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Gallery: 2001
Cornwall - yet again!!

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The three wise men at the bar of the Ponsmere on the Sunday night. Chappie, Dazza and Bertie are watching a pool game of no consequence whatsoever. But why watch a boring game of pool when there is so much more interesting stuff to do another Smirnoff Ice or other "fasttrack to inebriation" concoction.
The "Winners" of our little bartime competition all gather round to drink their round or three AT ONCE, you understand. At least here they are all still perpendicular to the horizontal. As this snapshot was grabbed it's only fair to divulge to you, dear viewer, the legendary cry of Dazza which haunts most pubs in Surrey: "Do I make you horny, baby, DO I?"
The multitudes of dreaded Blotteries can render one (or in this case two) quite asunder. It's only fair to point out howevr, that this little piccie only marks the halfway stage on Saturday evening. Dirty Bertie, Number 30....? Surely not. The very second after this grab was made the ball, pinched not too lightly in Chappie's fingers sped it's way to the corner of the room.
Sitting outs9ide the bar at 2.49 AM. People were still on the beach, the new daylight was just appearing over the hill when Dazza's catchphrase was to be heard by all present: "Do I make you horny, Baby? Do I?" You don't really need us to answer this. 

Saturday was spent in all type of pursuits as we didn't have a game scheduled. Some of us when deep-sea fishing off Newquay but before that went investigating some of the rock pools on the beach. Duncan decided that one in particular needed closer scrutiny.

The Club Tour Rules make it quite clear that no-one can pull a "Swamp Donkey or a Bush Pig" without getting fined and having the pee ripped out of you for the remainder of the tour, possibly your life too. All areed that the handsome One managed to confound the rules (and the Finesmaster) by getting away with it in style. It must be said that Mike Hills really did feature in the tour video however, as usual, Mattie had to have a crack on the camera. But only after a copious amount of the imbibing juice had passed his lips which goes some way to explaining why the lens rarely got above elbow height. P.S. The piccie is of Monsewer Hillies' mouth.
There is a table tennis set up in the oldest (and hottest) part of the hotel. The heat doesn't stop us getting carried away sometimes as in this rally between the mighty Beefy and Trigger Barrett. Adie has actually beaten the Large One, the later goes flying almost into the lap of Duncan at third and a half slip. He'd have dropped Beefy anyway. Actually, Beefy would have well and truly dropped Duncan. Could this be the picture that best sums up the whole shebang we mere mortals call the Tour? Do the eyes convey an indiscretion? Is that smile a crafty smile? Is that whole glazed expression a composite of all that happened? No, Adie Barrett is caught on camera in the car on the way DOWN to Cornwall, somewhere on the M3 just past Farnboough.
1. Now here's a funny story about a chap called Mattie who, having given up smoking cigarettes decided to try his hand at rolling his own. Quiet at the back there, you're making your own jokes up. Here he's measured the correct amount of weed, sorry, tobacco. Move to step 2, right. >> 2. We've put the paper down on the table and carefully placed the measured tobacco onto it in a fairly straight line. Having rolled the paper up you moisten the edge of the paper. Moisten it, mind, as half a pint of spit often fails to give cigarette paper the necessary degree of tackiness to stick it down. Move to step 3, below-left. <
3. Once the paper edge is thus moist, the cigarette can now be rolled around on itself and the edge stuck down to give on the traditionally shaped own-rolled cigarette. As is so ably demonstrated here step 2 was not adhered to with the predictable consequences. Go, step 4. >> 4. Having measured the tobacco out, placed it on the paper, rolled it up in uniform fashion and stuck it back on to itself the result should be something that no self-respecting smoker should be without. With that in mind, check out the huge wodge of fag that costs in the region of 47.50.
Dazza is a little sod at times. He shared the same room as Bertie but of course as with any hotel room there is only one key to be shared. Not wanting it to be lost, Dazza carefully put it back behind reception despite (or is it because) Bertie was still inside at the time?

Saturday night found us gathered in the Waterfront restraunt. On the left is Jay Stephens, on the right is Beefy. Although the waitress walked off while the latter was placing his order for profiteroles some deep breathing exercises saw him through till her eventual and safe return to re-take his order.

Perranporth on Cornwall's north coast makes a great spot for holidaying for those who wish to see the area. The rugged North coast is constantly under attack from the Atlantic which, by turn, offered the small fishing villages often found in the sheltered coves their main source of income. The Ponsmere is on the rocky outcrop in the centre. Taken from the top of the steps that lead down to the beach the modern front on the hotel masks a much smaller, older building which was enlarged many times during the course of the 20th century. The whole family is catered for with all types of entertainment laid on, plus two swimming pools, etc. Why do we go back there? Eh? 
Part of the long, long beach that wends its ay up the coast toward Newquay. The larger building on the right is the Watering Hole, known to us as the "Beach Bar" and often sports a late-night license, being home to live bands. Real Ale has also been found there.  You get a better view of Perran Bay from Droskyn Point, which is found south along the coastal path toward St. Agnes. Based in Cornwall, Winston Graham's famous "Poldark" novels were set around the Perranporth area, although he made many custom alterations in fiction. 
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