The Ed Squire's son in law to be challenge stakes
(for ungelded colts with small brains )
Betting is win only, or in Ed's case lose only
2/1 Le garcon Schmidt
3/1 Any McDonald brother (3 runners)
4/1 Any Bugalugs from Smith's Cottage ( 3 runners from this stable too)
10/1 unnamed Didcot Chav
100/1 Dive Simpleman
Wednesday
Today has been set aside for eating & drinking, as it's quite important to get the right balance of high octane sport, mixed with rest & relaxation; there had been some mutterings that we had overdone the cricket a bit, so this was a chance to balance the books. Booked in to La Tupina, which everyone looked forward to except Percy, who prefers a nut roast to a rare steak. But first some culture for a select group of tourists, who were seen taking brass rubbings in the cathedral, follwed by a trip on the toy train. Rest of us sparked up with an armagnac, before heading to the restaurant. This is one of France's top restaurants, and The Herald Tribune described it as 2nd best in the world ! Having enjoyed delicacies such as 8hour shoulder of Lamb & Carpaccio of Duck, I think the experience was best summed up by Rowan, who came out with "YUM ! " Even Percy was happy, as his Codpiece was apparently very succulent, in fact so good that he has posted a picture of it below.
A trip to Bar a vin was rewarded with some fine wines at subsidised prices-it was fortunate that Ed had kindly left his tab open, and the day rounded off nicely with Germany ausganging out of the World Cup. Finally more culture on the way home with another chapter of Bleak House in Chas Dicken's hostelry. The two "big O's" Deno & Jacko insist on an early night as they have had the nod from Monsieur X that they will be in the starting XI tomorrow.
7 comments:
ok so when are the lost boys coming home?
love Wendy
The Furnace & the Orchestra - from Jacques-oh...
So, I got the 0.5 micron shortest of short straws: ‘Jacko - you are rooming with Tim’. Could’ve been worse; it might have been the entire Berlin Philharmonic. Instead I just got the brass section.
To explain: Tim, after a long day’s drinking, smacking people who transgress his many rules of what constitutes ‘being a girl’, bodily inverting passing Algerians, and assiduously watering Simpleton’s shoes, can get a little tired (though never emotional. That’s for girls.)
After clumsily disrobing, crashing around the room with one foot in his shorts and the other through his bed (all measurable in Richter increments), Tim retires to the world where landlords go at bideys. Instantly comatose, the giant brass section swings majestically into gear.
To some, snoring is a mild irritation, to be tolerated in recognition of a loved one’s daily effort to earn a crust. This however is to mistake normal, gentle, rhythmic, nocturnal exhalation with Tim’s version: a cacophony of multi-layered stentorian gasps, interspersed with a gagging, flapping internal struggle, resolved by overcoming physics in a titanic burst... he shouts through his nose.
Reminiscent of the noise a psychotic adult warthog might make if fed amyl nitrate then skinned and dipped alternately in salt and lemon juice, Tim’s nights are a forehead-wrangling, wall-banging, for-crying-out-loud hell for those of us nearer the middle of the Bell curve of human size.
This may have been more tolerable had the room not been a Dante-esque pit, filled during the day with magma then drained each night to be replaced by exactly fourteen molecules of boiling oxygen. Boy, it was hot. Even the Frogs were sweating like a Catholic priest in an after-hours boy’s boxing club.
Other than that, I had a terrific first-ever Tour. I appreciated the invite, and tried my hardest to the engage in everything Bordeaux has to offer (well, the food and drink to be precise). Trying my hardest at cricket proved to be a more difficult task; wearer of the infamous ‘chapeau du canard’ following an innings of golden hue was a humiliation made easier by the simple expedient of only having to don it for about 2 minutes... then Dive lived down to his reputation and took it off me. And, four days later, is still wearing it. Result.
Many thanks must go to Johnny and Crossy for their impeccable tour management, and to everyone else for tolerating what I believe is called a ‘social member’ in the face of what must have felt like almost constant piss-taking. Thanks boys!
The Furnace & the Orchestra - from Jacques-oh...
So, I got the 0.5 micron shortest of short straws: ‘Jacko - you are rooming with Tim’. Could’ve been worse; it might have been the entire Berlin Philharmonic. Instead I just got the brass section.
To explain: Tim, after a long day’s drinking, smacking people who transgress his many rules of what constitutes ‘being a girl’, bodily inverting passing Algerians, and assiduously watering Simpleton’s shoes, can get a little tired (though never emotional. That’s for girls.)
After clumsily disrobing, crashing around the room with one foot in his shorts and the other through his bed (all measurable in Richter increments), Tim retires to the world where landlords go at bideys. Instantly comatose, the giant brass section swings majestically into gear.
To some, snoring is a mild irritation, to be tolerated in recognition of a loved one’s daily effort to earn a crust. This however is to mistake normal, gentle, rhythmic, nocturnal exhalation with Tim’s version: a cacophony of multi-layered stentorian gasps, interspersed with a gagging, flapping internal struggle, resolved by overcoming physics in a titanic burst... he shouts through his nose.
Reminiscent of the noise a psychotic adult warthog might make if fed amyl nitrate then skinned and dipped alternately in salt and lemon juice, Tim’s nights are a forehead-wrangling, wall-banging, for-crying-out-loud hell for those of us nearer the middle of the Bell curve of human size.
This may have been more tolerable had the room not been a Dante-esque pit, filled during the day with magma then drained each night to be replaced by exactly fourteen molecules of boiling oxygen. Boy, it was hot. Even the Frogs were sweating like a Catholic priest in an after-hours boy’s boxing club.
Other than that, I had a terrific first-ever Tour. I appreciated the invite, and tried my hardest to the engage in everything Bordeaux has to offer (well, the food and drink to be precise). Trying my hardest at cricket proved to be a more difficult task; wearer of the infamous ‘chapeau du canard’ following an innings of golden hue was a humiliation made easier by the simple expedient of only having to don it for about 2 minutes... then Dive lived down to his reputation and took it off me. And, four days later, is still wearing it. Result.
Many thanks must go to Johnny and Crossy for their impeccable tour management, and to everyone else for tolerating what I believe is called a ‘social member’ in the face of what must have felt like almost constant piss-taking. Thanks boys!
The Furnace & the Orchestra - from Jacques-oh...
So, I got the 0.5 micron shortest of short straws: ‘Jacko - you are rooming with Tim’. Could’ve been worse; it might have been the entire Berlin Philharmonic. Instead I just got the brass section.
To explain: Tim, after a long day’s drinking, smacking people who transgress his many rules of what constitutes ‘being a girl’, bodily inverting passing Algerians, and assiduously watering Simpleton’s shoes, can get a little tired (though never emotional. That’s for girls.)
After clumsily disrobing, crashing around the room with one foot in his shorts and the other through his bed (all measurable in Richter increments), Tim retires to the world where landlords go at bideys. Instantly comatose, the giant brass section swings majestically into gear.
To some, snoring is a mild irritation, to be tolerated in recognition of a loved one’s daily effort to earn a crust. This however is to mistake normal, gentle, rhythmic, nocturnal exhalation with Tim’s version: a cacophony of multi-layered stentorian gasps, interspersed with a gagging, flapping internal struggle, resolved by overcoming physics in a titanic burst... he shouts through his nose.
Reminiscent of the noise a psychotic adult warthog might make if fed amyl nitrate then skinned and dipped alternately in salt and lemon juice, Tim’s nights are a forehead-wrangling, wall-banging, for-crying-out-loud hell for those of us nearer the middle of the Bell curve of human size.
This may have been more tolerable had the room not been a Dante-esque pit, filled during the day with magma then drained each night to be replaced by exactly fourteen molecules of boiling oxygen. Boy, it was hot. Even the Frogs were sweating like a Catholic priest in an after-hours boy’s boxing club.
Other than that, I had a terrific first-ever Tour. I appreciated the invite, and tried my hardest to the engage in everything Bordeaux has to offer (well, the food and drink to be precise). Trying my hardest at cricket proved to be a more difficult task; wearer of the infamous ‘chapeau du canard’ following an innings of golden hue was a humiliation made easier by the simple expedient of only having to don it for about 2 minutes... then Dive lived down to his reputation and took it off me. And, four days later, is still wearing it. Result.
Many thanks must go to Johnny and Crossy for their impeccable tour management, and to everyone else for tolerating what I believe is called a ‘social member’ in the face of what must have felt like almost constant piss-taking. Thanks boys!
The Furnace & the Orchestra - from Jacques-oh...
So, I got the 0.5 micron shortest of short straws: ‘Jacko - you are rooming with Tim’. Could’ve been worse; it might have been the entire Berlin Philharmonic. Instead I just got the brass section.
To explain: Tim, after a long day’s drinking, smacking people who transgress his many rules of what constitutes ‘being a girl’, bodily inverting passing Algerians, and assiduously watering Simpleton’s shoes, can get a little tired (though never emotional. That’s for girls.)
After clumsily disrobing, crashing around the room with one foot in his shorts and the other through his bed (all measurable in Richter increments), Tim retires to the world where landlords go at bideys. Instantly comatose, the giant brass section swings majestically into gear.
To some, snoring is a mild irritation, to be tolerated in recognition of a loved one’s daily effort to earn a crust. This however is to mistake normal, gentle, rhythmic, nocturnal exhalation with Tim’s version: a cacophony of multi-layered stentorian gasps, interspersed with a gagging, flapping internal struggle, resolved by overcoming physics in a titanic burst... he shouts through his nose.
Reminiscent of the noise a psychotic adult warthog might make if fed amyl nitrate then skinned and dipped alternately in salt and lemon juice, Tim’s nights are a forehead-wrangling, wall-banging, for-crying-out-loud hell for those of us nearer the middle of the Bell curve of human size.
This may have been more tolerable had the room not been a Dante-esque pit, filled during the day with magma then drained each night to be replaced by exactly fourteen molecules of boiling oxygen. Boy, it was hot. Even the Frogs were sweating like a Catholic priest in an after-hours boy’s boxing club.
