...Coming Back From Marty's Wedding...

I have to admit, I am not a good traveller. I have suffered from motion-sickness since I was a child. Even the shortest journeys can leave me nauseous to the point of 'poly-baggage'. Especially when a hangover is added to the recipe.

So going to (Lorna and) Marty's wedding was never likely to end any other way, I'm afraid….

DaveMo volunteered to drive us (me and The Wife) there and back (a good 300 miles each way), so I should really have offered a warning.

To be honest, the journey down to Falkirk wasn't that bad, just a few instances of queasiness on the A9 north of Inverness, but that was about it. Everything was going excellently.

We arrive at the hotel, change and get tore in about the Bar. An evening's drinking follows, meeting up with all the guys whom I hadn't seen for some months. You know, general Wedding Dance-y type stuff. Oh, and more drinkies….

An enjoyable evening was literally put to bed at around 3.30am.

I wake up bright and early, with a bit of a sore head. And off to breakfast, where I manage some dry toast and some 'fresh' orange juice. Then back up for a wee kip while we waited for DaveMo to drive us back up the road. Sore head getting worse by now. Beginning to tremble.

About 11am we went back down to the hotel foyer where everyone was beginning to gather, Marty's Mum and Dad, Lorna's family, all the lads, it seemed as if everyone was there…..

By now I am particularly green about the gills, sweating a wee bit, so I try to quietly slip away to the bogs for the inevitable. Now you know those hotel bogs, all tiled floors and echoey walls?

So the gathered ensemble in the foyer is treated to the sound of the violent retching and spewing of a man in obvious distress. I come back out when finished to see the whole company staring at me…..

The wife is obviously concerned at my ashen-faced appearance, and knowing me as she does she is filled with dread for the journey home. She knows what happens next. Luckily she has come prepared, and has a plentiful supply of plastic bags.

The journey home is one which I can tell you little about, as I spent it lapsing in and out of consciousness, in between throwing up every 15 minutes into a succession of carrier bags. By this time, there was nothing left in my stomach, and all I could throw up was a black acidic phlegm type substance. And nothing else. (I've often wondered exactly what this stuff was. Stomach lining? I thought it could be the diet-coke-concentrate-stuff that they insisted on putting in my vodka. More likely it was just black acidic phlegm! It didn't want to stay where it was, that's for sure!)

I remember we stopped at Aviemore, where DaveMo and the wife were glad of some respite, and I was offered some food. It stayed down for less than 5 minutes….

The rest of the journey passed quickly for me, but agonisingly slowly for my long-suffering companions. DaveMo pushed his car to the limits in an effort to get us home (and out of his car!) as quickly as possible.

We got home at about 7pm, gratefully dropped off at the door, where immediately I am beginning to feel better. I'm sure our driver was feeling much better about things too. It must have been pretty hellish listening to me peffing into a carrier bag for nearly 6 hours straight….

But the day was not yet done with our hapless chauffeur…

On the short 5 mile trip through the countryside to his pleasant cottage, DaveMo's car finally gives up the ghost, and promptly dies on the spot. In his rush to get us home, he'd ignored the fact that cars need water to cool the engine, and the radiator had gone.


Needless to say, I've never been in a car with DaveMo since….


(Belated apologies to DaveMo for killing his car, and for contributing so much to an utterly horrendous journey.

Sorry mate.)