Out n about

    Were out n about wi me backpack again today.
Twer a bit misty,but nay too bad if yer get me drift.
Did me trainin route backerdsroads about.

Met a Jogger who waved, but she were engrossed wi er i-pod thing.

A dog walker walkin his boxer bitch.
She took a likin t me, slipped er leash an came back tosay ello.
Good job I aint gorra problem wi mutts innit.

After er,there were another small pooch of some desription,that alsa wanted t say ello.
This un ad a bit more decorum about er,an kept on t leash.

Waved at a train driver who waved back,or at least I think that were what he were doin.
Either that or tellin me t gerroff his railroad.
Well I ad t cross it dint I.
No, it can't a bin that,I were on t field when he came past.
So a wave isworit were then.

Add to ave a werd wi some youngun who thinks it's okay to tear up an already muddy footpath wi his motor bike. He reckons he ad permishion of the bobbies. Yeah,an I'm t Queen. He'll need to get permishion of t doctorto leave hospital if he carries on. That telegraph pole'l hurt his ed when it make contact.Speshlyas he ad no ed protection on. It'll serve him an his mates right. Noisy little gimps.

Anyway. THats all fa now you lot.
Back next time wi me exploits, in t meantime,check out the booook am puttin up ere fa ya.
S'called   "No! Really!!!"  Go an ave a luk an letus know what ya think.
Ta ra.
  

Chapter Six.Fame & Misfortune

Fame and Misfortune.




I am not famous. Not just yet. But I will be one day. Just buy this book, erm, blog and I will be. Thanks. Apparently being famous requires something called “hard work”. Myself and “hard work” don’t normally associate together. I have been known to do “work”, but don’t mention it in front of my boss. Anyway that is for the biography, which I will have “Ghost Written” for me next week, when I am famous and doing “hard work”. I mean I won’t be able to write it myself will I? I shall be too busy doing the fame stuff.



I am assuming famousness is hard work, because I am told it is, by all the famous people I don’t know, who come on telly. Also, all the things that go along with being a famous person would probably make Fame prohibitive to me. I shall have to see. For instance, there is the fact that I will never be alone. There will always be somebody there. Usually to pander after my every wish. Blimey. I could even have to have someone in to wipe my arse(that’s Ass,if you are reading this in American.), bit tricky that one, what with my piles. I will apparently, also need all of the following. All of which are essential if you are a famous one.



A bodyguard: to keep away the unwashed. Okay I concede to that. I don’t want my washed body nicked by some unwashed person while I am still using it. Even if I am not using it, for that matter. I would like to keep it around in case I find that I need it at some point later on. It is after all, the only body I have at the moment. Maybe when you get famous, they give you a spare body for just this reason.



A hair stylist: Too late on that score. That has been nicked already. Well not really. I just grew too tall for it. All I need now is a bit of furniture polish. Never hurts to keep the old noggin looking gleaming. Saves on light bulbs too. So I am now ECO friendly in the shining bonce stakes.



The accountant: I am not going to want to count all my own money am I. Not that I can count. I tried it once and couldn’t get past twenty. Had to wait for ages for her Ladyshipness to come home from shopping to help out. Then when we got to forty we had to give up. We ran out of fingers and toes, and the kids were at school, with the only calculator available to us.



The Agent: A must have item if you are famous. Not a “secret” agent. Well I don’t think so anyway. That would be silly. Apparently he or she will get more work for me, so I can earn loads more money, and then keep the accountant busy for another hours worth, because they only charge by the hourly. I am not even famous yet, and I feel like I am working hard, and that’s just thinking about it. Phew! Makes my old head spin.



The P.A: Very important this one. I thought I already had one, but my Amplifier and Mike appear to only be a P.A. system. Which is apparently a different thing all together. I am told that a P.A is a “Personal Assistant”. A person, who is an assistant. It is truly remarkable, how I could ever even imagine, that I could have tried to manage without one. Amazing. According to a book I once read, the P.A is usually female, attractive, and resplendent with large breasts. She will organise my personals (sounds fun), and my time, and make sure I am at wherever it is I need to be, when I need to be there. Blimey! That’ll take some doing. She will also answer all my calls, because being as famous as I am obviously going to be, I shall be too important to do that myself. I am not going to want to sully my delicate little hands with such a menial task. Fame type things are not things I will be able to do myself with a diary and a modern mobile phone and a computer. Oh no!



(I apologise for the attractive female and large breast comment. Just a personal preference and a reminder note for if, and when, I need a P.A. I will most likely ask my Ladyshipness to fulfil the role as she qualifies in all those departments. (Note to self: Don’t let wife read book).

(Note to Publisher: Don’t print that last bit for Gods sake or the sequel will never happen.))



A Dietician: Required so I may be fed the correct amount of calories I shall need, to do famous things. Also all the correct foody type things that are good for me. My body will become a temple. Well, now that I think about it, I think it already is. I am not sure which brewer it is a temple too, but it’s got to be a good one. I don’t drink rubbish beer.



A Personal Trainer: Whom I must worship, and owe my body to. I don’t want to walk round looking like a big fat ugly balding old git do I? I must walk round looking like a lithe lean fit ugly balding old git.



A Guru: I must employ a Guru of some description, because, religion has always been an important part of my life. “ALWAYS!” Apparently. My spirit is only my spirit because of my good friend, the Guru. He will be there to help me with my KARMA. Presently, the only Karma I know of is the one with all those rude drawings in it. But that is about to change. I will soon be able to get the updated Photo version.



This fame thing looks like it’s gonna get expensive. All the people that I am going to have to employ. By the time I am really famous, I shall be my own little industry. This little industry will be called, “An Entourage”. A famous person like me would call them, “my close friends”. Friends I have known for weeks and weeks and to whom I would trust my life, and most treasured possessions. (Except the key to the drinks cabinet.)



With the Fame, comes the inevitable Fortune. I hope. After all. What is the point in being famous if you can’t be rich too? Even with an “Entourage” to pay for. I can’t be famous and live in a two bedroom semi in a cul-de-sac in rural Suffolk. No! I will need to live in a Penthouse suite at the top of some very large building in a very large city somewhere. Or a sprawling Mansion in the rolling countryside with room for an airport. Or even both.



I will, of course, have acquired a love of horses; so therefore, I will require a brand new stable block, built to my exacting standards. (Yes. I do have standards. Low ones, but standards all the same.) Where I can house my stock of rare thorough bred mounts. Looks like I will have to learn to ride one of the beasts too. So I will need to become best mates with Lester Piggott.



Because I can’t be seen out in any old car, I will have a garage full of Classic Motors, and a brand spanking new Range Rover Sport, or two. Because that nice curly haired Mr Clarkson reckons they are the best thing to have. I for one will not disagree with the God of “Top Gear”. I am not worthy.



