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.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
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.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
N.E.R.D.S. Ramble No. 229. Wed 10th Dec. 2008.
Christmas Ramble 2008.
Those Present – Sandyballs, Lafayette, Froggy, B.T., Bronco, Mystery Guest and
Mystery Guest’s mate.
It was a Wednesday and Sandyballs claimed it was bound to be good weather – and so it was. The sky was blue, the sun was out and Santa’s little helpers (aka The NERDS ) had taken time off from filling everybody’s stocking to spend a day pissing it up and trying to guess who the Mystery Guest might be. Lafayette reckoned it was Trevor (again) but the odds on this were fairly long. Various other dead people were suggested but even though Christmas was a time of ghosties and ghoulies most of us were pinning our hopes on someone sexy, female and preferably still warm so that general drooling and licentiousness could take place. Would it be Shirley or Carys or even Crunchie? We needed someone to cater for all tastes, but Sandyballs was not letting on and so rumor was rife.
The ramble started at Lewes station for the usual headcount. Matt was in Ireland negotiating a big lavatory sale, The Admiral, who sometimes came, was winding down to retirement and trying to frighten everybody with rumors of his staying on. Paco (another occasional guest) had forgotten what day it was and The Bish was way out to sea in his Pea Green Boat stuffing his face. That left the usual gang of wastrels (see above), and so we set off towards the golf course.
Half way up Golf Course Hill we were all knackered so B.T. stopped us for a photo shoot. Froggy sat quietly (for once) with a dog lead round his neck while Lafayette tugged the other end and announced that Froggy was his new Bitch. (This to go already with his Quazi, his Catamite and all his other infernal pets, so it looked like being a bumper Christmas for Lafayette). Remember, a Quazi, a Bitch and a Catamite are not just for Christmas…….
We rolled over the hills in the bright sunshine, some of us wearing silly hats and some of us swigging from hipflasks. We went wrong a few times, but hey! look who was in charge, and did it really matter as Glynde, our final destination is always a pleasure to visit. Eventually we rolled into the Trevor Arms where Peter, the landlord (Why are most landlords called Peter?) wacked a load of pints on to the bar and started to boost his annual profits.
After about three pints the “Mystery Guest Contest” ground to a halt. No-one had come up with anything original and Sandyballs was smirking. The M.G., however, had still not arrived and the NERDS were getting hungrier and hungrier and threatening to gobble up all the Old Trouts who were hanging about and who seemed to be getting served way ahead of them. Even the old English skill of beer mat flipping had lost its appeal.
Suddenly there was a clatter of high heels, and a burst of perfume wafted through the door closely followed by Sandyballs’ first born, La Bella Katherina, who it must be said, was well up to M.G. standards and made us all feel suddenly very, very old. Kisses all round, lunch got under way and the NERDS were happy again. The food was excellent, and much wine was drunk. Sandyballs kept complaining at one stage that he couldn’t pour the wine out until Bronco pointed out that the bottle he was holding still had the top on it. La Bella Katherina recalled Nerdling Picnics many years previously when most of the Nerdlings were teeny weeny, and where B.T. got his face smashed in for tripping over Lafayette’s foot. Oh, happy days!
Somehow everybody ended up on Glynde station having their photo taken (again) and training it back to Lewes to the Lansdowne Arms. Here La Bella Katherina introduced her own Mystery Guest – a luscious piece called Helen who had heard that the NERDS were all sexy old men and wanted to get a piece of the action. She was made very welcome and filled up with drink; nobody could believe she had a 16yr old daughter but plans started to be laid for a Grand Nerdlings Picnic in the Summer when we sexy old men would invite all the young crumpet around to an orgy on the Downs. Ho, ho, ho…
Finally we decamped to The Royal Oak where only “Young People” are normally allowed to enter. However an exception was made for The Sexy Old Men because of their charming companions. There Sandyballs promptly fell asleep and had to be hauled home by his daughter.
So, thanks go to Sandyballs for getting us lost and allowing us to letch at La Bella Katherina. Thanks of course go to Kathryn and to Helen for being beautiful, and to all the Nerds for being ugly. B.T. is to be congratulated for producing such an inspired blog
( Newhaven Eating Rambling Drinking Society), Bronco for dishing out most of his watches during the year and Froggy for his fantastic, autobiographical book which inspired Lafayette to produce his own deathless prose.
Happy Christmas, All.
Lafayette.
Christmas Ramble 2008.
Those Present – Sandyballs, Lafayette, Froggy, B.T., Bronco, Mystery Guest and
Mystery Guest’s mate.
It was a Wednesday and Sandyballs claimed it was bound to be good weather – and so it was. The sky was blue, the sun was out and Santa’s little helpers (aka The NERDS ) had taken time off from filling everybody’s stocking to spend a day pissing it up and trying to guess who the Mystery Guest might be. Lafayette reckoned it was Trevor (again) but the odds on this were fairly long. Various other dead people were suggested but even though Christmas was a time of ghosties and ghoulies most of us were pinning our hopes on someone sexy, female and preferably still warm so that general drooling and licentiousness could take place. Would it be Shirley or Carys or even Crunchie? We needed someone to cater for all tastes, but Sandyballs was not letting on and so rumor was rife.
The ramble started at Lewes station for the usual headcount. Matt was in Ireland negotiating a big lavatory sale, The Admiral, who sometimes came, was winding down to retirement and trying to frighten everybody with rumors of his staying on. Paco (another occasional guest) had forgotten what day it was and The Bish was way out to sea in his Pea Green Boat stuffing his face. That left the usual gang of wastrels (see above), and so we set off towards the golf course.
Half way up Golf Course Hill we were all knackered so B.T. stopped us for a photo shoot. Froggy sat quietly (for once) with a dog lead round his neck while Lafayette tugged the other end and announced that Froggy was his new Bitch. (This to go already with his Quazi, his Catamite and all his other infernal pets, so it looked like being a bumper Christmas for Lafayette). Remember, a Quazi, a Bitch and a Catamite are not just for Christmas…….
We rolled over the hills in the bright sunshine, some of us wearing silly hats and some of us swigging from hipflasks. We went wrong a few times, but hey! look who was in charge, and did it really matter as Glynde, our final destination is always a pleasure to visit. Eventually we rolled into the Trevor Arms where Peter, the landlord (Why are most landlords called Peter?) wacked a load of pints on to the bar and started to boost his annual profits.
