suggzy

One thing (of many) that makes life worthwhile is suddenly getting the opportunity to do something totally and utterly unexpected. Doesn’t happen that frequently, and, often when it’s with work, it’ll be something grim, which actually makes life rather worse. Such was the case, for example, when my employer required me to gather together 28 postgraduate students, squire them onto a coach at 4.30am and then take them to two different locations in London to procure visas for study in Europe.

Truly, it was a quite beautiful intersection of the indivisible: coach driver’s hours of work rules; traffic into Central London; intransigence of quasi-consular staff; the total absence of an internet café where I could print off 135612370 additional documents that were suddenly a necessity; and the fundamental and unavoidable duty of getting everyone back in one piece, or else. We actually got down there alright, but at the point we divided, things went rather awry. The first band, dealing with a proper Embassy, had their stuff sorted by midday and tripped lightly off into the sunshine to have fun. We, the second group, were still doing head-shaking battle with the Visa Processing Centre at 5 to 5, to the strain of the cleaners’ hoovers. At some stage of a hot and harried afternoon, I had taken the ‘tough decision’ (I think this is the terminology used now?) for the coach to depart with the lucky punters in the first group, whilst I gave contemplation as to how the remaining twelve of us (counting self, developing a nice case of gout, these being the pre-fitness years) would successfully hitch-hike back to South Yorkshire.

Now, in the event, it did not come to that. Mostly because I was so fumingly angry about how the whole thing had so unfairly gone, and how badly we had been treated. Reasoning that it was Friday, and that Monday was far, far away, I wielded the WORK CREDIT CARD in ‘fuck it’ mode, and we made out for St. Pancras and the ticket office. An eye-watering £972 later, we were on the next train out of there. I remember sending one of the lads off to M&S for supplies, and then spent the next two hours of clickety-clack, sipping my way down a bottle of red wine he had returned with, staring into space, a shattered man, and periodically thumbing the receipt for the largesse.

Of course, eventually Monday did come, and a certain amount of fast talking was required. In my defence, I argued that seeing as my employers never paid for anything up front, and as a consequence I was generally in debt on my own credit card to the tune of several hundred pounds, upon which I was charged interest, and yet I continued to carry out all of these extra-curricular activities, working like a dog for the good of us all, I should be left well alone before I started killing people. I think, in those 3.5 years, that was just about the one argument I managed to win.

Quite a day.

But sometimes it can be more fun than that, as I shall describe. Let us cycle forward to early September 2012. A couple of months into my most memorable year of abstinence from alcohol and carbohydrate. The year I gave up smoking, and took up walking, and then running. The year that led up to me meeting the wonderful SWK, in fact. Can’t be a coincidence, looking back.

One of the things we have to handle, here, is arrangements for graduation ceremonies outside of the UK, of which there are a few, each year. For the most part, that simply means the creation of a number of nice certificates, safely parcelled off to parts foreign. However, now and again we have to send over a bigwig of some ilk to do a bit of glad-handing, throw a few certificates around and generally make a speech and play nicely. Obviously, this requires a big hitter, as it’s such vital and hard work. My arse. However it was generally snapped up by Prof. X or Dr. Y.

Except this year, when it was not. My boss was due to be elsewhere, and quite apropos of nothing whatsoever he declared that I was to do it. I didn’t quail, because life is short, but I did have a few misgivings at the point at which it became time to be fitted for the gown. The one I used that year is the most hideous monstrosity; the rough offspring of the advert-splattered surface of a rally car, Joseph’s Technicolour Dreamcoat, and a charity-shop ball gown. Pressed into it, with a drooping cake-like hat plastered over my long and bedraggled hair, I looked like an exhausted (but well-meaning) Poundshop Gandalf. Happily, I think no pictures survive. Or maybe I just hope they don’t.

Next gig was to knock out a speech. More my sort of pace that. I was handed earlier efforts by previous wearers of this most ghastly garb. And promptly binned them, for they were the most high-handed and disinterested one-pagers of sentiment-free bilge. Couple of hours later and the volume had quadrupled and I reckoned on there not being a dry eye in the place, assuming that the audience would not be exclusively Czech speaking (for I was bound for the city of Brno, in the Czech Republic – I had been but once before, for a few thorny days back in the Spring – this trip promised to be rather more fun).

Flights booked, everything wedged into bags, I popped into the office for a couple of hours and then made my way down to Stansted and off into the blue.

Bags. Hmm. Here we reach the crux of the matter I mentioned in the title.

Now and again, the Tesco two doors down from us will knock out a deal whereby you get vouchers for every £10 or £20 you spend that count towards a reduction on some manner of higher quality products. I’d just benefitted from much the same deal that had got me a cabin and a hold bag for airline travel at a mighty reduction. So, nicely set for my debut on the graduation stage.

I benefitted further from the Priority Boarding facility that work had booked for me, so I was through passport control and waiting eagerly at the luggage carousel in little more than a breath. And so there appeared my bag. I hauled her away, and headed for the exit. I could see my driver the other side of the divide, slightly unfortunately bearing a mighty sign bearing my (long) full name and full degree title. May as well have written “Some Up-Himself Wanker” on it, but there we go. I was on the verge of addressing him when I had one of those moments of clarity for which you are eternally happy thereafter.

There was something odd about my bag.