With wealth, I will forget how to be able to think my own thoughts. I shall have people in the “Entourage” to do that for me. This means I must have whatever it is I have heard, or thought I heard I must have. Did you follow that? Me neither.



Because I will be famous, I will need to make sure my photo appears at regular intervals in newspapers, magazines, television news programmes, and now with the dawn of the webternet, I must also be digitally captured onto everybody in the whole wide worlds computers, mobile phones, and P.D.A’s. Whatever they are. I do know that unlike P.A’s they don’t have large breasts.



When famous, I will be asked to appear on “Chat Shows”. These are programs, normally on the “Telly”, but also on “Radio”. That’s like telly, but with no pictures, so pays less. On chat shows I will be required to talk about the most important person in my life. That’ll be ME then. Also whatever it is I’m meant to be promoting. It could be a new Book, which I have just finished wroting. It’s great, because the critics said so. My new Biography. The “Ghost Written” one, which will tell all that, has happened in my life, since the last one. (The one that covered the first twelve years.) The new one will be about how I beat drugs, alcohol and a ravenous sexual appetite to get funds for my next project. Working with starving, misunderstood, former famous people, who have been struggling on, with no help at all, since the court case. Apart from royalties from their back catalogue.



I must answer all the questions with modesty and humility, so that next time I appear on telly, or radio, with the same host, he or she may refer back to it. To sit there and just smirk, like a simpleton and only answer if my Lawyer has given me the nod, is seen as a NO. NO. Not smirking like a simpleton may cause a few problems. I tend to do it a lot. Being a simpleton.



The normal man or woman in the street (the FAN), won’t understand what it is I have to do to be this famous. They will not understand the pressure of having to dodge in and out of hotels through the back door so that the paparazzi don’t see me. To make sure I am not seen with that non famous person. I must only be seen with people of the same standing. People who know what a “rider” is. (No. Still don’t know.) I can never be seen with members of my own family, who, for no fault of their own, didn’t get to be Rich and Famous. My favouritest cousin, who I spent every Summer holiday with on the farm, cannot be allowed to draw breath in my presence, unless the whole area has been searched for hidden cameras, and declared a “Camera Free Zone”. The CFZ. is the only place I am allowed to be, ME!



Being “ME”, the famous one, is so tough. Camera and Radio teams come to me, because my time is too valuable to have to keep moving round. A hotel will be secured, a suite with all my favourite things, “riders” (ah!) which I must have requested personally, will be set aside for five minute interviews. The BBC will get six minutes when in the UK. IT IS THE LAW.













































(No non famous people were harmed in the making of this chapter.)

Chapter Five. Are You Scared yet?

Are you scared yet?

Is there anything there, after we shuffle off this mortal coil? If there is, what is it? Or, if after we have done with the breathing thing, as I suspect, is that it? Do you believe in ghosts or things that go bump in the night? Who ya gonna call? Na Na Na Na Na Na , Nana Nar Na Nar. What giveth you, the shivers my dear?



I am sorry, but it has to be done. To save all our souls. I am about to bring the whole supernatural world crashing down around your lug holes. Things that go bump in the night are usually caused by, wait for it, THE WIND. No. Not that sort. No I mean the stuff, which whistles through the trees. Not the

Y-fronts. You know the thing I mean. Hurricanes. Tornados. Gales and storms. Light breezes that catch under a piece of paper, that then proceeds to scuttle off down the road, just as someone is about to pick it up. Very funny to watch. Try it on your mates with a fake tenner and a piece of fishing line. Guaranteed to raise a chucke or five.



Ghosts, it is said, are presumed to be the spirits of our dearly departed loved ones. Just wandering about waiting for us to see them one last time so they can say “taa raa love” or something like that. There’s the headless horseman, out on his steed, with his sword drawn, ready to whip off your noggin with a swish of his rapier. The Grey or White Lady depending which Tudor house or Inn you are residing at presently. The manacled and shackled nobleman who can’t stop wailing or rattling his chains: “Oh put a blinking sock in it. We are trying to sleep, you noisy inconsiderate dead person. Now bugger off.” Now we even hear of a Gray Cloaked ghost at the new hospital in Derby. There seems to be a thing amongst ghost spotters. They only see in black and white. Why? Maybe the licence for colour ghosts is prohibitively expensive.



I reckon it’s all a load of old cobblers, chuck. Just stories passed down through time, and families, generation after generation to try and scare the how’s your fathers out of the kids. But it makes for good telly and books doesn’t it. Look at “Most Haunted.” (I use the term “good telly” very lightly there.) Makes me laugh though. All those silly girlies screaming and jumping at the slightest sound or faintest of touchs. Still each to there own. “BOO ya buggers”.

For all my sceptisim though, I thought I saw a ghost once, many years ago. It was late at night. Just approaching the witching hour. I was standing at the kitchen sink, doing some of that washing up thing that her Ladyshipness tells me I must do. I looked up and there was an apparition staring back at me. It was the ugliest most hideous creature I have ever seen. Then suddenly,and without warning, it was joined by another, more attractive apparition. Just at that moment I heard a voice in my ear.



“You not finished that washing up yet?”. Bloody reflections.

I love to sit down and watch the goggle box on a Saturday night and have Mr Hammer and his House of Horrors, attempt to get me to jump out of my skin. He hasn’t managed it yet. Nor is he ever likely to. The sceptic in me is far too strong for that. That said, the special effects on modern films, are getting better. Still a long way to go before I get too concerned about Aunty Ethel’s false teeth glass, rattling about at two in the morning (Why does she do that. She isn’t even dead. She’s going to out live us all I tell you. “Just fill your glass yourself Eth” Why does she just not go back to bed, Old people, I dunno).



There is a way to give me a fright. It involves a bar, and a request for me to get the next round in. You will never see me move so fast. I could out run a bloody cheetah. Now, there’s another way. See. Just came to me then. Set a cheetah on me. That ought to scare the crap out of me.



I have been known in the past to be scared by the strangest of things though. For instance. Heights. Not so much the height itself, not even the falling from said high place. But the sudden stop at the bottom would most likely do it. No actually, now that I think about it. The fall would probably do it.



We went to Clacton a few summers ago, where they have a small fair ground on the pier itself. On that pier there is a big wheel. Not a massive one, but big enough. Her Ladyshipness and both the boys thought it would be a great idea to have a go. “Shit!” How do I get out of this without looking like a big blobby yellow scaredy cat? Now I must explain. This big wheel doesn’t utilise the standard swinging chair to take the idiots. Sorry; Punters. It has a circular gondola with a big umberella over it. This is attached to the wheel by a central pivot, with a steering wheel type thing welded to it, so the idiots inside can swivel it round to change the view as they go. I can’t actually remember the whole conversation between me and my two boys, but the end went something like this.



