into a house party. Crespo scored his points here. As soon as he got there, he went for a dump, used up all the toilet paper and passed out on the sofa. Shouty and Queso also earned a point each for emptying the dance floor in a Turkish bar, with a heroic display of pissed up dad dancing. They just didn't empty the dance floor. They emptied the whole building, so it was off to another seedy bar, where a persistent prostitute got the full Brister. She was a proper Munter, pissed and wouldn't leave me alone. So I finally snapped, told her "I didn't want to fuck her ten minutes ago, now or in another ten minutes, here is two euros now FUCK OFF and leave me alone!" It worked. She ended up blowing off some other dude in the toilet. The final points of the trip though were scored by Queso. At around eight o'clock in the morning, I'd done enough so chipped. This left him and Shouty, who left about 30 minutes later. Shouty passed out in the cab, leaving the Fromage as last man standing. He decided to call me up, and big him self up as the new champion drinker of Europe. Of course this didn't mean he wasn't wankered, and instead of me rang up the Elster, who was less than impressed by his marathon drinking feat, or the fact he called her a "Good Egg" several times.

The trip home was fairly incident free, but long. Over elven hours long. We cheered ourselves up with the Sandro song, but as we finally got to the M62, even this comedy gem was wearing thin. Would I do it again? You bet your boots I would, although if we are to do another road trip, it won't all be done in one go. I have tried to recap all the buffoonery I can remember, and you may well see an update at a later date, if other tales are recounted. In fact I can think of a few, but it is nearly time for five a side, so i shall wrap this up now. When I get into tonight, or tomorrow after work I will update "Le Grande Buffoon" standings, and post some videos, especially the one of Shouty's drinking feat. I shall post the link to the smugmug gallery.