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@TheorySwine
In homage to Mötorhead’s ‘No sleep ‘til Hammersmith’, earlier I set off on an equally hardcore pilgrimage I christened ‘No fag stops ‘til Melton Mowbray’. Alas that bastard hill midway scuppered my chances, which in comparative terms is like passing out just outside the M25 after my third pint of intravenous Snakebite and second gram of base amphetamine on the road with Lemmy and chums. Doubtless this would cause him to cry tears of laughter at my phony largesse into his bucket of Sex On The Beach, while the mole on his face throbs in tempo with his vital organs further devouring themselves.
I just cannot get up that hill. First crack on my road-bike, but even the lowest available gear had me giving up approaching 1/16 of the way up, which is a record of achievement unfortunately, rather than failure. Something to be proud of, that, scaling such fair heights. Midway up I paused to smoke the roll-up I’d planned on avoiding until reaching Melton to the Mowbray, as the wind battered my efforts at lighting the damn thing. Not far short of being sated and ready to push up the remainder, my eye was caught by a sight which grabbed my inverse-pride by its scrawny neck.
A couple were beginning the climb and had comfortably passed my point of departure. ‘Bloody EPO junkies’ I thought, as I dragged hard on my roll-up. I gripped it more tightly as my annoyance at their ease of progress grew. As they neared me I wasn’t sure whether my best course of action would be to ask who they score their gear off, put a stick in their spokes out of spite or put on my best ‘I’m doing laps of this hill and resting after several rounds’ pose. Instead I acknowledged their greetings which found no struggle in anything debased like breathlessness, as their mocking laughter followed them up and around the snaking, very steep summit.
I was not put on this earth to climb hills, or pair up my socks. Like a fraud though I pushed my bike up the remainder without removing my trip computer, which has played havoc with my final average speed. The rest of the ride continued without incident, so once there I treated myself to a bag of Cadbury’s buttons, the small ones as I like them best, a can of Coke and a Mars milk drink. I considered a Mars bar on top of that but feared the cashier might find me one dimensional and predictable, so I spoke backwards to impress her. As I replenished on a bench I noticed the offices of the Melton Times. Outside was an advertising board with today’s triumphant headline – ‘Media Scrum At Pie Awards’.
They think of nothing else there. ‘Give me a pie’. ‘Where’d you get that pie?’ ‘How much is that pie?’ ‘Got any steak and ale left?’ ‘This pastry’s soggy, so I must chin you’. This is my daughter, Pie’. So a few journalists had got all hot under the collar at the thought of spending some time in the presence of pies, lots of hot pies with various fillings too, until they fought like man-men with their cheap pens. This area doesn’t need minor celebrity or national news – they get by just grand with eating and judging pies. Maybe they’ve got the right idea, and the UN should introduce a peace-keeping pie envoy. Provincial journalists, form an orderly queue.
On the way back not much happened, although I topped out down that infernal hill at 41.9 mph. That’ll teach it.