One of the interesting characters that some of us fondly remembered from the dot-com era (and some of us only remember without the fondness) is Martin G. Martin was, and probably still is, a drinking and eating legend, with superhuman digestive capabilities.

He was also famous for his oft-repeated line, “I work for a small company, and I don’t have an expense account.”

Nonetheless, Martin was a good laugh … and despite the lack of an expense account, a relatively inexpensive drinking companion. That’s because Martin could clear a tray of canopes faster than anyone else that I’ve ever known. Yes, he knew where the free drinks and grub could be found if there was a trade show anywhere in the area.

Alas, free canopes and drink were in short supply in Kashiwa, Japan. But we were happy to pick up the tab at the local kobe steakhouse.

My favorite Martin G story was an evening out after a trade show in Seville, Spain.

The previous evening, Martin (who had apparently finally gotten an expense account, or possibly stolen someone else’s credit card) had taken me to an endless series of Tapas Bars … ordering everything on the menu, and devouring it in haste … before moving on to the next Tapas Bar.

But this evening, coming after the close of the trade show, would be a diet of liquid sustenance. Faced with a 7:30am flight the next morning, I tried to escape shortly after midnight. With no taxis to be found, Martin suggested that we walk to the hotel where he had stayed the previous night, where there was a taxi rack. (And where was Martin staying that night? … in retrospect, I should have questioned that.) We walked for about an hour, and I was sober enough, that I recall Martin became very uncomfortable during that long walk, with tapas and canopes attempting to escape his massive digestive tracts. Thankfully he did not explode like Mr. Creosote, and we succesfully arrived at the hotel, which was complete with a taxi rack just as Martin promised.

Martin suggested that we should have a nightcap at the hotel bar after he relieved the pressures of his bowels. The imagery was more than a bit unpleasant, but being the suggestive sort, and always up for another drink, not to mention parched from the hour’s walk, I stumbled to the bar and ordered a couple of beers and two shots of something tough. (A bad habit that I picked up from ColiniAL.) If Martin had suggested that we have a wafer-thin mint, I would have passed.

A couple of hours passed, and the hotel bar issued their last call.

At that point, I mentioned to Martin that it hardly seemed worthwhile to go back to my hotel and sleep before my flight, as I would probably never wake up to leave the hotel in time. He told me that he knew just what to do … we walked out to the cab rack, and Martin told the driver to take us to an all night club. The dance music was horrible, but it was numbed by more shots of something tough. At about 6:30, I realized that I still needed to get back to my hotel to pack my bag and make it to the airport.

I made the flight. And I got a good 2 hours kip on the flight back to London.

There are probably cheaper places that my luggage could have stayed that evening. But as with every morning that came after an evening out with Martin G, I was just happy to still be alive.

As the next Amsterdam trip draws ever nearer I feel it is my obligation to talk about my first trip to this holy place.

It was 1993 and I was but a lad of 24. I had made some very interesting international friends during my travels with Infinite Technologies, but none more interesting than Lance. Lance, or the “World’s Horniest Oompa Loompa” as we are fond of recalling him, was a chirpy British fellow of demure stature with an intense voyeuristic urge.

We discovered early on that we both shared of love of music. As it turns out, his parent’s lived in Redding, a mere stones throw from where the Redding Music Festival is held each year. It was agreed that my first trip to Europe should be to see this festival and to spend some quality time hanging out in England. Well, Redding Festival was great fun. I saw Green Day when no one cared about them, Soundgarden when people were just starting to care, and even Neil Young with Pearl Jam as his back-up band. I also saw local bands like CUSM (Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine) who I have a fondness for, and the now Drinking Team favorite Reef who you should go check out RIGHT NOW. Ah, but this tale isn’t about rock n roll … at least, not anymore.

During this ten day trip we had exhausted London, seen all of Redding, and still had a long weekend to kill. Lance suggested we take a drive over to Amsterdam for a few days or relaxation and recreation. “Amsterdam?” I said, naively. “Where the Hell is Amsterdam?” and he quickly pointed out that this historic city in Holland was quite the tourist destination. Being eager and pretty much open to anything not involving prison rape, I agreed and we were off.

I don’t remember much about that first trip other than I now dream of the place and wish to return there every chance I get. All I know is that we parked the car, walked into the center of town, and I immediately went into party overload. I felt like the brothers from Night At The Roxbury when they are first allowed into Mr. Zadir’s nightclub. “Pace yourself!” I cried inside … but to no avail. We arrived at 5pm and I was flat on my back, at the hotel, staring at the ceiling and trying to “make it stop” by 8pm.

The next day I awoke at the crack of noon and Lance, ever the goer, was ready to start fresh. I felt like the inside of a bus station urinal, but Lance knowingly suggested that a delicious Belgian beer would set everything “right as rain”, as he put it. There was wisdom in that little fella. I don’t remember the rest of the evening, but I remember that next beer … it was Duvel, and I love it to this day. The first sip was hell and the next forty were heaven. I was BACK!

