Mitchells Cycles
In 2009 I eased up on the bike a little in the June-July period, punctures and a work project got in the way a little. Besides, that year the Pink Lady was suffering from a frozen shoulder so there was less pressure to venture out into the country. I missed the quickness of riding a bike backwards and forwards to work; that and it helped me to keep the weight down.
Then the bike was back in action and for the latter half of 2009 and a month or so of 2010 I was back in the saddle. Then problems with the bike occurred again.
After a month or so I got a little fed up with punctures, wheel wobble, a lump in the tyre, stretching cable wires. It seemed no sooner did Velocipede get it working, than another problem occurred.
The Pink Lady berated me:
“Why don’t you go to Mitchell’s Cycles? It’s only a few minutes away?” said she.
“Well…well, I, well, Velocipede does all my repairs…”
“He hasn’t done this one, though, has he?” was the lady’s comeback.
“Well, no, no, he hasn’t…but…”
“And how long has the bike been off the road.”
“Well, a month…” Mumbled I.
“How long?” asked she, again.
“About a month…” I responded, thinking she hadn’t heard.
Then came the ‘less of the bullshit stare’. If one has never been subjected to the Pink Lady’s ‘less of the bullshit’ stare, then one has no right to criticise how easily one falls apart under it.
“Two months…”
The stare again.
“….and three weeks…”
“So when is he going to repair it?” demanded the Pink Lady.
“I’m not sure, I mean he’s busy, one doesn’t like to push…” I stammered.
“Have you asked?”
“Well, not exactly asked. Did mention there was a spot of bother…”
“The bike’s bloody useless, with the brakes going and a wobbly tyre and a puncture….?”
“Yes,” I mumbled, even more quietly than before; my foot was drawing patterns in the ground, rather like a sulky child.
“So are you going to ring him, asking him for a firm date?”
I was caught between defence of a friend, whom I hadn’t stated any urgency to, and trying to tactfully move the conversation on.
“I think he’s on holiday…” again, mumbling. I don’t think I was the mumbling sort until I met the Pink lady.
“Then take it to Mitchell’s Cycles…get it sorted out!”
I frowned, speaking a little more loudly. “Can’t do that. I mean if I didn’t let Velocipede do the repairs he’d be offended, he’d think I’d lost confidence in him!”
“Rubbish, Fitrambler, it has nothing to do with hurting Velocipede’s feelings. It’s because you’re a tight fisted git. You don’t want to spend the ten or twenty quid…”
“Ten or twenty quid,” I exclaimed.
“Yes, ten or twenty quid, if you want to get it done and it’d be ready within twenty-four hours.”
“Well, maybe, but I ought to give Velocipede another call, let him have a chance…”
“Tight fisted…” she repeated.
“Now look here, I’ll have you know that that’s the last thing I am…Me, tight fisted, how can you say such a thing!”
“Easy, you always procrastinate when it comes to spending money. ‘I’ll buy it later, when the price comes down,’ or ‘I’ll think about it’. By the time your wallet sees the light of day or you’ve thought about it the thing’s gone.”
“I’m hurt. Miser, that’s what you’re saying. Nothing could be further from the truth…”
“So you’ll be taking the bike to Mitchell’s Cycles then, to get it sorted out.”
It was, I am afraid to admit, a trap I fell into. To prove I wasn’t a miser I had to get the bike repaired at Mitchell’s Cycles. But I didn’t do it immediately (ha, ha!). I can do defiance!
A few days later I went into Mitchell’s Cycles and pointed out the problems with the bike and they quoted me about eighty quid. So much for the Pink Lady’s ten to twenty quid quote. Well, ok, it wasn’t just a tyre, it was the brakes, and the gears were a little in need of a touch of the old TLC.
While I was there I made some enquiries about something which bothered me ever since I’d taken up cycling again. Being upright when cycling. I saw people who were upright when cycling and yet I was always bent forward, no matter how high Velocipede put the handlebars.
The chap in the shop showed me a few bikes he called ‘sit up and beg’ bikes. I saw a Dawes, Town and Country and straight away I was smitten. There are only a few things that I have admired almost immediately – Pink Lady aside – but this bike was one of them.
I gave it a little thought, my bike wouldn’t be ready until Saturday. I told them there was no hurry; besides, the longer it took them the more I could sigh at the Pink Lady and say “Mitchell’s Cycles, not as fast as you led me to believe.” Alright, a little childish but…
Anyway, the more I thought about the other bike, the Dawes, the more I got the feeling I just had to have it. I didn’t mention this to the Pink Lady, just told her about the cost and the time it’d take Mitchell’s to do the job on the old bike.
