Archive for the ‘Swindon’ Tag
At about mile 9 of the Swindon Half Marathon, you climb into Liddington and there is a little break in the barricades at the Village Inn, which was nice since I was in no shape to climb over. I headed into the bar hastily and some of the spectators commented about the loos, but were more than amused when I emerged with a pint of Wiltshire Gold and joined their support line adding taunts of ‘Losers!’ and ‘Booooo!’ as my fellow racers meandered by.
At Village Inn, review to follow
It was a good crowd at the Inn and one guy volunteered to shoot my photo without my asking. He even bussed my glass for me when I finished and another mentioned the Wanborough pub crawl race in May that the kids at the New Calley had mentioned not 10 minutes earlier. What a nice place!
I was 2/3 through a 13.1 mile run when I realised I was going to miss a pub stop I had planned because the course I was on was veering away. I asked some bystanders (this was in the midst of the Swindon 1/2 Marathon, by the way) and found that indeed the nearest pub was up a side street I had just passed so I turned and fought against the flow of other runners and past some race marshalls onto the road that eventually dumped me off at the New Calley Arms, a pub that was on my list but not the one I suspected I was passing…shit. Oh, well, having come all this way it would be rude not to imbibe so I went in to find just the barkeep and a punter blathering on about some Chinese takeaway that thought he was the new driver. Implausibly blathering away, I should add, because that is the best kind of blather.
Lost on a well-marked trail, I found a gem
A couple of spectators from the race came in and noted the race number stapled to my thigh and the sorry, sweaty state I was in and he told me about a race they have in the village, in May (I believe) around the 6 pubs. I am SOOOOO there.
At New Calley Arms, review to follow
My route including the side trip into Wanborough
I descended the hill toward Wanborough with the 1:40 pacers, secure in the knowledge that I had blown my projected race time but thinking I was approaching Liddington, a half mile further along so, in fact, I had blown my time much worse than I reckoned. As we made the hard left turn away from the village I realised (or thought wrongly that I realised) the route map would not pass the Village Inn as planned and I veered off to some spectators on the side of the road and asked, rather too loudly, “Is there a pub nearby.” They laughed and looked away and I was forced to be more emphatic, “no, really, I’m serious…is there a pub in the village.” Still dumbfounded, one of the ladies came to grips with the situation and pointed mutely off into the village and I thanked them and turned back against the flow of runners, past some concerned looking race marshalls and out of the route and onto the road to what turned out to be the New Calley Arms. Ahh, bliss.
Not a mile further down the road, after returning from the NCA, the Village Inn appeared and I made my original planned stop. This was a good venue for watching the folks formerly behind me pass by while struggling up the hill and when I rejoined them, refreshed, one said he wanted a pint. “£2.80 for the Wiltshire Gold. If you’d have been faster I would have got the drinks in,” and then I left him behind.
At New Calley Arms, review to follow
At Village Inn, review to follow
The race was pleasant and I would do it again, not least because I didn’t have to do anything extreme to get to the start on time (as at Cricklade, Oxford, and Chippenham recently) but also because the hilly route was pretty thus making up for the climbs. It is also small enough that you don’t really trip over a lot of other runners and the support is phenomenal. Oh, my time was 1:48:59 including the extra 3/4 mile and the two pints; this concludes my efforts to do 4 half marathons in a month’s time…29 days from 1st to 4th.
“What bourbons do you have?” should be a reasonable question to a bartender.
“I’m not sure. What is a bourbon?” she asked, obviously thinking I wanted a chocolate creme sandwich cookie.
Me: “Barrel-aged Kentucky straight whiskey.”
First guy at bar: “Give him Jack Daniels. That’s bourbon.”
Me: “NO. STOP. I’m sorry, but that is Tennessee whiskey, and foul stuff at that. George Dickel rolls over in his grave every time someone refers to Jack Daniels with anything but contempt.”
Barmaid: “What?”
FG@B: “Sorry. I’ll just shut up then, shall I.”
Me: “I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just Jack Daniels is only fit for amateur drinkers who don’t realise how offensive it is to put fine liquor into sweetened soft drinks.”
Second guy at bar: “What about Jim Beam?”
Me: “Yeah, Beam would be lovely. I’ll have a double Jim Beam.”
Barmaid: “We don’t have Jim Beam.”
Me: “Of course.”
Guy next to me: “I’ll have another, love.”
The bartender took GNTM’s glass and got a shot of Jack Daniels and topped it with Coke. This was going well.
Me, deciding malt might be a workaround: “Tell you what…give me a couple of shots of that Glenfiddich there and a small glass of water on the side.”
The bar at the Regent is stainless steel topped, there’s a snooker table taking up most of the adjacent room to the bar, and I think this serves as a music venue from time-to-time. Good whisky prices, and they take an undue amount of shit from foreigners. I might not visit again, but you should.
Next to the Royal Oak you’ll find the Wheatsheaf, a large old pub with a couple of oaken bars and a sort of serpentine layout. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a little white dog in the window trying to peek out around the curtains and realised, RESULT!, the place was open (they have late doors). I went in and was amused to find that the little white dog was actually the shock of hair on the head of some old dude chatting up some even older lady.
I had a choice of 5 ales according to the board but only one pump clip faced me so I had 6X (it is a Wadworth pub). I think the other beers might be on gravity feed. The landlady was young and attentive but professional and not at all invasive of your space. I had a look around and felt very comfortable in these old rooms. There were a few others enjoying the early evening and the unobtrusive light background music. Quite a pleasant experience.
I needed to pick up my race credentials at the Croft Sport Centre so I hopped off before the Magic Roundabout, stopped by the Aldi for a bottle of that fine Clarkes bourbon (change back from a tenner!), and ran the hill into Old Town with the intention of stopping in the Royal Oak which I have never seen open but which I have been assured has a beautiful interior and opens promptly at 6 except when they open at 7 or so.
The bar was darkened and the curtains seemed not to have moved in the month since I last tried to visit. Shit. It was a bit cool and very windy and the sunset was gorgeous so I sat on the front step and cracked open the whiskey while checking my directions to the Sport Centre. The details on the exterior of the pub were as impressive as I have been told the interior is, with fine ceramic work I am surprised has escaped vandalism.
Upon my return home, I checked around the net and found the website has not been updated since April, there was a tribute act playing there in September, and currently the pub company is looking for a tenant (at very competitive prices so maybe it won’t stay closed forever).
Update 05 May 2015: Reports of demise were premature with the Ferndale WMC thriving as a regular music venue. Well done, you lot!
Update 24 March 2013: R.I.P. http://www.swindonadvertiser.co.uk/news/10309227.Ferndale_Working_Men’s_Club_doomed_to_closure/
Update 01 August 2012: The Ferndale Club appears to be in financial trouble…but as we are looking to move house soon, the house they plan to rent out really grabs my attention: http://www.swindonadvertiser.co.uk/news/local/9847862.A_third_club_in_closure_threat/
At the Ferndale Working Men’s Club I asked, “how do you become a member?” and was informed that it required me to put my name and address on a piece of paper and put it in an envelope with £8. Fantastic…in Bicester it was dead-men’s boots (you essentially had to inherit a place from a relative or other benefactor). In Swindon, though, you can just about throw a bottle from the door of one WMC and hit another one so I reckon the membership committees are a little less picky.
It seemed a nice crowd inside and the building interior was less spartan than the exterior might lead one to believe. I have already spotted a pigeon club and would reckon there are plenty of other participatory activities (besides the drinking, at a slightly subsidized price). The American Legion, the Carpenters’ Union Hall in Atlanta and the Dundee Mills Employee facilities (lake and clubhouse)–none of which I am a member of anymore–and the Oxford University Club are the only other organisations I’ve ever been a civilian member of that have a fixed building or buildings for the members to congregate. I am so pleased.
The Wheatsheaf and the Royal Oak don’t open till late (and you wonder why 40 pubs per week can’t cover their expenses) so I was left with the Old Bank. I have avoided it because it is sort of yuppified, the main dining bar and the real dining area upholstered by Ikea or something, but at least it was a bit pricey on top of that conceit.
I was greeted by a thin, effeminate waitron with his vaguely East-European-cum-Mediterranean accent (I got a strong Latka/Simka vibe off the man as he charged me £3.45 for a fucking Carling).
I had to wait for my change from a tenner (which wouldn’t have happened had I asked for a double bourbon and soda since, in this place, I would surely have been presented a watered Jack and Coke for £9.90) while a statuesque and commanding black goddess with quite the nicest ass I’ve seen in ages (outside the confines of the home, of course) fucked around with the tills. Finished with her ministrations, she stepped out into the main bar where a passing ancient pervert stuck a paw on her bum and apologised for his indiscretion as he slipped by.
SCOOPED! I hate when that happens. I don’t even know what the dormant period is before I can return to complete the action. Fucking british pensioners….
As much as I hate to run in the dark, I really love this time of year when the length of day changes faster day-to-day than at any other time. Arriving home at 6:40 I stripped down to running kit (checking to make sure I had on shorts) and was back out on the street for a dash at 6:45. I knew it was 2 miles to the Wheatsheaf and I was pretty happy to arrive at 6:58 despite the late rush hour traffic.
I have been trying to hit this pub for months but always seem to catch it before it opens or when I really don’t need another beverage that close to home so it was a pleasure to crash through the doorway into the warm interior and to start dripping sweat all over the bar. I got a Fosters and was immediately accosted by a regular about the jogging clothes and the rehydration regimen.
My accent is unmistakeably American so that invites the usual questions and I explained my job track here and a little bit of mass spectrometry making a tandem MS example out of the stack of cannonball’s on the Captain Morgan drinks coaster in front of my new friend. In his job, he met Barry Gibb out in Thame. This seemed a bit much on both our parts and travel displaced work as the topic and THIS is one of the great reasons to try and speak with at least one regular at every bar you go to: I got the names of three fantastic locations in Cornwall (Cadgwith at Lizard Point, Port Isaac, and Cape Cornwall where apparently the Lifeboats sailors will show you around the control centre) and was talked completely out of ever going to Scilly (“but if you do, on the boat ride out you can see this faux Greek amphitheatre some blokes built on the cliffs”).
Back out after this 20 minute break it was completely dark and I stuck to the roadways…15 minutes back home along a 2.2 mile route.
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.
The skies opened and I had two obvious options…continue the run and finish up at the house soaking wet or take refuge in the bus shelter on Penzance Drive and change into my dry kit…and try out the Weighbridge Brewhouse, our newest restaurant and microbrewery. If you guessed the former, you owe me a pint.
It had been the Archers Brewery but closed as such not long before we moved to town and the building had already started to deteriorate when the investors came along and saved it. They pumped an awful lot of cash into it (something more than a million pounds) and it really does look nice and you could probably drop a packet on dinner and drinks. From the looks of the early evening clientele that is precisely what most customers do, but I felt welcome enough and enjoyed the 3 X 1/3 pint sampler of the brewery’s products…Weighbridge Best Bitter is worth a full pint if you pass by.
The answer to the question, “What’s the nicest thing your neighbours ever dumped into their front garden?”
I do miss the gnome, face down on their kitchen roof. But, since the neighbours suddenly left at the end of July we have been holding off on celebrating (links to past descriptions of their behaviour can be found here). As one of my work colleagues put it, “it’s bleak up North, and it sounds like it just got bleaker.”
They sent one of the incompetent offspring (or, at least another relative) over every so often the last month and a half to gather items which, late at night, someone else occasionally would come over and load into a vehicle.
The ducks were let out of their box every few days and visits from the RSPCA never seemed to come to anything.
But they are gone now. Torturing new neighbours in another jurisdiction. I have rarely been happier with someone else’s innocent misfortune.
We can probably turn off the surveillance cameras, now.
Wifi password = aeroplane
The last time I tried to get a beverage at the Bell it was temporarily unable to sell alcohol…in the states they pull your license for good, here they do it for 5 days and waive this penalty if you can argue undue hardship. Funny.
I ran the hill into Old Town a couple of times to justify the beer break and was happy to see Coors Light on tap…not that it is especially good or anything, but I haven’t had an American brand all summer and time was running out. The barkeep poured it into a glass with a frosted effect and took my money. At a table by the windows I took a sip and it was foul…not Coors Light foul but beer pipe cleaning fluid foul. I dipped a pencil into it and found the liquid flat and too cloudy to see through half an inch down. As I headed up to the bar with this swill and a scowl she dashed off somewhere in the hotel and stayed away for the next ten minutes.
Fair enough, she offered me my choice upon her return but they’re going to kill someone with that tap if they don’t get it straightened out…I’ll watch for the article in the paper after the weekend.
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.)
On a short run after work I crossed paths with the Running Horse (just down the street from “Dick? Love It!” BMW). Right on the street and with no pavement on that side, it is a bit treacherous for foot traffic but worth the effort. An Arkell’s house, they have three ales and my beloved Pilsner.
It has been a bit cool out lately as the winds from a dying hurricane blow past but the garden area is sheltered and strange and did not disappoint. A stream runs through, emerging from under the car park and disappearing again at Wootton Bassett Road. This was fairly relaxing but there is some kids play equipment just the other side of this creek so if children are here you might do better to stay near the bar.
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:
With a long run at a faster pace than I have been doing planned Sunday, today was given over to a leisurely and quite short trip through Even Swindon, the little buurt to the west of Rodbourne Road (it is Even Swindon because Old Town is on the hill, Swindon is in the hole and this part is on ‘the Even’). Looming large on Redcliffe Road a mid-Victorian house emerged. It was huge and looked like a 19th century school or hospital, but signs on it said ‘beer’ so I rushed in.
The publican was having a smoke with a mate and saw me taking the photos assuming I was on some sort of treasure hunt…first time I’ve heard that one and I wish I’d had the presence of mind to go with it and concoct some sort of bullshit back story but there were more pressing matters at hand. The Courage Bitter had just run out and London Pride was still settling. I got a Kronenberg which was perfectly ice-cold and sat beneath a sign that proclaimed the ‘house dedicated to the consumption of fine cask ales,’ ironically. Well, dedicated to hospitality at least.
