John Walker's Electronic House

The last couple of weeks have been a frenzied trek about the country for all manner of exciting adventures.

Things began, um, a while back with Nick’s “Pre Wedding Jaunt”, and not in any way, “Stag Do”. This took place in Edinburgh for the weekend, where ten of Britain’s loudest men gathered to bellow discussions at one another and the people of Scotland. While the majority of the time was quite civilised, a token nod to the wretchedness of stag culture appeared in the form of a surprise game of paintballing. Oh, what joy.

“Why? Because it really bloody hurts when they hit you, that’s why. It’s a stupid, mindless, ridiculous activity where idiotic men deliberately hurt one another in a miserable, muddy wood.”

“But it’s meant to hurt. That gives you the incentive to avoid being hit.”

“Yes, and the most effective way to avoid being hit is, TO NOT GO PAINTBALLING.”

It was, as expected, awful. Our desired plan of splitting into two teams of five – Team Jew, and Team Gentile – were immediately evaporated when lumped in with two other stag gatherings, each sharing a combined IQ of about 7, and fewer chromosomes. These sub-human primordial oozes ensured that at no point could anything approaching ‘fun’ be achieved, too achingly stupid to comprehend the simplest of instructions. “Hold you gun by the wire,” shouted the staff. “THE WIRE.” “NO! THE WIRE!” Until eventually the marshalls had to actually take the guns from their hands, turn them around, and then put them back into their primitive, barely prehensile hands wire first. This became far worse when it came to understanding the instruction, “Don’t shoot your gun after the game over.”

I was hit three times. Once in the back of my head, another time in the middle of my back (please note I was facing forward), and a final time in the shoulder, while walking back to the base, after the game over. Adam still bears the mark on his neck where he was hit post-game.

It’s hard to say whether all that was worth it to see this, but it was certainly close.

Then there was the college residential in Cheltenham. Two days of lying around in the sun with lovely people. Well earned.

Then the final weekend of youth work, already documented.

And Thursday, Nick and Victoria’s wedding. That’s no small statement. I take full credit for the whole relationship, for reasons that are too boring to chronicle again. But let it suffice to say, they owe me everything, including the 60 pounds for the supposedly free hotel room on Thursday night.