I want my life back

Not the eating ones. Dreadful things with the colour, moistness and visual similarity to the output of a large dog.  And one that is clearly quite ill. When my - strangely - delayed email confirms World Dictatorship status, the hateful things shall be banished along with related horridness including prunes, mushrooms and couscous.

To be replaced by something healthier and less squidgy- I am currently ruminating over whether that should be cheese or sausage. Have I allocated the key cabinet position for “head of sausages and frankfurters”?. No? So much to do, so little time to count the bribes*

Back to the JuliAL** calender where a date of 18th July has been carelessly cast into the legal cesspit of our house purchase. I have cut through the tedium of letter writing, deed forming, contract negotiating and endless epochs of nothing much happening, by explaining I shall shoot the next person that tells me this is not possible.

I care not who it is. They shall be ruthless dispatched by HarpCat*** and hung by the giblets as an example to others. I may even raise a merry bonfire in celebration and throw on passing members of the legal profession. Any lack of properly notorised paperwork would in no way stay us from at least pitching a tent in the garden. If we had one.

The second date is more within my control and less likely to involve difficult to explain fatalities****.  The overwhelming success of my bicycle consolidation has moved into a new phase. I cannot say too much in case those not following “the one true way of upcoming fiscal disaster” are secretly watching. But soon something shiny and curvy shall cross paths with a further two heading in the opposite direction.

QUICK, THEY’RE COMING. THE UNBELIEVERS. Er, It’ll be cost neutral. Of course it is well thought out. Honestly, the long term costs are going to be lower. No, no I’ve not taken a blow to the head. Do I want to? Er.

My mum is becoming increasingly concerned by the never ending sweariness of my words. So, playing the dutiful son for just a second, Oh F*** S*** I’m as good as dead.

* Works for all well documented brutal despots and the British Government.

** Already subtle changes denote the coming of the One True Leader

*** A new weapon fusing the velocity of a harpoon with the beserker claws of a battle cat.

**** “That bloke with a cat sticking out of his eye? No Idea, go try the Sealed Knot nutters, he was probably playing Harold and it all went pear shaped”

That will be a face plant - Latin name body-pummeler rock slasher - found in great numbers where soil conditions include abrasive rock, rubbish riding and a higher than normal incidence of Al.

Passing naturalists exclaimed “By Jove is that a greater bruised Alex, nestling perfectly between a sharp outcrop and muddy stream bed? Not often you see them with their legs still wiggling. Get the camera out”

And all this crashing about in the hard edged undergrowth after the first day had gone so well. Great swathes of the Peak District being mowed by the wavy lines of rumbling tyres, huge cakes disappearing at the speed of indigestion, and endless climbs bridging the distance between the two.

Even better, it was not even one of my own bikes getting a custom attrition paint job from high speed rock strikes. I didn’t have anything to ride you see*, SX lost in storage, Hummer akin to taking a toothpick to a gunfight, Canzo too pink to be allowed into Yorkshire. So I borrowed one, and it was lovely.

Except for the fork which had the structural integrity and lateral stiffness of a wilting lettuce. And the brakes which worked long enough to get me out of the shop. And the chain which fell off a lot. But hey it was a hard working demo which someone else had to clean and mend, once I’d sort of wrecked it.

Sort of would have been absolutely had the 15 seconds not quite falling off ended as it should. It’s the only time I’ve ever clipped both sides of a gate - held open by my wide mouthed riding buddies - as the plunging buckero of man and bike was hurled down the hillside by angry gravity.

Still four times over the bars the next day was a price almost worth paying for tweaking the nose of terror. If the terrain was any more technical, it would come with a four inch manual and a nine year old boy to explain how to make it work. The Andys** whooped along it with all the trouble of men attempting a single flight of stairs. The same trails dispatched me into a dark, sweaty place where bikes don’t clear rocks, corners cannot be turned and steep bits must be walked.

At one point - the point being where my head was yet again wedged into a painful rock sandwich - my sense of humour was declared missing in action. Presumed dead. The final descent cheered me up with it’s lack of near death experiences and bumpy swoopiness.

What cheered me up even more was finding my cash had gone the same way as my sense of humour and I was forced to sponge off two card carrying Yorkshiremen. Honestly you should their faces on receipt of a receipt of a loan request for one pound -  it was as if I’d asked for first go with the whippet.

Two last thoughts.

1) It’s summer right? At what point did gales and driving rain replace sunshine and wispy clouds?
2) I liked that new bike very much indeed. It may be the bike page is facing a radical overhaul.

