Stag Nights and Bomb Scares
As I've mentioned previously, last weekend, I was in Birmingham for my good friend Russell's stag do.
I was supposed to be rehearsing for the August play on Friday night, but because of the unfortunate birth of Richard Branson, I was forced to travel up country that afternoon, instead of Saturday morning.
I had managed to secure a bed with one of Russell's coursemates, Tom, who I may or may not have been introduced to before. Apart from the broken air-conditioning and the smelly toilet in the oh-so-cleverly designed Virgin Voyager train, the journey to Brum was fairly uneventful.
Tom, nice chap that he is, picked me up from New Street station in his motorised carriage and carted me off to his place in Edgbaston. I had the pleasure of meeting his housemates Sian, Christian (spelling may be incorrect) and Fabian. And a Chinese lad whose name I can't remember. And Tom's bottle of black absinthe that had been given to him as a present from abroad.
After a piece of my home-baked Irish Teabread, a swift round of Yahtzee and a takeaway pizza, it was off to the late showing of The Descent with us, at the AMC. Now, at least once a year you will probably hear someone say, "You must see this horror film; it's really scary." This year, let it be me.
Look, I know you probably don't believe me, and when people say that it usually just turns out to be a great disappoint me. But this film is the scariest film ever made. I promise. It's about a group of women who go caving, get lost underground and, well I think it's probably best not to be fore-warned what happens.
It's not your typical "something goes wrong in an extreme sport" movie, let's put it that way. I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise, though. Let's just say, I was very tired when I went in, and I was very wired when I came out.
And I met an old coursemate. One of the Chinese chap's friends was with us, and it quickly transpired that he studied civil engineering with me at Birmingham. And he's called Ken. Don't remember him, but he remembered me.
On Saturday in the daytime we went paintballing. There were supposed to be seven of us, but *someone* didn't turn up. Jay apparently forgot what day it was and went to Alton Towers with his girlfriend instead. Apparently they got as far as the car park before he realised where he was supposed to be and she told him to turn around.
All in all, the paint ball was painful, both for my wallet and my neck. And my ribs. And elbows. And fingers. Damn good fun though. There were some lads blatantly cheating, which spoiled the fun a bit, but we were all determined to have a good time, so it really didn't matter much.
It was nice to meet Russ' best man Matt, and some of his other mates too. Unfortunately all the people I knew (apart from Russ of course) either couldn't make it or forgot and when to visit Alton Towers' car park instead.
A few hours later, we were out on the town and were looking forward to a good night out in Jongleurs comedy club. Those of you who watched the news, however, will already have guessed that the evening didn't quite go to plan. Something tells me that this is not a stag night that Russ (or any of us, for that matter) is going to forget in a hurry.
We were in Lloyds No.1 bar on Broad Street when the manager came round quietly asking us to leave and take our drinks with us, as the premises was being evacuated. It was between 7.30 and 8pm, and we were just about to move on to Jongleurs anyway, so we weren't too fussed, although it was rather unusual. Given recent events the obvious did flash across my mind, but I really didn't give it much serious consideration.
The bouncer on the door obviously didn't know what was going on, because she told us we weren't allowed to take our drinks outside. We pointed to everyone following us out of the door, and said we were all being evacuated. She looked slightly relieved actually, that she didn't have to kick up a fuss with us.
It was really odd, but we didn't notice for a good minute or two that we weren't the only bar being evacuated. I just happened to glance up and down the street, and thought to myself, "I don't think there's normally this many people out on the pavement, is there?"
A couple of minutes later we were all asked to gather in Centenary Square, so the crowd rather reluctantly and annoyedly (if indeed there is such a word) shuffled up the street past the ICC. This was the only time that I really didn't feel comfortable.
We didn't know what was going on, but it was obviously a bomb scare, so everybody crowded into one place under the shadow of two or three glass buildings just didn't feel like the most sensible move. In hindsight, I'm sure the police had already searched around pretty thoroughly, but I really didn't feel very comfortable.
