Three men and a Perodua. And a baby.

With a car sorted a good seven months before the off, everything is tickety-boo in the TKOEB camp. The festive season is in full flow and everyone is gathering for our traditional Boxing Day football clash with our local rivals. Which with the venue being their ground a couple of miles from our own, gives us the excuse for a big old pub crawl on our way down to the game. A pub at top of the high street is our start point and we sup a couple of pints whilst waiting for the rest of the gang to arrive so the crawl to begin.

However as we’re not accustomed to such feats of preperation & organisation, someone somewhere finds ‘the works’ and introduces a spanner.  With most of the usual faces present, Paul & his good lady Kelly call for the attention of the assembled group and proceed to present everyone with the wonderful news that they are expecting a baby.

Awwww. How sweet! What wonderful news! Oh, hang on. When is this joyous arrival actually due to…er…arrive?

Chalmers provides a means to answer that question almost on cue “Kelly is 6 weeks gone” he informs one of the cooing girlies present.

6 weeks? So that’s a mid-November conception? Soooo, add 9 months and that gives us……oh bollocks. The end of August. And whilst one part of my brain does the smiling sweetly and saying of congratulations bit, the other part of my brain handling Rally stuff is a little more unsure at the news. With a glance across the table I can see the mathematical cogs spinning down behind Gareth’s eyes. He’s done the sums too.

His look no doubt mirrors my own slightly selfish one. “The fucking twat!”.

A visit to the bog soon after finds me next to one of the lads, Greek, at the urinals. “Pleased for ‘em?” he asks.

“Yeah, course I am.”

“What? Even though it’s due right in the middle of that trip you’re planning? Yeah right!”

“It’s not due in the middle. It’s at the end!” I protest. Feebly.

“Middle, end, whatever mate. You know he won’t be able to go now?”

Greek is wrong. At least in the respect that I’m not happy for my friends at their good news. I am. However, he does perhaps have a slight point about the ‘not going’ bit. This isn’t good.

We need a team meeting and quick.

“We need a team meeting! And fucking quick!” hisses Gareth as we stagger out of the fourth pub on the crawl. I’d be lying if the baby revelation had been completely forgotten in the blur of public houses and swiftly taken drinks since, but talking about re-organising the trip right now whilst getting pissed in the lead up to our version of the ‘Old Firm’ derby isn’t really on the cards either. Too much beer and football to worry about that right now.

“Yeah, I know mate. Let’s just get today out of the way first and do it when we’re a bit more sober eh?”

Once the booze intake reaches a certain stage and the game is underway, it certainly is pushed from our minds. In the end, the celebrations after a 2-0 win means it remains that way for at least the rest of the day. A spate of bad weather means it’s the last game for a couple of weeks and with an couple of empty Saturdays, we soon get the opportunity to quiz our team mate and father-to-be. Gareth cuts to the chase.

“So it’s definitely due end of August then?”

“Looks that way mate. Although there’s some scan after a few weeks when they confirm that for you”.

“Even so” I chip in “It’s not going to move by much is it? A week at most either way surely?”

Despite the inquisition, Chalmers remains steadfast. He’s apparently already talked it out with Kelly at length and she’s still cool with him going to Mongolia in a poxy little car.

“So with your first kid due, your missus is perfectly happy for you to be several thousand miles away at the time?”

“If you’d had 2 or 3 already and been married 20 years, I could understand it. But first one? Are you sure?”

However, without that confirmed, scientifically calculated due date from the doctors, all this is pretty irrelevant. There’s sod all Gareth & I can do to affect the outcome so we decide to just push on with our preparations and come back to it once we know more.

Still, it’s a worry. And adding to the issue are other friends who seem to think it’s our responsibility to tell him he’s off the trip or at least to put pressure on him. Of these, Greek is the most vocal.

“So he’s still going he says?” chokes the fat bloke over his pint “Is he fuck!”

“Look mate, it’s their choice! PC says they’ve talked it out and Kelly is still cool about it”. Despite my conviction, I know this isn’t going to wash.

“You’ve got to tell him. It’s his first kid. He can’t be pissing about in the middle of fucking nowhere while his missus is about to drop”

Gareth tries to help, but it’s a losing battle. “Greek, I can’t tell a mate to fuck off the trip of a lifetime. He’ll never forgive us for missing out!”

“Fair enough” Greek concedes “but you think Kelly isn’t going to fucking kill him if he’s 3 days from home when the time comes?”

We can’t win. And even we can't deny Greek does have a mildly valid point.

“You think Kelly would forgive us too? You know, if the kid was born and Chalmers is in the middle of Mongolia.” I ask Gareth during a brief moment of respite provided by it being the Greek bloke’s round.

“Oh yeah, of course!” he chimes. “Somewhere around the kids 18th birthday I’d guess” before downing the last of his beer as a means to bring the discussion to a close.

I neck the rest of my own and await Greek returning with refills. If nothing else, it would seem we’ve certainly picked the right name for this outfit.