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When it turned up in the local newspaper, I recognised the alley as one of my regular cut-throughs on runs in the neighbourhood.  Later that same day it turned up on the BBC nightly News so the next morning I decided to go back for my own document of the boondoggle.

Double yellow lines limit parking from the center of the street to the kerb (curb) on the side of the street they are painted; you can stop to load/unload but otherwise the space must be left clear for emergency vehicles.  So, when a fire engine needs to get through the area above…see what everyone is on about?

My own photo really adds nothing to the debate and only serves to show that I need a few more sit-ups and lot less alcohol on a weekly basis (the gut alone would block an ambulance’s passage).  Here’s the same photo with two vehicles illegally parked, scaled to the alleyway’s dimensions:

Everyone wants a picture of this alley, now.  While there setting up my own camera two different citizens with SLRs popped up at the wide end and another at the narrow bit.  I posed with my arms partly stretched to the walls for one of the photographers.

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I only knew of one pub in Tidworth, although as it is surrounded by a large military installation there MUST be more, so the Ram was my choice as a stop on the course this time.  They had Coors Light and  Budweiser (Anheuser-Busch Budweiser, not the Czech stuff) and a load of other lagers so I opted for a Fosters (which was on special according to a banner out front).  I was the only patron in this cavernous and dark and eerily quiet early-20th-century structure so it was mine to explore.

With Jackie sick, I was just going to do the minimal run rather than make a whole day of it (the return bus was every two hours).  On the short but hilly jog to Ludgershall I spotted this nice but ineffective bit of signage vandalism:

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Spotted on walk back from final checkout of old house.

 

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So, four years now (or, rather, next week it will be…here’s the annual reports for years Three, Two, and One for historical perspective).

We just received our new visas valid until 2016 but plan to take the next step toward citizenship in a year, Indefinite Leave to Remain…sort of the British Green Card.  There is an exam, first, but in general it is all downhill from here.

The view from Western Street near the new house…also all downhill

Additionally, we are in the process of moving house (which is why I rushed the annual report a week forward) from just north of the Oasis over to Old Town to a house situated close walks to either the Beehive or the Castle or the Globe (recently reopened!)—three locals instead of one and all three of high quality—and dozens of others a short walk. The new house has three bedrooms each larger than its counterpart in the old house, the two receptions are larger and made into more of an open-plan configuration, the bath is larger and has a tub (not just a shower), and there is a finished basement; on the down side, the kitchen is a little narrower and more primitive as is the small garden but everything we do and everywhere we normally go in Swindon (save for the butcher) is so close.

The only races I did this past year were the London Marathon (5 pubs plus a can of Carling on the last mile) and the Beerathon (5 miles with a pint and a hefty food item between each) and the mileage run for the year suffered from this lack of focus—1950 give or take about 25 (most estimates pretty good using gmap-pedometer), while the last several years (except for the year of the wreck) were in the 2200-2500 range.

On the runs, I visited  255 new pubs with a stunning 67 new ones (steep part of the graph) in September when I took two weeks off work and ran at least 10 miles per day in new territory each day. The 1000th wasn’t as big a thrill as I thought it would be, but I saw some really nice places and met some really fine folk. The September holiday found me visiting Gloucester, South Wales, Slough (exotic, I know) and Exeter along with some nearer-to-Swindon trips. The 100 Yellow Beer Challenge was responsible for a lot of second visits to pubs I might not otherwise have gone to after an initial stop and many of these seemed better the second time around. Oh, and my Workingman’s Club appears to have failed or at least hasn’t been open the last several times I’ve popped by (I have a grand one scoped out for the new neighbourhood, though).

