Author: Alex

Same Shit, different day

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road RidingLeave a comment

After five weeks of flatlining in stark relief of the big city biorhythms, my re-insertion into the matrix was about as blackly amusing as a coach crash of estate agents*. And my play at infusing each commute with a Buddha like sanguine ‘bring it down brother’ lasted all of about ten seconds. You see, I was completely up for finding my inner child until a BMW attempted to remove my inner spleen.

By the time realisation has dawned that bikes are nothing more than urban grouse to these chinless fuckwits, any semblance of remaining calm was swept away as a knee socked, short jeaned, surely ironic messenger type whistled past with his one fixed gear and look of benign constipation. I chased him down, marked my victory with an underarm spit, barnstormed  a dithering taxi before heading into the mean streets of central London.

A bendy-bus attempted decapitation, a motorbike introduced a new nano-measurement as he swept past my front wheel, a multitude of dumbfuck cyclists broke ever rule in the book and every second motorist attempted a citizen’s cull to effect swift justice. I chased a second fakinger-clone – my pursuit stalled by two red lights he ignored and a one sided argument with a white van who was mainlining traffic cockage. So knackered was I when finally straining past his sartorial stupidly, I was aerobically incapable of unleashing the carefully concocted vitriol.

Arriving at work, I was cynically unmoved by the carnage in the bike cage and the theft of my shower gel. But the firm never fails to surprise and disappoint when attempting to deliver marketing by the lowest cost bidder. Our new cycle facilities involve carrying the bike down two floors of metal steps, before collecting our clothing from a locker separated from the shower facilities by a sweaty trudge across the atrium of a spanking new building designed to impress our clients.

And then tramp back in work clothes but carrying grungy ride kit to be dispatched back to the lower floor locker. Sounds complicated? It’s even worse in operation – I asked for a map and some written instructions. And while the provision of a daily fresh towel, a shower in an environment entirely free from water borne diseases and a choice of complementary grooming products are to be applauded, such platitudes would have be delivered from a hospital bed.

Because the stairs leading from the loading dock down to the bike area are made of smooth, shiny metal. There is only a single possible result from an interface of damp shoe cleats and frictionless metal. And that is a fast, arse based descent with optional windmilling arms, finishing brokenly slammed against the back wall with a bike on your head.

Unless you ride down them which the preppy gym wrangler reckoned wasn’t possible, And for a few anxious moments – half way down – I was becoming persuaded to his viewpoint. It was all a bit eyeballs on stalks, fillings on edge and sphincter on full recoil during an unhappy period when flinging myself headlong into the rail was the only ‘innovative life saving move’ being offered up.

Still I am pretty sure it was with some aplomb that I shakingly unclipped and nonchalantly declared “Fucking hell, that nearly killed me – you want someone to have a look at those“

A little belatedly the security guard de-hutted himself and was angrily, adamant that no employee was allowed to ride down the stairs. How wrong he was. I think with careful planning an illegal plunge down the stairs, followed by a naked stroll across the atrium could end my career in two single steps.

Tempting.

* If a bevy of solicitors were journeying with them, all the better. Not that I am bitter or anything.

That’ll learn me

On By AlexIn Clic-24, Road Riding2 Comments

Sitting on an 500mph aeroplane going nowhere, I found myself idly musing if a man, still within binocular distance of not that old, should be growing breasts. Fantastically innovative as the human body is, the DNA chronology is clearly wrong in this case. Boys should grow breasts at the age of fourteen – such was our fascination as puberty took hold – and then we’d never have to leave the house. Bad for the bedsheets, good for millions of innocent women who don’t include teenage groping in their list of wants.

Whereas at 40, we have a spouse and the Internet for that kind of thing. And, because I was sandwiched between a family with about 50 kids, half of whom were screaming and the other half who were being noisily sick, I decided to extend my pondering to consequences. Of breasts, not children, I don’t like to think about the latter without a large drink in my hand.

With the CLIC-24 less than two months away – and I may need to start sponsoring myself to pretend I have more friends – I am determined not to put in a totally piss-poor performance. Considering my entire racing career consists of seven starts and two finishes, this is possibly an unrealistic aspiration.

So four days of Easter would be the ideal way to kick start my training regime. Although, ‘training’ to me is not based on any science; for example when I dismount – jelly legged from the bike – if I still retain the power of speech, then I clearly am not trying hard enough. And while I have a heart rate monitor I don’t understand and a training book I’ve never read, my total lack of mental discipline means training is just riding a lot and hurting.