So, a bit of a conspiracy played across the old noggin, not realising that soon I would be involved in an even bigger one not of my own making…
I decided to buy the bike and when we next went out for a ride I would bring the new bike along and surprise her. The only person I told about the new bike was Velocipede before I bought it, asking his advice.
Within twenty-four hours I was riding the new bike, new lights, and adjusted as needed. I rode to work for about seven working days when the Pink Lady was going shopping one Sunday and decided to use her bike.
I was clocking up about eight miles a day but still was not really all that fit.
When I got into town I parked the bike, locked it up and saw the Pink Lady’s bike parked a couple of bikes up from me. So, I met up with the Pink Lady and we had coffee before going round the shops.
While we were having coffee, the Pink Lady asked. “So, what’s the progress on your bike?”
Carefully, I said: “The old bike is being repaired, needs quite a few things doing to it.”
“So you haven’t got your bike with you?”
“I said, the old bike is with Mitchell’s,” I repeated, carefully.
We moved onto subjects anew…
A while later I walked with the Pink Lady to her bike, then, casually took my helmet out of my rutsack. When the Pink lady saw me she frowned.
“You said your bike was being repaired!” she said, and looked amongst the other bikes, frowning all the more. “I can’t see it.”
I smiled as I put my rutsack back on my back, then took out my keys and began unlocking the new bike.
She didn’t quite do a double take but it was close.
“This is my new bike,” I said.
“You never said you’d got a new bike?”
I just smiled. The Pink Lady looked over the bike and approved.
“Well, Fitrambler, as we’ve both got our bikes, how about a ride?” she suggested.
I was full of pride in my new bicycle that the idea seemed a good one.
“Where to?” asked I.
“I’ve been wanting to look at the path that leads to Chiseldon,” replied she.
That seemed okay to me, finding the beginning of a path to Chiseldon, not as though it will be all that far?
“Not too far, then.”
“Oh no,” said she, “not too far at all…”
Distances are relative to the person. A couple of of our short rides in the past have been rather long in my opinion, but one has managed. But I felt on safe ground with what she had suggested.
However, we weren’t going far, so I went along with it. After all, finding the new cycle path to Chiseldon wasn’t the same as riding it all the way to Chiseldon was it?
So, off we go, Fitrambler following the jean-clad bottom so familiar on bike rides. We went to the bottom of town and follow the Canal all the way to Old Town. Then it was onwards to Coate Water and beyond that to a road I knew from a previous ride. It was here I got a little worried because the last time I was on this road it led to a bloody great hill. My feelings on hills are well documented. But we only went a hundred or so yards before we turned off in what looked at first like someone’s stone chipped drive but led through into Coate Water.
We continued on and I began to identify familiar parts of Coate Water for over ten minutes before we were through and then almost to the motorway. This is where I began to get a little suspicious; especially when I saw the twisty-bridge thingy.
We got level with the twisty-bridge thingy – or rather the Pink Lady did – and began cycling up it.
I tried to register a protest here – like had we not gone far enough and how much further after the bridge – but the distance and noise of the bloody traffic drowned me out.
So, no choice but to go up the twisty-bridge thing, which I did and got to the other side, whereby it was downhill. There the Pink Lady slowed to see if I was still there but before I could shout out a protest it was arse chasing time again as she was off!
The route seemed straight enough until it veered off to the right and became rather steep; actually bloody steep.
Hill, bloody hill. Ahhh God!
Off went the Pink Lady, the distance between us increasing. There was something very familiar about the territory. As I moved through the gears and fortunately with this new bike there were more of them, I began to curse and swear.
I barely managed to get to the top of thing long and winding road (all due respect to the Beatles), but when I did I wasn’t a happy bunny.
I parked the bike about twenty feet away from where the Pink Lady was. I was trying to decide whether or not to throw the bike in the bushes or at the Pink Lady! This wasn’t what I agreed too.
Anyway hot and sweaty I calm down and the bike doesn’t get imbedded in the ground or indeed the Pink Lady – gentlemanly instincts prevailing. I leant it against a fence and walked ten or more yards away from the Pink Lady until all aggressive thoughts died down.
“Chiseldon,” said she.
“Great!” I responded in a less than enthusiastic tone.
As far as I saw it I’d gone three times as far as I planned and discovered there must be a language barrier between us. The Pink Lady originates from Nottingham, a place I have only visited once on official business door to door and not actually venturing out. So I was thinking now that ‘finding the path’ to somewhere meant not only finding it but following it to its logical bloody conclusion.
Thinking back it reminded me of my pub trips with Ol’ Blameworthy. He would often suggest a pub he was taking us to was just around what turned out to be the biggest and longest corner in existence.
Finally, we take the journey home….