“NO! LEAVE IT ALONE!”



Put me in an aeroplane, different kettle of fish altogether. I can’t wait. I love it. I’ll even go up to the front and give a hand to steer it if they need one. I am a former member of Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force after all. (That’s one of those rare facts I was talking about earlier.) Sitting by the window is great. Love the views. Even the odd jump out of a perfectly serviceable one isn’t a problem. So long as I remember to strap on the right rucksack with the silky white parachute thingy in it, and not the dirty washing. That’s about as close to truly flying that you can actually get, without the wicked witch of the west coming along and turning you into a duck.



A lot of people do have what are called “PHOBIAS”. A strong fear or dislike of something. For instance, the fear of spiders, Arachnophobia (not the fear of anoraks or train spotters,that‘s Ahhhhhhhhhnoracknaphobia). It’s said to be one of the most common fears there are. These sufferers can’t even use the web.

In fact anything ending in “phobia” is meant to be the fear of what ever it is that’s in the title. I suffer from Phobiaphobia. A fear of phobias. Dogphobia must be the fear of dogs then.



Of course they don’t actually call these phobias by a name we would understand, and would know what it is meant to be the fear of, do they? It would make things a lot easier to understand if they did. No, they stick some arty farty Latin word in there to try to confuse us. Who the hell speaks Latin these days? For example do you know what the fear of elephants is called? You can bet two weeks footballers wages it doesn’t have “Elephant” in it. It should be “Elephantaphobia” or “Bigearyphobia” or “Trunkyphobia” or something. If you live in the African bush, you might have it. It would be quite rational too, so not even a real phobia, as there are elephants there, and when they get a move on, they can trample and kill you to death. Tell every one in your tribal village that you have it, and they can let you know when to get up into a tree. Tell them round here in Suffolk, and they will think you are a bit silly in the noggin and walk round all day making trumpeting noises to see how quick you can climb.



Claustrophobia and Agoraphobia are both opposites of the irrational fear of spaces. One has you pooping you knickers if you are confined to a small one, the other if you can’t get into one. I can relate to this. I have what is called “caninepublichousaphobia” It is the irrational fear of the pub being closed when I take the dog for a walk.



In fact, have you noticed, if you tell someone that you have a fear of something, for instance, the previously stated spiders? They will do everything in their power to try and scare you with one. They won’t even need to resort to a tarantula, or even a real spider. The little green top bit from a tomato, if thrown from six or seven feet away will have a very similar effect on said phobic, as the real deal. I can’t actually tell you how I know this to be a fact, but trust me. It was one of the funniest things I have ever witnessed. This probably makes me the worst father in the world. Ask my son.



But hey, if you can’t scare members of your own family, how are you ever going to learn to scare the crap out of a complete stranger?

(No elephants anoraks tomatoes were harmed in the making of this chapter.)

In the mood to hike.

Had my first full on training walk today.
Eight miles with a 10lb pack.
Gotta increase it gently or I'll be dead before I get to walk the C2C.
Weather was great again.
Maybe it just knows when I am going out.
Clear blue sky. Bright sunshine etc for the first 4 miles,then the clouds came in with a bit of wind (not me, the weather), but soon drifted off to bright sun again.
I didn't feel any effect with the pack on, but that will likely change when I double it up,and even triple it to 30lb-this will be the trek weight-so all is well.
My ankle has held up so far, and I tried half the walk with poles,and half without, just so I can get the balance right.
I am not planning to use the poles for the whole of the C2C,so I need to get my knees used to the weights.
Still got to find some hills to practice on,but Suffolk don't have too many o'them.
Never mind. I'll have to spend time wearing out the stair carpet instead.
Right bag to bed then...

Chapter Four. THE VISITATION

The Visitation.




Much has been made recently of the spate of U.F.O. sightings over the English countryside. So much so, that the Red Tops have had a field day. Nobody seems to know how a wind turbine blade managed to be ripped off and made to disappear. Except of course the tabloids. Claiming that It was damaged when one of these little green beggars crashed his flying saucer into it . Smashed it off, and took the blade away, causing squillions of pounds worth of damage. This is unlikely to be the case. It’s more likely that the thing had metal fatigue and just broke and plummeted to the ground? Then before anyone had noticed, as it happened at night, the engineers came along and removed it for safety reasons, and to investigate the cause of the failure.



I wouldn’t have thought E.T. is going to want to drag a dirty great huge turbine blade all the way across the galaxy as a souvenir. Do you? These blades are over sixty feet long. Think of the fuel consumption figures on that trip. He gets home, and hands the keys back to his dad, and tells him that it might need filling up. That’ll go down well. Besides which, a bit of metal the size of Cheshire is not going to fit inside his suitcase either, unless he has a shrink ray of course, so it’s not going to get past customs in a hurry either is it! Did our little green friend take it as proof to his accident insurer (AXA.-Alien Xtra Assured -)? Or to explain the big dent in the front of the spaceship when he gets back home; and tells everyone that the damage was caused by some Earth plonker waving his arms about, yes, he really did try to avoid him, but he had three arms, and they were going round really fast. The fact is he was really very big. But no, he can’t be really sure whether the Earthling survived the accident. Anyway it was raining, and he didn’t think it was a good idea to stop and check, in case things turned nasty, and caused a scene.



Don’t get me wrong. I am all for the idea of E.T. paying us a visit. The E.T. I refer to here is the Extra Terrestrial. Not my mother, Eileen, whose initials are the same as the aforementioned visitor. Hope that clears things up a little bit. Just in case someone got the idea that my mum is an alien. She assures me she isn’t, but how can I be sure? Besides, that film has already been made. Was our alien friend attempting to communicate with the wind turbine as it looked like HIS mother? Who knows? Why would we care? So long as he didn’t kill anyone.



It does however, give us pause for thought. Are we really alone in the Universe? Is it not a bit conceited of us to think that life could not evolve anywhere else in the Cosmos? Even now scientists at N.A.S.A. and Cambridge are planning to send probes to Mars. The planet, not the chocolate bar made in Slough. Why? Well they say they can prove there is life there. How? A teklyscope thing on Earth has discovered clouds of methane gas covering the surface of the red planet. Fan blinking tastic. Positive proof that there are Martians.That’s what they say. If it’s true it would also be positive proof that they have a flatulence problem. I too, have this embarrassing condition, (usually after beans and sprouts and beer) as anyone will tell you. I wouldn’t want to share it with anybody else, as a rule. Would you? Let alone some Martians you have never met before. That would be very rude. Therefore, perhaps we should maybe leave them alone till they are evolved enough to find a cure.



