Go to Starbucks
Got Fifty bucks?
For Monster Trucks
Woman's butt's stuck
Down on your luck
Don’t give a f*ck
Gas-guzzlin’ cars
Boob job scars
Men from Mars
Topless bars
One-under pars
Hardy-Har-Hars
Silicon horror everywhere
Platinum hair
Wild-eyed stares
Stocks n shares
Big cab fares
No-one cares
Don’t chastise me
Criticise me
Tell lies about me
Terrorise me
Eroticise me
Supersize me
Kalifornia baby, livin' The American Dream.
Took to the tready this lunchtime for some soul re-alignment. Hit the 10K button and flogged out a sweaty one in fifty-three minutes, i-pod cranked, CNN news ticker running across the screen in front of me. What a selection, a cross-section of what America needs to know:
[COLOR="Purple"]Obama ‘less patriotic than McCain’ say voters
Angelina Jolie checks into Hospital, France, to give birth to twins
Tiger Woods ‘had sore knee for twelve years’ before recent surgery
Barstow: man charged with assault after hitting mother in head with three pound Polish sausage
Prince Charles’ car ‘to run on recycled wine’
Williams Sisters rule Wimpleton
Ford sales of new cars down 28%
Gas (petrol) ‘over four dollars a gallon in many States’ *
Man ‘loses will to live’ on LA treadmill[/COLOR]
Hm, let’s link to that last story shall we?
Jock McSwede, a big-eared lardy 'bloke' from Loowis in England-shire, Europe, had a near-death experience in a Los Angeles hotel gym this Tuesday lunchtime.
‘I was chuggin’ away on the tready’ said McSwede, tugging his forelock and adjusting his coal-smeared sack clothing ‘when all of a sudden I ‘ears the door go an’ blow me dahn if me will to live ain’t done and scarpered, if ya like Guv’nor’
McSwede dashed from the gymnasium to find his errant soul sucking down a supersized Gin and Tonic at the bar next to a large Lizard and several life-size Barbie Dolls.
[SIZE="1"]Dick Van Dyke, CNN, Los Angeles International Airport[/SIZE].
The Fear and Loathing has started. Tomorrow morning I mount my trusty steed and head into the Nevada desert for the four-hour sunrise dash for Vegas. I’m told the temperature will hit 100 ‘somewhere around 10:30’ – I’m beginning to think the convertible was a poor choice. Fried lard anyone?
Track du jour: Spizz Energy Where's Captain Kirk.
* [SIZE="1"]our petrol is just under eleven US dollars a gallon[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Gas (petrol) over four dollars a gallon in many States (our is just under eleven a gallon)
Hmm, it's the equivalent of US$6.80/gallon as of this morning here. That means it costs me about half a days wages (before tax) to fill the tank in my car. Not that I can afford to fill it these days.
No running here Bubba; it's just too darned hot.
And no more treadies for Freddy; I'm all done with the hamster wheel.
My estimate of 100 degrees before 10:30 was a tad off. The giant thermometer - possibly the dullest 'tourist attraction' since tumbleweed - just past Baker showed 96 degrees at a few minutes after nine in the a.m. By noon we were way beyond 120.
Danny Boyle's Sunshine contains a scene where one of the characters exposes himself to massive amounts of extreme sunlight. The result, enhanced by some fine cinematography, is a shimmering, disorienting, dancing blur that screws mercilessly with your senses - pretty much what I felt when I stepped out of my car at the Hard Rock hotel. It was like being punched in the guts; all the air left my lungs in a heartbeat. I felt certain my skin would simply slide off my bones to form a molten puddle on the semi-soft tarmac. I left a banana in the car - thirty minutes later I returned to the vehicle to find the fruit blackened and piping hot.
I lucked out at the Hard Rock. Just the right side of the Fourth of July Weekend, the much-lauded celebration of kicking British backsides (with the help of the French), I picked up a room for a modest $99 for the night. At the admissions desk, with 'Love In An Elevator' competing with the constant 'ching-ching-ching' of the ubiquitous slots, the lovely young lady announced that I'd be getting a suite at no extra charge. I thanked her but nowhere near enough; this network of rooms is huge. I have a lounge, replete with silver leather sofa, lounge chairs, coffee table, giant flat-screen TV (with state-of-the-art multi-media centre), chinese puzzle-pattern carpet and desk, a kitchen with bar, refridgerator and dishwasher. The bedroom, equal in size to the lounge, houses a monster of a bed, laden with huge pillows and billowing duvet, flanked by twin wall-mounted lanterns, a plumbed-in i-pod station and framed by a black velvet headboard. On the wall another flat-screen telly and a framed shot of Jim Morrison, back to the camera, saluting a stadium full of screaming hippies.
