Cape Cod Weekend Break
Cape Cod Weekend Break - Part I - Saw Docs and the Hole of the Fox

The original plan being to see the Saw Doctors and drink it up with all the Irish in their Mayo jerseys and any green items of clothing they could lay their hands on as they raced out the door. Their attempts at tailgating proved to be quite meek and very Irish in that they stood at the boot of the car "atin' sangwiches and dhrinkin' a few cans" before the show. We deduced all this as we drove around the car park in the vane hopes of securing a moderately-priced ticket-a-piece. When it became apparent that our chances were slimmer than your average American, our new Canadian friend, aptly named Liberty, took to playing fuck with the car park attendant, who clearly, and very mistakenly, thought he shared some form of a common bond with the shams that were about to take to the stage inside.
Cape Cod Weekend Break - Part II - No Room and Impending Doom

The old man at the check-in desk rifled helplessly through sheets and sheets of paper. Every one that did not hold the name “Christina Tamer”, brought an extra bead of perspiration to his brow. In our relaxed mood following our cycle, we thought nothing of it. The poor, senile, old man shouldn't have been working there in the first place – even if he did own the place. He transferred all responsibility to the kindly girl at the desk. She’d sort it out. And sort it out she did rather quickly. She looked up from her computer screen, her face wiped to that of a very caring doctor about to break sad news to the relative of a hospitalised loved one and, in the voice of a mother telling her child that, instead of making her child their favourite meal, they were to have broccoli and spinach instead, she uttered the words “I’m sorry Christina but it says here that you booked for the 21st”.
Silence. Stony, eerie, disbelieving silence.
I looked at Christina's face. She looked like a spoiled child on Christmas morning, who had opened her present to realise that she had not gotten the Malibu Barbie with matching playhouse she had written to Santa for months previously, but instead she received Garbage man Barbie with matching dust bin. She couldn't speak, move, function. The world as she once knew it was now strange and unfamiliar to her. At times, she looked like she may have been the relative of the hospitalised loved one. The receptionist broke the silence by confirming just how wrong Christina was, as she backed away in horror not wanting to hear another word.
To those of you who wonder why getting the date wrong was such a big deal, I shall explain. The Cape fills up at weekends – Saturday nights especially. The odds of us finding another place to stay were, at best, very poor. We had no time to waste as we raced past scores of motels, hotels and B’n’Bs with no vacancy after no vacancy after saltwater pool….. Wait, what the fuck was that? Did that just say saltwater pool? Sick. If you want salt water get in the ocean.
The situation was looking decidedly bleak and I was on the cusp of suggesting we turn around, with our tails between our legs and enjoy another night in The Foxhole. Christina, not so easily deterred, the rejection of the motels seemingly making her stronger, soldiered on, gritting her teeth. A tourist information centre approached on the right, it was our one last hope, our white knight. This was it.
Cape Cod Weekend Break - Part III - O'Leary's Pen and Chez Sven
The atmosphere inside the tourist office was palpable – think (imagine if, like me, you don’t remember it) the moments leading up to Dave O’Leary’s penalty in a stadium in Genoa in 1990 – as Christina explained her predicament to yet another old man behind a desk. This guy reliably informed us that there were two vacancies on the whole Cape – and that was an hour ago. They may have been snapped up. Christina called the B’n’B that was committing lawful extortion and asked, begged, pleaded with them for their room. The foreign guy at the end of the line was only too delighted and, having secured directions that included the words “dirt track”, we set off.
A dirt track would have been one thing, but the path we were sent up resembled something more like a bog trail that hasn’t been used for a number of turf cutting seasons. A balding guy, sporting a rather unflattering moustache walked towards us as we spotted the first remnants of anything that resembled a house. Immediately, Christina knew this was the man she spoke with on the phone. The man in question was a clearly drunk, Swedish man. It wasn’t immediately clear that he was Swedish – he informed us of that later – but the smell emanating from his mouth would have been enough to knock a sizeable army of dogs. He led us through a jungle - that we later learned to be the garden, which had just been untended and unkempt for years - and into the cottage that was to be ours for the night.
What felt like half an hour passed as he told us about his sons, and his painting from his youth, as well as the fact that his wife well and truly wears the pants in what must surely be a very strange and twisted relationship. When he finally left, we quite obviously started talking about him and repeating much of the ludocris and quite frankly ridiculous things he said, only for him to burst back in the door again, oblivious to all that was being said. The reason for his blissful ignorance became apparent as he came into range. In the 20 seconds that he had disappeared, one could only assume he swamped a full bottle of hard liquor that was stored in a bush outside the back door. That was the only reasonable explanation I could arrive at, my eyes streaming from the fumes.
Another half hour elapsed as he showed us around the maps that he had in the house and left, only to return once more to tell us he had left towels for us. That was the last we were to see of him. Some of the photos of the place make it look infinitely more beautiful that it is, but looking past the fact that it was so ridiculously overgrown and the fact that it’s owner was a drunk, I really liked the place. The rest of the weekend passed off without incident. We spent a large chunk of Sunday at what Christina persisted with referring to as Macaroni (Marconi) beach. We went home, Chez Sven and its alcoholic owner being the highlight of the trip, all made possible by a silly and extremely simple mistake. Who says they're such a bad thing?