Day 27 & 28: Cambridge - a place where the smart go, while Bart and Luke follow

With my Friday ending at 7am Saturday morning, I thought I should be fine for the 2.15pm train to Cambridge. I was wrong. Waking up at 1pm I managed to shower, pack and get to Clapham Junction in 30mins. Now, I can handle the stupid tourists during the week, as they are so shit scared of the aggression and rush that the peak hour tubes has, they cower in the corner and only get in your way on every fifth step. Plus, they walk average, only stuffing up when they stop, albeit this is often. The fuckwits on the weekend are the worst. They take up entire hallways limping along and, unlike the weekend stoppers, they never actually go fast.

Tube traffic was chaos on the weekend

Getting to Waterloo, I missed the first train, which only gave me 20 minutes to get to the other side of London and on to Kings Cross platform 13¾ (put your hands up if you know what I'm talking about - no really put them up and watch the people in the office that think you're working look at you like you're a escaped lunatic).

But alas, after getting on the tube I was met by the younger cousin of the slow walking tourists, the retarded Northern Line maintenance team. One stop out of Kings Cross, the northern line was shut. So, back to Warren Street to jump on the Victoria Line. Finally getting there 20 minutes late, I met Luke – my regional England partner in crime – and it was time to set off. But first, Kiwi Rhys had lost his wallet the night before and had to go and collect it, so, with his tickets in my hand we had to leave them somewhere. Now, there were two places – the window that clearly said ticket collection and reclaim, or the Swatch Watch booth with the hot brunette.

Sulturing up to the Swatch booth, I left Kiwi Rhys’s tickets there, had a little bit of a flirt and the world was good again. Boarding the train we picked up the compulsory beer travellers for the journey and kicked back with excited expectation. What stories would we come back with? How many people could Bart insult without realising he was actually doing it? Where would Luke end up and would he remember? It all was so familiar, but all so exciting.

Arriving in Cambridge there were a lot of bikes. Shit loads of bikes. Resisting the urge to steal one and refusing to wait in the taxi rank for 15 minutes, we decided to walk the 20 minute. Arriving at Emma’s there were a few faces we didn’t recognise, but Em was there and looked like she was ready to show us the town. Carrie was there as well, ready to show the town her.

Carrie being Carrie

A few drinks and a rained out BBQ and we headed into Cambridge and started the bar hopping. A quiet, then funny, then dancey, then funny, then totally unexpected night but enjoyable ensued. A mixture of cocktail bar, bar, club, kebab shop and sitting around a lounge room ended the Cambridge night tour with a bang. Good times.

Luke's BBQ being tested by the British 'summer'

All up I had a good time. With out Kiwi Rhys (who got to King’s Cross around 7pm and said the Swatch Watch booth was shut but the ticket claim booth was open – oops – couldn’t get on a trains) it was simply Lukey, me and the rest were girls.

A standard trip with the boys usually leads to a competitive binge drinking weekend, so a bit different from my usual regional UK jaunts.

Cambridge itself is a lovely little town, which is very cultured of course and seems quite quaint ole’ England. Luckily we had Claire with us who has a law degree from Cambridge (which automatically is a Masters in Law if you get it from one of the ivy league schools) – I felt sub-intelligent talking to her. Anyway, Claire gave us a quick tour of her old college, Queen’s, including the tip that ‘one never walks on the grass, as one can be severely disciplined for this’, who can resist.
So after a quick wander around the time, Luke and I bid farewell to the girls, who we had affectionately titled ‘our bitches’ and back on a London bound train. Half way through I got a phone call from Dany (yes, sweety, I spelt it with one ‘n’) asking me if I wanted to swing by for a BBQ to watch the football. Of course, what else is one to do on a Sunday evening?

Walking from Liverpool Street, as the Northern Line was still shut, I looked up with surprise as half a dozen helicopters passed over head. My surprise was compounded when a dozen more went over and then I shat myself as six fighter jets buzzed over, basically skimming the roves. This didn’t stop. Wave after wave of Hercules jumbos, small fighters, large fighter, acrobatic planes, bombers and whatever else crossed over on my walk from Liverpool Street to Old Street, and they were low – damn low. It wasn’t until I got to Dany’s and he said he saw tank upon tank upon tank rolling up Lower Regent Street that we realised it was the 25th Anniversary of the Falkland’s War that day (the aircraft carrier in the Thames should have given it away). There went my theory that Britain has finally realised Peter Andre should be destroyed and were taking care of business. So scoffing down dinner off the BBQ and watching the football I had to leave early as I was a very tired boy. Home, showered and in bed by midnight to face another day. Bring it on.

For pictures of Cambridge. click here.