Oxford or Cambridge?

We had done Cambridge in the October of 2012, it was a bit of a wet autumn to be honest but it had been a wet summer so no surprise there. We did it as a day trip and felt a bit rushed as we sloshed about the city . We liked it on the whole and because we felt we missed out on the chance to see a play staring Tom Conte due to time constraints. We thought this trip to Oxford in a cold and soggy March would have a more relaxed feel to it, with an overnight.

Sue chose the “Head of the River” an ancient pub, restaurant,and hotel  along side the river Thames, or rather The Isis as it is called around these parts. Luckily we were able to park the car here in rather cramped conditions it must be said but a real bonus. Oxford council hate private motor vehicles, not perhaps  with the cat spitting fervour of Nottingham’s but hate it is.

After checking in we walked into the town along St Aldates, passing the Thames Valley Police HQ, seen many times by Morse  fans in the intellectual detective series written by Colin Dexter.  Himself a classics graduate from Christs College Oxford.

Next along Aldates is the very same Christs college , a fabulous, huge, imposing building in extensive grounds. Built in the square fashion, a la college mode, around a massive quadrangle about the area of two football fields. The student accommodation is equally impressive and has a  delightful rural outlook. One can’t help feeling masses of cash make this happen in the middle of a city, still it must be a total pleasure to be educated in this establishment. One can walk past all this 15th century  grandeur to give it the once over, by strolling along “broad walk.” Which puts you back in the town near Magdelin Bridge, after passing the rear of the Botanical gardens and Merton College another familiar name for viewers of University challenge, as are most of the colleges in Oxford it must be said.

100_1070 Christs college Student accommodation

As one continues walking gently up Aldates, passing Christs, on the left, can be seen Pembroke College, nowhere near the splendour but still ancient, then the town Hall is on your right another stone built edifice, they have seen some cash here over the years it is obvious. We reach the crossroads of High st and St Aldates. Here on the left is the Carfax bell tower. The word Carfax is thought to be an anglicisation of the French word Carrefour or quatre face meaning cross roads or four face.

These very bells were rung after a pair of students in the 14th century, threw mugs of beer, whose quality they were  dissatisfied  with, at the landlord of the Stockswindle pub ( it is now a Santander Bank) , who also happened to be a pal of the towns mayor.  He took exception to being smacked in the kisser thus so rang a peal or two to gather the towns folk together, where he rallied their support to mount an attack on the students. There exists much history of “town verses Gown” so there probably was not a lot of rabble rousing necessary . However the meeting was overheard by a passing college fellow who ran back to the “gown” area and rang the bell of St Mary’s church summoning the students, he let them into the proceedings and a pitch battle ensued. They didn’t mess about in those days, every participant was “tooled up” be it a dagger, a  pitch fork, an axe, a stone or what have you. This brawl lasted for 2 days and resulted in the death of 63 students and around 30 locals.
I love the rallying cry used by the Townies. “Havac , havoc! Smyte well and give  gode knocks!”

There was later an enquiry which found in favour of the “gown” and as a result on each and every St Scholasticas day, the10th February, the mayor was required to pay a fine of one penny for each student killed. A total of  5shillings and thre pence , or in centigrade, 26.25p! After first walking bareheaded through the town to St Mary’s, to deliver it. This punishment lasted for 470 years until the mayor in 1825 simply refused to take part and that was the end of that!

Continuing now gently downhill through what is these days pedestrian precinct, one passes a real old Tudor building that leans drunkenly but with a certain majesty and is now rather  incongruously housing a Pret a Manger sandwich bar and Bureau de change. To me this is the most attractive building in Oxford, every. time I see it, I smile.

100_1078The Most Attractive of buildings

Adjacent is a Saxon tower, this is “St Michaels at the north gate city church” there can be few cities with buildings over 1000 years in the centre, although the church itself is of 19th century construction.

A few yards past this is another cross roads, Broad St to the right but we enter George st to the left, to reach Jamie Oliver’s Italian restaurant for lunch. It is excellent, a dry cider and a shell fish pasta for me. For Sue , a tagliatelle Pork and beef thing with 2 glasses of house red! ( they were a bit mean though) cost? £35 and my scarf ( I left it, like a twat). We went back for it the following day but the operatives were not very interested, who would want to nick a blokes scarf? I ask you!

We arrived at the tourist information office in Broard street shortly before 1.30 to take the “Morse tour of Oxford”. Blow me it was full! We were keen to do it.  At this time of year though this tour only operates twice a week, damn it.
The back up plan was to take a”free” tour of the centre of Oxford that started at 2 pm. We found the meeting point, a blue bicycle chained to a lamp post, opposite a fudge shop on Broad street. Of course it is not free, you give a tip to the guide at the end. I like the basic idea because the guy or gal will strive to be as good as they can be. We overheard  a couple of the “official” tours over the next couple of hours and they seemed quite stuffy in comparison to our “footprint” one.

We checked out the blue bike with its modest advert and were immediately accosted by a friendly , witty , and enthusiastic individual who thrust a leaflet at us, I cottoned on to his style straight away and agreed we would give it a go.

We wondered up one side of Broad street and down the other to waste the half hour. Cars are banned here unless one has a special pass, it is not pedestrianised but bikerised instead , so you have to keep your wits about you or you could have the wheel of a Chinese export jam’d unexpectedly between your buttocks.

Returning to the bike we joined 3 other folk, then 2 more arrived one of which had done the tour the previous day but enjoyed it so much wanted a second go, quite a recommendation that, even if it was a bit like the guide having a stalker.
When the guide arrived it turned out to be the same “come on” guy we met earlier. He started his introduction, it took some time as he had ( poor fellow). A couple of nutters in the group that asked questions or made clever remarks, you know the type!  The group grew to 10 during this time, A Swiss, a Frenchie, and a Colombian, mix that with an Irish and a pair from Yorkshire and you have quite an eclectic bunch.

Our guide Tom , had a style of delivery that smacked of the comedian Michael McIntyre , sans the bouncing dark hair. It was almost like witnessing an impersonation.

We moved a few yards to the first stopping point, a square yard of pale cobbled street, that was bared of the 20th century Tarmac . Laid into these cobbles was a cross of black stones. This, said Tom, marks the very spot the Oxford Martyrs in  1555    were burned alive at the stake! Our Yorkshire wit said ” is that why the Tarmac is melted away”? A great gag, you may want to use it if you do an Oxford tour.

Tom regaled us with the whole martyrs tale and is quite a significant part of English regal history. A few yards to the north is another familiar college name,  Baliol  who claim to be the oldest in Oxford, next door along Broad street is Trinity. They both have masses of green space inside their private grounds it is all very lovely. Further along from Trinity is the famous book store of Blackwells.
The most interesting thing , apart from it’s huge store of books on almost any subject you care to name, is its massive basement it stretches under the lawns of Trinity college it is that extensive.

Next door to Blackwells is a “Morse pub” he was well known as a connoisseur of beer, the White Horse. It is though a bit pokey, olde world e,  I’ll grant you but jolly uncomfortable with mostly stools to sit on, we tried it but didn’t stay for lunch.

Across the road is the Sheldonian theatre one of the iconic Oxford buildings, it’s not a theatre at all really but a building used for the ritual issuing of certificates to successful graduates and the occasional music recital, which sounds awfully boring. Hidden behind this is the Bodlian Library, the name is of which is iconic itself , another  huge building. This one though houses a copy of every book, magazine and newspaper ever printed in English. From Shakespeare to Barbra Cartland, I doubt Barbara’s stuff or 50 shades of anything is actually on these estimable premises, a pound to a pinch of sand there will be a large shed ( the Bodlian annex) somewhere on an industrial estate for those.

Back on Broad street we turn into Turl street and enter Exeter College and its gardens, not only do Exeter have a large quad , we re not allowed in there, but a stroll around its gardens is quite permissible. From the garden wall one can see down onto Radcliffe square and view “The Radcliffe Camera”, once again one is forced to use the word iconic. It is a building used as a reading room for the Bodlian. Ingress and egress is gained via extensive underground tunnels. The rules of the Bodlian state that no books are to be removed, by anyone no matter what your name or position. The Bodlian make little money from fines for late returns it appears. There is a lovely story about this subject and Oliver Cromwell, I’ll leave it to your guide to tell you though.

From Exeter’s wall one can see the side of another well known building, that of Brasenose college. It sounds awfully snooty but when you realise it is a bastardisation of “the college with the big brass nose like knocker” ! It looses a bit of its aura. From here we wander past a few odd buildings and houses, many of which have a tale or two attached or imagery used by well known ” Oxograds,” JRR Tolkein and C S Lewis for example. Some are very plausible , others? maybe one needs a lungful of chemical stimulants or a pint or two of beer to grasp.

Eventually we find ourselves on Radcliffe square itself, in front of the famed Camera.     The foot way is made of large pebbles cemented into the surface simply horrid to walk on, I think mud is more comfortable, it doesn’t look tidy like this stuff though. I can’t help but wonder if cyclist crash into each other here through blurred vision? This square is well familiar to viewers of both Morse and Lewis. St Mary’s Church is adjacent the very one mentioned in the punch up above.

Radcliffe himself is a rather amazing character a scholar, scientist and Doctor known for a rather forthright and even brutal bedside manner. He saw his patients as scientific challenges instead of frail , vulnerable human beings. He would be struck off these days but medically, his thinking was light years ahead of his peers, a wonderful man!

Just yards from here is All Souls college ( I keep wanting to pronounce it as arseoles) a very special place no undergraduates here, all the members are “fellows” all doing some sort of research. One of their old fellows was T E Lawrence,   (of Arabia fame in WW1). A very intelligent  man , biker and nut case and writer of a most unintelligible book called the ‘Seven Pillars of Wisdom”.  Peter O Tool did a great characterisation in the film of the same name. T E, was killed crashing a 1000cc Brough Superior motorcycle wearing a cap with goggles and a tweed double vented hacking jacket for protection, I said he was a nut case!

Associated with All Souls is something to do with a “Mallard hunt” I can’t remember the details but it sounded like drunken chaos, I’m sure those involved enjoy it though.

From here here we pop across the road to “the bridge of sighs” it was built, it appears, because Cambrige had one. They are both replicas of the Venician original and look awfully impressive and very well constructed. The Oxford version connects two buildings of New College that were on opposite sides of a street. So keeping up with the Cambrians also has practical purpose.

100_1073The Oxford Bridge of Sighs

Passing under the bridge our group comes to a very narrow passageway or alley called St. Helens passage (at one time called hells passage) which leads, after a right angled turn to the Turf Tavern. Dating from the 14th century and updated in the 17th.  It is significant because in the olden days it was right on the edge of the city wall , evidence of which can still be seen and pretty high it was too. As the boozer was technically outside of the city it meant it and its occupants were not bound by the town rules and college regulations, therefore students could get hammered on the local grog without fear of reprimand by the college bursar. These were not the ordinary skint  students we are familiar with today, no, these are the progeny  of the gentry and well to do. With names like, Walter Spryngheuse and Roger De Chesterfield you know they are not the sons of bricklayers and farmers. It was in this establishment that the future Prime minister of Australia, Bob Hawk, broke and still holds to this day the record for downing a yard of ale. Bill Clinton, who went on to become a two time President of USA attempted to smoke a cannabis joint during his tenure as a Rhodes scholar at this very pub. I bet the Aussies loved Bob.

