And so we now go whirling back in time to May 2008. And quite a week, it was. A relocation with Sarah the First (some years were still to pass before SWK swung so delightfully into view – let’s call her STF, as I love a good acronym) across country from cosy West Norfolk to Scary Sheffield was waiting in the wings. Before we departed on the trip I shall describe further down, I was hauled one sunny morning to a place called Go Ape! Based in Thetford, this place. In a forest – you can see where I am going with this, right? Essentially a whole lot of ropes, nets, ladders and zip wires, onto which, following a period of instruction and the usual embarrassing fitting of equipment, one would attach oneself in a variety of ways and then sort of move through the greenery, like a rather unconvincing, breathless and careworn ‘ape’.
Actually, it was quite good fun, even for someone given to a little light curmudgeoning, now and again. I’d dropped a few hundredweight in the first half of the year, and felt rather fitter and stronger and nippier than normal. Therefore I sort of did ‘alright’, even though, as I say, it was a hot day and I’m not and will never exactly be Tarzan. Still, for all that, I have fond memories of the first zip wire, where I managed to maintain proper balance and could see directly ahead all the way down. The longer they get, the more chance there is that your balance will be disturbed and you will start to rotate as the whole contraption heads downhill – frankly if you so much as fart or raise a quizzical eyebrow, it’s a case of round and round you go. All this makes for a rather dizzying point of re-introduction to the terra firma, of course. I only really blotted my copybook as a calm, determined and entirely adult ‘ape’ at the point when, at the conclusion of the whole shebang, I thudded to earth for the last time really very uncomfortably, and scrabbled to my feet, rubbing myself, exclaiming “aaaargh, my BACK, my FUCKING BACK!” Inevitably, as is the way with these things, a young family full of goggle-eyed and adorable toddlers was having a nicely behaved lunch, on a blanket in the sunshine, about six feet downstage. So, my soaring into this scene and oathing my way out of it must have been a real treat for them. I mumbled something apologetic and lumbered away, studded with bark chippings, and trailing clips, crampons, cords, crash helmets and the like from my bruised person.
Home we sped, to pack, and set sail for the delights of the Balkans.
If I recall correctly, and more than a few years have passed, we managed to get into the country with little or no incident. Via, I think, Vienna, when it was a place as yet unknown to me. Vienna would have its rather surly and humourless revenge on us on the way back, to the tune of a bottle of DF vodka purchased by STF for 70p or something in Skopje airport. It was convincingly-enough bubble-wrapped and sealed and so forth, but was plucked from our property by a rather hatchet-faced mädchen, who declared it to be illegal in some way or another, as she cast it into an enormous Bin Of De Trop Booze. I was feeling rather off-colour, and remarked “Welcome to Vienna” rather too loudly, and got shot rather a look.
Anyway, yes, so, Macedonia. Stone the crows it was hot. Various bags put in an appearance, and we sweltered with them into a cab driven by heavily moustachioed fellow intent on giving us the history of the country since Tito, and a short lecture on what he termed the Balkan Mentality. We whizzed this way and that, everywhere and anywhere, and finally were put down at an indistinct crossroads, as our boy, whilst dynamite on domestic history and sociology, wasn’t exactly white hot on the final location of our hotel. There followed a slightly ill-tempered period of disappearing off in several different directions (Cyrillic not being a speciality of mine, and only partially registering with STF). Rather more by luck than judgement, we finally fell upon our hotel, immediately recognised both a swimming pool and a bar that sold cold, cheap beer, and generally unwound for a bit.
I should that explain that we were in town for a wedding. An old school friend of many years – let’s call him Benj, for his name is Benj – residing at that time in Budapest, was marrying his partner, a native of Macedonia. So, a couple of days playing by ourselves, a split stag-hen do that came to form a joined event later on, and, ultimately, the wedding, with our flight due to take off at slightly alarming o’clock the following morning. Nice mixture, interesting and perhaps unlikely location for a (at that stage) less-travelled pair, good weather. All pointed upwards.
