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Note: this seems to offend some.  Result!

• • 

    Paul WoodfordWondering why you posted that link. Was the fake photo the whole point?

    3 hours ago · Like

Updating the betting odds at the end of January 2012, we find a thinner pack at the top level but interesting things happening at the Republican Vice-Presidential table (although the fact that gamblers think Hilary Clinton, who isn’t even running, has a better shot than most Republicans is telling):

Election winner
Selection	Odds
Barack Obama	4:6
Mitt Romney	13:8
Newt Gingrich	14:1
Ron Paul	33:1
Hillary Clinton	50:1
Rick Santorum	66:1
Mitch Daniels	100:1
Donald Trump	100:1
Jeb Bush	200:1
Paul Ryan	200:1
Chris Christie	200:1
Republican Nominee
Selection	Odds
Mitt Romney	1:8
Newt Gingrich	6:1
Ron Paul	25:1
Rick Santorum	50:1
Mitch Daniels	66:1
Jeb Bush	100:1
Paul Ryan	100:1
Chris Christie	100:1
Winning Party
Selection	Odds
Democrats	13:20
Republicans	5:4
Independent	50:1
Republican Vice Presidential Nominee
Will be settled on nominee at 2012 Republican National Convention. Others on request.
Selection	Odds
Marco Rubio	5:2
Chris Christie	5:1
Susana Martinez	10:1
Paul Ryan	12:1
Bob McDonnell	14:1
Tim Pawlenty	16:1
Hayley Barbour	16:1
Newt Gingrich	16:1
Rick Santorum	16:1
Mitt Romney	20:1
Nikki Haley	20:1
Kelly Ayote	20:1
Jon Thune	20:1
Jim DeMint	20:1
Mitch Daniels	25:1
Rob Portman	25:1
Brian Sandoval	25:1
Bobby Jindal	25:1
Condoleeza Rice	25:1
Jon Huntsman	25:1
Rick Perry	33:1
Rick Snyder	33:1
Herman Cain	33:1
Colin Powell	33:1
Meg Whitman	33:1
Lindsey Graham	33:1
Ron Paul	40:1
Sarah Palin	50:1
Michele Bachmann	50:1
Mike Huckabee	50:1
David Petraeus	50:1
Allen West	50:1
Scott Brown	50:1
Kay Bailey Hutchison	50:1
Rand Paul	50:1
Scott Walker	50:1
John McCain	66:1
Donald Trump	100:1
Glenn Beck	200:1
Florida Republican Primary
Selection	Odds
Mitt Romney	1:25
Newt Gingrich	8:1
Rick Santorum	100:1
Ron Paul	100:1

odds from Ladbrokes.

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Heading back through Wroughton from the Fox and Hounds, the White Hart presented itself on the right.  I had only seen it in the dark from a bus and hadn’t realised what an attractive, old building it is.

Inside it was hopping, with a couple of dozen folks spread out around the lounge and at the bar.  There was another room adjacent to the bar with a skittles court and I used it to change into my dry shirt.  The staff (a lot of them here) were especially friendly and I would think this is down to the likewise friendly landlord and landlady.

I had a Wadworth Boundary which had a funky aftertaste, sort of like pencil sharpener shavings.  I assume this is what it actually tastes like but it is hard to be certain.  I’ll definitely try something different next time (four others on the pumps).

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Finished resealing the shower and reckoned I deserved a beer, but also still needed to get a Sunday run in.  I had not been outside since morning and thought it would have warmed a bit but it was still foggy and cold at 3 pm so to force a little internal heat I headed toward the hill into Old Town and continued back down into and through Wroughton stopping at the Fox and Hounds just as the hill started up toward Avebury.

I heard a lively crowd inside as I reached for the door handle, but the place went silent as I strode in.  This was especially odd with 30 or so folks milling around the length and breadth of this large old pub, but the bar had the Arkell’s Czech-style Pilsner on tap so I was happy.  I took it over to a table by a window and everyone started talking again.

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More like David Mitchell than Churchill, I think

The run progressed from the Woodshaw, around the town centre, and back down the Swindon road toward my bus stop, a net 3.4 miles but with the stop at the Churchill only 3 uninterrupted miles.