* Not QUITE true. But close enough for it failing to be prosecuted for lack of evidence.

** Strange Northern Tribe. Can float over impossibly difficult trails while discussing the pro’s and con’s of whippet ownership.***

*** Pros: Any port in a storm. Not bad eating. Cons: Bit smelly, no fold back teeth.

Our cat* is a proper mentalist. For the first nine years of life, it was a cold, calculating, face scratching little bastard with a mind sharpened to the point of evaluating every decision on how it could end up with more food.  I knew it was a bit of a player on the transition from cutesy, puring, soulful ‘get me, get ME‘ to ‘see ya, wouldn’t want to be ya‘ taking all the time it took to free it from the local Cat Rescue.

And it is because Darwinism has yet to equip your average domestic feline with opposed thumbs that we ever saw the ungrateful bugger. Only the successful operation of a tin opener separated it from being a latch-flap pet - well that and its’ visceral joy at trapping fear shitting mice in a bin shaped wall of death scenario. At 4am. Every night, In our bedroom. For a fucking eternity.

Thankfully the passing years have slowed the vicious little sod down, so it’s rare now that I find my morning stumble interrupted by the squidgy horror of bare feet accessorised by bloody intestines. Instead, it has switched tactics, and is now fully in touch with its’ bonkers side.

First the looper fucker decided to take on a sleepy rabbit which ended in a towel based rugby tackle of the shit scared ** bunny, and the softest of rebukes from Carol “Now, please don’t bring rabbits into the house anymore. If that’s ok. Oh here’s some prime steak to get over the trauma”

And now it has taken to climbing the side of the log in a doomed attempt to gain entry through a tightly closed window. In the spirit of context, I should explain that due to lack of cat exit/entry system, I manually flap it every night in the manner of the Flintstones’ opening sequence.

It appears to have taken this quite badly, and after a few bloody amusing cat wailing plaintively against a locked door situation,  the brain damaged nutter has taken to making a frankly dangerous ascent of the North Face of the Pine - only to find it can’t get back down.

So what does it do? Does it wait patiently to morning? Does it retrace its’ steps and hang about until it is let back in? Does it fuck?***, instead it yowls like the mad bastard it is and waits for a) some kind person to let it back in or b) a not so kind person to try for a home run using nothing other than a i) cat and ii) stick with a nail in it.

And now it’s taking to hiding in the bushes, sulking like a nine year old*** and refusing to return to the mother lode until a a family member prostrates themselves on the deck, with cat food delicacies rubbed into their hair.

I really want a dog. A proper pet you don’t have to bend down to pat. Something loyal, steadfast and friendly. I’ve been scanning the local adds for “Dog for sale: Eats anything, Loves Cats”

* Semantically less troubling that “Carol and the kids’ cat which shares a house with me, while I spend every day inventing new horrors to prove how much I hate it”

** Let me insert the word literally here.

*** Unlikely after the op. One is annoying. Any more and it’d be a swift combination of sack, water and bricks.

**** A sulk so deep they call it Cousteau.

… this time of year. For women, Tennis. For men, masturbation. Oh come on blokes, who spend eleven months of the year watching twenty two girly-men mincing about for ten grand an hour, or declaring a fascination for thirty more engaging in mud wrestling with funny shaped balls, have suddenly become tennis aficionados.”Oh can we put the Tennis on love”. Red button, Google for who has the biggest tits in the woman’s’ game, select match and get all jiggy with the remote control*. “No, not the men - especially that English hating Scot whose clearly descended from a certain W.Wallace - their power ruins the very aesthetics that make tennis so special” is a lie chucked into the black hole of disbelief worn by long suffering wives and girlfriends.

“Let’s watch this instead” / “Who’s playing?” “Not sure” / “Sharapova you say?” / “Pretty?” / “Well okay I suppose but not a patch on you” hurtles he-lies comet** while one’s inner willy is giving it the pumping elbow “Woooaaaahh, get a LOAD of that body, if she grunts like that on a tennis court, she is going to be absolutely sodding cosmic in the sack”

And now she’s out. Beaten by her rather plain compatriot only recently released from a facefull of teenage acne. And not just beaten, comprehensively stuffed which kind of gets us back to where we started. So a million men lament the buggeration that a once in a generation talent/beauty morph is pounded off court by a girl whose had giblet stuffing in her recent vocational history.