The view from my seventh floor window is of a collection of pools, inter-connected by man-made streams, bridges and waterslides, speckled with palm trees and, at time of arrival, playground for around a hundred bodies beautiful chugging beer and daquiries from foam-wrapped coolers. Not for me this life of decadence; I've work to do.
My insistance on wearing a business suit to meetings here has attracted curiosity expressed in a way similar to kids studying monkeys playing with themselves at the zoo. Heads tilt, mouths gape and brows furrow. I counter the looks of surprise and alarm by explaining that I'm British and could no more turn up in shorts and sandals than I could flap my arms and fly.
I'm out of this mad hellhole in a few short hours. My internal clock is completely mullered; an errant call (from Belgium) to my mobile at 1:45 this morning has me wide awake, watching 'Poker After Dark' (still don't get it) on the TV whilst writing this. Four-day trips to the Western Seaboard are a short-cut to madness and insomnia. Bewl should be a hoot.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Parallel paradox, opposite ends of a kaleidoscopic spectrum. The deranged decadence of the Hard Rock Hotel, Zeppelin and Aerosmith pumped into all areas 24/7, monster heart-attack breakfasts, huge rooms, wild parties, yada yada yada . . . Then there’s the drive, ironically down Paradise Road, to McCarran International airport. On route the discarded human flotsam, the unwanted placenta of the re-born American Dream, stumble like the undead pushing wobbly shopping trolleys crammed with their modest, visquine-wrapped possessions, faces pinched and sun-dried, glazed eyes half closed, world-weary, dragging their broken spirits behind them like a monstrous invisible anchor.
We’re living in an age that a couple of short decades ago was writ large only in science fiction. Paul Verhoeven’s excellent Starship Troopers is a classic. The youth of a nation are conscripted into a dynamic, sexy army to travel across the stars and wipe out the insectoids threatening human existence. The film is full of tongue-in-cheek parody, from the uber-macho testosterone-fuelled mania of the drill instructors to the fabulous piss-taking TV ads calling for recruits to 'join the army that wins'. I watched a repeat over breakfast this morning, only it wasn’t Starship Troopers but a real-life ad recruiting for the US Army. It shocked me to the core. It’s as if the body bags from Iraq and Afghanistan weren’t landing with all the regularity of scheduled flights.
‘There’s strong . . . and then there’s army strong.’
Brilliant. At least the Starship Troopers clip showed the 'reality' of battle.
There’s bullshit . . . and then there’s army bullshit.
All this played out as I bought the ticket and took the ride, slurping down a Bloody Mary before wading into a sea of eggs over easy, strips of sugar-coated bacon, a mountain of fresh hash browns and a couple of storeys of wheat toast dripping butter like molten fat. I struggle horribly with myself here. Part of me loves the excess. Get in the elevator in this hotel and you get great classic rock piped in; the place is draped in slogans and quotes from great songs, priceless rock n roll memorabilia decks the halls and fights for floor space with the soul-sucking slot machines. Gorgeous scantily clad women, artificial breasts bulging out of un-zipped shiny black leather corsets dash hither and thither, trays laden with drinks, food and gambling chips; it’s my heaven and it’s my hell. Ultimately I can’t wait to get out of here, to grab my morals and my passion for real life and flee the endless whirling, 24/7 full-on eye-popping madness.
Make no mistake, this is hell.
But as Bon Scott used to scream, and for 24 hours only, hell ain’t a bad place to be.
With Sunday's visit to Bewl very much in mind as I mowed the lawn I dragged the hounds out for an evening lope across my week-day circuit. A nice modest pace, the jet-lag tugging at my sinews all the way. Home to a plate of fish n chips then off to the Pelham for a beer with Captain Tom and Seafront Plodder. Two beers in I felt horriby full, not to mention very sleepy. Mrs S walked me home, all the while my guts rumbling with dark menace.
Sometime in the wee small hours I woke up with extreme stomach pains. I went for a stroll in the garden but to no avail. Finally with the pain increasing I did the honourable thing, kneeling at the porcelain temple to discharge my painful cargo.