The Old Residence
The following day, Monday, (walking like I was a member of the John Wayne impressionist society) I texted Velocipede and we arranged a bike ride for the coming Friday, despite my aches.
But, in view of yesterday’s experiences with the Pink Lady I decided I’d lay out some ground rules.
NO HILLS!
Velocipede assured me this will not be the case and he has a route in mind which will suit me nicely.
Being an amiable sort of chap, I believed him.
Friday arrived and we decide first to go over our childhood turf. So from the old Fitrambler residence we follow the Queens Drive until we get to Park South. We looked over our old houses, took a few photos of the front and back, and then cycle the way we would have done had we been going to school; really doing the memory lane thing.
The Back Way to the Old Residence: More boarded up nowadays.
Then from there we looked around the shopping centre opposite our old school and then back towards Coate Water. I let Velocipede lead and as went past Coate, turned into the same lane as the one the Pink Lady did last Sunday, I began to get a little tingle up the spine. More tingling as we turned up the driveway and started cutting our way through Coate Water.
No, I tell myself, following this bit is just a coincidence, a ride round Coate means nothing….
But when we rode past Coate Water and onto a side road, which then lead through some gates and exactly on the path through Coate Water which I travelled the previous Sunday with the Pink Lady, the spine is positively pin-prinkingly tingling!
I frowned but remembered the text. No hills and Velocipede agreed to that. I was wrong to doubt the chap, he just wouldn’t do that to me.
We followed the route until we got to the helter-skelter thingy.
We stopped there for a few seconds.
“Um, where are we going?”
“Over that,” he said, pointing to the helter-skelter thingy.
“Yes, and then?”
“A pub,” he tells me pleased.
“But there’s a bloody hill between the pub and the hill, isn’t there.”
His face wrinkles as little as he says: “Nah, not really.”
I think for a second or two and decide – quite naively as it turns out – that Velocipede probably knows an non-hill route on the other side. I mean, the agreement was no hills! (Yes, clutching at straws by now!)
Then he’s off again and I have no choice but to follow…
…UP A BLOODY GREAT TWISTY HILL. THE SAME BLOODY TWISTY HILL AS LAST SUNDAY!
I do a little better this time. Trying to concentrate on important things ahead to take my mind off the strain.
“Beer and pub, beer and pub…” I chant to myself, almost trying to put myself into a trance.
But as I struggled to get to the top, I rapidly began to wonder which part of my text ‘No hills’ he hadn’t understood?
Finally we reached the promised pub only to find it’s bloody closed! It’s either being refurbished or being converted into flats or a house. I don’t know which but I’m not happy.
The Elm Tree 1996 - Now no longer with us.
But Velocipede recovers from the temporary disappointment and says there is another one quite near we can try and, surprise, surprise, the route is via another large hill! Oh joy!
Happiness and old Fitrambler weren’t having any quality time together this evening.
In the midst of my tiredness, moaning and general demeanour of being pissed off at people who have difficulty digesting the phrase ‘I don’t like hill’, a theory begins to form.
It is a bloody conspiracy!
Tired and perhaps a touch delirious – it was a long day – I remembered Velocipede and the Pink Lady had met a couple of times at the monthly sojourn at the Glue Pot. Both committed cyclists for most of their lives!
Who’s to say they haven’t spoken to each other without me present or indeed while I might have been distracted talking to Wellread?
Can they think I’d really be naïve as to think two bike rides in a week should follow the same route and be put down as coincidence? No, no, no. A bloody conspiracy, I tell you!
Yep. Had to be a put up job. Yes, they were trying to kill me, I knew they were, no other explanation…my left eye was beginning to twitch by now and I was quietly manically laughing to myself…
We eventually left Chiseldon, made our way to Badbury and the Bakers Arms.
It was a long time ago when I last drank in that establishment. One of the first times was with Ol’ Blameworthy, when we worked at the same Company together back in the very late 1970s, early 1980s. Memories of darts games and copious amounts of 2Bs flowed through the old noggin.
The Back Garden of The Bakers at Badbury
Now the bar was knocked into one, making the place a lot more spacious. There was a quiz on and most of the seats were taken. Although the 2Bs was on we both decided to have Cider. I wasn’t sure of the strength, but it wasn’t very powerful falling down water.
It was a lovely evening (if you didn’t count the hills and the conspiracy). So we made our way through to the back garden. There were only two other people in the garden.
About thirty to forty minutes later we were back on the bikes and off, the way home.
Fortunately, any hills we confronted was a descent and not an ascent, so it was a little better. In fact where hills are concerned going down them is not a bother, I rather recommend it.
Still, (hills not included) it was a rather pleasant evening out. It was nice to see an old drinking hole, to see how it’d changed over the years.