So I’ve heard anyway. I’ve been watching bit of the football occasionally flicking over the BBC smugness to see yet another plucky brit narrowly beaten 6-0, 6-0. Only the Scot left (I love this, “I am not Scottish, I am a Scot” - right on fuzzy hair, reject all that English middle class loving, good on you) and he’s clearly hunting for some distant Spanish ancestry to save him from showing any allegiance to the flag.

Wimbledon may be an institution but it’s a bloody odd one. What people remember of the empire gate-crashed by a million nations who are significantly better at the game. It’s last night of the proms with tennis racquets instead of conducting batons, but the whole displaced nationalism and dangerously edged hats shines through, even tho the sainted Tim has passed onto the commentary box.

Still now all the nice boys and girls have been knocked out, there’s confusion multiplied by 10,000 spectators trying to work out if they should transfer their affection to a fella who clearly cares not the slightest for their adoration. That makes it worth watching even tho the glamour puss has been shown the door.

* I have so many lame wank gags lined up, there’ll be a small prize for who gets them all.

** I believe St. Peter will take that terrible pun into account when sending me “downstairs“`

Now as a man, I’m pretty much there in terms of the operation and maintenance of a personal wind turbine* But 40 years of semi professional parping in no way prepared me for the rampant gale playfully attempting to blow us off an afternoon of high ridges.

Of which the Long Mynd has legion. From the top of every one you can see Wales and even these mere foothills of proper mountains have real altitude. My pre-ride ritual of a sneaky piss up against a bored sheep registered 20 knot sustained with gusts of twice that**. Thankfully I was relieving myself downwind - it’s just a shame I chucked the car keys that way as well.

The headwind made an already trying climb seemingly like trying to ascend a knobbly wall while God turned the hairdryer past a Spinal-Tap 11. We wasted what little breath we had left attempting to verbally communicate, but the wind whipped away our words in a contemptuous shriek.

Uphill and into wind was marginally less fun that - say - angle grinding your bollocks while drunk and blindfolded. Downhill was super, singletrack-y, exposed and endless. The problem was you were not really in control of the steering*** as frisky gusts would plunge you and your front wheel into the nearest valley floor.

Which was some 300+ feet below you. Luckily a combination of a death grip and extreme mincing saved the day for me. That kind of exposure doesn’t seem to worry my friend Jason, as proved by him peering into the abyss from the edge of a mahoosive cliff in an absolute raging hoolie. And he has the smallest feet of any male human over the age of about 7. Bonkers.

Much fun tho hardly ruined at all by my navigational blunders compounded by an inability to reconcile a map, a GPS and a bloody massive great stone saying “YOU ARE HERE”. We got there eventually, although the track log mimics the stagger home of a serious ten pinter.  In a foreign country. While trying to work out what the hell you’re meant to do with that anglegrinder.

Still my happy-clappy karma lasted for as long as it took for some walking acne to drag his crappy pedal across my new wheel, as he boarded the train. His risible apology incensed me - as I made a sneaky exit - to the point of sneaky retaliation.
Hope he has a pump. That’s all I’m saying

* Operation: Lift cheek and fire up the peristalsis booster.
Maintenance: Sprouts and organic beer. But never at the same time. You risk the very real possibility of blowing your own trousers off.

** The Pissfaut scale is more than a mountaineering urban myth. I have witnessed with my own eyes a ‘piss-off’ where serious hillmen declare “Well Bob’s a heavy pisser and that’s gone aerial, so we’re talking 25-30 knots and that’s not allowing for gusts”

*** All together now “Nothing new there then eh?“

Maybe I should. My mum - MY MUM FOR GOD’S SAKE - has just registered a comment:

“should be cabbage looking, you forgot hold it under the cold tap or have a hot bath.you are excused your bad language as you have just cause.a week ago as a valued customer i was told i would be rung back in 24 hours by the manager i am still holding my breath.this is late because i could not access your blog. your disenchanted mum”

See, here is me within drinking distance of 41 and still I’m being corrected by my mum! I don’t know what’s worse, my poor old* mother having to choose between being struck off by another rubbish ISP, or gaining access to hedgy roadkill on the Internet highway. Hobson would be doing his nut!

Anyway, all I need now is to find that woman I used to work for to have my quote corrected “No I didn’t say what little talent you had, I said what little bullshitting ability you had”

;) Chickens. To Roost. Home. Make a well known phrase if you must.

Oh Hi Mum! I’ll go fire up the blowtorch for talktalk.