In St. Helens passage is a blue plaque, dedicated to Jane Burden a ” muse and embroiderer”. She is worth a mention as the wonderful Tom knew nothing of her he had never even noticed the plaque. She was a poor woman living in this passage apparently, selling pieces of embroidery for a modest living. She was noticed as a classical beauty by a couple of artists who fell for her charms. They used her as a model.  One of them, William Morris eventually married her, they moved to Kent had a couple of children then moved to London. The other artist in the tale, Dante Rosetti  became her lover and she continued to model for him.  The love petered out when he became a drug addict, dope is not a modern abomination it seems.  Mr Morris in the meanwhile had taken a lover of his own. Jane Morris nee Burden,  although from lowly stock ( her dad was a stableman,  her mother an illiterate domestic servant) was intelligent and had no trouble in mixing with the upper classes, she educated herself in French and Italian. Eventually dying in 1914, her story, it is believed, became the inspiration for George Bernard Shaw’s 1912 play, Pygmalion/My Fair Lady.

After passing the “new Bodlian” built in 1940 and not a patch on the original, we finished our tour at the Oxford Martyrs Memorial close by the Ashmolian museum. Where Tom finale’s  his tour with the ghastly end of Thomas Cranmer the final member of the trio of martyr’s and ex Archbishop of Canterbury. We then bung him a tenner and it is worth every penny. Now We are left with wanting to return to Cambridge and repeat a footprint tour there, so well done Tom!

We wobble back down Aldates and return to our Hotel for a pint and a rest before our pre prandial walk along the river. We have arranged to meet a pal who lives locally for dinner so snatch a spare hour to stroll the banks of the swollen Isis . It’s not long before we see the facilities of the many boat clubs that contribute to Oxfords fame, some are quite posh looking all displaying their crest proudly. The one on our side, the right going down stream is absolutely stunning, modern, new and bossy looking with smoked glass!  We guess this is where the chosen have their HQ, the ones who represent Oxford in the annual  university boat race.

We notice an odd looking watercraft being readied nearby it has standing room only and is mounted on a pair of floats. I guess it is for the sculling coach who these days does not cycle the tow path looking sideways at his clients whilst yelling instructions down a megaphone. Instead rides majestically in this boat with a driver. This has to be much safer. The volume of cycling traffic along this towpath makes the former a lethal act.

Returning to The Head of the River, we meet our dinner companion bang on time. Pete Tollput , an ex motorcycle racer and BMW robot engineer, who offers to buy our dinner, what a fine fellow. The evening passed all too quickly with fine food and many good laughs as we regale one another with tales of daring do and stupidity. A lovely evening ending a satisfying day we are ready for a good sleep in our room which is dedicated to TS Elliot. Each room at “the Head” is so dedicated, Oscar Wilde, Thomas Hardy, et al.

The following day breakfast is Eggs benedict then we check out! leaving the car parked and having a final self guided waz around the city. Magdelin school an independent mainly for boys (and expensive no doubt), Queens, Magdelin, Edmunds, St Mary’s, The Ruskin, and University Oxford are but some of the colleges  we pass walking up High street. We notice a rather worn looking rather old fashioned barber shop, I remarked to Sue “look at that dump” I was in need of a trim but it looked an expensive dump. I read later it is something of an Oxford treasure.

100_1074 Oxford Colleges Have imposing doorways100_1072
Oh yes Oxford is a very walkable city. We have the natural history and Pitt Rivers museums as our target . Neither of us are museum people but feel we must give them a go seeing as  we are so close. The Pitt is well laid out but is a veritable jumble of stuff, we notice so much but see so little. We eventually escape and move to the Ashmolian again for no reason other than we are here.

100_1071 Merton College 100_1077Pitt Rivers Museum

As we walk past Keeble,  and St Johns colleges I develop a bit of a plan. When we enter, the Ashmolian doorman encourages us in what is on offer, for an extra charge we could see some “Chinese art that is on loan”! When I made the “over my head sign” he seemed relieved that he was talking to normal people and confessed they had had no one up there yet today! He was helpful with my plan though which was to see The Lamp that was purportedly used by Guy Fawkes on his last visit to Parliament on the 5th of November 1605.  It made the visit interesting. It is the plan I will adopt in future visiting a museum. “Have something specific in mind and what you see inadvertently en route may give you joy.”  It worked very well, we couldn’t help noticing on our journey past many roman statues they all had they’re nobs broken off!
You can’t help but think the human being, throughout the millennia, can’t stop him/herself steeling a stone penis. Very odd ! What would one do with it once you got it home?

One thing I did enjoy learning from the Ashmolian. It was considered by learned ” Sniffy’s ”  as nothing but a ” knicknackatory”. What a lovely word.

100_1076St Johns College Oxford (back yard)

Leaving this magnificent building it was close to lunch lime. We took a stroll through the old fashioned rather attractive Covered Market that Oxford is famed for. How it survives in todays quick fire, slick, get it done, supermarket style god knows, It does seem to offer top quality, maybe its as simple as that. Our Robot pal from last night had suggested another “morse” pub. This one is out of town someway on the banks of the Thames. “The Trout Inn” took some finding but is well worth it, a proper old building, with ancient timbers throughout, beautifully modernised. Staffed by young keen professional individuals, can’t get better than that. The food is top notch, it was very busy . Its Tuesday in March and bitterly cold. What’s it like in May? It has a delightful  patio next to the river that in its present swollen form boils by threateningly. No one is using the patio it’s too cold out there.

100_1081The Trout Inn and Swollen Thames

After lunch a post prandial was taken past an old derelict nunnery along side of  a canal designed to step boats gently down this section of the Thames. It’s on a section of the “Thames path” a 184 mile walk from its source  to the Thames Barrier just past Greenwich, Sue displays interest in doing it I’ll check it out later.

In conclusion then. Oxford is worth a visit particularly if you are familiar with the TV Programs University Challenge, Morse and Lewis. It will make you smile as you recognise familiar stuff.

Viewed via google earth it is striking!  The many old buildings surrounding green geometric shapes, these are the colleges and their quadrangles and there are loads of them. I think Tom said 39 individual colleges, but they are not individual. They are managed as part of the whole. One can apply to join “Oxford ” or apply to join a specific  college, but you will be interviewed by a board that represents the whole institution which ever way you play it. If you are rejected for any reason, it’s no good saying “ah sod it! I’ll go to Cambridge then” because they won’t take Oxford rejects anyway and visa versa it appears. Oxford will not take Cambridge rejects either. I thought Margret Thatcher had got rid of the “closed shop”. Only in the work place it seems, the “gown place” were exempted.

So Oxford or Cambridge? They are so similar the former is the older and seems to hang on to its oldness better and with an overt pride in the fact. Here the learning seems to take place by osmosis. In Cambridge there is an air of “busy learning” about it, there are students thronging hither and yon, all on bikes of course. They are both though, about scholastic achievement, I love the fact they exist at all and am very proud to see the clever sods perform in the many competitions.  Unlike the donkey who spoiled the boat race in 2012 by swimming into the path of the boats during his protest about “elitism”.  Yes I have to agree with him, they are elite. They are the best rowing team each town can put together, who would want to watch a race between the ordinary, the average or the crap?
In future I pray police snipers are placed on every bridge to take out this kind of plonker.. Well?  he may be wearing a suicide vest! Better shot than sorry.

Done mid march 2013.

USA Road Trip 2011 Chapter 4

4)  28th August. was a nice start, low cloud a little intermittent rain, so not bollock boiling hot,nice and cuddly cozy warm. It’s ‘orrible when your underpants are all sweaty, especially when the ball hairs get stuck in the lacy bits. I am seriously thinking of quitting with these girly garments, I don’t know why she likes me to wear them? I will get some proper men’s  Y fronts from M&S when I get home.

We hit Sioux Falls around lunch time, where I ate a Jimi Hendrix Burger, I guess he came from South Dakota somewhere. The “Jimi” was accompanied by something described as “dirty fries on the side”, it was all good but enough for a man with more than one stomach. We checked out the falls , it is jolly impressive, I say “it” but it’s several with a massive volume of water and flowing right through the middle of the city. It looks like they  made a good preservation of it eventually , after giving it what for in the 19th and early 20th centuries using it to drive various bits of machinery, water wheels, a flour mill and stuff, they even had a hydroelectric power plant. However this fell into disuse when it couldn’t cope with the burgeoning town. It is all set with a park around it now, with the industrial buildings converted into something more attractive , a cafe, a souvejunk shop, a museum and a look out point.

We had a thrash round on a tour bus ‘ a trolley’ actually ( a trolley is best described as a utility 20 to 30 seater vehicle, less intimidating and organized than a coach and therefore better suited to hop on and hop off with wooden seats, a guide and it was free) and had a look round this small, aware town, sorry city. They are big into sculpture. The city organize an exhibition every year,called “Sioux City sculpture walk” of around 50 pieces, these are dotted about the city on the side walks, folk stroll past and give them the once over, at the end of the summer the citizens cast a vote for “the people’s favorite” then the council buy it and it goes on permanent display on one of the sidewalks, what a good idea! There are some wonderful, stunning pieces  on show, along with some that look like the artist was on some kind of stimulant but it wouldn’t be art without that now would it?.

The weather continued nice and warm , with a few dots of rain, the  goolies remained cool. Sioux Falls is a nice place to live methinks. We then visited a winery a few miles out of the city, called the “straw bale” they had a bit of a garden party with live music and all, it seemed to have promise  and I do like a bit of promise. In the USA  it often delivers more than expected. To a Brit anyway , we are bought up to be let down, so much so we are almost dissapointproof. Not this time though, it was all a bit average and slightly only slightly mind, poncey. The wine was fine though, even if a bit clunky price wise.

We  shacked up in the Sheraton, it’s ok clean and a bit bullshitty, not a patch on the ABV we stayed in last night when it comes to value for money. The crumby bastards even want to charge 11 bucks for the Internet. It’s free everywhere else, even in some of the lay-byes or rest areas as they call them. So Sheraton sucks!  They even charge 4 dollars for the bottle of complimentary, or so I thought, water  I’d discovered in the bathroom. How many people wear their specs in there? The price is written so small only an 8 year old could see it.

I imagine a board  meeting , where the members all  turn up dressed as their hero , Fagin! wringing their hands, “come to order my dears”

They have a wall of fame in reception, on it is Engelbert Humperdinck , Tom Jones and some others, my favorite was Colonel Oliver North, remember him? Personally I can only class him as an American hero. In 1987 he was up in front of an American congressional  committee of enquiry, He was accused of some dishonest dealings with Iran, over armaments/hostages then funding Nicaraguan rebels with the profits and spending $16,000 on a security system for his home. A more straight talking honest man you could not wish to examine. He did arrange an immunity from prosecution deal beforehand mind, thats maybe why he was so forthright. An utter contrast to any politicians interviewed ever by anyone for any reason. Yes I was glad Colonel Oliver North and his ilk are on “our side”. There is more about him on him on line.

The Sheraton breakfast could stop a truck, fabulous, it’s an extra though of course.

Iv’e just had a great idea! I will submit it to the next board meeting, they will never have thought of this. What you do is weigh the soap, when the guest (victim) checks out you weigh it again, a quick and simple piece of arithmetic and Bobs your uncle, another revenue source. Waahey!

A Look Back In Africa


I enjoyed our last winter in South Africa, of course it was summer there, 2009.

It coincided with a certain “sunset on ZA” for us as well, I still love the country though. Its just awfully badly managed, why for instance does each new leader after the wonderful Nelson Mandela appears to be a moron or a gangster?

