Klenova

At the time of writing this entry in the voyage log your correspondent finds himself gazing across a rather splendid vista of rolling Czech countryside; Top Gun soundtrack serenading the world; Cheetah van gently rocking due to Charles' spannery activities underneath; and Union Flag fluttering magnificently in the breeze above Her Majesty's portrait.

It is the morning after the night before (as mornings so often tend to be) and the team are nursing slightly tender heads and nether regions. 'But what misadventure has caused this incursion into the Soviet Block?' you are heard to murmur, 'did we not last hear that you were engaged in pre-Ball spruce-uppery?' Well, much has happened since then, miles have been covered, wrong turns have been made, Charlie has had the map confiscated on more than one occasion, and general merriment and revelry has reigned.

After an almost genteel start to dinner, the admittedly fatigued fur balls soon entered into the spirit of the Gutersloh Mess Ball and started to fill the inordinately long wait for food with general booze inspired immaturity. Tony and Charlie then despatched themselves in the general direction of a sambuca bottle and this, in turn, provided Tony with just the required level of lubrication to pursue his intended one for the evening, the recently dubbed 'Fose Girl'.

The Oxford English Dictionary and Gray's Anatomy both describe a Fose as the following: 'a facial deformity caused as a result of malnutrition or injury sustained to the growing foetus whilst in the early stages of development. Causes a perfectly straight line from top of forehead to base of nose resulting in an absolute lack of definition between the two.' The result of this phenomenon is quite striking and one can only assume that Tony's fascination with said sufferer was on a purely medical level. Unfortunately for him, his comparatively unremarkable body did little to inflame her womanly passions and his attentions went unrewarded.

There comes a moment of absolute honesty at this point...despite initial enthusiasm, lethargy and idleness have set in at an alarming rate and to pretend that this is not being written 4 days after the Ball finished would be a total fabrication. Therefore, suffice it to say that the evening followed a familiar pattern of obnoxious amusement, and all lived to tell the tale...or, as it turns out, not to! Any complaints if we just move on? Thought not.

The departure from Gutersloh was not quite as prompt as had been hoped by Tony, or MEL (Main Events List) Dad, as he had by this point been dubbed. who had optimistically set his alarm for 0600, a mere 4 hours before both the Cheetah and Zebra finally rolled out of the camp gates. A major delay had been Ian's hissy fit when he thought he'd lost his IPod, only to be told by Tony that there was no way any further time could be wasted in looking for it. This occurred not more than 5 minutes before a superb display of hypocrisy when Tony reached forward and deliberately pulled the Cheetah out of gear, demanding that it turn round to go and look for his wallet. Craig greeted this manoeuvre with a high pitched squeal of 'don't, I've never driven on the right before!' and the journey continued.

Now it turns out that Western Deutschland is a hell of a long way from Klenova in the Czech Republic so it was with a sense of trepidation that our heroes embarked upon this pre-launch party leg. The idea was to meet up with all fellow rallyers from both the African and Mongol rallies and indulge in a bit of a knees up. The setting for this event was Klenova Castle, the theme Knights and Wenches, the start time 1930hrs (that's Army for thirty minutes past the hour of seven.) After steadily plodding East for the best part of 12 hours, the team finally arrived very tired and rather late at the events' splendid setting, a hilltop ruin overlooking the Czech countryside.

Having adapted the dress code in a suitably disturbing manner, our 6 donned their flowery nighties (Knights, get it?) and strode purposefully on into the fray. One hog roast and a few warm up Absinthes later, decorum had been well and truly dispensed with. Unfortunately, this is being written before the watershed, so the juicy details you will be spared. Rest assured, though, that humanity harbours some truly disgusting men...truly disgusting!

The most shocking revelation, however, was that his, and, admittedly, everyone else's horrific behaviour, did nothing to dent the rapidly developing status of the fur balls. A status, dear reader, that we will endeavour to advance to truly heroic proportions by the time we arrive for our palm-wine fuelled finish party in Cameroon .

There was, unfortunately, one sour event which quite literally will send sympathy pangs orbing into the stratosphere from this collective readership. Therefore find a sturdy seat, strap yourselves in and...read on: Tom's Help For Heroes wristband was snapped during the evening. Yes, its true. Now you may be thinking that this is a non-event; you may even go as far as to say 'I don't care, you're boring me'. The mistake you are no doubt making in harbouring such foolish thoughts is one of sobriety. And more fool you for it. Apparently when well sauced, this is a true tragedy of Shakespearean proportions and, if not handled carefully, can result in grown men bickering like children and, eventually, stamping their feet, uttering the phrase 'fine, I don't want to spend the evening with you anyway', and storming off to early bed!

For those that did stick it out, an evening of diving through the bonfire awaited them, causing Tony to dismiss his quite impressive wounds with the phrase 'we don't call them third degree burns any more, actually.' Thanks for clearing that up Doctor.

So finally we find ourselves back inside the rocking Cheetah, gazing over the aforementioned vista (actually, in the dining room of an Italian ferry but you'll have to wait for that) and this instalment of our tale has finally reached its long overdue conclusion.

Good night.x