* Not in the true use of the word here. Let’s all be clear. Mature like a good wine, that’s my mum. Not old.**

** Did I get away with that?

Last night, the kids and I marveled at the huge tented sponsor’s village which comprised just a small portion of the whole Mayhem experience. It makes the CLIC-24 like a few mates riding from the local pub, but I guess 3000+ entrants, a huge field and a near 100% showing from the MTB retail sector would do that to any field. Even a wet one.

How different yesterday was, cracked earth, rock hard ground and swirling dust. The course was 100% rattly*, riding fast and loose, cheekily off camber in sections and punctuated by two tough grass climbs. Riders were coming in from sighter laps with smiles on their faces and sweat on their clothes.

All this pre-race happiness despite the entire riding flange desperately checking late forecasts to see if the rain was still coming. And it has come, right on schedule. Wind, misty but persistent rain, entire county clamped in low cloud and general ugh. A nice man in a BBC suit cheerfully explained it’s going to be better tomorrow but worse later today.

It seems the epicentre of the front will converge on Eastnor Castle at about 2pm. Which, because Sod makes laws, is the exact start time of the race. Maybe the rain should just buy an entry like everyone else since  it turns up every year and pisses on and off every rider, as they slog through the muddy and sodden course. It’s even worse than elite riders charging through shouting “Podium rider, make way“.

Yet the atmosphere was great last night, and it made me remember what I loved about these events. Meeting old friends, caressing box fresh bike bits, grabbing a beer and talking about old times. Many of which were fantastic, almost none of those had anything to with riding.

I wonder how that atmosphere will feel when we wander up later with cake, waterproofs and mud tyres for some friends who are rain racing.

Until then I tip my virtual hat to the lot of them. As I need to tip it anyway - it’s full of rain.

* So I heard. There was no way I was wasting valuable drinking time trying it myself.

It wouldn’t be the twisted democracy of the Hedgehog if I didn’t poll its’ readership* for suggested content, then completely ignore the results before rambling on about trains again.

You see where Haddenham - a tiny provincial station - was blessed with 500 parking spots, 3 trains an hour, a waiting room, a uniformed parking jobsworth, a full time station master, a proper coffee shop selling non ironic skinny espresso’s and many suits. Ledbury has a peeling wooden shack hutted by Bob*, himself surrounded by a pre-Beecham photographic collection and an aura of extreme antiquity.

So a pleasant enquiry on the availability a Cappuccino, easy on the foam, skimmed milk, choco on top is met with an old fashioned expression, and a stern lecture to whit: I should thank my lucky stars there is even a platform, in days or recent yore, you merely threw themselves at a passing train in the hope that an observant passenger may haul you in.

There are - and Beared Bob is clealy not happy about this - some sops to modern life; Fewer large animals stroll on the lines than back in the glory years of steam, rubbish fencing and Fresian roaming***. Both platforms sport posh electronic signage predicting the arrival of next train and the one after that****.

And - according to these neon glows of technological wonder - the trains always run on time. Tending to the persnickety, this perfect schedule may be symptomatic of their obvious non connectedness to any real time arrival information system.

Nor do they need to be, as a sweaty, fat man leans out of the signal box and updates us all with a cheery “The London train is running 20 minutes late. Keith the driver forgot his sarnies and he’s popped back home to pick them up“.

The train to London dwarfs the platform to such an extent that the front half is servicing passengers at Coldwell, some four miles up the track. It’s absolutely huge. And old. And slam door. Legions of train enthusiasts/pointless wankers take brass rubbings and boringly relive the golden age of the Inter-City 125.

It wasn’t golden then and it’s not fantastic now. Bang up to date the naming conventions may be (Train Host, Train Manager and the whole “Welcome to our Service/How can we fleece you today?” experience) but not much has changed in terms of tired carriages or bumpy track. Forget that Wii balance board you’ve promised yourself; just try going for a piss between Didcot and Reading without spraying everything from the knees down.

The ickle turbo that fills my bikey commuting sandwich is actually a bit better. Mainly because you spend lless time on it, and all of that is in shorts and a t-shirt. I’m still full of childish delight that no bastard love child of the Gestapo and a Butlins’ red coat churlishly waves Railway Regulations at me, whilst triumphantly ejecting my bike from the speeding train.

And because it’s not London, the whole experience is significantly less deadly and - so far - completed with the correct underwear count. Okay it still took me 30 minutes to find an office precisely two miles from New Street Station. 28 of which were desperately circulating wet Dual Carriageways wondering if “Doncaster” might not be a good route choice.

