The Horror... the Horror...

There is a stage in a blipper’s life when the inevitable has to be faced: the trip to the Blip Mecca. The pilgrimage to Edinburgh.

If one were to throw a stone in the (damp cool) air of the Scottish capital, one would be extremely unlucky not to hit a blipper.
Or seven of them if the said stone were to be tossed in the Oxford Bar.

I would like to thank from the bottom of my heart Mr Smith for assembling such a fine collection of outstanding individuals.

It is no easy task to tear such conscientious professionals from their place of rightful employment (except Pensioner of course...) and the prospect of spending an afternoon in the pub drinking pints and talking pish must have been daunting for them.

Mr Smith, that silver tongued devil, seems to have found the right words.

I had the immense privilege to share a few hours with (in order of appearance): Pensioner, Red, Instography, 'im inpearls,Jaybroek and a lady friend of Pensioner’s (dwaletta who it is claimed has been on his yacht and lived to tell the tale) who almost gagged at the high concentration of testosterone in the rarefied air as the entered the back room of the Ox (but in fairness, the masons had contributed to the electric atmosphere too).

I have a feeling that as I type this the following day, I may be persona non grata with many a blipper’s wife who had to deplore the even-higher-than-usual uselessness of her hungover husband.

I would like to seize this opportunity to state that as I left the Ox none of the participants were showing signs of advanced intoxication (provided that talking utter pish is not considered such a sign).

I will just blame Scobes' late arrival for what may have happened after my departure. He has been known to be a bad influence.

I’ve had a beautifully surreal afternoon with my Edinburgh blipper mates. Well worth setting the alarm clock to 2.35 AM that morning.
I really look forward to the Dublin rematch.

Edinburgh, beautiful Edinburgh