Posts tagged ‘rant’
Good and not-so-good customer service….
Increasingly companies are using technology as part of their customer service mix. Often, it feels like “lip service” rather than a genuine attempt at driving improvement, or genuine interest, or reward.
The London hotel I stay at every week, and have done so for 18 months now (and who shall remain nameless for now) send me a web survey after every stay which I complete diligently. But the bangers and mash still look like something the dog has thrown up, and I still have to ask for an iron. It is as if that responding to the survey should make me feel better. It doesn’t. But, an ironing board or an occasional gourmet sausage might!
Similarly, Virgin Trains periodically survey me, but their wifi still disappoints and “train rage” still ensues regularly as a result of the failure of their seat reservation system. But, at least they have now begun to automatically compensate me when trains run late….
But recently, I have experienced two extremes of customer relationship management technology being used – one which pleased; the other which amused.
I used to stay at the Rotterdam Hilton pretty much every week for six years, but that was 8 years ago. Back then it was very tired, with noisy rooms, and the food was awful. And it was in Rotterdam – Stoke with modern art architecture. Even back in the day they would attempt to placate me – I had Platinum status – by upgrading me to a slightly less tired and noisy room and a plethora of Hilton branded gifts, such as rubber ducks, pens and picture frames, which were difficult to shift even at a Wythenshawe car boot sale.
But that was 8 years ago. Imagine my surprise on returning to the hotel after such a long time and to see the transformation of the lobby following a recent refurb. It was as clean and shiny as a shiny clean thing.
Imagine my even greater surprise to be greeted at reception by one of the same easy-on-the-eye, bubbly receptionist from 8 years ago who warmly declared “welcome back – you haven’t changed!”
It was only a little lie, but one that made me smile and made me feel special. Imagine my even greater greater surprise to be told “this is your 75th stay in this hotel” (the 74th being 8 years ago) and we would like to upgrade you to the Presidential Suite. That made me smile more and feel more special.
Now, I have only ever been upgraded to a Presidential Suite once before, in the Taj Hotel in Cape Town. But, that was a case of mistaken identity, and I still wonder where the South African Vice President of a gold mine spent that evening. But, in Rotterdam, this was a genuine reward for loyalty.
The Presidential Suite was beautiful, immaculate, and spacious far beyond my needs and stacked with gifts of champagne, cakes, savouries, and a personalised towel (which now resides in a box marked “car boot sale” due to its Hilton branding. I just need a coincidence of a same-named Vice President of a South African gold mine visiting a Wythenshawe car boot sale, and I am genuinely quids in…..).
And, it didn’t stop there. At the bar I was treated as a special guest and the housekeeping staff were very forgiving when I couldn’t find the hairdryer in any of my myriad rooms and cupboards.
While I do like to think that, even after 8 years, I live long in the memory and can still catch the eye of an attractive hotel receptionist, I am aware that Hilton has systems which can track attendance. But this was technology well deployed and customer service at its absolute very best. Although, I did make the point that if 8 years ago, on my 74th visit to the hotel they had told me I was in for such a treat next time, then I may have been back somewhat sooner.
And, upon my return home I received an email from Waitrose, inviting me to take a web survey to tell them what I thought of the vegetables I had recently purchased. Really? “Upon getting my courgette home, I realised that it was a little too green…..”. “My moussaka would have been much better if I had used potatoes like mom used to do, rather than the aubergine I acquired……” “My purchase of sage, was in retrospect both unwise and inessential….”.
Seriously? Only when Waitrose allows me to add Cabernet Sauvignon to my personal picks will I truly feel rewarded for my loyalty.
What did I ever do to you, Pizza Express?
I have been a loyal customer of the Pizza Express franchise for far more years than I care to mention. Indeed, proximity to a Pizza Express outlet is one of the must-have-items on C’s criteria for moving house, along with a Waitrose and other such necessities. Pizza Express is an eating-out experience that we have enjoyed very much together. Typically we would do so about once a month.
Over the years, Pizza Express has been a comfort zone. We would escape there to get away from our mad, noisy neighbour, Val. We would meet with friends and family. We would plan our holidays and put the world to right. It was a safe place where the food and service was familiar and the atmosphere amenable to conversation, celebrity spotting and people watching alike.
