Wednesday April 23 2008

We awoke around noon. Out of all of us, I appeared to be suffering the worst hangover, which often seems to be the case after a night of drinking. Why this is remains a mystery, as I rarely drink more than anybody else. Perhaps it's because I'm short. Whatever the answer, the Filmjölk wasn't helping matters. Maddok cooked us something involving eggs, for which I owe him my life. We mooched around feeling sorry for ourselves for a while, then headed out to a nearby lake for a paddle in a four-man canoe.

Maddok hated the men at the canoe centre. They could not be raised in conversation without him explaining that they were bastards, something which he had done at least five times so far during our visit. Apparently the water-loving jocks at the club were required by law to rent out their beloved vessels to the public as part of their lakeside licence - yet they tried their utmost the prevent this inconvenient interaction with land-dwellers by never answering the phone so that nobody could find out what time they opened. By the time Maddok managed to get through, he had privately branded them at least four different varieties of strong expletive.

They didn't disappoint when we arrived. The alpha canoeist strutted around like a faintly annoyed peacock as we struggled amateurishly into our into our life jackets while a few of the lesser members or the flock wrestled with whether it would look cooler to eye us aloofly or simply ignore us.

But we didn't mind. We were on holiday! We were going rowing! Climbing into the canoe, we paddled past moorhens, gulls and possibly crocodiles, took in the massive sight of the 6kmÖland Bridge, drifted past a picture perfect canalside home and scraped the hell out of the bottom of the canoe by crashing repeatedly into rocks. Two hours later we had chased the hangovers out of our bodies, only for them to be replaced with a raging hunger. The sea jocks were nowhere to be seen when we returned to the shore, having doubtless retreated back to their underwater hideout to do whatever it is that jocks do when they're among their own kind. Probably bark at each other and masturbate.

Films rounded the day off again, along with a takeaway pizza. Brodos ordered the "Kebab Pizza", a cheese and tomato base buried beneath a pile of kebab meat shavings with a mass equivalent to that of a human head. It may well have been a human head, once upon a time. Brodos will never envy a vegetarian's meal choice, on principle, but he must have come close that night as he gulped down those endless strips of unidentified flesh. Kebab meat, unlike the X-Men, does not come with a back story.

Next week - Pixelsmith gets bitten during a drunken fight.

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A Geek Adventure

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