Best pubs in Year Four (reverse order by First Visit write-up):
The Southgate Inn, Devizes
Byron’s, Swindon
The Hop Inn, Swindon
Dicey Reilly’s, Teignmouth
The Brass Monkey, Teignmouth
One Eyed Jack’s, Gloucester
Ye Olde Red Lion, Tredegar
The Rose of Denmark, Woolwich
The Volunteer Rifleman’s Arms
The Green Dragon, Marlborough
The British Lion, Devizes
The Blue Boar, Alsbourne (for the Dr. Who connections)

Favourite write-ups:
Postboxes
British Citizenship Exam Prep
Risk Assessment-Bins
Oxford Tourists
Assize Court, Bristol

Cock Flavour
Paul Simon in Hyde Park
Edie’s Lawn
The hunt
The Bremen Musicians (German children’s story)
Sex Tourism in Wiltshire
Modern Algebra for Omid
Burns’ Day Lunch

There are others search for ‘made me laugh.’  The blog may or may not have made some of the over 100,000 visitors laugh, but the damn fools keep checking in (that’s you, that is).

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The landlady here was remarkably rude, but only a little bit toward me.  When I entered, a family was waving a printout of their reservation confirmation at her and she was saying that all she had on the books was a group of four lads, but she could gladly put the family (two adults and two nearly adult girls) in a double room.  Or, she could TRY to find them some alternate accommodation (the tone of her voice sounded like she was doing them a favour).  I pointed at my map and started listing off places with rooms I had been to today (on foot, so probably not a long drive).  She said, “that’s too far and what I have in mind is nicer.”  I laughed and looked at the unkempt state of, at least, the bar; “nicer than this? You know, I just ran from the Bull, the long way, it isn’t that far.”

“Why don’t I just serve you your drink and THEN I’ll see what I can do for these…people.”  Yikes.  I paid up and suggested, “you know, what they probably would have liked you to do is honour their valid reservations,” as I headed out to the river frontage.  Outside a giant tent was up for a cycling group…ah, the other shoe dropped: she probably gave the family’s rooms away to some of the big cycle party.

The beer was good.

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I think they forgot the comma:

Swindon, twinned with Bukkake, Japan

Topping the hill from the Black Horse and crossing a road to continue the trail to Stonehenge, this sign assaulted my senses:

If the swim through the Cum Lake doesn’t put you off, though, the run and cycle segments are probably a snap.

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So it has come to this…1000 posts in less than 3 years (975 days, to be precise).

In that time we have come quite far together:  712 pub stops, 4025 miles running (1740 unique miles in the UK, at that), almost 96000 views of this blog  (averaging about 200/day the last few months after slow beginnings) and tons of ridiculous shit that I should bring me disgrace.  In that same time, I have only managed my way onto one proper publication (with acknowledgements in a few others, although another paper from the Cambridge work is almost finished) and one patent, and for that meager output I truly am ashamed; but, my big bag of guilt still has a bit of spandex left and, besides, I left plenty of tired, old impropriety across the Atlantic to make room for new experiences so let’s keep piling it in.

One of my favourite pub experiences was early on at the Chequers in Cottenham which I hope has reopened since we left the area. I have some favourite pubs in various places but no one favourite nationwide yet.  The map, linked here and over to the left of the page gives you the names of pubs reviewed or otherwise used as a template for my blather in this document and makes a nearly comprehensive reference for planning a pub crawl in Oxford, Swindon, Cambridge, Ely, Faringdon, Kidlington and Bicester; many other areas are covered less extensively but it should continue to grow over the coming years.

Pub count by date...summer surge came late this year

Here are some of my favourite posts out of that ridiculous collection, if you are at all interested or just bored:

Picking on the deceased, especially one’s betters, is always worthy: Arthur Stanley Eddington plaque.    Other times, the sciences offer jobs that are hard to resist (but the job has been filled and removed from the HR site since then).  Never sure if it was an attractant or repellent, and still don’t understand what the dog had to do with it (unless it was a Cocker).

Many articles about running as tourism have been posted, but some are better than others.  Place names tend to be the best for humour…like these here.  Or this one. We actually drove about 10 miles out of our way one weekend trip for this hamlet, but the signs have been stolen so often they stopped putting them up.  Claims to never having paid for it aside, this was a nice if mistaken sight.  Deep in Cambridgeshire you find some good place names, and they seem to treat strangers well on Hills Road Cambridge.  Our first trip to Wales resulted in disappointment with this highway’s promise.

The daily Haiku was a feature early on, before I realised just how many pubs were going to be reviewed.  The best ones happened spontaneously like this one on a trip to London.

