#245: “24”

“You must go here immediately. It’s a police station.”

Nicoleta handed me her iPhone. GoogleMaps was open with two locations pinned.

“Fill out a lost property form. This might take them some time to process so don’t wait, go here. It’s a place to get passport photos. These will also take some time so go back to the police station. They will give you a letter. Then go back to the photo place. Hopefully, your pictures will be ready and then run back here.”
“Run?”
“Yes, run.”

I took out my phone and opened GoogleMaps, copying the location of her pins.

“Just take my phone. Also, here is the money for the photos.”

She handed me 200 lei (about €8).

“It’s okay. I have money. And no way I’m taking your phone. But thank you.” (I’m gob-smacked to this day that she was really going to give me her phone.)

I opened my case and put on a pair of black socks and black shoes – a pretty awful fashion choice to go with my beige cargo shorts but better than my only alternative which was running in sandals.

“Is it okay if I leave my suitcase here?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, and where’s your bathroom?”
“The door behind you on the right. But hurry. If you get back before 3, then we can catch the last mail. That means one less day for the letter you need to get here.”

It was 1.50 and my day was turning into back-to-back episodes of ’24’, except unlike Jack Bauer, I was going to have to take a piss.

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The thing that I’m most looking forward to about the upcoming Unibet Bucharest is the fact that I will be doing some commentary. The last proper gig I did was last year’s Irish Open, a sweet job which afforded me the opportunity to work alongside such luminaries as Emmet Kennedy, Laura Cornelius, Fergal Nealon, Padraig Parkinson, Kara Scott and Mike Sexton. Despite it being genuinely hard work – way harder than playing – I really enjoyed that experience and got lots of positive feedback from people who enjoyed the coverage. Since then, I’ve had a few opportunities to commentate, most notably for GPL, but, unfortunately, each time it clashed with playing commitments.

The livestream will be up and running throughout the €500,000 Guarantee Main Event and will be helmed by the usual suspects David Vanderheyden and his sidekick Marc Convey. Besides myself, Dara O’Kearney and Ian Simpson will also be there to add colour, hand-analysis and plenty of banter. We might even be able to arm-twist November Niner Kenny Hallaert into joining us for the occasional insight as he takes over TD duties for the event.

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The following took place between 1.52pm and 2.38pm on May 24th 2016:

The police station was a thirteen minute run from the embassy. Short of breath, I went up to the desk and explained my situation. The police man said that they would have to call down for an interpreter so I took a seat in the waiting area. The young guy sitting opposite me made eye contact. I nodded politely. He told me that his English was good and he would translate if I wanted. I thanked him and we went back up to the desk. I asked if that would be okay and the policeman shrugged and handed me the form.

The young guy had undersold himself. His English was perfect and together, we flew through the form. I handed it to the policeman and he told me to take a seat again. I asked him if it was okay if I got my photos and came back. Another shrug. I shook the young guy’s hand, wished him well and legged it out in the direction of the photo place.

It was only a 5 minute run to where my GoogleMap told me to go but on arrival, there was no photo place. Panicked, I looked up and down the street before eventually asking people if they knew it. The third person I asked told me it was underground in the train station. It was 2.21. I ran to the entrance and down the escalator. Sure enough it was there – a tiny stall next to the turnstiles.

Luckily there was no queue so I was served immediately. The man ordered me to stand at the white wall and he came out from behind the counter with a camera.

“Do you want to smile?”
“Nah, I’m good thanks.”

I was visibly panting as he took the photo.

“How long will it take?”
“Five, maybe ten minutes.”
“I’ll be back in ten.”

I left the money on the counter, ran out and back up the escalator. As I reached the top, the Heavens opened. And I mean opened. Raindrops the size of golf-balls pelted me but there was no time to take cover. I sprinted to the police station, where thankfully, they had my letter ready. It was 2.32.

The run back to the photo place was like an assault course. Huge puddles had formed at every intersection and I had to zig-zag the footpaths to avoid losing my eye to a pedestrian’s umbrella. People were huddled together, taking shelter at the entrance to the underground. I barged my way through them as politely as I could and raced down the escalator.

My photos were almost ready. Breathless, I took my phone from my sodden short’s pocket and wiped the screen which was fogged with condensation. It was 2.38. GoogleMaps called it a 21 minute walk back the embassy but to give Nicoleta a chance to get to a post-box by 3pm, I would probably need to do it in half that. The man gave me the photos in an envelope and seeing the soaked state I was in, handed me a bag. My letter from the police was already wet but at least it wouldn’t get wetter. The race was on.

I scampered up the escalator, elbowed my way through those still taking refuge from the storm. Fork-lightning lit up the sky, thunder boomed portentously and I thought to myself:

“I’m David Lappin the Gobshite and already this feels like the longest day of my life”.

To Be Continued…