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: