With the light already brightening and the temperatures akin to something half decent in Papua New Guinea. And by that I mean armpit-burger jungle-like, it all began again.
Like a recurring Malthusian nightmare, I heard those terrible and unexplainable words.
‘Mummy my teddy’s stopped breathing.’
A few of the team had already made their way Willy billy (not willy-nilly) to Scilly, whilst others had not.
One virtual pipe smoker, exhausted by it all, had hit the Green Parrot in Perranporth and was bewildered by the blinding heat and alliteration at the same time. Air-con reached out, over and around and all was good, for a blink at least.
Penzance was reached by the few and a tawdry base camp established. The chairman had single handedly wrestled his car to Penzance in the tropical, heat via a very dry and disappointing Helston. The Parrot ? throttled in his hands. Things looked bleak indeed.
With the evening turning to night and temperatures still ridiculously hot; the last Bayshill players in Penzance retreated to the Premier Inn. Yes, gentle reader, a Lenny Henry verified establishment of the highest order, without any humour guaranteed.
Only the chairman himself made a stand for it, defying all logic and reasonableness to engage the Dock Inn single-handedly. A single Spingo gripped in one sweaty hand, he stared up in wonderment at the bounteous gifts of the inviting Chough above his bonce. It was surely all too much…