It is a big roadway eatery and looks like they offer pretty standard fare.  There is a five quid special before five pm which is advertised on boards outside and which the old couple near me commented on to the exclusion of all other topics, like “oh, it was £11.40 they charged for the food and bevvies;” “£11.40 for the food and bevvies, I don’t know how they do it;” “yes, it was five for yours and the half and five more for mine.  Then there was my half;” “ooh, that was never £11.40;” “yes, £11.40.  Because it was five for mine, and…” and on and on for 10 minutes.

I dropped my glass at the bar and asked where the gents was, and the barkeep said, “just between those two pillars there, m’love.” I didn’t see the door beyond and commented I didn’t think that would be especially sanitary.  Walking back I heard the conversation had moved on to “yes, I think they forgot to charge for one of our halves; it was five for yours,” etc.

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I need structure when preparing for a marathon or an ultra, even something like the London Marathon which will probably require walking the first mile or so due to the crowd and, as a result, I will not really take too seriously (stopping a few pubs, run a couple of miles backwards, etc).  I’m following Hal Higdon’s Intermediate 1 schedule for marathons to dictate minimum distances although most of my long runs exceed the prescribed ones and I only do speed work once a month or so.  Anyway, I didn’t get out Thursday due to some visitors at the lab so that 3 mile minimum got pushed to Friday and I surveyed a hilly loop in RWB that roughly would bookend with two pubs.

To start, I hopped off the bus a stop too early and got a little quarter-mile warm up jog to the Woodshaw, which I would guess is a lot older than the estate built up around it.  It is an Arkell’s house and they had the Czech-style Pilsner which has to be my favourite yellow beer in this county if not countrywide.  There were two customers and the barkeeper taking the piss out of each other; one customer was a dead ringer (attitude, looks and voice) for Ricky Tomlinson.  I could have lingered all evening in this place but Hal is a slavedriver.

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Burn’s Day: everyone has haggis, neeps and tatties.  Wetherspoon’s runs a special so you can get either a Talisker single malt (and a hip flask) or a pint of Caledonian with it, but I got both AND a 1/2 pint of Carling.  Happy Birthday Robbie! (Big lunch with a bunch of hashers, then off to Swindon to do some bits and bobs round the garden before an annual inspection).

I have made better haggis, but I usually skimp on the drinks…thanks Wetherspoons!

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My 2nd day of work at Cambridge everyone took tea late in the afternoon and watched Obama’s inauguration ceremony.  He’s been a bit disappointing, overall.

Now it is another election year and it is time to air out my Kucinich for President gear, again, and start putting out my crude (and crudely rendered) political posters…like this one:

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You go into these prefabricated places expecting (and rarely disappointed in that expectation) to find prefabricated people.  Such was Rudi’s, so I assumed that this airport bar-esque joint would be populated by folks that at least would understand the airport bar etiquette wherein dude-that-goes-off-by-self isn’t looking to make friends with anyone but his beer.  But, nooooooooooooooo….

I set the camera up to shoot the obligatory 100/100 shot (number 75) and was checking out the shitty results with some glee when this Scotsman comes up and asks if I want him to take a photo for me.

“No, I got it, thanks.” Thinking that would be the end of it.
“But, you were just setting it up on the table and…” but I cut him off with a wave of the hand.
“They’re better when they’re bad.”
“But,” he started.

“I said this suits my purpose, for fuck sake.” But this didn’t put him off either; folks are friendlier the further north you go but I think that just makes them let their retards out unsupervised.

“Oh. Hey! Where are you from? I can detect an accent. Are you Canadian?”
“Yeah, okay, we’ll go with that,” I said while pounding down 2/3 of the pint I had originally hoped to linger over.
“Oh, where then?”
“Look, pal, I’m from Atlanta,” then I burped, stood, and turned my chair completely away from him. Another table full of Americans (where are all these fucking foreigners coming from, anyway?) seemed either amused or nervous but at least they shut up.

“Oh, Georgia, huh?” I turned and had to laugh at this giant, grinning moron. “I changed planes at the airport there once.”
“That’s the place to do it.”

Returning my blessedly empty glass to the barmaid, I said thanks and that it had been a pleasure.

