Thursday, December 31, 2009
The Christmas Ramble 2009
N.E.R.D.S.’ Christmas Ramble, No. 241.
Wednesday 9th December 2009.
Those Present - Lafayette, Sandyballs, Froggy, Muscles Matt, Bronco, B.T.,
The Admiral, & El Paco.
Christmas reunion, the gathering of the NERDS clan - old faces, even older faces and some bloody ugly faces as well. Matt had recently returned from Dublin where it had been so expensive to even look into a tea shop let alone keep up with the high social standards there. The recession hadn’t, however, stopped The Admiral from rolling up in his posh, white BMW only rivalled by Sandyballs who had got himself a brand new Vauxhall Astra by selling Flintoff to child slavers in Morocco. (Doesn’t all that baby sitting just so get on your nerves?). B.T. had made a second sortie back from the Pyrenees where he had left behind his new life of hunting, shooting, fishing and shagging the President’s wife (god, she’s a slapper that Italian bitch), and Paco, well Paco had been forced out by his charming daughter who needed to put the budgie on the clothes line and beat the secondary cigar smoke out of its lungs.
The first dispute began on Berwick station where Lafayette accused Sandyballs of having stolen his yellow and black Rupert Bear scarf some time ago to reintroduce it in a pathetic attempt to rival the bit of green rag which Philby habitually wore round his neck. Sandyballs bristled at being compared sartorially to the lowly Belgian (well, you would, wouldn’t you?) and said huffily that he had always admired Rupert Bear anyway. Froggy assuaged the situation by bringing out his hip flask and thereby turning both Matt and Lafayette into life long fans of Sailor Jerry’s Rum (yum, yum!)
The route led along a cycle path to The Cricketers, a well known Sussex pub famed for its promotion of the game of Toads (Hence the name) and Harvey’s beer. Sandyballs and Lafayette had sussed out this pub during one of the preceding weeks and had both managed to get smashed on Bonfire Boy (No. Matt, not what you’re thinking…it‘s a drink). Today the place seemed to be full of nubile barmaids warming their backsides by the Christmas fire so Froggy tried to impress them by waving his orang- utang teeshirt about and saying it was almost an extinct species. Paco said he was wearing a Che Guevara teeshirt who himself was an extinct species on account of the fact he was dead. B.T.pricked up his ears at this and wondered about investing in a load of teeshirts with Philby on the front…..
Sandyballs whipped everybody outside as time was marching on and the Christmas dinner was waiting. We headed along the Old Coach Road where in days of yore highway men had roamed and virgins had lost their…..I- pods. Today, however , it was just shitty, murky and drizzly. Seasonal presents were discussed. Froggy said he hadn’t had sex for months so he’d bought Mrs. Froggy some stuffing for Christmas. Matt said he should have got her a digital pen for the modern librarian on the go. He’s so thoughtful, isn’t he?
After a lot of… er walking we arrived at the Barley Mow at Selmeston where lunch was to take place. The last time we had been here was absolutely ages ago when the Mystery Guest had been sweet Emma Ryan in a big, daft hat (someone still has the photos somewhere). According to Sandyballs’ researches she has now grown up and is teaching flamenco dancing in Spain in an attempt to regain her language allowance.
Who was today’s Mystery Guest then ? Well funnily enough on entering the Barley Mow we all fell over Bronco who had skived out of the ramble and was sitting there enjoying a pint ; so faute de mieux he was made M.G. Bronco was pissed off that the NERDS had arrived; he had had two girlies, Claire and Madelaine, pandering to his every whim, fetching him drinks, laughing at his tales of winning the Derby and dating Princess Ann, and didn’t want the adoring atmosphere to be disturbed . Bad luck, cock ;the NERDS want their Christmas dinner!
And so we ate …and drank .. A bit and pulled crackers and told jokes and B.T. told us all about his mole problem(!) and how Morgane was and Bronco got golf tees in his cracker which Matt tried to prop up his testicles with and Sandyballs refused to eat any sprouts, as usual and we agreed that the food and the ambience was not as good as at the Pilot at Eastbourne but that the girlies had tried hard.
Eventually kicked out of the pub by Sandyballs cos we had a train to catch, we wandered through some more dank fields and byways until we got back to Berwick station where Froggy discovered he’d lost the French leather purse containing the whip! What a disaster! What incompetence! What a pillock! Froggy was so traumatised by its loss that he threatened to resign from the NERDS. There was a deafening silence until Bronco produced a mangled blue thing from his pocket and asked if this was what he had left behind on the pub table. Order was restored Froggy’s wrists were unslashed and we got on the train to Lewes.
Finally, a parting drink was had at the John Harvey Tavern in Lewes where B.T. was visited by one of his descendants and reluctantly had to hand over her dowry in advance. Still, at least she’s not making babies just yet (everyone has a chance , even old clapped out NERDS like El Paco.) and then, I think, we went home.
It had been a good ramble with a chance to see Old NERDS and those who were busy crumbling under the heavy weight of retirement. Poor old Admiral having to do all that lifeboat stuff at home now! So thanks to Sandyballs and Lafayette for preparing the route and to Froggy for losing the whip. Things can only get better in 2010.
Happy New Year.
Lafayette.
Wednesday 9th December 2009.
Those Present - Lafayette, Sandyballs, Froggy, Muscles Matt, Bronco, B.T.,
The Admiral, & El Paco.
Christmas reunion, the gathering of the NERDS clan - old faces, even older faces and some bloody ugly faces as well. Matt had recently returned from Dublin where it had been so expensive to even look into a tea shop let alone keep up with the high social standards there. The recession hadn’t, however, stopped The Admiral from rolling up in his posh, white BMW only rivalled by Sandyballs who had got himself a brand new Vauxhall Astra by selling Flintoff to child slavers in Morocco. (Doesn’t all that baby sitting just so get on your nerves?). B.T. had made a second sortie back from the Pyrenees where he had left behind his new life of hunting, shooting, fishing and shagging the President’s wife (god, she’s a slapper that Italian bitch), and Paco, well Paco had been forced out by his charming daughter who needed to put the budgie on the clothes line and beat the secondary cigar smoke out of its lungs.
The first dispute began on Berwick station where Lafayette accused Sandyballs of having stolen his yellow and black Rupert Bear scarf some time ago to reintroduce it in a pathetic attempt to rival the bit of green rag which Philby habitually wore round his neck. Sandyballs bristled at being compared sartorially to the lowly Belgian (well, you would, wouldn’t you?) and said huffily that he had always admired Rupert Bear anyway. Froggy assuaged the situation by bringing out his hip flask and thereby turning both Matt and Lafayette into life long fans of Sailor Jerry’s Rum (yum, yum!)
The route led along a cycle path to The Cricketers, a well known Sussex pub famed for its promotion of the game of Toads (Hence the name) and Harvey’s beer. Sandyballs and Lafayette had sussed out this pub during one of the preceding weeks and had both managed to get smashed on Bonfire Boy (No. Matt, not what you’re thinking…it‘s a drink). Today the place seemed to be full of nubile barmaids warming their backsides by the Christmas fire so Froggy tried to impress them by waving his orang- utang teeshirt about and saying it was almost an extinct species. Paco said he was wearing a Che Guevara teeshirt who himself was an extinct species on account of the fact he was dead. B.T.pricked up his ears at this and wondered about investing in a load of teeshirts with Philby on the front…..
Sandyballs whipped everybody outside as time was marching on and the Christmas dinner was waiting. We headed along the Old Coach Road where in days of yore highway men had roamed and virgins had lost their…..I- pods. Today, however , it was just shitty, murky and drizzly. Seasonal presents were discussed. Froggy said he hadn’t had sex for months so he’d bought Mrs. Froggy some stuffing for Christmas. Matt said he should have got her a digital pen for the modern librarian on the go. He’s so thoughtful, isn’t he?
After a lot of… er walking we arrived at the Barley Mow at Selmeston where lunch was to take place. The last time we had been here was absolutely ages ago when the Mystery Guest had been sweet Emma Ryan in a big, daft hat (someone still has the photos somewhere). According to Sandyballs’ researches she has now grown up and is teaching flamenco dancing in Spain in an attempt to regain her language allowance.
Who was today’s Mystery Guest then ? Well funnily enough on entering the Barley Mow we all fell over Bronco who had skived out of the ramble and was sitting there enjoying a pint ; so faute de mieux he was made M.G. Bronco was pissed off that the NERDS had arrived; he had had two girlies, Claire and Madelaine, pandering to his every whim, fetching him drinks, laughing at his tales of winning the Derby and dating Princess Ann, and didn’t want the adoring atmosphere to be disturbed . Bad luck, cock ;the NERDS want their Christmas dinner!
And so we ate …and drank .. A bit and pulled crackers and told jokes and B.T. told us all about his mole problem(!) and how Morgane was and Bronco got golf tees in his cracker which Matt tried to prop up his testicles with and Sandyballs refused to eat any sprouts, as usual and we agreed that the food and the ambience was not as good as at the Pilot at Eastbourne but that the girlies had tried hard.
Eventually kicked out of the pub by Sandyballs cos we had a train to catch, we wandered through some more dank fields and byways until we got back to Berwick station where Froggy discovered he’d lost the French leather purse containing the whip! What a disaster! What incompetence! What a pillock! Froggy was so traumatised by its loss that he threatened to resign from the NERDS. There was a deafening silence until Bronco produced a mangled blue thing from his pocket and asked if this was what he had left behind on the pub table. Order was restored Froggy’s wrists were unslashed and we got on the train to Lewes.
Finally, a parting drink was had at the John Harvey Tavern in Lewes where B.T. was visited by one of his descendants and reluctantly had to hand over her dowry in advance. Still, at least she’s not making babies just yet (everyone has a chance , even old clapped out NERDS like El Paco.) and then, I think, we went home.
It had been a good ramble with a chance to see Old NERDS and those who were busy crumbling under the heavy weight of retirement. Poor old Admiral having to do all that lifeboat stuff at home now! So thanks to Sandyballs and Lafayette for preparing the route and to Froggy for losing the whip. Things can only get better in 2010.
Happy New Year.
Lafayette.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
NERDS’ Ramble No 240 - 11/11/09.
The Armistice Ramble
Those Present - Paco, Matt, Lafayette, Sandyballs, Froggy, Bronco.
This was to be a Remembrance ramble when the NERDS remembered fallen comrades …..well, there was just one and he had only fallen into bad company. Sadly he was no more and so Froggy (yet again Routemaster) decided we should have two minutes silence at 11 o’clock. The rest of the NERDS thought this was a brilliant idea since if nothing else it would stop Froggy from blethering on about bugger all for a short time.
And so under Froggy’s remarkable tutelage we met at Seaford where even Paco turned up clutching his bus pass for today’s excellent adventure. The idea was to go to Beachy Head (or near there, and not because we were all feeling depressed) and ramble downhill towards Eastbourne. So we got on the bus contemptuously waving our passes in Froggy’s face and scrambled upstairs to get the best seats. By the time Froggy appeared, having actually to have paid for his ticket, it was 11 o’clock. Goody, goody, he couldn’t moan at his parents laxity in making him younger than everyone else at this point. There was a silence but the bus failed to move off. Apparently Froggy had had a word with the driver, appealed to his conscience, given him some sob story about Philby or something and made him delay departing until 11 02 hrs.
The NERDS were all impressed, fancy holding up the Seaford public transport just in memory of some renegade NERD. Respect!
We started walking at the top of Eastbourne cliff. It was pleasantly sunny weather with a good view of the town below. Bronco told Lafayette that he had bought 3 different wax jackets recently in a BOGOF deal. Lafayette pointed out that he had only got 3 jackets instead of 4 but Bronco said they only had 3 different colours (!)
Lafayette couldn’t quite see the logic here but bowed to Bronco’s greater business sense.
Eventually we descended to The Pilot Inn at St. Bedes for lunch, a place known to both Matt and Froggy as serving good food. It was good. There was a wide array of beers and the food was excellent - lamb shanks all round except for Lafayette who had a really superb chicken and leak pie. Sandyballs noted that this was the first time no-one had had chips with their meal, something which grieved him muchly since he couldn’t hoover up the leftovers. Discussion turned to who should be the Christmas Mystery Guest this year, and the most popular choice was ‘that count Neil’ (have I misspelled that?) of S.B who had tried to stitch up Bronco for drink driving. Bronco, being a good Christian said that Neil would be very welcome but that he intended personally to crucify him for his sins.
Then we moved on down towards Eastbourne proper through a parky walky seafronty bit where we discussed the sad (non) affair which had occurred between Philby and one Cathryn Orpin. Paco said she hadn’t used to wear a bra and perhaps this had been her allure; Matt said Froggy didn’t wear a bra but Philby hadn’t gone chasing after him. Anyway it had all happened a long time ago and as usual had ended in tears.
There were lots of wooden benches along this bit of the walk - mostly commemorating dead people - no comment - but we finally found ourselves in The Buccaneer, a seemingly gayish pub which overlooked some cricket ground and where we sat at a round table and continued the discussion about the potential Mystery Guest. Lafayette wanted to get Usain Bolt, his big hero, but thought he might cost too much. Paco wanted to have Susan Doyle but that was vetoed because she was too hairy. Matt wanted to have Ronny Rebeiro but he too was vetoed on the grounds that he would eat too much. Someone did have the temerity to mention that the identity of the MG ought to remain perhaps a mystery until the Christmas Ramble but nobody had thought of that.
Anyway we ended up wandering through respectable Eastbourne (no hoodies here) looking for a bus home. There weren’t any chip shops here -too common, you see -so Sandyballs had to wait until Seaford to sate his jaded appetite.
As Matt said, Froggy had taken us to the edge of Paradise with this ramble, and he had! Maybe we could have half an hour’s silence next time (especially if Baby Flintoff is MG and goes to sleep on Sandyballs’ lap). Next ramble is the Christmas one; Lf and SB are sussing it out around the pubs already.
