Cocktails and tales of a cock

I never ever thought I'd have a cocktail party thrown in my honour. Except of course, a party thrown by the family and friends of the appellant after a favourable decision ruling me not eligible for parole for a minimum of 15 years (with good behaviour).

In a display of how my involvement of this trek can make people forget how much of an annoying prick I really am, an old friend from university (whom I'd seen once in 10 years) along with her flatmates very kindly put on a cocktail party to raise funds for the trek. Blown away, I donned the 'clothes that I save for good' and headed for their abode in West London.

Awaiting me were a series of wading pools full of pre-mixed cocktails. ... dwarfing the 3 Budvar's that i'd bought along and intended on supping throughout the course of the 4 hours before my final train left... and a projector to display my hugely impressive picture display upon. Despite some feeble protestations about 'a jog and a cricket net' I had to do the next day, I was forcefed pina-colada, a champagne-type-cocktail, and some other concoction that looked a little bit liquified strawberry rollup - 2 hours later and it was suggested I take down a pint of a clear substance that they termed 'water' before giving a rundown of the pictures Id chosen to project on to the wall. Luckily enough, they were all of me, and funnily enough being obnoxiously drunk massively increases my ability to talk about myself.

After my informative lecture that involved me enthrallingly fumbling around a bit with google earth, we all sort of passed-out a bit. Luckily enough I definitely didn't wake up with a throbbing head, and definitely not still in my 'good clothes', on Cath's couch at about 6am. Thankfully, I hadn't drunk that much, and didn't desperately need a glass of water so much that I may have woken people up clattering into walls after losing my balance in a pathetic attempt to get to the kitchen sink. Because that would have just been embarrassing.

3 hours later and I was picked up in Butlers toy-car for a trip to Dulwich. My comment of 'I really don't want to do this today' was met with a typical response.... 'Don't spill that shit in my car you grubby Aussie c**t'. The Lucozade provided a warm security blanket as we weaved our way through South London.

Driving down a slope that I've only ever previously experienced on Space Mountain, we managed to arrive, stone dead last, to the modest castle that the Preston's call home. Averting from the 'jog and a net' theory that I'd thought the day would be, the day was actually setup as 'run 2 mile with rucksacks full of cricket kit to an indoor net at Dulwich college where we'll play another game of Breathless Cricket'.... Only half-joking, I asked if anybody wanted to drive the cricket kit the entire journey. A bit more seriously, I asked again as we gathered ourselves in the front room. Pretty-much not joking anymore, I suggested it wasn't too late for everybody to pull out of the 'jogging with rucksacks on' whilst we posed for a photo out the front. As we gathered on the stairs, I looked up... right up.... the hill to our right and remarked 'Mike, I hope it's left out of the front gate'. In his inimitable 'Mike possibly the nicest bloke in the world Preston' way, he replied 'ahhhh sorry Tooves, ut's right it the gate aye bro' (kiwi stereotype may be exaggerated). In a final desperate plea, I refused to carry a rucksack... in the hope that the workers united would never be defeated. Unfortunately the lads were about as loyal as that defector in Billy Elliot (ya know, that scene where they throw rocks at the bus carrying in the rebel workers). We were running. With rucksacks on. Up a hill steeper than a bill for a mobile-phone-based internet function that's been accidentally activated on an overseas trip.

After stopping only thrice to catch my breath and to prevent my calves from exploding, the run flattened out, and the fermented coconut milk topped-out at the opening of my oesophagus. Following this, I was fine all afternoon. I definitely didn't mutter repeatedly under my breath as we were subjected to 40 metre sprints after each and every delivery in the nets, and especially not in reaction to helpful comments like 'faster' and 'c'mon boys hurry it up'. Once I stopped picturing the horrifically graphic deaths of my teammates, I began to actually enjoy the session and even managed to push Blinky all the way in the sprints. Something that I've been quietly proud of. Quiet until now Blinky you one-paced draught-horse.

Thankfully my batting was somewhat superb and faultless in technique, application, and concentration, avoiding the need to completely regret not wearing a thigh-pad. Even if I did get hit in the thigh, I would have dealt with it in an adult and mature way and by no-means would I have sworn, pretended it didn't hurt, and then told Butler to take his smirking fat face out of the f*cking nets before I wrapped the bat around his f*cking head.

Bruised and sore, I took my dehydrated and cramping body on the walk back to Mike's. I needed comfort and plenty of it. Delighted to find a bathroom that was bigger than my flat, I parked myself under the sub-zero shower head and danced around like Michael Jackson on hot coals as the icicles pinged into my shoulders. The Partners-Preston made up for this by slaughtering 4 or 5 cows, pigs, a flock of Kinsey's chickens, and (somehow) 2 dodo's for the Tenzing feast and served them up for our enjoyment. Rotund and raring to go, we went about a team meeting that uncovered a fair deal of passion for the trek, the trip, and for gameday. We even managed to go further in depth about the opposition than my initial suggestion of holding up flash-cards of each of Team Hillary's faces and shouting out the word 'Homo' for each picture.

The week had begun