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The
Brown Pants Trip
Never, in the field of diving,
have so many, waited for so long, with so much anticipation.
Pants started planning this
trip sometime back in that hopeful spring of ’98, when sunshine
was in the air, the scent of neoprene in everybody’s nose
and our hearts lept anew at the thought of diving. After all, Weymouth,
Swanage and Portland are nice places sure, but haven’t we
all dived them already, wasn’t it time for something new?
The stallion of change charged into the Eagle that Tuesday night,
and riding it was Gary LingerFinger, Mr Sexual Chocolate, the man
who wrote Volumes III-IX of the Book of Love, directed the film
and has published several monographs on the art of removing underwear
with your teeth. |
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It gave a goodly number of DLL’s finest
an opportunity to find out where Wales actually was, and on that
Friday we headed down in our twos and threes to the tiny coastal
village of Little Haven which was almost, but not quite, where
the map said it ought to be.
Set in Pembrokeshire National Coastal Park,
on the brow of a hill not more than five or six miles from said
coast, West
Wales Divers serenely shared its hilltop with a quiet little
trailer park and fields of newly mown hay and little lambs gambolling
in the sunshine. Well, there was definately a trailer park there.
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| The West
Wales Divers site is well worth checking out by the way, if only
for the large spaces of "blah blah" test text they've left
in there, reflecting a pleasant, relaxed attitude to technology. |
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As
per the usual procedure, those that had arrived in good time ate
all the crisps and peanuts that were to be had and then headed into
the next town for a small fermented beverage to wash away the dust
of the open road. We were willingly aided and abetted by the region’s
only minibus taxi, large enough to hold up to eight drunks. |
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The
village of Broad Haven is a small place well known for its cheese,
reminiscent of every horror-movie town in which newcomers routinely
disappear and are never seen again. Don't stray from the path, keep
off the moors.
We settle on the Swan with
their Reverend Somethingorother’s Ale and sat down in front
of the pub, on an old stone wall overlooking the small bay, watching
the sun go down and speculating on all sorts of things.
Mainly on how it had gotten
so cold all of a sudden and how the local lads were jumping in and
out of the bay wearing nothing but 3mm shorties and trainers. |
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delivery of divers arrived soon enough, desperately looking for their
bed & breakfast where they could finally tally up the score of
the last forty miles’ of Pooh Poker and Belcharama they’d
been playing, joining us in the pub later sporting relieved expresions.
The sunset was fine and we spent a lovely evening in the Swan, enjoying
the hospitality of a most charming landlady and the taste of the ale.
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Because
of its live culture, ale affects people in different ways.
Some become merry (at one
point it was alledged that Dave Lee smiled, I don't believe it myself),
some suffer a little in the intestinal fortitude department (Elvis,
Pants) and some come over all introspective (none of those around
here though). |
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However,
a special mention must go to the one diver who, through judicious
sprinkling with ale, turned into the caped avenger himself, Tennants
Export Man (Brewed For Drinking Outdoors) and pulled the door off
the taxi. |
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| His name
shall not be mentioned, let his shame be punishment enough |
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