Max had never been on a bus before so when, later that year, we went to Cambridge, we hired a car. Max had never been in a car either, but he taught me how to drive. After three lessons I was reversing like a maniac. After four I could play Little Brown Jug with both hands.
We parked our little brown bug inside the river and made our way towards the city centre. We decided to visit the university. It was like Ronnie Scott's all over again. They let us in, but we didn't succeed academically and got thrown out, which was a sore blow.
Later that same evening we went to a university bar and joined in a debate. It was Max who suggested the motion: since the 'choc' bit of 'chocolate' connotes in the addressee's mind an essential browness, wouldn't it be better to call white chocolate 'whocolate'? We both received blows to the backs of our heads and got thrown out, so it wasn't a success.
Bitter, Max got drunk in another bar. Lager, I joined him. Gin, we stayed there till it grew dark outside. Whisky, we were soon under the table. Tango, we tried to sober up and recover our thoughts. Bravo, we managed it.
In the fresh night air we decided we'd had enough of Cambridge and should probably be getting back, but Max couldn't resist going into a couple of newsagents on the way and asking for whocolate. This didn't go down at all well and soon we were belting down the motorway with thirty police cars on our tail. Max referred to them as 'smokies' so I tried to drown him out with Glen Miller. In a final, desparate attempt to escape, Max flung himself through the rear window right into the path of thhe oncoming smokies.
Max was on his way to Hollywood.