The Diceman Does the Orient Express: Caviar, Chaos & Continental Carnage
It began, as it always does, with a roll of the dice.
1–3, I book a budget flight on EasyJet, end up wedged between a stag do and a screaming baby.
4–6, I go full Gatsby — the Orient Express. Suits, cigars, and the kind of old-school luxury that makes you feel like you should apologise just for existing.
The dice came up six. So naturally, I packed my tux (badly), pocketed my dice, and prepared to roll through Europe like a degenerate James Bond.
Day 1: London to Paris – Champagne, Snobs & a Dice Roll Too Far
I board the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express at London Victoria, trying not to look like I bought my tux off ASOS. The train is absurd — polished wood, art deco lamps, waiters who look like they could assassinate you with a silver spoon.
First roll of the trip:
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1–3 = behave. Order champagne, nod politely, enjoy the scenery.
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4–6 = cause chaos. Order absinthe, chat up strangers, roll the dice in the dining car.
Six. Obviously.
Two hours in, I’m arm-wrestling a Belgian banker, convincing a French couple I’m a professional backgammon player, and draining champagne like it’s Carlsberg. The train glides through France. I stumble to bed somewhere near Calais, the dice whispering that Paris is about to ruin me.
Day 2: Paris Stopover – Baguettes & Bad Behaviour
The train halts in Paris. The dice demand action:
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Odds = sightsee like a cultured gent. Louvre, croissant, beret.
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Evens = Montmartre dive bars until dawn.
Even. Thank you, dice gods.
By midnight, I’m singing Edith Piaf badly in a karaoke bar with a group of Parisians who keep calling me “Frog James Bond.” By 3 a.m., I’m eating a jambon-beurre sandwich on the steps of Sacré-Cœur, covered in red wine and regret. At 7, I sprint back to the train, still holding a half-bottle of Bordeaux. The conductor looks unimpressed.
Day 3: Through Switzerland – Mountains, Mystery & Too Much Cheese
The train winds into Switzerland, and the Alps slap me in the face with beauty. Snow peaks, green valleys, cows that look smug.
I roll the dice at breakfast:
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1–3 = respectable coffee and pastry.
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4–6 = fondue at 9 a.m. and white wine chasers.
Six. Of course.
I’m dunking bread into molten cheese before the Matterhorn even shows up, the carriage stinking of dairy and bad decisions. Later, a Swiss woman insists I try her homemade schnapps. I lose the next four hours in a haze of alpine chaos.
Day 4: Venice Arrival – Masks, Madness & the Final Roll
The grand finale: Venice. The train glides into Santa Lucia station like a film scene, and I step off looking like a man who hasn’t slept since Calais.
The dice roll one last time:
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1–3 = take a gondola ride, admire the canals, behave.
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4–6 = full Venetian debauchery: masquerade parties, cocktails, and questionable decisions.
Six. Always six.
By midnight, I’m in a Venetian palazzo wearing a borrowed mask, drinking Negronis with strangers, and trying to explain why I have dice tattooed on my ankle. Someone plays piano. Someone else pours champagne into a fountain. I think I propose marriage to a contessa.
Reflections from the Rails
The Orient Express isn’t just a train. It’s a time machine — into a world of tuxedos, tiramisu, and utter temptation. The dice dragged me through every carriage, from champagne-fuelled poker games to fondue-fuelled mistakes, and left me staggering into Venice like a knight who lost his armour but kept his grin.
Would I do it again? Roll the dice. You already know the answer.
— The Diceman