See you all.
Lafayette.
The Armistice Ramble
Those Present - Paco, Matt, Lafayette, Sandyballs, Froggy, Bronco.
This was to be a Remembrance ramble when the NERDS remembered fallen comrades …..well, there was just one and he had only fallen into bad company. Sadly he was no more and so Froggy (yet again Routemaster) decided we should have two minutes silence at 11 o’clock. The rest of the NERDS thought this was a brilliant idea since if nothing else it would stop Froggy from blethering on about bugger all for a short time.
And so under Froggy’s remarkable tutelage we met at Seaford where even Paco turned up clutching his bus pass for today’s excellent adventure. The idea was to go to Beachy Head (or near there, and not because we were all feeling depressed) and ramble downhill towards Eastbourne. So we got on the bus contemptuously waving our passes in Froggy’s face and scrambled upstairs to get the best seats. By the time Froggy appeared, having actually to have paid for his ticket, it was 11 o’clock. Goody, goody, he couldn’t moan at his parents laxity in making him younger than everyone else at this point. There was a silence but the bus failed to move off. Apparently Froggy had had a word with the driver, appealed to his conscience, given him some sob story about Philby or something and made him delay departing until 11 02 hrs.
The NERDS were all impressed, fancy holding up the Seaford public transport just in memory of some renegade NERD. Respect!
We started walking at the top of Eastbourne cliff. It was pleasantly sunny weather with a good view of the town below. Bronco told Lafayette that he had bought 3 different wax jackets recently in a BOGOF deal. Lafayette pointed out that he had only got 3 jackets instead of 4 but Bronco said they only had 3 different colours (!)
Lafayette couldn’t quite see the logic here but bowed to Bronco’s greater business sense.
Eventually we descended to The Pilot Inn at St. Bedes for lunch, a place known to both Matt and Froggy as serving good food. It was good. There was a wide array of beers and the food was excellent - lamb shanks all round except for Lafayette who had a really superb chicken and leak pie. Sandyballs noted that this was the first time no-one had had chips with their meal, something which grieved him muchly since he couldn’t hoover up the leftovers. Discussion turned to who should be the Christmas Mystery Guest this year, and the most popular choice was ‘that count Neil’ (have I misspelled that?) of S.B who had tried to stitch up Bronco for drink driving. Bronco, being a good Christian said that Neil would be very welcome but that he intended personally to crucify him for his sins.
Then we moved on down towards Eastbourne proper through a parky walky seafronty bit where we discussed the sad (non) affair which had occurred between Philby and one Cathryn Orpin. Paco said she hadn’t used to wear a bra and perhaps this had been her allure; Matt said Froggy didn’t wear a bra but Philby hadn’t gone chasing after him. Anyway it had all happened a long time ago and as usual had ended in tears.
There were lots of wooden benches along this bit of the walk - mostly commemorating dead people - no comment - but we finally found ourselves in The Buccaneer, a seemingly gayish pub which overlooked some cricket ground and where we sat at a round table and continued the discussion about the potential Mystery Guest. Lafayette wanted to get Usain Bolt, his big hero, but thought he might cost too much. Paco wanted to have Susan Doyle but that was vetoed because she was too hairy. Matt wanted to have Ronny Rebeiro but he too was vetoed on the grounds that he would eat too much. Someone did have the temerity to mention that the identity of the MG ought to remain perhaps a mystery until the Christmas Ramble but nobody had thought of that.
Anyway we ended up wandering through respectable Eastbourne (no hoodies here) looking for a bus home. There weren’t any chip shops here -too common, you see -so Sandyballs had to wait until Seaford to sate his jaded appetite.
As Matt said, Froggy had taken us to the edge of Paradise with this ramble, and he had! Maybe we could have half an hour’s silence next time (especially if Baby Flintoff is MG and goes to sleep on Sandyballs’ lap). Next ramble is the Christmas one; Lf and SB are sussing it out around the pubs already.
See you all.
Lafayette.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
November Ramble on the 11th
This went off very well according to Froggy who has taken a few photographs which I will attach soon.
Regards BT
Regards BT
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Change of Moderator
As I'm so busy in France at the moment and I cannot be back in the UK until December I have relinquished the overall command of the "Blog" to Froggy, to see how he gets on. Await developments!!
Sunday, November 01, 2009
NERDS’ Ramble 239 - 28th Oct. 2009.
Those Present - B.T. Froggy, Bronco, Sandyballs, Matt, Lafayette (& Others)
The Freddie Ramble.
Today Sandyballs couldn’t do the ramble because he had bollocksed up his foot in York. (Something to do with lots of drinking at an ISU Union meeting and being pushed off a pavement by Sean Raggett). And so, in a panic, he had not only thrust the heavy burden of organising the ramble on to Froggy, but had telephoned Interpol in the Pyrenees to have B.T. torn away from his home comforts and despatched to Newhaven to make up the numbers.
Bronco too was with us this day so Froggy decided it might not be a good idea to go up and down the fifty odd hills in Sussex like we usually do for a bit of fun, but to keep it short, keep it sweet and make sure we got to the pub well in time for lunch.
B.T. started to be awkward claiming that he had obtained his presently svelte figure from a daily dose of sprinting up and down the Pyrenee at the bottom of his garden and hadn’t come all this way just to pussyfoot around. So Froggy ignored him and ordered everyone on to the bus from Seaford to East Dean.
Some of us had to pay for this privilege (ha, ha) while the other (bus pass holders) claimed their free Human Rights and rushed upstairs to bag the best seats. When we arrived Froggy saw a couple of girlie ramblers get off the bus at the same time clearly intent on following the NERDS and basking in their fame and sexual attraction. Sadly, Froggy’s poor attempt to capitalise on this groupie opportunity came to nought when they heard him say loudly that he fancied shagging the good looking one but wouldn’t touch her mate with his own worn out bog-brush.
The weather was dull, the sheep had shat all over the fields and there we were tramping after a couple of miffed women who were not only following our route but looked as if they were going to have lunch at the same pub as us. Quel embarras! However Matt livened up the proceedings by letting slip that the Mystery Guest on the Christmas Ramble this year was going to be …..none other than Jordan …Wow!
Visions of this fantastic guest at dinner with everyone hanging off her…..every word
Made us all cheerful again. Then Bronco punctured the balloon(s) by saying he’d heard it was only Ian Jordan and that was only if he could tear himself away from the other numerous office parties he seemed to be heavily involved in.
Within sight of Belle Toute Lighthouse the NERDS descended a Seven Sister and saw to their dismay that The Birling Gap ie. the pub lunch rendezvous, was besieged by large numbers of caravans, cameras, gophers, and film stars themselves threatening to try to eclipse the NERDS by making a film where we were going to be eating (and drinking). When we got to the pub someone said that these NERDS’ hangers on were supposedly filming a remake of Brighton Rock so Matt suggested we all do our own film in opposition using ourselves , all the barmaids in the pub , the pub dog and some special posing pouches he just happened to have with him. His offer was declined.
Apparently all these famous acting types, the ones in this stupid film outside, had brought all their own scoff, all their own posing pouches, all their own catamites and even all their own lavatory paper with them in order not to have to mix with the local hoi polloi and the world famous NERDS. The Birling Gap, however had made an absolute fortune by renting out its pub car park to them for the duration so at least they would have a good view of the world famous NERDS dining in all their charisma.
The food was very good here and so was the drink - all NERDS approved - and Lafayette tried out his fluent Hungarian on the petite barmaid, called Melinda before telephoning Sandyballs at home to update him on all the exciting developments at the pub. (I mean about all the great food and drink he was missing because he was rolling aroung groaning about some ingrown toenail or something - not about the poncy film crew type people who were falling over themselves to offer us key parts in their crummy film). Sandyballs murmured something vague about coming along with all the family, and that it was not in contravention of NERDS’ Rules because they hadn’t actually rambled with us and they had paid their NERDS’ subscription and they couldn’t leave the baby at home anyway, could they? ……….. Baby, wot baby?
And so Sandyballs eventually turned up with Mrs Sandyballs, daughter Sandyballs and Baby Freddie ( now known by his NERDS’ name as Flintoff). Flintoff was very cutchy coo and very well behaved, he drank his Harveys like a good boy and said that his mom had liked being Mystery Guest last year but didn’t fancy being on the same table as that slut Jordan this year. He said that his grandma was very beautiful and that he loved her very much as long as she was going to leave him all her diamonds and things. He said also that his grandpa was a big nesh pillock who kept falling off his bike and getting his gouty feet stamped on because he drank too much, then he smiled,
said he liked Lafayette best of all the NERDS and went to sleep. We were all entranced at our new mini NERD.
After the Sandyballs family had taken Baby Flintoff back home we set off back along the road to find out why The Tiger at East Dean was closed to the NERDS that day. On the way we were passed by Hungarian barmaids - big and small, and took lots of rests so that Froggy as Routemaster wouldn’t get lost (or tired). Matt led us to The Tiger and found out it was reopening the next day (Just our luck!) Then we all got on the free (oops) bus back to Seaford and Newhaven.
It had been a very pleasant ramble thanks to the excellent guidance of Froggy and to the surprise appearance of Baby Flintoff who may take over as Managing Director of the NERDS one day. Let’s hope Sandyballs’ feet sort themselves out soon and that B.T. gets back safely to his Pyrenee in France.
Goo goo to all.
Lafayette.
Those Present - B.T. Froggy, Bronco, Sandyballs, Matt, Lafayette (& Others)
The Freddie Ramble.
Today Sandyballs couldn’t do the ramble because he had bollocksed up his foot in York. (Something to do with lots of drinking at an ISU Union meeting and being pushed off a pavement by Sean Raggett). And so, in a panic, he had not only thrust the heavy burden of organising the ramble on to Froggy, but had telephoned Interpol in the Pyrenees to have B.T. torn away from his home comforts and despatched to Newhaven to make up the numbers.
Bronco too was with us this day so Froggy decided it might not be a good idea to go up and down the fifty odd hills in Sussex like we usually do for a bit of fun, but to keep it short, keep it sweet and make sure we got to the pub well in time for lunch.
B.T. started to be awkward claiming that he had obtained his presently svelte figure from a daily dose of sprinting up and down the Pyrenee at the bottom of his garden and hadn’t come all this way just to pussyfoot around. So Froggy ignored him and ordered everyone on to the bus from Seaford to East Dean.
Some of us had to pay for this privilege (ha, ha) while the other (bus pass holders) claimed their free Human Rights and rushed upstairs to bag the best seats. When we arrived Froggy saw a couple of girlie ramblers get off the bus at the same time clearly intent on following the NERDS and basking in their fame and sexual attraction. Sadly, Froggy’s poor attempt to capitalise on this groupie opportunity came to nought when they heard him say loudly that he fancied shagging the good looking one but wouldn’t touch her mate with his own worn out bog-brush.
The weather was dull, the sheep had shat all over the fields and there we were tramping after a couple of miffed women who were not only following our route but looked as if they were going to have lunch at the same pub as us. Quel embarras! However Matt livened up the proceedings by letting slip that the Mystery Guest on the Christmas Ramble this year was going to be …..none other than Jordan …Wow!
Visions of this fantastic guest at dinner with everyone hanging off her…..every word
Made us all cheerful again. Then Bronco punctured the balloon(s) by saying he’d heard it was only Ian Jordan and that was only if he could tear himself away from the other numerous office parties he seemed to be heavily involved in.
Within sight of Belle Toute Lighthouse the NERDS descended a Seven Sister and saw to their dismay that The Birling Gap ie. the pub lunch rendezvous, was besieged by large numbers of caravans, cameras, gophers, and film stars themselves threatening to try to eclipse the NERDS by making a film where we were going to be eating (and drinking). When we got to the pub someone said that these NERDS’ hangers on were supposedly filming a remake of Brighton Rock so Matt suggested we all do our own film in opposition using ourselves , all the barmaids in the pub , the pub dog and some special posing pouches he just happened to have with him. His offer was declined.
Apparently all these famous acting types, the ones in this stupid film outside, had brought all their own scoff, all their own posing pouches, all their own catamites and even all their own lavatory paper with them in order not to have to mix with the local hoi polloi and the world famous NERDS. The Birling Gap, however had made an absolute fortune by renting out its pub car park to them for the duration so at least they would have a good view of the world famous NERDS dining in all their charisma.
The food was very good here and so was the drink - all NERDS approved - and Lafayette tried out his fluent Hungarian on the petite barmaid, called Melinda before telephoning Sandyballs at home to update him on all the exciting developments at the pub. (I mean about all the great food and drink he was missing because he was rolling aroung groaning about some ingrown toenail or something - not about the poncy film crew type people who were falling over themselves to offer us key parts in their crummy film). Sandyballs murmured something vague about coming along with all the family, and that it was not in contravention of NERDS’ Rules because they hadn’t actually rambled with us and they had paid their NERDS’ subscription and they couldn’t leave the baby at home anyway, could they? ……….. Baby, wot baby?
And so Sandyballs eventually turned up with Mrs Sandyballs, daughter Sandyballs and Baby Freddie ( now known by his NERDS’ name as Flintoff). Flintoff was very cutchy coo and very well behaved, he drank his Harveys like a good boy and said that his mom had liked being Mystery Guest last year but didn’t fancy being on the same table as that slut Jordan this year. He said that his grandma was very beautiful and that he loved her very much as long as she was going to leave him all her diamonds and things. He said also that his grandpa was a big nesh pillock who kept falling off his bike and getting his gouty feet stamped on because he drank too much, then he smiled,
said he liked Lafayette best of all the NERDS and went to sleep. We were all entranced at our new mini NERD.
After the Sandyballs family had taken Baby Flintoff back home we set off back along the road to find out why The Tiger at East Dean was closed to the NERDS that day. On the way we were passed by Hungarian barmaids - big and small, and took lots of rests so that Froggy as Routemaster wouldn’t get lost (or tired). Matt led us to The Tiger and found out it was reopening the next day (Just our luck!) Then we all got on the free (oops) bus back to Seaford and Newhaven.
