Splunching – Shipshape and Bristol Fashion
If it has been a long time since I blogged, it has been even longer since I splunched!
For those unused to Splosh! terminology, a Splunch is a Splosh! Munch where fans of sploshing meet up in a vanilla setting (usually the pub) to sit and chat about all things wet and messy. It is a good way for people new to the scene to meet up and feel a part of things, and now there are several to choose from. The London Meet gets together about once every three months, the Bristol one meets in spring and summer (they like to hold a mud shoot at the same time) and various venues up north do their best to get people to come to ones there as well (for details of all upcoming events, go to the forum).
Again, not wishing to be seen as egotistical, I haven’t been to one of these for ages but Mike Nomic who runs the Bristol do made me an offer I couldn’t resist (ie beer and food) so off I went to Bristol…
Naturally, being a train fan I managed to pick a route that made the journey as tedious as possible! I found the one train a day that winds its way from Brighton to Cardiff (via Bristol) stopping at just about anywhere with a discernable pulse. Armed with some overpriced sandwiches from Brighton Station, I squeezed on board the tiny train for the near four-hour journey. Now as I said, this train (catering for early rush hour in Brighton, late rush hour in Southampton, then early revellers in Bath and Bristol) stopped EVERYWHERE and the female conductor guard was obliged to announce every station it stopped at, every time it stopped. So in order to fit this between stations the poor woman rushed through the list so quickly it sounded more like a Welsh place name than a route. Then to add to her woes (and ours!) the only two toilets on the train broke so she was being constantly harrassed by men, women and children desperate for a wee making her even more fraught. Not her best day at work, I was thinking. Thankfully, my bladder didn’t fill till the train emptied at Bristol. Three cheers for a 50-year-old prostate!
After a short trip with the world’s most miserable cabby (“There’s nothing going on here, mate! No students, no money. Waste of my bleeding time” he said of the city hosting a Banksy exhibition that had completely packed every hotel). I arrived at the fabulously glamourous Premier Inn in Haymarket. Now I could do lots of cheap hotel jokes but frankly the Premier was fine. The room was perfectly good, the shower excellent, and the TV had Freeview (a luxury unknown on our bit of the South Coast). Best of all as I discovered reading the endless bumph they clutter every flat surface with, it had an “All You Can Eat” Breakfast which didn’t finish till 11am! Now that’s the sort of challenge I’m prepared to get up early for! By mid-day I had worked my way through the fruit juice, Honey Nut Corn Flakes, eggs, bacon, sausages, tomato, mushrooms, tea and toast and was set up for a day on the piss with Mike and the sploshers.
Just time first for a quick pint before setting off – and the start of what became a running theme for the weekend. At 1pm the bar of my hotel was packed with pissed-up Welsh women wearing very little except feathers and bunny ears on a hen party. As I had to squeeze past the excitable rabble who were posing for pictures, I offered to take their shot so they could all be in it. Much giggling was followed by the offer of a chance for me to appear in a pic with the bride to be in green tutu and L plates (her not me!). More Welsh laughter. This was merely the start. By the end of the night, it seemed just about everyone in Bristol was either on a hen or stag night and in fancy dress! The streets were packed with hysterical women (often Welsh) dressed as naughty nurses and policewomen. Latert as we sat drinking, Darth Vadar rode past on a pushbike (it seems even the Death Star has gone green!). I felt decidedly underdressed!
Horts Bar in Bristol was the venue Mike had chosen and it is ideal for these sort of meets. It is big enough to cater for a meeting of 20 people without them even noticing. In fact the toilets were further away than the hotel! Mike and Sammy-Jane were in the corner when I arrived and soon after people were turning up from all over the country, many of whom I hadn’t met or hadn’t seen for years (15 in Andy’s case). As forum members will know they are real ‘characters’. For instance, freed of his keyboard and surreal spelling Andy123 talks so quickly and continuously that it is best to treat him like a radio playing in the background – dipping in and out of listening when something interesting arises. However don’t expect to contribute. If you want to join in or express an opinion it is probably best to send him a text.
