“No one would have believed, in the last years of the nineteenth century, that human affairs were being watched from the timeless worlds of space.
“No one could have dreamed we were being scrutinised, as someone with a microscope studies creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. Few men even considered the possibility of life on other planets and yet, across the gulf of space, minds immeasurably superior to ours regarded this Earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely, they drew their plans against us.“
When HG Wells penned his novel, The War of the Worlds, he envisaged a threat from without; a Martian invasion bringing mankind low, routing civilisation by use of advanced technology. Ultimately, mankind’s fate rested on an invisible ally, earthly pathogens doing what humanity could not and laying waste to all those Martian plans. HG Wells may well not have envisaged that renowned thespian, rugby fan and bon viveur, Richard Burton, would narrate Wells’ words to Jeff Wayne’s epic music less than a century later, but the suspicion is that he could not have predicted that those same earth-liberating pathogens, filtered through the lens of the humble pangolin and crepuscular bat, would turn their powers against us.
And yet, your humble reporter found himself setting forth to Heidelberg, the foreboding cloud of Covid-19 only beginning to make its presence felt, hindsight allowing that valour was most definitely the better part of discretion on this occasion. We came together, a pack of eight, and though we may not have looked quite the beefy, gnarled and grizzly part that number usually represents – can one grizzle in a scarf? – but over the course of two nights we put in a shift of ale-drinking an international pack would be proud of.
To Vetter’s, and our pack was drawn together in a local brewery serving dunkelbiers and plates of meat and sautéed potatoes stacked perilously high. Serious discussion took place as to what a group of rugby-loving bloggites would do now that two of the three final-day 6 Nations matches were postponed; the news that two postponements were now three only served to harden our resolve: we, the good people of AOD, would have a good time. And that is exactly what your intrepid reporter did – a foray to the Drugstore, a speakeasy where the schnapps was fast and the talk was faster; bonded by our common purpose and strengthened in the face of adversity. This reporter staggered back to his humble abode at a relatively sane hour, leaving an unnamed few to head off to a subterranean nightclub aptly called The Cave, and, much like Joe Marler, they were went on down to see what mischief they could cause, and, again like Marler, they could happily take a ban – it would have little consequence in this day and age.
The dawn of a second day, then, and a stroll along Heidelberg’s Hauptstraße served to emphasise the impact Coronavirus was having – not a single soul was seen for some hours. But as the day drew on and venues opened, this reporter was joined by Meades, emerging from the morning’s Stygian gloom like Roland Bertranne, cutting a dash in Yorkshire brogues and dazzling white trews that even the ranks of Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer. The obligatory cultural touristic opportunities were availed upon; a trip to a wonderful bookstore where this reporter picked up a small piece by Wells contemporary Mark Twain, on his trip through Heidelberg by means of raft; a handy comparator for our own weekend, perhaps. Joined subsequently by Boanova (worryingly sporting a Leinster jersey) and SoYouThinkYou’reaWaffleman (equally worryingly, wearing a Munster top), gelatos were consumed, coffees were discussed and downed, and impressively steep hikes were had.
Sufficiently exercised, and in need of strong libation, we repaired to the venue-that-was-to-be-the-venue, The Dubliner. Joining Thaum and Mr Thaum, talk turned to our common love of rugby, and arms were chanced by suggesting to staff that they avail of YouTube’s wealthy repository of rugby matches for us all to enjoy, given the absence of any matches. Sadly, even Iks’ eloquent pleas fell on deaf ears, and instead we set about reviewing the season that never ended, remarking on standout players (Stuart McCloskey appears to have Thaum on a retainer for PR work*), and into the gap where our attention would have usually fallen, stories were exchanged, witticisms were slung and the occasional train refund form was completed. But that is another story for another time.
As Thaum has already elaborated, we moved on the Bar Centrale and thence to its restaurant neighbour Dorfschaenke, for pleasingly filling food and even more pleasingly outsized wine bottles. As the night began to wind down, several of our pack went separate ways; Thaum and Mr Thaum returned to the Bar Centrale to investigate the gin options, MrsIks went home to rest her weary hosting head, Boa had hit his limits and made good his escape. A round of beer and schnapps, and we remaining few parted ways, handshakes, hugs and backslaps abound.
