All (but especially Cowlers)
“Well, you hate to watch another tired man lay down his hand, like he was giving up the Holy Game of Poker. And while he talks his dreams to sleep, you notice there's a highway that is curling up like smoke above his shoulder…”
I thought by now that the Hookey match report would be in, so could this email be considered a kind of addenda or points to be added to the report when published, etc:
“The last man standing(ish)” - Can I claim the mantle of being the last to attend at Hookey and failing the time trials? The “Peter Mullins Straggler” award (1.50pm on Saturday in the Beer Tent, it must be a record).
“Captain, my captain” – early on Saturday afternoon, I was asked by some very friendly brummies “is your captain here?” I worked out that they meant Steve, which is fair enough as he has “the sneer of cold command” and he wears a beany! But, if he‘s captain, can I be the Sgt of the Hurlers as the uncle I was named after was a Sgt Major during WW2 (and my forename has been a cross that I’ve had to bear ever since). The brummies, as did others, also asked about us doing a pyramid...see below.
“Future Hurlers – the next generation” – Having dragged myself away from the mosh pit (see link below) for a break at about 11pm, two young women approached me asked me about joining the “hurlers”. I told them about the “6 pints”, “long and proud history”, etc and they were still keen, so for next year, it’s a possible chance at world domination and to possibly flog some t shirts. I suppose if we are looking at the “next generation” does that make Steve, our Captain Kirk, our very own William Shatner!
Bands - It was one of the liveliest sets of bands that I‘ve seen at Hookey and one the liveliest/nicest mosh pits, I’ve ever been catapulted into– “Man make fire” and “pencil face” (last two bands for the record). For the confused – for “Mosh pit” – see wiki link below, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moshing
Football, Glastonbury and facilities – Firstly - no footy!! In this World Cup year and with only four of us (Cap’n Steve, Tom, Pedz and I) it was not enough, so we need to improve numbers - “buy in” players a la Citeh? Therefore, with too few numbers for footy or aunt sally and so much to see and do in the festival site itself, we didn’t leave the site all day on Saturday, so Hookey is in danger (a joyous or scary possibility) of turning into a mini Glasto though thankfully without the unisex showers and eco toilets. For me, I still bear the psychiatric scars from festivals in the 80s and 90s, sharing facilities with the crusties, apart from that joyous “summer of love” in 1989 – Inspiral carpets, The Mondays and The Roses – what a summer, what a set of gigs – I can still taste the brownies and my baggy dayglo t-shirt is still in my wardrobe.
No pyramid – again like the Footy with only four of us, not enough and we were asked if we were going to build one….previous comments refer and see “captain, my captain” comments, above.
“Slippery Slope” moment/dilemma - After the “Rubicon crossing” moment of having taken our children along for the last two years and her (my other half) hearing about the young women wanting to join the hurlers, my other half now wants to go….hmmm…. We better start work on a game plan to prevent the one weekend that I have away from the fruit of my loins and the love of my life becoming just another family weekend….help!
Mushy pea fritters – one of my personal highlights – they ran out early this year – just an observation.
Beers – good and larger selection (included for us soft southern lager drinking jessies) and some rather nice milds and a separate cider stall. Note: The beer did not run out until about 10.45pm….hurrah!!
World Cup Hurlers Sweep - Les won the award, having picked the Spanish (see attached), muy bien…
Robert Green and The World Cup – leave it out…enough said.
Jude – still lovely, still unhappy and now divorced (and a Deputy Head teacher)…the Marlene Dietrich (or is it Marianne Faithful) of the Hurlers on tour…I’ll compose a Shelley like sonnet or a dark verse a la Baudelaire later in the week, if time permits and the muse visits.
1st Hurlers cap – Tom Priest – a good debut – he held his own and others (pints), when asked – “well played, that man”.
Weather – good most of the day Saturday - sunny spells, etc, and all that bollix and very overcast (grey) on Sunday morning
Next year – three key points - bigger numbers/more bodies (a priority) – the site and the range of beers keeps getting better (a positive) – The Bell (Aunt Sally) not what it was (sad and a mild negative).