Mike Nomic by contrast opts for the Grumpy Git persona, especially towards people who don’t drink real ale (at one point he even suggested a meet purely for people who drink proper beer). Whilst Andy’s conversation is a war of attrition, Mike goes for the sudden explosion – a deafening Bristol bellow that rings round the room. So if you go, don’t be surprised to find your quiet conversation suddenly interrupted by a West Country Brian Blessed yell of ‘WEASEL PISS!” if he spots you’ve opted to drink Fosters.
On the professional front, Andy brought his workmate Jammed whose lovable dumb puppy looks hide the fact that he is really a sharp-brained businessman. No, I’m lying. This was a man who accidentally locked into his own toilet for 45 minutes that morning. Eden and Jon, fresh from their Canadian adventures, provided some much needed youth and glamour, and Janet and Nick (who appear on our Mad Macs pages) popped along too representing the more mature messy modelling scene. If you sometimes feel you’re alone, Nick’s your man. He knows all about being part of an oppressed minority – he was a fan of John Major. And Dirtydids popped in to despite a run of poor health. It was good to see him on his feet again and still determined to take pictures when he can.
Richard and Sploshman are almost professionals in the number of sessions they have done on the forum and it was good to meet Richard for the first time. He is far more jolly in real life, nothing like Victor Meldrew at all, and Sploshman is just too cool for words. Rich D Rich had travelled in all the way from New Zealand. I hope he had toilets! PleasePieMeMistress, Aufpet, Gungemegood. Bondageboiir and Thrillseeker completed the line-up of guys I hadn’t met – and one or two were very complimentary about our stuff which made the trip worthwhile. I was nearly as excited as when a beautifully restored Bristol Lodekka open topped bus (circa 1963) from Minehead went past full of yet more waving women on a hen party. Naturally we all waved back. Then I watched the pub people’s faces change as they realised I was weird enough to be more interested in the bus!
At about 7pm, we left the pub full of real ale and ‘weasel piss’ (what is it about weasels along with gnats that gives them such famously bland-tasting urine? And how does anyone know?) to go to an Italian restaurant I can’t remember the name of. Inside, guess what? Another party of women, this time with Mickey Mouse ears, rather surprised to be gazumped by our larger and frankly more unruly group. The alcohol had worked its wicked magic and so the conversation became increasingly bizarre. Eden told a restaurant silencing story about finding a human turd on an Underground train which led to speculation whether it was better to shit yourself or take your trousers down and defecate in full view of the passengers. The Mickey Mouse Club looked a little perturbed at this, especially when I did my impression of the station tannoy announcing “MIND THE CRAP! MIND THE CRAP!” It was then that Darth Vadar cycled past. No, he did. Honest! I wasn’t the only one who saw him…
Paranoid about being lost in a strange city somewhat pissed, I then called a cab to go about five yards to my hotel. As ever I rushed out not saying goodbye to enough people or thanking them for an excellent day. Thank you all. Got back to the hotel just in time for a cheap double scotch. Sadly no sign of the Welsh women…
…Until the next morning! As I drifted down to breakfast, the Welsh ladies were checking out. Their numbers had swollen by two inflatable men which the bride carried with her suitcase as if it was the latest Louis Vitton accessory. After (a rather smaller) breakfast, I too signed out and shared a cab to the station with a couple who had travelled all the way from Bolton to see the Banksy exhibition only to be told their was a six hour queue to get in. So they went on a boat trip instead. I asked if they were tempted to spray something rude on the wall of the gallery. They smiled weakly. My timing’s shit when I’m hungover.
Back on the train and First Great Western came good. Dead on time all the way with a choice of toilets and a totally comprehesible guard. Fortunately there was some entertainment… Two seats along was a very posh family trying to keep their children entertained by each of them picking animals beginning with a certain letter and letting the others guess what it was. Finally it was the 7-year-old boy’s turn. “I am an animal beginning with E,” he said proudly. The others started guessing. Elephant, emu, eagle…everything they suggested met with a no. Finally the exhausted family gave up. “OK what are you?” asked the mother wearily.”For heavens sake, Mummy, it’s easy. I’m an echidna!” A surreal end to a surreal three days.
Thanks for letting me be there.
