Day 1
of the first Ashes test started early, with a French wakeup call designed to wake us up in France. The call was successful, and we arose at some ridiculous hour before most sparrow's had begun to fart.
The lovely Tash stumbled out of bed to drive us (Dan & I) to the train station, where we arrived by 6:30am, Australian flag in tow and toenails on our toes. Handy start. Of a footy start, it's quite irrelevant. We both drifted in and out of consciousness while we rocketed towards Paris in our overgrown bullet of a train. We followed our toe-riddled feet through the Parisian metro system, morning peak hour on a Wednesday. Still running on adrenalin, it wasn't until we threw back a couple of coffees at Gare du Nord along with a butter croissant. In hindsight, this may have been the healthiest meal for the next 5 days.
Kronenbourg and cards, conversations with a family from Epping, a lot of shit-talking and 2 hours later, we were in London. The initial destination was Temple Walkabout, and after some Northern/District Line love, we walked in the door with the Poms batting. Poorly. Alistair Cook (AKA Alistair Cock) was already gone, Ben “Hirsute” Hilfenhaus had been picked over Stuart Clark, but more importantly, Dan's mate was working behind the bar. 1 quid beers, cheap burgers, and the day got slowly whittled away. Before we got on our bus to Cardiff, we met up with up Liam at a pub near Victoria, and had a Guinness and a Peter Siddle (piddle) before jumping on.
The bus trip was unremarkable. I sat next to a fat man and was squashed. When I went for a Siddle, that was the most exciting part. 'Nuff said.
By the time we wandered into Nomad Hostel – cash for comments? - it was ten'o'clock. And the original quartet was completed. Sam was waiting for us, as he had been all day. Lucky bastard scored a seat for Day 1 of the Test, and more impressive than that, he managed to refrain from getting rip-roaring drunk in the process. Having not eaten since sometime earlier that day, Liam was hungry, so before we had time to think, we were back out the door and hotfooting it towards the pub. Of course, by this time we were too late to get a meal, but a wise man once said that Guinness, like milk, is digested as a solid, so we ate a couple of those instead.
Exploring the Cardiff nightlife is a risky proposition. On one hand, you have some belting bars and clubs, that only locals know of. On the other hand, you can sample some of Britain's most boring chain pubs (think Wetherspoon's, O'Neill's, etc). And on the third hand, you have FLARES. Now growing up in country Australia, I've sampled some pretty rubbish establishments to enjoy a tipple. But never in my life have I been so offended by the patrons of a bar. Fat old women were publicly mauling disgusting, drunk middle-aged men, and even with drinks at lower prices than that granny's cleavage, we were out after one very quick drink.
Now well after midnight and sated with a dirty chicken burger and fries, we were ready to call it a night. But the best turns of a night out are unexpected... None of us will ever know the name of the club, but the music was great, the drinks were decently priced, and the dancing Pakistanis went down a storm. Flashing lights and crappy breakdancing (by us – despite the fact that we're full-on homeboys) saw us pass four hours in what felt like 20 minutes, and we finally hit the pillows around 5am.
STAY TUNED FOR DAYS 2-5...