There are, however, billions of stars in the Universe. Which means it’s likely that there are billions and billions of planets to go with them. It is more likely, than not, that life does exist elsewhere. But would E.T. really come all this way and not actually stop to say “OUCH!”? If I were an alien, and a lot of people already say that I am, and I came along to Earth with my alien mates, possibly for a game of footie, or cricket, I would like you to know that you are not alone. That there are a vast host of different beings and races out there, just waiting to play football with you, and welcome you to the greater universe. Just so long as you don’t shoot at them with missiles, or play Morrissey records to them. We would all then, likely as not, catch the common cold, and die to death, fatally. This would be a bit of a shame, as the mission would come to a very abrupt end and the Intergalactic Football Cup would have about as much meaning in reality as the World Series in Baseball. Humans would then be known as the Greatest Mass Murderers in Intergalactic history.



Now a proper question. Are flies an alien race? They most certainly do not look of this Earth. I mean, look at those non blinking eyes for a start off. A thousand of them. No point in going to Spec-Savers then. That would wipe out the buy one pair get another pair absolutely free offer off the face of the Earth for those of us that need to see. I doubt, anyway, they could pilot some interstellar craft, through the vastness of space, as they don’t have any fingers or opposable thumbs. They do however have a neat little drinking straw type thing attached to their nose, which may come in handy in a drinking game that I know. It is possible, that they are from another world, and are here on a mission to spread disease, and pestilence, among the indigenous population? Quite successfully it would seem. But is it wise to kill an alien being without fear of interstellar warfare breaking out? It’s possible that I have killed the odd few thousand flies in my time, but I can’t actually say that I saw them as aliens, until now. There are billions more of them, than us, but we are bigger and strongerer than they are, HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Sorry about that. Now where was I. Oh yes? Its okay to kill the odd one or two million of the pesky little good for nothing blighters. Because, other than feeding spiders and birds, and spreading disease and pestilence, I can’t actually see a real reason for their existence anyway. So, are flies, aliens? It is possible, but, for now, this will have to remain, the greatest unanswered question, known to me and God.



I do have other questions, such as, how does gravity keep us on the ground, when we aren’t made of metal? Ha hah. I mean, Earth is a ruddy great magnet isn’t it? However this question and others like it, are totally irrelevant, and have nothing to do with aliens and their intergalactic fleets of space ships, preparing to invade our glorious home world.



If beings from another planet did come to visit our humble little water filled globe, would they only go to America? Let’s face it, whenever a film is made about aliens, they always land in the good old U.S of America. Is this because of the vast, wide open spaces, where they can observe us, or assimilate themselves and remain amongst us without being detected. Is it because there is a better selection of burger chains? We only have the Big Mac or Burglar King. They have a different one in every town over there in Americaland. When you go to one of those fast food outlets, can you be sure that, that isn’t an alien behind the counter asking you, “do you want fries with that?” You don’t know, do you! They may be fattening us up to devour us later when we’re relaxed and comfortable in our own size.



Is it coincidence that alien encounters only started to appear after the arrival of fizzy cola style drinks? Was this just another ingenious product, designed by aliens, to make us taste sweeter for when the Great Eating Festival happens on Qwuag in 2047? We won’t be any the wiser, because we don’t eat each other (usually), but I bet by then, we don’t taste like we do now. We’re more likely to taste like Number 136 from your local Chinese Take-away. Sweet n sour Chicken. Mmmmm Mmmm.



They never turn up outside Number 10 Downing Street and walk up to the policeman on duty and ask to see our “Good Friend Gordon”(the “GFG”) do they? Is this because Gordon himself is one of them, and they beam in, so as not arouse suspicion? How can we tell? You can’t in all honesty expect anyone to believe he is human can you? Questions. Questions.



Have you noticed, that when an alien allegedly appears, it’s always the least most likely person to be believed, that they choose to make themselves known to. Some old bloke on his way home from another bloody good session down at The Red Lion. Three steps forwards, two steps back. Lurch to the side. “Bugger. That’s a bit bright.” “Turn that bloody light off ya bastards.” “Bloody hell, you’ve got long arms haven’t you.” “What are you doing with that needle?”

“Where am I?” “Oh! Hello Prime Minister. They’ve got you too?” Never a Cambridge Professor. Oh no!



Is the credit crunch, just actually a cover for the government, so they can squirrel away all the money, to pay for the flight back to wherever it is they came from? I mean. It can’t be cheap to travel ten billion light years across the galaxy. Not, in “I’m Mandy, Fly me”, class anyway. If us normal people were to go, we would be put into steerage, right next to the kitchens, and told to hang on tight, as the “jump to hyperspace is always a bit tricky, what with all this extra weight and everything.” Don’t even go down the road of asking when lunch is going to be served, as the answer may not be what you really want to hear.

“Lunch will be served on the First Class Deck. In an hour.” “Good day to you Gordon. How is Tony and his Family these days? We haven’t seen him for ages. Not since we left that little W.M.D. memo accidentally lying around. Good idea of yours. Can I take your order for lunch?” “Number 136 Sweet’ n’ Sour Chicken. Excellent choice if I may say so sir.”

“Do you want fries with that?”





































































(No sweet n sour chickens , flies or Aliens were harmed on purpose in the making of this chapter)

Chapter Three

Sign of the times.




Strange things keep appearing at the side of the road. They are called, road signs. They are there to inform us driverists of things that may have a consequence to our journey. They are placed there by council workmen in the middle of the night, or by the traffic stazi, whenever they feel like, and the powers that be, that build our amazing network of car parks. Sorry. Roads. Although it is getting harder to distinguish between the two. Maybe N.C.P. has merged with the Highways Agency and the government buried the news when they announced we were having a credit crunch (I thought that was a new type of biscuit).



The main example I sight for this car park theory, is the outer London ring road. Known affectionately throughout the land as the “Road to Hell”. The M25. It was never designed to be a car park, there are no parking bay markings for instance, but it has most assuredly turned into one. It’ll not be long now, before the clampers are out and on there way to spread there own brand of love, and extortion, to the masses.



Of course, it doesn’t help, does it when five billion Chelsea Tractors rally up at 08.45hrs am o’clock in the morning, on any given day, Monday to Friday, to deposit Tristan and Samantha at one of those out of catchment area schools. The ones that costs more per term, than a round the world cruise on the Queen Mary II. Is it any wonder, nobody can get to work on time.



Unexpectedly, and this was as much of a shock to me as it will be to you, these vehicles are not the main culprits for the delays. But you can be forgiven for believing it to be true. Oh no. That accolade must surely go to the chaps, and chapesses sitting, watching the Motorway cameras. Probably in some office complex, just outside Mumbai.



I can guarantee you that on the stroke of half past four, every weekday morning, they come back from the coffee machine and start putting the world to rights. Just so that you know, Mumbai is several hours in front of us, so these people get plenty of practice, by turning Mumbai itself into one gigantic mass of stationary metalwork. Usually push bikes. Start small, work up, appears to be the motto.



I think that maybe they have a sweepstake on who can make the longest queue, and then at the end of the week, the winner takes the pot. The first thing they do is set the overhead gantry matrix signs and cameras to 50mph. This slows the trucks down from 55mph to about 45mph, as the only car on the road at this time of day is sitting in the middle lane, doing forty five because he already has twelve points and dare not go any faster. He doesn’t actually know he can move over, because he is still actually asleep. Also at that time of day there are only two trucks on the road. Mine and my mate, Fred’s, stuck behind Charlie boy there who is dreaming of one day owning a Ferrari, just as soon as he gets his licence back next time.





The system was installed to ease the congestion. Well that’s what they told us, and as we all know, that these cameras bite. The more perceptive amongst us, know for a fact, they were put in place, to pay for Mr Blair’s holidays in far away places. Whatever happened to border control? How the hell does he keep getting back in? Him and his mate Mandy. One minute they are out, the next they are in. Will it never end?



Now, what these matrix boards, actually seem to do, is add to the problem. I, myself have been on that very stretch of car park at 05:00hrs am o’clock in the morning (I lie not), casually going about my business. All by myself. Bereft of any other vehicle within 800 yards (apart from Fred that is), only to have the signs turn to 50 or even 40. Now I am not stupid enough to believe I can see a mile up the road (I don’t drive a BMW), to see a hold up. That is a fact. I can’t. When they tell you to slow down to a crawl, you either slow down, or lose the folding contents of your wallet. It’s as simple as that. It is of no consequence to them that there are no hold ups, or any other traffic on the road for that matter. All that concerns these people is you are there to be slowed down. By hook or by crooked hook. If you don’t, you pay £60, and earn yourself three penalty points at every camera. So by the time you have gone from the M40 to the M3, your licence has been taken away and you are locked up for ever. Remove the cameras and ease the prison overcrowding problem. Simple pimple. Another brilliant idea to help the nation, by me. Bloody hell! I’m good!



Not satisfied with stopping the Eastern Corner of Britain from getting on with getting on, they have now also managed to transform the once placid M42 into a seething mass of static machinery with the very same techlogeiny. Thus this stretch of our massive car park network has been renamed. CAMERA ALLEY. As we speak they have done the same to the M6 at Junction four up to the Spaghetti hoops junction, or whatever it’s called, at Birmingham. This can only mean, that by the end of the 2010’s there will be one massive joined up line of parked vehicles. Maybe we will be stuck next to each other one day soon. Don’t worry though, because, although I was never a boy scout (I did once play the part of Baden Powell, at our village fair, so can I now say sorry to my fellow villagers, about the knees),I shall be preparafied. I’ll have the kettle on. Come on over for a brew. Fetch your own cup.



Then there is the amazing “SLOW! POLICE ACCIDENT” signs. These are a brilliant idea. They let you know in advance that the Stazi have had an accident, a slow one, so as not to hurt themselves. It worries me. Shouldn’t these Police style people be trained in the art of not having accidents? They are after all the custodians of our highways and byways, along with the plastic stazi that turn up half an hour after everything has been cleared up. I do believe for the most part, they are there to help, and they do put up with a lot of abuse (not from me, I am a good boy), but come on guys. A few less accidents will give us normal driverists a better chance of making our own carnage. Thank you very much. And we do such a better job of it too.





Then come the “CAUTION! WORKFORCE IN ROAD! SLOW!” Now there really is no need for name calling. I know I am not the sharpest pencil in the draw, but Slow? Please. I am not slow. Ask her Ladyshipness. She will tell you I am very quick Thank you. I am not the one standing in the middle of the road am I! So get out of the road! You bloody idiots. You’ll get yourself run over. Why would anyone want to be in the middle of the road when there are masses of BMW drivers on the prowl looking for some poor unsuspecting road mender, to crash his brand new thought controlled beemer into? Can you call them masses, or is there some other collective noun for Beemer drivers? An “imbecile” of Beemer drivers sounds about right.



Sorry! Just going off topic for a second. On the subject of BMW’s. Can someone please explain why a £35000+ car doesn’t have working indicators? Are they one of those expensive optional extras that nobody ever has fitted? Be honest now. Have you ever seen a BMW with an indicator working? I bet you haven’t. Maybe they are “thought controlled” as I mentioned just a moment ago. That would explain a lot. I shall go and take one for a test drive, for research purposes only. Maybe even do a bit of thoughting. But do not worry yourselves on my behalf. Again, it is for research purposes only. I do this for the common good, and for no reward whatsoever. Regardless of the pain and substantial humiliation involved.



Anyway. Where was I? Oh yes. I was in Cornwall just a few short days ago, and I found a little grey foldaway sign at the side of the road. Well I didn’t actually find it, as it wasn’t actually lost. I spotted it. It was pretending to be an overhead matrix sign. You will have seen these things. They sit there all day, and all night, flashing big bright amber lights, saying “SIGN UNDER TEST”. Test for what? Spelling? Unlikely, but who knows. But this little fold up sign, was sitting by the A38 looking a bit sorry for itself, declaring to the whole world (well Cornwall at least), that it was also a “SIGN UNDER TEST”. Poor little fella. I felt really sorry for him. I nearly went back to pick him up, and bring him with me, to show him what he is likely to grow up to be. He would have liked that. Bless.



Now for a favourite of mine. As you drive through rolling countryside, you will have seen the signs that tell you of a “HIDDEN DIP”. I have, but I always seem to find them. This means they weren’t hidden in the first place. So that sign is a blatant lie. If this is the case, then the councils should go around and replace these “Hidden Dips” with “UNHIDDEN DIP” signs, or, now here is the radical in me coming out, no sign at all. Think of the money wecould save on signs that aren't required (I think I just saved us all from an extra 30% tax on the petrol. Hell! Im'm good.).