Mrs S is convinced this a combination of travel, lawn-mowing, running and excess intake over a short period of time. Could be; whatever the cause I'm weak as a kitten and have officially bailed out of Bewl tomorrow. A couple of days on the sofa might be what the doctor ordered. I hope so.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The ancient gods gathered on mount Olympus to discuss the impudent mortal who would usurp them. They came together and as is their wont forged a man from the fires of Hades. They gave him the arms of Atlas, the heart of Hercules and the winged heels of Hermes. They baked him under the Iberian sun, infused with the cunning of Zeus, the iron will of Hera and the blazing fury of Ares. In years gone by Borg, the mighty Swede, read the signs, heard the deep rumblings in the heavens. He laid down his racket and walked away, unscathed, forever bathed in glory’s afterglow. Now Federer wanted more; he stretched, reaching beyond the compass of mortal men and, like Icarus, found the very limit of his grasp.
For two sets of devastating power-tennis fifteen thousand people witnessed first hand the bloody evisceration of a great champion on Centre Court this afternoon. Many millions more cowered in their living rooms as Raphael Nadal, Nephew of the infamous Miguel Angel Nadal, the ‘Beast of Barcelona’, took defending champion Roger Federer in his muscular grip and mercilessly crushed the life out of him in the fickle Wimbledon sunshine.
Like many I believed that Federer would see off the King of Clay on his favoured green surface. To do so the champion would undoubtedly have to play at his supreme best. Trouble is Nadal was in no mood to let anyone, least of all Federer, settle into any kind of comfort zone. From the word go the Spaniard flew at Federer, hammering brutal ground strokes with fierce yet metronomic regularity, driving the Swiss master back, throwing him off balance and forcing him to build an ever-increasing catalogue of errors. It was almost as uncomfortable to watch as it must have been to receive.
In tennis they use the phrase ‘unforced’ errors, yet that hardly applied today. Nadal’s glaring, steaming countenance prowling the opposite end of the court would force the hardiest, most resolute knees to knock. Relentlessly focused, darkly driven, Nadal wore away Federers’ will, grinding him down with his monstrous forehand to leave the great man shaken, staring at his cruelly exposed vulnerability. Others will be better placed to explain why Federer seemed to lack heart as a number of break points came and went. As opportunities arrived to make inroads into Nadal’s serve Federer appeared to doubt himself, wafting inexplicably lame returns at crucial points. The crowd, sensing a public dethroning of one of their favoured sons, tried to lift the champion. You could sense his growing despair, as if the sympathy of the spectators underlined the magnitude of his task.
With two sets in the bag Nadal seemed to take his foot off the champion’s throat. Not even the new Beast can maintain such intensity indefinitely. For a while the two men were perfectly matched, stealing points against the serve, taking each game to the wire. Rain clouds gathered adding weight to an already charged atmosphere and you wondered if we were to be cheated of a grand finale. It seemed certain that only divine intervention would halt this vicious onslaught. The break came with Federer holding serve to take a 5 – 4 lead in the third, an hour in which one man could dream of glory whilst the other stared into the abyss.
The match resumed, the warriors trading mighty blows without resolution. By now the crowd were howling for their man, knowing at last that he was playing against a god. The tiebreak and Federer searched himself once more, coming up with as near-perfect a breaker as is possible against this firebrand. What courage; what insolence! What bloody-minded resolve in the face of fury incarnate. You can have my soul if you must, Nadal, but you must take it; you must rend it from my bloody carcass, and it will cost you more than you can know!. One set clawed back, two more to fight for.
So often hype undermines sport, but not here.
It was a big ask, an impossible ask. Federer never shied away; he fought with everything he had, raised his game to a level beyond anything seen at these championships this year or any I can recall. Even in the fourth set breaker, with Nadal ablaze and set for victory, the quiet man from Switzerland refused to give in. Those mighty Spanish muscles tightened a fraction and Federer pounced, from 5 – 2 down to 6 – 6. The gods were angry. They sent their charge yet more unearthly powers and he laced an impossible pass down Federers’ forehand side to stand on the brink at 8 -7. Federer responded with his own breathless miracle shot: 8 - 8. Nadal snarled, the ground shook, but resolute Roger stood firm, unbreakable. Wham! Bam! Another Federer missile flashed into the corner; 10 – 8 Federer – 2 sets all.
What now? What can they offer us, these giants, these monstrous, nerveless men?