Summary – a very good hookey, but nowhere near the best (in my view), as too many friends were absent or had to leave early and if we’d had a full contingent, it would have been a huge ball of disco and beer flavored fudge with Football and Aunt Sally topping, so all of you who were “missing in action” try and make it next year so we can have it large!!. I’ll bring my fondue set, Cheers or Hasta la vista, as we say in Green Street, Darce
PS – BTW - I am not having a pop about anyone not attending, my fear is that next year I’ll be at Latitude with “the boss” and my children or more scarily at Hookey itself with the aforementioned….
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
2010 - The UnFestival
At technical conferences like Oracle OpenWorld, it has become fashionable to run 'Unconferences' where people stand up and talk about the detailed innards of the Oracle log buffer mechanism. A deliberate contrast from corporate marketing and death by Powerpoint.
Due to a late breaking family commitment, I was forced to attend Hook Norton on Thursday and Friday this year. This had the benefit of missing the crowds but the minor disadvantage of missing the actual beer festival on Saturday.
I checked in to the Bed & Breakfast above the Pear Tree which comes highly recommended - free WiFi, colour TV, shower, toilet and excellent full English breakfast and all possible flavours of Hook until you choose to turn in - around 9pm in my case.
On Friday, I was joined by Steve, his lad Tom (making his Hookie debut) and Peter. Wheeldon appeared with surprise guest Thompson and Bill glided in from somewhere towing an expensive caravan, he'd acquired from Keenan. Canny Scot Bill managed to negotiate a discount for the odd odour emanating from the chemical toilet.
I managed to escape helping Steve's gang erect their deluxe awning by telling my mate, Allan the landlord, that I'd gone for a 18 mile country walk to Banbury whereas in truth I was watching the golf upstairs in my penthouse suite.
Thompson explained his 12 year absence by telling us he'd been busy trying to secure the title of 'Professor' and failing; he's still just a 'Senior Lecturer' at Oxford University stuggling to solve the external GHS conundrum: 'Why the fuck did we all go to Stevenage ?'
Steve had brought lots of food - well bread, peanut butter and bananas. This was bad news for Tom who doesn't like bananas or peanut butter.
Had a couple in the Pear Tree, played Aunt Sally in The Bell where, inevitably, we were accosted by locals who threw one stick, missed and promptly diaappeared without even standing their round.
On to the Sun for another pint and back to The Pear Tree where the stalwarts cranked out of version of the Socialist anthem 'The Rights of Man' before a local advised us that the loud volume might prejudice any potential 'lock-in' so we all adjourned to Steve's VM Dormobile which, inevitably, is pale blue.
Steve got out his acoustic guitar. Young Tom turned rather green but thankfully recovered to produce a moving cover version of Nirvana's 'Come As You Are'.
The next morning dawned sunny and bright. The Hook Norton Festival of Fine Ales was now just hours away. A year of waiting and expectation was finally over.
Let the laughter begin.
And that's when I had to leave.
Due to a late breaking family commitment, I was forced to attend Hook Norton on Thursday and Friday this year. This had the benefit of missing the crowds but the minor disadvantage of missing the actual beer festival on Saturday.
I checked in to the Bed & Breakfast above the Pear Tree which comes highly recommended - free WiFi, colour TV, shower, toilet and excellent full English breakfast and all possible flavours of Hook until you choose to turn in - around 9pm in my case.
On Friday, I was joined by Steve, his lad Tom (making his Hookie debut) and Peter. Wheeldon appeared with surprise guest Thompson and Bill glided in from somewhere towing an expensive caravan, he'd acquired from Keenan. Canny Scot Bill managed to negotiate a discount for the odd odour emanating from the chemical toilet.
I managed to escape helping Steve's gang erect their deluxe awning by telling my mate, Allan the landlord, that I'd gone for a 18 mile country walk to Banbury whereas in truth I was watching the golf upstairs in my penthouse suite.
Thompson explained his 12 year absence by telling us he'd been busy trying to secure the title of 'Professor' and failing; he's still just a 'Senior Lecturer' at Oxford University stuggling to solve the external GHS conundrum: 'Why the fuck did we all go to Stevenage ?'
Steve had brought lots of food - well bread, peanut butter and bananas. This was bad news for Tom who doesn't like bananas or peanut butter.