As I write this I am suffering stigmata…okay, I accidentally stabbed myself in the palm with a screwdriver this morning.  Still, religion figures into the blog from time-to-time as it did about the ex-masturbators and the fisting-for-Jesus folks.  In Italy, it is hard to escape the influence of the Church and so we gave into its temptations.

An eternal Dylan fan and no stranger to public nudity and substance abuse, I felt kinship with these guys.  Other times the news is just ironic on its own.  Romance is alive and well in Ireland, as this guy proves.

With luck running will continue and I’ll cover many more miles of virgin territory and review loads of worthy races (although my feelings have not changed for the ‘Finisher’s Medal’).  Barely 1/10 of 1% into the stock of pubs to visit, I should be able to maintain this pace of coverage for awhile, as well.  Best, to all, and here’s to 1000 more of this nonsense.

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Paddy Fitzpatrick opened a gym down the street from our house not long after we moved in and does good things for the community (like offering a program that earns kids qualifications in coaching along with their physical training to kick ass).  I met him outside the place and it turns out we share an Atlanta connection although I believe he lived mostly out in DeKalb County toward Stone Mountain.  Still his business and his family are welcome additions to the buurt.

Down the alley you travel to get to the gym, they also have a food stand set up Thursday through Saturday serving some wonderful Jamaican and down-home treats.  I can heartily recommend the jerk chicken. (Note, I have grabbed food here a few times but this first entry was prompted more by the freshly finished mural and other paint job than by the cuisine.)

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I had another one of those dyslexia moments on a run last night…this time adding a ‘?’ and a ‘!’ that weren’t there…or you can write your own Beavis and Butthead style joke:

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We spent much of Saturday morning in Bute Park, this massive arboretum and sporting complex just north from the city centre.  As a botanical garden it is pretty good and it also has many interesting species of trees planted in hundreds of acres of groves.

Two wildcats at the Animal Wall, Bute Park, Cardiff

Later we circled the centre and visited some church sites tucked away amongst the large shopping plazas but were disappointed to find few graves in the one small cemetery.  The church architecture was interesting, though, and worth a peak.

There is a really good covered market in the centre with fish mongers, several diners, and quality butchers and fruit and veg stands.  There is a baker and a cheese stall as well, and wine stores just outside.  Perfect for putting together a picnic.

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I had the humbling experience of stumbling upon the boyhood home of a god among men, Arthur Stanley Eddington.  They say he used to kill crocodiles with his bare hands for sport.  Women and men, alike, would disrobe and lay prostrate before him when he entered a room, submitting to his insatiable, varied and highly imaginative sexual appetites.  He alone is responsible for the temperate climate of our beloved England.  His passing was a blow from which the world is still reeling; it stunned the Axis powers into capitulation at the end of WWII but left the populace so devastated that we still toil to climb from the resulting chaos.  I have it on good authority that he was a consummate gentleman, as well.

The plaque may be a bit hard to read on a small screen.  Here is the relevant text:
“This house was the boyhood home of Arthur Stanley Eddington, one of the foremost scientists, not only of the 20th century, but of the entire history of the human species … {purple prose deleted in the interest of space} … making science more meaningful, not only to scientists, but to all rational and curious individuals. His achievements will radiate for the duration of the human species!”  Note that the achievements ‘radiate’ and not ‘resonate.’  Woowheeee!

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With a new album out, you just can’t escape Polly Jean…but her publicist is really working overtime if subliminal ads like this one (found in the Manor Hospital, Oxford) are any indication:

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Regards to ‘Call Girl’ for this photo in the spirit of the joke

It’s not even my joke (I think it might be a Jimmy Carr, although it might be a Frankie Boyle), but it might get me banned from a hash.  Here’s what happened…

Several messages appeared on the local hash’s mailing list in rapid succession last night with the subject: ‘BH3 Test‘ and the content : ‘Test Message’ and a name (different each time but apparently from the same location).   Since no one else seemed bothered by this pointless waste of bandwidth, I entered the fray with something I considered fairly appropriate to the audience:
==================
BH3 TEST MESSAGE
Tuesday, 21 December, 2010 0:08
To: ********h3@googlegroups.com
TEST MESSAGE:

The first thing that is required for this joke to work is that you realise I have a massive cock…

Okay?  Then we are ready to begin:

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Who cares? I’ve got a huge cock.
==================

With the sort of filth I was regularly posting to previous hash groups I was involved with (only to have had all that material chided as tame or too intellectual), I am really surprised at the vehemence of the reaction to this joke I stole from a television comedy panel show aired around 9 pm on one of the BBC terrestrial channels.