One or two chums dropped in. Family members unseen for some time. A little beer was taken and, at some stage or another, STF and I noodled off to a couple of unusual bars (one festooned with hookahs and pillows, making seating an unusual business), and a spot of inexpensive dinner. Night came down, another bar was showing one of the Eurovision semi-final heats, our shorts were on and we generally kicked back and watched the night gradually cool from the heat of the day. Skopje was a real proper mixture. Old and new, battered and pristine, ancient and modern. Lovely waterfront, and a glorious Fortress (Kale) staring down on the city, up to which we scampered on the second morning, to learn about earthquakes and to mock the dreadful appearance of the football stadium, which appeared to be sort of melting on one side, and thus threatening to tilt into the river.
Clambering back to the hotel, as was often our wont on holiday, we got the sniff of an entirely unnecessary nightcap. And, but ten doors down from our quarters, there stood a small cube of a building. Scarcely identifiable as a bar, but just about such. A scattering of plastic garden furniture and the low thrum of revelry and music inside. Bravery and boozery got the better of us and we stepped down from the highway a few steps and into the throng.
The place was doing a high old trade, the jukebox skipping merrily, and, on something like a Wednesday night, the floor was peppered with cheery locals dancing, quaffing and ignoring the encroaching morning. So, we did too. And had our first real introduction to how good Macedonian red wine is, and how little it can cost. At some point we reeled off and away and back to HQ, topped-up nicely with something of roughly the quality of a Lebanese wine (my favourite), at about 15% the cost. Remarkable!
Off to a flier, and a couple of terrific days followed, learning more and more about our host city. Sunshine, and that enjoyable mixture of urban, semi-rural, commerce, hub-bub and catch-up all came together quite, quite beautifully. We had the most splendid time and I remember it hugely fondly, some years on. I remember lunchtime on the day of the stag and hen do, where we thought to take on board some preparatory solids over a spot of late lunch, and did a bit of digging around to find a ‘local’s hang out’, which was recommended in our guide book. Glad we did. It was not a lot more than an elongated wooden and brick shack, about a quarter inch from the thundering highway, with an open fire oven at one end. Characterful, shall we say? I have been trying to find it again on the internet to give you the name, but no dice, alas. If it ever emerges from the guidebook, I’ll pop it up on an edit here. Anyway, after a hard morning working our way ‘round ‘Ramstore’ (a mall, which sold everything, near enough) in pursuit of some jewellery, we fell upon our lunch gladly. A cold glass of beer each, with an enormous long, grilled chilli pepper, which took our heads off, and a delightful Shopska salad (I left the country full to the brim with that – still can’t make it as well at home, for all its simplicity). Followed that up with a kebab each and a litre of water and a litre of house red (again, stellar, I can almost summon the taste back now). We emerged, blinking into the sun, about £9 lighter. Wonderful.
So, on we gleefully went, and eventually, after the cavortings of the preparatory parties, it was time to get (a bit) serious, with the whole wedding shebang.
The day dawned bright, sunny and the temperature clambered on up into the middle nineties. English people gathered, sweatily, at the poolside, fingers circling the inside of dress collars, swilling down bottled water as preparation against the heat and onslaught of suspicious drinks to come. Benj appeared, and led us en masse, as his ‘supporters’ to the flat where his intended’s parents resided. First item of Macedonian tradition underway. We bundled into lifts, party by party, up to the 23579th floor, and pushed in. There began a process of bargaining for the bride’s release. Ultimately this was a release secured by the handing over a sum of money to the bride’s sister, but firstly we enjoyed Benj getting wrong (and quite badly wrong) a series of questions about the future Mrs Benj, the correct answers to which would have secured her release all the sooner and more cheaply. No matter, soon all were together, the windows flung wide, and the living room transformed into a dancefloor for that always incomprehensible tradition of forming massive circles, holding hands, walking and periodically kicking in the same direction and shouting “HEY!” whilst on a record somewhere someone gives it six-nowt on a balalaika, or similar. Roaring good fun. Bottles of suspicious-looking over-chilled Rakija (a glorious blend of what you know best of grappa, brandy and a good single malt) appeared, and were carefully sipped at. The hour was barely noon. Hmm..