When We first visited in 1996 the feeling I had for the country was that it’s feet were on the starting blocks ready to leap forward. Since that time it has gone no where, its like it reluctantly  stepped forward hauling its sorry arse behind its humpty back, dragging its knuckles on the ground. I blame its leaders and they are largely members of the ANC. It seems to me the focus of attention is not on the country as a whole but primarily on the ANC itself. This is the important part of their lives, running the country is more of a nuisance or a hobby, they appear as racist as any of the “white governments” of the past they’re just not honest about it.

My views are as an outside observer you understand, however I see the Western Cape being run quite well, the stinking hovels round the airport are reducing and being replaced with something far more sanitary. This area is not in ANC hands though. Instead of the ANC wanting to copy it they are more intent on manipulating the political scene to slow it down or kill it. What are they scared of? I guess they could be shown up eventually to be the incompetent administrators they have turned out to be. Like most governments they are more concerned with perception than reality, I can think of no governments that aren’t actually but it is all a matter of degree. Some like to try and mix a bit of reality with their spin. Not in ZA though.

There are some beautiful places to visit, some very remote and lovely places, that, if they were in the UK or the USA would be so popular they would buzz with visitors every weekend. What appears to happen in ZA is when a place is found that is interesting for tourists, and lonely. Scavengers are allowed to move in and mug them, they then become even lonelier, the tourists don’t use them anymore and the service industries round them then wither. Where is the sense in that?

For example two places spring to mind that I and my family have visited together. The first is the Royal National Park in the central Drakensberg mountains. In 1996 we stayed at the Royal National Park Hotel, it was not all that welcoming to be honest and well rooted in the past, it has plenty of history though and the step back in time was an experience in itself.

They even had a 1940s car of some description on display in the front of the hotel that some member of the Royal family had travelled in, as some kind of tribute to their majesty.

One morning about 5am I set off leaving Sue, Adam and Joe asleep in the place, for a walk upstream along the Tugela river , towards a place called Mont Aux Source ( of the river presumably) I walked for a couple of hours and it never stopped being fascinating, I got right up to the face of the amphitheater as the massive vertical cliff face is called, before returning. I met one other person en route so it was quite clearly lonely. I have always wanted to return and do it with my companion and fellow hiker Sue. Sadly I read recently the vagabonds have moved in to rob unsuspecting walkers, consequently the Hotel has closed. This could have been inevitable anyway the way it was run , nevertheless what a pity. No winners there then and little to no chance we will ever return. Unless of course accompanied by a couple of the SAS, which would make the whole thing pointless anyway.

The other is almost in the centre of CapeTown, It is a walk from the Kirstenbosch gardens, up a steep path on the  rear side of Table mountain. It is called Skeleton Gorge, the name itself smacks of piratical adventure. We left our car in the car park took a walk round the gardens then set off up the gorge.

In the brochure I had read it stated that the top would be reached in about an hour and a half, I thought blimey,  it must be a steep direct route then to the top of table mountain! Just before this I had managed to have one of those pointless family fallouts as one sometimes does for no reason anyone can ever remember, with Adam, which meant he had stormed off in a huff and commenced the climb before us. It was steep as well, part of the accent is assisted by a chain that you use to pull you up a waterfall , fortunately there was a drought so we didn’t get wet. eventually we bumped into Adam who was on his way back down and we were all friends again so he rejoined us as we continued up. Just over an hour after starting we got into daylight, the climb was all in forrest to this point, where we hit a beach! well a very sandy section anyway. We could see we were still a long way from the top and the wonderful cafe they have up there. There was a signpost to Mcleans Beacon. We thought we would go the other way, as we wanted the top and there was no sign for it but unfortunately for us we had a secret weapon , my instinct!

We were soon lost however and found ourselves at a reservoir. Nearby were some campers, with a car! how in Gods name had they driven a car up here? we were up a mountain for goodness sake!

We “knocked” on the tent , it turns out they were students doing some kind of Botanical work and they had found a rough track to drive up. They couldn’t directly help us, possibly because we had disturbed their card game but they did have a map we could look at. It appeared we had some back tracking to do towards Mcleans beacon and there was a flaming long walk ahead of us.

Having read the guide book we had bought with us enough water and provisions for 1 1/2 hours, fair enough! We planned to replenish at the restaurant.  If only I had the sense to realize the  time quoted was to the top( the sandy part) of Skeleton Gorge. Then we may not have had to deal with my “diabetic turn”. Adam dug me out of it by asking a fellow hiker we met for some refreshment and they gave us a bottle of coke. It was a very long hike over rough terrain up and down gullies and rocks in the rolling cloud that often envelopes table Mountain. It was interesting though and demanding, very enjoyable as well, not withstanding the hypoglycemic event.

We eventually made the restaurant, where we refueled and recovered whilst we watched the Hyrax’s rifle through the bins. They are quite a bit short of cute and if you are of a hebe jeebe nature could even be considered revolting, they are also very rat like in the way they look at you, nevertheless they are just about tolerable. It is hard to imagine they are connected to the Elephant family in someway but they are.

Having fully recovered we decided to walk down using the route known as the  Pletenklip gorge. In the general run of the mill view of table mountain it is invisible, if however the view is taken more to the left, what you see is a large cleft in the face like an axe was driven down into it this will be the Pletenklip. The remaining rock to the left of it is the  Mcleans Beacon. This would bring us out on the regular side of the mountain the view everyone is familiar with, right next to the bottom of the cable way. We could have gone down in the gondola of course but after chatting to one of the young operatives who told us it was about a half hour walk , we  decided to make another innocent error. If only we could have a look at hind sight before we experienced it , what a gift that would be. Although life would be a bit less interesting I suppose. It took us 1/2 an hour just to find the start of the route ( I am thinking this was the 1/2 hour he was talking about). Unfazed we pressed on down, it wasn’t long though before fatigue started to come upon Sue and me, the boys however were still fighting fit.

There is a point on this route around half way where you walk across the face of the mountain , the pathway and I use the term loosely , is at the conjunction of the sheer cliff and the sloping less steep part of the mountains face, here the path goes horizontal for about a mile, until it reaches the cableway and then there is a rapid decent in its shadow.

Because the rolling cloud and its cold blanket had driven away the crowds around the lower cable way, which is usually teaming with tourists, busses and a thousand cars parked along the road, it was deserted, except for two taxis.  With about 500 feet to go I sent my 2 scouts on ahead to bag a taxi,  “don’t let him go, I don’t care what you have to do”. If we hadn’t gotten that taxi I hate to think what we would have done. It was still a 3 mile hike into Cape town from there and our car was on the other side of the mountain anyway. Alls well that ends well though and we made it, completely exhausted. A good day can be marked in the mental diary.

Now I read real pirates have been allowed to move in to the top of skeleton gorge, there are warnings on the internet and in tourist information leaflets. I cant help but wonder, Do these morons ever think “blimey its gone quiet up here, what happened? business is very slow, there is no one to rob any more”.

The South African government allow Highwaymen on the roads as well but they are called policemen with speed  cameras. They even dress in camouflage gear and hide! Can you imagine that in the UK? Even their static cameras are painted olive green! This all gives the impression that the ANC actively hate people with money, where other governments only envy them a bit.

Cape Town has to be my favorite city in the world, I like the way you can play golf almost in the centre of town , the palm trees, the history, the facilities , the weather, mainly though I think it is the stunning back drop of table mountain. We like the fact we can almost afford it as well. Even the tourist restaurants don’t hurt too much and the Cricket at Newlands is an affordable joy, £20 for two seats at an ODI! Not the £120 each as in the UK!

Having made that statement is causing me to run through my city list. Rome, Naples (what a pit), Venice, London, Prague, Paris, New York, Washington, Durban, Johannesburg, New Orleans, Memphis, Las Vegas, Sorrento and many more, I still think Cape Town would be the best choice. I haven’t even mentioned my favorite restaurant there, The Tea Room at the outrageous Rhodes memorial, what a view!

We have been all over South Africa and it has lots to offer, They have the best by a million miles game park, Kruger, if you want to see animals in the wild don’t waste your time anywhere else. We have done walking safaris, game drives, self drives, camping safaris, I say camping but it was not at all like the scouts. We had a flushing porcelain toilet and a hot shower, both out doors but very private. What a pleasure to sit there in the dark and hear a lion roar. You would need to be on illegal stimulants to experience anything like it.

There are of course the two Drakensburg mountain ranges, one I have already mentioned the other in the Transvaal. There are the Cango caves in the little karroo, I will never go potholing , no chance, never! We did there though, not quite the proper scary nasty stuff but definitely potholing with enough “edge” to keep your attention. Ostrich farms are also educational and good fun, and there are many round the karroo. South Africa is a massive country, with superb roads.

Which reminds me of the minister of transport I saw on TV, what a clown.When he was given the job, it will certainly not because of his expertise, more likely as a favor for services rendered, he must have thought “ look at this budget? it must all be mine ! Ill spend some of it on a really regal costume in hideous colors, maybe even a bit on the gay side. No one will dare comment because I am the king”.

When he came on the telly he had a very serious demeanor, some toady must have told him he had considerable gravitas even when dressed as Elton John. then he proceeded to warn us all, about drunken driving over Christmas. They have huge crack downs at this time of year and road blocks breathalyzing all and sundry. Still though, they have loads of drunk and or drugged drivers about. It is difficult to imagine being arrested for drunk driving in South Africa you would be lobbed in jail overnight almost certainly, with a bunch of the most desperate creatures on Gods earth, and promptly buggered up the back! If you weren’t an AIDS victim when you went in, you most certainly would be when you came out.

We have climbed Table mountain over the years, many many times my 2 younger boys have raced up it in 1 hr, 20 minutes. It is a great test of fitness and stamina. We have watched people climb it with ropes and stuff, its quite funny to see them chuck a mountaineers leg over the wall and enter the restaurant with their ropes looped round their body. People have died attempting it, you can often find a little memorial plaque nailed to a rock hither and yon, by a grieving relative.

Always , always you read warnings “do not attempt the climb without taking the appropriate bad weather clothing, no matter how hard the sun is beating down”. Ignore this advice at your peril. We did!

I have to say my Old boiler in a pair of hot pants and a skimpy vest still blows my socks off even at 50 odd. I on the other hand, turn myself out much more professionally, in a pair of tailored shorts with ironed creases down the front and a short sleeved shirt. So off we set in blazing sun from the lower cableway. At about halfway after an hour or so the “table cloth” started to roll in, we were sweating up a bit of heat though so we never noticed the cold till we got to the top. We refueled in the Restaurant and warmed up a bit. then set off, still in cloud down the same route we came up. Ooh we were cold and we got colder, by the time we reached the bottom we were definitely hypothermic, our knee caps were jumping up and down thats how bad we were. We reached the car and drove immediately to our guest house, which incidentally was the place Christian Barnard was living in when he did the worlds first heart transplant. We both got in the shower, the room didn’t have a bath and stayed there for simply ages, well until the hot water ran out anyway. That shower was one of life’s highlights and I’ve had a few. We will never go up that mountain again without a rucksack full of “ appropriate clothing” and spare food and water. Although we humans learn best by experience, there is no need to suffer for your knowledge, unless you really want to.

We gave Kwazulu Natal a good duffing over, on one of our trips, visiting all the Zulu historic stuff. We stayed at a place called Fugitives Drift Lodge it was a top of the range establishment run by probably the best Zulu tour guide the world will ever see,( Carling don’t do one) David Rattray and I say that with total conviction. Anyone who has grown up in the 60s and watched the film Zulu, or have subsequently been touched by it would have been rapt with the stories this chap and his staff have to tell, the passion and accuracy are indisputable.