The interior is as impressive as the outside with a lot of the original woodwork in place. There are large tables about and I would suspect food is put on. To find out any details, though, you have to spend time there and ask the landlord; with almost no web presence to speak of and tucked away down this quiet residential street you pretty much have to know it was there in the first place (or be a besodden jackass that explores unknown areas systematically and systemically).
After a rare visit to the gym, I left the Oasis on a short run to loosen up a bit, grab some treats at our local Italian deli and head home to plan out the rest of the day. However, passing through Gorse Hill there were hordes of football fans streaming past and I got caught in the vortex of a group sweeping into the Zen Bar which I had previously thought of as a Chinese restaurant. Indeed, there is seating in the back third of the place but for a prefabricated and somewhat industrial building it has a distinctly pub-like feel to it in the front section.
I got a Carling and struck up a conversation with a guy in STFC colours; he seemed the most obvious choice–loud, drinking a strong cider, eyes not quite focused or even pointing in the same direction at once…a deranged British Buddy Hackett look-alike. We banged on about the new manager, Paolo di Canio, and how the team seems to be playing exceedingly well with the exception of not scoring (a problem possibly solved after the shitcanning of Clarke following di Canio’s public punch-up with him). I’m still more excited by the Swindon Wildcats hockey side, but felt happy that Town finally won another match (and against top-of-the-tables Rotherham, to boot).
After work I decided to do the hill into Old Town but as I had never gone more than halfway up Drove Road before opted to use that as my starting route. Barely into the shallow part of the incline I spotted the Grove and thought it must be time for a break, so dropped in for a Carlsberg (no ales but the lager is all pretty cheap). I had a patent to read in my pack and spent the time trying to filter out the loud disco cover versions of pop songs of the past. No wonder this cavern was so empty…well, the lousy music AND the fact that it is a Harvester pub, more of a family restaurant than a drinking establishment. Oh well, the hill wasn’t going to come to me….
It was just under four miles to the Hotel Mercure where the monthly Run For Heroes is staged, so I left the house at 9:30 to run to the registration table which was supposed to close at 10. I arrived three minutes late after I took a loop trail that is not on my Ordnance Survey map:
The race director, Mike Buss, is an affable guy and seemed pleased that someone bothered to run to the race clocking up nearly 50% more miles than the race itself. This is something he seemed familiar with as an ultramarathoner that cheerfully does similar all-night warm-ups to travel by foot to marathon starts. Mad, I think, quite mad.
Start line...with a more than manageble sized field
The race was touted as pancake flat and on good surface which I found true for about 75% of the route but there was this loop through a field that was lumpy and loaded with badger holes that was something of a struggle to keep pace on. From the start, the two guys that actually looked like runners shot away and I worked my way up to fourth place and locked onto the third place guy who seemed to have a comfortable 7:30 pace.
The long option, my pacer barely visible ahead
We left the field and headed off into a wooded network of hardpacked trails that were a welcome respite. The scenery was pleasant as the woods opened up regularly to show some of the gently undulating countryside but as we passed the 2 mile marker I realised that I must be a lot slower than I thought…we were 26 minutes into this thing! I decided to pick up the pace because I just didn’t have all day.
The last mile was odd. I passed loads of other runners but they must have shortcut the trail as I was now in third position. I spotted about a dozen folks standing around down at the finish and sped on to it and Mike called out 33:01. What the fuck? I thought, it is what it is but immediately chastised myself for thinking in cliché; two others I had been stratified with crossed the line and the race director started making apologies as someone had flipped one of the direction markers sending some of us on a loop of the field after the first kilometer. Ohhhhhh.
Detail from above map, just off the actual course
As much fun as it had been, I really wanted to grab a beer at the Wheatsheaf (the one I haven’t yet visited) so thanked the management and headed back onto the road. In the industrial estate along the way there is a long narrow fenced-in section of trail that made me feel even more discomfort than the now bleeding nipples.
Arriving at the Wheatsheaf at 11:40, I found that it opens at noon. Of course. Start the day getting lost on a straight trail, continue to get lost on a race course, and now the target of the series of runs doesn’t even open for another 20 minutes. I continued home and drank the last beer in the fridge.
Special reward for the extra miles...always carry moleskin
At about mile 9 of the Swindon Half Marathon, you climb into Liddington and there is a little break in the barricades at the Village Inn, which was nice since I was in no shape to climb over. I headed into the bar hastily and some of the spectators commented about the loos, but were more than amused when I emerged with a pint of Wiltshire Gold and joined their support line adding taunts of ‘Losers!’ and ‘Booooo!’ as my fellow racers meandered by.
The Endless British Pub Crawl 
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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