Sadly plan A was scuppered by the kind of rain and sleet which so characterises British Bank Holidays. But a lack of Plan ‘B’ meant going out during a brief period of cold blue, clad only in thin shoes, roadie shorts and a late snatched waterproof. The first half of the ride was into a freezing headwind that rapidly escalated into a toe, body and hand-wind – all of which began to shiver.

My mind was elsewhere though, trying to judge whether the banks of threatening dark clouds were far enough away to allow a sneaky five mile extension. My decision to go for it was mocked by immediate rain upgrading soon to sizzling hail. Blue sky still lit the Chiltern hills a few miles away, but my personal hailstorm followed me all the way home.

Removing the lights and courier bag to gain speed still rated as a fine plan, ditching mudguards and waterproofs less so. Within two minutes, my arse was soaked, I had contracted “Trench-Willy“, my face was stung by shotgun pellets from the sky, and my feet had lost all form of motor control.

This went on for a very, very long time without any respite. It was sort of fun in a it’ll soon be over kind of way. I was significantly happier – standing naked in the barn – once I had stripped off the layers of soaking clothing. Sadly my feelings of warmth and worth were spiked by a caught reflection of white and floppy man boobs.

Still I can suck it in and, because I went out yesterday, I have every excuse not to go – Scott like – into the sleet and rain today. But I bet it’s not raining in New Zealand 🙁

Breaking the rules

On By AlexIn Other stuff2 Comments

I have never been that bothered about breaking rules. This is not Internet bravado – merely, having calculated the chances of getting caught or measuring the consequences, stepping over someone else’s line is almost always worth the risk. Which makes speeding and under age drinking perfectly all right, while ensuring setting fire to Belgium probably isn’t*

But here we must draw a distinction when considering my own rules. For those of you immersed in the deep thinking philosophy of the hedgehog, these should be self-evident. For anyone still clinging to sanity, let me explain the guiding principles:

1: Life is too short to drink with arseholes

2: You can’t take it with you when you go**

And because the gravitational pull of these morality comets is inescapable for those of us who find life a little too confusing, it was a shock to find myself with a handful of beer and a face full of idiot. He had a silly name and a stupidly elevated view of his own importance – an impression I was unfortunately to cement during an indeterminable passage of time.

It was like the worse wedding you have ever been too, only with signifcantly more corporate cock. He grooved through the traditional gambit of birthplaces, work experiences and then – with a noticeable acceleration of enthusiasm – wouldn’t it be a great idea if we played a round of golf.

But I’ve been around this kind of nonsense for far too long, so was ready for it. I responded to his question with an expression – honed over twenty years of received bullshit – which best translates to “Do I look like a total FuckNugget? Actually, don’t answer that, just assume I am not”

He only bloody ignored it. He was too busy talking and not listening, gesticulating and not looking, trying to charm, never failing to annoy. And before I knew it the whole facade has been escalated to “Hey why not bring your boss – you know the important person I really want to talk to – and make sure he’s ready to sign some purchase orders”

I try and convey – through the little understood art of facial poetry – that if he doesn’t cease and desist RIGHT THIS SODDING INSTANT, I shall be forced to slam his forehead onto the table, remove his spleen with my soup spoon, before hunting down and exterminating his immediate family to ensure they cannot breed.

Like the pro he knew he was he ignored that as well, instead asking how long I’d had that difficult squint. I resorted to explaining my only hobbies were Herring Throwing and – when they were out of season – Moon Drilling. He still didn’t get it, but that’s what happens if you’re unaware why the human design calls for one mouth and two ears.

Desperately searching for violence displacement activity, I struck on an idea as simple as it was brilliant. I held up a finger for silence, rested my elbows in a threatening manner and – in a tone so flat it could have been laser cut – said: “Let me stop you there. You need to understand my life rules”

The evening improved immeasurably after that.

* Because the reward of being awarded a Nobel prize for inspiring urban planning is mitigated by the risk of spending a hundred years in prison.

** Although the financially prudent amongst you may archly observe that “You still need some money while you’re still here“

Well there goes the planet.

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

The last thing we did before leaving for New Zealand – aside from tranquillising the children and undertaking a desperate search for passports – was to sell Carol’s old car. And today, in a moment of breathtaking fiscal recklessness, we’ve bought a new one.

