By KevinTheB
December 18 2003

This is the part of the story relating to what shall be known as the “Broadbent Party” or BPs. To Stansted by car and Pink Elephant, we check in and go airside. We pass the first bar and Lo! – Vaheys, Bergins and Hollands, so we settle in for a livener. They say that one swallow doesn’t make a summer, but quite a few swallows make the start of a tour.

People make their way through and get accosted, gradually building up quite a crowd, which eventually moves across to the gate to meet up with the earlier arrivals, who had made a bar closer to the gate.

All aboard WaspAirOne, which sets off and flies a course over the Alps towards Bergamo.

Winds blowing strongly from astern assist in an early arrival, and we crash into the runway in true RyanAir fashion well before time. Clearing officialdom, we find the coach is still en route, so retreat to the bar for a livener.

The Reids arrive from Luton, to the disgust of the Gurneys, and the big yellow bus drives onto the forecourt. Which is our bus? That one flying seven Drunken Wasps flags? Could be a coincidence.

All aboard, and off to Brescia.

Did you know it is possible to drive a 72-seat coach at 100kph right behind a BMW 4WD at a distance of 4 metres without having a serious accident? No, I didn’t believe it either.

Some of the usual suspects get into their second bottle since landing. Mind you, it is a very comfortable coach, and the journey is effortless.

Outskirts of Brescia are drab. All light engineering and industrial complex. As we get into the town, however, a crenellated castle atop a hill proves to be the backdrop for the hotel, into which we decant (appropriately) and find our rooms, some quicker than others.

Light tidy up, then down into the bar, to prepare for the evening’s formal function, the Friday Night Meal. We skip over the road to the Ristorante Al Serbatoio, where we tuck into a three-courser. Very pleasant.

Following this, we set off to town, and the first separations occur. Some people head off in the lead, others walk more slowly, someone else wants to have another bottle of wine, and some are in the loo, so by the time the pathfinders reach the tunnel we are already in four parties. Pathfinders (BPs) turn left, and promptly lose everyone else.

Find an interesting bar come restaurant, where we are seated by a waitress with suction.

What to do now? Well, a drink is called for. Then again. Phil tries the lager. Finds it to taste.

Get a more pneumatic waitress.

Repeat for three hours.

Glenn’s birthday on Saturday, so on the stroke of midnight, a toast is called for. Brandy shots followed by a pear liqueur. Down in two. Blimey, was that really Phil putting those down? Better watch him later.

Go home in three parts. Phil and me get lost. Find our way home via another hotel. Straight to bed, bypassing the revelry in the bar. Lights out.

Up for breakfast. Second ones down. Nice start to the day. Back to bed for another hour’s kip. Get up, stroll around, and find a few things to take home. Get warned about the exploding salamis and leave them alone.

Back in time for the bus. 78-seater booked – looks a bit short. Pick up a few waifs and strays. End up going down with more than the allowable number on the bus. Slip Alfredo a handful of Euros to overlook the breach of regulations. A very Italian moment. Reach the ground, after sending Phil and Andrew round to collect the pre-informed 15 euros off everyone to get in.

Arrive at the ground. Find out the pricing has changed. Ladies go in for 5 euros, men for 10. Do a rapid count, then wait for them to tear the tickets out. So just why did we pre-book? And what do I do with the 450 Euros left over? Answer seems to be the “Kids’ Fund” – to be confirmed. Get a livener in.

Game comes and goes – a twelve-try fiesta, or fiasco, take your pick. The story of the flags is told elsewhere. Encounter a beblazered and tied chap after no side who puts the view we should lose any association with drunkenness to prevent the Club being brought into disrepute. Politely listen and leave him to his thoughts. Allegedly he has been known to suffer cuts and bruises due to “mystery falls” while wearing his FC tie on Saturday nights.

Into the Clubhouse for a livener and to chat. Very full. Spend a pleasant hour in different conversations. Back to the bus, back to Brescia. Standing room only as before. Another handful of euros goes into Alfredo’s pocket, and the mystery blindness descends again.

All out – tidy up, out for meals. Again, separate ways are walked. We end up in a very decent restaurant for 3 large courses with wine and water for 30 euros a head. Gurney seriously affected by his allergy to red wine.

Walk back to hotel, where we find there isn’t a lot of energy left to go wandering the town looking for others, so settle into the hotel bar again, which seems to have moved upstairs. I do like the way they pour Amaretto over here.

Eventually to bed and a restless night. Up for breakfast. Check out, and a bit of a stroll through the Xmas Market. Meet the Gottings, decide all this walking is not good for the body and settle into the corner of a café. People drift in and out until it’s time to go back to the airport. All aboard the bus

Very smooth journey, through check in, into departures, get a livener. Board the plane, take off, fly, crash into the runway at Stansted in that special RyanAir way, but 15 min. ahead of schedule. Through officialdom with no problems. Hugs, kisses, all the normal end of tour formalities, then into the car and home.

A very pleasant weekend. When’s Perpignan?