The Pizza Express at Wilmslow and at Knutsford have been our regular haunts of late, with occasional forays to Manchester and Cheshire Oaks when doing a spot of shopping. C would have a (small) glass of the Montepulciano, and I would partake of a Peroni Gran Riserva, while we peruse the menu.
I am not sure why we bother with the menu as C would invariably select a Fiorentina with a runny egg, and I would have a……now wait…..No, no, no, no. They have bloody well gone and done it again. They have removed my favourite from the menu!!
Back in the day I used to really enjoy the ham, egg and dough balls in tomato sauce. Until they removed it from the menu. Then I used to like the Neptune, with tuna, anchovy, olives and hard-boiled egg. Until it also disappeared from the menu. Then I moved to the Capriciossa (especially when it came with ham hock). Disappeared. The Da Morire. Gone.
All of my favourites have disappeared over the years. And now the Pizza Express chain has been sold to a Chinese venture capital company. And, they have just launched a new menu. I don’t think the Chinese do pizza. I think they have pizza and pasta mixed up. Which is why they now do a Carbonara pizza with a béchamel sauce base – perfectly acceptable with a bowl of spaghetti, but on a pizza base it just sounds like something that the cat might have thrown up. The new seafood option is the Mare Rossa – prawn and oak-roasted salmon with tenderstem broccoli,spinach, garlic, chilli flakes and mozzarella on a lobster bisque, béchamel and passata base, finished with fresh parsley and Gran Moravia cheese. I won’t be eating any of that pretentious twaddle either.
Why are they messing with a good thing? Why are they fixing something that ain’t broke? Why are they picking on me!
So, Pizza Express, is this how you reward decades of loyal service? You are almost as bad as the time when KFC ran out of chicken on me. Shame on you. 😦
Pet Hates!
A recent yomp through Terminal 3 of Heathrow airport has reminded me of a few things which really irritate me quite a lot:
1. People who stop as soon as they get off an escalator. Now, I appreciate they may be lost and unsure of where they are going. They need to get their bearings. But, are they really totally so unaware of the carnage they leave behind them as people who are behind them on the escalator have nowhere to go and find themselves tumbling back down the escalator onto the people below them?
2. People who do not walk on moving walkways. There is a clue in the name! These things are meant to move us speedily and efficiently around airports, shortening the ridiculously long distances between gates. But, the concept fails to work if a) the moving walkway is broken (as it so often is at Manchester) or b) it is blocked by the fat Korean couple who have brought enough luggage with them to circumnavigate the Globe, twice. Get out of the bloody way!
3. People who walk while texting. Why should I get diverted by my purposeful progress in a straight line, which is always the shortest route between who points, because you are walking aimlessly and oblivious to what is going on around you?
4. People who insist on walking down the aisle of a plane while boarding with their luggage slung over their shoulder. Why are they unaware that they are clouting every fellow passenger who has boarded before them and who is sitting in an aisle seat as they flounce past?!
5. Old people. There should be a law banning them from clogging supermarket aisles at a weekend. They have all the time in the world so why do they need to get in my way when I am trying to buy the ingredients for my Sunday lunch.
I am a grumpy old man today!
A-Level Results
The Making of the English Working Class (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Yesterday saw the publishing of the A-Level results for England. These results would determine whether students were successful in gaining a place at university. This year it was going to be more difficult in the past because a) the number of A grades at A-level had increased, as it seems to have done, year on year for many a year now, and, b) there are fewer places at university available due to cut backs on the back of the credit crisis and economic downturn.
Now I could have turned this into a tirade about how A-Levels are not what they were in my day; how a degree isn’t worth what it was; how ridiculous it is that the past Labour Government thought that every child in the country had a right to a university education. And, if I had, I am sure that a “lively debate” would be had by all.
The sad reality is, however, that there is a surplus of students with A grades at A level. There is a surfeit of university graduates chasing too few jobs, but a degree is a pre-requisite to getting a “decent” job. And, we hear from employers that graduates are not of a sufficient calibre and require additional training in basic communication and other skills.