So far, so groovy. Longest day tomorrow. Winter after that. Important to get a preemptive grump in before I start to really enjoy myself.

A final question unrelated and yet troubling. If your kids are lapped at the School Sports Day, and your representation to add “Nintendo Mario Karts” to the event list is mercilessly rebuffed, what’s the solution? All the non city kids clearly run twice round the farm every morning before indulging in a spot of cow throwing.
I could institute a strict regime of exercise to hone their athletic performance for next year. Or I could teach them stick out a leg and cheat. In my role as a guiding force for good and true parent, which do you think it may be?

* Good word. Could mean 1000, could mean 1.

** 1 of a part time staff of 2. Responsible for ticket sales, laminating of timetables, hut painting and repair, general airs of resignation and pulling of beards.

*** 1989

**** Which is generally tomorrow. And replaced by a donkey service via Reykjavik.

With Mudtain* Mayhem just a few days away, this photo seemed entirely appropriate. Only last night was I covered in sticky red mud, flayed by aggressive vegetation and bitten by creatures known only as ‘lumpy arm givers’. Nothing to do with riding, I was merely visiting that special type of club so loved by the FIA president. Allegedly.

So muddy right now, and a storm has recently decamped - with a look of some permanence - on the doorstep. The forecast could be better spelt ‘meteorological portent of imminent doom‘ which fully justifies both my smugness and the decision to turn down a last minute offer to ride. Instead, my plan is to trundle the five miles to Eastnor Castle, truffle my way through the beers of various riding friends, before wobbling home to a bed that is neither on the floor or inside a moist tent.

Since I’m into recycling other people’s work, here are some more. Finally the BBC takes up the righteous cause of StupidSpeak(tm) - one of the many curses of corporate culture. I don’t know if it is rooted in self importance or the belief that turd polishing somehow takes the eye away from what is, at the end of the day, going forward, still a turd.

Either way, my focus is on teaming leading an idea pool to cruxmollify** the low hanging fruit, through a process of seamless boundary interactions, into a organisationally transitioned leveraged key outcome.

In layman’s terms, I am off in search of a cup of tea.

* It really should be called “2000 Lycra fetishists chasing each other round a small field. Reasons unknown“.

** I may have made that word up. But because Corporate sheep follow StupidSpeak, I shall experiment with it in some finely crafted emails. I fully expect someone will ‘let me know it is right on their radar‘

Two blokes we met while riding up and over these steep sided and overly managed hills. The first took exception to our polite entreaties to get past, by denouncing all cyclists as trail eroding scum who’d serve the country better by throwing themselves under the nearest lorry. Or something like that; I must confess to stopping listening when I realised he wasn’t either.

The second was an old boy who very gently chastised us for riding on a path we probably shouldn’t have ,been but finished up with “I wouldn’t worry about it, nobody will care really”. And for the remaining 99% of our ride, he was absolutely right. I have no intention of getting into the access issues around these closely guarded nuggets of great trails*, other than to say, there seems to be enough for everyone and much of it is fun on a mountain bike.

We did seem to climb alot tho. My GPS sprouted** some nonsense about 3000 feet of uppage with some corresponding smile cracking trails heading back into Malvern. However, the first one we found could have been named “extreme exposure” although I felt my alternate title of “aarrgghh I have fallen down a 45 degree slope” was a little more accurate. Two rolls and a suicidal grab of a passing - and accelerating - bike generated more than enough interest for one set of pants I can tell you.

And the fall wasn’t because I was all rubbish and clipped in; no, rather I was checking out the view, and congratulating myself on all things West of the South East. One of those things was the lush rolling landscape into which I plunged - head first - to better investigate the phrase “terminal velocity“.

It’s not just the stuff you can see that is different here. There are other clues as well; the non ironic Wurzels tribute band at the School Fete, the strange popularity of Welly Throwing and the complete lack of any justification required to tuck into a barrel of Cider. At the local pub, there is one bloke who doesn’t seem to have moved during the three times we’ve been in there. Either he’s dead or very, very drunk.

Tomorrow I start commuting again using a proper vehicle to sandwich the train journey. Which means, according to my personal rainometer(tm), I’d better go and harvest the waterproofs.

* Because I didn’t sign up to any charter and I really don’t understand what all the fuss is about. What’s wrong with: ne polite, be sensible, be sensitive to other trail users and get on with it?

** And as part of my new found sensitivity, other vegetables are available. I’ve no problem with the concept of Broccoli taking on some verb action. Just as long as I am not required to eat any of the Devil’s testicles.