In view of the silence on the part of the others involved, I have taken it upon myself to provide a brief description of Tring's annual pilgrimage to the Sheffield Triples show. We fielded a somewhat reduced contingent this year with only seven of us, Richard, Ken and myself manning the Behind the Lines stand, Henry, Russall and Ian Ransome traveling up from Tring, and Adrian making the epic 10-hour drive down from the wilds of the Arctic Circle, or wherever it is the RAF have sent him.

The party arrived at varying times on Friday and, after booking in, went in two groups to our usual establishment for substantial sustenance, i.e. Fat Jacks. Although under new management, the standard and quantity of the fare remained as previous visits. The new lady owner was most taken with Adrian, offering him lodging in a cupboard in the basement for the duration of his stay. On seeing his service id card, the lady went into further raptures over her "little soldier boy". We returned to the hotel, with a somewhat worried Adrian in tow, to take over part of the bar and play silly games until bedtime.

In the morning, filling up at the self-service breakfast (Ian seemed strangely delicate over breakfast) then on to the show itself. It was busy, with lots of traders as usual, including several that we do not see in the South. It seemed to me to be a little disappointing in the amount of things visitors to do, I felt there were fewer participation games this year. We were certainly kept busy on Saturday on the Behind the Lines Erin game. For possibly the first time ever I did not buy a single thing at the show for myself. Ian seemed to accumulate several carrier bags of goodies, but even he did not seem to descend into his usual buying frenzy.

Saturday night and back to Fat Jacks, our numbers swelled by Jez from Old Crow and Richard's brother-in-law Jason. Once again we were assured of excellent attention as we still had the "little soldier boy" with us. As usual, Ian managed to consume a starter, half-pounder burger and a desert (if you have seem the size or the portions at Fat Jacks you will know just what a feat this is!). Back to the hotel, this time to frighten guests out of the bar as we set up a game of Zombies, swiftly copied by another group of gamers staying at the hotel, who also indulged themselves in some undead butt-kicking (and friendly back stabbing).

Sunday, back to the show. Adrian left early, followed shortly after lunch by the Tring carload. We workers on the Behind the Lines stand remained until the end of the show. Rather than subject ourselves to motorway services food, the three of us made a final visit to Fat Jacks before journeying home. We were make welcome by the lady hostess, but as we did not have the "little soldier boy" with us it just was not the same.

Next year I am sure an intrepid band will once again venture into the frozen north, that mysterious wasteland where funny accents grow, to take part in that time-honoured tradition that is the Tring Club visit to the Triples. If you can find the time/money/excuses-to-your wife in order to join us then I recommend that you do so!

Be there or be ??????.

Graham