The fifth awaits; and, for one man, ultimate glory.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
In the past eighteen months Nadal has been closing the gap on Federer. Already a master on his native clay the Beast has worked tirelessly to improve his grass-court game. The fifth set was a microcosm of that last year and a half, Nadal getting closer and closer to breaking Federer’s serve until finally, painfully, after four attempts he took it in the 15th game. Federer never wilted, never looked down or out, yet Nadal set about his own service game, the sixteenth and deciding game of this fantastic match, with the same fire and verve he’d brought to the very first game some seven hours before.
That someone should lose such a match is almost unbearable. You could hardly call Federer a loser, yet lose he did. Even at the death, with all hope surely abandoned, he pulled off the most magnificent cross court passing shot to extend the game to deuce. This time though Nadal didn’t flinch, those muscles did not tighten. He stood up and hit the winning serve to take the crown, the world number one title and as far as I’m concerned right at this moment, ruler of the known Universe.
Stunning.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It´s a pity that the Wimbledon cup can´t be shared by both of them since both Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal deserved it. Although Nadal was better in the first two sets, Federer was better in the third and fourth. I thought the fifth would be Federer´s because he should feel more self-confident after drawing the match, but any of them could have been the winner.
Rafael Nadal must be really happy after winning Roland Garros, Queens and Wimbledon, especially the latter because he had been the finalist in 2006 and 2007 against Roger Federer.
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
Quite simply the best game I have ever watched. It just had it all, with both guys right at the top of the sport. Although I was cheering for Rog, there is no doubt that Nadal deserved the win.
And great to see Federer so noble in defeat.
Collected his runners up salver like the true champion he is. Full eye contact with and full respect for officialdom, respectful words for his victorious opponent including a bit of well meaning humour and kept his head and spirits up throughout his worst sporting moments
Some of the football "heroes" could learn a lot from him. Contrast Federer"s behaviour in defeat with sights in Euro 08. Grown men crying like babies on the pitch, the total lack of eye contact and appreciation for officialdom when collecting their losers medals and the permanent look of extreme dejection throughout.
Incidentally, the linesman who accompanied Federer to his bathroom break at the end of the 4th set is a member of my tennis club. I'll see him next wekend and obviously ask him the question we all want answered. Did he wash his hands?
Managed a weak-legged struggle around the locale this morning, a bullying squall offering uncalled-for pugnacity. I pondered the nature of bitter Scotsmen as I struggled along. Last night Radio 5 hosted a phone-in on the 2012 Olympics. OK they served up a dolly, asking for people to call in from all corners of the UK to 'let off steam' about the 'London-centric' games. Still, I could have won a sizeable bet that the first caller would be from north of the border and doubled my winnings by guessing he or she wouldn't be terribly positive.
The Olympics are in London. Get over it.
You have to be good-sized city to bid, not a tin-pot backwater filled with druggies and obese benefit fraudsters.
The caller wanted to know what the Olympics were 'going to do for Inverness.' Well, not much frankly, unless business residents of that parrish want to get up of their tartan-clad buttocks and tender for some of the 75,000 yet-to-be-awarded contracts associated with the project. Seb Coe and Tessa Jowell did their best to placate him but for me they were too meally-mouthed. What do people want? Perhaps MLCMan can enlighten us - did the Aussies whine and cry about Sydney getting the games? I suppose they did; but come on, it's the bloody Olympic Games you miserable bastards. There's not much happening down my way either but I have to say I've been pretty excited ever since Seb's tear-jerker of a speech and that wonderful Jacques Rogge announcement in Singapore. There's a real push to elevate sport in schools, and a notable buzz amongst young athletes in all quarters. The costs are escalating. OK, not great, but that's always going to happen when core costs - such as fuel - have doubled since the announcement.
The whining continued. "According to what I've heard a 'large percentage' of National Lottery funding is being diverted from local projects to support the Olympics." This isn't news to me; the lottery was stated as a source of funding from the outset. If you don't like it don't buy a ticket. Politicians are obliged to be careful - Lord Coe continued to offer calm, rational answers long after I'd have outed the sweaty sock as a killjoy before asking him what his weekly intake of fags, booze and dodgy pies was and how he felt that would impact on NHS resources.
More often than not, and this applies to phone-ins in general, bitter, disenfranchised Jocks get on the horn (at the license payer's expense) to mewl and bleat about how utterly unfair it is that London gets this or Westminster controls that. Weena-weena-weena, it's not fair, youse owes me a livin' . . . They've got their own parliament and look what a cracking success that's turning out to be.
