It was a small party of fifty-year-old blokes who had just about squeezed their gout into their loafers that ventured into the Wroclaw night life. In homage to the missing potato, and much to Professor’s chagrin, we convened at The Irish Bar to sup the most expensive pints in town. It was here that Skip informed us that there was good news and bad news regarding the cricket. My thoughts immediately turned to the Serbia tour, knee-high grass, 45 minutes of sleep and coach journey across borders. However, any concerns were soon calmed by a plethora of cheap drinks at the only ‘rock’ bar in town. To Professor’s frustration, a round cost less than a single Guinness at the Irish bar, although by closing time nobody cared how much the drinks cost. Thursday or not, we had eased ourselves into the tour.