Now, I could just be smug and grateful about my own life. I am of a time when A-Levels and Degrees were credible. But, I was reminded of the real issue here by a friend on Facebook, who was lamenting the social impact of this situation.
My friend, the Sarge, is a former soldier (hence the nickname), a proud and excellent parent, a hard worker, gentleman and philosopher. I know him because he used to work for an executive car firm and used to drive me to and from the airport when I was travelling on business. He reminded me that the issue here is one of social mobility. The current Government policy and the consequence of the situation described above, will mean that it is increasingly difficult for those from working class families, or worse, benefit culture families, to better themselves through the medium of education. And I think he may be correct. I think we are on course for a mighty step backwards to the 1980s and the world of Maggie Thatcher. The world that consisted of social division, rioting in the streets and the Yuppie cum “screw you” attitude in the City that caused the recent economic turmoil.
Sarge posed the question of how we stop this rot. I was moved to comment as follows.
As a Grammar School kid, from a working class and hard- working family, who earned a place at Oxford, and has not done too badly, I believe I have managed to swim against the tide of social immobility (and developed a penchant for long-winded sentences).
I managed this because my parents wanted better for their kids and prioritised education as the route to it. But, they also promoted honesty, hard work, the appreciation of value, and only having what you could afford.
I managed because my teachers were capable and disciplined and taught learning and understanding rather than the ability to pass an exam.
I managed because A-levels meant something, and, because only the top 5 % got to go where I went.
I managed because I saw that I was as good/better than those who came from privilege and those who had been given everything on a plate. And, because the fear of losing everything was/is too much to bear.
I managed because I knew that the man in the front of the car was as hard-working and as capable of wisdom and as deserving of respect as the man in the back.
My recipe:
- Reduce the number of university places but reinstate the grant for those who otherwise could not afford/would not risk to go.
- Reinstate polytechnics and offer more vocational courses and apprenticeships.
- Promote learning and understanding in our schools over pure exam results.
- Teach citizenship, values, philosophy and communication and parenting skills.
- Install a benefit culture which prioritizes the deserving but never makes it more attractive than working for the able-bodied.
- Regulate the credit industry so that it ensures responsible lending.
- Never think the world owes you anything. Believe you are capable of achieving and having all by yourself. Be nice to people on the way up because you may meet them on the way down.
- And finally, listen to Sarge.
Related Articles
- University Isn’t for Everyone (lewrockwell.com)
- A-level results: new A* grade for top students (telegraph.co.uk)
- Nick Clegg: too many middle-class students at university (telegraph.co.uk)
Disillusioned
This is going to be one of those grumpy old men rants I’m afraid. Those of you of a nervous disposition should look away now!
C and I were bemoaning the lack of political choice this weekend with a General Election looming. We had watched a fly on the wall following Barack Obama through his journey to be chosen as the Democratic candidate and then through the election as President. It seemed to us that the whole American system was a lot more open and offered much more choice than we have here in Ol’ Blighty. In the USA you can choose between different flavours within the same party. For example, you can choose between Obama or Clinton’s flavour of Democratic values. Admittedly this can degenerate into the cult of personality but in the British political world which seems devoid both of values or personality, it seemed like a refreshing change.
Despite the occasional tactical vote for the Lib Dems, I have been a life-long Labour voter. But, gloomy Gordon Brown is testing my patience. It isn’t clear to me what Labour stands for any more. Labour seems to have moved so far from the left, and the Conservatives so far from the right, that the middle ground, offering the electorate little if any choice and disenfranchising a whole generation through boredom.
I am looking forward to the leaders debate that has been instigated by Sky News. I am hoping that this will expose the weak and reveal some passion and truth. However, very few politicians seem to be willing to give an honest answer to a question for fear of straying from the party line. You would think with the economy as it is, the war in Afghanistan, the state of our schools and hospitals, and, crime and the break down of society, that someone would be willing to grab the bull by the horns. That said, I would appoint Vince Cable as Chancellor in the blink of an eye!
For me, one issue that should have more of an airing is the Benefit Culture that seems to be dragging us all down. The political response to the state of our economy and the huge financial deficit seems to be to tax the hard-working middle classes more. Why punish those of us who have jobs, who have worked hard for all that they have, and who are responsible by investion in pensions, insurance and the like?
