Well you can, but it’s properly silly. None of the local taxi firms were interested in a cash deal in exchange for some transport to the airport. Apparently their entire fleets have been firebombed or carjacked as per the macro-traffic conditions we operate under in Aylesbury. The firm stepped in and rather than a cut’n’shut minicab of dubious mechanical history, a brand new Merc whispered up the drive.

The taxi had come from London, the driver from Poland. I’ve never really understood the etiquette of taxi journey speak so offered up a non threatening opening gambit praising his rather funky SatNav. No sooner had the words left my mouth was he abandoning any semblance of road watching instead thumbing buttons and scrolling pages like a man discovering Free Britney Spears Lesbian Mud Wrestling Pictures” on the internet.

I live here” he jabbed the screen depicting some tiny Polish street brought to life by the power of technology Warsaw, lovely city, pretty girls, many many English people very happy here“. The navigation system offered a direct route via a non existent sea tunnel but lasting only 9 hours. I was on the verge of saying It’s 400 miles, we’ve got half a packet of Werthers’ originals and we’re wearing sunglasses, let’s go!”

Continue reading “You can’t get there from here.” →

Fire drills are analogous to dentist’s drills only a little more painful while adding loudhailers. That is unless you frequent a particularly old school dentist who’s dispensed with an expensive raft of tools and training supplanting them instead with shouting and pliers.

The insistent peeling of the alarm bell failed to trigger a headlong rush for the stairs because everyone knows it’s a drill. The fire marshals (basically exactly the same kind of people who feel they have unique and valuable skills suited to the Parish Council and Neighbourhood Watch) herded us exitwards grumbling as we naughty sheep finished e-mails, coffees and a sharp expose of the national Cricket team’s shortcomings.

One of the hidden benefits of being housed on the top floor of the building is the likely chance of being charred to a business casual crisp as the lower six floors disgorge onto the fire stairs. Today our future identification by dental records was further confirmed with a peopled backdraft swelling the stairs to the denseness of an illegal gathering and stopping the evacuation stone dead. Which describes perfectly our mortal state had it been a proper fire due entirely to the incident team” forgetting to open the fire doors. So a thousand soon to be crispy employees were funnelled through two tiny exit cubicles while the large exits specifically designed for keeping you alive remained locked hard shut.

Had it been a real fire, the Dunkirk spirit that bound together the stationary pre-charred on the stairs would have rapidly given way to get the hell out of my way, I’m WAY more important than you“. Colleagues would have been kicked to the ground and trampled over with high heal shoes and custom made brogues. Fairly similar to our traditional meeting etiquette except without anyone taking minutes to persecute the innocent at some later date.

Finally arriving outside some ten minutes later, a high-viz jacketed “ crazed with power “ excitedly shouted through a loudhailer Please keep to the pavement, there is vehicular activity on the road“. Firstly what kind of idiot behaviour enunciates vehicular” when in possession of the jobsworth megaphone and secondly really, traffic on the ROAD? No Shit Sherlock, how have I survived so long without your laughable homage to the highway code“

Building on their spectacular failure, the make sure everyone dies except us” fire team decided we weren’t worth counting, instead sending us back inside insisting we scanned back in. The security system then had a bit of a moment as it tried to reconcile people signing back in who hadn’t signed out. It’s gone for a little lie down and was last seen steaming and sending arrggh, eek, out of cheese error�? to the console.

We climbed seven flights of stairs rather than wait a couple of days for the lifts to become available. It took about a quarter of the time descending them had earlier. Kind of sums up the whole façade really.

Next time just let me burn at my desk, it’s not like I’m a fee earner or anything.

Camping. It’s a word to strike mortal fear into the heart of anyone who has suffered under canvas, which is statistically everyone who has tried tented life for a laugh“. It’s only funny if you’re watching other people being swept down a rain lashed hillside, while simultaneously pots, pans and the odd domestic animal are braining them through the onset of extreme gravity. Now that’s properly funny.