Fortunately this was shortlived, as Jay led us to the Prince Of Wales pub around the corner on a backstreet. It must have been, as Russell I think put it, "the only pub in Birmingham without a phone". It was still open and, when we walked in, the average age must have halved.
Don't get me wrong, though. It's a bloody nice pub. And it sells Timmy Taylor. And it's the least likely place in the world to be bombed by terrorists. I do, in fact, declare it to be the perfect pub. Rather naively I assumed that we would soon be back out in the city, and got an early round in. Something my bank balance is now regretting dearly.
After one drink, then, Jay and I went to see if everything was starting to clear up. Unfortunately we asked two rather stupid people who told us the Hyatt was the only place closed. They seemed to think it was the only place that had been evacuated. I imagine they were probably guests who just hadn't really looked around them when they were kicked out of the hotel.
So, thinking it was all-clear, we returned to Broad Street, and found everything still closed. Before long, a few bars were letting people back in, if they had searched the premises, and search everyone who went back in.
Just minutes later, though, we were all kicked out of the city centre completely. And that's when we walked to Tom's house, arming ourselves with cans of Stella on the way. We all had curry, lots of Stella and *some* of Tom's black absinthe, and then went to bed.
Rather spoilt the night really. But Russ will probably get another one.
I think the police generally did a good job. They kept us all safe. But I think they probably could have told us half an hour earlier that nothing was going to reopen. There did seem to be a certain amount of dithering going on.
On the train back on Sunday the driver warned us constantly that leaving anything unattended could lead to security alerts, whether on the train or on the platform. Even more unusual than that, Virgin Voyager's routeplanners had apparently decided, in their infinite wisdom, that the most logical route from Gloucester to Bristol is via Newport. Thus adding an hour onto the journey.
Why the hell would terrorists want to target our public transport system anyway? Why don't they try and destroy something that we haven't already destroyed ourselves? [+/-] show/hide this post
I was supposed to be rehearsing for the August play on Friday night, but because of the unfortunate birth of Richard Branson, I was forced to travel up country that afternoon, instead of Saturday morning.
I had managed to secure a bed with one of Russell's coursemates, Tom, who I may or may not have been introduced to before. Apart from the broken air-conditioning and the smelly toilet in the oh-so-cleverly designed Virgin Voyager train, the journey to Brum was fairly uneventful.
Tom, nice chap that he is, picked me up from New Street station in his motorised carriage and carted me off to his place in Edgbaston. I had the pleasure of meeting his housemates Sian, Christian (spelling may be incorrect) and Fabian. And a Chinese lad whose name I can't remember. And Tom's bottle of black absinthe that had been given to him as a present from abroad.
After a piece of my home-baked Irish Teabread, a swift round of Yahtzee and a takeaway pizza, it was off to the late showing of The Descent with us, at the AMC. Now, at least once a year you will probably hear someone say, "You must see this horror film; it's really scary." This year, let it be me.
Look, I know you probably don't believe me, and when people say that it usually just turns out to be a great disappoint me. But this film is the scariest film ever made. I promise. It's about a group of women who go caving, get lost underground and, well I think it's probably best not to be fore-warned what happens.
It's not your typical "something goes wrong in an extreme sport" movie, let's put it that way. I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise, though. Let's just say, I was very tired when I went in, and I was very wired when I came out.
And I met an old coursemate. One of the Chinese chap's friends was with us, and it quickly transpired that he studied civil engineering with me at Birmingham. And he's called Ken. Don't remember him, but he remembered me.
On Saturday in the daytime we went paintballing. There were supposed to be seven of us, but *someone* didn't turn up. Jay apparently forgot what day it was and went to Alton Towers with his girlfriend instead. Apparently they got as far as the car park before he realised where he was supposed to be and she told him to turn around.