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From the Three Crowns, I rolled downhill toward the rail then generally east but drifting north due to mismarked trails, finally reaching a roadway that would take me back to Royal Wootton Bassett for the bus home.  Another steep climb brought me onto the High Street (although I’m not too sure if that is what it is called) and a check of the schedule showed I had 20 minutes before the bus would arrive.  Plenty of time to hit the Angel and change into my dry shirt.

The Angel is an old inn and a welcoming fire was in the large fireplace near the bar.  There were ales but I really fancied a lager this time and got yet another Carling then travelled the plank floors until I found a semi-private area beyond the stairs so I could strip down and re-dress.  Another friendly crowd, here, I got one to snap a photo for the 100/100 challenge and listened to some incomprehensible local football chatter before gulping down the last drop and dashing out to the stop.

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My run from Lyneham took some steep hills and at one point I plunged knee-deep into the cesspit of a large dairy…something the cat loved me for upon my eventual return home.  I passed through the hamlet of Sodom without finding a sign that it was indeed where I was; no pillars of salt, no street signs (which are probably great souvenirs).  Finally, having struggled with missing and damaged trail markers which forced reliance on the OS map and a compass I found my way up the steep climb to the ridge where lies Brinkworth and the Three Crowns.

It was cold and windy out but inside it was too hot and humid…fine if you drive to these places as did the 100 or so folks crammed into the house, but after nearly 7 miles of uneven fields with shoes full of cowshite I really couldn’t take the environment and so took my Weighbridge Ant Sally out to the garden to cool off a bit.  It was served a bit warm, close to 20°C, but it had a depth of flavour–chocolate, nuts, malt–that excused this sin.

Toward the end of the beer I started to get a bit chilled and went in to stink up the place a little.  ”You must be lost,” one old codger said and when I looked confused he added, “because you’ve got a map out.”  I smiled and told him that I know exactly where I am, I just don’t really know where I am going next.  This response (or the fact that it came from a bloody foreigner) apparently caused offence and he and the three in his crowd turned away and maintained their silence while I finished up and headed out again.

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As if I was revisiting Atlanta in the 70′s, I had planned to run through Sodom (although this time it is the wee Wiltshire hamlet to the north of Lyneham).  The bus dropped me almost in the front door of the White Hart, however, and it would have been rude to pass by without a stop.

It is an old house and you enter with the short bar directly in front of you.  There is an unkempt but welcoming garden to the back and the customers and staff seem especially friendly.  I didn’t chat much, and I feel a bit uncomfortable in towns facing potential as this one is–the closure of RAF Lyneham and the downsizing of the military in general is likely to hit the municipality hard.  Still, for an early Sunday afternoon in the bleak midwinter they were doing a lively trade.

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The Blue Boar is what I think of as Abingdon in microcosm…which in turn reminds me a lot of Boston, Massachusetts.  Everywhere you look in the town centre are 17th and 18th century buildings on serpentine streets made for much narrower (and much less) traffic;  the Blue Boar is one of these buildings on one of these streets.  When you get into town there are the trappings of modernity (there’s a Science Park, etc) but you still get the distinct notion that you should reset your watch to match their time–sometime in the mid-1970′s.  This is a good thing.

Irony. They should use a marker to make it say "Not Violent Drunks, but the rest of you lot are okay."

In the Boar, the music was 70′s album only rock but not the kind most AOR stations play.  In fact, I heard interesting cuts by Tom Petty, Harry Chapin (who is usually horrible), and Average White Band that I’m sure NEVER got any play on stations in the States.

The innuendo-marinated landlady had just been describing some chocolate treat as “screaming at me, ‘Eat Me! Eat Me!’” with a bit of animation.  When I stopped to ask for directions to Radley rail station, one of the customers piped up that I would need to catch a bus; “no, really, I’ve run it before…it’s barely three miles but I always get lost in town.”  Landlady dropped her gaze and, on returning it from its tour, said, “oh yes, we can see you are quite fit.”

I’m telling you.  Boston.  This is just like Boston.

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The run into Abingdon took longer than planned (old and slow) but I was greeted by the Black Swan.  Warmly greeted, in fact, as some loud drunk sitting on the floor near the pool table in the adjacent room was mouthing off about how Americans have bloody well fucked everything up.  I couldn’t agree more, but decided to yield the, erm, floor to him.

There was a good crowd in there (as many as 20) each keeping to themselves and drinking silently (with our sage philosopher the only exception).

