Stuttgart

Some days have bad associations for all sorts of reasons.Some days have bad events linked to them, some days are sad, some days are redolent with disappointments. One of my "dias dolents" happens to be the 5th September.

This day in 1987 I was travelling to Stuttgart on business with a party of fellow Mercedes Benz dealers to accompany a group of clients on a factory visit. Our party was to assemble at the Radisson Hotel at Manchester Airport for an informal dinner before flying out in the morning.

I shall describe just two of my travelling companions, Jock was a large man, a haulage contractor, who had a fearsome thirst for Johnny Walker Black Label, had done his national service in Germany and fancied himself as an expert on the culture of the land and was eager to renew his aquaintances with the flower of German maidenhood. Seated alongside him was a short unassuming man called Jimmy, fae Forfar, who ran a laundry, and confided to me that he had never flown, had never left Scotland (or indeed Angus, I suspect) and as a kirk elder didn't really drink, just the odd half pint at weddings. This was to be his undoing, as he polished off the champagne at the pre dinner reception, red wine at dinner, and topped it off with brandy, his whole personality blossomed and he lead the company in a spirited rendition of the Ball of Kirriemuir, before attempting to get to his room on the 5th floor by way of the telephone kiosk in the foyer which he had mistaken for the lift.

We were on a charter flight out of Manchester, supposed to leave at 8.30 am. In typical Germanic efficient fashion a bus was to pick us up at the door of the hotel at 6.15. At breakfast, Jimmy was looking decidedly green, but manfully attacked the bacon and eggs, there was no sign of Jock. I went to his room to find him asleep fully clothed on the bathroom floor. He was not in a good humour when I told him that he had to be on the bus in five minutes flat, and even worse when I told him that they would not open the bar for him.

We arrived at the airport and found our flight was delayed indefinitely by fog.

It seemed (at the time) appropriate to repair to the bar for refreshment, to wash away the taste of the excesses of the night before, when the dinner had run on into the early hours and a lack of sleep combined with a fearful hangover needed not just a hair but a whole pelt of the dog. Relief came in the form of the perfect Bloody Mary, prepared by a barman who had learned the secret of combining vodka, worcester sauce and celery salt in a heavenly manner, which banished the blues and blotted out any vestiges of head ache. Jock renewed his love affair with JW Black and Jimmy tried a Fernat Branca which added several new shades to his complexion.

After a while, measured on the Bloody Mary timescale as seven, our flight was called, without a care in the world I set off manfully down the air bridge to the plane to discover Jimmy holding onto the concertina folds near the entrance to the plane and experiencing that particular pleasure of what goes down must come up. Jock, calmer by half a bottle of Johnny Walker and I took our seats and eventually Jimmy slumped into his designated spot across the aisle.

By the time we took off he had used all the waxed bags in his row and the row behind, he was looking well wabbitt and I think that we all joined in the relief of the crew when he fell asleep shortly after we reached cruising altitude.

On arrival in Stuttgart, I was feeling a little light headed, Jock was thirsty and Jimmy was ill again. I remember saying to myself, remember the honour of the Scot, squaring my shoulders and marching stiffly but unwaveringly through passport control, through customs, through arrivals to the coach that was waiting to whisk us into the heart of Stuttgart for a lunch at a very typical roast pork and pigs feet restaurant in a lovely park with tight mown grass and an ornamental lake.

I sat on the coach wondering where the rest of the party had got to when they staggered from the terminal bearing bags and suitcases, and we sped off towards the metropolis. It must have been only after twenty kilometres or so that I began to wonder where they had picked up all the luggage ,and realised that mine was still back at the airport, no doubt perambulating endlessly round on the carousel. It is always wise to visit baggage reclaim before boarding the bus.

When we arrived at the restaurant, Jimmy was in no fit state to eat and expressed a desire to spend his final hours on earth prone on the back seat of the bus. Our German driver, a veteran of customer visits, indicated with much tact and diplomacy that Jimmy was not welcome to doss down on the coach. So in that spirit of compromise which appears through necessity we decided that Jimmy would benefit from fresh air and draped him over a convenient bench close to and round the corner from the restaurant.

German lunches are substantial, German hospitality is open and generous, German beer is just the thing after a morning of Bloody Marys, so we didn't rush.

At about fiveish, when the coach returned to take us to our hotel, we were reminded by Jock that Jimmy was not with the party. We went to find him, he had rolled off the bench and was sleeping peacefully on the gravel path, as we rounded the corner a dog finished cocking its leg against the bench and Jimmy, and trotted off.

The thought passed through my mind that maybe this was not the best way to treat a valued client, but he didn't complain as we loaded him into the coach.

At the welcoming dinner that night, before we set out for the clubs of downtown Stuttgart,(another story for another day) we were each presented with this fine example of a German Bier Stein, Jock offered to fill Jimmys with a bottle of whatever beverage he fancied, Jimmy responded with language which I wager never before or since has passed the lips of a laundry owner and Elder of the Kirk of the town of Forfar in Angus. I love my stein, it brings back happy memories (and headaches).