However, no one will convince me that Velocipede and the Pink Lady didn’t conspire under the dubious pretext of humour, to put me through the same gruelling ride twice in one week!
I’m not paranoid, they really are out to get me….
TELLING TALES 
I like the new theme Fitters; it’s probably the best you have used so far.
…More Cyril Fletcher than Cyril Connolly would have been a more apt description.
Sometimes I feel I’m writing these things just to disagree with you GloomLaden. My heart wasn’t really in that last one, and it showed in my lackadaisical choice of words. I’m not a great fan of folk though, and I really can’t stomach Billy Connolly – for his comedy or his feeble attempts at music. It’s true, I never went to university but, had I done so, I like to think I would have lasted longer than a week.
Yes, I am pissed again, but drunkenness notwithstanding, your dislike of Pink Floyd – and, come to that Soft Machine – is based on your notion that their more experimental styles are pretentious because they went to Uni and you didn’t. That’s why you cleave hard to the folkie set – more Billy Connolly than Cyril Connolly. It’s nothing more than inverted snobbery.
Mention of Rumbelows made me laugh, though.
Anyway, sixth form wistfulness is all very well for the ears of sixth formers, but when you’re old and grey you really ought to be seeking something with a little more depth, rather than harking back to interminable strings of unconnected, arty-farty words, only given dubious meaning by spotty schoolboys who saved all their pocket money to buy a vinyl copy of Dark Side of the Moon to play on their cheap Dansette record players from Rumbelows. I’m sure the members of Pink Floyd have moved on, but most of their fans seem to be locked in a time warp, longing to return to their days in the sixth form, when they could lock themselves away safely in their vomit-stained bedrooms, to groan painfully along to the band’s depressing dirges.
To play the blues with any real conviction, you need to grow up and get to know the true meaning of despair. The music of Chris Rea is a fine example of how it should be done. Just listen to ‘Driving Home For Christmas’ and experience, once again, that sense of sheer hopelessness.
I’m afraid I do; you’re pissed again, aren’t you?
I do want to go, Blameworthy – next spring when, hopefully, I will be unable to.
Meantime, our session last Tuesday has inspired me to revisit some of the LP’s of Pink Floyd. On listening to which, I find I am right that you are wrong about them. Not only did Robert Robinson introuduce them on a Tonight show in the late 1960s, but they are a quintessentially English band, draining the blues that were doubtless their inspiration of emotion and adding a sort of off the peg sixth form literary wistfulness. It’s the wistfulness of provincial boys off school with flu watching the test card, the wistfulness of pylon bestridden countryside in the rain viewed from a British Rail train, the wistfulness of – oh, you wouldn’t understand. And didn’t.
It was merely a reconnaissance trip for better times ahead. Next spring you and I shall go once more, when the sun is shining, the birds are singing and the grass underfoot is lush and green. The ancient trackway will be dry and firm as we merrily trip along, disturbing the occasional great bustard from the undergrowth, whilst brushing away the fluttering wings of the orange tip butterfly as it passes in front of our awestruck eyes. Wild flowers will blossom; the sweet intoxicating scent of hawthorn will transport us into a joyous delirium and life will, once again, be worth living.
Be honest, you don’t want to go, do you?
Yes, Blameworthy, There Are Bad Times Just Around the Corner is unarguably Coward’s finest hour, but there’s a simplicity and sincerity about If Love Were All.
You should have left Oare Hill well alone. See how much better it would have been to have left going there as a project for some middle distance sunny Saturday of the future, preferably one that would never actually arrive. Why can you not stay at home and anticipate, like the rest of us? You’ve spoiled it for me now, also
We drove out to the car park on the track which leads to Oare Hill this morning and, with muted enthusiasm, admired what little we could see of the Pewsey Vale through thickening mist with a backdrop of mercury grey skies. Not wishing to soil my freshly waxed leather hiking boots, we sat in the car for five minutes before driving off at speed to a nearby pub, where I had the pensioners’ special of gammon, egg and chips, washed down with a couple of pints of IPA. No exercise at all; just like the days when you were young and your father took you out into the country.
Blue skies, good underfoot
I played my sackbut
Somewhat unwittingly kindling the underbrush
Through my haphazard ways
I’d set the woods ablaze
But I’d had the best of days
Along the trail
Oh, but you have, GloomLaden; oh, but you have!
But surely you prefer:
With a scowl and a frown, we’ll keep our peckers down
And prepare for depression and doom and dread.
We’re going to unpack our troubles from our old kit bags
And wait until we drop down dead.
Good to see, Blameworthy, that you’re raising the tone by quoting Noel Coward. My favouite bit of Coward is not funny but sad:
I believe
that since my life began
the most I’ve had is just
a talent to amuse.