From the garden of the Lodge the mountain of Isandlwana was visible in the distance, this is the venue of the biggest defeat a British army had ever suffered at the hands of “ a bunch of savages armed with sticks” as the critics of the prime minster of the time, phrased it, in the British parliament in 1879. At Rattrays one can also take time out to pay ones respects to two of the many heros of this event who are buried in the lodge grounds, during a visit to the bottom of the valley of the buffalo river. This is where the fleeing survivors crossed into Natal and comparative safety at this “Fugitives Drift”. It isn’t much of a drift actually, its more a raging torrent. However I think it wouldn’t look so daunting with a few thousand Zulus up your pipe.

After our early morning visit to “isandula” as Disraeli mispronounced it. We went on an evening visit to Rorkes Drift where the tales and nuances of the battle were relaid by the gifted raconteur that was David Rattray. The times of day chosen for these tours is the same time as the battles took place, just to add a bit more of the flavor of the events. I don’t care how much it cost it was worth every coin. I don’t think Joe, who was around seven at the time was that bothered but he was no trouble either and quietly respectful. I spoke of David in the past tense as he was murdered by a gang who entered his house inJanuary 2007 intending to rob him. So respected was he and loved by his Zulu neighbours the gang was soon given up to the police and they are all serving life sentences.

David had a leaders style about him I thought and certainly a unique talent. He performed his Zulu talks to sell out audiences at the Royal Geographical Society on Kensington Gore in London, three evenings on the bounce every year for 12 years. He was the rock star of tour guides. His voice and passion can still be experienced by listening to his recordings of “Day of the Dead Moon” on CD, I recommend them, enjoy them as I continue to do!

Another of our more odd experiences was spending the night in a “genuine” Zulu village. It was next to a river in the bottom of a valley that was reached via horseback. It was a memorable experience, we were given our own rondaval, it had a porcelain toilet and a queer sort of bath that was filled by Zulu servant girls who had heated the water over an open fire in an old oil drum, as a feature for westerners. So not quite utterly authentic, thank goodness. It got well authentic after dark though, it was pitch black , you couldn’t see your proverbial hand in front of your face. They gave us softies a flashlight. There are no windows in a rondeval, so it was even darker indoors if that was at all possible. We ate in the grandmother hut and were entertained with some brilliant Zulu music, well just wild, enthusiastic drumming really and dancing, with all the stomping and carrying on.

We learned plenty about Zulu life traditional and modern from our guide and it all felt very honest and genuine. It was a “not easy” pleasure at the end of the stay, yet so very rewarding in a wholesome way. I am glad we experienced it. There is another Zulu experience called “Shaka Land” we did that  as well but it is designed for the easy pleasure of the tourist as opposed to the previous one, it is also allot cheaper to do as well!

Sue and I have spent many months over the last five years in a house on a modern development in a country village called Tulbagh  in the Western Cape during the African spring and early summer. Its a lovely place, Tuscan in design, a U shaped building round a shaded courtyard with its own swimming pool. It has a 5 foot high walled garden and neighbours but still manages to be quite private. Well private enough not to need a bathing costume anyway. The neighbours dogs are the worst thing about it, many of them bark and the worst of them yap. Why does anyone want a yapper? they have dogs because I think they are paranoid about being snook upon by some of the dregs of Africa, that live in a squatter camp that is less than half a mile away over some fields.

The ANC have to bear responsibility for the place I believe. it is part of their Gerrymandering they knew in 1994 they were in danger of not winning in this area. It was well run , conservative, mainly white and “coloured” apart from some of the farm workers. So they bussed in a few hundred  scrap black folk to “balance” it up a bit. They just didn’t bother with giving them anywhere decent to live. The ANC were interested only in their votes not their gratitude. Hence this hell hole was erected so they could register to vote. It is a stinking dump! Toilets have been erected and water piped in mainly by volunteers from the village. The inhabitants still prefer an alfresco shit in the field though and who can blame them. It is worse than awful and these people mostly have no job no education and live hand to mouth on sweet FA reduced to begging or the lucky ones to odd jobs like gardening.

In my view the average African wants a job, when he gets it loves it and wants to keep it , he’s proud of it and wants to be the best at it. Almost like an American but without the advantage of a formal education.

I read somewhere about a South American politician speaking to a South African one. The one was saying that they educate prisoners in their country, to increase there chances of improving themselves. “Do you do the same”? “you have to be kidding” says the South African “if we did that the crime rate would rocket, they would commit crimes just to get the education”.

The African’s know the way out of poverty is through education and they seem to want it so bad! When you see African kids going to school they are immaculately turned out, in uniform, happy and proud. Quite a contrast to your average British school kid who is proud to be a hobbledehoy.

In 2009 our last visit to the country coincided with the South African Open Championship at a golf course adjacent to the nearby town of Paarl. Entrance for spectators was by ticket and they were free! how good is that? We did have to pay R10 to park the car then climb on the free bus that took us into the bowels of the course, about a mile away. We had never done a pro golf tournament before but thought it was so welcoming and so well organised, we liked it immediately.

There was beer, refreshments and food all very well done and beautifully presented even on a mass scale such as this. It was boiling hot, so round and about they had pipes of water threaded hither and yon blowing jets of water vapour at people who were fortunate enough to pass by, or sat at the tables drinking a beer, receiving double refreshment as a result, what a good idea! We had to buy the beer and food but never felt reamed, thats South Africa for you. This was on the Thursday the first day of the championship, we didn’t know any of the players but we thought we would go to the first Tee watch a few groups Tee off then pick one to follow round the course. “Not this bunch” said Sue, “he picks his nose” pointing at a chap from Paraguay. So we chose the next group one was a South African Amateur another a Zimbabwean who looked a little down at heel with the appearance of a journeyman in desperate need of a break along with his devoted caddy. Another was a South African who wore a long sleeved shirt, odd, but very wise, for even with black skin, the sun , of which there was plenty to go round  could vent its spleen on you.

At the first “long sleeve” put his ball in a garden, the other two were on the fairway. LS when he reached his ball decided to attempt to go through a bush, he should have taken his punishment on the chin and chipped out but no, he wanted to try the “bushwhack” before he eventually chipped out, ouch!

We followed them for 9 holes witnessing their ups and downs, Dylan Frittelli for that was the amateurs name was having a golden day, the Zim boy Ryan Cairns had a real bad hole 3 strokes to escape some rough poor sod I really felt for him, LS played beautifully out of a bunker, he even had back spin!

We took a lunch break whilst our trio continued. Pro golf is not for softies you need bags of stamina, even when its near 40 degrees there is no resting and little enough shade, I guess its one of the reasons they use the term “grind it out”. There were some very desirable houses dotted round the course many with a swimming pool which must have looked very appealing to the players at times.

Golf is not exactly a death defying sport, its not even a sport if you give it the Ernest Hemingway definition, it is merely a game. It has a certain physicality to and it can play havoc with the brain. Chuck into the mix a bit of fatigue and dehydration and you can fragment.

Ernest said there were very few sports, Bull Fighting is one, Mountaineering, Motor Racing, Boxing, Down hill skiing and bizarrely enough Big Game Hunting, was on his approved list. The connection is obvious, risk of death or injury to the protagonist. On the whole I tend to agree, anything else IS just a game!

Why in the name of all thats holy do players of risk free games get paid so much? it makes no kind of sense!

We had a lovely day though so back to the house we went. Spending Friday and Saturday reading, sunbathing and flopping about in the pool. Some times it was so hot the sun was actually painful. I made a cooling device using the swimming pool so I could still read alfresco. I got the big table umbrella, fastened it to a plastic garden chair using cable ties and string, then sunk the assembly in the pool down as far as the lowest step, I say sunk but the whole thing wanted to float it wasn’t stable until I was sitting on it, proving it a tricky ensemble, and there was a book to keep dry to boot . Once settled in though it was close to perfect, in the shade, head above the surface, for the breathing you understand, specs on, holding the book in the right hand and water cooling every where else. Eventually the sun moved round and put my book supporting fingers in its sight, ouch it hurt! it was a pity I had no gloves!

We returned to the golf championship for the final day, it was not as relaxing as the Thursday, the crowed had swelled ten fold. The man Cairns had not made the cut, poor sod, give him a break for goodness sake! neither had long sleeves. Dylan was having the game of his life though until this day where he finished with a 2 over par putting him pretty well down the back somewhere.

We watched a few other parings, we stood next to the T box when Fredrick Andersonhead was about to Tee off over a big stretch of water. I couldn’t contemplate hitting it so far. He settled over the ball and was about to commence his back swing when the lid of a beer sellers cooler slammed down. He stepped from the address and walked away, I’d like to use the word calmly here but you could see he was cross. The perpetrator was totally oblivious though.  Freddy is a tall elegant striking fellow, with the clean Scandanavian look about him, radiating success, he is more a journeyman though. Iv’e been keeping an eye out for him since and he won the Italian Open in 2011 but he seems unable to attract the TV camera. I know what that’s like.

He gathered himself returned to the ball and smacked a corker into position A1. Demonstrating another difference between the pro and the hacker, we would have thought sod the cooler and hit it anyway probably into the middle of the lake.

The pro though will only strike on his terms, when he is good and ready, its probably the reason they are taking 5 or 6 hours for a round.

We stayed until the end and watched the play off between Shiv Kapur and Richie Ramsey, this took place on the 18th. The 18th is over 600 yards and these 3rd division pros, for really that is what they are, the next step for them being the European  Tour, expect to reach the green in 2! Poor Shiv hit his first into some rough sandy scrub so he was done for and Richie was down the hole in 4. Richie is doing the occasional “well” in the European scene now though, Freddy finished 5th this time.

We returned to Tulbagh, after visiting a restaurant then the video rental shop, (South African TV is even worse than American) for our evenings entertainment. We were well and truly relaxed, happy with our day we came into the house Sue chucked her massive handbag onto the kitchen table, we opened the doors to let the cool air through and settled down to watch our movie. The telly was a right big old, fat old steam driven thing but it was connected up to a ripsnorter of a DVD player and surround sound system, what a great effect. Sometimes the speaker near the corridor that connected to the kitchen made it sound as though the noise was real and coming from there. We didn’t last long with the movie we were tired, so we locked up and went to bed, we would finish it tomorrow.

It wasn’t till about halfway through the morning Sue asked me if I’d seen her handbag? Everything was in it about £1000 in cash the credit cards and our passports. Oops! it turned out we had been robed, A passing vagabond must have took a chance, leaped the five foot wall, entered the open kitchen door saw his chance and grasped the bag. The phones that were on charge were left alone. Was that noise the speaker system?  Was there a noise at all? while we were movie watching, we will never know. We were certainly in a pickle now though.

We reported it to the local cop shop, they weren’t all that keen to be honest, and said stuff like if we catch the perp we would have to go to court as witnesses, no problem we said. We persisted and they took us to a room to take our statement. I was a bit lighthearted about the whole thing to be honest, I didn’t mind too much, the people who had taken our stuff have less than nothing. We must look how Lear jet and Monegasque yacht owners look to us.

The thing I was most concerned about were the passports,  we were due to leave in 3 weeks time and the Christmas holidays were only 2 days away. Civil servants do not have a reputation for speed and efficiency. They do have a reputation for holidays though. Without passports our exit would be impossible.