After about three pints the “Mystery Guest Contest” ground to a halt. No-one had come up with anything original and Sandyballs was smirking. The M.G., however, had still not arrived and the NERDS were getting hungrier and hungrier and threatening to gobble up all the Old Trouts who were hanging about and who seemed to be getting served way ahead of them. Even the old English skill of beer mat flipping had lost its appeal.
Suddenly there was a clatter of high heels, and a burst of perfume wafted through the door closely followed by Sandyballs’ first born, La Bella Katherina, who it must be said, was well up to M.G. standards and made us all feel suddenly very, very old. Kisses all round, lunch got under way and the NERDS were happy again. The food was excellent, and much wine was drunk. Sandyballs kept complaining at one stage that he couldn’t pour the wine out until Bronco pointed out that the bottle he was holding still had the top on it. La Bella Katherina recalled Nerdling Picnics many years previously when most of the Nerdlings were teeny weeny, and where B.T. got his face smashed in for tripping over Lafayette’s foot. Oh, happy days!
Somehow everybody ended up on Glynde station having their photo taken (again) and training it back to Lewes to the Lansdowne Arms. Here La Bella Katherina introduced her own Mystery Guest – a luscious piece called Helen who had heard that the NERDS were all sexy old men and wanted to get a piece of the action. She was made very welcome and filled up with drink; nobody could believe she had a 16yr old daughter but plans started to be laid for a Grand Nerdlings Picnic in the Summer when we sexy old men would invite all the young crumpet around to an orgy on the Downs. Ho, ho, ho…
Finally we decamped to The Royal Oak where only “Young People” are normally allowed to enter. However an exception was made for The Sexy Old Men because of their charming companions. There Sandyballs promptly fell asleep and had to be hauled home by his daughter.
So, thanks go to Sandyballs for getting us lost and allowing us to letch at La Bella Katherina. Thanks of course go to Kathryn and to Helen for being beautiful, and to all the Nerds for being ugly. B.T. is to be congratulated for producing such an inspired blog
( Newhaven Eating Rambling Drinking Society), Bronco for dishing out most of his watches during the year and Froggy for his fantastic, autobiographical book which inspired Lafayette to produce his own deathless prose.
Happy Christmas, All.
Lafayette.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
N.E.R.D.S. Ramble No. 228.
Wednesday 19th November 2008.
Those Present – Froggy, Bronco, B.T., Matt, Lafayette, Sandyballs.
The Wetherspoons Ramble.
Most of us met chez Lafayette because Lavender Lodge was on the way to Brighton and Lafayette always had a full drinks cabinet. The NERDS had been expecting an early cheapo Christmas dinner to be taken at the famous Wetherspoons hostelry in the Marina, but sadly Froggy had logged on to Asian/Czech Au pair Babes Wearing Not Many Clothes instead of Wetherspoons . com and got all the information wrong. Christmas lunch did not start until 15 00hrs because, being a philanthropic organization, Wsp was committed to spend the morning feeding the destitute from the Congo who had bamboozled their way in via some lax port, so - no early fodder for the NERDS!
Never mind we could always turn up and eat monkey meat and spiders like The Unfortunates did, so everybody filled up on choccy biscuits and Irish Whiskey chez Lafayette and whiled away the time with the usual gossip. Froggy was bemoaning the fact that there didn’t seem to be any hot chix on the train any more until it was pointed out that at this time of day they were probably all in school. Somebody was wondering if they had enough walnuts to stuff up their turkey, and Matt was musing on collecting those little jam jars you get in posh hotels so that he could bottle his cut-up pubic hair and send it to his friends for Christmas (beats one of those round robin letters any day).
Disgusted at all this levity, Sandy balls threw us out into the street and told us we were here to ramble not to be smutty (now there’s a first!). So we all promptly got on the nearest bus and travelled to Rottingdean.
Now Rottingdean is a nice place full of cultured posh people, including the ex Chief Inspector of Immigration who still gets through a bottle of scotch a day such was the strain of the job (must have worked at Newhaven). The NERDS wandered round trying to look tidy ( good job Philby wasn’t with us) and came across The Plough near a duck pond - handy to fall into when you came out, and decided to have an aperitif. Inside we drank Harveys and had a competition between Lafayette and Sandyballs as to who had been Mutt and who had been Jeff in Dublin. It turned out (according to Matt) that Sb had been Mutt because of his hearing deficiency, and Lf had been Jeff because he was the intelligent one. Too intelligent to spend his holiday in Cork, at any rate.
We emerged from the pub blinking into the bright sunshine and managed to sidestep the duck pond. The weather was cheerful and mild so we set off up a crazy hill to an old windmill where we found some old bugger slumped in a corner wrapped round a bottle of Bells and blethering on about hot cross buns and the good old days. No, it wasn’t Philby but it was what Philby could have become with a little application and getting in to work on time. Oh, the chances we miss when Fate throws them our way!
Nearby there was a memorial stone listing all the good, local worthies who had died at sea. Lafayette was disappointed not to get a mention, but Sandy balls pointed out that just getting pissed on the Chartres a few times and having one or two (well, one) dodgy crossing didn’t actually qualify to get your name up in lights.
Los NIERDOS wandered down the other side of the hill and through St. Dunstans from the lofty paths of which we had a pleasant view of the shimmering sea and where nobody took a blind bit of notice at our presence. We had to put our best foot forward now as Bronco would be tapping his fingers on the bar of Wetherspoons being concerned by our tardiness and by his own vast appetite. And so we arrived, but no Bronco! Apparently he had stopped off at no fewer than six cafes en route to have a breakfast in each just in case they ran out of food at lunch. When he arrived we all sat and boiled in the sun together.
It must be said that the scoff at Wetherspoons wasn’t bad and good value too. Lafayette particularly liked the crunchy spiders especially imported from Goma. Bronco’s ankle wasn’t any better but at least he didn’t have horrific gout like Sandyballs. B.T. said if his next deal with Sealink went through successfully we could all have our own yachts parked in the marina and ramble between them to save time pouring drinks. Froggy hoovered up the remains of Bronco’s chicken tikka and then cleared everybody else’s plate (Don’t you get fed at home ?) and Matt said Sandyballs looked divine in his blue denim shirt. In short, we were all very mellow and it looked like it had been a successful ramble and lunch.
