Real Mountain Bikers

It’s official. I am a proper mountain biker. Retro traditionalists may claim that 300 metres makes not a mountain, but this is nothing more than semantic pedantry. I’d further refute their laughable claims by offering this compelling and watertight evidence:

Impervious in the face of dampness. As the weather tended to the spectacularly moist, my riding buddy cluster compressed to five or less. Proper riders unearthed dusty waterproofs, traded race shoes for winter boots and, striking a heroic pose, manfully rode out into the driving rain. Frankly, it was pretty unpleasant – a flashback to November with greasy trails outing summer technique as overconfident ego-stroking rubbish which dissolved under sheets of the wet stuff. Although once I’d slid into a tree and suffered a two hour deluxe mud enema, it became strangely enjoyable. Especially at the end. That was the really good bit.

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The dreaded school quiz night

It’s the end of a long week – pointless meetings punctuated by periods of intense activity, fitfully attempting to close the gap between glib promises and actual delivery. The house is full of shouting offspring annoying two generations of the Leigh family and ratcheting my stress levels ever higher. Haven’t these kids heard of Chiltern Railways and their mythical timetable? I’m considering publishing a book “my life on a platform” – it wouldn’t be interesting but it’d be cheaper than therapy.

The school quiz night awaits. This is one of these dreadful group hugs that raises about 50p and attempts to unite a rambling pantheon of disparate individuals to a common cause. The strategy is excellent but the tactics are dreadful. 90% of those who occupy the hall could stay at home unwittingly donating 50 quid so by trebling the evening’s revenue without actually attending. But hey, I really had nothing better to do. Well I did but since there was a cheap bar, I could do it just as well in a drafty hall with a smell than shot me back in time thirty years.

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Why pickled hedgehog ?

Unbelievably “IWANTMYLIFEBACK.COM” was taken by some ‘get off your butt and start your own business’ website.

Rather than reaching for a beer and abandoning the project stillborn, I asked each of my kids for the first word that came into their head. “Pickled” grinned the 4 year old. “That’s a stupid word” retorted the lofty 6 year old – forehead creased in thought – before on came the mental light bulb and she seriously offered “Hedgehog”

We considered “Hedgehog pickle” but having plumbed the blogsphere to all the depth 10 drunken minutes can offer, there was more than a serious possibility that intensive goodling may drive extreme taxidurmists to the site. Now I’m up for spiking the hit counter as much as the next blogger but small truffling mammals and sticky preservatives is a line that not even I’m prepared to cross.

So “pickled hedgehog” it was and Lord save me from Meta Searches.

Apropo of bugger all, did you know that every three letter domain name has been taken from ‘aaa’ to ‘zzz’. No, really it has. One day I intend to methodically plough through the whole lot to cement or dispell this urban Internet Myth. Just not on my own time, I have all day at work for that kind of thing.