Whilst I get my act together to write up Venezuela and Guyana here's a little story from mid December 2008 I sent in Email form to a couple of non-shockable friends...
"Our shares in the company were finally paid out, so we went celebrating large stylee in Frankfurt. It started with small beers, progressed through hefeweizens and at some stage I vaguely remember Jagermeisters being brought out. There may have been Mojitos in there at some stage but don't quote me on that. Got back to hotel 74 sheets to the wind and of course was still in dire need of a drink. So took night cap or 3 in the hotel bar with Chris (colleague) and our COO. Finally stand up and bump my way to hotel room like a ball in a pinball machine.
Manage to exit my suit in about 4 seconds flat and in typical Andrew style throw the clothes pretty much over my shoulder and collapse into bed, "doing the human starfish".
Wake up bright and breezy the next morning. OK, lie - it took me 20 minutes from alarm going off to open my eyes. Bladder eventually drives me from the bed. Room in pitch darkness, so I stick my key card in the box to get some electricity going. Head to bathroom to do what a man's gotta do and whilst sitting there contemplating life's rich tapestry I get a waft of what smells like singed hair. Think nothing more of it and get back to business. Smell starts to get worse, so finish up and debathroom. Outside the smell gets even stronger so I open the hotel door to see if there is some kind of fire outside. Nope, all quiet on the western front.
Close door and walk back in, only to see that the standup light beside the bed has a pair of trousers draped over them and they are nicely flaming away like a campfire...
Run across the room, whip them off and jump up and down on them to put the fire out. Fireman duty done I inspect the damage and find everything more or less OK, except for a nice grapefruit sized hole that has been burnt right slap bang in the crotch area.
Curse the gods as first high powered meeting is in 30 minutes. Luckily with buttoned up jacket, a slightly forward-bending stance and no dynamic motion, hole was not visible. Endure meeting, during which Chris whispers to me "can you smell something burning?". I manage to keep a straight face, as if I whispered the truth he would probably break out into one of his famous laughing fits. So reply "eh... no, really?". Make it out of mind-numbingly boring meeting more or less alive. 45 minutes till next meeting, so I hop in a cab downtown, head into nearest jeans shop and purchase first pair I find in my size and pay 120 Euros for the pleasure. Tell cute assistant that I'll wear them, so head back to changing room to put them on and come back to her and deposit one pair of anthracite grey charred business trousers in her hands. She looks so stunned that no questions were asked. I leave shop like a new man.
Back in cab to arrive into next meeting, perfectly timed, with lovely fresh trousers. No one even noticed the difference.
Flying back to London that night, Chris and I were sitting in the B.A. lounge. He was holding up better than I and had got us a champagne. For medicinal purposes of course. Or at least to take the edge off. I decided it was time to tell the story so started to recount the events of that morning. Half way in Chris was snorting Champagne through his nose, tears were streaming down his face and he was laughing so loud that all those professional types, drinking green tea and San Sellegrino, were looking decidedly disturbed.
In hindsight proving my decision not to tell him during the meeting as rather wise.
Any one got a spare pair of grey suit trousers?
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