After a brief zoom round Asda for a camera case for Matt, and a brief stay in MacDonalds for an icecream again for Matt, the ramble broke up. Lafayette elected to travel home (free) on the bus after having ascended the sheer cliff face, while Los Otros dragged Bronco into the centre of Brighton for all sorts of naughty goings-on, many of which will probably be revealed in the next write-up if Lafayette gets high on mescalin again.
Thanks be to all who took part and contributed. Remember, next month is the Christmas do so start collecting those little jam pots and walnuts now!
Lafayette.
Wednesday 19th November 2008.
Those Present – Froggy, Bronco, B.T., Matt, Lafayette, Sandyballs.
The Wetherspoons Ramble.
Most of us met chez Lafayette because Lavender Lodge was on the way to Brighton and Lafayette always had a full drinks cabinet. The NERDS had been expecting an early cheapo Christmas dinner to be taken at the famous Wetherspoons hostelry in the Marina, but sadly Froggy had logged on to Asian/Czech Au pair Babes Wearing Not Many Clothes instead of Wetherspoons . com and got all the information wrong. Christmas lunch did not start until 15 00hrs because, being a philanthropic organization, Wsp was committed to spend the morning feeding the destitute from the Congo who had bamboozled their way in via some lax port, so - no early fodder for the NERDS!
Never mind we could always turn up and eat monkey meat and spiders like The Unfortunates did, so everybody filled up on choccy biscuits and Irish Whiskey chez Lafayette and whiled away the time with the usual gossip. Froggy was bemoaning the fact that there didn’t seem to be any hot chix on the train any more until it was pointed out that at this time of day they were probably all in school. Somebody was wondering if they had enough walnuts to stuff up their turkey, and Matt was musing on collecting those little jam jars you get in posh hotels so that he could bottle his cut-up pubic hair and send it to his friends for Christmas (beats one of those round robin letters any day).
Disgusted at all this levity, Sandy balls threw us out into the street and told us we were here to ramble not to be smutty (now there’s a first!). So we all promptly got on the nearest bus and travelled to Rottingdean.
Now Rottingdean is a nice place full of cultured posh people, including the ex Chief Inspector of Immigration who still gets through a bottle of scotch a day such was the strain of the job (must have worked at Newhaven). The NERDS wandered round trying to look tidy ( good job Philby wasn’t with us) and came across The Plough near a duck pond - handy to fall into when you came out, and decided to have an aperitif. Inside we drank Harveys and had a competition between Lafayette and Sandyballs as to who had been Mutt and who had been Jeff in Dublin. It turned out (according to Matt) that Sb had been Mutt because of his hearing deficiency, and Lf had been Jeff because he was the intelligent one. Too intelligent to spend his holiday in Cork, at any rate.
We emerged from the pub blinking into the bright sunshine and managed to sidestep the duck pond. The weather was cheerful and mild so we set off up a crazy hill to an old windmill where we found some old bugger slumped in a corner wrapped round a bottle of Bells and blethering on about hot cross buns and the good old days. No, it wasn’t Philby but it was what Philby could have become with a little application and getting in to work on time. Oh, the chances we miss when Fate throws them our way!
Nearby there was a memorial stone listing all the good, local worthies who had died at sea. Lafayette was disappointed not to get a mention, but Sandy balls pointed out that just getting pissed on the Chartres a few times and having one or two (well, one) dodgy crossing didn’t actually qualify to get your name up in lights.
Los NIERDOS wandered down the other side of the hill and through St. Dunstans from the lofty paths of which we had a pleasant view of the shimmering sea and where nobody took a blind bit of notice at our presence. We had to put our best foot forward now as Bronco would be tapping his fingers on the bar of Wetherspoons being concerned by our tardiness and by his own vast appetite. And so we arrived, but no Bronco! Apparently he had stopped off at no fewer than six cafes en route to have a breakfast in each just in case they ran out of food at lunch. When he arrived we all sat and boiled in the sun together.
It must be said that the scoff at Wetherspoons wasn’t bad and good value too. Lafayette particularly liked the crunchy spiders especially imported from Goma. Bronco’s ankle wasn’t any better but at least he didn’t have horrific gout like Sandyballs. B.T. said if his next deal with Sealink went through successfully we could all have our own yachts parked in the marina and ramble between them to save time pouring drinks. Froggy hoovered up the remains of Bronco’s chicken tikka and then cleared everybody else’s plate (Don’t you get fed at home ?) and Matt said Sandyballs looked divine in his blue denim shirt. In short, we were all very mellow and it looked like it had been a successful ramble and lunch.
After a brief zoom round Asda for a camera case for Matt, and a brief stay in MacDonalds for an icecream again for Matt, the ramble broke up. Lafayette elected to travel home (free) on the bus after having ascended the sheer cliff face, while Los Otros dragged Bronco into the centre of Brighton for all sorts of naughty goings-on, many of which will probably be revealed in the next write-up if Lafayette gets high on mescalin again.
Thanks be to all who took part and contributed. Remember, next month is the Christmas do so start collecting those little jam pots and walnuts now!
Lafayette.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
NERDS Ramble No 227. Wednesday 12th November 2008.
Those Present – Lafayette, Froggy, Matt, B.T., Bronco, Sandyballs.
The Poorly Toe Ramble.
Sandyballs had a poorly toe. Not only was it poorly, it looked gross. All the NERDS practically threw up when he whipped off his sock and waved the vile, poxy object in their faces. Whispers of his having picked up syphilis in an overseas brothel abounded; people began to edge away from him nervously, dogs howled mournfully and a cloud passed over the sun. How could we ramble under these circumstances? Fortunately everything returned to normal once he had put his sock back on, except that Froggy was spotted with a lump of cotton wool in his ear. “ I’ve got a poorly ear,” he said, but by this time we weren’t in the mood for attention seeking trivialities and set off through Lewes in the hope that nobody’s leg would fall off. We were going to meet up with Bronco in Ringmer and thought we’d better get there quick before he died of overdrinking in the bar of The Anchor or worse, died of something unrelated to drink!