Onto phase two. Get Me To The Church on Time. Our massive group of Europeans of all types (what a cool day this was – bollocks to all that suspicious-of-everyone right wing crap – people from everywhere are, frankly, ace) crammed onto coaches, and off we rolled to a Macedonian Orthodox Church, somewhere on the fringes of the city. Cracking building. Retreated to a safe distance to admire and photograph it, so as to make bolting down more water and having a cheeky gasper seem reasonable. Eventually, as the Sun really began to give it what for, we were summoned in to stand in rather arbitrary crowds and bear witness to the service.
I can’t do it justice, really. Not in meagre words, I wish you could pop into the cinema of my memory. There appeared to be at least 17 priests, and all of them bearing at least a passing resemblance to Brian Blessed. Happily one of the this throng of mighty churchmen was able to give us the headlines in English, and there followed a good 70-80 minutes of listening and repeating, bread eating, altar wine drinking, crown wearing, crown wearing and walking in a circle, and all manner of utterly wonderful marriage-related lunacy and flimflam. Quite a show. So much fun that we forgot, for a while, that we were melting. Brian #6 had to step in and give Benj a bit of a towel down at one point, I seem to recall. Possibly the best element of this was the presence of a sort of 1970’s school caretaker (tall, thin, and wearing a very long brown- buff housecoat), who hovered close to the action at all times. As and when we had got through the use of one prop or gewgaw or another, he sort of dove in and nabbed it, and popped off to his lair with it for safekeeping. Seemed a bit much, to me. Bit Gollum-y. Certainly he didn’t seem to be asking “have you finished with this, you eminence?” or something respectful of that nature. Not so much as a by your leave. Dearie me.
At some point, and it was never quite clear when, it emerged that Benj was a married man. The church disgorged our bedraggled selves, and we made for the coach. And so to the reception, and a long and thirsty afternoon and evening.
Things started well. Strawberries, local fizz (unlike the Ukrainian stuff I was to taste a year later, it was okay), chats in the shade. All good. And then the mid-afternoon meal began. Entire flasks of perfectly-chilled Rakija emerged, with more of the lovely salad. Then a course of various ‘bits and bobs’ with wine, and, ultimately, a well-need sharpening coffee and some sort of sugary dessert. One became ‘chatty’ as the sunshine and the drink seeped its way around the blood. Not offensive, just enthusiastic. Shared an anecdote or two with some unwitting Hungarians.
I’m not sure, in retrospect, that our wonderful Macedonian hosts were quite ready for the speeches aspect of the wedding day. I mused for some time afterwards that it’d all come as a bit of a surprise, and was not really part of what would normally be expected. Anyway, this being an international affair, we forged on, the giant and wonderful Goran translating this way and that. Parents made light hearted contributions of a generous nature. Benj’s brother (the Best Man) rather threatened the smoothness and equanimity of proceedings with a lengthy speech that included an alignment of commentaries on the troubled Liverpool borough of Bootle (where once Benj had very bravely resided, despite two police raids) and FYR Macedonia. I think he must have thought himself quite clever. Some of us found ourselves rather looking at our shoes, none too impressed at our brother of Albion. Ho hum. Riot, there was none.
And so to Benj, and thereby to me. We’d barely got anywhere before he was on me, the cur. Always been a challenging friend, has our Benj, bless him. Firm believer in himself. Apt to rattle the cages of his chums. Lovely chap.