Not a second hand one as planned, not spending a responsible sum that we actually had hidden in the banking sock, instead we’ve plumped for a pay half now and pretend something financially magical will occur before the remainder of the bill is due in twelve months time. We’ve also spunked this non existent cash on a car due for a bit of mid term botox and face lift in two months time. So forget all the first owner taxes, we’ve also plumped for something with built in obsolescence.

Now those of you who have observed my frantic attempts at stability during regular economics earthquakes, are probably nodding sagely and wondering why this latest financial fault line even merits a mention. Well, this time, it was almost nothing to do with me, or at least I’m only partly responsible*. It all started so well – we wandered into the Honda dealer clutching a virtual quote, and loudly wondering why anyone would pay list price.

The reason – apparently – is that these shady characters on the Internet are either importing them from space or building cars out of lego. We gently reminded the sales fella that the big grey Honda outside had been sourced from the very same Internet broker. From a dealer up the road and for 15{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} less than the advertised price.

Haggling commenced. I am rubbish at this – either losing my temper or agreeing that a set of mats is materially equivalent to about a £1000. Carol is better so I left her to it, instead heroically attempting to prevent the kids from breaking everything in the showroom. So slightly distracted was I when a haggled number was presented for approval. Franky, I just wanted to get out before we spent about that much on repairs, since the kids had just gleefully declared “hey Dad we can get from the boot to the back seat using the Honda ride-on mower as a drill”

We should never have even got this far, but when a second hand car, which has been registered, driven for twelve months and then sold on, costs more than a new one, it’s clear that you may as well just give in and hand over some cash for a new one. It’s stupid, badly thought through and about as cost effective as running a fleet of mountain bikes, but in our defence we have quite alot going on right now and one more car showroom may have pushed me over the edge.

I don’t like Salesmen much. Unless they are in the cross hairs.

We did consider a one car, four people scenario but even with public transport, it’s difficult and – to be honest – we really can’t be arsed with it. It’ll be even worse when we move as the kids’ll need driving to school, and the only mass transit in Herefordshire appears to be a ancient donkey pulling a cart.

So here we are in mid March, and so far in 2008 we have bought** a house, spent three weeks on a once in a lifetime holiday, and now bought a brand new car***. On the credit side, £300 saw Carol’s old car shipped out and I’ve sold some forks.

At this rate, I fully expect to have purchased a small Pacific Island and a charter airline by the end of the year. Our levels of altruism to family-handedly spend the country out of recession are matched only by the precarious fiscal arrangements to do so. Still as a wise man once said to me “When you owe the bank £1000, you are in debt to them, borrow a Million and they are in debt to you”

Failing that, anyone want to buy some pre-loved children?

* not a term generally used in the same universe as “Alex” and “Money”

** for a given value of bought. So far we have bought nothing more than expensive hours from solicitors.

*** There has been some expenditure generically labelled “bikeage” but this is merely business as usual.

Fashion crime

On By AlexIn Other stuff7 Comments

Stereotypes are terrible things – intellectually lazy, socially derivative and the last refuge of anyone who believes anything they read in the Daily Mail. But as a heterosexual bloke of over 40, I cannot be alone in caring absolutely nothing for fashion. “Oh Yes Indeedy” I hear from anyone who’s every seen me clothed* – if I wear anything costing over about twenty quid, it looks like I’ve nicked it. Coat hangers are more debonair than I when presented in a suit.

But this is normally not a problem because after thirty five years of dressing myself, it’s not exactly difficult to effect presentability at work and wantonly slobby at home. Outside of suits for the office, the remainder of – what I’ll charitably refer to as – my wardrobe is generally accessorised with edgy oil stains, custom rips, emulsion paint flashes and unidentified stains which would worry a toxicology lab.

My clothes tend to follow a well worn path from briefly pristine, through a period of uncared for use, before ascending to their true purpose of bike rags. The idea of chucking something away before it has broken down to original threads is diametrically opposed to my approach to upgrading shiny bits for my mountain bikes.

So all is good if not stylish until I was forced to embrace the fashion foolishness that is ‘Business Casual’. Stereotypes again – let me hear a “What the FUCK?” from anyone with a sense of what’s important. My approach was to go with jeans and wing it but Carol refused to send me out of the house in any of the motley collection of chain-ring scarred troons. So with her acting as personal shopper and me acting like a five year old, we embarked on a voyage of fashion discovery.

It soon became apparent that I am not able to pull off a fashionable pair of trousers. The problem begins when I can’t even pull on a pair of said trousers. Being configured for a difficult hybrid of dwarf and cyclist from the hips down, my thighs are too fat, my arse is to big and my legs too short to carry off anything not declaring themselves comfort fit.