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The third anniversary passed yesterday.  The last year was difficult, starting as it did with me in the hospital with multiple fractured ribs and vertebra, torn ligaments (from which I am still recovering) and a hose sticking out of my chest to reinflate the left lung.  Good times.

We had new neighbours that were a joy, and I eased back into running.  This update, though, shall focus on the business at hand: pub visits.

I hit 280 new pubs in the last 12 months, bringing the overall total to 810.

Pubs by County

Wiltshire 147 last year (147 all three years)
Oxfordshire 91 (276)
London 12 ( 41)
Gloucestershire 8 ( 11)
Glamorgen 6 ( 6)
Somerset 6 ( 6)
Hertfordshire 5 ( 9)
Cambridgeshire 4 (221)
Merseyside 1 ( 1)

Buckinghamshire 0 ( 24)
Suffolk 0 ( 19)
Essex 0 ( 11)
Bedfordshire 0 ( 6)
Cornwall 0 ( 6)
Northamptonshire 0 ( 5)
Kent 0 ( 4)
Norfolk 0 ( 4)
Caernarfon 0 ( 3)
Lincolnshire 0 ( 2)
Shropshire 0 ( 2)
Clwyd 0 ( 1)
Gwynedd 0 ( 1)
Hampshire 0 ( 1)
North Yorkshire 0 ( 1)
Warwickshire 0 ( 1)
Worcestershire 0 ( 1)

Most by name last year:  The Wheatsheaf (6 occurrences), followed closely by the Plough and the Prince of Wales (5 each).

Most by name all three years: The Red Lion

Three near the house not to miss: The Southbrook Inn, The Gluepot, The Roaring Donkey (others as well, but Swindon is blessed).

Now, on to 1000.

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At Gloucester Green adjacent to the bus station there is the Old School, more an overpriced Chinese restaurant than pub but worth a visit to explore the architecture (don’t worry about disturbing the diners, there’s never anyone in there).

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I finished the run with about a one mile dash from the Marsh Farm Hotel just in time to see the 55 bus back to Swindon leaving, and so I had an extra 20 minutes to wait.  This was cool as I had never been in the Cross Keys before and looked forward to it.  It is a really nice and very old hotel, and the pub is broken into a front and back bar plus some recreation areas.  There are several ales available and the food board looks marvelous (I was very close to ordering a Stilton and mushroom panini when I realised it was time to go back out to the bus).  Friendly house, too.

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The receptionist asked, “how did you get so hot?”

“God made me this way, but thank you.”

“No,” she corrected, “it is bloody freezing out.”

“Ooooohhhhh, that.  Running, mostly lost, out from Swindon.”

A few miles from the Bolingbroke I spotted a second country inn that might have a better attitude.  Indeed, the Marsh Farm made me feel quite welcome and I returned the favour by standing aside in the lobby so the smartly dressed members of the large wedding party could get by without being soiled by the sweat and farm waste covered clothing I was in.

The bar was small but very nice and there is a big and quite posh restaurant on the premises.  And, everyone is as nice as can be.

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While not outright rude, the staff made it clear that the sweaty runner coming in 10 minutes prior to posted closing time was unwelcome.  I almost had to beg for my pint of 3B and the proprietor stood there while I drained the glass.  I get the feeling that the place is very nice inside, but I don’t see any reason to bother returning to find out for certain.

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Pubs were closing rapidly in Jericho this time last year but the Bookbinders is back in business and the Radcliffe Arms is now the Rickety Press.  There was nothing wrong with the Rad, but the Rickety Press has a bit more charm, more comfortable seating, and Arkell’s beer…they even have my beloved Pilsner on tap, bless ‘em.

They do food as well, but the attraction is it is pretty much the only joint open days anywhere off the main drag in Jericho.  The customers are a mix of locals (real locals with that incomprehensible old school accent) and urban pioneers; my chat with an old-timer left me–and probably him–wondering what on earth the other guy had been talking about.

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With five minutes until the bus home arrived I dashed into the Greyhound and got a half (for the Challenge) and went to change clothing but couldn’t find the loo so wandered out to the decrepit garden.

On my return to the bar I thought I could tick this one-off as well and ordered another, then spotted the bus pulling into the station.  I got a photo taken by the  landlord, downed the bevvy, and sprinted to the bus.  An excellent day out.