After the sun had reappeared it wasn’t a bad day. This was to be the first of two rambles in November because nothing had happened in October and the NERDS were by now getting thirsty. First of all we had to negotiate the golf course so we knackered ourselves by climbing up golf course hill at the edge of Lewes and appeared on some putting green or other where Froggy wanted to leave everybody’s balls alone (!).
The trouble with golf courses is that they get in the way of ramblers’ routes, there are lots of nasty quicksandy bits into which you can sink and they contain a lot of prats who think they can whack white balls at NERDS. Tolerance levels between the two factions is always fairly low, so when we were greeted with “ I say, you there, yes you with the gangrenous foot, would you mind awfully not making our nice green die by dragging your foot over it.” you start to plot a hideous revenge ( like coming back at night and
fire-bombing the place). However, Mr Poorly foot guided us off enemy territory and we tried to head towards Ringmer.
It was obvious that Sandyballs had failed to reconnoitre this walk since we kept going round in circles and getting disorientated (a bit). Mercifully the weather remained sunny and we negotiated fields of sheep and sheep-shit to cruise into Ringmer where the Posh
(Monied) People live and where they all drink in The Anchor.
Fortunately Bronco was still there and only half drunk. “ Christ! What’s that hideous smell of rotting flesh ?” were his first words to Sandy balls. “ Oh , just a little something I picked up in a bawdy house in Macau,” was the macho reply. “ Better have a drink, then, “ concluded the ever practical Bronco, and limped off to get the booze in . “ Still suffering from that old cavalry wound to your ankle then?” said Matt sympathetically when he returned with the drinks.”No, actually, some bloody whore tripped me up in a brothel in Macau,” replied Bronco. Sandyballs remained guiltily silent.
The food wasn’t bad here, and while we ate Froggy told us about his new literary project entitled “The Loneliness of The RearEnd Surfer” (Don’t ask), while B.T. told us the last time he had paid for sex (apart from with sailors in his first job) was in Africa 45 years previously (monkeys? anacondors? Wildebeest?). Lafayette said that the women in Islamabad used to clamour around his back door for sex waving 100 rupee notes in his direction, but nobody believed him such was his reputation for exaggeration.
Sandyballs thought we should be heading back to the Metropolis so we all got our bus passes out (except Froggy and B.T. ha ha!) and got on a bus with thousands of screaming schoolkids from the local school. Most of the NERDS felt quite comfortable sitting next to nubile nymphets upstairs and holding their satchels for them, while Sandyballs (because of his poorly toe) sat downstairs and made some new friends with the wrinklies.
Eventually we arrived at the John Harvey Tavern where peace reigned for a short while until nobody could work out how to “manage “ the final whip (not even Lafayette with all his life skills) and where we decided to honour Philby in January with a Dead Dog Layby Ramble – something to do with La Fete des Morts both dogs and NERDS. The idea was to sit in the layby and drink red wine and remember the dog, and then to proceed to Philby’s grave nearby to show a bit of respect for a defunct NERD.
And so the ramble fizzled out. Thanks to Sandyballs for organization etc. and for letting us see his manky toe, and thanks to B.T. for returning Lafayette’s notes which he had absentmindedly left in the pub. Next week we all descend on Wetherspoons in Brighton for a cheap Christmas meal thanks to Froggy’s vigilance in scouring the internet for … erm other subjects.
See you all chez moi next week for biscuits – Bring your hipflasks!
Lafayette.
Those Present – Lafayette, Froggy, Matt, B.T., Bronco, Sandyballs.
The Poorly Toe Ramble.
Sandyballs had a poorly toe. Not only was it poorly, it looked gross. All the NERDS practically threw up when he whipped off his sock and waved the vile, poxy object in their faces. Whispers of his having picked up syphilis in an overseas brothel abounded; people began to edge away from him nervously, dogs howled mournfully and a cloud passed over the sun. How could we ramble under these circumstances? Fortunately everything returned to normal once he had put his sock back on, except that Froggy was spotted with a lump of cotton wool in his ear. “ I’ve got a poorly ear,” he said, but by this time we weren’t in the mood for attention seeking trivialities and set off through Lewes in the hope that nobody’s leg would fall off. We were going to meet up with Bronco in Ringmer and thought we’d better get there quick before he died of overdrinking in the bar of The Anchor or worse, died of something unrelated to drink!
After the sun had reappeared it wasn’t a bad day. This was to be the first of two rambles in November because nothing had happened in October and the NERDS were by now getting thirsty. First of all we had to negotiate the golf course so we knackered ourselves by climbing up golf course hill at the edge of Lewes and appeared on some putting green or other where Froggy wanted to leave everybody’s balls alone (!).
The trouble with golf courses is that they get in the way of ramblers’ routes, there are lots of nasty quicksandy bits into which you can sink and they contain a lot of prats who think they can whack white balls at NERDS. Tolerance levels between the two factions is always fairly low, so when we were greeted with “ I say, you there, yes you with the gangrenous foot, would you mind awfully not making our nice green die by dragging your foot over it.” you start to plot a hideous revenge ( like coming back at night and
fire-bombing the place). However, Mr Poorly foot guided us off enemy territory and we tried to head towards Ringmer.
It was obvious that Sandyballs had failed to reconnoitre this walk since we kept going round in circles and getting disorientated (a bit). Mercifully the weather remained sunny and we negotiated fields of sheep and sheep-shit to cruise into Ringmer where the Posh
(Monied) People live and where they all drink in The Anchor.
Fortunately Bronco was still there and only half drunk. “ Christ! What’s that hideous smell of rotting flesh ?” were his first words to Sandy balls. “ Oh , just a little something I picked up in a bawdy house in Macau,” was the macho reply. “ Better have a drink, then, “ concluded the ever practical Bronco, and limped off to get the booze in . “ Still suffering from that old cavalry wound to your ankle then?” said Matt sympathetically when he returned with the drinks.”No, actually, some bloody whore tripped me up in a brothel in Macau,” replied Bronco. Sandyballs remained guiltily silent.
The food wasn’t bad here, and while we ate Froggy told us about his new literary project entitled “The Loneliness of The RearEnd Surfer” (Don’t ask), while B.T. told us the last time he had paid for sex (apart from with sailors in his first job) was in Africa 45 years previously (monkeys? anacondors? Wildebeest?). Lafayette said that the women in Islamabad used to clamour around his back door for sex waving 100 rupee notes in his direction, but nobody believed him such was his reputation for exaggeration.