There's all measure of advantages to living and working in Scotland, in healthcare, in education, local government taxation, employment benefit . . . but they're not happy. It's time to lance this festering boil, let them live off their own resources and see how they like it. I'm tired of sending a percentage of my hard-earned into their coffers so they can get free adult education or free dental care. Let them fund (and relocate) their small army of junkies and ne'er-do-wells who flop about our town and city centres clutching cans of Special Brew, juggling their eyeballs from one socket to the other whilst begging for smokes.
Whilst I'm on a roll they can have Andy Murray back as well. He's so far off the pace he's definitely not British. Naff off, creep. And all those bile-ridden political commentators, pundits and program hosts. Christ, they'll have to launch another four TV channels just to cope with Nicky Campbell's diarrhoetic output, never mind Andrew Neil and the thousands of other celtic drivellers flooding our airwaves. Oh, and Politicians; there's loads of them down here. One in particular that springs to mind, a large, dour bloke who I'm reliably informed sleeps on his back due to his unique ability to only f*ck up.
Lothian question? Darned right I'm loathin'em.
Dick
[SIZE="1"]Littlejohn is here all this week. Sweder is having a rest[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I thought I could rant. They can also keep their deep fried mars bars, haggis, caber tossing, buckfast drinking layabouts, tartan skirts and dour 'grim up north' weather conditions. I'm sure there's plenty more to add to this list.
Sweder Wrote:The Olympics are in London. Get over it...
Perhaps MLCMan can enlighten us - did the Aussies whine and cry about Sydney getting the games? I suppose they did; but come on, it's the bloody Olympic Games you miserable bastards.
Well OK, firstly you have to remember that Aussies are sport-aholics and will set up an organisation to administer the sport of arse-lice-racing if there's a bet to be had in it (and there is, by the way)...
Secondly, indeed yes there was a bit of nancy nay-saying from those weak-livered cretins who recoiled at the thought of having their fair city invaded by a few thousand loud-mouthed Americans for two weeks (well, who can blame them, really?), but by and large, once it was pointed out that they could rent their house out for roughly US$1,000 per day if they lived anywhere near the fabled sporting venues, they largely shut up and dealt with it*.
No, I really don't recall hearing complaints from anyone outside of Sydney itself. And those Sydney-siders who complained about it quickly shut up when the Games commenced because life in Sydney became bliss. I know because I was there. The main concern was that public transport wouldn't cope (veterans might recall the horror stories that emanated from Atlanta in '96), but in fact it was superb - not only did it run fantastically well, but it was free! Ticket holders to any Olympic event had free access to public transport, but in reality, everyone had free public transport for two weeks because it was too hard to police. So in the end everyone was very happy indeed.
No, seriously, hosting the Olympics is the very best thing that can happen to a nation. It may not be cheap to attend (it took us months to pay off the debt we racked up for tickets) but it is one of the best things you will ever go to and you will never forget it. We couldn't afford great tickets - we only went to minor sports or heats at the main stadium, but it was totally memorable - DO IT! GO! DON'T LIVE IN ENGLAND AND SHOW YOUR FACE HERE SAYING YOU DIDN'T BOTHER OR COULDN'T OR WOULDN'T GO OR I WILL HOUND YOU FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER AND EVER AND EVER.
BLOODY GO!
BLOODY WELL GO!
Book holidays now! Put your name down for tickets now! Do it! Do it NOW!
*The nancy nay-sayers were all shot by the way. Amazing what an act of parliament can achieve.
I know; it's cheating, and I don't much care for them.
Horses. Oh, please yourselves.
Yes, well, and here we go again.
It'd been a good longly while since my last Sunday outing with the JSJ-ers, and with the exciting prospect of attending the CWD Friends For Life conference in Orlando next week it'll be a couple of weeks before I do so again.
I'd looked forward to hearing details of Gary's Duke's Mound experience via Stevio but sadly the big fella didn't show. In fact very few people showed at all; three in total, me included, and two fellows I'd not met before. A shabby turnout in part explained by Moyley's text at 8 this morning assuming the yellow jersery of lurghie from my still slightly sweaty hand. Get well soon Bubba. Also in part by the extension of the Trailblazer, a hitherto girls-only cross-country 5.8 mile blast incorporating the Snake as a finishing section, to an all-comers event. If only I'd known! By the time we three unwise men flogged our sweaty bodies over the post-Snake ridge it was far too late to contemplate entry. Next year for sure - make a note in your diaries folks - early July, Trailblazer, Brighton (start and finish in Woodingdean). Sponsored by Saucony there are prizes, cakes, treats for every entrant and a darned good offroad 9.5k run.