Four years ago, I wrote this:
Now let’s talk about tents. No, actually let’s not as it’s clear to me there are two types of people in this world, those who believe camping is a fun and healthy encounter with the rugged outdoors and the rest of us who see that as the rantings of a delusional madman. I’m sorry but there is only one agreeable night-time experience that doesn’t allow me to stand up, roll over or sleep and it’s not camping.”

I’ll not bore you with when or even why I kept it but rather place it as a marker for when camping became synonymous with misery, torment and pain. Those freezing nights in the staying awake” bag, wet on the outside, clammy on the inside with only creepy crawly night creatures birthing young in your ear for company.

Continue reading “When camping goes bad.” →

My recovering body was not mirrored by an angst free mind. While confidence in my ability has generally outshone that ability, now the world was the wrong way up and riding “ specifically turning left “ was starting to become a proper mental block. Body says turn left there’s a tree in the way“, mind counters don’t turn left, your knee will explode into a fountain of bloody horror like it did last time“. The mind can be a simple thing, so if you keep chanting tree, tree, tree�? enough times, it’ll deliver one and that hurts almost as much.

With good light until 8pm and a maximum of five hours riding, a lunch time start would seem to perfectly suit the end of a three hour drive. Our friends and organisers clearly thought so when they sauntered up some 90 minutes late expressing mild surprise that we’d fallen for the see you at 10am” gambit offered up the day before.

First climb was full of numpties. I’m all for an increase in the size of the cycling population just as long as they’re not all falling off in front of me. Which they were, lots and often. Downhill followed up as it inevitably does and my fear of North Shore raised woodwork, exposed trails with a lovely view of the valley you’d fall into and, of course, turning left made for a depressing and unlovely experience.

Things improved once I’d got us properly lost: It’s this way, not that way, possibly over there, all these bloody fireroads look the same. Anyone got a compass? Yes? Anyone know how to use it?“. More descents, slight improvement down to forced relaxation, bloody mindeness and no crashing. Sometimes when you’re riding really well, it doesn’t feel fast but it is, whereas if you’re trying to ride fast and you’re having a shit day, it just feels like you’re one corner away from hospital. I have some history here so that happy image was welded to my retinas. Things improved to the point where I wasn’t actually hating it, at which juncture a rock staged deceleration trauma focussed painfully on my toe. Scared of left hand bends you see so turning in too early, rock on the apex, huge bruise on my foot.

In retaliation, I ensured we got properly lost a second time finishing with a cheeky 20 minute push up a dryish stream bed. The fellas were in awe of my navigational ability but chose to hide it behind such jovial comments as where the fuck are we�” and if we’re stranded here, you’re the first one on the menu“. That’s ok, I knew I’d been fattening myself up for something.

Amazingly and through the power of random, we arrived back close to a known trail and much whooping and hollering accompanied the final descent. In my case, it was entirely due to a second rock/toe incident which impacted exactly the same wiggler. Are toes meant to be black? I’m thinking not.

It was fun really but it left me hankering for a bit more wilderness. Too much of this year has been spent riding purpose built tracks in MTB centres. They may be the future but I quite enjoyed the past as well; the joy of scouring maps for interesting contour lines, the epic loops planned in an unknown pub, the finding out and getting found out when things turn the shape of a pear. Climbing never ending grassy tracks and being rewarded with a singletrack gem hidden away on the backside of a bleak hillside. Crap weather and good waterproofs, sometimes shit trails but always great friends.

So decision made; maybe it’s time to stop being quite so foolhardy at speed and instead be foolhardy at leisure. Replace the boredom of trying to pick a perfect line with the thrill of picking any line that may get you somewhere interesting. A bit less static and a bit more epic. That’s the plan for my fortieth year.