Heigh-ho, if love were all
I should be lonely.
Not even having a talent to amuse, I feel even worse.
If your resolve should weaken, Gloomers, and you find yourself – against your better judgement – looking at the blog, this is the Noel Coward poem which I couldn’t remember – being well over 50 myself – which he wrote on the occasion of a friend’s 50th birthday:
Blow the trumpets, bang the drums;
Aching joints, receding gums.
Short of breath – all passion spent;
Arteries hardening like cement.
No mention of a pain in the arse caused by too much cycling though.
I think you’re confusing fact with fiction again, GloomLaden. It was, after all, Hardy’s Wessex, so he could decide for himself which towns and villages should be included within its boundaries. When you get round to writing your Hardy spoof, you can create a whole new Wessex for yourself, based on no factual evidence of real geography whatsoever. You don’t even have to call it Wessex. It could be GloomShire, or Sewidgeshire.
After our session earlier in the week, I realised that my memory of real Wessex geography has faded as much as my knowledge of Hardy’s fictional landscape. There is such a place as Oare Hill in Wiltshire. I even have a vague recollection of having been taken there on a school mini-bus trip, centuries ago. We really must go there in preparation for the film version of your forthcoming novel. The parson and the old stonemason will be seen jogging breathlessly along the Wessex Ridgeway, chased, off-road, by a blind drunk Inspector Malmsey in a vintage Wolseley. The movie could, perhaps, be called ‘Confusing Fiction With Fiction’.
Some people do feel the need to interrupt or try and involve themselves in other people’s conversations uninvited. I find it aggravating.
Still, on the bright side you didn’t get told as you left never to darken the pub’s door again on account of loudness and bad language! Never really got over that one as I don’t think we were the guilty partie! Hey ho, that’s life, I suppose.
The Deaf Bloke writes: Shouting? I couldn’t hear a word Blameworthy and GloomLaden were saying and had to lip read throughout. And all I learned was that neither of them know anything about the nomenclature of Hardy’s Wessex. And by what definition is Christminster (Oxford) even in Wessex?
Whilst swilling pints of Old Rosie and having our usual ear-splitting, factually questionable, conversation about literature in the local alehouse recently, GloomLaden and I suffered an unwelcome intrusion from a geriatric, know-it-all, fellow toper, who politely pointed out that our enthusiastic bellowing concerning Hardy’s Wessex, whilst scoring maximum points in the volume category, had failed to register in terms of accuracy. In heaven’s name, what is wrong with this country? Things are coming to a pretty pass when a pair of drunken, English reprobates are no longer allowed to indulge in shrilly stentorian, dyspeptic dialogue without being interrupted by smug, self-righteous professor types who – with ill-advised over-optimism – expect one to get one’s facts right. It’s only a back-street, spit & sawdust cider house for God’s sake, not some select club for toffee-nosed Oxford graduates.
Just for the record: Mellstock, as featured in ‘Under The Greenwood Tree’ is based upon the parish of Stinsford, near Dorchester, Dorset, which includes the village of Higher Bockhampton where Hardy was born and brought up. Melchester is based upon Salisbury. Which makes me wonder if any of the characters in the Hardy novels ever went to watch Roy of the Rovers play for Melchester Rovers. Although perhaps Roy had not yet made his way up through the ranks of the youth team in those days.
Meanwhile – and notwithstanding – in GloomLaden’s Wessex, Old Josiah Blameworthy is still striding purposefully along the old, rutted track in the direction of the Stonemason’s Arms at Werth PatTravers.
Nuff Sedd
Yep!
So, just food and drink them, really. You have even managed to find a job which involves nothing but eating and boozing.
Lucky bastard!
You are correct. July this year was the last time I rode a bike and that was for two consecutive days backwards and forwards to work. I still have hopes, but the thought of being prodded near, around and possibly in the rectal passage rather puts me off looking for a medical answer; although I know I should.
It feels like the base of the spine but when I touch or indeed prod the area myself there is not any pain.
I’m due for my yearly check up in Nov so will mention it and suffer what indignities he may wish to bestow upon me. I had worse a few years ago, I suppose.
However, my interest still lay in cycling, and only last Friday I was in Beaconsfield with my team mates around the pubs. A pint of Double Maxim, followed by two pints of Doombar in the White Hart, followed by two pints of Summer Lightning in another pub which escapes my memory at the moment; no doubt it will come back to me.
This was followed up (rather disappointingly) by two bottles of Tiger beer in. Chinese Restaurant – a slap up feast by any standards. Oh and a couple of bottles of Champagne.