As for me and my efforts, B-minus I reckon; must work harder. The results of on-off running, travel, lurghie and apathy were fairly modest. I stole shamelessly from those magical lyricists Simon and Garfunkle as I hit the foothills of the snake, butchering (mercifully only in my head) their classic Sound of Silence . . .
Hello Serpent my old friend
I've come to dance with you again
To your soft winds I am listening
Whilst your slippery scales are glistening
And the acid that's burning in my legs
Makes them feel like lead
Old 'n' dead
Listen: it's the sound . . .
. . . of wheezing
Actually I felt pretty good. Half way up the Snake's back I glanced to my right, inhaling lusty views of Death Valley and Castle Hill. It felt good to be alive, drinking air cooled on a gentle breeze, bounding steadily up this twisting trail safe in the knowledge that the finish was only three miles off.
The Trailblazer HQ, a hazy mirage of red tents and a hastily erected finishing funnel, hovered in the field next to Woodingdean car park. Tables laden with cakes, prizes and cups of water were administered by vounteers and Jog Shop employees as a healthy queue of racers formed at one end. All this orchestrated by none other than Yoda himself, Sam 'the legend' lambourne, decked out in hi-vis racing vest and fetching cycle shorts, a vision in lycra.
'Hoi Ash!' came the gravel-pit cry, a luminous arm extended my way as I bounded past. It was great fun to run through the assembled Trailblazers, Jill and Marion amongst those calling to me as if I should stop and enter the race.
No thanks! I've sucked in my gut and forced my shoulders back just for this hundred yard bounce. As soon as I cross the road I'll slump back into my customary Quasimodic hunch and lope home, desperate for rest, rehydration and Esmerelda. Thanks for thinking of me though! Byeeeee!!! :o
Some thirty minutes later I made it back - avec wheels - to welcome the finishers.
First man home came in a shade over 41 minutes, a great effort on a blustery day. Clouds gathered and the temperature dropped inducing goose flesh and a craving for hot tea and my beloved sofa. I turned tail, vowing to take part next year and, hopefully, to bring a few more along for a race that finishes conveniently adjacent to Sunday opening time and is no more than a stone's throw from a most acceptable downland boozer.
On-On! On-on indeed, for Tuesday sees the running of the 19th Oil Industry hash at a leafy location to be confirmed. I shall attend and hopefully meet up with our Niguel. Good conversation and a couple of pints of excellent ale - what more can we ask for?
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
After lounging around pretty much all day (before hurridly throwing together a Sunday roast as the girls arrived home from their dance comp) I took the hounds out for a late evening stroll. We'd shared (that's Mrs S and I - the hounds don't get the good stuff) a bottle of fine 2005 Napa Valley Cakebread Merlot, a generous gift received from my good friend Mike during last week's west coast trip. Like the very best wine it invigorated me and I needed to get on the move, to let the creative juices flow.
There's an intersection just onto the downs from the corner of our road. The chalky paths converge to lean around the grass-covered mound housing the local water treatment station to run parallel with the raggedy gallops. At the point where the fence has been flattened by disgruntled walkers we ambled onto the practice tracks, the dogs patroling busily, snuffling noses working overtime. All about us drying sheafs of grass lay like discarded locks on a tardy barber's floor. The cropped, striped track lay guarded by walls of thick, tall grass, laden near-white seed-heads bobbing sagely in the cool evening zephyr.
The sun had just departed, gathering up its whispy skirts to play to a new audience across the western hills. You could almost hear the faintest ripple of applause wash back on the breeze. In the glimmer of the footlights shadows gathered on the horizon to watch the show, turning their backs to us as we strolled in the twilight. Around us dark shrubs and thickets sat still, waiting for nightfall. What dirty deeds were about to play out here? What mischief to be made by nefarious foxes in the long shadows of night's dark cloak? Above us the moon, veiled in whisps of dark cloud, resembling a table lamp in a gentleman's club, lazy cigar smoke drifting heavily about its pale luminesence. The odd half-light gave the slate-tiled prison a purple hue. Beneath the roof dark souls tossed and turned in punitive Victorian cells. Dreams of freedom mingled with plans for future villainy escaping between the bars to lay heavy on the night. Distant town lights sparkled in the gathering gloom, the only signs of life in the silent streets beyond.