It had been a very pleasant ramble thanks to the excellent guidance of Froggy and to the surprise appearance of Baby Flintoff who may take over as Managing Director of the NERDS one day. Let’s hope Sandyballs’ feet sort themselves out soon and that B.T. gets back safely to his Pyrenee in France.
Goo goo to all.
Lafayette.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Bad Trains Ramble
THE N.E.R.D.S. - Ramble No 238.
Wed. 24th September 2009.
Those Present - Sandyballs, Lafayette, Froggy, Bronco, Paco, Matt.
The Bad Trains Ramble
Amazingly enough, El Paco had turned up for this ramble. This, it has to be said, was only as a result of Lafayette making sure the appointment was in Paco’s diary, then ringing him up every few hours to ensure he hadn’t forgotten, and finally sleeping on his very doorstep and banging on his front door at 6 am to ensure he got up and got moving. Never had so much effort been made since someone had once tried to prise Philby out of a Dieppe bar to work his way back on a crossing. (Poor Philby - requiescat and all that)
Paco was accompanied on the train from Seaford not only by various professional NERDS who always get up for their rambles but by his delightful daughter, Lara, who Lafayette thought might have been standing in as Paco’s NERD’S handmaiden ie. to
whip him around the course and to keep him from falling asleep. Sadly she was only going off to college to better herself and stop her falling into the job trap of becoming an I.O. when she grew up.
However, whilst waiting at Lewes for the train to The South Coast, Lafayette went to pay for his coffee in Vick’s caff and was treated to a rendition of a selection of Vick’s awful poems. Apparently, late in life, Vick must have found a woman close to his heart and had started writing love crap to her to try and get into her knickers. Does all this sound a touch familiar? It might do when I mention that the famous poet Philby thought he was a friend of Vick’s and because of the similarity of his name to one of Philby’s wannabe lovers may just have bored Vick with outpourings of his own unrequited love. (Poor Philby, requiescat and all that again).
Lafayette sighed and wished that true love would sod off and die somewhere. Rambles were what was important, and getting to the start of them (on the same day) was fairly important. Sadly things do not always go strictly to plan…..
The NERDS boarded the right train (phew!) and planned to get off at Norman’s Bay. Unfortunately since we were not in the first 3 coaches, and since the guard never thought to come and tell us personally, we couldn’t get out where Sandyballs had planned and were whisked off to Cooden Beach instead. O Desastre! O Quelle Fatalite! We were lost already and we hadn’t really gone a step. Luckily Sandyballs is a master of innovation and flexibility so instead of weeping or writing poetry or panicking, he just calmly announced that he would re-arrange things and that we should go for a drink while he thought things out.
And so we spent a very pleasant hour or so lounging around the sunny exterior of
The Cooden Beach Hotel sitting at a beach table and pissing off the residents with our loud, boorish conversation. Matt complained first of all that he couldn’t see the sea, but shut up when he was told he could actually go home to Seaford to do that. Paco said he was more than qualified to be the new leader of the Liberal Democrats because he had shagged more women in his youth than the present incumbent. Lafayette pointed out you were also supposed to be somewhat right wing and wear lots of orange to achieve such high office. Matt then said he was disappointed that the Engineer (pub) hadn’t started off its Nudist Evenings, as (allegedly) promised by Bob (landlord). Bronco mumbled something about such things not being compatible with both NERDS’morality and the current wild darts evenings - for obvious reasons. As you can see, the conversation was starting to go downhill so Sandyballs decided to be flexible and innovative and make us ramble.
We hiked along the coast road picking blackberries and sloes as we went. Most of these had already been poisoned by the passing traffic but why should we care; a good bottle of gin would soon sort that out. Sandyballs kept ringing up Simon, a Mystery Guest he had been begging for weeks to come along, but she said she was washing her (red) hair that day and couldn’t come. So we trudged Mystery Guestless along country roads until we arrived at The Star Inn Carvery at er.. Normans Bay.
We bagged our usual round table (not that Sandyballs even remotely resembles King Arthur) and queued up at the bar and the carvery. The staff that day seemed to consist of a couple of Romanians and one put upon African who obviously failed to suspect our true professions (well those of some of us at any rate). The food was ample, good and cheapish, and the beer was OK so what more could we want? Well, Paco did rather hope he might get served before going home time that day, you see he’d ordered the huge gut buster, mixed grill, all day mega meal to try to rival Bronco in the race to be nominated as Greediest NERDS Bastard Of The Year. When this finally arrived Paco suddenly found a lessening of appetite (something to do with eyes being bigger than stomachs), however he was helped out by his half starved colleagues and the food did not go to waste.
Eventually moving outside again to take our digetifs - gin, tonic and no filthy sloes this time, we sat at a pleasant table and listened to Paco (him again) expounding on the History of The Labour Party and Ramsay MacDonald - and you all thought he had pretensions to be a right wing Lib Dem, ha, ha. It was now that due to an excess in heavy puddings that Sandyballs thought we should all go for a post prandial ramblette to visit some lost village or something. So off we went across some pleasant fields in the late afternoon sun and never found this village cos it was lost - see. But an inspiring bit of exercise none the less.
So then we made our way to the railway station to get the 16. 40 train (all carefully organised, you see) but as we rounded the last corner we saw our train spitefully draw out of the station leaving the NERDS foaming and ranting in the middle of the road.
What was going on? Sandyballs had carefully calculated everything so that we should be home well in time for Countdown and now this! Apparently some selfish person had done the usual and hurled himself off a bridge just because his wife didn’t understand him any more (boring cow) and all the trains were delayed.
Well, as it was still a pleasant, sunny afternoon we hung around the station for about half an hour talking bike bollocks to a cyclist who had likewise been affected by today’s domestic drama in Hastings or wherever, and then got on to the next train purporting to be heading homewards. But, of course, it didn’t. For some reason it went only to Eastbourne. Why? Why? Why? We were never to find out.
So cursing the pitiful railway system of Sussex most of us took the bus back to go home and watch Countdown. The rambles had been OK thanks to Sandyballs and his ingenuity, and the weather had been glorious for September. Lafayette thought he would leave Froggy alone in this write-up since he had a different NERD to write about this month and six NERDS all together at the same time was something of a rarity these days.
Perhaps we should all have gone to visit Philby that day and read poetry to him - but on second thoughts I’m sure he would have understood our compelling desire to go off and booze in a pub (or two) somewhere.
Life is short. Get Nerding.
Lafayette.
Wed. 24th September 2009.
Those Present - Sandyballs, Lafayette, Froggy, Bronco, Paco, Matt.
The Bad Trains Ramble
Amazingly enough, El Paco had turned up for this ramble. This, it has to be said, was only as a result of Lafayette making sure the appointment was in Paco’s diary, then ringing him up every few hours to ensure he hadn’t forgotten, and finally sleeping on his very doorstep and banging on his front door at 6 am to ensure he got up and got moving. Never had so much effort been made since someone had once tried to prise Philby out of a Dieppe bar to work his way back on a crossing. (Poor Philby - requiescat and all that)
Paco was accompanied on the train from Seaford not only by various professional NERDS who always get up for their rambles but by his delightful daughter, Lara, who Lafayette thought might have been standing in as Paco’s NERD’S handmaiden ie. to
whip him around the course and to keep him from falling asleep. Sadly she was only going off to college to better herself and stop her falling into the job trap of becoming an I.O. when she grew up.
However, whilst waiting at Lewes for the train to The South Coast, Lafayette went to pay for his coffee in Vick’s caff and was treated to a rendition of a selection of Vick’s awful poems. Apparently, late in life, Vick must have found a woman close to his heart and had started writing love crap to her to try and get into her knickers. Does all this sound a touch familiar? It might do when I mention that the famous poet Philby thought he was a friend of Vick’s and because of the similarity of his name to one of Philby’s wannabe lovers may just have bored Vick with outpourings of his own unrequited love. (Poor Philby, requiescat and all that again).
Lafayette sighed and wished that true love would sod off and die somewhere. Rambles were what was important, and getting to the start of them (on the same day) was fairly important. Sadly things do not always go strictly to plan…..
The NERDS boarded the right train (phew!) and planned to get off at Norman’s Bay. Unfortunately since we were not in the first 3 coaches, and since the guard never thought to come and tell us personally, we couldn’t get out where Sandyballs had planned and were whisked off to Cooden Beach instead. O Desastre! O Quelle Fatalite! We were lost already and we hadn’t really gone a step. Luckily Sandyballs is a master of innovation and flexibility so instead of weeping or writing poetry or panicking, he just calmly announced that he would re-arrange things and that we should go for a drink while he thought things out.
And so we spent a very pleasant hour or so lounging around the sunny exterior of
The Cooden Beach Hotel sitting at a beach table and pissing off the residents with our loud, boorish conversation. Matt complained first of all that he couldn’t see the sea, but shut up when he was told he could actually go home to Seaford to do that. Paco said he was more than qualified to be the new leader of the Liberal Democrats because he had shagged more women in his youth than the present incumbent. Lafayette pointed out you were also supposed to be somewhat right wing and wear lots of orange to achieve such high office. Matt then said he was disappointed that the Engineer (pub) hadn’t started off its Nudist Evenings, as (allegedly) promised by Bob (landlord). Bronco mumbled something about such things not being compatible with both NERDS’morality and the current wild darts evenings - for obvious reasons. As you can see, the conversation was starting to go downhill so Sandyballs decided to be flexible and innovative and make us ramble.
We hiked along the coast road picking blackberries and sloes as we went. Most of these had already been poisoned by the passing traffic but why should we care; a good bottle of gin would soon sort that out. Sandyballs kept ringing up Simon, a Mystery Guest he had been begging for weeks to come along, but she said she was washing her (red) hair that day and couldn’t come. So we trudged Mystery Guestless along country roads until we arrived at The Star Inn Carvery at er.. Normans Bay.
We bagged our usual round table (not that Sandyballs even remotely resembles King Arthur) and queued up at the bar and the carvery. The staff that day seemed to consist of a couple of Romanians and one put upon African who obviously failed to suspect our true professions (well those of some of us at any rate). The food was ample, good and cheapish, and the beer was OK so what more could we want? Well, Paco did rather hope he might get served before going home time that day, you see he’d ordered the huge gut buster, mixed grill, all day mega meal to try to rival Bronco in the race to be nominated as Greediest NERDS Bastard Of The Year. When this finally arrived Paco suddenly found a lessening of appetite (something to do with eyes being bigger than stomachs), however he was helped out by his half starved colleagues and the food did not go to waste.
Eventually moving outside again to take our digetifs - gin, tonic and no filthy sloes this time, we sat at a pleasant table and listened to Paco (him again) expounding on the History of The Labour Party and Ramsay MacDonald - and you all thought he had pretensions to be a right wing Lib Dem, ha, ha. It was now that due to an excess in heavy puddings that Sandyballs thought we should all go for a post prandial ramblette to visit some lost village or something. So off we went across some pleasant fields in the late afternoon sun and never found this village cos it was lost - see. But an inspiring bit of exercise none the less.
So then we made our way to the railway station to get the 16. 40 train (all carefully organised, you see) but as we rounded the last corner we saw our train spitefully draw out of the station leaving the NERDS foaming and ranting in the middle of the road.
What was going on? Sandyballs had carefully calculated everything so that we should be home well in time for Countdown and now this! Apparently some selfish person had done the usual and hurled himself off a bridge just because his wife didn’t understand him any more (boring cow) and all the trains were delayed.
Well, as it was still a pleasant, sunny afternoon we hung around the station for about half an hour talking bike bollocks to a cyclist who had likewise been affected by today’s domestic drama in Hastings or wherever, and then got on to the next train purporting to be heading homewards. But, of course, it didn’t. For some reason it went only to Eastbourne. Why? Why? Why? We were never to find out.
So cursing the pitiful railway system of Sussex most of us took the bus back to go home and watch Countdown. The rambles had been OK thanks to Sandyballs and his ingenuity, and the weather had been glorious for September. Lafayette thought he would leave Froggy alone in this write-up since he had a different NERD to write about this month and six NERDS all together at the same time was something of a rarity these days.
Perhaps we should all have gone to visit Philby that day and read poetry to him - but on second thoughts I’m sure he would have understood our compelling desire to go off and booze in a pub (or two) somewhere.
Life is short. Get Nerding.
Lafayette.
Friday, September 04, 2009
THE N.E.R.D.S. Rambles 235 & 236.
Ramble No. 235
Those present - Froggy, Sandyballs, Lafayette, Paco, Bronco and Dumpling Dwyer.
The Bramble Ramble.
Wednesday 10th June 2009.
This was a ramble which Mr and Mrs Sandyballs had sussed out some time previously when the weather had been nice and the grass had been short. Not today, though.
The weather was dull and the grass was l-o-n-g, and guess what, we nearly got lost.
Two cars took us to Barkham for the start. We even had Bronco with us since all the
watch shops were closed, and Paco had come along thinking that he was on a late shift. Sandyballs led off over some fields but soon got a bit confused and had to ask the way from a Grim Reaper who was titting about weeding her cabbage patch.
Eventually we righted ourselves and made off towards the top of a bridge up a slippery slope over a disused railway line. Everybody had great fun ascending the slippery slope, not, I hasten to say because we were all aged, infirm, pissed, or incompetent, but simply because it was a bit slippery. Once on top of the track we realised that nobody had walked along here for at least a hundred years ( apart from
La Famille Sandyballs ) and that’s why the track resembled an impenetrable jungle.
Sandyballs led us through brambles (see ramble title), nettles, wetness, shite, frogspawn, and other unmentionable nasty things until we packed in all this adventuring and felt safer wandering through a field where a bull was guarding his harem from unwelcome NERDS’ attentions.