And, in it all, Wells prose kept returning to my mind; MisterIks as the astronomer Ogilvy, assuring us that the chances of anyone getting a fine, were a million to one; only to then explain that for feeding ducks, he was served a 55 euro penalty notice (he still has no regrets and post-lockdown will continue his campaign in the face of teutonic adversity); SoYouThinkYou’reaWaffleman as Wells’ artilleryman, slowly losing his sanity as his left-handed passing fell to pieces and suggesting that a return to that subterranean life in The Cave may be the best solution for humanity; and the sight of Boa stood atop the Thingstätte, an arena built in Nazi-era Germany, dressed all in black whilst wearing a Leinster jersey, is one which will live long in the memory, if only for the nexus of humorous corollaries it brings together. And through it all, through the fantastic hosts, the pints, the ball-throwing and the brilliant company, there was the sense that from the madness, something beautiful had grown, or rather, something we had all known had been reinforced; that our blog-meets are something to be cherished. Not so much a case of à la recherche du temps perdu, more a case of à la prochaîne.
But the boss don’t like these dizzy heights
We’re busted in the blinding lights
Of closing time
As experienced by DropTheClaw.
Ovally Balls 
That’s not even the best one, BB, neither is this
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This one too,,,,
The one and only Niko Matawalu.
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Beaten by the Birthday Boy!
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This is one of my favourties, I’ve posted it before, but it bears repeating, the work the George Horne does for this try if off the charts, this is why he posts the best beep test scores Dave Rennie has ever even heard about. If the time stamp doesn’t work, the try footage starts at 1 min 21 secs
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Joyeux anniversaire Ticht!
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Anyone been following Ozark?
I enjoyed the first two series, but the third one is by far the best.
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Happy belated birthday, Ticht!
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Happy Birthday for yesterday, ticht.
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happy birthday Ticht, hope you had as good a day as is possible under the circumstances.
I watched a couple of episodes of Ozark but never really managed to get into it
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Wonder if Ticht’s heid has corona virus* today.
* metaphorically obvs.
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I think we’ve watched #1 and #2 – my wife was/is a fan – I was less “attached”…happy to watch it but can’t say I was “glued” to it.
I kept feeling it was a re-run of Breaking Bad (now that’s a good template)
And belated happy birthday – Lá breithe sona duit!
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Well, it’s never stopped you before….
And never shall it!
Happy Birthday Ticht! For yesterday! I’m unstoppable, if woefully late!
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incorrigible
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https://www.sarugbymag.co.za/france-test-duo-lucky-to-survive-covid-19/
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https://www.sarugbymag.co.za/stormers-roberts-joins-fight-covid-19/
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That too! Unrepentant. And ready for lunch.
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I just came across this band last week, Kim Gordon was sitting in for Iggy Pop and she played this, “Your Hollows” by Heron Oblivion.
To me it sounds like Fairport Convention/Pentangle brought up to date with a J Mascis guitar wig out, Fairtangle Jr if you will
I bloody love this
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…………lovely – and very reminiscent of neil young as well
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…………but is it as good as this?
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………….a heartbreaking chapter of music and life
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Ticht – I’m so used to hearing her talk through a song. That’s great.
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Like this:
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‘Talk’ is probably the wrong word… But I’m an illiterate tight/loosehead.
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In It’s easier for a camel to to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God news:
Kenneth Copeland is the richest pastor in America. He’s worth 760 million dollars.
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That’s some top quality nonsense.
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Maybe if I upped my nonsense quality & quantity I’ll get me some millions.
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This is a propitious time to start a new religion, Chimpster. I’d go for it if I were you.
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Sounds like a plan if I get furloughed.
The church of the one true science. Bring your own rock.
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Craigs………….
……………………………………….are you Matt Stevens?
If so, £5 please.
Good game!
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Slade – unfortunately I don’t have his athletic ability.
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play the guitar?
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Tomp/Chimpie: he is trying over and over, you know what, the death rate is slowing in some countries. Proof of dog I say.
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Slade – unfortunately I have zero musical ability.
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Furlough has become a word British people know and use really really quickly.
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He’s doing it wrong, you don’t blow on it, you smash it with a rock.
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Here endeth the first lesson. That’ll be 9.99.
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I think I could do that preaching shit. Maybe I could get $760m.
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Craigs
Learn to play the violin whilst in lock-down
I’m sure everyone will be really supportive and understanding
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*hits craigs with rock*
Get to the back of the queue, sonny.
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Bah. Not bloody furloughed.
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*prays to Dog to smite Chimpie and others in queue*
Queue, what queue?
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Slade – I was thinking of something more annoying. A kazoo or the spoons seem attractive at this point.
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New post coming up….
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