A couple of Fridays ago, I was a bit on the tipsy side and agreed that me and Colin would go to watch the match yesterday at Histon.  It was Kendo’s testimonial match, playing against Micky Quinn’s Allstars, who consisted of Spidermonkey, on the subs bench until some point in the second half, some ex-players and other such jackies.

Histon won, the final score being something like 11-2.  Micky Quinn was fat, was round, he bounced on the ground.

There were beers afterwards in the bar (as opposed to the beers during, in the stands, and beforehand, in the Railway Vue, which will shortly be changing its name to the Guided Busway Vue).

Seeing as it was May Day Bank Holiday yesterday, the weekend lasted slightly longer than its usual paltry length. So, after spending Sunday night relaxing, I concocted a picnic of chicken and sweetcorn and mayonnaise sandwich, veg crudites, cucumber and mint yoghurt dip (home-made) healthy crisps, boiled egg, tomato for Colin, parkin (home-made), malt loaf, fruit salad and pop. Colin went to the shop to buy some of these things while I made the rest (not the parkin, though; that was made earlier).

We then took this picnic to Six Mile Bottom, a place where I have wanted to go for some time, merely because of the name. I have to say, that’s the only remarkable thing about the place. There’s a pub, a church and about three houses. And an excessively large vet’s. The church was shut except for births, deaths and marriages; worse, the pub was shut because it was a Bank Holiday. We had our picnic in the church grounds, which was all very nice, even the healthy crisps. On the way back home, we stopped off at Little Wilbraham to see if their pub was open. It had been, but it was closing at half past three, which is when we arrived there.

We got home, dropped off our bikes and whatnot, saw to puss, who’d been out all this time (I said she should have been inside) (she did have a bowl of water out with her), and went to the Green Dragon for a pint. The Green Dragon doesn’t shut randomly in the afternoon, not like these pubs in the countryside. We played I Spy in the beer garden; only had one go each, because each go (WB and WIG) seemed inordinately difficult. Perhaps we were just tired.

For tea, we had cheese and bacon burger and chips. The burgers were constructed from individual items at home, but weren’t home-made. They were very tasty.

Given the choice of

1. jack-knifed lorry on the A14, one lane blocked, and
2. major roadworks on the M11 with a long contra-flow,

go for the contra-flow every time. The “one lane blocked” is a complete lie. The whole damn road is shut.

Four and a half hours it took me to go 14 miles. And yet only twenty minutes to go back the other way.

Bloody guided bus, bloody not reinstating existing train lines to get the freight off the road. The jack-knifed lorry was carrying one of those containers that can go so easily on a freight train.

I’ve only ever found one person in favour of the guided bus, and I’m afraid her opinion, in my opinion, was particularly parochial.

The guided bus system can only take people. A train line would be able to take people and freight. The A14 would be a delight! Even if just the freight were taken away, it would be a massive improvement. The trainline could have been reinstated all the way to the port at Felixstowe. The guided bus only goes to Cambridge.

If the container that had been on the back of this lorry had been on a train instead, it wouldn’t have held the eastbound A14 up, the lorry driver wouldn’t have needed a blood transfusion (a blood-carrying car attempted to squeeze past all the traffic with sirens and lights a-blaze), and I wouldn’t be having this rant now! And I’d have got to do all the things I was supposed to do today.

I need to practise getting up early for some time in December and then again in January, because I will need to go to work for 8.30 a.m. then. I have another contract to do the confidential job I’m not allowed to talk about that I did last summer. The 8.30 start wasn’t so cruel then because the office was within walking distance of my house. This time, I have to drive down the M11 (I’m not allowed to say where to), in the rush hour traffic, when people are trying to drive to London. That should be fun. I have no idea how long it will take, so I’ll need a practice run at it as well. Fun, fun, fun.

And all the money I’ll be earning will no doubt just go towards the petrol I’ll be using to get there. Ho hum, such is life.

This is a long story, and I’ll probably never get round to posting all about it, just like I will probably never get round to posting fully about any other such event.

I did have a good time, though. Swimming in the sea was one of the highlights, though, and meeting Vito Pirrelli, who is very chivalrous and gentlemanly, and just the person you need to have when you’re stuck on the side of a mountain.

Yesterday, as I was approaching the roundabout at the A12/A14 junction from the northbound A12, I observed in a lay-by on the other side of the road, where a coach was parked, with a police car parked in front and another parked behind it. There was a policeman standing in front of the coach taking a photo of the front of the coach.

Why would he be doing this?

The copper chopper’s all very well and good, but does it have to be so loud?