Finally we got to The Royal Oak where we sat outside under a sort of canopy in the drizzle and where Lafayette got a text from B.T. who was in France and missing the NERDY chaffish banter he had so loved. Dumpling too was within a short time of retiring having bankrupted the Foreign Office with his mega lump sum, and was considering a part time job as a sandwich runner for the I.O.s at Newhaven. Sadly, times had become hard and all the Newhaven budget had been ring fenced to keep
The Engineer from packing up. So no more cushy jobs.
Paco and Froggy opened up a smokers’ corner at the end of the table and Lafayette decided he would try eating a posset for dessert. Not many people know this, but these are small, somewhat effeminate but rather shy, furry mammals which make excellent eating in the appropriate culling season, and which, mixed with custard, taste rather like slightly demented seagull chicks. Anyway Lafayette was certainly enjoying his until the landlady noticed her mistake and came and swapped it for a somewhat more boring tarte aux pommes.
Lafayette’s notes here record that he got mud on Sandyballs’ jeans, (so what?), that Froggy reckoned he dribbles pee in his boxer shorts and that Paco had become smitten with Susan Doyle (the famous Scottish page 3 pin-up girl) - so no accounting for taste.
Lafayette couldn’t think of anything more to say about this day’s mayhem, besides, he was eager to start next month’s write-up, the notes for which were now fresher in his mind ……and so here is…….
Ramble No. 236 called imaginatively “ The Ramble which Froggy set.”
and which related what happened to:
Froggy, Lafayette, Sandyballs, B.T, Matt, and Dumpling (again).
Today the weather was okayish and B.T. had flown back from France especially to take part in the chaffish NERDY banter which he had been missing (see elsewhere).
Dumpling had also turned up because he’d heard there was money to be made from listening to how B.T. had invested all his own money in gilt edged Algerian shares.
So, two born every minute, and let’s get on with the ramble.
After Lafayette had managed to dislodge said Dumpling from his house phone where he had been on to his agent to put in a bid for The Engineer, they were both picked up by B.T. in his brand spanking new, top of the range, Volvo which had been paid for out of his lump sum. Next, on to Newhaven International to collect Sandyballs and whisk everyone off to Froggy’s for an aperitif.
Froggy had been up for the last three days and three nights, with no sleep whatsoever, cooking, cleaning, hoovering, chasing out all the cockroaches, installing girlies on poles and generally making the place respectable enough to host the NERDS.
(You don’t get this level of service at Cords meetings, you know). Anyway, he had mown the lawn, chucked out all the dwarves that looked like Philby, (sensitive, you see) and got us all installed in the garden with lots of food and drink so that we could be bribed into attending one of his rambles.
We were joined by Matt, The Holey One, who seemed in good form after his recent operation , and while we sat in the garden debating whether to eat the biscuits and go home, or eat the biscuits and go on a ramble, or just eat the biscuits, Matt told us that Nobby Clarke was now his new best friend and they were both hoping to become ordained as cardinals together and go to Rome. Lafayette looked at the calvados he had been drinking, wondered whether it was really making him go mad and hastily suggested we got off our fat arses and go walking.
Well, the route was out of the back end of Seaford, across some fields, get a bit lost, carry on a bit more, get a bit more lost, scratch Froggy’s head, go left, no, go right, up a long, long hill, oh God, this is steep, are we nearly there yet? Down a gully, I thought there were some cows here, they were on the left last time I came, I think this is right, now I’m not so sure but we’re all having a good time, aren’t we? Silence.
Finally our ultimate destination of Alfriston saved us from utter starvation. In The Smugglers we joined the orderly queue of Old Farts, tourists, mothers, mother’s children, mother’s sister’s children, people who had forgotten to get a bag of crisps and came back into the queue to ask their sister to get one for them, people who couldn’t quite make up their minds whether to have chips with their burger and do you only do childrens’ portions on Tuesday and stop tugging at my skirt, Annabel or I shall get cross….. The NERDS waited and waited and waited.
Finally when the sun had been round and set at least twice we got paid some attention.
Surliness? You’ve never seen surliness like this, mind you, the pub had only put one member of bar staff on at a busy lunchtime so we couldn’t really expect to be served on the same day. It wasn’t like the last time we had come here either. No friendly barmaid from Poland with big tits came to ask us if the food was OK (it wasn’t).
Everyone seemed harassed and in a rush.
We decamped across the road to The George which turned out to be a much nicer pub with multiple barmaids, good beer and fast service. Sat in its pleasant garden B.T. was eyeing up the thirteen year old serving wench, and Matt was telling Sandyballs that
webwashing was a mortal sin (does he mean looking at rude Czech girlies with what look like sticks of celery in their mouths?)
Froggy wanted an icecream so he went across the road and embarrassed the nice refined lady behind the counter by telling her he was a loony and could she hurry up, please, because he had to take his room mates back to the asylum (It’s been done before) Then he “entertained” the bus queue by telling them he was a famous author and offering to read extracts from his latest book to them.
He got back to Seaford more or less in one piece and led us into The Shore (pub) for a final comfy sofa drink or two. Then we went back to his place for tea and our presence provided his wife with yet further grounds for divorcing him because she couldn’t begin to cook her dinner.
But…..it had been a good ramble and a noble effort from Froggy so thanks to him for the day out. We will remember never to go to The Smugglers ever again and hope that The George long remains the good pub we had found it to be.
Lafayette.
Ramble No. 235
Those present - Froggy, Sandyballs, Lafayette, Paco, Bronco and Dumpling Dwyer.
The Bramble Ramble.
Wednesday 10th June 2009.
This was a ramble which Mr and Mrs Sandyballs had sussed out some time previously when the weather had been nice and the grass had been short. Not today, though.
The weather was dull and the grass was l-o-n-g, and guess what, we nearly got lost.
Two cars took us to Barkham for the start. We even had Bronco with us since all the
watch shops were closed, and Paco had come along thinking that he was on a late shift. Sandyballs led off over some fields but soon got a bit confused and had to ask the way from a Grim Reaper who was titting about weeding her cabbage patch.
Eventually we righted ourselves and made off towards the top of a bridge up a slippery slope over a disused railway line. Everybody had great fun ascending the slippery slope, not, I hasten to say because we were all aged, infirm, pissed, or incompetent, but simply because it was a bit slippery. Once on top of the track we realised that nobody had walked along here for at least a hundred years ( apart from
La Famille Sandyballs ) and that’s why the track resembled an impenetrable jungle.
Sandyballs led us through brambles (see ramble title), nettles, wetness, shite, frogspawn, and other unmentionable nasty things until we packed in all this adventuring and felt safer wandering through a field where a bull was guarding his harem from unwelcome NERDS’ attentions.
Finally we got to The Royal Oak where we sat outside under a sort of canopy in the drizzle and where Lafayette got a text from B.T. who was in France and missing the NERDY chaffish banter he had so loved. Dumpling too was within a short time of retiring having bankrupted the Foreign Office with his mega lump sum, and was considering a part time job as a sandwich runner for the I.O.s at Newhaven. Sadly, times had become hard and all the Newhaven budget had been ring fenced to keep
The Engineer from packing up. So no more cushy jobs.
Paco and Froggy opened up a smokers’ corner at the end of the table and Lafayette decided he would try eating a posset for dessert. Not many people know this, but these are small, somewhat effeminate but rather shy, furry mammals which make excellent eating in the appropriate culling season, and which, mixed with custard, taste rather like slightly demented seagull chicks. Anyway Lafayette was certainly enjoying his until the landlady noticed her mistake and came and swapped it for a somewhat more boring tarte aux pommes.
Lafayette’s notes here record that he got mud on Sandyballs’ jeans, (so what?), that Froggy reckoned he dribbles pee in his boxer shorts and that Paco had become smitten with Susan Doyle (the famous Scottish page 3 pin-up girl) - so no accounting for taste.
Lafayette couldn’t think of anything more to say about this day’s mayhem, besides, he was eager to start next month’s write-up, the notes for which were now fresher in his mind ……and so here is…….
Ramble No. 236 called imaginatively “ The Ramble which Froggy set.”
and which related what happened to:
Froggy, Lafayette, Sandyballs, B.T, Matt, and Dumpling (again).
Today the weather was okayish and B.T. had flown back from France especially to take part in the chaffish NERDY banter which he had been missing (see elsewhere).
Dumpling had also turned up because he’d heard there was money to be made from listening to how B.T. had invested all his own money in gilt edged Algerian shares.
So, two born every minute, and let’s get on with the ramble.
After Lafayette had managed to dislodge said Dumpling from his house phone where he had been on to his agent to put in a bid for The Engineer, they were both picked up by B.T. in his brand spanking new, top of the range, Volvo which had been paid for out of his lump sum. Next, on to Newhaven International to collect Sandyballs and whisk everyone off to Froggy’s for an aperitif.
Froggy had been up for the last three days and three nights, with no sleep whatsoever, cooking, cleaning, hoovering, chasing out all the cockroaches, installing girlies on poles and generally making the place respectable enough to host the NERDS.
(You don’t get this level of service at Cords meetings, you know). Anyway, he had mown the lawn, chucked out all the dwarves that looked like Philby, (sensitive, you see) and got us all installed in the garden with lots of food and drink so that we could be bribed into attending one of his rambles.
We were joined by Matt, The Holey One, who seemed in good form after his recent operation , and while we sat in the garden debating whether to eat the biscuits and go home, or eat the biscuits and go on a ramble, or just eat the biscuits, Matt told us that Nobby Clarke was now his new best friend and they were both hoping to become ordained as cardinals together and go to Rome. Lafayette looked at the calvados he had been drinking, wondered whether it was really making him go mad and hastily suggested we got off our fat arses and go walking.
Well, the route was out of the back end of Seaford, across some fields, get a bit lost, carry on a bit more, get a bit more lost, scratch Froggy’s head, go left, no, go right, up a long, long hill, oh God, this is steep, are we nearly there yet? Down a gully, I thought there were some cows here, they were on the left last time I came, I think this is right, now I’m not so sure but we’re all having a good time, aren’t we? Silence.
Finally our ultimate destination of Alfriston saved us from utter starvation. In The Smugglers we joined the orderly queue of Old Farts, tourists, mothers, mother’s children, mother’s sister’s children, people who had forgotten to get a bag of crisps and came back into the queue to ask their sister to get one for them, people who couldn’t quite make up their minds whether to have chips with their burger and do you only do childrens’ portions on Tuesday and stop tugging at my skirt, Annabel or I shall get cross….. The NERDS waited and waited and waited.
Finally when the sun had been round and set at least twice we got paid some attention.
Surliness? You’ve never seen surliness like this, mind you, the pub had only put one member of bar staff on at a busy lunchtime so we couldn’t really expect to be served on the same day. It wasn’t like the last time we had come here either. No friendly barmaid from Poland with big tits came to ask us if the food was OK (it wasn’t).
Everyone seemed harassed and in a rush.
We decamped across the road to The George which turned out to be a much nicer pub with multiple barmaids, good beer and fast service. Sat in its pleasant garden B.T. was eyeing up the thirteen year old serving wench, and Matt was telling Sandyballs that
webwashing was a mortal sin (does he mean looking at rude Czech girlies with what look like sticks of celery in their mouths?)
Froggy wanted an icecream so he went across the road and embarrassed the nice refined lady behind the counter by telling her he was a loony and could she hurry up, please, because he had to take his room mates back to the asylum (It’s been done before) Then he “entertained” the bus queue by telling them he was a famous author and offering to read extracts from his latest book to them.
He got back to Seaford more or less in one piece and led us into The Shore (pub) for a final comfy sofa drink or two. Then we went back to his place for tea and our presence provided his wife with yet further grounds for divorcing him because she couldn’t begin to cook her dinner.
But…..it had been a good ramble and a noble effort from Froggy so thanks to him for the day out. We will remember never to go to The Smugglers ever again and hope that The George long remains the good pub we had found it to be.
Lafayette.
Saturday, July 04, 2009
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
YO Nerds, As you know, our next expedition is on Wednesday 10th June. A short, level stroll around the village of Barcombe. Hopefully Bronco can join us (with or without Crunchie). Matt , we hope can walk with us if he is fit. BT may be in France buying vast tracks of land. Can Bronco , BT and Matt let me know if they are going to make it? The Royal Oak does not open till 12 noon so a slightly later train from Seaford Central at 10.25 - Newhaven Town at 10.32. I will meet Frog and Lafayette ( and Matt?) at Lewes at 10.45 in my green machine. Then drive to pick up Bronco at Ringmer (BT at his place?) then drive to Barcombe to start the ramble. One thing to mention. Even if the weather is hot and sultry as is now, I would not recommend the wearing of shorts - unless you combine this with the carrying of a machete. As for the July ramble, Frog and are looking at Wednesday 29th. Hope you can make it. Please let me know if any problems. Request in for myself, Frog and Bronco. Lafayette. Thanks for sending the write-ups . Unfortunately I could not open the attatchment - neither could Frog. Lafayette may have pressed the wrong buttons. Can you try again? See at least some of you next Wednesday. Sandyballs
April's and May's Ramble at last
THE N.E.R.D.S. Rambles 233 & 234.
Ramble No. 233
Those present - Froggy, Sandyballs, Matt, Lafayette, B.T.
The Hamish Findlay Ramble.
Wednesday 15th April 2009.
The reason for this title will be seen towards the end of the write-up. Anyway, Froggy picked us up at Seaford station and we all went off to Matt’s for pre-ramble refreshment. Seated in his posh, well kept garden we all idly mused about why his bird table had nasty, wicked spikes around it - presumably to prevent any birds from gathering there to feed!! Another Nerds’ mystery indeed. Meanwhile B.T. played at being a paparazzo and danced around the table taking photos for posterity ( just like the last 20 years of photos were, ha, ha ). Lafayette’s notes record that Froggy had decided to come out that year and was asking Matt advice about golf (Maybe the notes had got a little confused here), however Matt replied by giving Froggy his tip of the week ie. how to use a safety pin to repair a bust trouser zip. (Very confused notes!).