Then there are the signs which tell you of the new traffic lights ahead. New traffic lights. What was wrong with the old ones? Nothing. All they ever did all day was to stop cars and buses and Lorries, and a damn fine job they were doing too. Then out of the blue, some hard hatted chump comes along and tells them they are to be replaced by new more efficient time wasting devices. New traffic island. Leave it out. Or maybe a brand spanking new roundabout. Fine. But I have never been down this road before, and I would have liked to have seen the old ones. Thanks, for taking that opportunity away from me. Why remove them when not everybody has seen them. Give the things a blooming chance. Just because they look a bit old and dishevelled, doesn’t mean you should just willy nilly consign them to the great traffic appliance storage yard in the sky. You wouldn’t send your Granny before she had actually curled up her toes. Would you? So why send the signage and lights and things. Smacks to me a bit of “Big Brother”.



That’s another thing. Bloody cameras mounted on any fixed object to keep tabs on our every movement. Hope they’re not in my bathroom too. That could be a bit embarrassing. My movements are very personal to me. Driving or otherwise. They even have video cameras in those stazi cars too. This could be why they keep having those accidents. Who knows? Perhaps I shall be appearing on “Police! Stop! Camera! Action!” on Discovery channel at some point in the near future .See you on the telly soon.



Can I now just point out that, not all signs at the side of the road are for road safety. There has in recent years been the advent of the trailervert. That’s a trailer left in a field by the road, with an advert on it. Great for road safety. You will have seen them. They have a picture of a house, and say “IF YOU LIVED HERE. YOU WOULD BE HOME NOW”. That’s all well and good. But I reckon if I wanted to live in a bloody field, I would have myself turned into a bull. I would be freezing cold too. It’s blooming Winter. It’s a blinking empty field you bloody idiot advert tizers. So there









*STOP PRESS*

I have just received a phone call from Fred. He is on the M42 heading north from Junction 3 to the M6 at junction 7. Right through the previously mentioned CAMERA ALLEY. He has travelled the ten miles or so without once having to slow down. The reason for this must be, Mumbai Central have had an extra long coffee break, and failed to turn the cameras and signs on. The time is 07:00hrs am o’clock in the morning. Therefore we may conclude from this startling revelation, that the flow of traffic is improved by leaving the bloody things switched off. I thank You.















































































(No traffic signs or BMW drivers were unintentionally hurt in the making of this chapter)

Chapter TWO

Dog versus Brother.



Some people get up on a Monday morning, and the first thing they do is look out of the window and check the weather. That’s what the BBC is for. Check the night before. Dopey. Anyway. They then decide whether or not to go to work. Others have predetermined the night before, having checked the weather, that work is going to be short by at least one employee. Those are the clever ones who have their excuses ready early. Particularly at Christmas and New Year.



Excuses are always a good idea to have on stand-by, all year round. Especially if your mode of transport is a 1987 Austin Metro, that only starts when it’s dry, and the Sun is approaching its zenith. Oh, and your brother borrowed it last night, and forgot where he left it, the drunken lout. Other excuses are available for a fee. Brothers, are optional, but for no charge at all.



Apart from the occasional excuse, why do we need brothers in the first place? Does your boss even know if you have a brother or not? Wouldn’t a dog be a better idea to have around the place? Anyhow, I blame the parents. If I’d wanted a brother, I’d have told them. I don’t ever remember going up to my parents and saying, “Okay, it’s time I had a brother, all my toys are broken, I need someone to blame.” I could have just as easily blamed a dog. Which we already had.



To be fair to my long suffering parents, at the time of my own brother’s arrival, I didn’t know how much work was involved in getting him. (My friend Mike, in the good ole U. S of Merca, tells me; “it’s only work if it’s more than 15 minutes”. Hells Bells. Fifteen Minutes? That’s a whole years worth. Americans. Always going that bit better (or in this case fifteen bits better.) No one thought to tell me how much work there was involved looking after him once he arrived either. Phew!



I am told my brother was a much bigger baby than me, and judging by his size now, that must be true. I can only imagine the pain and agony involved for that poor stork having to carry him all that way? But then I am not a stork, and I don’t know how much pain a stork can handle. Quite a fair amount, I reckon, looking at my brother. A dog would’ve been a lot less effort to transport too. A lot less painful for Mr Stork there.



It is said, Men and pain do not mix. This, I believe. Women on the other hand, really can handle pain. A LOT!!! Some can even inflict it at will. This I know from first hand experience. I have been married to one for twenty five years. Maybe we should have them trained up, to bring the babies. This would remove the need for the stork to be inflicted with the pain of bearing a child.



Now I can see that some of you will be thinking, why does he believe that the stork brought his brother? Well I was there. It was a home delivery. A bit like the Pizza. There was no Mum and Dad disappearing for days on end, then just turning up with a baby. None of that. They were upstairs. There was a lot of silence, and then a lot of screaming noises, obviously the stork couldn’t find the right window to go to at first. That explains the swear words as well. “This is just silly and naïve”. I hear you say. (Damn those voices in my head.) Ha ha ha. I laugh at your ignorance. For those of you who don’t believe in “The Stork”, just look up Santa Clause on the internet, and you will find loads of stuff you probably didn’t know about him. He also has a brother called Fred. This is also one of those rare facts that you pick up in life. Besides which, I’ve seen the movie, so it must be true. Now since I have proved the existence of Santa, I have therefore proved the existence of the Stork, the Tooth Fairy, and for that matter, the Easter Bunny. Don’t try to tell me otherwise. I won’t be listening to your lies!



But enough of this nonsense, and back to brothers. What are they for? Apart from being a bloody good excuse, for when something happens and you need someone to blame? For example when you let one out, and it’s a really bad one, who do you point the finger at? Well, you see that’s were the dog comes in. I shall now prove it. When there is a strange smell in the room, the dog will just get up and walk away to another part of the house. How much more proof can you need. It’s guilty, so must take itself away, shame faced, to a corner called, the “basket”. So that’s one for the dog, zero for the brother.



“My brother ate my homework.” is nowhere near as plausible as, “The dog ate my homework, sir” is it? Two-nil.



Okay. You don’t normally have to take a brother for a walk. One back for the brother, then. That would be no fun anyway. He isn’t likely to fetch a stick for you. No matter what threats you make. Even if he did, he would carry it in his hand. Where as a dog would carry it in its mouth. This, is much more comical to watch, as it drags a three foot long tree, along the floor, shaking its head from side to side, as it goes, because it’s twice the size of its little body. (The stick. Not the head.) Three-one.



Would your brother chase after a bouncy rubber ball? I doubt it. He would wait till it stopped bouncing, then casually and with no humour at all, pick it up, and meander back at a slovenly, “I’m bored, can we go home now?” pace. Not your little poochie friend. He would try to catch it in mid bounce, twelve feet up in the air, and miss, with every bounce. Until it got to eight inches. See what I mean. A lot funnier to watch than a brother. Four-one. I don’t really need to keep score from here, because Poochie is gonna be the winner, by a bigger margin than a Tory candidate in Surrey.