Topman wanted to continue but it was near to 11.30pm and the rest of us had had enough. Topman was about two, maybe three pints ahead of us.
Sunny is now a convert to Real Ale; no more lager non-sense as in Stevenage and Thinker has always been a Real Ale chap. He was swaying a bit.
Still, woke up feeling a little tired but a full English put that right….so the Real Ale is still going albeit a little subdued….
You have listed your interests as real ale, walking, cycling and food Fitters. You now confess to having given up cycling owing to a pain affecting an unspecified part of your anatomy. Do you do any rambling other than that of the verbal variety these days? If not that only leaves food and drink. Unless you have experimented with any new interests as you approach old age. I think your devoted, regular readers deserve an update. God knows, there’s little else of interest going on in our lives!
I can see where you are coming from. Mr Chickenstalker could be a good blog name. However, there might be a lot of unsavoury people who might misconstrue what the site was about.
It may lead the wrong kind of people to think it was an advice site for people who tend to over-idolise and thus invade the privacy of celebrity chickens…..
What? What?
Well, there are some strange people about with funny ideas!
I’ve just discovered that the Palmer’s pub at Toller Porcorum closed about ten years ago, which is rather disappointing. I’ve always felt that John Betjeman would have been a better poet if he had spent more time drinking in pubs, rather than shuffling around inside churches. Of his favourite Dorset village names, Ryme Intrinseca has been dry as long as anyone can remember, and Melbury Bubb never had a pub. The church at Ryme Intrinseca is dedicated to St. Hyppolite, which can only provide small consolation to the villagers. On the bright side: I’ve been reading the Charles Dickens’ short story ‘The Chimes’ today, and have consequently discovered the character Mrs.Chickenstalker for the first time. Now wouldn’t that make a good blog name?
I’ve still got my old Raleigh Classic touring bike in the shed. I bought it, in 1986, for around £350, which was a lot of money then – in fact, it still is now as far as I’m concerned. With very little maintenance it still runs perfectly well. I’ve replaced the leather Brooks saddle with a new one which cost an arm and a leg, (making riding the bike much more difficult!) and I’ve got red Ortlieb pannier bags on the back which would hold enough luggage to tour Europe for a fortnight, but are rarely required to store more than a daily paper and a bike lock to be used while I’m in the pub. I still use it to cycle to Wroughton, Cricklade and Wanborough at least once a year. I used to cycle quite a lot back in the 1980s and in those days I thought nothing of riding 50 or 60 miles in a day (punchline deleted). I get far less pleasure out of it now though, not just because it’s more of an effort when you’re over fifty, but because cycling makes you realise just how bad the traffic situation has got around Swindon. There are still some nice country lanes out there if you can get beyond the Swindon orbit, but you have to risk life and limb to get to them. I still take the same sort of pride, as I did in my late teens, in riding like a demented tit, taking far too many risks and drinking at least six times the legal limit for driving a car. On reflection it’s probably best if I leave the bike in the shed.
The Pink Lady told me it was due to an injury in the knee department; however, she is an avid bike rider.
My bike riding stopped a couple of weeks after our session in the Wheatsheaf. I have developed a pain had it before my bike riding days in the 90s – which got very much worse on the new bike.
I tell the Pink Lady I have difficulties riding round with the pain. She tells me she goes round with a pain all the time but it doesn’t stop her. I’m not sure what she means…
Having entered that last comment, I’ve just glanced at your recent tweets and spotted the one about the Pink Lady being a former morris dancer. I’m staggered! Why did she give it up? I’ve always had a fascination with morris dancing and make a point each year of going to see the local sides, from Chippenham and Wantage, when they perform at nearby pubs. The sheer pointless, stupidity of it appeals to me far more than anything in life with a discernible purpose, although the dances always look far sillier when performed by men. Apparently there is a group in Swindon trying to reestablish the local morris side. I had considered myself too old now to start trying to learn the more elaborate dances, but if Fitrambler and GloomLaden were to join me for a practice session…
Such larks…such larks!
Palmers is a fine, old family brewery in Bridport, Dorset. Noted for being the only thatched brewery in Britain and having a working waterwheel on the River Brit at the back of the building. Along with Mrs. Blameworthy and Blameworthy Junior – who was only a year old at the time – I once spent a week on holiday in Bridport, just to visit some of the Palmers’ pubs. They brew very good beer, particularly the strong one known as Tally Ho!, but you need to drink it in one of their Dorset alehouses, preferably in a village with an implausible name, to do it full justice. Toller Porcorum or Whitchurch Canonicorum spring to mind. Ironically, Mrs. Blameworthy really enjoyed the week in Bridport and has always wanted to go back. From my point of view, having visited all the pubs within about ten miles of the town, there no longer seemed any point.