Now, I don’t mind paying my way or, indeed, making a contribution to help the disadvantaged, the old, the sick. But, I do mind paying more just for the Government to give it away to that underclass that spoils this once great nation. The great unwashed, uneducated, anti-social wasters. You only have to watch Jeremy Kyle. There are estates all over this country with generations that have never worked a day in their lives. They spend their days drinking, watching TV, smoking pot, making babies, sleeping with their best friend’s girlfriend or their own sister, beating on each other, and stealing from people to fund their addictions. They see their benefits as their right and laugh at the taxpayers who go to work to keep them in the lap of relative luxury, Sky TV and X-Box heaven.
Why is there not a single politician in this country who will stand up and say we should take benefits away from people who are clearly unwilling to work? Why can we not make the giving of benefits conditional upon these people doing work in the community? They should be made to clear ditches, clean graffiti, man soup kitchens, paint hospitals. Anything to get them off their fat, lazy, anti-social arses.
It makes my blood boil.
Related posts:
“We’re Doomed!”
To quote Private Fraser from the great British cult tv comedy classic, Dad’s Army, “We’re doomed, I say. Doomed”.
It would seem that the credit crunch is causing a fundamental shift in the British economy which is likely to have a devastating long-term impact upon the society in which we live.
Domino’s Pizzas have reported a 24.7% increase in profits. Apparently this is the result of a shift in buying habits, with people looking for cheaper alternatives to eating out. Yesterday, KFC announced that they would be creating 9,000 new jobsin the UK. This follows announcements from Tescos supermarket that they are recruiting heavily.
We are fast becoming a nation of shelf stackers and fast food junkies. Help. I need to emigrate. I’m normal – get me out of here.
Readers of these pages will know that I am far from a fan of KFC – read about it here. And, my past experience would indicate that if I am forced to go self-sufficient in order to get fresh vegetables, then I am likely to starve. Felicity Kendal (sigh), I am not! But, if we are to become a nation of obese couch potatoes sharing our lives and relationships in the full glare of Jeremy Kyle the I will have no choice but to consider departing these shores.
But, where to go? And, how to get there? If things continue as they are then I am even unlikely to survive the flight out of here. Undoubtedly, I will be crushed to death in my plane seat by a Fatty resting after a double pepperoni and zinger burger – read about it here.
Where’s my passport………..
Bedazzled
Why, oh why, oh why do so many UK motorists insist on having their front fog light blazing in perfectly clear weather?
It is illegal. It doesn’t make your crappy old Ford Focus look big and clever. Not even if you’ve added fat wheels and a big, noisy exhaust. It distracts and dazzles other motorists, and, in the wet and dark (which is the norm in the UK for a good six months of the year) it produces a glare which doesn’t actually help to improve visibility. Fog lights are for use when it is foggy. There is a clue in the name. Turn them off you morons!
And, why do so many pedestrians have a death wish. Here is a clue – if it is dark and raining and I am dazzled by oncoming fog lights, why on Earth do you believe that I will be able to see you, dressed head to toe in dark garb, when you choose to cross that busy junction when the lights are still green?
Perhaps the pedestrians should wear fog lights!?!?
😉
Stab In The Dark
All the news is depressing at the moment. Mind you, you wouldn’t think that we are busy fighting two major wars at the moment – Iraq and Afghanistan hardly get any coverage. They do not seem to be as important as Traffic Cameras in Swindon and holiday jobs for students! But, every news bulletin seems to include a piece on the imminent recession and the fact that we are all likely to be found dead on our doorsteps, murdered by some knife-wielding, maniacal twelve year old.
As I write, my friend Jacqui Smith, the Home Secretary, is busily backing down and performing u-turns and somersaults on the subject of knife crime initiatives. And there is much talk about extending the right to search of teachers to include searching for weapons, drugs, and alcohol. What has the world come to? In my day we would have jumped to comply with an “Empty your pockets, boy!” bellow from a domineering teacher. Mind you, in my day, all you were likely to find in a teenage boy’s school trouser pockets were a snot-soaked hankie, a comb (metal ones with a sharp handle could be considered a weapon!), a pack of Top Trumps Cards, and illicit sweets or chewing gum (both of which were banned inside of school). And, of course, cigarettes. Cigarettes were schoolboy currency. You “collected” cigarettes even if you did not smoke yourself.
