While waiting in the queue at the checkout in the Windsor branch of Poundland, it occurred to one that the lieges might appreciate an alternative to Noddy and Roy as the soundtrack to their festive extravagances.While one’s own preference is naturally for hard core hip-hop, the following may be more to the taste of the lower orders.
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen ( and Tipsy Ladies !)
I just thought that I should post something in case you started to believe that I had died,and began pestering my wife for my “gear”
In fact, I’ve been rather busy what with some unexpected pearlcasting, supervising the builders ( you’d think that they had never had to build a simple mausoleum in a suburban back garden before !), and enjoying a little sunshine. None of which has occasioned a visit from the muse.
Anyway. Where was I again ?
Ah yes – Awards.
It’s been a bad 12 months for me, I’m afraid. Missed out again on Rear of the Year despite a shed load of testimonials, including some from readers of this blog, averring that I am a complete arsehole. And then, only the other week, the disappointment of the Bad Sex Awards where I was shortlisted (sic) for The Lifetime Achievement award but lost out to a panda.
However.
Point is.
I heard a wee whisper that The New Year List will finally contain Sir Slowhand. Apparently his rather odd political views have been held against him in the past and it may seem a bit of a comedown for someone who was deified in 1964, but – Elton John, Tom Jones come on !
Yup.
But, whereas last week this was the pinnacle of my achievement , yesterday it was a mere staging post on the way to greater things.
The official excuse was the overdue completion of my Autumn path inspections. But, in truth, no excuse was needed to venture out on such a fine crisp-cold sunny day.
I may see dozens more like it. Or it may be my last. And exactly the same ( in a non-mathematical/statistical sense of the word) could be said by the miserable eyes-down buggers who failed to acknowledge my “Fine day” greetings. Arseholes.
The backside of Dumyat
Where the Ochils kind of meld into Sheriffmuir
The old farm of Jerrah. The earliest farming, arable as well as livestock, took place up here on the plateau, as the fertile river valley was still a swamp
Well, you didn’t think I walked, did you ?
Turning the corner to head South down Menstrie Glen, the smell of yeast became apparent in the still, cold air.The Diageo complex in the middle of the pic processes yeast for many of the company’s distilleries.
Probably about 7 miles and 1000 ft ascent, but who’s countin’.
It’s 50 years since Aldous Huxley died. I seem to remember Don Van Vliet telling of having sold a vacuum cleaner to Huxley while working as a door-to-door salesman. This may have taken place in reality.
Or it may have just have been part of one of the Captain’s trips.
Or one of Huxley’s
Or one of mine.
..is, of course the motto of The National Union of Laundry Workers and Allied Trades. Feeling no ill effects from Thursday’s little adventure, and mindful of the fact that the right-wing press (is there any other kind?) were predicting Snowmageddon next week (they must have been reading God’s e-mails), I decided to undertake a bit of overdue Autumn path inspection. I’ve managed the local woods stuff easily enough, and, not feeling quite ready for the “big one” up to Lossburn, I did the Logie Kirk to Menstrie one along the foot of the escarpment.
Nothing really to report. It was a fine day, but with a snell wind.
More guitar burning music !
For the past few weeks I have been a trifle unwell, a condition usually associated with children's birthday parties.
Now, lesser men might have allowed this set-back to turn them bitter, seeing the hard won progress of the last couple of years apparently dissipated in a matter of days. But not me. No, sirree Bob.
Bastard
Sorry. Where was I ? Ah right. I’ve been getting about on the level, but anything remotely “uphill”has been more problematic. However, it being a stoatin’ good day, I resolved to head for the hills. That is, in the “mole” sense of the word.
It started off innocuously enough
then up
More up
and again
Round about this point vertigo set in
Even more bloody up
I haven’t been this high since , dunno….. Isle of Wight 1969 ?
False summit
The final approach
“Aw naw. It’s that feckin reservoir again, He’s always going up there”
Yes ? And so.. ?
I see this blog as a haven of cosy familiarity, acting as an antidote to the locational exoticism of, say, the Phreerunner blog. Anyway, I use these local walks to calibrate my fitness. One hour and ten minutes is the par time from my back door to sitting-on-the-dam-wall-eating-a-banana. Today – hour thirty.Room for improvement.
I completed the usual squelchy circumnavigation and trotted off home.
The GPS app (? !) on my portable telephone said 5.31 miles in just under 3 hours at an average speed of 1.78 mph and total ascent of 3609 feet. Quite satisfactory in the circums……….woah there. Haud the bus. 3609 ft ??? In my dreams.
Having consulted one of Her Majesty’s Ordnance Survey maps (non-electronic) I can confirm that the distance is about right, but the height gained was nearer 600 ft. How do these things measure altitude anyway?
You’ve been a lovely audience, and I’d like to finish,if I may, with a little ditty that has been going through my head as I write this.
I expect most of my demographic will be away in Germany competing in the World Beard and Moustache Championships.
It’s been a quiet few weeks here at Loch Woebegon.
I suppose quiet is better than silent
Perhaps.
The Man finally arrived
Due to overwhelming demand, a fifth night has had to be added to the dates at Glasgow’s newest venue, The Hydro.
This demonstrates two things.
Firstly, as I have often pointed out, Jeremy Clarkson is an absolute cult.
And, secondly, that the predictive text function on Blogger is a bit unreliable.