Around this “statement room” were photographs of some of the ugliest battered faces I have ever seen, I asked the detective if they were pictures of his work mates? “no”, he replied “they are some of the guys I will be speaking to about this business” . It was a long and detailed report he wrote including the details of what was taken, mentioning rather embarrassingly Sue’s Cliff Richard purse. It will certainly be the only one in Tulbagh probably the only one in all South Africa. If any one is seen using it, bang to rights they would be. I will say he left us with an impression that much work would be done on our behalf. I asked him if I should search the route between our house and the hovels? they are not called that actually a more politically correct word  “Informal Housing” is used. He said only if I wanted to, they would search it anyway. He introduced us to the bloke who would be in charge of our investigation, a more fat, unfit human being you could not wish to meet, I asked our first detective if he chases many people? with s straight face he replied “no, I do the chasing for him”. He told us we would be text with our case number and the fat detectives name for reference, it all sounded very efficient. So we left the cop shop as optimistic as a pair of cynics could be.

The next job was to get new passports. A phone call to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in Cape Town found us a helpful sympathetic officer called Angie, I was so surprised, Angie indeed, not Angela or Lady Angela Fortiscue-Smythe as one might expect. She loaded me up with information and procedure, although she couldn’t physically help with the passports as they were done in the FCO in Pretoria 1000miles north. We downloaded and filled in forms using the internet cafe in the village, had our photos taken, the next hurdle was getting the photos signed by some professional person who knew us, the only people we knew were away on Christmas holiday. We managed to get the local bank teller to do it he had a photocopy of Sues passport and knew us , a bit, we had been trying to open a bank account for a couple of weeks, even that is not so easy in South Africa. Again Angie reassured us to not worry about it , she was very reassuring. We managed to get everything together ready to post the day before Christmas eve, all we needed was a cheque for about R 3000 to cover the FCO fees. Luckily Sue had some cash secreted in a secret place so we took it to our friends at the bank to get a bank cheque to post. They wouldn’t give us one! Even in exchange for cash! the reason? We didn’t have a bank account with them, “but we have been trying to open one with you for weeks” we said, “you keep moving the goal posts and putting up hurdles for us to jump”. Sue had been so patient with them and they had in turn done all they could, it is not easy to circumvent the rules in a village bank. Every hurdle that was erected Sue managed with no small difficulty to jump it. One was, we needed 2 utility bills to confirm our address, I ask you when did you last take a gas bill on holiday?

Anyway another call to Angie and she told us the bank below her office, in a big black sky scraper would do it no problem.

Right! off we went 100 miles to Cape Town and the bank did it no problem it took about 20 minutes of the tellers time, we handed over the cash and they never charged a fee, how good is that? Then we had to find the main Post Office in CT to get it all sent fast and special, again not as straight forward as it should have been but it gave us  a look round a part of town one wouldn’t normally bother with, how nice everyone is we find. With the exception of our robbers of course.

On the day we visited the police I took a walk through the field leading up to the “informal settlement”, trying as much as I could to look with a robbers perspective who was pumped full of adrenaline and excitement. I was looking mainly for the passports which would be of little use to him so maybe he had cast them aside during his run home. All I could find was tissue paper, had Sue got tissue paper in her bag ? that was before noticed the dollops of desiccated shit here and there, ah! it came to me then, this was bottom wipent or rather the remains of alfresco shitting parties. I closed right up to the settlement within a couple of yards of the earth bank that corralled it. “Got in himmel” it was smelly and making me heave. The ANC have a lot to answer for. How in the name of all that is holly do the municipal administration stand for it? It is run by the ANC is the answer to that.

Once the Christmas holidays were out of the way we started to chase our passport applications. There is a UK government telephone number for it, after you have been on the phone for a few minutes communing with a computer it asks you for your credit card number! can you believe it? They want £3 to try and help you, with no guarantee they can? How in heavens name can that be considered moral? If a private individual did the same         “yeah gimme £3 and Ill have a go at that job for you, if I can be arsed”. It would soon be closed down by the office of fair trading.

We had no credit cards so I phoned  darling Angie and she got the info for us not only that, gave us a contact number and name of the person in Pretoria that was dealing with it, what a gal. A few days after the holidays things were getting a bit tight time wise. So over our final week end, (we were to leave the following Friday) we decided to drive to Pretoria to collect them. We  set of very early Sunday morning and “went for it”. In the middle of the afternoon the heavens opened and the rains came , proper tropical stuff as well, it became so heavy one of the wipers slipped off its spline and they got tangled up so I had to switch them off. We continued driving almost blind after a few miles Sue said “ didn’t you ought to stop and fix the wipers”? I pointed out quite calmly that it was pissing down and I had no tools, I will however pull in at the next garage we see, we were, I need not point out, in the middle of nowhere.

A garage did appear eventually, a nice place as well with a restaurant and all that stuff. “That stuff” consisted of a workshop with a bloke in it, he was sat at a desk looking like a miserable sod, I asked if I could borrow a 13mm spanner, he acquiesced, no deposit was asked for and I just wondered back to the car with it, how magic is that? Imagine that happening in the UK, you can’t. It was an easy fix, a bit of realignment and bolt tightening and we were good to go. I returned the spanner and thanked the man, I was still smiling.

When we first pulled in we parked under a tree for a little shelter, there was an young boy rubbing his belly with his other hand held out in the perennial African manner, we chose to ignore him, we had our own problems. Once we were repaired, Sue went in the shop bought some sweets found the kid and gave them to him. I couldn’t help thinking a cornish pasty might have been better but it was at least something. These sad African kids break my heart. They often get me. There was one girl in Durban a pretty thing she was, selling biscuits and cakes to passers by in the street, she accosted us I enquired about the price and told her that they seemed rather expensive, “it is the price of the ingredients that does it” she replied in perfect English, “here take me money you’ve melted my heart”. Then she skipped off as happy as a little girl should be. Another nobbled me in the car park in Tulbagh one day when I was shopping. An Indian girl “ do you like curry”? “well I have made the finest spice mixture for R20” I was bold over again, it was a great mix though. I do admire traders and encourage them as a result. I love the idea they want something for something even if it is only a cretin who will look after your car whilst its parked in the street. At least it is not the forlorn begging business. We bought some very rough unfired clay model animals of some snot nosed kids once in Zululand it was utter crap but it was a trade. What I would really like to do is sweep them up and take them home like Madonna does. One of the biggest shocks I experienced with a beggar was in a famous town called Lady Smith in Zululand, he was white! I was double shocked actually I was shocked that a white man would be in that situation, and shocked at my thought process, if you see what I mean.

We overnighted on our Pretoria journey at the city of Bloemfontein ( Flower fountain, what a lovely name) in on of the “ surprising finds” that are so common in South Africa, it was a B&B near a hospital, so secure so clean so reasonably priced. They can be initially off putting some of these places, its the security hurdles that do it, they seem so unwelcoming at first but if you take the plunge a surprise and great hospitality await you. This was in complete contrast to our evening meal, in desperation we chose a KFC, on a more positive note it was our last KFC ever! It is now part of Horton company policy, “ no more KFC, got it?”

The following day we set off early to reach the Pretoria FCO before 2 pm at which time the hoipoloi are excluded from the building, we wazed through Johannesburg and on to Pretoria where we got a bit lost, we were so close to the place but with traffic and one way streets things got sticky. Sue phoned her friend Jane in the passport department , she had struck up a good rapport with this Scottish lass, she was very reassuring and said not to worry if we were late “just tell security you have come to see me and they will let you in”.

We were 5 minutes late as it happened, there was big deal security around this strongly fenced rather unattractive property. You approached the security office through a  full hight turnstile, you were then held effectively  captive until you were released through another turnstile controlled by the guard. She was a South African and a bitch! she said we were too late we would have to come back tomorrow.

Surprisingly I didn’t get cross I explained that “Jane had arranged our appointment we have just driven all the way from Cape Town and when we told you that, you would let us in”. “I don’t know any one called Jane” was her rejoinder , “come back tomorrow”. the words Job and sworth sprang to mind and still I didn’t pull out my 6 shooter and blow her brains out. Instead I pulled out my phone and got hold of the “mythical Jane” and passed it to “Shaka”, who listened then handed it back and opened the gate.

We eventually found ourselves in what appeared to be a room from the architectural school of 1960s labour exchange, with stainless steel seating.

Here we had to wait for a further half hour whilst our new documents were having their final check or for the ink to dry I’m not sure which. Everyone we met in that building was pleasant smiling, friendly and British in complete contrast to “bitcho” on the gate, this was in spite of the awful waiting room they had to look out on, I was very surprised by the FCO staff in general, they scored 9/10, a jolly good score from a card carrying cynic and our thanks!

The only thing I could find that curled my lip was in the back of the new , expensive replacement Passports, a short statement. “ replaces passport No —— dated—– declared stollen” It was the word “declared” that did me. As if “well, they said they were stollen, I don’t really believe them to be honest, they are probably lying and they sold them or swapped them for a bag of coke you know what these kind of people are like”.

We decided to return via the Town of Kimberley, this would give us the chance to have a look at the biggest man made hole on the world, simply titled “ The Big Hole” it started out life as a hill or Koppje as they are called in the Boer tongue. In the middle of the 19th century diamonds were discovered on it and all manner of adventurer set to with spade and pick axe until it turned into a disorganised dangerous deep honeycombed pit with daily deaths from collapsing walls. It must have been exciting times. Things started to shape up with the arrival of Cecil Rhodes who gradually took over or bought the discombobulated claims, seeding the massive DeBeers company that still controls world diamond production to this day.

The Museum that is the “Big Hole” of the present, is a fascinating story, very well done and well worth a visit if you are ever in the area, it is not only educational but a bit of a thrill as well, there is even a well constructed movie that tells the tale better than anything else could.

We got back to our house midday Wednesday after an overnight in a bit of a dump, we don’t always strike lucky with our surprise stops but it was cheap. All right? it was nasty as well!

Sue had coped well with the invasion of our house, I know women can get a bit dramatic about this sort of thing, not a bit of it from her. She applied herself manfully ( no pun intended) to living with the robust attitude one needs in this part of the world. The thing which left the taste of bile in her view of Africa was a couple of other unconnected incidents but piled closely on top of the robbery proved too much.

Surprisingly it had nothing to do with creepy crawlies as on might expect, she is very tolerant of them, even though she has a tendency to suffer what can only be described as close to anafelaccio ( I know that isn’t the correct word but you know what i mean) if bitten. Her attitude is one of “forgive me I am invading your space and I apologize”. I discovered one day on the garage door a huge Baboon spider I killed it with a snooker blow with the broom handle I also killed a baby one close by, I feel terrible to this day for doing it, I didn’t know what else to do. Had it bitten Sue it would have done for her I was sure. They are lovely spiders and can live for 25 years if they don’t meet an idiot with a broom handle.

Another creature that came across our path was a snake, it was about 2 feet long ,it was hard to tell as it was all curled round and sunbathing clinging to the garden wall it was only about 10mm in diameter so not too scary. I went round to my new best friend and Neighbour , Bertie a lovely couple him and his wife, I describe them as typical South Africans, independent and can turn their hand to anything. I knew he had been bitten by a puff adder in the past so I thought he would know a bit about snakes. From my description he said it sounded like a such and such, they are difficult to catch though they’re really fast! I thought he was having me on, a fast snake? yeah very likely?  He came round to help, he approached using the pool net and I had a bucket with a lid. He went for it and it moved like greased lightening. I resolved never to doubt Bertie again. We did catch it eventually and escorted it into the veldt.

The only other thing I am wary of and I have never seen one yet, is the “violin” spider, they look like a regular house spider but have a design on the back shaped like a Stradivarius. If they bite, your skin dies, it doesn’t sound nice.

