According to MSM, the crazy cat lady has won today’s court case. If defaming your victims is victory, then maybe. This is a dark day for responsible journalism – I explain why.
I have happy memories of childhood visits to my father’s parents in Appledore on Romney Marsh. One of thosee was in “helping” grandpa, Sir John Winnifrith, with his garden of which he was immensely proud. Big nets kept the birds away from an incredibly ordered and productive fruit and vegetable patch which he tended carefully keeping the weeds and slugs at bay.
We crossed the line at 9.15, where heroic Nick Richards was on hand to meet us. Job done – thank you for all the donations. If you are yet to donate, please do so now. Now, for some elderflower champagne.
We sped past Jane Austen’s house and into Alton, where I bring you a picture of three bears. No delays for the five rogue bloggers and, at 4.10 pm, with 11 miles to go, we caught up with 78-year-old Fleet Street legend, Brian Basham, and his trainer J, who had left Winchester five hours before us. We are now just nine miles from Woodlarks, and the group is again splitting into fast and slow. Amazingly, I am in the fast group. If you are yet to donate to this fantastic cause, please do so HERE.
At 17 miles, we are now halfway. Brian Basham, who started just after midnight, is now a couple of miles ahead of the main group; so, we are stopping for lunch. I wish my friend, Jonathan Price the euro loon, were here joining me, as I am struggling a bit. His Guardianista thoughts are always a reason to march on and end the suffering. The next stop is four miles away, and it is hard to think beyond that. Again, everyone else eats as I nibble at my half-eaten breakfast sandwich. I feel rotten. If you have yet to donate, please do so HERE.
The next target is lunch, which is 3 miles away. We are, I calculate, on track to catch Brian Basham at c. 3 pm. My fellow rogue bloggers, even the hungover Lucian Miers and reader, N, who has an incredibly heavy backpack, are in fine form. I am not. Something isn’t right, and I am just taking on more liquids at this stage. I have confessed to Nick Richards that, for the first time, I may not make it to the finish line this year. Nevertheless, I am focused on the next three miles, which take us just past halfway. Master Miers, a barking-mad commie, is keeping at the back to help me along, entertaining me with his bonkers worldview. He makes our in-house Euro loon, Jonathan Price, seem rather sane. Think of my suffering, as Master Miers explains why rich people’s houses should be nationalised, and donate to Woodlarks HERE.
We marched past the beds of watercress, and are now just 15 minutes behind schedule. At the first rest break – the Cricketers Arms – Lucian is apologising for last night’s excess to his Mrs. Fleet Street legend, Brian Basham has been in contact. Two hours ago, he was 45 minutes ahead of where we are now. The pursuit is on. If you have yet to donate to this great cause, think of the suffering that lies ahead: 25 miles still to go! Please donate HERE.
There are two late dropouts: reader Sam and Andrew Bell. Fleet Street legend, Brian Basham, has gone AWOL. So, it is just me, reader N, Steve Moore, and a very hungover Lucian Miers (along with his communist son). Lucian’s hangover has delayed us by 35 minutes, but now, we are off! If you have yet to donate, please do so HERE.
In order to be fecking green and recycle them for use again, I always keep empty plastic bottles. The Mrs thinks she is green by throwing them away, so Wrexham Council can use vast amounts of fuel recycling them. Today, she might understand the method in my madness.
For an all-too-brief period, our elderflower tree bursts into glorious white blooms. Then, they are gone. Making hay while the sun shines, last Sunday, Joshua and I waded through the long grasses. I created enough of a track for him to follow through, with the grass towering over the little fellow. 80 heads were picked, before we headed home.
It is all to do with “Kisses on a Postcard“ by Dominic’s late father, Terence. I shouldn’t have been such a pedant – but I am. I discuss family links and experiences of 1938-44, evacuations, operation Pied Piper, and why we give poor old Neville Chamberlain such a bad rap. I hope Frisby junior can forgive me, and commend to you the work of Frisby senior, as anything this family touches must be magic.
Just like the Greek Hovel - which, in reality, is a luxury eco-palace (book here) - the Welsh Hovel is not really a hovel, either. It is a listed building that, after three and a half years, is almost entirely renovated. I refer you to the “new” annexe.
If you need an explanation for the cartoon below, you haven’t been following the latest signal of virtue.
Having voted Tory in 2019 for which I apologise, yet again there are so many reasons to despise the party. But its approach to Covid rule-breaking, as demonstrated by Sajid Javid, is yet another one. I think of my father’s funeral, as only 30 could attend.
Madame Le Pen would ban Muslim headgear. In some places, Burkinis are banned. And so, I bring you the view from directly in front of where Joshua, Olaf and I sat.
