Why do they call it Vin when it's called Van?

In September I returned to Luxembourg to take up an invitation from that cute little country to compete once again in the Route Du Vin. I'm still puzzled as to why it's called Vin when everybody calls it Van but I suppose it's just one of those 'small country idiosyncrasies'.

The only problem, of course, was that your man here wasn't in the best of shapes in September - and the Luxembourg chappies were expecting a seasoned celebrity athlete. So I declined the offer of an elite place in the race and decided just to pop down and do a demo of my anal crunch/pelvic thrust 5 minute warm-up.

(Above: Luxembourg can be pleasant)
I have to say that the weekend didn't get off to the best of starts. I travelled over there with those nice chaps at Nice Work who had assembled a gin-fuelled bunch of has-beens to help foster Anglo-Luxembourg relations. The problem was that we'd no sooner set off than they hit the duty frees - and to cut a long story short we bowled up in Luxembourg slightly the worse for wear.

So, it was in a state of some intoxication that my weekend began to wobble swiftly downhill - because I then decided that, despite having not run a yard for two months - I would take part in the race the following day.

I decided to nip down to the race HQ and have a natter with the organisers to secure an entry - and I have to say the pretty young thing that had been designated to look after elite athletes was most agreeable. However this promising situation quickly turned pear-shaped when she told me that I couldn't enter the race there and then but would have to do so the following day. I think it was a problem in the translation that caused her to call the Police - all I was trying to enquire was would she help me enter on the day and ... well I knew what I meant!

After being released with the usual warning about my future behaviour, I decided to get some kip and prepare for the race the following day. The race itself is fairly flat and follows the Moselle for 6 and a half miles before turning round and running back. Well - did I struggle?

(The Start - can you spot your man?)
If I'm honest, the only reason I took up this running lark was to hear the sound of heavy breathing again - and let me tell you, this kiddie was breathing big-time. I suffered. It was hot. The damned Kenyans were too fast - and, to cut a long story short, I ended up on the last page of the results finishing in 2.23.51 - my slowest half marathon by a country mile.

To say that I was disappointed at my performance would be putting it mildly. And so, straight after the race I decided to drown my sorrows in the bars and dens of iniquity across the river in Germany.

(Above - my mate Ernie came along for the ride)
I came across what seemed to be a sensible place to drink and settled at the bar to nurse my sore legs and enjoy a drop of God's finest Leffe when this German chap walked past me and only grabbed one of the cheeks of my rear end.

I was gob-smacked. And I was just about to remonstrate with the bloke when another guy walked past and patted my bum! What the hell was going on??? I tried to catch the barman's eye and as he was walking towards me, another of these pesky foreigners had a poke at my behind. I explained to the barman that three people had now grabbed my backside - what kind of place was I in? Was it some kind of gay bar?

"Nein" the German replied "It eez a Tapas Bar"

Keep on tapering.

Ron