Mosquitos? I see more in the UK, we have never, since the first visit to South Africa taken any malaria tablets they are so hideously expensive in the UK its like there is a conspiracy to get you to contract the disease. If I felt they were ever required I would buy them from an African chemist.

Sue’s nemesis started to emerge after she had obtained another credit card from somewhere and was down at the banks hole in the wall in the village. She felt there was an unsavory character watching her, so she pulled out the card and requested my help. I did identify the blighter as a regular dodgy geezer who was an unemployed loafer who regularly hung around this area or lounged on the steps of the post office usually with a female dosser, that I suspected was his mother, he appeared to have inherited the same “arseholes eyes”.  So I stood round with the “bolt on tough guy look” that I carry with me for emergencies such as these, while she completed the cash extraction. That was 2 strikes now! She again put it behind her.

A couple of days after this, again putting her shoulders back, refusing to be intimidated went into the village supermarket about 1 mile away by car. She consciously adopted an “I will not be intimidated attitude” and as a test, went by herself. She was dressed in a very attractive short summer dress, that showed off her knockout gorgeous legs to great effect. She had no handbag of course and had started to use a delightful pink rucksack to keep her remaining personals in.  She looked a treat.

She was back at the house in about 15 minutes flat, upset, shaken and verging on tears. Telling me when she had left the supermarket she had been followed very closely by an African stalker, not a covert one as one would expect but with his head almost in her rucksack and he had followed her right up to the car that was parked in the street, it was broad daylight as well. She was so frightened she jumped into the driving seat slammed the door almost chopping his nose off, he shoved his face hard against her window while she fired it up, then drove off completing an unsighted U turn without even removing the rucksack. 3 strikes! She was done with the African then. I tried to make as light of it as I could saying I would have stalked her as well dressed like that, Phowaarr! She wasn’t mollified though and was glad we were due home.

We had a bit more passport grief at the airport. As one leaves a country there is always a passport inspection, I suppose it is something to do with crossing you off the list, ticking you out after being ticked in, I don’t know. This guy was completely baffled, we explained what had transpired, told him to look in the back of the document at the “statement” that had peed me off so. In the hope that would explain it in an official manner. He continued with his confused look, he didn’t actually do the Stan Laurel thing with his fingers in his hair but I could tell he wanted to. He then resolved to write everything down on a bit of scrap paper! There he was, sat in front of a computer and he used scrap paper, I ask you? What a twonka!

He eventually lost interest and waved us through, with a helpful “ be more careful next time” . Oh what a pity they take such exception to being punched, these immigration nob heads, I really, really wanted to.

I miss the village and the massed ranks of jacaranda that line Van Der Stell Street in the spring, I miss the swimming pool and sunshine even more. When Adam and Joe visited us we had some good fun with it. they invented a game of pool volley ball that kept us well exercised. After they left I made a right professional job of the net using some stuff I found in the garage and put a hook in the wall to hang it from, I was well proud of my work, they never visited again so I miss using that as well.

I miss the golf, some of it was in blistering heat, on a course that sometimes had Baboon shit on the greens, not something one experiences in England. Then there are those lovely restaurants, often gems that are like a step back in time for their genteelness. Many that would suit any critic, some with a “too posh for us” air about them, where nothing could be further from the truth and they are so welcoming once over the threshold.

I have experienced food poisoning a couple of times, actually three come to think of it. Once at a restaurant often frequented by Ginger Baker the famous , if you are of a certain age, drummer of the group “Cream” et al. I wonder if he was ever laid out for 3 days with, “all hole ejaculation”? it would probably finish him off! he’s ancient. He runs a Polo pony farm near the village. Occasionally putting on Polo matches in the late afternoons followed by an evening jazz session. He was once introduced as the “Worlds Greatest Drummer” where did that title come from I wondered. The other times it was  Cape Town places that set the old tummy twirling.

I liked our Tulbagh neighbours who own one of the many vineyards in the area and there are a great  many of them. His drive is 6 KM long, we walked it once when we visited them and back again afterwards. Nice people. A sunny walk.

Another walk we liked was one up the mountains that surround the village, the view from up there is quite something. we got startled once by a wild peacock, not wild in the cross sense , in the freedom sense, he was scrabbling about in the undergrowth hidden somewhat by the tall grass, they do look big when you arrive unexpectedly. Another was to a waterfall a natural place where you could be all by your self and plunge into the cool water beneath.

I managed to spoil another walk we did, by getting too competitive. We went on a “see the sunset over Table Mountain and the new moon rise from the top of another mountain” near Stellenbosch organized by the owners of a vineyard at the foot of it.

I say organized, I use the term with a certain wild abandon as I asked them what I should  bring on the walk, their reply was a flippant “yourself a flash light and the R10 entry fee”. So we turned up in our boots shorts and shirts as is our regular attire for such a gig, they could have said a sweater and some long trousers as it gets a bit chilly, but no.

We set off taking the longer of two routes in the late afternoon sun, this took us through the vineyard, passed several different grape varieties, before our thrust up the mountain. Ahead of us were some people 2 or 3 decades younger and we were catching them. They were laughing and joking enjoying life and such, I decided though, I would race them to the top. We passed them and I kept imperceptibly, I thought,  increasing the pace. After about an hour Sue started to stumble over the rocks and scree asking if we could slow down a bit? shiiiit I thought doesn’t she realise they could retake us? They were a long way back but were inching closer, I could tell as we zig zagged our way up the steep slope.

There were hundreds of people on the walk but these were the group I had chosen to beat. I slowed a bit then tried again to pick it up. She was stumbling more often and accompanying it with a little steam and bad language,  the opposition were edging closer all the time. Come on! come on! I was urging her inside my head. Although jumping up and down and grinning through my teeth like Basil Fawlty externally. She simply did not understand that it is better to die than to be beaten! What can she be thinking? what kind of a person is she?

They came passed in the end and one said “English eh? fancy letting your self be overtaken by a Boer” Somehow the bastard knew. Of course it was all too late now I had lost the race and Sue was irredeemably pissed off. We arrived at the top where it was very cool, most folk had their heavier clothes out of their bags and were enjoying refreshment, some wine and the sunset. We did see it but were none too comfortable in the chill evening air so we cleared the mountain before the moon rose. We were about halfway down when it came up and boy did it look massive. I would never believe it could look so big, we had warmed up by now, were friends again and ended up enjoying it in the end. I am, still a moron though! The flashlights carried down the mountain in the dark by our fellow hikers had a pleasing effect, like  fireworks.

I miss not one bit, the disappointingly poor quality municipal administration and the hopeless cretinary that are thrust upon the good burgers of the village.I do however keep abreast of the goings on via Tulbagh e news.

I still have on my bucket list a game of golf to be had on “the lost city” course in Sun City near Pretoria, I need to drive a golf ball, or chip it I’m not fussed, over a water hazard containing crocodiles. I love Sun City, they have the best water park in the world, where I could give “the plummet of death”, one last go.  The palace hotel is another knock your block off place as well. I do hope we go back again one day.






This little missive is all about our trip to Soll in Austria. I have to start though with a question about our trip home. Do Easy Jet employ Gay Pilots?

This is not meant to be offensive to any group in particular, I believe I know what gayness is like. For the last week I have been Gay. For each of the last 6 days my brother and his wife have been busily coaching me in the art of skiing. For art, it what it certainly is. To compare skiing with snow boarding is like comparing a drummer with a violinist, or a piano player with a road navvy.

It has all been a beautiful experience for me, their kindness and patience has been almost a bottomless pit. Their qualifications in this respect are dubious , one is a Horton, simply the most unkind family one could ever wish to meet. The other is of Scottish decent and when was the last time anyone met a kind Glaswegian? Their subject matter is a 60 year old has been, this sounds like a proper soap opera don’t you think?

Nothing could be further from the truth though. My “old boiler” likes me to go skiing with them, she is not a skier herself. However what she likes about it is this. Her life has not been easy married to a swaggering, self confident, opinionated oaf of a bloke who is full of his own vim and vigour with enough left over for charitable donations. When he is sent off for a days skiing with these two family members what returns is a shattered, knackered, quivering, snivelling wreck, who cry’s at the slightest thing. She is then reassured he is a human being after all who can be fixed up and taken for a bit of “après ski”.

Here repairs can begin and it’s not long before he turns back towards the monster he was, complete with his red cape, not the one you see a super hero wearing, no, this one looks like its been hanging from a flag pole at Rorkes Drift or the Alamo. Still there in spirit but not quite what it was, something one could almost live with, not quite Gay but certainly less bovver than it was, and somehow less formidable even with the underpants on the outside of the trousers.

All this is difficult for the subject matter to deal with. Reaching the end of the gondola ride he gets out, full of determination, keen to put behind him the difficulties of the previous day. The Skis are clipped on, he moves to the edge of today’s first run, looks over the edge at the hideous drop before him and promptly bursts into tears. Fortunately he is wearing goggles and the foam round the edge can absorb the moisture produced so little of his predicament is betrayed.

There is a pre planned system in place with these 2 coaches one will be the guide, caressing and cajoling the subject down the hideously steep slope, the other will be the sweeper.
The “sweeper” is a very important job, it means hanging back ready to gather up any debris left by the subject in the event of a crash, be they skis, poles, hats, gloves or limbs. When a fall occurs stuff can be spread all over the place, sometimes a ski or pole will detach and stick in the snow whilst the crasher continues his ungainly, unattractive Newtonian motion. The modern ski equipment is a superior design, absolutely brilliant, it will however be no where near to the human wreckage that was wearing it. The amount of energy used trying to gather it all up is measured in kilowatts. Then there is the putting it all back on whilst hanging on to the cliff face with only teeth and lips available, all the rest of the body engaged in trying to mash the stuff back into place. So the sweeper is a much valued companion.

The guide ( just how far do you think Ward Bonds Wagon train would have got without Flint McCullough ?) is a very special person more like a nurse, finding the preferred route down , the best snow, avoiding ice, also they have to be able to sympathise with the terror that the subject has going through his mind. Quite a job, not one for someone with an overdose of testosterone, this would mean an expensive visit from a helicopter, so in my personal view a job best done by a gentleman of the female persuasion.

My duo work so well together it is almost poetry. It is certainly a pleasures to witness. The only place it falls to bits is the sweeper thinks he is a centre forward. A Thiery Henry if you like. By the time subject matter is over the first tentative turn, Thiery is at the bottom in the back of the net, shouting things like, “come on wanker” and “I thought you raced a motorcycle for a living once?” , ” are you Gay?”, “Tosser” and other pieces of psychological encouragement. None of which work of course.

When a human being is concentrating so hard to stay alive the brain shuts down all the stuff not necessary, like hearing and growing hair, to concentrate on things like sight, the eyes are massive, more like a Bush Baby’s and breathing, the lungs are pumping and keeping the blood from boiling, the subject is sweating like a glass blowers bottom. It gets even more tense as the speed picks up, often times approaching double figures. The brain struggles to cope with the information coming at it, not just the speed but the volume as well until the point is reached during a turn where you are pointing directly down the hill and things really start to pick up speed then a dark veil is drawn over any thought process aaaggghh!
If you have managed by some luck to have completed the turn, things settle down again whilst you traverse at a hideous pace to the next one.