Apparently Sally had told Froggy that the Nerds mustn’t see their front garden because it was unfinished (Were we going to hold a fete here or something?)and then Matt walzed out into the garden wearing a teeshirt featuring Elton John and Keith Alan, and said he was going to leave all his money to The Catholic Boys Non Buggering Society. (Why??)
So, after all this surrealism Sandyballs decided that it was time to ramble and dragged us out through twitterns and all around bourgeois Seaford towards The Golden Galleon to get lunch. Along the way Matt had a stroke of luck spotting a £20 note on the ground which Lafayette pointed out to him . Then began a long agonising period of Catholic guilt of what to do with this windfall. Lafayette suggested that he spend it on drink but Matt wanted to change the world and donate it to all the abused in Ireland. Lafayette said they’d all been abused because of drink anyway and he might as well make a few Nerds happy without all this guilt bollocks. (You can guess that Lafayette had been brought up as a Protestant) so Matt was finally persuaded to spend it in the pub after deciding to make a small contribution to Our Lady of Abstinence in the next Catholic church he came across. (In the event Froggy claimed some two weeks later that he had lost £20, but we all thought this was a bit Jesuitical and turned down his appeal).
On, on to the Golden Galleon where Bronco was supposed to meet us but wasn’t there and Froggy couldn’t raise him by phone. Maybe he’d forgotten it was Nerds’ ramble day (grounds for excommunication) or maybe he’d got thrown off his horse again -whatever, he just failed to turn up. So to console ourselves we settled down and tried to pack ourselves full of calories. (Lafayette has to put his hands up at this point - confused notes - and say that it was actually Froggy’s ramble that day and we were supposed to go as far as the Plough and Harrow in Jevington. However due to all the Catholic Guilt Time Wasting earlier on it was decided to stay at the Golden Galleon).
It was nice and sunny sitting outside the pub even though there was a ferocious wind blowing up from the sea. The meal was served by cute girlies who titillated our hormones and Froggy got so horny he waved his nipples in the air (at Matt’s instigation) and treated us to a sight of his dorsal lump - some sort of mating ritual, apparently. Sandyballs mentioned he was going to put his future (putative) grandson down for entry to the Nerds as there was such a long waiting list to get in (we need some new blood, everybody else is either dead, dying or gone crook).
Then a pleasant walk back along the cliffs where we got caught having a piss in the bushes by real ramblers and where there weren’t any more suspicious £20 notes to pick up. (No more miracles; Lafayette blamed The Catholics and vowed to start his own Bonfire Society in Lewes).
Descending from the cliffs to the beach someone mentioned that Philby had once owned some crappy old beach hut in the environs which was now putrefactious and full of empty red wine bottles. So in the hope of finding it and possibly of discovering an overlooked full bottle we wandered along the front and came across a dazzlingly well looked after beach hut in the possession of none other than one time drunken shagger, Hamish Findlay! How nice it was to see him and didn’t he look well! Well I suppose you would for one who had managed to retire from a non job at Newhaven at the tender age of about 40. (just jealous, that’s all).
Hamish looked the picture of health despite actually not being all that well, and had a tan which made him look as if he had just got back from Barbados. He denied this, of course, and reckoned it was just the effect of lounging around outside his beach hut, drinking tea and luring ladies inside for his entertainment. He treated all the Nerds to tea and biscuits and we all caught up on a lot of history together. Sadly, a lot of women kept coming up looking impatiently at the Nerds so we decided to leave Hamish to his pleasures and clear off. Nice to see him again, though.
And so the ramble fizzled out somewhere outside the Wellington at Seaford. It had been a pleasant, sunny day and we had seen an old friend. Lafayette now has to get his second set of notes in order to record The Nasty Steep, Steep Ramble which took place the following month in the environs of Lewes.
Lafayette.
Ramble No. 234
Those present - Froggy, Sandyballs, Lafayette, B.T, Bronco, Julian, Andy and Rupert Thomas and Tony (who?)
The Really, Really Steep Ramble.
Tuesday 12th May 2009.
Sandyballs in charge again this month. It was the occasion of the last week of employment of Fat Peter, landlord of the Trevor Arms at Firle, and the Nerds (and others) were going to show their appreciation of his past services by attempting to drink his pub dry before the next landlord could take up residency.
Sandyballs had engaged the services of two native sherpas - Jules (Chinky) Thomas and Andy (Rimbaud ) Thomas, both of whom were indefatigable patrons of the Trevor. They had brought along Rupert (Mounty) Thomas - yet another brother, someone called Tony who was along for the ride.
The ramble began inauspiciously by the Thomas Bros leading the Nerds out of Lewes and up, up that steep hill that goes up to the golf course. The Nerds had had experience of this before when Bronco had decided that his future Nerd’s career was to be spent on even surfaces or else in the warmth and relative safety of any bar in a pub the Nerds happened to be visiting. Briefly then, the hill was steep. But worse, much worse was to come.
After getting up to the golf course the Nerds stopped to pant and recount. Nobody had died yet. Lafayette strode off with Mounty Thomas who was telling him about the book he had written about er… mounties. Lafayette was impressed, it wasn’t often he met two famous authors in a week. This Thomas brother despite being somewhat rotund, was obviously very fit (cycling, you see) and led Lafayette panting and gasping far ahead of the main band.
Lafayette must then have had a little sleep because when he awoke he was at the bottom of The Hill of Despair which Chinky Thomas told him gleefully was awfully steep. And, God , he wasn’t wrong Everyone ground their way upwards and upwards and upwards. The bloody hill went on forever with no let up . Lafayette wished he’d done a bit more cycling to keep fit but it was too late now. On, on he went until turning round to throw up on a sheep turd he spied a solitary figure way, way at the back of the group in worse difficulties than himself. It was poor B.T. who everyone had forgotten about so busy had they been gassing to each other (or puking like Lafayette). B.T. was obviously suffering the effects of his frequent trips to France and his excursions into French cuisine which had made him into a bit of a porky worky.
Slowly he managed to make his way up the hill until he and Lafayette lay panting together and cursing the Brothers Thomas who were inflicting this torture on them both.But eventually they recovered and followed the others down the pleasant green slope into Firle village where the Trevor Arms lay.
And there was Fat Peter, as rotund as ever and in his usual welcoming mood. He had clearly seen what a state B.T. and Lafayette were in so he gave everyone a free drink which endeared us to him even more. After a few more drinks and a suitable period of recovery, B.T. came up with the money spinning idea of producing a Nerds nude calendar ( what an original idea!) . Lafayette said he didn’t mind as long as Morgane was the photographer and took off her clothes too, but B.T.was unfortunately having none of that. Froggy said he quite liked the idea of someone making him famous by photographing his lump, and it might even enable him to get a contract with Heat Magazine. B.T didn’t seem too keen on this idea either. But just then Bronco arrived.
Now these days Bronco doesn’t walk a lot - something to do with his corns or something, but he can smell when a drink is going a mile off. Of course he is very well known by everybody in the Trevor and was suitably greeted. Sandyballs had suddenly spotted a couple of old friends who had coincidentally arrived at the same time for lunch. Twas Deaf Dog Mike and his wife, La Diva Daphne who had travelled from Eastbourne after paying homage at the grave of The Deaf Dog (now deceased).
Lunch was up to the usual high standard of the Trevor although unfortunately the first bottle of wine wasn’t. This bottle of Merlot tasted somewhat like camel piss so Lafayette took advice from Mine Host, Fat Pete, and obtained a much better bottle of Corbieres which cleared the palate and helped the cheese course go down. Bronco was meantime making up for lost time in the huge T bone steak department and B.T. was discussing black nail polish with the barmaid. Sandyballs decided that the shirt he was wearing that day qualified him to join The Cords, a renegade group of Frumpies who regularly met round at Matt’s to discuss the finer points of Catholic dogma. Lafayette solemnly reminded him that not only was he a lapsee but if he persisted with this bad idea he might well become a victim of Lafayette’s Lewes Bonfire Society purges.
And so we bid a tearful farewell to Fat Peter, he’d really been a friendly landlord in all the years we’d been going to the Trevor. Then we got on a train and tried to avoid paying for our tickets back to Lewes -in vain again. Sandyballs asked B.T. how many kilobites from Toulouse his camera was living and then realised he was thinking in at least two parallel universes and mercifully shut up.
So ended the Really, Really Steep Ramble, and may the Brothers Thomas be cursed for inflicting that hill on us. Just because they sprint over the Downs everyday for their aperitifs doesn’t mean we all have to. Anyway, cheers be to Fat Pete and may he thrive forever.
Lafayette.
Ramble No. 233
Those present - Froggy, Sandyballs, Matt, Lafayette, B.T.
The Hamish Findlay Ramble.
Wednesday 15th April 2009.
The reason for this title will be seen towards the end of the write-up. Anyway, Froggy picked us up at Seaford station and we all went off to Matt’s for pre-ramble refreshment. Seated in his posh, well kept garden we all idly mused about why his bird table had nasty, wicked spikes around it - presumably to prevent any birds from gathering there to feed!! Another Nerds’ mystery indeed. Meanwhile B.T. played at being a paparazzo and danced around the table taking photos for posterity ( just like the last 20 years of photos were, ha, ha ). Lafayette’s notes record that Froggy had decided to come out that year and was asking Matt advice about golf (Maybe the notes had got a little confused here), however Matt replied by giving Froggy his tip of the week ie. how to use a safety pin to repair a bust trouser zip. (Very confused notes!).
Apparently Sally had told Froggy that the Nerds mustn’t see their front garden because it was unfinished (Were we going to hold a fete here or something?)and then Matt walzed out into the garden wearing a teeshirt featuring Elton John and Keith Alan, and said he was going to leave all his money to The Catholic Boys Non Buggering Society. (Why??)
So, after all this surrealism Sandyballs decided that it was time to ramble and dragged us out through twitterns and all around bourgeois Seaford towards The Golden Galleon to get lunch. Along the way Matt had a stroke of luck spotting a £20 note on the ground which Lafayette pointed out to him . Then began a long agonising period of Catholic guilt of what to do with this windfall. Lafayette suggested that he spend it on drink but Matt wanted to change the world and donate it to all the abused in Ireland. Lafayette said they’d all been abused because of drink anyway and he might as well make a few Nerds happy without all this guilt bollocks. (You can guess that Lafayette had been brought up as a Protestant) so Matt was finally persuaded to spend it in the pub after deciding to make a small contribution to Our Lady of Abstinence in the next Catholic church he came across. (In the event Froggy claimed some two weeks later that he had lost £20, but we all thought this was a bit Jesuitical and turned down his appeal).
On, on to the Golden Galleon where Bronco was supposed to meet us but wasn’t there and Froggy couldn’t raise him by phone. Maybe he’d forgotten it was Nerds’ ramble day (grounds for excommunication) or maybe he’d got thrown off his horse again -whatever, he just failed to turn up. So to console ourselves we settled down and tried to pack ourselves full of calories. (Lafayette has to put his hands up at this point - confused notes - and say that it was actually Froggy’s ramble that day and we were supposed to go as far as the Plough and Harrow in Jevington. However due to all the Catholic Guilt Time Wasting earlier on it was decided to stay at the Golden Galleon).
It was nice and sunny sitting outside the pub even though there was a ferocious wind blowing up from the sea. The meal was served by cute girlies who titillated our hormones and Froggy got so horny he waved his nipples in the air (at Matt’s instigation) and treated us to a sight of his dorsal lump - some sort of mating ritual, apparently. Sandyballs mentioned he was going to put his future (putative) grandson down for entry to the Nerds as there was such a long waiting list to get in (we need some new blood, everybody else is either dead, dying or gone crook).
Then a pleasant walk back along the cliffs where we got caught having a piss in the bushes by real ramblers and where there weren’t any more suspicious £20 notes to pick up. (No more miracles; Lafayette blamed The Catholics and vowed to start his own Bonfire Society in Lewes).
Descending from the cliffs to the beach someone mentioned that Philby had once owned some crappy old beach hut in the environs which was now putrefactious and full of empty red wine bottles. So in the hope of finding it and possibly of discovering an overlooked full bottle we wandered along the front and came across a dazzlingly well looked after beach hut in the possession of none other than one time drunken shagger, Hamish Findlay! How nice it was to see him and didn’t he look well! Well I suppose you would for one who had managed to retire from a non job at Newhaven at the tender age of about 40. (just jealous, that’s all).
Hamish looked the picture of health despite actually not being all that well, and had a tan which made him look as if he had just got back from Barbados. He denied this, of course, and reckoned it was just the effect of lounging around outside his beach hut, drinking tea and luring ladies inside for his entertainment. He treated all the Nerds to tea and biscuits and we all caught up on a lot of history together. Sadly, a lot of women kept coming up looking impatiently at the Nerds so we decided to leave Hamish to his pleasures and clear off. Nice to see him again, though.
And so the ramble fizzled out somewhere outside the Wellington at Seaford. It had been a pleasant, sunny day and we had seen an old friend. Lafayette now has to get his second set of notes in order to record The Nasty Steep, Steep Ramble which took place the following month in the environs of Lewes.
Lafayette.
Ramble No. 234
Those present - Froggy, Sandyballs, Lafayette, B.T, Bronco, Julian, Andy and Rupert Thomas and Tony (who?)
The Really, Really Steep Ramble.
Tuesday 12th May 2009.
Sandyballs in charge again this month. It was the occasion of the last week of employment of Fat Peter, landlord of the Trevor Arms at Firle, and the Nerds (and others) were going to show their appreciation of his past services by attempting to drink his pub dry before the next landlord could take up residency.