Although you’d have to bloody well furtively carry them off under the gloom of night rather than actually presenting them for payment. Firstly because they look bloody ridiculous and secondly because they represent a wad of beer vouchers even I’d consider reasonably significant. Not that I’d ever get that far because I am the Howard Hughes of shopping for clothes.

Put me in a room of my peers and you have to dart me with a tranquilizer to shut me up. But I can get properly self conscious next to a pot plant when interacting with those who are fully trained in the art of pantaloon salesmanship. “Can I help you sir?” is instantly babelfished** into “H’mm 40, poor posture, leg length of similar dimensions to man stood in deep ditch, no real belly but what is going on with those thighs? It’s an experiment gone horribly wrong where some psycho generic engineer has grafted two milk bottles*** onto his arse. Still quite a decent sized unit to work with back there“

So while they gently guide me away from the glitzy marketing of pulling trousers, and on beyond the dusty shelves of slacks, 80’s chinos and dreadful trouseroons apparently hand woven from hemp, I can still hear the shushed hysteria of the other assistants whispering “Have you seen that old bloke? Where are his legs?“

Right here and striding from the shop clutching nothing other than a few remaining shards of dignity. Is it beyond the comprehension of the oh-so-cool designers than a normal bloke requires nothing more from a pair of trousers than to prevent him mooning in the street? He does not require tailoring which prevents circulation and stay presses his knob for all to see. Nor a crutch that hangs low enough to suggest a third leg or a colostomy bag. And at no point do studs, rips, patches, oddly located pockets or buttons ever enter his orbit of needs.

He just wants to feel appropriately and comfortably trousered without resorting to those pants so vaunted by our elderly American cousins. You know the ones which fasten just under the breastbone and speak of golf and upcoming death.

In desperation, I asked my personal shopper at what age beach shorts and mountain bike t-shirts become a bit combed-back ponytail embarrassing. The answer is 11 and apparently they also fail to pass muster in terms of suitability for the problem of business casual. The second point was firmly made before I even asked the question.

This argument went on for some time.

However you will – I’m sure – be relieved to hear I have secured sufficient trouserage collateral to spend the best part of next week in Barcelona. I fully intend to sneak in a pair of shorts and proudly display my stumpy legs to an entire convention of IT geeks. Let’s face it, most of them still looked like they have been dressed by their mum so I’m going to be a vision of sartorial elegance.

Probably.

* There are a few who – having seen me rather more naked – would suggest you can count yourself bloody lucky.

** What do you mean you’ve never read HHGTTG. Stop wasting your time with this drivel and get over there this instant. And no, watching the film doesn’t count. Not even a little bit.

*** this joke only works if you’ve seen proper old glass bottles. Anyone in the prime of their life will know exactly what I’m talking about.

It doesn’t add up.

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Pretentious nonsense1 Comment

Politics and Hedgehog sit together as comfortably as a sadistic cat* and a feisty hamster, as ably proven by my previous bluster on politicians and their arrogance. And yet after a mere five minute immersion into the 24 hours news pool, I find myself again arguing passionately for a benevolent dictatorship.

The problem I have with yet more indirect taxation is that it comes with a smug veneer of social policy attached. And by doing so, perpetuates the myth that by taxing great swathes of the population, actual changes are going to be made in the way people live their lives.

And that is total bollocks.

It isn’t going to stop people drinking or smoking. It’s not going to fix the health problem of the middle class trudging home – after the longest working hours in europe – and downing a bottle of supermarket wine. Granted, it may divert the tiny disposable income of those in very low paid families away from useful stuff like food. But it won’t stop anyone who can afford eighty grand of sports car driving it away because there is an additional£1000 of tax, and yet it may keep older, more polluting cars on the road while the rest of us baulk at the ever increasing tax burden of buying new.

This kind of indirect taxation is nothing short of licensed theft. And it’s not fair because when it’s imposed on stuff 45 million people consume, it is almost completely biased against those on lower incomes. It doesn’t achieve anything except to shore up a level of financial incompetence, that could better manage the public finances by stuffing the tax receipts in a sock.

So I have an idea – let’s assume that these latest increases price most of us out of the market. So now we do exactly what the government is promoting – we abandon our nicatine habit, we drink water instead of beer, we make our own wine from nettles or shuttle cheap booze from French supermarkets. We don’t drive anywhere, everyone rides a bike or a donkey and we bloody well break the link between pious populism and actual economics.