If things have not gone well then I’m afraid it’s out with the hard core infantryman’s language and you have a face plant. Still it means you are a bit further down the hill, that can be considered a bonus if you are an optimist. The thing that gets distorted most though is this concept of speed, if you are good at what you are doing, racing a motorcycle, a car, or downhill skiing, everything is moving at a slow controllable pace. Michael Schumacher has enough spare mental capacity at 200 mph to order a chinese take away over the radio. Valentino Rossi can smile and wave at a camera man whist cornering. It’s not just easy when you are in your comfort zone it’s a piece of piss!

Out of it though life can be a bit exciting. There is, at one of the après ski venues, a singer with the band ( obla de obla dah) who went out skiing for the first time. During his set he was telling his audience how horrific it was particularly the 80 mph face plant he suffered. The guy that went up with him had filmed the incident and was at the same time showing it on a screen behind the band. The 80mph face plant actually happened at about walking pace, it doesn’t lessen the horror he felt though, his brain was screaming at him ” this is WHAAY out of our area of expertise you twat, what are you playing at? I can’t function at this speed”. He can still sing well, in a smoky pub though.

That’s something else that is a bit queer! You know how in the UK if you are caught smoking in a public place? You can be taken out and summarily shot in the back of the head? ( I have no difficulty with this by the way, in fact It is a very reasonable response). Not in Austria you don’t, you can smoke in pubs, restaurants even and, AND! some let you take your dog in! Every Austrian smokes the dirty bastard. Still the Appel strudel makes up for it, the Apricot strudel helps as well. How did they get away with that smoking exception in the EU?

Incidentally I have also found how the Austrians have lost their triple A rating with S&P. When I first heard of this I found it so difficult to comprehend. The Austrians know how to live, their buildings are always warm and superbly crafted using masses of heavy wood often nicely carved. They are well short of beggars and poor people ( maybe they are turned into fertiliser when discovered) . Public engineering works are constructed to last. In heavy snow falls roads don’t stay blocked for more than a moment. Nothing is cheap! no one seems to go without! Heaven then? The minimum wage though is €10 an hour, just think about running a business where you have to pay by law even a complete nob head ( they do have there fare share of those) so much? So even Austria isn’t perfect, it is bloody close though.

The case of the Gay pilot.
We arrived at Innsbruck flughaven a couple of hours before we needed to, only to discover our plane from Liverpool had not yet left. Easy Jet are not Ryan Air so we were given a refreshment voucher for a lunch which nearly covered it. We were then given an arrival time and an approximate departure. Oh good oh! it is on its way at last. We sat by a window to watch it land at 2.55 pm, there was a mist at around 2-300 feet but there was plenty of aircraft leaving and landing. It is not a straight forward place to have an airport is Innsbruck, the approach is through a long valley with mountains on either side, some with a church on the top for goodness sake and you approach the runway over the city for quite some distance. You would think though with all the technology available these days it is allot easier than bombing the Sorpe, Eder or Mohne dams.
When our aircraft came into view ,( half of the runway was blocked from our sight by a building), it was at about 100 feet pointing up with its wheels retracted on full gas! The bastard! He nearly had it down and had chickened out at about 50 feet! He then landed at Munich a 2 1/2 hour coach trip away. The cost to easyJet must be in the 10s of thousands. Do not employ pilots who appear to have a mincing gait is the moral to this tale.

Innsbruck airport is a nice place small and friendly the security is almost a pleasure scoring 8/10, no, no need to take your shoes off. We had to swap this for Munich , an obvious monument to der modern Deutschland. It is no good fighting the fatherland, the people of England know this, we are your friends we want the same things. The fatherland is the mightiest formidable force the earth will ever witness. Lay down your weapons and join us.

Blimey I don ‘t know what happened there ! I turned into Lord Haw Haw again, a radio broadcast gig I did for a while in the 40s, it was fun at the time but the past is the past.

Munich now though has a huge airport all very modern, the terminal building can be measured in the 10s of hectares with no directions to Easy Jet Check in! Luckily I had been reading Sherlock Homes so with some elementary deduction a few metaphorical pipes of tobacco ( Sherlock some times measured his problems in pipe full’s) and asking a policeman we were eventually successful. We were also given another refreshment voucher,I like Easy Jet! Then did the ” right strip off, throw your clothes in the pile, get ready for ze shower” security system. I never complained, Sue was mightily pleased, right up until a jackbooted individual approached me with a pair of pliers, I knew he had taken a fancy to my single gold filling, it must have shown up on the metal detector. I gave him one of my Kenneth Williams looks and he backed off.
We were back home checking on the blackberries in my freezer by 1-30 am. Travelling since 8-30 am ! You can get from Derby to Cape town in that time you know.

In conclusion then.
Liverpool Airport- a bit scruffy but dead friendly – nice 8/10
Liverpool airport security. 7/10
Overnight parking and hotel at Liverpool Airport “Hampton by Hilton” absolutely bloody perfect don’t even consider anything else.
Easy Jet almost a pleasure, don’t waste any money on extras like priority boarding the snobs moved with the rest of us lowlifes.
Innsbruck Airport 10/10
Security 8/10
Soll decent value for skiers and wankers alike don’t go anywhere else.
Munich airport avoid it if you can. Unless of course you are in a Lancaster or a Wellington.

Aww Not Bam Carlson Again?

I can remember the 1975 125cc Mettet race, apart from the near win, Kent Anderson the reigning World Champion introduced himself to me, after I qualified 2nd quite close on time. I also saw (and felt) what a works Yamaha was like in the race. I liked Kent straight away, he was approachable, funny, spoke English like a native and swore like a front line infantryman. He made his company so comfortable I resolved that when I am the World Champion I would be as cool as him, in fact when I meet anyone famous I treat them like an ordinary “Joe”. I’m certain it is what most want anyway, although I am equally sure there are those who want to be treated like a queen but Fuck them!

In the 1974 event the 125 was a 2 leg race I won the first leg and was dead chuffed with myself. I also led the second leg right up to the run to the flag, the uphill long, long straight, I loved Mettet for those straights, the speed and the 14000 rpm that was held for soooo loaang you thought it would blow up or seize when you flicked it down a gear for the super fast corners. I loved those 5th gear curves as well, massive balls were required, whatever you were riding. God alone knows what size goolies were needed on a TZ750 for the left-hander after the start/finish line though?On a 125 it was a very exhilarating flat out laying on the tank. On a 250 it was ” right THIS time I won’t shut off” but a benefactor would mysteriously tap you on the shoulder just before the apex and say very softly ” it’s all right son, close it, try it again next time”. When you got through it you would swear and shout “you bastard leave me alone will ya! Just wait, next time I won’t listen to you”! What a race track, what a thrilling race track!

By 1975 I’d recovered from the “pop” that blew one of my exhaust pipes off it’s cylinder leaving me with almost no power for the last kilometre to the flag, I managed to loose all but 10th place as I crossed the line. The heart break was difficult to deal with, not just for me but Sue as well The combined results made me 6th. No room for the star of the show on the rostrum this time, the British national anthem was played however but for Neil Tuxworth, my friend and rival, ouch that hurt!

I led the 1975 race right up until the last same kilometre as before, when Kent came past like an absolute missile, I dodged into his slipstream and my rev counter nearly bent the needle and the side waft as he came past was palpable. I couldn’t stay in his draft however and he won by about 50 meters. It was a salutary lesson from a works bike, I did get a “works bike” 7 years later, it was a works Armstrong and typically, due to some British standard that I am still unaware of it had to be slower, only a bit mind, than the standard production bikes. Not when you are on a works Yamaha though, I guess they hadn’t heard of BS——– whatever it was, and what’s more even if they had would have said “Fk that”!

After the race Kent told me he had been trying to use his slipstream and superior power to “suck” a friend and fellow Swede up to me and hopefully passed so he could finish second, but his compatriot just wasn’t committed enough, so Kent thought If he didn’t get his finger out and pass me when he did, he could have been beaten by a Clive “who”? The fellow Swede was miles behind me at the flag, his name I believe was Hallberg? 4th was yet another Scandanavian, in desperate need of a haircut, whom I was to meet again a couple of years later. He went by the name of Pehr Carlson, nicknamed Bam, I don’t know why? maybe he was known for throwing tantrums like “Bam Bam” the flintstones baby, who knows. When I met him though he was a real cool dude very relaxed and quite a nice bloke ( for a Viking that is)!

It is a shame Mettet went the same as all exiting fast exhilarating places, they get emasculated eventually. It wasn’t long before they added a shitty chicane before the start and finish, this one took us through an industrial estate on poor quality tarmac in an effort to reduce the entry speed into the left hander I mentioned earlier. I shouldn’t complain, I know, I had my only Belgian win on this particular layout 4 years later. This wasn’t without drama either. I led this race from the start until I crossed the line for the penultimate time when my engine cut out! I was freewheeling round the now legendary downhill left hander when Bengt Johansen ( yes another flaming Swede) came passed! For some unknown reason the engine caught again and I set off after him, accompanied by all the fury I could muster, when I came by Sue who was lap timing on the opposite side to the start line, she was wondering “what the”? The other laps I had passed miles in front, now second? I got Bengt though, in that industrial estate, justice was done!
The crystal vase I won that day, recently (Dec2011) broke and in doing so slashed my finger open. What’s all that about?

I like Americans!

Yep I like Americans on the whole. I know we take the piss out of their brashness and their noise but they are a nice bunch of people. I’m talking about middle class, employed America of course, not the south LA gang bangers or the blood suckers in the lovely ( too good for them anyway ) capital. Middle class America is kind generous and well mannered.
In our neighbourhood drivers will often stop and let you across the road with a pushchair, it’s almost embarrassing to me , a Brit . We are good at pedestrian crossings, well, pretty good. These folk though have us licked, in the road manners stakes.
The 4 way stop for instance is a delight to use, no need for stop lights or a round about, just the rules and manners to obey them. Imagine that!
In England we would be smashing into each utter right left and centre at a 4 way stop like these. ” well your honour she hesitated a millisecond and I was late for me dinner, it’s not my fault she drives like a cnt”. Take him down!

I do think we have them licked in the recycling department though. I know recycling and all that environmental stuff isn’t real, it’s all about appearance over substance. Wind farms for instance, what a load of expensive tosh that is, try getting the government to admit the science, no they prefer to see the bollox of it.
I like the recycle idea though, you remember the olden days of reusable milk bottles and the pop bottles we would return for the 3d deposit?

We now have to have an expensive recycling dump. I will say Derby’s is a far superior effort to the one here in Charlotte, It is signposted nicely “Mechlemburg County Recycling centre”. With a nice arrow pointing the way. No where, does it say, only suitable for basket ball players! This is a massive oversight
I took a pickup full to the top of all the Christmas and “the moving” cardboard all nicely flattened and collapsed to save volume. When I got into the dump, the “cardboard only” skip was 8 feet high! You can’t just chuck it in, you have to throw it up and over, jumping like those bevested lunatics with massive feet! By the time I was done I was breathing like a bull awaiting a sword thrust in The Plaza del Torros.

I tell you if it came to a recycling contest between Derby UK and Charlotte NC, the Americans would think they had turned up for a gun fight armed with a potato peeler.

The Supermarket Again

I’ve discovered in the supermarket another beer! It’s a porter, nice and dark and malty with very manly overtones as I was to discover later. Even it’s name “Pipeline” conjures up images of blokes welding and putting fires out on oil rigs.

I’ve mentioned before about the singularly daft laws individual states have, the Ohio one, where all hard liquor has to be diluted to a maximum of 22%proof. There is one in Charlotte that says all none adults ( that is anyone under 21!) have a 9 pm curfew unless they are accompanied by an adult. The idea is to cut down on trouble makers and vandalism. This has made picking up a child prostitute very difficult and forces the prices up! The council did not consider the hidden consequences of their actions here did they? We are run by fools and dolts.