Sandyballs thought we should be heading back to the Metropolis so we all got our bus passes out (except Froggy and B.T. ha ha!) and got on a bus with thousands of screaming schoolkids from the local school. Most of the NERDS felt quite comfortable sitting next to nubile nymphets upstairs and holding their satchels for them, while Sandyballs (because of his poorly toe) sat downstairs and made some new friends with the wrinklies.
Eventually we arrived at the John Harvey Tavern where peace reigned for a short while until nobody could work out how to “manage “ the final whip (not even Lafayette with all his life skills) and where we decided to honour Philby in January with a Dead Dog Layby Ramble – something to do with La Fete des Morts both dogs and NERDS. The idea was to sit in the layby and drink red wine and remember the dog, and then to proceed to Philby’s grave nearby to show a bit of respect for a defunct NERD.
And so the ramble fizzled out. Thanks to Sandyballs for organization etc. and for letting us see his manky toe, and thanks to B.T. for returning Lafayette’s notes which he had absentmindedly left in the pub. Next week we all descend on Wetherspoons in Brighton for a cheap Christmas meal thanks to Froggy’s vigilance in scouring the internet for … erm other subjects.
See you all chez moi next week for biscuits – Bring your hipflasks!
Lafayette.
Monday, October 06, 2008
The WASH-OUT RAMBLE
THE N.E.R.D.S. RAMBLE No.226 - The Wash-out Ramble.
Tuesday 30th September 2008.
Those Present - Matt, Froggy, B.T., Bronco, Sandyballs and Lafayette.
Remember “ The Darts in Lewes” ramble last month when bad weather prevented the NERDS from getting any form of wholesome exercise? Well this month was no better. Froggy had originally arranged for us to go around Arlington Reservoir and eat at Pete’s Pub (The Yew Tree) at Arlington, but Fate inflicted shitty weather on us and decided that we were going to spend all day drinking yet again.
It was rainy and windy and it was decided to meet at Seaford station. Dead easy you might think - buy a ticket, get on the train, don’t drink until you get off at the right stop (for obvious reasons) and then meet up together and plan what to do next.
Ho, ho, ho! Why is nothing simple? First off you’d got three lots of NERDS coming from three different directions, and to complicate matters a little bit five cows decided to walk across the railway line between Lewes and Newhaven and tried to commit suicide in a spectacularly train fucking-up way.
God, the utter chaos! The cows were on their mobile phones to each other trying to get off the track, some of the NERDS were on separate stationary buses dying of thirst, it was still pissing down with rain and clearly the ramble was out of the window. Luckily, by dint of snatching the phones off the cows and communicating with each other, we all met up in The Wellington to talk about our terrible experiences. Lafayette said he hadn’t come across such a mess since he’d tried to sail over to Dieppe one stormy day in 1990 - Did I ever tell you about that? And Froggy said he hadn’t been so depressed since his book had been rejected for publication for the twenty-ninth time ( Did he ever tell you about that?)
And so we drank and began to accuse each other of lots of nasty, vicious things . Matt said he’d seen Froggy hobknobbing with Nobby and how dare he when Nobby hadn’t bought Matt an icecream two years ago. Lafayette remarked that B.T. was getting a little worn as his catamite and he was thinking of getting a new one, this time from a girl’s school. B.T. threatened Lafayette with a costly divorce. Sandyballs said he’d recently gone to Lourdes on Philby’s advice to get his ear done, but he’d wasted all his money and was still deaf. Consequently he was thinking of deleting Philby’s number from the memory on his mobile…..
Lafayette, peeved at the thought of having to pay B.T. for not having sex with him, threatened to kill Bronco’s horse and roast him on a massive barbecue. The nice friendly atmospheres of previous rambles seemed to be being undermined.
Luckily, just then we transferred to The Plough and B.T. remembered it was Jewish New Year and got up to buy everyone a round of drinks. Good humour was restored all round; we ordered lunch and began to take bets on how big a steak Bronco was going to buy. We weren’t disappointed either as Bronco got himself an Elephant burger with extra chips and then wondered why he’d got tusks sticking up out of his sesame bun. Meanwhile Matt was fantasising about how sexy Sandyballs was looking in denim and how he reminded him of Paul Newman when he was shagging Robert Redford in that film about cowboys. (Brokeback Mountain, wasn’t it ?)
Just then Matt’s dreams were shattered when he counted up how many scampi he had been served. Only seven? How could this be? Needs a recount, GET THE MANAGER IMMEDIATELY, DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM? Some poor girly was despatched to pacify his rants - no avail, Matt was not satisfied with a rational explanation nor even a grovelling apology. In desperation the girly offered to show him her tits but Matt wanted to be the centre of attention and demanded a free dessert or else he would get really cross. We’d all seen this schizophrenic behaviour before when someone had got shit all over his newly hoovered carpet so hastened to advise the girly to bring him a giant sized strawberry pavlova with salad cream tout de suite.
Order was sort of restored. Froggy finished off Bronco’s crappy steak and ordered a froggy bag for his leftovers. He soothed Matt’s ruffled feathers by relating how he had met this big Nigerian on line who had promised to publish his second autobiography -”All Shagged Out at Thirty” as long as he paid him a small administration fee of $10,000 direct to Lagos.
Sandyballs suggested that Froggy might have more success if he went to Lourdes and threw his manuscript at a few statues of Our Lady. Time for a change of pub so we went back to The Welly.
A nice game of darts - good robust, physical exercise for all the NERDS, none of this namby pamby walking rubbish. B.T. had forgotten to bring his darts so had bought a posh brass set in the catamite shop (special offer to those who split little boys). So we played the usual game - Dinky Ports against Real Ports. Sandyballs and Froggy were good, devious even, maintaining that brass darts gave an unfair advantage against Froggy’s nickel tungsten jobs but B.T. got the high scores and Lafayette doubled out. Sandyballs threw his darts on the floor in a strop and wouldn’t play any more after having been beaten twice in a row. No miracles today then!