Oh and some eighties revival rock. Because sometimes you just have to remember that other stuff isn’t a chore or a duty, it’s kind of important too. There, I’ve said it now; sure the prospect of unencumbered responsibility and total financial freedom will always appeal to the schoolboy within and those dreams may never quite fade.

But until them, reality calls, so c’mon sing with me, But till then tramps like us baby we were born to grout“. Air guitar if you like but try not to scare the little ones.

I’m really really sorry about this but I promised someone – while pissed obviously – that The Boss’s signature tune could easily be amusingly modified to include a homage to bathroom sealants. A man of my word, if still an idiot, wierd ‘Al Leigh presents:

Born To Grout

In the day we sweat it trying to get everything cleaned
At night we read Ikea catalogues and wallpapering machines

Sprung from cases bought on channel 9,
Chrome covered, tastefully embossed to sand mdf and pine
Baby this sander rips the skin from your back
It’s a death trap, it’s a pile of crap
We’ve run out of bolts, we’ve gotta get out
`cause tramps like us, baby we were born to grout

Wifey let me in i wanna be your friend
I want to guard your dreams of kitchens
Just wrap your legs round this bathing pool
And strap your hands across my power tools
Together we could break this tap
We’ll grout till we drop, baby we’ll never go back

Will you paint with me out by the fire
`cause baby i’m just a scarred and lonely grouter
But i gotta find out how it feels
I want to know if grouting is just tiles, girl i want to know if grout will peel

Beyond the diy store, battery powered drills scream down the back yard
The girls comb paint from their hair in rearview mirrors
And the boys tried to look so bored
The shower cubicle rises bold and stark
The kids are huddled on the beachtowel in a mist
I wanna grout with you wifey on the tiles tonight
In DIY everlasting bliss

The sanders jammed with broken blades on a last disk power drive
Everybody’s out on the piss tonight but there’s no place left to hide
Together wifey we’ll live with the DIY madness
I’ll grout with you while there’s a annoying hole

Someday girl i don’t know when we’re gonna get this place
fully stripped back, painted new colours and all for next to nowt
But till then tramps like us baby we were born to grout

I’m so so sorry. The original can be found here:

With apologies to Bruce Springsteen. Well more of a mumbled “sorry mate” than a proper apology.

Ah the Boss, a man as blue collar as his denim shirts and yet in that strange fame dichotomy still a multi millionaire. I was going to choose Thunder Road Box” for the title of this entry, but even though I’m separated from my school days by twenty plus years, lavatorial humour still outs the smirk. As do the words flange, poopdeck, gusset and the semantically outstanding gibbon. Not that the gibbon itself is semantically outstanding unless you’re accustomed to a dialect consisting entirely of ook�?. That’s the problem with English, mess about with nouns and verbs and the next thing you know a hundred words have flown by, and you’ve done nothing but wibble. That’s another cracker right there.

Relaxed as I am regarding trellis, it’s merely the crest of a slippery slope housing all manner of cheerless and over-40s tasks, of which grouting is merely a representative example. What kind of desolate weekend can offer only the bleak prospect of spending quality time with a tube of sealant and a wet finger? May I just be permitted a brief fnar” at that double entendre to cheer myself up? Thank you. As unexciting as it was, it did assuage my guilt for hauling still grout covered arse out of bed at stupid o’ clock the following day to go sheep worrying in Wales. While riding my bike of course, otherwise that’d just be wrong.

But before we leave grouting – and it’s something I don’t so much want to leave rather divorce, before hastily upping sticks to a country half way round the world and leaving a disturbing lump under the patio – I’ll offer up a sneaky glance into the hidden world of bathroom sealents. Not being deemed responsible enough to operate the grouting gun, I was more your groutee “ a little known artisan skill to blend the perfect bead between unit and tile.