That is not to say that the problems with teenage kids so evident today did not exist twenty or thirty years ago. Kids smoked – the local shops around my school would sell cigarettes in singles to make them more affordable. Kids drank – not out of bottles of cheap cider on street corners, but, in pubs with a relaxed attitude to underage drinking (as long as you took your school blazer and tie off you were in). Kids had sex. Kids stole. Kids fought. And, kids carried knives. While I choose not to implicate myself in any of these various crimes and misdemeanours – my dad reads these posts, occasionally. I was personally impacted by schoolboy knife crime back in 1983 when a 13 year old bully was stabbed through the heart by a 12 year old victim and died in my arms. See my earlier post.
Indeed, I understand that 80% of kids who carry knives do so out of a belief that they need to defend themselves. A belief driven by a fear of bullying, mugging and gangs. Well, I hope my personal experience shows the foolishness of carrying a knife to deter a bully. From victim to killer in a single motion.
In reality, only 16% of kids admit to carrying a knife because of an involvement in criminal activity such as mugging and gang-related crime.
But, some of the initiatives that the Government and others are touting around to tackle the problem are just non-starters. Parenting classes? Many of these kids are born into single-parent families to pramface mothers who have dropped out of education. Jail? We would have to scrap all greenbelt initiatives to build all of the jails that would be needed. Awareness? Do we really think that these kids are going to be deterred by meeting convicts and victims? These are kids that are largely excluded from “adult” or “normal” society. They have few positive role models (unless you include Jeremy Kyle – which I do not). They do not read newspapers or watch the news. They live a You Tube, Facebook or Bebo existence. They live on street corners and in bus shelters. They have welcomed our politically correct world and become mini-lawyers aware of their rights (but seemingly not their wrongs).
So what can be done? Well I am all in favour of Alf Hitchcock’s (the so-called Knife Tsar) for a form of National Service. Schools should be able to ban and confiscate those things which may encourage muggings such as mobile phones, MP3s, and designer goods. Schools should revert to strict school uniform rules which would eliminate gang paraphernalia. Parents and teachers should be able to use reasonable punishment to clamp down on bad behaviour, including the cane or a slap round the back of the legs. Put metal detectors on school doors and into the hands of the police. For those that get caught carrying knives, give them hard community service – cleaning the streets and sewers and the like. Lock up those that use the weapon. Remove the privileges and benefits for the families of repeat offenders – take their council house, housing benefit and unemployment benefit away until they and their offspring comply with a strict social contract.
Take away temptation, impose real and meaningful deterrents and punishment. And, make Jeremy Clarkson Prime Minister………
I Can’t Afford It!
I am depressed. It is all due to the credit crunch. I woke up this morning to the news that the UK housing market is in free-fall. Apparently our houses have lost 2.5% of their value in just the last month alone, being the seventh month in succession that house prices have fallen. So, I’ve just had more value knocked off the house than I spent on the new kitchen and bathroom. Great. Just great.
And, of course, this all happens at a time when the oil price is going mad. It is SO bad that I am actually in two minds as to whether I can afford to go to work. Seriously. I have a fifty mile commute. That’s four hundred miles in a week (I work from homes on a Friday). And with the cost of Super Unleaded at something like £122 a litre and a fuel performance of around 20 mpg or so……
I know I could get a more fuel-efficient car than an Audi TT but I do have an image to think about. And, there have to be some perks to all my hard work over the years! Now don’t all you planet huggers and eco-terrorists start on me when I’m feeling down. And, no, public transport is not an option. I live in rural Cheshire (the bit with the M6 motorway going through the middle of it) and the nearest bus service is a good two and a half miles away. The bus only runs on a Tuesday. And, it doesn’t go anywhere that I would want to.
Added to that, another joy of living the rural dream is that I now have to worry about the threat of someone breaking into my home heating oil tank and siphoning it all off. The cost of home heating oil (kerosene) has almost doubled in the last twelve months and it seems to have sparked a min-crime wave. We are not connected to the gas mains so we have no choice but to use oil. So, I can’t afford to go to work and I can’t afford to heat my water or my home!
