
By: Marty Leipzig
Re: Well, since *some* of you asked...

        Hello, gang.

        If for no reason other than the fact that Marilyn thinks
        that I can relate a good tale and that Gwen asked, I
        thought I'd recount a small tale of whimsy that evolved
        whilst I was completing my last contract over in the area
        now (at least today) referred to as the FSU.

        It seems that I was returning from a contractual stint over
        in the 'Stans (Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Kazhakstan...),
        with a small layover in Ulaan Bataar to visit some
        friends (which in itself is quite another story...), when
        I suddenly and quite unexpectedly was being brusquely
        awakened by a BA (British Airways) cabin attendant asking
        me to "Put out that damned cigar, you're scaring the folks
        in first class." Shaking off the cobwebs, I politely asked
        her what day this was.

        "Well, dearie. Where are you coming from?"

         Not wishing to point out her dangling participle, nor
         exacerbate my hangover, I replied "Tashkent...although
         that was on a Tuesday."

         "Oh, dear.", she replied. "Today is Saturday, and we're
         coming into Heathrow. You're not British, are you?"

         Suppressing the desire to inquire how she could have
         possibly arrived at that obvious conclusion (I guess the
         Dockers and the size 15 mud-caked Vasque Trekker
         fieldboots now blocking the Business Class aisle confused
         her...), I politely asked for (a.) a landing pass, (b.)
         a customs declaration, (c.) a fresh microglacier for my
         drink and (d.) anything (but scotch) with alcohol in it.

         She complied with all but the latter.  After landing, I
         swore I would either buy her a real drink or throttle her.
         Luckily, (for all concerned) her brother was a hackney
         driver who needed the fare from Heathrow to Gatwick (75
         fucking pounds!) and she was going home; of course, in
         that general direction. She explained that she would be
         glad to split the fare.

         "Of course," she explained, "I'd be glad to split the
         fare.", "Oh, by the by, who did you say you were working
         for?"

         "Globalenvirodecimate Energy, Inc.."

          "Oh, bonzers! Then you're on per diem. Great! I can see
          the folks for free!"

          Unfortunately, England's views on unpremeditated murder
          are as silly as our's in the US.

          She hailed her sibling, and after much swearing and
          cajoling, we loaded the GIS station, Worden gravimeter,
          my Cirris station, enviropack and my personal effects
          ("liquid assets", don'tchaknow...wink, wink, nudge,
          nudge) into an ancient, wheezing Bentley and headed off
          on the M5.

          Taking particular note of the "No fuckin' smokin', mate"
          signs liberally plastered all over the passenger
          compartment of his vehicle, I immediately sparked up a
          fine Turkmenistanian double maduro. "Look, mate. I ain't
          going to argue...(Watch out for that fucking lorry!!!),
          but do keep the ashes off the seat."

          Of course, of course.

          I am nothing if not cordial.

          Ahem.

          With only a few near death experiences and a boil-over
          outside of Cockfosters, we arrived at the Gatwick Hilton.
          "Blimey!" remarks our driver, "What a bloody fucking
          nightmare that was!"

          I couldn't agree more.

          With considerable help of both sib and sibling, I get my
          room booked, get a porter (who later complained of mud
          poisoning and the excessive cheapness of Yanks), I
          flopped into a real room, with real walls (not goat skins
          stretched over poles!) and real running water!

          Looking forward to an extended period of extensive liver
          abuse and eating of room service on someone else's
          ticket, the blinkering room phone rings.

          "Who the bloody hell can that be?" (I've been in country
          too long.) "No one knows even I'm here." I mused,
          musedly.

          "'ello, mate. This is Cynt'ia. My brot'er and I are over
          at the 'orse and Groom. You said that if we were ever in
          the neig'borhood, to call; and well, 'ere we are!"

          Come to find out, Cynt'ia and her brother Basil (I am NOT
          making this up!) were over at one of my favorite pubs
          right across the motorway from Gatwick; and Cynthia
          (bless her little synapses) has a most astounding, (and
          inconvenient) memory. I did say that if you were ever in
          the neighborhood and had a few spare minutes, to look me
          up.

          Of course, I really did not intend for them to do it that
          same evening.

          Trying to beg off claiming excessive work, sleep
          deprivation and severe alcohol poisoning; proved rather
          ineffectual. "Oh, come on, Yank! 'Smatter, a little too
          much Clan McFiddich the previous night?"

          Those were _fighting_ words.

          Especially to one accustomed to the finer things in life,
          like bourbon!

          We hacked our way over to the Horse and Groom, but I made
          it quite plain that I had to file a report and expense
          account before I could indulge in the heady repasts of
          British hospitality.

          "Bring the bloody thing with, it's got a battery, dinit?"

          How could I argue with such logic? Remember, these isles
          spawned Darwin, Churchill and Monty Python.

          So, I sallied forth into the Horse and Groom, sporting a
          new shirt, new Dockers, a clean pair of Reeboks, my
          Pentium ("Correct at least 99.556432% of the time.")
          laptop, and a desire to kill off as many weak brain cells
          as remained.

          The night started off (hell...it's already midnight in
          Tashkent...) with a rouser of "Bring the boys back home"
          and pub darts. Luckily, my grim visage of 25 stone,
          imported, dark and nasty cigar, and total envelopment
          into a small computer surpassed their glance.

          At least for a while.

          "Blimey, mate. What thell you lookin' at?"

          "Oh, nothing, really. I just filed an outrageous, and
          totally fallacious, expense account and happened upon an
          old "HolySmoke" file that I didn't delete before I
          left..."

          "'olySmoke? What the bloody 'ell is that?"

           "Oh, that's right. You still live in the dark ages..."

           I'm nothing if not a spokesman.

           So, (to the cajoling of all present ...and the promise
           of drinks to come...), pulled up the file
           "HolySmok.TU2", circa December.

           We tittered over David Rice.
           We chortled over Mratin Glodbreg.
           We thought Dan Ceppa had too much time on his hands.
           We hooted over Hector Plasmic.
           We laughed out loud over Phil Morrison.
           We goat-damned wet ourselves over Michael Hardy.
           We shook our collective heads over John Prewett.
           We thought that Arthur Beile should be committed

           Amazing how truth transcends time barriers..