Other than that, I had a terrific first-ever Tour. I appreciated the invite, and tried my hardest to the engage in everything Bordeaux has to offer (well, the food and drink to be precise). Trying my hardest at cricket proved to be a more difficult task; wearer of the infamous ‘chapeau du canard’ following an innings of golden hue was a humiliation made easier by the simple expedient of only having to don it for about 2 minutes... then Dive lived down to his reputation and took it off me. And, four days later, is still wearing it. Result.
Many thanks must go to Johnny and Crossy for their impeccable tour management, and to everyone else for tolerating what I believe is called a ‘social member’ in the face of what must have felt like almost constant piss-taking. Thanks boys!
The Furnace & the Orchestra - from Jacques-oh...
So, I got the 0.5 micron shortest of short straws: ‘Jacko - you are rooming with Tim’. Could’ve been worse; it might have been the entire Berlin Philharmonic. Instead I just got the brass section.
To explain: Tim, after a long day’s drinking, smacking people who transgress his many rules of what constitutes ‘being a girl’, bodily inverting passing Algerians, and assiduously watering Simpleton’s shoes, can get a little tired (though never emotional. That’s for girls.)
After clumsily disrobing, crashing around the room with one foot in his shorts and the other through his bed (all measurable in Richter increments), Tim retires to the world where landlords go at bideys. Instantly comatose, the giant brass section swings majestically into gear.
To some, snoring is a mild irritation, to be tolerated in recognition of a loved one’s daily effort to earn a crust. This however is to mistake normal, gentle, rhythmic, nocturnal exhalation with Tim’s version: a cacophony of multi-layered stentorian gasps, interspersed with a gagging, flapping internal struggle, resolved by overcoming physics in a titanic burst... he shouts through his nose.
Reminiscent of the noise a psychotic adult warthog might make if fed amyl nitrate then skinned and dipped alternately in salt and lemon juice, Tim’s nights are a forehead-wrangling, wall-banging, for-crying-out-loud hell for those of us nearer the middle of the Bell curve of human size.
This may have been more tolerable had the room not been a Dante-esque pit, filled during the day with magma then drained each night to be replaced by exactly fourteen molecules of boiling oxygen. Boy, it was hot. Even the Frogs were sweating like a Catholic priest in an after-hours boy’s boxing club.
Other than that, I had a terrific first-ever Tour. I appreciated the invite, and tried my hardest to the engage in everything Bordeaux has to offer (well, the food and drink to be precise). Trying my hardest at cricket proved to be a more difficult task; wearer of the infamous ‘chapeau du canard’ following an innings of golden hue was a humiliation made easier by the simple expedient of only having to don it for about 2 minutes... then Dive lived down to his reputation and took it off me. And, four days later, is still wearing it. Result.
Many thanks must go to Johnny and Crossy for their impeccable tour management, and to everyone else for tolerating what I believe is called a ‘social member’ in the face of what must have felt like almost constant piss-taking. Thanks boys!
The Furnace & the Orchestra - from Jacques-oh...
So, I got the 0.5 micron shortest of short straws: ‘Jacko - you are rooming with Tim’. Could’ve been worse; it might have been the entire Berlin Philharmonic. Instead I just got the brass section.
To explain: Tim, after a long day’s drinking, smacking people who transgress his many rules of what constitutes ‘being a girl’, bodily inverting passing Algerians, and assiduously watering Simpleton’s shoes, can get a little tired (though never emotional. That’s for girls.)
After clumsily disrobing, crashing around the room with one foot in his shorts and the other through his bed (all measurable in Richter increments), Tim retires to the world where landlords go at bideys. Instantly comatose, the giant brass section swings majestically into gear.
To some, snoring is a mild irritation, to be tolerated in recognition of a loved one’s daily effort to earn a crust. This however is to mistake normal, gentle, rhythmic, nocturnal exhalation with Tim’s version: a cacophony of multi-layered stentorian gasps, interspersed with a gagging, flapping internal struggle, resolved by overcoming physics in a titanic burst... he shouts through his nose.
Reminiscent of the noise a psychotic adult warthog might make if fed amyl nitrate then skinned and dipped alternately in salt and lemon juice, Tim’s nights are a forehead-wrangling, wall-banging, for-crying-out-loud hell for those of us nearer the middle of the Bell curve of human size.
This may have been more tolerable had the room not been a Dante-esque pit, filled during the day with magma then drained each night to be replaced by exactly fourteen molecules of boiling oxygen. Boy, it was hot. Even the Frogs were sweating like a Catholic priest in an after-hours boy’s boxing club.
Other than that, I had a terrific first-ever Tour. I appreciated the invite, and tried my hardest to the engage in everything Bordeaux has to offer (well, the food and drink to be precise). Trying my hardest at cricket proved to be a more difficult task; wearer of the infamous ‘chapeau du canard’ following an innings of golden hue was a humiliation made easier by the simple expedient of only having to don it for about 2 minutes... then Dive lived down to his reputation and took it off me. And, four days later, is still wearing it. Result.
Many thanks must go to Johnny and Crossy for their impeccable tour management, and to everyone else for tolerating what I believe is called a ‘social member’ in the face of what must have felt like almost constant piss-taking. Thanks boys!
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