Highly amusing Andy - turning 50 quid into 1200 and then back to nowt again and celebrating with mushrooms, sounds like it was an eventful evening.
Le Mans is responsible for more of my dead brain cells than any of the other over-indulgences that I participate in.
I had to be dragged, semi-concious to the start of the '83 race, after 'having a bad pint' at the Stella Bar, near the front gate. I was in "just leave me here to die" mode, lying in a puddle of my own puke and piss, but was rescued and ressucitated by the very same Ricardo, who introduced me and most of our 20+ party to the delights of La Sarthe.
In '87 we stopped at Rouen for a few and I ended up totally ring-bolted and very nearly fell off the balcony of my hotel room, into a courtyard full of bemused guests, enjoying petit dejeuner. My rendition of Figaro was not really appreciated by the guests or the management.
In '92 we got into a very scary punch-up with a group of French truck drivers on the car deck of the Portsmouth Le Harve ferry. Our motorhome was then pursued through Northern France, until we killed the lights and gave them the slip. My brother Dave was driving, as he seemed slightly less arseholed than the rest of us. He somehow steered us into a layby that must have been the meeting place of all the local gays. First sign of trouble was when one of our lot went out to piss in the woods and came back and stated very matter of factly, that there were "two blokes out there running around with no strides on". Next giveaway was the endless succession of cars full of lisping fags, that kept pulling up next to our camper and knocking on the door - quite unnerving, even when you're hammered.
In the rains of '92 we had the 'Garage Vert Superbowl' - the less said of which, the better. How we didn't all get our heads kicked in that evening, is still a mystery to me. To all of the people who's barby's, tents and one small caravan (!) got knocked over, I'm sorry - and to the people who emptied their chemical toilet all over our site - we deserved it.
In '93 we parked-up in Chapelle next to a load of German lads from Wirmelkirschen, who we'd known for a couple of years. Collectively we drank all of their Warstarter and Dab and peach schnapps in one session. One of my obliterated friends then knocked over their sound system, tearing down their lights and flags and knocking over a long table with their dinner on it. For reasons I can't fathom, the Anglo/German camraderie kind of fizzled out after that.
Our Sunday lunchtime 'Champagne Frenzy' of the past few years, makes me shudder, as I sit here in the cold light of day.
I think my most shameful drunken Le Mans episode happened after the race in '96. We got the overnight ferry from Cherbourg to Pompey and rather than wind-down and take it easy, we got banjaxed on Nigerian Lager instead. We dumped the Motorhome in Bristol (can't remember who drove, but they shouldn't have) and picked up a car I'd borrowed from a work colleague, from my sisters house in Swindon. For reasons I can't really explain, I reversed out of her driveway, having 'forgotten' to shut the drivers door. The door snagged a tree and became detached from the car. We had to affix it with a tow rope tied around the car and done-up in a neat bow on the roof, before driving back up to Yorkshire. Very bad form indeed and nothing to be proud of.
Yes - drink does have quite a lot to answer for - but it's good fun, innit!