Must have been hard work helping the Pink Lady to get that kitchen sink on the train for the return trip to Swindon.
Bath wasn’t too bad a trip. While the Pink Lady was in Lakeland I spent half an hour in the Apple Shop. First time I’ve been in a proper Apple Shop. Rather reminded me of one of the National Beer exhibitions; that is so much on display one just doesn’t know where to start.
Ended up carrying quite a few things back. Oddly enough I rarely buy anything when I’m with the Pink Lady but always seem to be loaded down on the journey home.
On another note, ever heard of Palmers beers. On one of the recent bottled beer swaps in the team I work in, I was given three by my line manager….
Unfortunately, I can’t break it down into words per commentee(?) and it was only because the stats were on a page where I was playing around with a draft for the next one that I noticed.
There is, continuing the theme, 1 comment registered un Mr Blameworthy and 1 registered under Mr Gloom-Laden.
I suppose I should suggest that the comments I make on the stats should be read with the voice of the most boring priest in the world; as referred to in Father Ted.
Apparently it’s known as synesthesia.
Are you able to work out the number of different individual words used by each of us? GloomLaden may have the advantage in that respect owing to his superior vocabulary.
I had nothing to say either, Fitters, but knowing how those two odd numbers must have caused you suppressed agitation, I felt it my duty to ease your discomfort somewhat. I hope GloomLaden will show some consideration and do the same.
More trivia….
Looking at the stats for the site I noticed there were stats for comments..
Blameworthy 317 comments.
Gloom-Laden 161 comments.
This is over the articles still on the site. Which is about 19.
Just thought i’d mention it, not that it’s a competition. If it was I’d have a lot of catching up to do..
You’re absolutely right; it doesn’t make me feel any better. Although, in fairness to you, if the catering had been left to me on those holiday weeks, I probably wouldn’t have got anything to eat at all. I, rather rashly, assumed that nothing you could pass off as, even remotely, edible could add to the digestive turmoil caused by all the beer drinking we did in those days. How wrong can a man be!?
Postscript:
It took two years to finish that tin of chilli powder, only a small one two…
It probably won’t make you feel any better but you weren’t the only victim of my cooking; I have been a victim much longer. However I’ve rarely put myself through what I put us through in those early years…
But in 2006 a few months after my health scare I had a slight ingredients mix up. I decided to do myself a chilli. I got all the ingredients except the chilli powder. The tin was empty so I went to the corner shop and bought a new tin.
Remembering the last chilli I made I put three heaped spoonfuls in the mix. What I didn’t check was the label on the tin. The old tin was mild chilli powder, hence the amount I used. Unfortunately, the new tin was hot chilli powder.
After the second mouthful I realised the mistake. However, I paid good money for that plateful of food and I wasn’t going to throw it away.
About two pints of chilled water later the plate was empty. On a cool day I was lobster red and sweating, the Tongue tingling and hot.
I just about managed to wash up before chilli really struck. I don’t do running these days, but that moment was an exception. Boy did that chilli find my arse quick!
On the bright side, when I checked my weight the next day I’d lost Halkirk a stone!
Never quite put you through that, though I am thinking of putting together a saucepan of chilli in the near future.
Perhaps I could let you know when?
No, perhaps not….
When I said my portion of chilli was likely to have been the second one out of the pan, I wouldn’t want it to be misconstrued as an even greater criticism of Fitrambler’s culinary skills than was actually intended. My knowledge of food preparation is so limited that I’m not even sure you cook chilli in a pan of any variety. I have no doubt though, that what may, or may not, have been the second portion out of the saucepan,was undeniably the first portion to enter the large, ceramic Armitage Shanks sort of pan just down the corridor.
Now, look here, GloomLaden! No task was required to be taken as a result of Fitrambler’s first comment, but you took me to task for a comment I never made. I therefore feel justified in having taken you to task for your unjustified criticism. I now feel even more justified in taking you to task, once again, for your unjustified task taking. Now, let’s hear no more about it.
Looking back on it, I feel I may have been used as a guinea pig during your early attempts at haute cuisine, especially during the North Wales visits. Getting all five cloves of garlic in one portion is not as unlikely as it seems. I can only assume mine was the second helping out of the pan, and that all the cloves had sunk to the bottom. They would have been more obvious had they floated to the top, but lets face it, nothing could ever be described as having floated on one of your meals, just as nothing could be described as having floated on lead. I feel quite proud that I managed to survive your experiments, but only by washing them all down with copious draughts of ale, which would have flushed just about anything through my system in one direction or another.
Breakfasting on large bowls of muesli with no milk helped to speed things along a little too.