Sandyballs had engaged the services of two native sherpas - Jules (Chinky) Thomas and Andy (Rimbaud ) Thomas, both of whom were indefatigable patrons of the Trevor. They had brought along Rupert (Mounty) Thomas - yet another brother, someone called Tony who was along for the ride.
The ramble began inauspiciously by the Thomas Bros leading the Nerds out of Lewes and up, up that steep hill that goes up to the golf course. The Nerds had had experience of this before when Bronco had decided that his future Nerd’s career was to be spent on even surfaces or else in the warmth and relative safety of any bar in a pub the Nerds happened to be visiting. Briefly then, the hill was steep. But worse, much worse was to come.
After getting up to the golf course the Nerds stopped to pant and recount. Nobody had died yet. Lafayette strode off with Mounty Thomas who was telling him about the book he had written about er… mounties. Lafayette was impressed, it wasn’t often he met two famous authors in a week. This Thomas brother despite being somewhat rotund, was obviously very fit (cycling, you see) and led Lafayette panting and gasping far ahead of the main band.
Lafayette must then have had a little sleep because when he awoke he was at the bottom of The Hill of Despair which Chinky Thomas told him gleefully was awfully steep. And, God , he wasn’t wrong Everyone ground their way upwards and upwards and upwards. The bloody hill went on forever with no let up . Lafayette wished he’d done a bit more cycling to keep fit but it was too late now. On, on he went until turning round to throw up on a sheep turd he spied a solitary figure way, way at the back of the group in worse difficulties than himself. It was poor B.T. who everyone had forgotten about so busy had they been gassing to each other (or puking like Lafayette). B.T. was obviously suffering the effects of his frequent trips to France and his excursions into French cuisine which had made him into a bit of a porky worky.
Slowly he managed to make his way up the hill until he and Lafayette lay panting together and cursing the Brothers Thomas who were inflicting this torture on them both.But eventually they recovered and followed the others down the pleasant green slope into Firle village where the Trevor Arms lay.
And there was Fat Peter, as rotund as ever and in his usual welcoming mood. He had clearly seen what a state B.T. and Lafayette were in so he gave everyone a free drink which endeared us to him even more. After a few more drinks and a suitable period of recovery, B.T. came up with the money spinning idea of producing a Nerds nude calendar ( what an original idea!) . Lafayette said he didn’t mind as long as Morgane was the photographer and took off her clothes too, but B.T.was unfortunately having none of that. Froggy said he quite liked the idea of someone making him famous by photographing his lump, and it might even enable him to get a contract with Heat Magazine. B.T didn’t seem too keen on this idea either. But just then Bronco arrived.
Now these days Bronco doesn’t walk a lot - something to do with his corns or something, but he can smell when a drink is going a mile off. Of course he is very well known by everybody in the Trevor and was suitably greeted. Sandyballs had suddenly spotted a couple of old friends who had coincidentally arrived at the same time for lunch. Twas Deaf Dog Mike and his wife, La Diva Daphne who had travelled from Eastbourne after paying homage at the grave of The Deaf Dog (now deceased).
Lunch was up to the usual high standard of the Trevor although unfortunately the first bottle of wine wasn’t. This bottle of Merlot tasted somewhat like camel piss so Lafayette took advice from Mine Host, Fat Pete, and obtained a much better bottle of Corbieres which cleared the palate and helped the cheese course go down. Bronco was meantime making up for lost time in the huge T bone steak department and B.T. was discussing black nail polish with the barmaid. Sandyballs decided that the shirt he was wearing that day qualified him to join The Cords, a renegade group of Frumpies who regularly met round at Matt’s to discuss the finer points of Catholic dogma. Lafayette solemnly reminded him that not only was he a lapsee but if he persisted with this bad idea he might well become a victim of Lafayette’s Lewes Bonfire Society purges.
And so we bid a tearful farewell to Fat Peter, he’d really been a friendly landlord in all the years we’d been going to the Trevor. Then we got on a train and tried to avoid paying for our tickets back to Lewes -in vain again. Sandyballs asked B.T. how many kilobites from Toulouse his camera was living and then realised he was thinking in at least two parallel universes and mercifully shut up.
So ended the Really, Really Steep Ramble, and may the Brothers Thomas be cursed for inflicting that hill on us. Just because they sprint over the Downs everyday for their aperitifs doesn’t mean we all have to. Anyway, cheers be to Fat Pete and may he thrive forever.
Lafayette.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
May 2009 Ramble
Well - here we are,half way through May and still no April ramble write-up let alone May's. However, Lafayette is still in France - cycling no less - so here are a few photographs to keep you going.
Just as a matter of interest, to me anyway, my 32 year old Minolta camera finally died this ramble but I have an alternative, still film though, and another digital one soon to be put to good use.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Whilst awaiting the next ramble write up from Lafayette I happened to stumble upon some old write ups of yesterday whilst packing up boxes for our move to foreigh parts. Here is the write up from our first Christmas Ramble (Number 7) of 1988. The style of Lafayette is the same and the punctuation is excellent. However, some of the participants are no longer with us.
Ramble No.7 Monday 12th December 1988
Those present – Lafayette, Sandyballs, Matt, BT & Rasputin
Sandyballs scored again. It must be said this man is perfect, but only when it comes to arranging the weather. It was a great day – sunny and dry again. The die hard five met at the Five Bells, Chailey which was billed to provide our Christmas dinner. (Lunch actually.Ed.) We wanted to look the place over first and lynch Sandyballs if it wasn’t suitable. It looked OK from the outside – we would have to see about the rest.
God, what a motley crew we looked. BT in his bobble hat looked like a failed skier touting for sponsorship from Ricard or Gitanes, or in fact anything which would provide a free drink or smoke. Lafayette with his trousers tucked into his socks looked like a hopeful participant in a pig-shoot except that he wasn’t allowed to, and hadn’t got a gun anyway. Sandyballs was in his yuppie gear – boots size 16 and Barbour jacket (dishonestly obtained from Frank De Mello). Matt had donned his leprechaun outfit and Phil, well Phil was now on a C.F. week (cocaine free) and was wearing his work gear of Basque hat, jingle bells and Christmas sweater (a present from admirers on the Chartres).
As soon as we set off Sandyballs informed us that the local farmer had moved the original route so that nobody could interfere with his sheep. Fuzz Fox wasn’t with us this time so no danger of that. We trod carefully round the sheep not daring to catch their eye for fear that one of us should get the wrong idea and turn into Witchfinder General. Nice new signposts and stiles, though BT was wondering if he could strike up some business deal using the timber around the docks. Anyway we then approached some posh farmer’s country house. Sandyballs said the owner didn’t like ramblers and had nasty dogs. We all shivered and wished we’d worn our cricket boxes. Stealthily we crept across the lawn behind the house into the woods. No dogs, thank heavens, but this was more like the Amazon jungle – should have brought Paco as a guide, or better still Rosanna. Branches whipped our faces, boa constrictors leered at us from dizzy heights, piranha fish snapped at our feet, or maybe they were just mantraps. We were official trespassers, or so Sandyballs had led us to believe, so we couldn’t complain. (But they did. H.R.)
Pausing amidst this fiendish nightmare for the usual bottle/photo stop Phil found that he’d lost his lens cap. So we all drank his wine until he’d blundered about a bit and found it. Next we oozed our way through heather and mud until we came to a brick kiln – thus transporting Lafayette back to times past. You see anybody owning a brick kiln in the Indian Subcontinent is a rich, rich, rich bugger. He has slaves working for him. Sits on his butt all day thinking he’s Allah’s right hand man and smokes himself into a stupor. Delusions of power, delusions of grandeur, Lafayette never got to that exalted level so he crept past as jealous as hell.
Past the brick kiln we came to a crow farm. Now don’t ask me why people should farm crows, nasty vicious birds I’ve always thought, steal your jewellery and carry off your children given half a chance. (Wishful thinking.Ed.) Anyway another wrong turn until a friendly farmer told us the right way and we had to backtrack until we came to a couple of aged sirens who asked us where we were going and tried to seduce us instead. They were collecting mistletoe and wanted candidates to try it out with them. None of us were tempted except Phil who still had his head filled with the previous night’s crossing. However, sensing a reprise, we dragged him off these Valkyries and shoved him back on the true path.
After a bit more wandering we were led by the Routemaster back to the Five Bells where we had been promised a mystery guest. Who was this to be? Another potential rambler like Tonka Toms or Dangerous Dimaline perhaps. With trepidation we entered the pub and found neither, only a coy slim figure in a beret propping up the bar. Sorry, it wasn’t Phil’s sister nor was it the delicious and dishevelled Sophie from the Versailles, it was in fact the true Christmas fairy, a vision of loveliness and nice perfume, Mrs Sandyballs, who proceeded to deal forth bounty and good cheer. No, not that, you lecherous prats! The Christmas Fairy had brought gifts for her lads, presents for all, NERDS sweeties and membership badges (only offered if 2 rambles have been completed!). We fell down on our knees, and adored her and nibbled the threads on the hem of her skirt. Erotic fantasies began to take over our fevered brains (Some hope!Ed.) but just in time the Christmas feast was brought in.
You have never seen such a marvellous spread! We cleansed our palates on Pernod and crunchy frog then threw ourselves on to the suckling pig in honey stuffed with Yorkshire pud, with roast swan as an alternative plus vino non collapso for the drivers and Chianti for the daft buggers who still had a few fillings left. This was all followed by whole peasants in aspic, serving wenches in suspenders, crispy quail, devilled dog and roast chestnuts in virgin’s tears.(You can never find more than one virgin.Ed.) A magnificent feast and only slightly better than Oddjob’s organised beano at the Engineer last year.
Finally we descended on Sandyballs’s house for piano lessons and to try out the new loo with golden taps. Congratulations to him and the Christmas fairy for a good walk, excellent weather, the most opportune gifts and a few new dirty fantasies.
Next walk will be set by Lafayette. Weather will be lousy, walk will be nondescript but at least he’s making the effort. Lunch at Piddinghoe if you’re dead lucky but bring sandwiches just in case. Meet chez Lafayette 1000hours on 19th January (1989) and make sure all loins are girded. Bring waterproof footwear and hipflasks (N.B. Lafayette likes Calvados). Sandyballs will be Artistic Muse which will provide your Scribe with a rest from having to write all this trash.
Ramble No.7 Monday 12th December 1988
Those present – Lafayette, Sandyballs, Matt, BT & Rasputin
Sandyballs scored again. It must be said this man is perfect, but only when it comes to arranging the weather. It was a great day – sunny and dry again. The die hard five met at the Five Bells, Chailey which was billed to provide our Christmas dinner. (Lunch actually.Ed.) We wanted to look the place over first and lynch Sandyballs if it wasn’t suitable. It looked OK from the outside – we would have to see about the rest.
God, what a motley crew we looked. BT in his bobble hat looked like a failed skier touting for sponsorship from Ricard or Gitanes, or in fact anything which would provide a free drink or smoke. Lafayette with his trousers tucked into his socks looked like a hopeful participant in a pig-shoot except that he wasn’t allowed to, and hadn’t got a gun anyway. Sandyballs was in his yuppie gear – boots size 16 and Barbour jacket (dishonestly obtained from Frank De Mello). Matt had donned his leprechaun outfit and Phil, well Phil was now on a C.F. week (cocaine free) and was wearing his work gear of Basque hat, jingle bells and Christmas sweater (a present from admirers on the Chartres).
As soon as we set off Sandyballs informed us that the local farmer had moved the original route so that nobody could interfere with his sheep. Fuzz Fox wasn’t with us this time so no danger of that. We trod carefully round the sheep not daring to catch their eye for fear that one of us should get the wrong idea and turn into Witchfinder General. Nice new signposts and stiles, though BT was wondering if he could strike up some business deal using the timber around the docks. Anyway we then approached some posh farmer’s country house. Sandyballs said the owner didn’t like ramblers and had nasty dogs. We all shivered and wished we’d worn our cricket boxes. Stealthily we crept across the lawn behind the house into the woods. No dogs, thank heavens, but this was more like the Amazon jungle – should have brought Paco as a guide, or better still Rosanna. Branches whipped our faces, boa constrictors leered at us from dizzy heights, piranha fish snapped at our feet, or maybe they were just mantraps. We were official trespassers, or so Sandyballs had led us to believe, so we couldn’t complain. (But they did. H.R.)
Pausing amidst this fiendish nightmare for the usual bottle/photo stop Phil found that he’d lost his lens cap. So we all drank his wine until he’d blundered about a bit and found it. Next we oozed our way through heather and mud until we came to a brick kiln – thus transporting Lafayette back to times past. You see anybody owning a brick kiln in the Indian Subcontinent is a rich, rich, rich bugger. He has slaves working for him. Sits on his butt all day thinking he’s Allah’s right hand man and smokes himself into a stupor. Delusions of power, delusions of grandeur, Lafayette never got to that exalted level so he crept past as jealous as hell.
Past the brick kiln we came to a crow farm. Now don’t ask me why people should farm crows, nasty vicious birds I’ve always thought, steal your jewellery and carry off your children given half a chance. (Wishful thinking.Ed.) Anyway another wrong turn until a friendly farmer told us the right way and we had to backtrack until we came to a couple of aged sirens who asked us where we were going and tried to seduce us instead. They were collecting mistletoe and wanted candidates to try it out with them. None of us were tempted except Phil who still had his head filled with the previous night’s crossing. However, sensing a reprise, we dragged him off these Valkyries and shoved him back on the true path.
After a bit more wandering we were led by the Routemaster back to the Five Bells where we had been promised a mystery guest. Who was this to be? Another potential rambler like Tonka Toms or Dangerous Dimaline perhaps. With trepidation we entered the pub and found neither, only a coy slim figure in a beret propping up the bar. Sorry, it wasn’t Phil’s sister nor was it the delicious and dishevelled Sophie from the Versailles, it was in fact the true Christmas fairy, a vision of loveliness and nice perfume, Mrs Sandyballs, who proceeded to deal forth bounty and good cheer. No, not that, you lecherous prats! The Christmas Fairy had brought gifts for her lads, presents for all, NERDS sweeties and membership badges (only offered if 2 rambles have been completed!). We fell down on our knees, and adored her and nibbled the threads on the hem of her skirt. Erotic fantasies began to take over our fevered brains (Some hope!Ed.) but just in time the Christmas feast was brought in.