All in all, the paint ball was painful, both for my wallet and my neck. And my ribs. And elbows. And fingers. Damn good fun though. There were some lads blatantly cheating, which spoiled the fun a bit, but we were all determined to have a good time, so it really didn't matter much.
It was nice to meet Russ' best man Matt, and some of his other mates too. Unfortunately all the people I knew (apart from Russ of course) either couldn't make it or forgot and when to visit Alton Towers' car park instead.
A few hours later, we were out on the town and were looking forward to a good night out in Jongleurs comedy club. Those of you who watched the news, however, will already have guessed that the evening didn't quite go to plan. Something tells me that this is not a stag night that Russ (or any of us, for that matter) is going to forget in a hurry.
We were in Lloyds No.1 bar on Broad Street when the manager came round quietly asking us to leave and take our drinks with us, as the premises was being evacuated. It was between 7.30 and 8pm, and we were just about to move on to Jongleurs anyway, so we weren't too fussed, although it was rather unusual. Given recent events the obvious did flash across my mind, but I really didn't give it much serious consideration.
The bouncer on the door obviously didn't know what was going on, because she told us we weren't allowed to take our drinks outside. We pointed to everyone following us out of the door, and said we were all being evacuated. She looked slightly relieved actually, that she didn't have to kick up a fuss with us.
It was really odd, but we didn't notice for a good minute or two that we weren't the only bar being evacuated. I just happened to glance up and down the street, and thought to myself, "I don't think there's normally this many people out on the pavement, is there?"
A couple of minutes later we were all asked to gather in Centenary Square, so the crowd rather reluctantly and annoyedly (if indeed there is such a word) shuffled up the street past the ICC. This was the only time that I really didn't feel comfortable.
We didn't know what was going on, but it was obviously a bomb scare, so everybody crowded into one place under the shadow of two or three glass buildings just didn't feel like the most sensible move. In hindsight, I'm sure the police had already searched around pretty thoroughly, but I really didn't feel very comfortable.
Fortunately this was shortlived, as Jay led us to the Prince Of Wales pub around the corner on a backstreet. It must have been, as Russell I think put it, "the only pub in Birmingham without a phone". It was still open and, when we walked in, the average age must have halved.
Don't get me wrong, though. It's a bloody nice pub. And it sells Timmy Taylor. And it's the least likely place in the world to be bombed by terrorists. I do, in fact, declare it to be the perfect pub. Rather naively I assumed that we would soon be back out in the city, and got an early round in. Something my bank balance is now regretting dearly.
After one drink, then, Jay and I went to see if everything was starting to clear up. Unfortunately we asked two rather stupid people who told us the Hyatt was the only place closed. They seemed to think it was the only place that had been evacuated. I imagine they were probably guests who just hadn't really looked around them when they were kicked out of the hotel.
So, thinking it was all-clear, we returned to Broad Street, and found everything still closed. Before long, a few bars were letting people back in, if they had searched the premises, and search everyone who went back in.
Just minutes later, though, we were all kicked out of the city centre completely. And that's when we walked to Tom's house, arming ourselves with cans of Stella on the way. We all had curry, lots of Stella and *some* of Tom's black absinthe, and then went to bed.
Rather spoilt the night really. But Russ will probably get another one.
I think the police generally did a good job. They kept us all safe. But I think they probably could have told us half an hour earlier that nothing was going to reopen. There did seem to be a certain amount of dithering going on.
On the train back on Sunday the driver warned us constantly that leaving anything unattended could lead to security alerts, whether on the train or on the platform. Even more unusual than that, Virgin Voyager's routeplanners had apparently decided, in their infinite wisdom, that the most logical route from Gloucester to Bristol is via Newport. Thus adding an hour onto the journey.
Why the hell would terrorists want to target our public transport system anyway? Why don't they try and destroy something that we haven't already destroyed ourselves? [+/-] show/hide this post
posted by Phil Hatchard at 11:31 PM
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