Thereafter everyone scowled at each other and buggered off home. We are going to have to pick a day with fine weather next time otherwise we might risk getting on each others’ nerves. Sandyballs reckons Wednesdays are OK but Lafayette does his shipwreck training on those days just in case he gets hit by a second tsunami while crossing the Channel. Matt can’t make Fridays because he‘s usually having a new lavatory installed then, and Bronco can’t make Saturdays because he’s usually up at Cartiers buying watches. What are we to do? I know, arrange two rambles for October and hope there won’t be any cows on the line next time.
Mille Baisers, Lafayette.
Tuesday 30th September 2008.
Those Present - Matt, Froggy, B.T., Bronco, Sandyballs and Lafayette.
Remember “ The Darts in Lewes” ramble last month when bad weather prevented the NERDS from getting any form of wholesome exercise? Well this month was no better. Froggy had originally arranged for us to go around Arlington Reservoir and eat at Pete’s Pub (The Yew Tree) at Arlington, but Fate inflicted shitty weather on us and decided that we were going to spend all day drinking yet again.
It was rainy and windy and it was decided to meet at Seaford station. Dead easy you might think - buy a ticket, get on the train, don’t drink until you get off at the right stop (for obvious reasons) and then meet up together and plan what to do next.
Ho, ho, ho! Why is nothing simple? First off you’d got three lots of NERDS coming from three different directions, and to complicate matters a little bit five cows decided to walk across the railway line between Lewes and Newhaven and tried to commit suicide in a spectacularly train fucking-up way.
God, the utter chaos! The cows were on their mobile phones to each other trying to get off the track, some of the NERDS were on separate stationary buses dying of thirst, it was still pissing down with rain and clearly the ramble was out of the window. Luckily, by dint of snatching the phones off the cows and communicating with each other, we all met up in The Wellington to talk about our terrible experiences. Lafayette said he hadn’t come across such a mess since he’d tried to sail over to Dieppe one stormy day in 1990 - Did I ever tell you about that? And Froggy said he hadn’t been so depressed since his book had been rejected for publication for the twenty-ninth time ( Did he ever tell you about that?)
And so we drank and began to accuse each other of lots of nasty, vicious things . Matt said he’d seen Froggy hobknobbing with Nobby and how dare he when Nobby hadn’t bought Matt an icecream two years ago. Lafayette remarked that B.T. was getting a little worn as his catamite and he was thinking of getting a new one, this time from a girl’s school. B.T. threatened Lafayette with a costly divorce. Sandyballs said he’d recently gone to Lourdes on Philby’s advice to get his ear done, but he’d wasted all his money and was still deaf. Consequently he was thinking of deleting Philby’s number from the memory on his mobile…..
Lafayette, peeved at the thought of having to pay B.T. for not having sex with him, threatened to kill Bronco’s horse and roast him on a massive barbecue. The nice friendly atmospheres of previous rambles seemed to be being undermined.
Luckily, just then we transferred to The Plough and B.T. remembered it was Jewish New Year and got up to buy everyone a round of drinks. Good humour was restored all round; we ordered lunch and began to take bets on how big a steak Bronco was going to buy. We weren’t disappointed either as Bronco got himself an Elephant burger with extra chips and then wondered why he’d got tusks sticking up out of his sesame bun. Meanwhile Matt was fantasising about how sexy Sandyballs was looking in denim and how he reminded him of Paul Newman when he was shagging Robert Redford in that film about cowboys. (Brokeback Mountain, wasn’t it ?)
Just then Matt’s dreams were shattered when he counted up how many scampi he had been served. Only seven? How could this be? Needs a recount, GET THE MANAGER IMMEDIATELY, DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM? Some poor girly was despatched to pacify his rants - no avail, Matt was not satisfied with a rational explanation nor even a grovelling apology. In desperation the girly offered to show him her tits but Matt wanted to be the centre of attention and demanded a free dessert or else he would get really cross. We’d all seen this schizophrenic behaviour before when someone had got shit all over his newly hoovered carpet so hastened to advise the girly to bring him a giant sized strawberry pavlova with salad cream tout de suite.
Order was sort of restored. Froggy finished off Bronco’s crappy steak and ordered a froggy bag for his leftovers. He soothed Matt’s ruffled feathers by relating how he had met this big Nigerian on line who had promised to publish his second autobiography -”All Shagged Out at Thirty” as long as he paid him a small administration fee of $10,000 direct to Lagos.
Sandyballs suggested that Froggy might have more success if he went to Lourdes and threw his manuscript at a few statues of Our Lady. Time for a change of pub so we went back to The Welly.
A nice game of darts - good robust, physical exercise for all the NERDS, none of this namby pamby walking rubbish. B.T. had forgotten to bring his darts so had bought a posh brass set in the catamite shop (special offer to those who split little boys). So we played the usual game - Dinky Ports against Real Ports. Sandyballs and Froggy were good, devious even, maintaining that brass darts gave an unfair advantage against Froggy’s nickel tungsten jobs but B.T. got the high scores and Lafayette doubled out. Sandyballs threw his darts on the floor in a strop and wouldn’t play any more after having been beaten twice in a row. No miracles today then!
Thereafter everyone scowled at each other and buggered off home. We are going to have to pick a day with fine weather next time otherwise we might risk getting on each others’ nerves. Sandyballs reckons Wednesdays are OK but Lafayette does his shipwreck training on those days just in case he gets hit by a second tsunami while crossing the Channel. Matt can’t make Fridays because he‘s usually having a new lavatory installed then, and Bronco can’t make Saturdays because he’s usually up at Cartiers buying watches. What are we to do? I know, arrange two rambles for October and hope there won’t be any cows on the line next time.
Mille Baisers, Lafayette.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
At Last the "Double" write-up
THE N.E.R.D.S. Rambles 226 & 227.
No.226 Thursday 31st July 2008.
Those present - Froggy, Bronco, Sandyballs, Matt, Lafayette
The Morpheus Ramble.
Those endowed with a Classical education, and who may have read Ovid, will know that the deity who presided over this month’s ramble is the god of
forgetfulness. Lafayette had lost his contemporaneous notes, alas, and so had to rely on his failing memory. What is more, when he ‘fessed up to this peccadillo he found that the rest of the Nerds had memories just as crap as his and so nobody really knows exactly what happened.