Dogs are also easier to house train. By the time it’s four months old, it has stopped crapping behind the washing machine, and stands by the door making strange pleading “let me out” noises. Brothers, on the other hand, wear nappies till they are at least two, maybe even two and a half. When they go poop, they sit there with a weird expression on there face, and are become surrounded by an aroma that even the stoutest of hooters (that’s a nose, not a pair of boobies) can stand. They remain like this until “Mummy” notices and comes to sort it out. Normally with comments like “Who’s got a smelly bum then! Coochie coo”. Notice this was not a question, but an exclamation. She already knew it wasn’t the dog.



And doesn’t brotherly pooh smell so much more worserer than your own? Okay dogggie do do’s smell rather bad too. But after house training, they don’t do it while sitting three feet away from you, pulling an extraordinary face. No. They sit by the door waiting to be let out. Then it’s not going to be your problem, until you have to go and clear it up. You can leave that a while, can’t you? Okay I grant you, dogs do suffer from flatulence. Quite a lot too. And they can be rather foul, can’t they! But then, they take the blame for that and move away to the “basket” .



Now that I am on the subject of dogs and pooh, (did you see how I managed to do that, clever eh!) A tip: For dog owners everywhere. A puplick information announcement if you like. Take some fragrant nappy sacks with you when out walking with your Fido. It’s so much more people friendly than your local supermarket carrier bag. And there are no holes either. So no leakage. Therefore, no dog pooh on your hands when you get to the pub. It also masks the stench, while the bag resides in your pocket, prior to a trip to the Dog Bin.



Another excellent reason to have a dog! He needs to go for a walk. Is it your fault he likes to go past a place that sells ale and other intoxicating liquors? What finer and nobler reason can your good self have, than to ease the burden on your good lady, after a hard days shop?



“It’s okay dear; I’ll take Pongo for his walk.” Sounds a lot betterer than, “Right love. I’m off out to get pissed with our kid. Don’t wait up.” The dog won’t be grassing you up and telling her you went to the pub. She’ll be able to work that one out all by herself when you eventually get back. Also doggie won’t be mentioning the fact you spent the last hour and a half trying to chat up the barmaid. Your significant other already knows what you’re like. She expects nothing less. She also knows the barmaid from her shopping trips, and knows you have more chance of getting off with His Holyness the Pope.



It is unlikely that your brother would grass you up either. But why take the chance of a little revenge being metered out in your general direction. After all the years of blame, and abuse you have heaped upon him.



And finally. Your dog, being the bestest friend you have, or have ever had, in the whole wide world, EVER, will always be available when you want a pint or six.



Your brother, on the other hand may have other, less brotherly commitments. He may be having a quiet moment to himself in the smallest room in the house without the aid of a nappy. He may even, have found a dog of his own. How selfish is that!



I rest my case “Your Honour”.



Dog versus Brother.



No contest.





























































(No dogs or brothers were hurt in the making of this chapter. Apart from the brother.)

How not to write a book.

A while a go I decided to write a book.

Then I found out how hard it is to get a book published.

Then I found out that you hadto sell your House/Car/Wife and Children,and your favourite Aunt to be able to afford to publish it.

On the other hand you could publish each chapter as a blog.

So here goes Chapter one.

Who the Hell?

Right, first things first. You may be thinking who the bloody hell is this bloke? Why does he think he can write a book, and can he even write?

Well that’s my picture on the blog. Once you have finished with this you can leave it out to scare the kids at Halloween, or, keep the bailiffs away. You can even give it to your best mate, but I doubt he would read it, so ignore that last comment.



I tried thinking once, with disastrous results, and decided it was too dangerous for the world, and mankind, to let me do it again, without the aid of a safety net. Saying that, though, they do let me out on my more lucid days, which can’t be a bad thing can it.



Can I write? It has been said, frequently, that I never stop talking, so all I have to do is turn those rambling thoughts and comments into the written word, and Hey Ho, Robert is your Mother’s brother. A book.



Well, that is the theory side of it investigated, and these are my words you are reading, so I am sure you will find out in the next few pages, whether it was worth the effort. If you think “what a load of old testicles”, then you have possibly acquired a new doorstop, and, a cheap child and bailiff scaring device. If you think, “what a brilliant piece of literature, who is this guy, and when’s the next book out?” I’ll have made a few bob out of the deal too. It is a win, win situation all round.



Anyway, a bit of background. I am sure you are eager to be learnamicated. I am just an average very good looking, modest bloke, married to a woman, we have two kids, and an easily emptied bank account. I just wanted to have a go at writing a book, that tells an account of the goings on inside my head, the UK, the Whole Wide World, or just some subject, which I thought about, and have no knowledge of, or right to talk about whatsoever.



An account from the perspective of a man, who once again, failed to get the lottery machine, to dish out the correct numbers to win the jackpot. When I do win, it’s “Watch out World” Until then, I am as broke today, as I was yesterday. Even more so, because I had to pay for the bloody tickets in the first place. Maybe we should have a free lottery, where Mr Brown and the government just give you money.



Hang on a tick. What was I thinking of? Hasn’t that been done already? I think they call it the banking system. Okay then, I shall try again. Here is another idea. We could all open our own banks. Then declare we cannot carry on, due in part, to lack of capital. This will mean dear old Gurning Gord will have to tell his mate Mr. Sweetheart, or whatever his name is, at the treasury to bail us out to the tune of trillions of quid’s. Not those horrible Euro things that seem to be so popular when you are on holiday.



So being Mr Perpetually Skint, I will do absolutely anything, and I mean, anything, to help fill my wallet, and pay the rent. Also from time to time, feed the family on something more substantial than cardboard. Possibly, even earn enough money to take a holiday further away than the bottom of the garden.



I thought to myself (and thank God, I am not telepathetic), write a book. It can’t be that hard. I learnt to write a bit at school. Not a lot, I grant you, but I still manage to be able to put pen on paper most days. Even if it is just fiddling my works time sheet (Crime sheet, may be more appropriate). It may turn out to be just another one of those get rich quick schemes that I occasionally dream up, which her Ladyshipness reckons is doomed to failure, before it actually starts. God knows I try. Nevertheless, if I don’t even give it a go, I’ll never know, will I?



If I can persuade enough gullible people, sorry, literary scholars, to buy a book that I have writed, I may become rich, and possibly famous. I could have my handsome good looks recognised by complete strangers wherever I go. Even, maybe, have my very own stalker, instead of me doing the stalking.