So, we are economising. Economising mostly involves sacking (“letting go” was the term that C used) our gardener. The efficient and reliable guy who has mown our two expansive lawns and trimmed our hedges. Instead, this has become my job. So, a new petrol powered lawnmower (more bloody fuel cost) has been purchased and two hours or so of my life every other week or so will be given up to putting fresh stripes on the garden. But, do not fear, this is not the first sign of us becoming self-sufficient. Many of you will know of previous failed bids at achieving the Good Life. But we’ll not be going there…….or will we?
Indeed, we may well have to turn the side garden over to vegetables. Either that or try to sell it to the government as a site for one of their new nuclear power stations….
I can’t afford to drive. I can’t afford to pay someone to cut the lawn (please God don’t let the window cleaner put his prices up!). I can’t afford hot water or heating. And, it is becoming increasingly hard to afford to eat. Sure, rice, bread, and pasta costs seem to have also rocketed around the world. While the good old potato is being touted as the planet’s saviour, I am not allowed to eat them because of my summer diet. “We” are concerned about our bikini figure. And, thanks to bloody Jamie and Hugh I am now so emotionally scarred that I can only eat organic free range chicken from the Dali Lama’s personal petting farm, at the cost of an arm and a leg. If it wasn’t for Waitrose’s wine offers we’d be destitute…..
So it looks as if I have to sell the car, give up work, buy a shotgun with which to guard the oil tank, wrap myself in a Waitrose Bag for Life just to keep warm, and dig for England. It’s probably no bad thing. If you believe the other news headlining today, if I ever did step outside the front door I’d probably be attacked by a ten year old knife wielding crack addict! Always look on the bright side, eh?
Brothers-In-Law In A Double Bed
Well, I had one of my thankfully infrequent “sleep talking” incidents again last night. While I am often prone to making the odd noise or crying out in my sleep, actually talking in my sleep or holding a conversation is less common. But, last night my better half was woken by me talking. When she endeavoured to get me to go to the spare room I replied along the lines of “But we haven’t got there yet!” When she tried yet again I retorted, apparently having checked the time on the bedside clock, “But we still have five hours to get there!” Then I went and slept, somewhat furtively, in the spare room.
I moved to the spare room quite gingerly. I am still in recovery from the annual Lads’ Walking Weekend which left me with a couple of knackered knees, a stiff right leg, and aches and pains all over my body. Ouch, ouch, ow, ouch. Presumably, my “sleep talking” was linked to the pain I was feeling and involuntary flashbacks to the trial of the weekend – six grumpy old men and their new young gimp (aged 32) walking from Westward Ho! to Bude, via Clovelly and Hartland Quay in bright sunshine, too little breeze, and, temperatures in the mid to high twenties. As far as I could tell, the Devonshire coast was truly beautiful, if the scenery was somewhat blurred through the tears of my pain.
Westward Ho!, apparently the only place in the UK with an exclamation mark in its name, could do with a lick of paint and a bit of care and attention. And, I would certainly sack the town planner. It was the usual pitiful array of run down B&Bs, fish and chip shops, and amusement arcades that is to be found in any English seaside resort. Thankfully, however, we were there just to eat, drink and sleep, arriving after 8pm. For, Westward Ho! is a strange place indeed.
The pub on the Friday night was packed with locals. The locals looked genetically challenged and spent most of the night discussing the size of their runner beans. They clearly didn’t get out to the big city too often. Fashion there is by Primark and Matalan in Westward Ho! And, the pub grub was somewhat disappointing.
In the morning, we paid and bode farewell to our God Botherer host in the B&B -for which we received a blessing in return. We split the various chores between the group – shuffling cars to the next destination (including a spot of frankly unnecessary road rage from Volvo Man), and, buying lunch – and had a relaxed coffee under an umbrella from where we took in the view.
Westward Ho! was teaming with young surfer dudes sporting tans, six packs (lucky bastards) and very tacky tattoos; plump young girls sporting ice-creams (presumably as their puddings, having consumed a pasty or two before venturing out of doors); old women in wheelchairs being pushed about by their carers from the local home; and pasty looking families heading for the beach.