I stood stock still in the midst of it all, my heart (and stomach) pleasantly full, and offered up a thought. If I could but freeze this moment in time, take it out and live it whenever I should want, I would be the most content of men. Another heady, intoxicating brew from the good Burghers of Lewes.
I witter on about this country, complain bitterly about the inequities of our so-called democracy, the unstoppable ersosion of fundamental, traditional values, the petty tyrannies of our ludicrous leaders, the jackass muledom that is our Media. But when push comes to shove I'll take some shifting from these shores.
On nights like these I truly love my England.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sorry, only just found the Scottish thread, hear hear sweder and I'd like to give them back the vast amounts of urine they sprinkled so liberally around the streets Manchester when they lost at footy
Tuesday 15th July
19th Annual Oil Hash, Darkest Surrey
I do love a good hash, especially at the end of a working day. As a friend of mine once said of the Singapore Hash 'I never saw the logic in running away from a truck full of beer.' In similarly baffling fashion we started at the excellent Onslow Arms in West Clandon, purveyors of fine ales and good grub. Having been positively posthumous for this fixture two years ago I vowed to leave in plenty of time . . . and duly arrived about an hour before the off. The sun shone, there was a beautiful beer garden . . . what's a man to do? I supped tea of course. Oh, not the hand-picked leaf infusion made with boiling water; no, TEA the real ale. Perhaps, with hindsight, not the best move.
Niguel arrived and we were well met in the car park amidst a throng of gathered oil folk sporting a joyous variety of shirts signifying hashes past and far-flung. The chatter was noisy and excited as the Hashmaster and lead hare called us to order. Caution was expressed over heavily nettled paths, giant rabbit holes (it was unclear if the holes were especially large or if the diggers were of some mutant strain) and busy road crossings. In all around a hundred souls, men, women and children, assembled for the 'on-on', the cry given to indicate the continuance of the trail.
Underway on a sunny, balmy evening I had cause to regret my pre-race brace almost immediately, the embarassingly loud sloshing from my belly covered only by the early gravel-crunch as we headed for the road. Within the first mile and a half we'd encountered not one but two check-back markers. To explain to the uninitiated the trail is marked by strategically placed (read: randomly dumped) blobs of flour. When the mischievious mood takes him (or her) the hare will mark a flour circle on the path; this indicates a break in the trail (possibly false trails ahead) and that the lead runners should check this out. The idea is to let the slowbies catch up and so generally keep the main pack together. A 'check back' is when all the ongoing trails are dead-ends (marked with a flour 'X') and therefore the only logical route is back the way you came. And so it continues.
Our check backs took us onto a local golf course. Hashers are no respectors of such hallowed boundaries (though I suspect one or two of my fellow runners might have been members) and we trailed across fairways and buggy paths to follow our markers. The first couple of miles were as advertised laced with heavy doses of stinging nettles and vicious tendrils of spikey bracken. Much cursing and scratching ensued as we picked our way though thick grass and woodland, the cries of 'checking!' 'Are you?' and finally 'On-on!' ringing out across the still of the Surrey evening.
Finally, mercifully, we broke into open ground, faced with a magnificent vista stretched out from this high point of the run down towards my favorite part of any hash - the beer stop. Imagine the scene; field upon field of golden wheat, a crude path cut through them, edged with hedgrows and oaks, all bathed in the hollywood golden glow of the sun setting on the far horizon. It looked for all the world like a cross between the green-screen perfection of a 300 set and an Ian Botham Shredded Wheat ad; magnificent. We ran through the fields, hearts lifted to finally be running unhindered, ankles free from the clutches of clinging undergrowth. Someone was taking photos at this point; I hope to post some here later if I can track them down.
At the end of the fields more open running, this time down a long and winding road the leads not to your door but - better yet - to the beer stop. Very hot, extremely sweaty, I was relieved to take a break, all the more so for the half-pint of TEA gratefully sucked down. Whilst this didn't help the sloshing (which had continued unabated, coupled with some unexpected heartburn, for most of the run) it made me feel much better. We'd covered around ten kilometres in an hour and twenty-two minutes with about one mile left before more beer and, for me, a curry.
Many thanks to Niguel for the invite and to Alistair for his hard work and harder trails.
A great event, I'll be back next year if they'll have me.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
