Twelve, Thirty-One, Eighteen and Twenty-Two

It was pissing it down. Nevertheless my lovely mother, Pauline, agreed to drive myself, Thomas and Richard to Gatwick airport, near Heathrow. Near London. On arrival at Gatwick airport we deemed it appropriate to have a Wetherspoons brekkie and a pint of cool American lager. Coors. Afterwards Doug bought a pair of velcro K.Swiss - he's yet to master the art of the shoelace - so gleaming white they'd give you snow blindness, and enough jonnies for Hugh Hefner's stag night. Meanwhile Michael squeezed his outsized frame into a plane the size of a Renault Megane, for a flight notable only for having his face smashed in by the door to the overhead compartment, and then walked from the airport (Tallinn airport, near Tallinn) into Tallinn, for no other reason than pigheadedness. We, annoyingly, had to change planes in Riga. Having set off behind schedule and with only 25 minutes in which to make the transfer, Monty displayed the composure and confidence of a 40-year-old virgin, but we just made it in time (having been blamed by the Latvian Quentin Crisp for making the flight late, despite the fact we are not qualified pilots).

After a quick taxi ride with Josef Fritzl, the whole shebang came together at the Old House Hostel on Uus Street, where Mike was. With little delay we headed into Old Tallinn for a flagon of local ale and some food (Jack had lasagne, Doug and Monty had ribs, gherkins and ketchup (which Doug described as 'salsa'), and Mike had already eaten (he had some bread and a pastry from the supermarket)). Doug quote #1: ´'I'd recommend the fish and chips', prior to eating. After a few rounds and a cheeky tequila (except for Jack, minus one point), and a brief sojourn in which Doug may or may not have dumped in the urinal, we went to Roijka Plats for five minutes of tourism - we saw a clock - and then walked on to the 'Bar with No Name' for the meat and two veg of the evening. Monty was immediately approached by an Estonian girl with pain behind her eyes. She liked his jacket, he made the mistake of showing slight decorum and for the next three hours we were stuck with the most miserable duo since Morrissey and Marr. In their defence, Doug did give some justification for hanging around with us by pulling both of them in quick succession, although we would like to take this opportunity to quash rumours that anything went on in the toilets, whatever the photo of his errant foot might suggest. Meanwhile Mike and Monty were playing pool with Stephen Hawking and his less able-bodied brother, John Hawking.

After what seemed like an eternity Buzz Killington and Fun Spoilington left because Doug had turned his attention to a group of fabulous Finns, although not before the two Estonian girls had guessed our ages: Monty 12, Doug 31, Mike 18 and Jack 22. One out of four (Jack is 22) - rubbish. Doug's skirt-chasing antics continued apace until round about 4am when we stumbled home.

Today can be summarised in one word: tits. Although that summary doesn't explain anything, so I will. We awoke to a symphony of farts from Doug which lasted many minutes before we realised there was another poor, hapless guest in the dorm room. We got up but couldn't get out. For ages. We were locked in. Then we got out and met a new friend, Weighty. She recommended a sauna which despite being amongst some of the grimmest Soviet bloc architecture I, for one, had ever seen, was lovely. Weighty got her baps out in the sauna, which was a bit weird but nonetheless, OK. We are doing a centurion tonight.

Odds

Walshe to vom first. Evens.
Mont to cry. Evens.
Armitage to pussy out. 4-1.
Weighty to get her baps out. 2-1 on.
Gerald. Evens.

Til tomorrow, dear reader.

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Thought for the day: Potential new name for Doug - Dough.