It's eight o'clock at Manchester Airport when the bleary-eyed team members start to arrive, some still in their fluffy slippers, tattered bath robes and hair nets. Old Bill found it difficult to stay awake and laid down on a stationary conveyor to catch extra Z's.

The check-in refused to accept Neville's bag and sent him off to Security for a shake down. There was some difficulty explaining why he had a 2-metre high Liver Bird, a radio controlled little Morris Dancer, a knobbly ball with an electronic motor, a speckled rugby ball, and other traditional tools of the professional morris man.

The plane was unbelievably small, which made it a very difficult trip due to Peter having had a particularly unusual curry the night before. Only once we had boarded, we realised that we had left Bill behind. Despite numerous tannoys, we had to leave him behind. As we prepared to take off, Richard, the Foreman, announced that he was terrified of flying. The team showed great sensitivity to his predicament, and convinced him that we could not fall from the sky, as we'd probably burst into a ball of flame before reaching the end of the runway. Richard was bent over in the crash position, for most of the trip, with his head between the Squire's legs.

None of us had been to Denmark before, and we were all suprised that the trip was so short and that the airport was called Birmingham International Airport. It was then pointed out that we were refuelling (it only needed half a bottle of lighter fuel). Just time for a quick Constant Billy, Headington. H couldn't find any sticks so used two ping-pong bats that he had found - one red and one green. The dance was cut short by a Jumbo Jet taxiing through their new International Departures terminal. As we returned to the plane, we found the Captain getting two technicians to investigate a knocking noise he had heard in the cargo hold. They opened the cargo door and out stepped a bleary-eyed Bill. "Are we checking in now?" he croaked.

Fortunately, as we had the young pubescent David with us, we entertained ourselves through the trip playing zit tennis.

Customs at Billund Airport had equal difficulty with Neville's kit. In spite of their excellent English, it was impossible to satisfy them until Neville dressed up as the Liver Bird, the Little Man did a radio-controlled version of trunkles, and the knobbly ball strutted its funky stuff.

The Silkeborg representative, Gunner, met us with a coach and a bottle of Carlesberg beer each. This was the first instance of the unbeatable hospitality of the host team.

We were dropped off at the school gymnasium, which was to be our dormitory for the next three nights. As the first team to arrive, we quickly took possession of the climbing mats, to sleep on. We were then led through the leafy tidy streets to the mustering point at Lunden, overlooking the beautiful inlet of Kalgards Vig. Glossy information packs were issued for the visit.

The other teams invited were :

SILURIAN??!! You've gotta be kidding. Not again! Lightning can strike in the same place twice, but surely it is statistically impossible to be put on a tour with Silurian more than once in a lifetime. My therapist was just becoming confident in my recovery from Thaxted five years ago, where we had to sleep in the car park and the rain rather than endure sharing accomodation with Silurian. H's fur has only recently grown back.

As other teams arrived our hosts laid on a professional spread. Due to the GBP having as much value against the Danish Kroner as the Albanian Pesata, our hosts acquired some British Cains Bitter which we could purchase at reasonable prices.

It was with great joy, when we returned to the gym, that we learnt that Silurian were being housed elsewhere; Norway would be nice, but it turned out to be a building nearby.

The night passed as all other all-male Morris do's. What is a social faux pas in mixed company, is a social skill in the testosterone-packed all-male society. I speak, of course, about flatulence. Abilities in this area are appreciated only second to penis size. The mantra repeated through the night was :

It was a hot and sweaty night. Morris men arrived louder and drunker through the early hours. The final notable arrival was the guy in the spot next to me who arrived at three thirty a.m. repeatedly shouting "There's a fucking echo in here!". The remaining few hours passed reasonably quietly with only the occasional retching from the naked guy on all fours, who spent the whole night with his head down the pan.

I understand that tomorrow, i't's going to be even more fun than this.

Introduction