Wouldn’t it be great to see the blood drain from the faces of those stuffed shirts when we actually do what they tell us? Then they’d be faced with the very real prospect of having to stop fighting other people’s wars, abandon fattening up their bloated departments with policies no one cars about, and get back to distributing wealth from the rich to the poor, and making the bloody trains run on time.

I’ve given myself dislexia by proxy irritation writing this**. Therefore all I can suggest is we allow this wave of impotant anger to wash over us and remain clam.

* How that failed to trigger the tautology filter I do no know.

** I have also turned into my Dad apparently.

I had a dream

On By AlexIn Other stuff1 Comment

But not in a Martin Luther King way. I spent most of last night dreaming of violent plane crashes and motorhomes plunging down steep sided cliffs.

I’ve decided not to share this with Carol as she is clearly already a women on the edge. After ten years of marriage, I recognise the signs – manic house cleaning, packing and repacking the bags, screaming “Don’t MAKE ME GET ON THE PLANE“, that kind of thing. I like to think that empathy is one of my strong suits so I’ve restricted myself to the odd helpful grunt.

And not mentioning the entire family dying in a flaming pyre of wreckage.

We seem to have packed few clothes but many electronic devices which could be the wrong way round, but this would be a bad time to question the logistical planning of my long suffering wife. My contribution was counting camera batteries and googling “Nicest beer in New Zealand”

What’s that I hear? Yes. yes, alright we’re definitely going now 🙂

If the Devil designed websites…

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Site Stuff3 Comments

He would look approvingly on the labyrinth of hell that is American Express Internet presence and declare his work done. After nearly converting the laptop into a discus, I’ve come to the conclusion this is a cunning ploy to ensnare you in a web of vaguely related sites until you’re forced to call the premium phone line. Never have I seen anything so under performing, so badly laid out, so bereft of any usefulness and so insanely hard to navigate. Well, except maybe for Belgium.

Old Lucifer could then turn his horns onto Valentines day which is a real triumph of marketing. Dapper gentlemen with speech impediments machine gunning each other in 1920’s America were magically converted into a multi billion pound love industry. So mainlining that grumpy vain, I decided to send Carol my Valentines wishes by email. That’s almost as good isn’t it? It wasn’t as if I actually forgot*. I mean she’s not going to think I didn’t try is she?**

Work is basically flipping between “ARRRRGHHHH” and “GRRRRRRRR“. All I will say is if you are not prepared to accept the answer, don’t ask the sodding question. It is fine timing that we are going on holiday, otherwise my frustration may lead to mugging innocent members of staff as I angrily vibrate down the corridors of cower***

Are we ready to go on holiday? In a word, no. In a few more words “has anyone invented a time machine?”. Carol is rigorously enforcing the luggage limit by ruthlessly returning what the kids demand are mandatory items. In Random’s case, this includes the house. She’s not totally grasped the concept of a motorhome and seems to think we’ll be sleeping under bridges. Which considering my Valentine faux pas, I may well be. Or with the fishes, if we’re going back to the original concept of the day.

My packing involves hiding money for beer, and unearthing cleanish shorts, sunnies and a novelty hat. And finding a way to decouple the part of my brain that is suffering from PMT ****. And between now and actually arriving in a place where email doesn’t, there are days of travel hell which represent a similar amount of pleasure as passing a hedgehog shaped poo. I expect the pain to last almost as long as well.

And on that happy note, I shall begone to warmer climbs. There is the slimmest chance of some outside broadcast hedgehog should the twin planets of sobriety and Internet access align themselves in my personal geography. Failing that, enjoy the rest of your winter and expect photographs and lies when I’m back.

Which is on March 10th. I cannot tell you how good it feels to write that 🙂

* Okay I did

** She is

*** Like power only with more terror.

**** Post Management Trauma.

Chicks digs scars.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff11 Comments

I’m sorry to disappoint all you cultivating bloodied puncture wounds, but this statement is a a bit of a porker. Oozing with unpleasant substances, bad for your health and about as sexually attractive as venereal disease. So here’s the truth – chain rings dig scars as graphically demonstrated by the grizzly tattoo on my calf. In fact, the whole leg appears to have gone ten rounds with a lunatic armed with an industrial staple gun.

This was one of the only two downsides of a weekend ride under sunny skies on mostly dry trails. Obviously now we’re off to summer at the other side of the world, I care not if it buckets with hail and snow for the next three weeks. On thinking such pernicious thoughts, a brief glance at the Internet proxied weather tea leaves informed of pissing rain in New Zealand. This is either a meteorological blip during their otherwise fantastic summer, or the start of the monsoon season.