Stretching for perfection, my artiste all went a bit Nero demanding More grout there.. THERE¦ [wiggles indigent digit] no not THERE for Christ’s sake, THERE where the hole is now STAND BACK and SILENCE [theatrically flexes fingers], let the groutee attend to his magnum opus“. My muse would have been a couple of beers but instead Carol inadvertently offered me use of the gun at which inopportune moment a small happy child entered the bathroom. And swiftly left somewhat less happy and decorated in sticky grout. But, as I kindly pointed out, she was now at least waterproof for up to five years or her money back.

We no longer have tiles, we have a bathroom paved entirely in grout with the odd forlorn tile poking through. A job well done I’m sure you’ll agree and one off the 144 remaining tasks spreadsheeted for completion before we move or until my lifeless husk is rigour mortis’d around a paintbrush.

This is all really bollocks by the way. My wife is brill at these things and only asks for help during times of extreme strain when she’s trying to hold the entire shower cubicle up with her teeth or something. I’m the man for a crisis – even when there isn’t a crisis, there certainly will be once after I’ve strode heroically into the disaster area, power tools to the fore.

Anyway.

[To be continued]

Firstly, although I’m pathologically opposed to any form of camping, at least this fella has an outstanding view of importance and managed his priorities accordingly.

He does appear to be worryingly fondling his bike tho. Nothing wrong with that of course but something that should be practised away from the narrow minded thinkers that make up most of the planet.

And in my never ending lonely search for esoteric conent to feed our fragile minds – otherwise known as briefly scanning the spam-lite in my inbox, I’m offering up these gems.

Cows have regional accents. Every Yorkshireman knows this. The highlight of a Friday night quaffing session would be a roam on the moors searching for a cheap if noticeably wooly date. Competition was fierce and you had to leave the pub early to ensure “you didn’t get an ugly one“. It went without saying though that however frantic, you didn’t want to stain your welly’s with a sheep of Lancashire extraction. Ugh, that’s just wrong.

Get your organic drugs here. Yes, it’s lick a toad day offering up a natural high and a slightly irritated aquaetic reptile. I mean you’d have to be desperate surely – give me the bostick and the back of the bike sheds. Far less hassle and not requiring a smash and grab at the local pet shop.

Kaballah Fluid promises a safe nuclear future. It’s as we suspected, Madonna is barking mad.

And finally Cyclists dismount because your bladder disease has returned. Some superb Welshness going on here with a translation shocking native speakers and ensuring much rubbing of crotch in traffic queues.

You couldn’t make it up. Which is good, as that’s my job.

In truth, it wasn’t a PC at all anymore, rather a hulking square of electronic junk spitting out random invective and refusing to respond to my increasingly desperate measures. And although my blameless motives had engineered this state of apparent computer suicide, nothing could prepare me for the horrors of going toe to toe with the Operating System From Hell.

Microsoft chuck it out of the” Windows was not “ as is their inspirational tag line “ helping me to realise my potential”. Unless my potential was as of a serial wrecker of PC’s or to hunt down Microsoft employees before dispatching them in messy and interesting ways. And it’s not like I’m a total PC numpty; in years past, I was the go to” guy for simple explanations of Extended versus Expanded memory, the data retrevial expert, the hardware guru. Honestly, I had the pen protectors and everything.

Technology has apparently moved on bloating software and gobbling up ever increasing processor power. Like a geeky Bobby Riggs facing the Billy Jean King of PC world domination, I was found wanting almost everywhere with experience offering little against the nonsensical abstraction of the XP layer.

I like to make it clear that the PC was broken before I embarked on this life wasting experience. I know this to be true because it was I that had broken it while stupidly modifying the registry on the reasonable grounds that it was editable. Stuff stopped working, worked to rule or worked at all the speed needed to hunt down a lettuce. Worst of all Media Player was cattled beyond all redemption leaving my MP3 player locked in a world of two hundred tracks listened to about two hundred times.

Continue reading “It’s not very PC.” →

Apologies if they are old news. But sent to me by someone at work and I just had to share.

If Carling did advertsing and all that.