You have never seen such a marvellous spread! We cleansed our palates on Pernod and crunchy frog then threw ourselves on to the suckling pig in honey stuffed with Yorkshire pud, with roast swan as an alternative plus vino non collapso for the drivers and Chianti for the daft buggers who still had a few fillings left. This was all followed by whole peasants in aspic, serving wenches in suspenders, crispy quail, devilled dog and roast chestnuts in virgin’s tears.(You can never find more than one virgin.Ed.) A magnificent feast and only slightly better than Oddjob’s organised beano at the Engineer last year.
Finally we descended on Sandyballs’s house for piano lessons and to try out the new loo with golden taps. Congratulations to him and the Christmas fairy for a good walk, excellent weather, the most opportune gifts and a few new dirty fantasies.
Next walk will be set by Lafayette. Weather will be lousy, walk will be nondescript but at least he’s making the effort. Lunch at Piddinghoe if you’re dead lucky but bring sandwiches just in case. Meet chez Lafayette 1000hours on 19th January (1989) and make sure all loins are girded. Bring waterproof footwear and hipflasks (N.B. Lafayette likes Calvados). Sandyballs will be Artistic Muse which will provide your Scribe with a rest from having to write all this trash.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
April Ramble prologue
Lafayette is out in the wilds of Ireland at the moment so we will have to await his scribbles for a short time so here are some of Froggy's photographs and mine to keep us all going!!
Friday, March 13, 2009
N.E.R.D.S Ramble No. 232 Tues. 10. 3. 09.
Those Present - Froggy, Matt, B.T., Sandyballs, Lafayette. - Still no Bronco.
One of the Longest Rambles We’ve Ever Been On.
No sign of Bronco yet. Some say he gallops round the Downs at night on his white charger rescuing lost maidens. Some say he lives in a shed at the bottom of his garden with a fortune in priceless wristwatches and neighs when asked if he wants his breakfast.
Some say he’s not really bald at all but sports a full head of hair after dark to impress the ladies. All we know is that he’s called The Bronco and he’s a bit poorly.
Good job he couldn’t make this ramble then because it went on for miles and miles and miles.
Sandyballs picked almost everyone up at the station and hosted the aperitifs bash this month. Apparently B.T. had got up there first and had been guzzling Sandyballs’ good whisky since early on, so we were probably going to have to settle for bread and water before setting out. In the event it was a bit sad because Froggy had lost his mother in law that morning and couldn’t remember where he’d put her. These things do happen. We still keep expecting Philby to walk through the door and tell us he’s got a bottle of red wine in the back of his car. God forbid! Lafayette reckoned he might shit himself if that were to happen
Anyway, we walked on the concrete along one of Sandyballs’ old cycle routes until turning off somewhere leftish and going between two fields. It was muddy and the weather was dull. No pub for miles to cheer us up. We got near a river and a fisher guy put us right. Not that we’d got lost or anything. Thereafter we had a pleasant riverside walk until arriving at The Anchor at Barkham.
Sandyballs and Lafayette (and possibly Matt and BT) had been here years ago when the pub had been closed but we’d managed to persuade the landlord to flog us a bottle of wine to drink for medicinal purposes on his front lawn. We’d all had sore feet, you see. So we were expecting a warm welcome. Of course it was a different landlord now, some big fat bloke, but he seemed pleased to see us and he sold Harvey’s; what more could you want?
At his point Lafayette came out with a confession. At the, let’s say, “confused” ending to the last ramble he’d been handed the whip purse with all the last bits of shrapnel in it and had gone and lost it. It was a nice blue purse with a clip top, just like every grandma used to have in the old days. Anyway, full of guilt and remorse, Lafayette had sent his wife out every morning early to scour the charity shops to come up with a substitute. And she’d found one – same colour and same clippie type top too, a real smasher! However half way through Lafayette’s doleful mea culpa just as he was preparing to ask Matt to thrash him as a penance, Sandyballs smirkingly laid the original whip purse on the table and said he’d had it all along.
Poor Lafayette had been looking forward to being thrashed, he had even been thinking of converting to Catholicism as Matt had told him this was the only way to gain entry to The Cords, ( Lafayette found out later that Matt was a genital liar in that he was always talking bollocks). So now it was all thwarted ambition and he’d have to stay away from this Secret Society for the Super Rich. Lafayette was angry now and challenged Froggy to a bout of arm wrestling. Froggy bottled out and said he’d got tennis elbow –yeah, yeah, yeah. So much for getting a new purse, well at least the NERDS had got a spare one now.
The food at the Anchor was good, but even so Froggy restricted himself to just one meal for a change. Lafayette had his usual wild boar sausages and chips – it reminds him of shooting the buggers in Pakistan. Sandyballs has taken to ordering the cheapest meal going and then hoovering up everybody else’s scraps. How very demeaning! The only snag about the pub is that to find the Gents you have to go down a windy corridor, get outside, jump in and out of the river and then ask a shepherd where it is. Access it not easy, but as I said, the food’s O.K.
On the long, long way back (we had suddenly found we were in the middle of the countryside with no taxis or buses available), we got lost by the wrought iron gate, almost had a nasty mishap by the graunchy groin bridge and B.T did a spectacular slipping act along the bank of the river. Still no Bronco to sweep in on his white charger and rescue us all although distant strains of someone singing Summertime seemed to be heard occasionally. (Could have been the beer in us all).
After a long, long footsore slog back into Lewes we all sought solace in the John Harvey Tavern where Matt said he would host the next ramble with Froggy as Routemaster, and where we drank to Rusty who had been dug up by a fox ( Philby had better watch out).
Thanks be to Sandyballs for the route, for being a bad house servant, and (grinding of teeth) for finding the whip purse. Next ramble is Wednesday April 15th.
Lafayette.
Those Present - Froggy, Matt, B.T., Sandyballs, Lafayette. - Still no Bronco.
One of the Longest Rambles We’ve Ever Been On.
No sign of Bronco yet. Some say he gallops round the Downs at night on his white charger rescuing lost maidens. Some say he lives in a shed at the bottom of his garden with a fortune in priceless wristwatches and neighs when asked if he wants his breakfast.
Some say he’s not really bald at all but sports a full head of hair after dark to impress the ladies. All we know is that he’s called The Bronco and he’s a bit poorly.
Good job he couldn’t make this ramble then because it went on for miles and miles and miles.
Sandyballs picked almost everyone up at the station and hosted the aperitifs bash this month. Apparently B.T. had got up there first and had been guzzling Sandyballs’ good whisky since early on, so we were probably going to have to settle for bread and water before setting out. In the event it was a bit sad because Froggy had lost his mother in law that morning and couldn’t remember where he’d put her. These things do happen. We still keep expecting Philby to walk through the door and tell us he’s got a bottle of red wine in the back of his car. God forbid! Lafayette reckoned he might shit himself if that were to happen
Anyway, we walked on the concrete along one of Sandyballs’ old cycle routes until turning off somewhere leftish and going between two fields. It was muddy and the weather was dull. No pub for miles to cheer us up. We got near a river and a fisher guy put us right. Not that we’d got lost or anything. Thereafter we had a pleasant riverside walk until arriving at The Anchor at Barkham.
Sandyballs and Lafayette (and possibly Matt and BT) had been here years ago when the pub had been closed but we’d managed to persuade the landlord to flog us a bottle of wine to drink for medicinal purposes on his front lawn. We’d all had sore feet, you see. So we were expecting a warm welcome. Of course it was a different landlord now, some big fat bloke, but he seemed pleased to see us and he sold Harvey’s; what more could you want?
At his point Lafayette came out with a confession. At the, let’s say, “confused” ending to the last ramble he’d been handed the whip purse with all the last bits of shrapnel in it and had gone and lost it. It was a nice blue purse with a clip top, just like every grandma used to have in the old days. Anyway, full of guilt and remorse, Lafayette had sent his wife out every morning early to scour the charity shops to come up with a substitute. And she’d found one – same colour and same clippie type top too, a real smasher! However half way through Lafayette’s doleful mea culpa just as he was preparing to ask Matt to thrash him as a penance, Sandyballs smirkingly laid the original whip purse on the table and said he’d had it all along.
Poor Lafayette had been looking forward to being thrashed, he had even been thinking of converting to Catholicism as Matt had told him this was the only way to gain entry to The Cords, ( Lafayette found out later that Matt was a genital liar in that he was always talking bollocks). So now it was all thwarted ambition and he’d have to stay away from this Secret Society for the Super Rich. Lafayette was angry now and challenged Froggy to a bout of arm wrestling. Froggy bottled out and said he’d got tennis elbow –yeah, yeah, yeah. So much for getting a new purse, well at least the NERDS had got a spare one now.
The food at the Anchor was good, but even so Froggy restricted himself to just one meal for a change. Lafayette had his usual wild boar sausages and chips – it reminds him of shooting the buggers in Pakistan. Sandyballs has taken to ordering the cheapest meal going and then hoovering up everybody else’s scraps. How very demeaning! The only snag about the pub is that to find the Gents you have to go down a windy corridor, get outside, jump in and out of the river and then ask a shepherd where it is. Access it not easy, but as I said, the food’s O.K.
On the long, long way back (we had suddenly found we were in the middle of the countryside with no taxis or buses available), we got lost by the wrought iron gate, almost had a nasty mishap by the graunchy groin bridge and B.T did a spectacular slipping act along the bank of the river. Still no Bronco to sweep in on his white charger and rescue us all although distant strains of someone singing Summertime seemed to be heard occasionally. (Could have been the beer in us all).
After a long, long footsore slog back into Lewes we all sought solace in the John Harvey Tavern where Matt said he would host the next ramble with Froggy as Routemaster, and where we drank to Rusty who had been dug up by a fox ( Philby had better watch out).
Thanks be to Sandyballs for the route, for being a bad house servant, and (grinding of teeth) for finding the whip purse. Next ramble is Wednesday April 15th.
Lafayette.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Monday, March 02, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
N.E.R.D.S. Ramble No.231 Wed. 18. 2. 09.
Those Present Froggy, Sandyballs, B.T., Matt, Lafayette.
The Gayest Ramble We’ve Ever been On.
Bronco couldn’t make this ramble. He was ill and had to throw a sicky. They say he had an excess of water in his system leading to brain waves or the necessity for a tap on the head ( Froggy’s jokes, not mine ), but whatever it was we missed the old bugger and hope he’ll be fit enough to at least eat with us next time.
The other NERDS met up in Lafayette’s slummy den at Lavender Lodge where Matt was developing an interesting theme about what you did in retirement – played with yourself all the time or played with other people? Lafayette preferred to play outside with the girl next door; she had the biggest pigtails you ever did see! B.T. preferred to play with cars
( fucking pervert) and Sandyballs liked to play with Gilfs – strange ancient beings that lived at the bottom of his garden. Anyway, after a lot of boozing and chocolate biscuiting
those who had Old Gits’ bus passes got them out to go on the long journey from chez Lafayette to Brighton Pier.
It’s always an adventure sitting on the top of the bus with Matt. He usually opens conversations with all and sundry or complains about everything in sight. Today’s victim was some poor chap who just happened to fancy a smoke and just happened to be sitting in Matt’s air space. You should have heard Matt cursing, ranting, fulminating, beating him round the head, threatening to call the driver upstairs, threatening judicial review, not to mention “I’m a friend of George Michael and Mike Tubb and I won’t put up with this disgusting anti-social behavior!” The guy fled; the NERDS flinched and pretended we weren’t with Matt. Why does he always have to take things so personally?
We managed to get off the bus trying to look cool rather than frightfully embarrassed and wandered around Brighton Front looking for an aperitif. No luck in the short term; it was half term and all the school kids had drunk everywhere dry. So we entered the murky and dangerous hinterland of the Brighton Social Scene and found a rather jolly little pub up a side street called the White Horse.
There was a funny multi coloured flag hung over one window which Matt said was something to do with the Botswana Embassy, but we were not so sure. The barman blew us a kiss and asked us what we wanted to suck on. He was very obliging, forward even, and after serving our drinks asked us if we’d like to play with his lovely pussy. B.T. said he’d got two pussies back at home and the barman showed immediate interest and asked him for his address. Indeed the pub moggy was also a friendly type called Cookie who kept rubbing itself up everyone and demanding photos be taken. All in all, a very friendly pub but there was just something about it which we couldn’t place, some je ne sais quoi which made us wonder what the basis for its magic was. Perhaps we’ll go back there a few times and try to work out what the mystery was.
Back on to the seafront, and we walked miles and miles in the direction of the Marina until we came upon a sign for the local naturist beach. Now what sort of people would take all their clothes off and mingle on the shingle just to make new friends? What do they get out of it? Isn’t it a bit cold? What would your Mom say? These were all interesting and unanswered questions. We all thought Brighton was a fascinating place, so daring and bohemian and yes, different somehow.
After our long hike we ended up at Wetherspoons (again). Now Lafayette wasn’t sure about this place; it did seem a bit cheap somehow, and not up to his usual standards, but it did have a very, very big Dictator’s Chair where he went and sat and played at being God again (you can tell how he misses being at work). Sandyballs liked it because the beer didn’t cost a lot and everything came with chips (he’s such a chav!). The only snag was that Sandyballs wouldn’t share his chips with his mates so he had to go and sit on the “naughty” table for a while until he was allowed back to finish up our scraps.