Although the she-devil alcohol may have warped our collective memories a bit, Sandyballs remembers taking us to Cooden Beach on the train. Shirley wasn’t there this time, more’s the pity, since she gets quite articulate when drink is thrust upon her, and she may well have been able to tell us what we got up to,
(or not, depending on what we may have done).
Most of us remember that the weather was dull and that we walked over a lot of fields arriving finally at The Star at Cooden Beach. The food and drink were very good involving a buffet lunch and four different sorts of meat. We walked back along the stony beach which made for difficult locomotion (Lafayette remembers remarking about this to Bronco) and we all had an icecream. Then we had a few drinks in the pouring rain in a pub near the station and came home.
So you see, a bloody boring ramble really, and one hardly worth writing about even if Lafayette’s notes had been discovered. If only Shirley had been there things might have been so different…
Now this next ramble on the other hand.
Publishers Note.
It is really sad when the one tasked in recording the annals looses his marbles. As you may see from the photographs there was another member of this group who actually ambled on this promenade and recorded the findings in celluloid. Perhaps of ghosts of ramblers past are f***ing up the “Ramrod”.
Ramble No. 227 - Thursday 4th Sept. 2008
Those Present - Lafayette, Sandyballs, B.T., Froggy, Bronco.
The Darts In Lewes Ramble.
Well we had hardly rubbed the sleep from our eyes when the telephones of the Nerds began to jingle off the walls. Outside the weather had decided not to shine on the righteous and the rain was falling in stair rods. ( Who writes this shit, anyway?) Sandyballs was concerned that the Nerds would all drown if he took us on his proposed route and Lafayette agreed. One fatality per year in the Nerds is more than enough, we didn’t want to commit mass suicide. So…. a bit of darts practice was mooted and the boys were all told to bring their weapons.
Froggy met Lafayette on the train. It could have been a fairly banal journey apart from the fact that they were squeezed in among about 1500 female teenage students all in very short skirts, casual decollete white blouses and all madly texting each other so that they did not see the slavering, lust ridden expressions on these Nerds’ faces, nor did they realise the awful effect they were having on the nether regions of these upright citizens. Imagine my surprise (as the saying goes) when all of a flash Froggy and Lafayette suddenly found themselves in Lewes as though time had accelerated and they had both been in Moslem heaven.
Anyway, enough of this porn. L. and F. met the others outside the station all except Bronco who was not answering his phone and seemed to be incommunicado. Finally he turned up wearing immaculate suede boots, a smart jacket and sporting a stylish umbrella to qualify for Best Dressed Nerd of the Year award. B.T. , our newly promoted Nerds photographer, had a field day recording this piece of sartorial elegance - especially the umbrella. Bronco said he didn’t want to get his suede boots wet and we all told him not to be such a fairy otherwise we’d go over to his house and confiscate his horse and eat him (the horse).
Sandyballs mooted a mini ramble around the ruined priory but luckily it started to rain at that instant so we had to turn about and head for the nearest drinking hole. This turned out to be the King’s Head which did not seem to be very open -even at gone half past eleven in the morning. There was a postman outside with what looked like a parcel to deliver, so we hung about thinking to dash inside once the door was opened , however, sadly, the postie decided he’d got the wrong address and moved on.
Fortunately The Swan at Southover was open so we all piled into the well proportioned games room and got stuck into throwing darts at each other.
The more we drank, the better we played. Lafayette and B.T. (The Real Ports) against Froggy and Sandyballs (The Dinky Ports). The results see-sawed back and forth with The Real Ports winning most of the games where some mental agility was called for (like adding up a score and taking it away from what you got last time), and The Dinky Ports who managed one good shot to win at cricket. Meanwhile Bronco was in dispute with the very helpful barman over the lack of black rats in his cider, but the barman said they didn’t make the cider out of black rats any more because folks were getting peed off with the results.
Since The Swan had a suspect kitchen (too many rats) we decided to proceed to The Brewers for lunch where Sandyballs had family connections. This became
very obvious when the landlady, Cathy, upon seeing Sandyballs come crashing over the doorstep, went and brought out her love-child, Elena, held her up in his face and said “You’re late with this month’s maintenance again !” Sandyballs told her to chalk it up on his account once again since he had the promise of a lucrative short posting to Brussels due to the sad demise of the previous incumbent and where you got free red wine and were paid in euros.
We had an excellent lunch in the Brewers - Froggy was so taken with the food that he even had a second meal while he pondered the compelling question of
“ What exactly is a Quasamite?” and where once again the Proper Ports trounced the Dinky Ports at darts. On the way out we saw Cathy’s Dad, Jasper, sat on the steps outside the back door. He collared Sandyballs and said “ You see moy daughter all roit and I ’ll put you forward for a position in the masons, but spurn ’er and I’ll put the word round an’ yorl never get another point uv Harveys in Lewes agin.” Sandyballs thought a rapid escape abroad again might be to his advantage.
But first it was decided to visit an old friend of Sandyballs in the Crown Hotel down the road. Yes, the Ugly Barmaid was still there, and even uglier if that was possible. Froggy thought he had found the answer to his compelling question at last - a Quasamite is whatever turns you on - until Lafayette gently reminded him of all the untapped nymphet crumpet that was due to come out of the Tertiary College in the next few hours.
And so we rolled down to the John Harvey where Bronco suddenly realised he’d left the whip back at the Crown. Oh no! The Ugly Barmaid was probably spending it on a costly face-lift to lure yet more innocent young men in to her exotic boudoir where she would fill them full of drink and do wicked, horrible things to them. Apart from wanting to rid themselves of this vile vision, the Nerds wanted another drink so Bronco and Froggy were despatched to rescue our money and to save the Lewes youth from certain perdition. Luckily the wip was still intact and the day was saved.
This had certainly been a “ramble” with a difference. Just the right amount of walking and we had renewed aquaintance with a number of interesting characters. Well, you can’t do a lot outdoors when it’s pissing down with rain, can you? Lets hope the weather is kinder for our second ramble at the end of September.
Los Nierdos para siempre!
Lafayette.
No.226 Thursday 31st July 2008.
Those present - Froggy, Bronco, Sandyballs, Matt, Lafayette
The Morpheus Ramble.
