FAVETE LINGUIS
This one has swum back into view…

Years ago, I took up GCSE Latin for a laugh (it was voluntary and after school - very out of character). After a few weeks it became pretty obvious that I wasn’t going to cut it (and I didn’t), but I found out about the field trip to the Bay of Naples right before the teacher asked if I would “do the decent thing” - I'm pretty sure she meant leave the course, but I’ve never been too sure...

Anyway, many hilarious voluntary lessons later (we didn’t half fuck about), the time for the trip came around. We were flying (oo-er) to Rome, where we stayed for one night and yours truly, having been to Rome before, was summarily appointed as guide and told to find somewhere to eat for the whole group. With all the culinary discretion and breadth of gastronomic experience of a 15 year old schoolboy, I found a pizza restaurant, but only after two hours’ needless trekking around the seedier bits of Rome down by the river. At no point had I stated any competence for the task I was given, but of course I copped the blame. Forget diplomatic intervention from the teachers.

We were picked up the next day by a very crazy Neapolitan coach driver, who proceeded to take us at suicidal speed along the Amalfi coast road, claiming his rear-wheel steering would keep us quite safe (we tried to ignore the fact he crossed himself at each of the blind, unfenced, 100 feet high, 90 degree bends - bless). He was a top driver though, albeit in the mould of Big William in the original Italian Job, and amused us all hugely with his very close attempts to cop off with our (until then) very prim head of year.

It being a Latin trip, we visited Pompeii and Herculaneum, and during our guide’s salutary reminder of the thousands who had perished at the foot of Mount Vesuvius, my mate Eddy promptly popped himself into a buried amphora (big jar) and invited photographs to be taken of only his head showing above ground, complete with mock-death expression. Stunning moment. He went on to bury himself to the neck in sand on the beach later - issues?

Who could forget James, who for every ailment or injury was able to produce a suitable remedy or treatment from his bottomless sack, quite apart from the medicines in his back-pack? Every cut, bruise, mild case of food poisoning and allergy was met with his soft tones uttering forth the hallowed phrase “Hang on, I might have something in my bag for that...” and he always did, complete with cozy, familiar branding like Boots or Lemsip. One girl even lost her contact lens fluid - you guessed it...

The highlight though had to be the time we fought off the local oiks. We were staying in the Hotel Sette Bello or Hotel of the Seven Beauties, named after the owner’s daughters despite his immortal assurance, in front of us and the teachers, that these girls were “all fucking ugly bitches”. This fine establishment was set inside a very steep hairpin bend, with the road at ground level to the front and at fifth floor level to the rear. One night, after messing about on the beach where the local lads had been eyeing up the pure English girls in our group, we got back to our rear-facing rooms to discover these boys parking their scooters on the road behind and literally abseiling down to try and get into the girls’ rooms. One shriek from the lasses was all it took – we were now in a position to prove our worth by keeping the little stallions at bay. Cue much projectile broom stick usage and keeping watch on the back balconies until at least 1am.

Length? Being courageously gallant does not get you laid, so who knows...
(Good old boy just like yer grandma!, Thu 7 Dec 2006, 18:31, Reply)