I’ll have money in the bank, if it still exists this time next week, and also some left over to bail the kids out when they get themselves into debt (like I’m always in). Even my bank manager has asked if we can possibly revert to the old type of banking, where I leave my money with him, and not he leave his money with me. Well just, excuse me Mr Bank Manager Person. I think you will find that, you and your mates, down at the Bank Managers’ R’ Us Club are actually using my money to pay for your dinner and drinks. Thank you very much. It’s no use saying sorry now, either, cos we don’t believe you. I mean, I didn’t really mind the arrangement we had. I think it was working rather well indeed. Then you chaps came, cap in hand, to Uncle Alistair. “Please sir: Can you help us out a little bit. We seem to have made a monumental cock up in the sub-prime market, and accidentally spent all of Britain’s money on some American houses that just blew away. A bit.” I don’t know why you’re so worried. It is only the world economy after all. Nothing serious. Just leave that nice Barry O’Barma, the new Irish African American Japanese Indian, President to sort it out. There you go. Credit crunch dead in its tracks. Single-handed. That’s me! Doing my bit for the good of the whole world. What a guy. I shall take your applause, and give them to the poor people. Oh! That will be me then, I think.



There you go. I did a think. It’s a strange and dangerous concept. Most people who know me, won’t believe that I can put my brain into gear long enough to actually do it. Unless it is to ask directions to the nearest pub.

This I no longer need to do either. As I am now all technologied up, with a satnav. This gives me all the directions I shall ever need, and a few that I don’t. No longer, for me, the joys of being lost in some strange town. Going round roundabouts six times, before I know which exit is the one I should take. Then half a mile down the road realise it was the wrong one, and have to back track. Okay, that’s fine, if you are in your car. But not so good if you’re in a bloody great articulmalated truck like mine, which takes longer to turn round than the Exxon Valdese, and we know what happened there, don’t we kids! If you do see a large articumalated vehicle trying to turn round on your front garden, spare a thought. I only got lost because some local chap told me the industrial estate was, “Down there on the left, driver. You can’t miss it”. Don’t worry. It’s only grass. It’ll grow back. Eventually!



Today (Sunday, first one of the year) I find myself with a dilemma. Do I shower and dress in my scruffs, ready to drag my sorry, lazy, fat arse outside into the freezing realm that is, MY front garden, to bring in the Christmas lights, or do I shower and put my Sunday finest jeans and t-shirt on, just in case her Ladyshipness decides we need to pop out to do some more shopping.



What is it with these girlies and shopping? The age old, hate of us men. (Unless, of course it’s for cars, or gadgets, -big boys toys, - as we know them.) The shops were closed for ONE day. Yes, ONE whole day, so now they have to go out and make up for it. The girlies need to be out there shopping, with all the other girlies. Fighting over a pair of knickers or pillowcases, in a sale at Woolies, that’s closing down tomorrow, because nobody went shopping there when there WASN’T a sale on. Maybe they should have taken a leaf out of the DFS philosophy. “If we aren’t having a sale, there’s no point in being open. So, it’s the last few days SALE before the next one starts.”



Oh, how I long for the good old days, when Sundays were all about the long lie in. A bit of early morning nookie, Sunday roast (so called because it’s a roast, and it’s Sunday). A snooze on the couch. Some late afternoon nookie. Then, Time Team with Tony Robinson in the evening, explaining how the Romans invented everything, and, why they were better than we are. How right can one man be? How right indeed. But no. No lie in. No nookie. No Sunday roast. No nookie. No Time Team. Just shopping.



Do these female girls not know anything? The Romans never went shopping on a Sunday. It is a day of rest. Either that or they were all out killing people or, were off inventing things, for example, the Aqueduct, Education, The Roads. They go without saying. “And remember what it used to be like round here before the Romans ?” Oh, yes! I love Monty Python too, but it’s too sophisticated for the girls. Mainly because they are out shopping.



On a serious note, though. Most of the roads in Britain, the major ones, that is, generally follow old Roman ones.The A2, Watling Street, to Londineum from Dover. The A5, (also called Watling Street. Damned clever those Romans, keep it simple, keep it subtle), from Londineum to Holyhead. The A10. The A1 that goes “up north”. They at least in part follow on from our Italian friends. The shortest route between two points is after all a straight line. Except when you’ve had a drink or twelve. Then it doesn’t really matter.



Bet you weren’t expecting to be edumafied by me, were you? So for the rest of this book, lock the door, check for paper (if there isn’t enough, don’t panic. There will be some emergency spare pages at the back of the book to help out), sit back, read a while, and wash your hands afterwards.

Be preparified to be astounded by facts you never knew you needed to know. Some of which are probably made up, due to lack of research, on my part, and a few that may have strayed in, inadvertently without me noticing. There will be, littered throughout these pages, strange words that look vaguely like words you already know, but are a bit odd. This is because, I am, a bit odd. There will be references to bodily functions and certain parts of said bodily.



Have no fear, as all of the events and eventualities described here, within these covers will have already, most likely, happened, and the world is still turning.

If it seems like I don’t know what I am talking about. Don’t worry, this is one of those rare facts I mentioned. Generally, I don’t usually know what the hell I’m talking about.



Ask the wife.







































(I was only hurt a little during the making of this chapter………She hit me.)

Back on the TRAIN GANG

Okay,so I laid off the walking training for a monthand a half.
It wasn't my fault.
Someone put rain andChristmas right in the middle of my training plan.
Don't worry though.
I am BACK,and don't my legs know it.

     To start with I had a large cooked brekkie,which I cobbled together with my own fair hands,to prepare my body for the riggors of the day.
And what a day.
      Okay it was minus 1 out there, but beautiful sunshine,making it a great day to get back to training.
I still didn't bother with the backpack,that comes later,but I did use my new trekking poles.
So all wrapped up in my Mountain Lite tech t shirt, Craghopper micro fleece,Rab Micro fleece,Sprayway light weight water and windproof jacket and the old faithful woolly hat,time check 11:53, off I popped.
      Okay it's only an eight mile(12km) circuit,but it's enough to get the blood pumping and the muscles asking "are we there yet",and for the most part it is around relativley flat farmland(There are no mountains in Suffolk.I think the Vikings plundered them a while back).
     I had to make sure I was back by half two, because Dad'sTaxi was required.
Again,not many folk about,apart from the odd dog walker,and a middle aged couple out in wellies

     Anyway,there are still five months to go before the Great Adventure begins,but you can't fault my timing.I got backat half two exactly,just as my taxi fare was turning up,so no real warm down permitted,but it was warm in the car after five minuits,and that was without the heater on.

    After returning,it was up to the bath,and a nice long soak in bubbles up to my earholes.This won't be possible on the C2C unless someone going in May builds a bath house every ten miles or so.We don't want to  be going Native now do we.