Can I just take Blameworthy to task for taking me to task for taking Blameworthy to task when it was Fitrambler who wrote the comment for which, in fact, no task needed to be taken?
To show how bored I was on my lunch break I typed in names from the Blog and most never referred to the blog. However, entering Gloom-Laden and the name brought forth two search links in 3rd and 4th place that directed to my blog…
Ok, so I need a life!
Your suggestion is a good one and one that would need to be acted upon quickly. I say that because if you don’t decide to go elsewhere before you are too far in, finding your way out isn’t easy. It’s a bloody big place.
Being more of a consumer of food – and the stories of such consumption attached to myself are legend, thanks, primarily to your good self, Blameworthy – the ins and outs of food preporation and cooking largely pass me by. Hence my astonishment at the amount of untencils available for prep and cooking food. My range of impliments to do the foody-cooking bit were always somewhat limited, more so on the those holidays in North Wales.
Unfortunately for you, Blameworthy, my old peach, you suffered often at the meal tables where I had attempted to create some culinary delight; which in the end turned out only to be a test of how much a stomach could take.
I darsay you, like I, remember the over-garlic’d chille con carne…the smell of which accompanied you and I for days…due mainly, I like to think, because I couldn’t get fresh garic and instead used garlic powder, misreading the instuctions given to me by the Indian lady…one tea spoon of garlic = 1 clove.
I did make another attempt with cloves when we were on holiday, only for you – and the odds must be fantastic – to get every clove in your portion of the aforementioned curry…
Ahh, happy days…
Can I just take GloomLaden to task over his earlier excuses? The mistakes were made in the first comment at a time when he still thought it was me who had made the previous one, so being in a hurry to apologise to Fitrambler is not an acceptable reason for making slap-dash errors. I’m sure Robert Robinson would have had something to say about it…If he were still alive, of course.
As for you Fitters; have you not thought of leaving the Pink Lady to look round the kitchen shop while you spend the time taking photographs? I can’t believe she really wants you trailing around behind her while she drools over the chopping boards, bread bins and the like. Unless she wants you to buy them for her.
Many’s the time when I’ve left Mrs. Blameworthy looking round the shops in Bath while I’ve sidled off cheerfully to the pub, then got the train home four hours later, completely oblivious to the fact that she had ever made the journey with me.
A little apology of my own, for Blameworthy. I’m putting together some pub photos taken recently on my travels. I was going to send them at the weekend but events overtook as they say. Anyway, so far, it’s getting towards 5pm and the boss has stopped ringing me so I might get away at 5pm today.
I’ll email some photos tonight as something of a priority. A few from London. Off to Bath this Saturday with the Pink Lady so might get a few photos there.
Quite what sort of time I’ll have to take photos when I get there is uncertain as I’ll probably be dragged into Lakeland (a kitchen shop, vast, frighteningly so) and once the Pink Lady gets in there, well…The only comparison I can think of is rather like you or I leaving an hour before closing time or indeed anytime before closing time in a pub!
Couchsafe is good isn’t it? One can imagine Fwank Muir explaining it on Call My Bluff. My errors in the earlier post were, of course, due to my haste in trying to apologise to Fitrambler; I no more read my own message back than I read the sender of the original message.
My attempts at riding a bike ended aged 8 when I tried balancing on my brother’s chopper (oo er) and promptly and painfully fell off. After that escapade, I went indoors, where I remain.
No good apologising to me, you did poor Ol’ Blameworthy a disservice. I nipped in first this month.
August 2011 was the first month I haven’t made an entry on the blog: it was probably my best work!
Perhaps I ought to do two this month to make up for it?
Hmm…
Nice to see that you have come round to my way of thinking, Gloomers, and started doing old jokes in preference to sophisticated wit. I like the word ‘couchsafe’. It’s an apt description of one who remains safely at home rather than face the dangers of the outside world. Is Robert Ron-bin-son dead as well? I believe his father was Swedish Ron the dustman.
If you fancy a bike ride some time Fitters, I know a nice little pub we could cycle to. No hills, and it really is just around the corner…honest.
Sorry Fitters! So used to Blameworthy getting the first comment in, I didn’t notice it was actually you! Collapse of stout party, as they used to say at the punchline of very old jokes in which a pompous man gets shown up as an idiot.
When is a comment not a comment? When Blameworthy has nothing to says but says it in a comments box on this blog. It doesn’t count. Mine is the real first comment and the something I have said in it trumps his nothing, even if it is about that nothing. And why the ‘really’? Nothing really to say suggests that there is in fact something. But he doesn’t couchsafe us what, oh no.
Robert Ronbinson is still dead, by the way: you can’t fault him for consistency of behaviour.
Nothing really to say, just thought I’d get the first comment in….