The Undisputed $10 Chuck Champion of New York

This is yet another chapter in a disturbing trend of general booziness stories.
For those of you concerned as a result - I can assure that my socialising is hardly a nightly occurence. Usually it's only every second night. Ha ha ha. No - of course I'm being sensible and in no way do I condone hard core boozing - on a school night.

You may recall that some time ago former PP IT guru Shamus Gibb had located a little bar on 53rd St called the Black Finn Inn. On Thursday night's between 6pm and 7pm they offer an open bar for $10. After our initial visit there, the night (now affectionately referred to as the "10 buck chuck") has gained notoriety amongst both the secondees and the wider Eisner community. Thursday's are often filled with proud reminiscing of past achievements and grandiose predictions for the night pending. But as is the case in so many other walks of life, many talk the talk but few walk the walk. And some just keep walking.

Thursday 9th March 2006 was no different to any other Thursday that had preceded it. With the girls heading out for a nice dinner, the boys had only one objective in mind - The Black Finn Happy Hour. The talk was there but so were the excuses - some valid, some feeble. As usual, the Ginger Ninja was talking up his much lauded but often maligned game. Rob Williams was keen but needed to finish off a truckload of work. The Highlander had washing to do and people to see. Duncan McOckinher was watching Adam do his washing. And The Dude was lost trying to navigate his way back from Jersey.

So the 3 remaining committed units, Christiaan Crous, PDV and Bule, ventured the 6 blocks down Third Ave towards the feted venue at the now customary time of 6.15pm. Many believe that a full hour is too dangerous and that 45 minutes provides a true test of any man's worth. Tonight this hypothesis would be pushed to it's limits.

Ordering the first round I again implemented that stroke of genius discovered on our first visit. I tipped the barman $10. This ensured minimal wait between drinks and substantial measures of bourbon in the mix. New York spirits are strong anyway but a happy barman will often oblige with a 50/50 ratio (spirit to soda). It wasn't long until PDV was being loud (well louder than usual) and targets were being set. Dangerously the group delegated this responsibilty to resident alcoholic Christiaan Crous. A 13 bourbon per hour 'speed limit' was enforced with zero tolerance. Time passed quickly and the barmen called time as the 10th and last bourbon was poured.

By now the others had made their way to the Black Finn to join the fun. They had got there just in time to see Heath's cousin make yet another appearance and for Christiaan to start taking photos of himself yet again. We left the Black Finn and pushed on to a little bar with a dancefloor around the corner and proceeded to rock the New York club scence with (from what I remember) some fully sick moves.

Understandably, Friday was pretty low key. Many of us had however organised another trip up into Vermont for some skiing at the aptly named Mount Snow. After work, 11 of us piled into one family mover and one sedan and attempted to navigate our way successfully through the Manhattan gridlock towards the slopes. Attempt is probably the best description as the van carrying me, the Ginger Ninja, Christiaan, PDV, Amy and Leana took several unplanned detours (including ring-a-ring-a-rosey in the Bronx and a 44 mile 'error' entering Vermont) on a 6 hour journey that only took the sedan just under 4. Let's just say there was a lot of finger pointing going on.

Funnily enough Mount Snow just didn't seem to have a lot of it's namesake. Maybe we had been spoilt at Killington but nonetheless I went about tearing up the mountain with what often bordered on wreckless abandon. The conditions were not far remove from what we get at home and I had requested 177cm skis for maximum speed to get the party started. 'Tutoring' Christiaan for the morning I took the 3rd day skiier down a 'black' run before lunch - that was most satisfying and he was pretty pumped.

Wanting to spice things up a bit, the snowboarding Dude and I decided a visit to the terrain park was just what the doctor ordered (oh and more cowbell). But before that we needed to relieve ourselves in the trees half way down a run. After writing our names in the snow, the Dude returned to where he left his board. Unbeknownst to me the board had taken off down the mountain at great speed. Once I had finish writing "bulebulebule" in the snow I turned to find no Dude and no one else. I skied to the terrain park as planned but the Dude was nowhere to be found.

In some ways this was a blessing in disguise, as I took the opportunity to have a real crack at some of the jumps without the risk of related witnesses. The first two jumps I landed sweetly. I then skied up the quarter pipe and put in a nice turn on its top edge. Full of confidence I attacked the last (well what I thought was the last) jump with vigour. Landing the jump I looked up to see a little hump followed by another bigger jump. With too much speed and not enough time to turn I got air over the bump and suddenly found myself on the big kicker. In Matrix-like slow motion I hovered above the snow for what seemed like an eternity. I could hear the queuing jumpers whoas and oohs as I attempted to stick the landing. What happened next I couldn't tell you but one ski went flying and I somehow ended up on my back seeing stars. Thankfully the adrenalin racing through my veins inspired me to spring back up, grab my ski and head to the lift - just like it was another day in the office. My hip didn't agree with this initial assessment for the next week or so though.

After a great day skiing we headed for a few quiet beers at the Lodge at the base of the mountain. Yet again I was exposed to the loud American yokel as the raucous crowd jived away to country and western hits interspersed with Nelly and Jay-Z. Surreal. We finally summonsed the energy to make it back to the picturesque Snow Lake Lodge but the hi-jinx continued over a few Bud Lights in our room. Finally we headed out to the Snow Bar across the lake where I was introduced to one of the great American pasttimes - try to catch the ring on a ring to the hook on the wall - a very poor relation to two-up.

Deciding that skiing was way more fun than this, we headed to bed with the intention of rising early in time for the first lift. With a little struggle, I made it onto the beautifully groomed slopes at 8am. Another good morning of skiing until the rain arrived just after midday. We retired inside for lunch until The Dude suggested one more run from the summit down. Christiaan and Jannie joined us for the ill-fated lift ride on the Summit Express. As the rain stung our faces and the blistering wind caused sent out core body temperatures into a spiral, the lift ground to a halt just over half way up the mountain. Ten minutes later and we were still yet to move an inch.

Finally we alighted at the now whited-out summit where visibility could not be further than a few feet. Beginners Christiaan and Jannie glanced at the Dude and I with a hint of distress. With only a few hiccups we successfully arrived back at the lodge to discover that the power had gone out on the whole mountain. There was a fire in a transfer station somewhere - didn't get the full story - but that was our key to head back home. Sunday night seemed so far away from the Thursday passed but so eeriely close to the Thursday coming. Such is life on secondment.