The second downside was more a downsize. Of a chain which mistook an innocent shift to the granny ring to instead somehow escape the front mech ,and wedge itself firmly betwixt crankset and chainstay. After some scratching of heads, dismantlement of the majority of the bike and some keen action on the chain tool, my 27 geared steed was reduced to a somewhat more humble 5.

I’m blaming a combination of Gimp-on-board(tm) cackhandness, rushed builds and bad karma from silently mocking my friends’ singlespeed a few minutes earlier. “Hah when it gets hilly, I shall unleash my vast array of easy pedalling ratios” I carelessly gloated.

But this loss of cogs hardly ruined the ride – the Cove is fantastic everywhere; light and quick uphill, terrifyingly competent in the twisties and nonchalantly banzai when heading downhill. My efforts to fall off were easily dealt with until a log based endo saw the spinning chainrings of doom harvest a few inches of skin.

A spot of beer focussed research selected the easy option of throwing some money at the problem. That’s fixing the thuggery of the chainset rather than the bleeding of the leg. Although you could hear the “Cry of the Lesser Haired Wuss” for many miles when bloodied stump hit hot bathwater.

It’s a keeper this one* and I really think the selection of rather lovely bicycles may be complete for some time to come**. This may be for the rather practical reason that our offer on “Cabbage-Land” has been accepted. I’ve no idea what this means, except that I am now funding the Devil’s lawyer and financier to complete the transaction.

This calls for a beer to reflect on what an interesting year it has been already, and to wonder of the experience that decamping to a county where only out of towners have 10 digit hands.

Well not really, I just fancy a beer 😉

* I can hear you laughing. And I’m ignoring you. But taking names come the revolution.

** And don’t chortle. It’s unbecoming.

SOLD!

On By AlexIn Other stuff2 Comments

Well sort of. As of about 20 minutes ago, we accepted a cash offer for our house. Now being a simple sort of chap, I naturally assumed a van load of used readies would be immediately delivered in unmarked suitcases. Apparently, this is not the case, and it shall be necessary to peruse the entire lexicon of property law between now and a mythical beast known only as “completion”

I know nothing of this journey other than it seems strewn with the kind of obstacles that may well damage my liver and add a double scoop of hair pulling* stress.

On the plus side, we’ve sold it to some friends of ours at a tad less than the asking price, which had the estate agent foaming at the mouth. “We can get the full asking price if we screw them over, lie, cheat and start a bidding war with the other interested parties” was their opening negotiating gambit. “Yes, but that will make me a cock of epic proportions and you’ve failed to factor in good manners and karma” said I chewing a lentil.

Although we have set the snarling capitalists snapping at the financial heels of the estate agent from whom we wish to buy. Because, frankly they deserve each other. Although, as this is Herefordshire, negotiations have stalled over the exact bartering value of a frisky goat. But assuming we can debug the complexities of ungulate to sterling ratio, there’s a ludicrous plan forming to get the hell out of here during the Easter holidays.

However, so many things can go wrong that an entire new field of mathematics will be required to count them. It shall be based on the “every bugger wants their cut” numeracy system overlaid with “Stamp Duty, fucking hell haven’t I given enough already?“. The prospect of dealing with both estate agents and solicitors** during a compressed period of hemorrhaging money seems devil sent to ruin our lives.

Still focusing on the positives for a second, this is a bloody great excuse to get drunk. While i crack open the champagne and open champagne over some crack***, here are a few pictures. The first two show some cheeky riding five minutes from the door and a wintery view over the Malvern hills. And because a few of you aren’t obsessed with Mountain Bikes, a couple more depict the “Welcome to Cabbage-Land” garden aspect, and a picture of the house. Which is odd, but you’d expect that.

Tallot (91)

So we’ve not really sold in the true sense of the word and we’ve currently nowhere to move into. All the detailed transactions over the next month will be carried out using whatever transmission methods are available in a camper van, 12,000 miles away from the action. And the full horror of fixing up the new house is likely to permeate my sober moments.

If anyone has any chickens that need counting, send ’em over !

* And let’s face it, that’s a pretty scarce resource where I’m concerned. Two difficult phone calls and I’m bald.

** Which is an anagram of Clitoris. Okay it isn’t, but it should be.

*** It’s a play on words Mum, ok?. Don’t call the police.