He was only about 90 seconds or so in, when he chose to tell the flagging audience that, today of all days, was his Mother’s birthday. Collective round of applause, all parties charmed. Then he pointed out that I had got married to STF on my Mother’s birthday (about 18 months or so beforehand) and on that occasion had sung her Happy Birthday, in ringing tones, accompanied by our guests. As such, with that having been a great success, Benj felt it only right that I should reprise the role, and sing Happy Birthday to his Mother. ‘Course he did. Scrawny bastard. No word of warning, just a smile playing on his lips from 30 yards away as he proffered the microphone.
It’s one of those times, isn’t it? Kill or be killed. You just react. I lowered the last of my Rakija and made out for the stage, smiling all the while. Into my paw the mike it did go, and I was straight into it. I’ll confess I did not start out over the first furlong really knowing quite what form I was in or, for that matter, what approach I was going to take, but it soon became clear, on that sun-blasted later afternoon, that I was going to go for a Baritone version of Marilyn Monroe signing to the young JFK. It won’t have been note perfect, for sure, and some of the intonation would have been a bit dodgy in parts. But, sufficed to say I belted it out and it killed. I walked off to a deafening roar of approval, the smuggest man in Skopje, as the picture below indicates.
I spent some considerable time getting over the whole business. Coffee, water, another glass of this and that, and the night rolled on. Some fell by the wayside, others danced, and drank on. I met an American, and we stood for a couple of hours at the end of some trestle tables next to a hug tureen of ice cubes, and sampled tumblers of many different firewaters from across the great continent of Europe, and talked bullshit about them. In the distance, one of Benj’s more louche relatives danced with my wife and periodically attempted to grab her bottom. We poured something that was black, herbal, and from Belarus, that was unutterably foul, but somehow found its way into the case the following morning. I only finally jettisoned it from the cellar in late 2011. At some point, I wandered off for a stroll, my day nearly run, and found myself weaving rather across something that seemed, in the glooming, to be quite like the Swilcan Bridge at St. Andrews golf course. In retrospect, I am pretty much certain that it was there that my mobile phone and I parted company (as I discovered the following morning, whilst packing), which was to prove simply ideal on returning to the UK to deal with things like house sales and purchases. Belarus 1 Self 0.
You know you’ve had a bloody good wedding when you leave last, and so it was with STF and me that night. We were finally levered from conversation with the hotel staff by the Bridge and Groom and into a taxi for our hotel, there to collapse for what felt like mere minutes.
Another day dawned bright. Us less so. Some rather ‘ask questions later’ packing took place. After a few panicked attempts at finding it, the old ‘phone was declared a casualty of the evening, and we eventually clambered our way into a mighty wagon, bound for the airport. Drinks of the world seeped from each and every one of the pores. The head started to pound and the lady next to me (whom I had not met the day before) talked incessantly at me for every yard of the journey in the way that only someone who’d behaved sensibly the day before could. She drew very few breaths indeed, during those torturous 12 miles.
And so to the airport, and check-in. The place was rammed, I remember. Aside from the purchase of the doomed DF vodka, we got ourselves outside of a couple of cold cans of soft drink, which brought the horizon, at least temporarily, into clearer relief. But, soon, there were delays, and squatting on the stone floor as the heat built. A resignation to a long day of rather bilious travel set in. It was properly etched into stone when we took our seats on the plane. I was placed in the middle of a set of three seats (never my favourite position as a heavier-set man), and did my best to relax. Whereupon three loud and ENORMOUS members of the Ukrainian National Weightlifting Team (two male, one female) sidled into the row above, and took heavily to their seats, rather threatening the aerodynamic properties of our bird, I thought. The shortest and widest of these specimens popped his seat back ( I am against this practice, and will return to it at wearying length), landing his vein-bulged bald head into the environs of my crotch, and I quietly focussed, as best as I could, on keeping all that Shopska salad down.
Right, I must grab the nettle and do a bit more of this. Let’s have a change of tack next time, and I’ll give you a work-travel tale, in the form of:
Nearly Losing The Gown (the curses of never owning a ribbon)
suggzy 