The most odd one though is the fact that you are only allowed to buy “Pipeline” if you own a Harley Davidson! I only found out by accident aided by my lightening thinking.

When we reached the check out the lady first scanned my tinned fresh fruit, I insist on fresh,I’m not exactly a fanatic about it but it’s one of my little disciplines I live by. When she reached the six pack and wazed it past the scanner she suddenly said “got a soft tail sir” I momentarily panicked To be honest. I soon recovered though, I can think at the speed of light when under pressure, even at 10am before I’ve had a drink or two. My first thought was I’d somehow come out in my PJs , the rabbit suit one that Sue insist I wear with the oversize fluffy bunny tail, it’s to stop me sleeping on my back and snoring, (it works ok actually). My hand went with animal instinct to my builders crack area to check, ok good, my next thought was my medical problem, no she couldn’t possibly know about that, that’s when the HD connection came to me. Quick as a flash, from alarm to rejoinder must have been a maximum of 1.3 seconds, it probably seemed like a millisecond to her, she was after all only a checkout operator, not a retired fighter pilot, “yes” I lied, ” how did you know”? “You must have! To drink that stuff” she said, I was again stunned fancy having a law like that! It smacked of corruption and brown envelopes if you ask me.
I added a bit of depth and colour to my misdirection, whilst she sorted out the change, ” yeah it’s a 68 flat head” luckily I knew a bit of ” Hog” lingo ” scodda twin pipe n straight 1inch bars, with 4 on the floor” I was well into my mid Atlantic by now. ( i particularly liked the 4 on the floor part, I don’t know what it means, I got it off the Beach Boys “little Duce Coup”)
She gave me my change coupled with the look of the gorm I’ve seen before, when I engaged a Sainsburys checkout girl with the fuel consumption figures compared to the power out put of the latest Prius. It was then I realised she might be au fait with local retail law but she knew fuck all about Harleys!

I swaggered out of the supermarket like you do when you have pulled off a coup of this magnitude. Some people say I look a bit like Freddie Mercury from the back, maybe its the moustache? It could have been Freddie Frinton come to think of it? Anyway it was at at least a smug mince.

When I got back home Sue was giving the twins their scheduled lunch at 11-30. I was as dry as a witches nipple and ready for a lunch time beverage, it was loverly. Before I knew where I was I’d taken out the whole 6 pack. I was mighty angry then so I gave her a damn good hiding, she deserved it so don’t go feeling sorry for her. I locked the kids in the cupboard, I can’t be bothered with the little bastards! while I sent her to the supermarket for replacements.

I simply wasn’t prepared to risk other road users lives by driving after a 6 pack! That is the standards we all should strive to live up to in my book. I’ve developed a slogan that would look very good on a matrix system “Keep alive behave like Clive don’t drink and drive” I think that says everything, coupled with a classy personality people can readily identify with. What do you think?

A Bitter Golf!

We went for a game of par 3 golf yesterday as the weather was bright and sunny although only 50 degrees. They insist on that loopy farrenhite stuff and, don’t laugh, feet and inches! Titter titter I can’t help it.

It was lunch time so before we could “T” off we had to fuel up, we went to the local Caribbean Hut, my choice, I like a bit of ethnic food now and again. Notice I didn’t use the word darkie, that’s how far I’ve come since 1960. To be fair Sue wanted to go to the chinky but she is so nice she thought she would acquiesce. She isn’t keen on Caribbean food, we thought it was perhaps the place we ate at last time had stained her view, the slap dash and lackadaisical service was all a bit, well! Caribbean to be honest. They served the worlds best coconut cake though.

So we did the Hut, we were the only pale faces there but everyone was heap big friendly. The service was with a smile and whilst not prompt, certainly acceptable I started with a Guinness, I’m liking dark beers since leaving Ohio, Sue had a Budwazz of some kind.

I chose Curried Goat, Sue, Barbecued Chicken. Personally I am more wary of chicken after seeing that pink “doings” of chicken on Facebook the other day.
In the end Sue ate a bit but was put off by the sugary sauce they call barbecue over here, so she is now done with Caribbean food forever, although she was still a bit hungry. ( there into the metaphorical sunset sailed my trip to Montego Bay)

On the other hand the Goat was great, so nicely cooked it fell off the bone, the curry had quite a bite to it and set my lips ablaze but I am, to be honest, known to be a bit of a Nancy Boy with hot spices. Nevertheless it really got me wondering, how in the name of all that’s holy, does a Goat turn what it eats, Nettles, dock leaves, twigs , thorns, and people’s laundry into such a nice meat? In all my life I never saw David Nixon or Paul Daniels do anything remotely like it on Sunday night at the London Palladium. Amazing!

I fancy this as a Britains got talent gig. I go on with a goat , feed it a sweater a wife beater vest and maybe a sleeping bag, slaughter it, cook a bit of it, give it the judges and bingo! No wait, wait! Britains got Tallent meets The Mastercheif with the X Factor. I’m gonna be big! I need that Simon blokes phone number!

I’ll sort it out later.

The Golf was difficult , well it always is, this course though has loads of water, 5 of the holes has it from T box to green and one is an island, so don’t go thinking it’s a game of pitch and put. You have to prepare by bringing plenty of spare balls, not Calloways though, you don’t want to be loosing them, we make do with Titley ists usually.

Although it’s winter the course is still ok, the fairways ( that aren’t water) are Bermuda grass which is dormant and grey at this time of year, still nice and fluffy though. The greens are different to anything I have seen any where else, they have the texture of a prison blanket, army , I mean army, I don’t want anyone to think I’ve been in prison, anyway, anything under 6 months doesn’t count. The grass is a very dark green almost blue and whats more nice to putt on so I’m not knocking it. Sue lost a ball on the first hole, she didn’t deserve to, one of her best shots ever and we lost it in the shadows. We both did a 7 mind. I managed a 3 on the second. Followed by a ball in the water for Sue on the 3rd, and of course I put mine on the green and in for a 2. She is striking the ball so much better now, I sincerely believe she has made massive progress in this game.

Of course you have to measure women playing golf with a more lenient scale than men, we are so much better at it, by nature, it’s not our fault, it’s just the way Jesus wanted it that’s all, a simple fact. It’s in the bible somewhere.
It does even out though, women do have the edge on us blokes when it comes to other things, say, expelling a ping pong ball out of an orifice for example, we simply can’t compete, again fact! Are we bitter? Are we eckerslike, we are man enough to accept it.

With Golf though, a mans ball will fly truer, with more beauty, height, and accuracy, it’s not surprising either when you think about it. All that sticking out of the front stuff getting in the way of a tarts backswing. It’s why all lady pro golfers are lesbians, it stands to reason.

We managed to loose about 10 balls between us, yes even I, “the expected one” ( I like to be called the expected one, nobody does though) lost a couple, I also found 3, so that knocked 6 of my score, not just expected then? No! Also lucky. Ask anybody!

Ps, just to let you know, I’m not that bothered about the Montego Bay thing. A friend told me they dumped a ship load of rotting 1980s Austins there and they are proving to be as good for snorkelling as they were for motoring. Apart from that it’s full of dreadlocked gangsta rappers and people on the beach flogging shit made in China.

Just walking in the rain

Went for a walk today, in the rain, not all of it was because I’m a twat, far from it, no the little bast/babies wouldn’t take their nap. So I took them out in a pushchair, that fixed em. The rain though was coming down just like it does in the movies, bags of drama and in a huge volume. It’s not like the miserable soaking hanging in the air stuff we get in England or that stuff that has the stupid accent in Scotland or Wales for that matter, where it soaks into your spirit, chills you to the bone and you end up sitting in your car with a hose pipe in the window, so utterly depressed. We’ve all been there, luckily remembering to trap the hose to prevent the window closing and steaming up.

This is a lovely estate to live on, the houses are well designed with human occupation in mind, bags of room, none are more than 50 yards from wooded space, so there are always birds about, Jays, Cardinals, Woodpeckers, and Humming birds and the odd Vulture, maybe it’s an Eagle, or a kite, I dunnow I’m not Bill Oddie. Emma and Colin tell me they have even been visited by a Possum, ugly little bleeders apparently.

Typical house on the estate

There are about 1000 houses all dotted about in a controlled but pleasing manner, these Americans know how to do stuff well. All have gardens mostly turned over to grass, can’t call them lawns though, the grass here has to be as tough as anything to stand the summer heat. All are well cared for there are none with scrap sofas, washing machines or mattresses in them. They would get a stiff letter from the residents association. One is not even allowed to have a boat, caravan or motorhome on view. One has to either keep it in the garage or pay to have it stored. Laundry! On a line? Outside? In the sun? No! Dry it properly you scruffy barstards!


This must be at least 95% effective, I have seen scant evidence of any prostitution in all the time I’ve been here.

Most folk gather up their dogs , still warm shit, even me and I hate dogs, along with children, babies, the young and old folk of course. I say most, as I have noticed the odd turd hither and yon. I may take DNA sample and shop them to the residents association for their verdict, I have never seen a stoning before.

The basic architecture of the estate is the thing though, there are plenty of hills and hummocks to add to the visual appeal, there is even a man made lake at the lowest point of about 2 1/2 hectares. The storm and surface drains all aim their waters into it and of course there is fishing and small water craft allowed on it, No swimming though, there is a residents pool for that sort of behaviour.


The lake

Storm drain with dog(for scale)

The storm drains are working their arses off today though, the water is bombing through the streams that are usually so placid its almost White water category 2 in places. I have the iPod I’ll see what I can do and drop some photos, maybe a vid during the final edit. Luckily there are no shopping carts in the drains clogged with fallen leaves so all flow freely. In some of the lower and more level parts of the estate the water is hanging about in the woods, making it look more like a Louisiana swamp, shouldn’t last long though once the rain abates. These drains are so well made with rocks in the bottom to prevent erosion, even the cast iron drain covers are mighty meaty, big and heavy. They seem perfect for loading into a tresurget, teshurget, big catapult to be hurled at a castle wall. There are no castle walls here though they are all in Disneyland.


The bag of dog turd is there to help you with the scale (it’s a small dog)


Louisiana Swamp North Carolina

Boxing Day in NC

A Beautiful Boxing Day in NC Today.

Bags of oxygen about on the dog walk, not a shirt sleeve day though, the bloody thing wouldn’t put it on! Flaming dogs eh?
Course I had me sweater on.
I passed a bloke coming the other way and couldn’t help noticing what a twat he looked, no offence meant here but he did. He must have weighed over 200lbs, 15 stones anyway, really not a tall bloke but ever, ever so wide, and wearing a massive pair of White trainers, you know the sort halfway up his thighs with a huge flapping tongue, (shoes not him), wearing a football shirt, I think he played “short back and sides” for the giants or some such. The thing was though his dog looked the size of a guinea pig. What a combo! Why doesn’t his best friend tell him he looks a complete cnt? Not me obviously he may have bashed me up.

I have done some research on boxing day. Apparently it is the only designated day of the year out of the 365 when you are allowed to punch, in the face, your local MP. Without fear of retaliation, retribution, prosecution, and several other tions that have skipped my mind for the moment, providing you shout “Christ on a tandem take that you. Bastard/Bitch (as appropriate)” when you do it.

Originally it was called punching day but over the years it changed to Boxing day to give it a more sporting overtone rather than the vicious piece of gratuitous GBH that it actually is.

It’s probably too late for you to use in the Uk now but try and remember it for next time. Every day is a learning day!