Froggy had been fasting for months to get down to his present sylph-like figure so decided to treat himself to two meals - one straight after the other. Unfortunately, when the second one arrived he was already full but determined to get his money’s worth so he whacked straight into it. Half an hour later he was purple in the face with sweat streaming off him, feeling sick and just ripe for a cardiac arrest. Everyone else looked on with utter admiration. What a chap! What a hero! That beats biting off bats’ heads any day; fancy being so hard as to put your own life at risk just to entertain your fellow NERDS!
Sandyballs was now so pissed on cheap beer and spicy rum that he stated his intention of joining the KERDS when he retired - these are the Kamikaze ERDS who go out on one ramble only, eat a gargantuan meal and then explode to the cheers of the audience who praise you for being so macho. Then they come and sob over your grave and drop peanuts all over it. Froggy to note. This is one way of getting famous.
And so we all went our separate ways. Froggy and Matt went back to try and unravel the mystery of the White Horse, while Lafayette took B.T. and Sandyballs home to experiment with naturism in his front room. Wetherspoons had been a triumph yet again; it was just a pity that Bronco hadn’t been in on all the fun. Maybe next time.
Lafayette.
Those Present Froggy, Sandyballs, B.T., Matt, Lafayette.
The Gayest Ramble We’ve Ever been On.
Bronco couldn’t make this ramble. He was ill and had to throw a sicky. They say he had an excess of water in his system leading to brain waves or the necessity for a tap on the head ( Froggy’s jokes, not mine ), but whatever it was we missed the old bugger and hope he’ll be fit enough to at least eat with us next time.
The other NERDS met up in Lafayette’s slummy den at Lavender Lodge where Matt was developing an interesting theme about what you did in retirement – played with yourself all the time or played with other people? Lafayette preferred to play outside with the girl next door; she had the biggest pigtails you ever did see! B.T. preferred to play with cars
( fucking pervert) and Sandyballs liked to play with Gilfs – strange ancient beings that lived at the bottom of his garden. Anyway, after a lot of boozing and chocolate biscuiting
those who had Old Gits’ bus passes got them out to go on the long journey from chez Lafayette to Brighton Pier.
It’s always an adventure sitting on the top of the bus with Matt. He usually opens conversations with all and sundry or complains about everything in sight. Today’s victim was some poor chap who just happened to fancy a smoke and just happened to be sitting in Matt’s air space. You should have heard Matt cursing, ranting, fulminating, beating him round the head, threatening to call the driver upstairs, threatening judicial review, not to mention “I’m a friend of George Michael and Mike Tubb and I won’t put up with this disgusting anti-social behavior!” The guy fled; the NERDS flinched and pretended we weren’t with Matt. Why does he always have to take things so personally?
We managed to get off the bus trying to look cool rather than frightfully embarrassed and wandered around Brighton Front looking for an aperitif. No luck in the short term; it was half term and all the school kids had drunk everywhere dry. So we entered the murky and dangerous hinterland of the Brighton Social Scene and found a rather jolly little pub up a side street called the White Horse.
There was a funny multi coloured flag hung over one window which Matt said was something to do with the Botswana Embassy, but we were not so sure. The barman blew us a kiss and asked us what we wanted to suck on. He was very obliging, forward even, and after serving our drinks asked us if we’d like to play with his lovely pussy. B.T. said he’d got two pussies back at home and the barman showed immediate interest and asked him for his address. Indeed the pub moggy was also a friendly type called Cookie who kept rubbing itself up everyone and demanding photos be taken. All in all, a very friendly pub but there was just something about it which we couldn’t place, some je ne sais quoi which made us wonder what the basis for its magic was. Perhaps we’ll go back there a few times and try to work out what the mystery was.
Back on to the seafront, and we walked miles and miles in the direction of the Marina until we came upon a sign for the local naturist beach. Now what sort of people would take all their clothes off and mingle on the shingle just to make new friends? What do they get out of it? Isn’t it a bit cold? What would your Mom say? These were all interesting and unanswered questions. We all thought Brighton was a fascinating place, so daring and bohemian and yes, different somehow.
After our long hike we ended up at Wetherspoons (again). Now Lafayette wasn’t sure about this place; it did seem a bit cheap somehow, and not up to his usual standards, but it did have a very, very big Dictator’s Chair where he went and sat and played at being God again (you can tell how he misses being at work). Sandyballs liked it because the beer didn’t cost a lot and everything came with chips (he’s such a chav!). The only snag was that Sandyballs wouldn’t share his chips with his mates so he had to go and sit on the “naughty” table for a while until he was allowed back to finish up our scraps.
Froggy had been fasting for months to get down to his present sylph-like figure so decided to treat himself to two meals - one straight after the other. Unfortunately, when the second one arrived he was already full but determined to get his money’s worth so he whacked straight into it. Half an hour later he was purple in the face with sweat streaming off him, feeling sick and just ripe for a cardiac arrest. Everyone else looked on with utter admiration. What a chap! What a hero! That beats biting off bats’ heads any day; fancy being so hard as to put your own life at risk just to entertain your fellow NERDS!
Sandyballs was now so pissed on cheap beer and spicy rum that he stated his intention of joining the KERDS when he retired - these are the Kamikaze ERDS who go out on one ramble only, eat a gargantuan meal and then explode to the cheers of the audience who praise you for being so macho. Then they come and sob over your grave and drop peanuts all over it. Froggy to note. This is one way of getting famous.
And so we all went our separate ways. Froggy and Matt went back to try and unravel the mystery of the White Horse, while Lafayette took B.T. and Sandyballs home to experiment with naturism in his front room. Wetherspoons had been a triumph yet again; it was just a pity that Bronco hadn’t been in on all the fun. Maybe next time.
Lafayette.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Next Ramble
Keep the 19th of February 2009 free as the next ramble commences then. Somewhere in East Sussex, but Brighton appears a reasonable choice of venu. I think we are all meeting at purple passion palace in Newhaven.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
N.E.R.D.S. Ramble No 230, Wed. 14 .1 . 2009
Those Present – Sandyballs, Lafayette, Froggy, Bronco, B.T., Andy Rimbaud Thomas,
Paco, And who knows who else floating about in the ether.
The Philby Memorial Ramble.
The NERDS were planning to pay homage to Philby this day – that’s if we could find his grave secreted away somewhere in Seaford cemetery. Since not many of us had been to Seaford cemetery yet as we were all mostly alive this would represent a major challenge, but it was a nice sunny Wednesday and we felt confident we could overcome most problems.
First though, we were going to be entertained chez Froggy who had already made tentative plans to become a part-time grave digger at the cemetery in view of his putative early retirement from the Immigration Service (Not the Wimpy Border Has Beens Association, as it’s now called). Sadly we were not greeted by Mrs. Froggy wearing something slinky – nor, thank God, even by Froggy wearing something slinky, but by Froggy in his limousine who had come to pick us up at the station.
At the Froggy Entertainment Centre we were presented with lots of nice choccy bix, coffee and a bottle of absinthe. Rimbaud Thomas (as opposed to BT Thomas) immediately fell on this and threatened to write even more juvenile poetry and to cut off his ear if we tried to stop him. Such are the demands of an artistic personality that we let him get on with it and later concurred with him that the filthy drink both looked and tasted like Fairy Washing up Liquid.
Then Paco arrived – late - for a change, just as Sandyballs was relating his interesting dream about having met Philby who chased him round a brothel in Bangkok and tried to kiss him even though he’d got no teeth. At this point we wondered who else had a bottle of absinthe round their house. Lafayette got bored and started shagging Froggy’s Sean the Sheep to while away the time. He’d heard all these funny Philby stories before.
So off we went to the cemetery where first of all there was no trace of Philby. Was it all a terrible mistake and was he still lying in a ditch somewhere clutching a bottle of wine and dreaming of skinny barmaids? Sadly not. We came across a well tended grave near that of an Arsenal Supporter (spit, spit) with clear indications that Philby was buried inside.
And so the NERDS’ homage began. Sandyballs cracked a bottle of Rioja and got out the plastic glasses (nothing but the best). Lafayette said a few words which he vaguely remembered from an Islamabad Hash song and which seemed appropriate. We all drank to the Dearly Departed, dribbled a portion for himself on to his grave and Froggy shed a tear. We felt that Philby might have appreciated our gesture.
Then we all got out of the cemetery double quick just in case the Angel of Death thought we might have drunk too much absinthe and either struck us blind or took us back with him to meet Philby face to face (shudder, shudder).
Froggy then became Route master because Sandyballs was now too distraught to do any thing apart from have nightmares. We were led (?) off in the direction of High and Over past Dead Dog Layby and after a bit of faffing did a big loop over sunny fieldy type fields until Froggy decided he wanted to have a piss round the back of some posh houses. Thereafter we changed course and headed back to Seaford (some ramble this!) until we got into the Golf clubby/ Derek’s Housy type area where only people with lots of money were allowed to congregate and compare salaries and BMWs. Somebody thought they had seen Matt hob nobbing down the road but even he isn’t rich enough to hob nob around this area.
Since Froggy (the man who lives in Seaford) was rapidly getting lost in his own town, we hurried on past the Trek Club and the Old Victorian Frontages to the Plough where we found Bronco who said was a witch-doctor and believed he could make Philby appear through the judicious use of Voodoo. We managed to persuade him against this worrying course of action and got him to buy us a drink instead. And thereafter the afternoon went into its usual decline. Sandyballs was pissed off that his daughter had attended only one NERDS ramble and got herself pregnant (Come on , own up, who was it?) and we all mentally made a list of Philby’s ex girlfriends and graded them accordingly. Some soul singer called Victoria came top. Bronco told us he’d got a floppy limp and Rimbaud said he would continue to write poetry but only about women with large breasts.
Finally we all made it home somehow. Full marks to Philby for putting up with our maunderings at his grave side, and thanks to Froggy for the absinthe and choccy bics.
At least we got to see a bit of Seaford we hadn’t been to before and now we knew where Philby was if we wanted to pay him another visit.
Requiescat in Pace.
Lafayette.
Those Present – Sandyballs, Lafayette, Froggy, Bronco, B.T., Andy Rimbaud Thomas,
Paco, And who knows who else floating about in the ether.
The Philby Memorial Ramble.
The NERDS were planning to pay homage to Philby this day – that’s if we could find his grave secreted away somewhere in Seaford cemetery. Since not many of us had been to Seaford cemetery yet as we were all mostly alive this would represent a major challenge, but it was a nice sunny Wednesday and we felt confident we could overcome most problems.
First though, we were going to be entertained chez Froggy who had already made tentative plans to become a part-time grave digger at the cemetery in view of his putative early retirement from the Immigration Service (Not the Wimpy Border Has Beens Association, as it’s now called). Sadly we were not greeted by Mrs. Froggy wearing something slinky – nor, thank God, even by Froggy wearing something slinky, but by Froggy in his limousine who had come to pick us up at the station.
At the Froggy Entertainment Centre we were presented with lots of nice choccy bix, coffee and a bottle of absinthe. Rimbaud Thomas (as opposed to BT Thomas) immediately fell on this and threatened to write even more juvenile poetry and to cut off his ear if we tried to stop him. Such are the demands of an artistic personality that we let him get on with it and later concurred with him that the filthy drink both looked and tasted like Fairy Washing up Liquid.
Then Paco arrived – late - for a change, just as Sandyballs was relating his interesting dream about having met Philby who chased him round a brothel in Bangkok and tried to kiss him even though he’d got no teeth. At this point we wondered who else had a bottle of absinthe round their house. Lafayette got bored and started shagging Froggy’s Sean the Sheep to while away the time. He’d heard all these funny Philby stories before.
So off we went to the cemetery where first of all there was no trace of Philby. Was it all a terrible mistake and was he still lying in a ditch somewhere clutching a bottle of wine and dreaming of skinny barmaids? Sadly not. We came across a well tended grave near that of an Arsenal Supporter (spit, spit) with clear indications that Philby was buried inside.
And so the NERDS’ homage began. Sandyballs cracked a bottle of Rioja and got out the plastic glasses (nothing but the best). Lafayette said a few words which he vaguely remembered from an Islamabad Hash song and which seemed appropriate. We all drank to the Dearly Departed, dribbled a portion for himself on to his grave and Froggy shed a tear. We felt that Philby might have appreciated our gesture.
Then we all got out of the cemetery double quick just in case the Angel of Death thought we might have drunk too much absinthe and either struck us blind or took us back with him to meet Philby face to face (shudder, shudder).
Froggy then became Route master because Sandyballs was now too distraught to do any thing apart from have nightmares. We were led (?) off in the direction of High and Over past Dead Dog Layby and after a bit of faffing did a big loop over sunny fieldy type fields until Froggy decided he wanted to have a piss round the back of some posh houses. Thereafter we changed course and headed back to Seaford (some ramble this!) until we got into the Golf clubby/ Derek’s Housy type area where only people with lots of money were allowed to congregate and compare salaries and BMWs. Somebody thought they had seen Matt hob nobbing down the road but even he isn’t rich enough to hob nob around this area.
Since Froggy (the man who lives in Seaford) was rapidly getting lost in his own town, we hurried on past the Trek Club and the Old Victorian Frontages to the Plough where we found Bronco who said was a witch-doctor and believed he could make Philby appear through the judicious use of Voodoo. We managed to persuade him against this worrying course of action and got him to buy us a drink instead. And thereafter the afternoon went into its usual decline. Sandyballs was pissed off that his daughter had attended only one NERDS ramble and got herself pregnant (Come on , own up, who was it?) and we all mentally made a list of Philby’s ex girlfriends and graded them accordingly. Some soul singer called Victoria came top. Bronco told us he’d got a floppy limp and Rimbaud said he would continue to write poetry but only about women with large breasts.
Finally we all made it home somehow. Full marks to Philby for putting up with our maunderings at his grave side, and thanks to Froggy for the absinthe and choccy bics.
At least we got to see a bit of Seaford we hadn’t been to before and now we knew where Philby was if we wanted to pay him another visit.
Requiescat in Pace.
Lafayette.
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