Much to our amusement, someone had left a pair of false teeth on the chair next to our table. This was retrieved by the waiter with a grimace and a pair of rubber gloves. Even funnier was the fact that the teeth’s owner returned to retrieve them. He was a fat, bald, red-faced man with man-boobs that Jordan would have been proud of.
Oh, and then we walked, limped and hobbled our way the twelve miles or so to Clovelly.
Clovelly is a lovely spot with friendly cats and a tame fox. Apparently the village has been privately owned by the same family since 1066. Gleaming white cottages clinging to a steep cliff face with narrow cobbled streets leading down to a busy little quay. There are no cars in the village (they wouldn’t fit) so everything gets transported by donkey and wooden sledge. Unfortunately, only half of our group made it in time for the six o’clock cream tea deadline. The walking wounded had to make do with a pint of beer. No prizes for guessing which camp yours truly was in.
I suspect that we may have made a slight impression on the inhabitants of Clovelly. There had been a slight mix-up over the rooms at our hotel, requiring two of our number to be located in a B&B a few doors further down the hill and two of our number almost came to blows when one suggested to the organiser of our little sojourn that he deserved a discount. Thankfully, after a few heated words at the dinner table they went outside and hugged it out. Eyebrows had been raised earlier in the Beer Garden when another of the Lads dropped his jar of Vaseline! The same Lad prompted more comedy by wearing a pair of old comfy slippers in which to descend the precarious cobbled slope to the pub at the quay after dinner. He is prone to blisters you see. I am not sure if news of our presence had preceded us to the pub, but once there one of the locals stated “you Lads must be either divers or fishermen”. Unfortunately, neither.
Some of the loudest exchanges within our merry band, however, were around whose turn it was to share the double bed. Fortunately, I was excluded from this debate as I had paid extra for single occupancy throughout the weekend. As much as I love my mates, they snore, smell and fart, and, I like my privacy in the bathroom. And, I wish to spare them all the experience of me talking in my sleep. The two brothers-in-law unfortunately drew the short straws and had to share the double bed. This was rather un-nerving for the younger of the two (now known as the young gimp) as this was his first time on the Lads’ Walk and the rest of us somehow gave him the impression that this was some sort of initiation rite. He too had spied the Vaseline earlier in the night. Whatever, the two brothers-in-law made a pact that whatever happened in the room, stayed in the room. And so it did. There was not a single muttering of spooning or an involuntary erection at the breakfast table.
Myself and one other unfortunately failed a late fitness test in the morning. We were not considered to be up to the full arduous ten miles or so from Clovelly to Hartland Quay. So, we offered to shuffle the cars, fill up on diesel, take in a coffee and the newspapers at Bude, and to start walking from the opposite end in order to meet up with the rest of the boys along the route.
Bude is a dump and seemingly bereft of a Starbucks or a single umbrella under which to perch while sipping a Latte. And so we ended up in a tiny, old-fashioned cafe where we were joined by a group of old people with Eastend accents and leathery faces lined like the streets of Venice. They had left their dogs howling in the car outside and reminisced about how one of their number had once been so sick eating spotted dick and custard that they hadn’t been able to eat it for years afterwards. Bizarrely, one of the old girls ordered an Espresso coffee “but not too strong!”
Suitably refreshed, my fellow invalid and I commenced our walk to meet our mates. Bloody hell. What the buggers hadn’t told us was that the stretch that we were doing was the hardest of the lot. And we had to do it twice. There and back. We endured five miles of agony. It was one steep descent followed by one steep climb after another. We were, frankly, buggered.
In truth, we are all beginning to feel our age now. Most of us have resorted to using walking poles to take the pressure of ageing joints. And, those who didn’t this year have vowed to do so next. The downside is that we are now so slow at the walking bit that we leave ourselves very little time for the drinking bit before collapsing in our beds through exhaustion. However, while we are all carrying a few more pounds than we have in the past, we, to a man, managed to suck it all in on cue while the very attractive blonde in the tight leggings walked past us at Bucks Mill. There was certainly no VPL there! Nice.
Thanks for a great weekend guys and see you next year. Now, where are those details of my BUPA subscription.
Middle Man 
Recent Comments