Aside: I’m sat here typing, remembering that the bag I check most commonly still, almost three years on, does not have some manner of ribbon or other identifying piece of ‘flare’ upon it. I have learned nothing. Of course, SWK has some nice little glittery, mirror-like hair-scrunchy thing on hers, which is a) pleasing and b) identifiable from a country mile away. I must rectify this. Not cut hers off; add something to mine.

I looked down. It was a bit ‘pressed in’ on one side and, now I thought of it, a little light? And perhaps just a little too old, to be mine, although identifiably the same design. I pulled back the zip, and ventured in. I don’t know how much shock I exhibited to the rest of my fellow travellers when all I brought forth (much like the magician and the never-ending trail of knotted handkerchiefs) was a bizarre, baggage-handler-created spaghetti of ladies’ underwear, cosmetics and sundry unguents. Oh dear. In fact, bugger. Two years on from offing a grand of company money on rail tickets and M&S restorative wine, I was about to submit a garment of not dissimilar value into the unwitting hands of a heavily greased, made-up and upholstered Czech woman of indeterminate age.

I crammed the expanding matter back into the case and flew back into the luggage hall, depositing the bag onto the carousel with no little speed.

A few minutes of quiet prayer and meditation followed. Then a few more, as I composed letters of apology and/or resignation. Until there my bag stood, and I tore it open to reveal the familiar gaudy hideousness of my party outfit. Composure re-gathered, I made for car, hotel, and spot of dinner. Phew.

On which subject. If you ever go to Brno, please go to Steakovny a Pivny Bar, and have a half litre of Pilsner and their Steak Tartare. You’ll walk out full and happy for £5 and have spent 40 minutes in one of my favourite bars of all time. Oh, and make sure you take a photograph of the motorbike on the ceiling:

Let’s finish this tale with a little local colour from that which I was there to do.

Next day was graduation day. My lovely lovely Czech colleagues fed me dumplings and the like on what was a hot lunchtime until I could barely walk unaided, and then wheeled me ‘round to the conference centre where the ceremonies (three of ‘em) were to be held. I was introduced to most of the city, forgetting, immediately, who anyone was. I patted my pocket every 15 seconds to reassure myself I still had my speech (two copies thereof). I hauled myself into the sweaty silken vestments, donned the cake, and straightened my tie. We went through the order of service one last time, and set out in a gentle crocodile for the rotunda building. A regular donnish Village People, we were, too.

As we crested the steps up, the brass band started to play a fanfare. All very jolly. 600-odd guests leapt to their feet, and in we swanned. I attempted solemn, but I think I might have been grinning my face off, in honesty. We arrived at our chairs, the band farted to a halt and I started to make moves to lever my chair out from the desk to take a load off and have a bit of a think. However, my friend MB caught my eye and gave a little shake of the head. I stood firm, and back came the band with a vengeance. All ‘around me, young and old, male and female, Czechs of all types pressed hands to hearts and struck up what I soon gathered was the National Anthem. Stirring stuff it was too. Behind me the State flag unfurled, and I felt a real sense of privilege at what I was involved in.

Silence fell, emotions settled, and again I was just reaching for the old recliner when there was the unmistakeable parp of the opening to our own little Signature Tune, back home. The unremitting (if pleasingly harmonic, SWK would want me to say) plodding dirge of God Save The Queen. 1,200 eyes settled upon poor old Gandalf as, this time fuelled by no more than water, he fell to shyness, and attempted to look sombre and stately whilst eyeing his toe caps. My pipes stayed shut on this occasion.

The ceremony went well. All three did, and by the last, my speech was real slap-a-my-thigh stuff. I certainly made out a few titters, anyway. Otherwise the duties were light. Come when called for, stand in line, grasp certificate, shake hands with candidate offering positive sentiments as to their achievements to date and future prospects, pose for photo, rinse and repeat. It got a bit lively during the late afternoon when a thunderstorm rolled in of quite epic proportions. Had our dog been there he’d have nipped under my blessed gown. Actually it was quite an appropriate score to the whole process, as shaking hands with excited 21-year-old Czechs can be, I have learned, something of a Russian roulette routine. Trouble is the whole the whole thing rattles by in something of a blur. Names of the next punters to get called up for a congratulation session do get called out, yes, but their sex is never really quite clear until they are upon you. Now, not to label folk, but 80% of the Czech youth appear to come into two categories. They are either six stone females on 15inch heels skittering around like the young Bambi, with handshakes of only one atom’s width. Or, they are horny handed sons of the soil, at least 8 feet high in their stockings, and amateur javelin throwers. With the former, there is the risk that a firm handshake will disfigure them or dismember them quite dramatically. With the latter, one breathes in and simply has to manfully meet their gaze as, cheerfully and unknowingly, they set your knuckles afloat, as they pump merrily away at your palm. When one of those boys hoves into view, and the thunder crashes behind him, you know what pain is.

Finally, our ceremonial duties done, we peeled off in a long slow arc to the reprise of the fanfare. I peeled away the layers of gown, delighted to find the ink had not run and tattooed my short-sleeved arms. I cursed the thing (I never took it again, and I have been three times since), bagged it, and headed out for another pint of Pilsner. Truly, a marvellous experience I never could have thought I would have. Bravo Brno.

Having knocked out a couple of pieces in a week, I find myself a little confused as to what my next piece will be. So, come back soon for a spot of pot luck, eh?

Love to all.