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.

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!!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Outside "The Welly"

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.