Those endowed with a Classical education, and who may have read Ovid, will know that the deity who presided over this month’s ramble is the god of
forgetfulness. Lafayette had lost his contemporaneous notes, alas, and so had to rely on his failing memory. What is more, when he ‘fessed up to this peccadillo he found that the rest of the Nerds had memories just as crap as his and so nobody really knows exactly what happened.
Although the she-devil alcohol may have warped our collective memories a bit, Sandyballs remembers taking us to Cooden Beach on the train. Shirley wasn’t there this time, more’s the pity, since she gets quite articulate when drink is thrust upon her, and she may well have been able to tell us what we got up to,
(or not, depending on what we may have done).
Most of us remember that the weather was dull and that we walked over a lot of fields arriving finally at The Star at Cooden Beach. The food and drink were very good involving a buffet lunch and four different sorts of meat. We walked back along the stony beach which made for difficult locomotion (Lafayette remembers remarking about this to Bronco) and we all had an icecream. Then we had a few drinks in the pouring rain in a pub near the station and came home.
So you see, a bloody boring ramble really, and one hardly worth writing about even if Lafayette’s notes had been discovered. If only Shirley had been there things might have been so different…
Now this next ramble on the other hand.
Publishers Note.
It is really sad when the one tasked in recording the annals looses his marbles. As you may see from the photographs there was another member of this group who actually ambled on this promenade and recorded the findings in celluloid. Perhaps of ghosts of ramblers past are f***ing up the “Ramrod”.
Ramble No. 227 - Thursday 4th Sept. 2008
Those Present - Lafayette, Sandyballs, B.T., Froggy, Bronco.
The Darts In Lewes Ramble.
Well we had hardly rubbed the sleep from our eyes when the telephones of the Nerds began to jingle off the walls. Outside the weather had decided not to shine on the righteous and the rain was falling in stair rods. ( Who writes this shit, anyway?) Sandyballs was concerned that the Nerds would all drown if he took us on his proposed route and Lafayette agreed. One fatality per year in the Nerds is more than enough, we didn’t want to commit mass suicide. So…. a bit of darts practice was mooted and the boys were all told to bring their weapons.
Froggy met Lafayette on the train. It could have been a fairly banal journey apart from the fact that they were squeezed in among about 1500 female teenage students all in very short skirts, casual decollete white blouses and all madly texting each other so that they did not see the slavering, lust ridden expressions on these Nerds’ faces, nor did they realise the awful effect they were having on the nether regions of these upright citizens. Imagine my surprise (as the saying goes) when all of a flash Froggy and Lafayette suddenly found themselves in Lewes as though time had accelerated and they had both been in Moslem heaven.
Anyway, enough of this porn. L. and F. met the others outside the station all except Bronco who was not answering his phone and seemed to be incommunicado. Finally he turned up wearing immaculate suede boots, a smart jacket and sporting a stylish umbrella to qualify for Best Dressed Nerd of the Year award. B.T. , our newly promoted Nerds photographer, had a field day recording this piece of sartorial elegance - especially the umbrella. Bronco said he didn’t want to get his suede boots wet and we all told him not to be such a fairy otherwise we’d go over to his house and confiscate his horse and eat him (the horse).
Sandyballs mooted a mini ramble around the ruined priory but luckily it started to rain at that instant so we had to turn about and head for the nearest drinking hole. This turned out to be the King’s Head which did not seem to be very open -even at gone half past eleven in the morning. There was a postman outside with what looked like a parcel to deliver, so we hung about thinking to dash inside once the door was opened , however, sadly, the postie decided he’d got the wrong address and moved on.
Fortunately The Swan at Southover was open so we all piled into the well proportioned games room and got stuck into throwing darts at each other.
The more we drank, the better we played. Lafayette and B.T. (The Real Ports) against Froggy and Sandyballs (The Dinky Ports). The results see-sawed back and forth with The Real Ports winning most of the games where some mental agility was called for (like adding up a score and taking it away from what you got last time), and The Dinky Ports who managed one good shot to win at cricket. Meanwhile Bronco was in dispute with the very helpful barman over the lack of black rats in his cider, but the barman said they didn’t make the cider out of black rats any more because folks were getting peed off with the results.
Since The Swan had a suspect kitchen (too many rats) we decided to proceed to The Brewers for lunch where Sandyballs had family connections. This became
very obvious when the landlady, Cathy, upon seeing Sandyballs come crashing over the doorstep, went and brought out her love-child, Elena, held her up in his face and said “You’re late with this month’s maintenance again !” Sandyballs told her to chalk it up on his account once again since he had the promise of a lucrative short posting to Brussels due to the sad demise of the previous incumbent and where you got free red wine and were paid in euros.
We had an excellent lunch in the Brewers - Froggy was so taken with the food that he even had a second meal while he pondered the compelling question of
“ What exactly is a Quasamite?” and where once again the Proper Ports trounced the Dinky Ports at darts. On the way out we saw Cathy’s Dad, Jasper, sat on the steps outside the back door. He collared Sandyballs and said “ You see moy daughter all roit and I ’ll put you forward for a position in the masons, but spurn ’er and I’ll put the word round an’ yorl never get another point uv Harveys in Lewes agin.” Sandyballs thought a rapid escape abroad again might be to his advantage.
But first it was decided to visit an old friend of Sandyballs in the Crown Hotel down the road. Yes, the Ugly Barmaid was still there, and even uglier if that was possible. Froggy thought he had found the answer to his compelling question at last - a Quasamite is whatever turns you on - until Lafayette gently reminded him of all the untapped nymphet crumpet that was due to come out of the Tertiary College in the next few hours.
And so we rolled down to the John Harvey where Bronco suddenly realised he’d left the whip back at the Crown. Oh no! The Ugly Barmaid was probably spending it on a costly face-lift to lure yet more innocent young men in to her exotic boudoir where she would fill them full of drink and do wicked, horrible things to them. Apart from wanting to rid themselves of this vile vision, the Nerds wanted another drink so Bronco and Froggy were despatched to rescue our money and to save the Lewes youth from certain perdition. Luckily the wip was still intact and the day was saved.
This had certainly been a “ramble” with a difference. Just the right amount of walking and we had renewed aquaintance with a number of interesting characters. Well, you can’t do a lot outdoors when it’s pissing down with rain, can you? Lets hope the weather is kinder for our second ramble at the end of September.
Los Nierdos para siempre!
Lafayette.
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