To be fair, it is a very old group (mostly pensioners) but they are hashers and you have to be surprised that anything could make them blush.  As a reminder, here are some of my milder posters from years past (click on thumbnail for better view…not safe for everyone’s workplace):

Back to new pubs as soon as I can get onto trails to run again (this fucking snow has me stuck on roads and bikepaths).

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Out for a run before rushing home to pack, spotted this sign:

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I went to Faringdon for a run last week and rather enjoyed the pit stops in the pubs.  However, what really recommends it to me is it is so safe that the police station closes up in the middle of the day:

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Some very slow 8 minute miles were mocked as I passed this sign (above) on the Iffley Road.  Shit, I never broke 5 minutes when I was young and serious about it.  At my current “speed” paces I’d still have a lap and a half when Bannister was toweling off…but I would still feel pretty good about a beer mile against a top miler.

Speaking of beer, it seemed appropriate to get one at that point and the Cricketers was handy, a few hundred feet closer to the city center.  We had tried to stop in during the Cowley Road Carnival on the weekend but it didn’t open till 4 so we looped back over to the festivities.  I had done this route to try again but it didn’t really seem to be anything special.  There’s a cavernous pool room down and to the right as you come in and the barkeep was friendly enough, but some places just exude a vibe of exclusiveness and for some reason I didn’t seem to resonate.  That’s alright, it is sort of out of the way for me, anyways (and that mocking 4 minute mile sign should be avoided at all costs).

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Sometimes at first glance you see something that so obviously couldn’t be there that you run completely past it and then feel compelled to double back to check it out closer.

And, so, it came to pass that I had negotiated the Sheep Street crowds in Bicester and was heading safely out toward the field trails that would take me to Bucknell when I felt the NEED to loop around the block and take a photograph for later…turned out it was harmless afterall.

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Continuing up the road toward the train station, I noticed the Red Lion and although I don’t go into every Red Lion I see I do make it a point to stop if it is at all convenient.  This one was an especially nice find, too. The landlord is a retired soldier and a gregarious sort of dude from Peterborough, although his wife is a nearly local girl (from Bicester).  Their border collie is also fairly friendly and will pester you with a slobbery tennis ball as long as you are willing to tolerate it…although the regulars seemed not to be sucked into his playfulness.

I had a Hook Norton Bitter (I think that’s what it was) and took a look around at the large garden, equally large dining room/lounge, and the smaller but still good sized public bar with a big open fireplace.  I’ll have to stop by again in a week or two as they were closing for major refurbishment after the weekend to redo the floors (good hardwoods there) and splash a bit of paint around.  Some outside work also appears to be slated (a better photo of the Red Lion without the scaffolding is on the pub’s website).

Blunt signage at the Islip Rail Station

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It was a pretty hot and humid day Friday and the run from Oxford to Islip left me very thirsty, indeed.  As I crossed the bridge into Islip, I was greeted by the welcome sight of the Swan Inn and decided to give it a go.

On the run to the pub, I had one of those Beavis and Butthead moments as I passed this sign (uh-huh-huh)

The place was abandoned save for the bartender and a single patron, but the Foster’s was cold (I couldn’t face the Greene King selection).  I would have thought the Swan would have more goodwill since the lessee has done such apparent good for his other pub up in Tackley, but rumour has it that employees there are not treated especially well–a conversation at a neighbouring pub led me to believe a chef was fired under suspicious terms and that other employees are still awaiting their first pay packet four weeks into their service.  I can’t swear to the veracity of any of the sources of these rumours, but the boss’s family have had business problems that made news in the past.

From the front deck of the Swan Inn