Our two day trip ended up lasting four, and we slept on two inch foam pads in the scariest youth hostel on earth. We drank all day, smoked all night, and even explored Lance’s fondness for “Watchin’ a bloke shag some bird” … a quote that would later define him.

I’ve had more fun in Amsterdam since … it’s always more fun once you are a seasoned vet … and I’ve forgotten a good many trips there. Ah, but I’ll never forget that first trip. Like entering Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory for the first time, or what it must’ve felt like to step onto the moon. Yes, I took a good many years off my life that weekend, but hell, I wasn’t using them anyway.

This sordid tale occurs, not in any of the drinking Mecca’s of the known universe, but in the last place on Earth you’d ever hope to find two hopelessly loaded Americans and one drunken but well dressed English gent. Yes, Disney World in godforsaken Orlando, Florida.

The event was a Reseller conference for … well, to avoid a lawsuit, let’s just call the company Crap Taurus. The fine folks at Crap Taurus had recently relieved Lazy Eight of its relevance and were apparently ready to trumpet on about it at this overblown, poorly located, PowerPoint laden bore-fest in “The Happiest Place on Earth”. Oh, the irony.

Big Brain, WWKD, and ColoniaAl decided early on that the only reason to be at this non-event was to drink heavily. Oddly, this is the same reasoning behind past, more relevant Reseller Conferences; however those were well planned and sensibly located in places where you could get a decent beer or twelve.

Long story short … it’s been a long day of corporate “blah blah blah” and our heroes, now quite parched from boredom and in need of a thorough mind-numbing, are stuck in, of all places Disney-f’ing-World. Oddly, there is an adult section of this mouse-led horror show called Pleasure Island … and you can get good ol’ domestic brew and hard liquor at every street corner.

The drinks began to flow, including countless abysmal domestic beers, and then, because the beer was crap, the “T” word was mentioned. Ah, Tequila … ruiner of souls and ex Van Halen singers. As luck would have it, we found a Tequila stand just off of a huge outdoor stage with an awful eighties dance rock cover band. As lounge act strains of “Hip to Be Square” pulsed in our heads we sank shot after shot …. Until at long last “the feeling” arrived. You know “the feeling”? It’s that special place nestled between “just enough” and “one too many”. That place where you should stop drinking but know full well that you won’t.

It was after our third or fourth shot that everything went dark, the crowd went silent, and then a giant countdown timer started above the stage. Drunk and disorderly as we had become, we found this quite vexing. 10 … 9 … 8 … stop me if you’ve heard this.

Next thing you know fireworks are going off, the band is playing something horrible, and everyone is shouting “Happy New Year!” at the top of their LL Bean clad lungs. Seeing how it was April – Big Brain, WWKD and I were horrified! We’d finally done it … we’d finally drank ourselves into either the past or the future. Nether place would be good in this state.

As it turns out, this particular slice of refried Americana (Disney) celebrates New Year’s every single night. Yes, you can spend an entire week of evenings, in Groundhog-Day-like fashion, celebrating the same night over and over again. Still, who can blame ‘em? Our little group is much the same, just with more drinking and less funny hats.
I’d love to say that the night ended there, but alas there is a Part II to this tale that involves “one more drink” (words that always mean you are completely screwed) …. A hotel bar … the brand new CEO of Crap Taurus … and the “Nightcap from Hell”. I’ll leave that story for Big B …

Pizza in Cans. No, I’m not talking about the dream that the frustrated and misunderstood genius Chef Boyardee took with him to his grave.

But maybe that is what I should be talking about. Because not enough people know the story of Chef Boyardee, a dreamer, a genious with a brain so large that he became a chef after a visit to a chapeau shop, only to find that there were no hats big enough to fit his grossly enlarged cranium.

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Friday 14th July: a forgettable night for everybody who enjoyed it, a memorable one for those who didn’t!

A warm-up at The Beer Circus, followed by a curry at the Banana Leaf is a recipe for lost memories and expensive phone bills, and this evening was no exception (as far as I can remember).The proprietor of the Beer Circus dug in the bowels of the cellar to get his secret supply of Westvleteren 12, which true to form we did our best to consume in its entirety. One of the highlights of the evening was being able to share the world’s largest glass of 12 (photo).

At the Banana Leaf your correspondent decided to reverse the usual “doubling up on orders as time passes” policy by ordering two bottles of claret for starters (it avoids the tedious business of trying to attract the waiter’s attention when you need another bottle half way through the hors d’oeuvre…).

People came and went throughout the evening. At least one person (name withheld to protect their already tattered reputation) indulged in some organic street art in an adjacent car park, whilst the others enjoyed making phone calls to colonial friends.

We’re still not sure who, if anyone, paid for the meal. Who says you can’t have a free lunch?

I put the murdurous hounddog to death yesterday…

Baked him in a fine chocolate crust … sprinkled Jimmies on him … and snaked a garden hose through the plate handles.

When asked by the ponderous woolyman “why’s your cootie?”, I responded “why not”…

Really cracked him up, I tell you smoker-man!