Had a couple in the Pear Tree, played Aunt Sally in The Bell where, inevitably, we were accosted by locals who threw one stick, missed and promptly diaappeared without even standing their round.
On to the Sun for another pint and back to The Pear Tree where the stalwarts cranked out of version of the Socialist anthem 'The Rights of Man' before a local advised us that the loud volume might prejudice any potential 'lock-in' so we all adjourned to Steve's VM Dormobile which, inevitably, is pale blue.
Steve got out his acoustic guitar. Young Tom turned rather green but thankfully recovered to produce a moving cover version of Nirvana's 'Come As You Are'.
The next morning dawned sunny and bright. The Hook Norton Festival of Fine Ales was now just hours away. A year of waiting and expectation was finally over.
Let the laughter begin.
And that's when I had to leave.
Friday, August 01, 2008
2003 bi-centenary logo
To all those people who stare at us, every year, in a vain effort to decipher what is adorned on the Goat Hurling bi-centennial T-shirts, wonder no more.
Monday, July 21, 2008
2008 match report
Friday
Arrived at Hook Norton around 6pm with none of the travel dramas associated with last years flooding. Well apart from BA losing, finding, losing and then finding a bag not associated with any passenger.
Steve and Pete arrived by bus after Inglis promised to give them a lift and then reneged on the deal. Wheeldon and Dave arrived in a massive MPV that evoked memories of Keenan's 37 footer RV. Wheeldon then proceeded to erect a minuscule 'two man tent' that could probably hold two action men figures (on top of each other) but not two adults - particularly one who is 6'7" tall ! Welcome to Goat Hurling and Hook Norton, Dave !
Inevitably, news of our arrival had hit the Interweb and members of our party received text messages inquiring about our timetable and an anonymous, mysterious voicemail: 'Welcome to Banbury' from known and unknown acquaintances. Net curtains in tens of quaint terraced cottages nervously started to twitch throughout the village.
We greeted old friends (Mym and co.) while we watched Leo set up all the tents in the shadow of the Hook Hotel; a luxury camper van with awning, standalone gazebo, equipped with all mod-cons, hot food, unlimited supplies of food and drink, hot and cold running water, showers, hot tub, sauna and chemical toilets (only to be used in emergencies). But can you really call it 'camping' ?
Went to celebrate the four firm, taut, erections in the Pear Tree by sampling a few pints of Hooky Best, Double Barrelled and Gold in the Pear Tree.
Adjourned to The Bell for out first sporting activity of a fun packed weekend.
We were pleasantly surprised and delighted to discover that The Bell had undergone significant and costly refurbishment especially for our annual visit. The Aunt Sally venue was now equipped with the following:
Returned via The Sun where we enjoyed a solitary pint and admired the expensive fish menu and some ladies playing lounge skittles. The group then hatched a cunning plan to pool our loose change and purchase a house up for sale opposite the Pear Tree. We would rent the house out during the year and evict our tenants, at very short notice, for the weekend of the beer festival. The tenants would however be able to rent out our tents and camp in the field though.
Back to the Pear Tree for lengthy, rambling discussions on the merits or otherwise of Jonathan Ross, Mark Lamar and 'Mock The Week'.
Saturday
No snoring was heard overnight and everyone enjoyed a restful night's sleep. The highlight of Steve's festival happens slightly earlier than everyone else's with the arrival and commissioning of the portaloos.
To the village shop for oily mackerel (Andy), fresh home-made Cornish pasty (Pete - tut, tut), out of date Smoothies (Leo, Steve) and baguettes warm from the baker's oven. Breakfast was consumed on benches thoughtfully provided outside The Sun, in hot sun, funnily enough.
In keeping with tradition, we then paid the customary visit to the Church coffee morning where we were immediately jumped on by the very friendly, welcoming ladies who plied us with high quality, strong FairTrade coffee coupled with seemingly endless supplies of deluxe chocolate chip biscuits. 'Come on now boys, you do need to line your stomachs, after all'.
Arrived back at 11:50 just in time to reserve the last wooden bench in our favoured position at the heart of things outside the Pear Tree. The Hog Roast was now underway and a welcome return after last year's absence although the pigs may not have shared this feeling.
In an exciting development, our immediate neighbours were a brass band who were setting up and Morris dancers. For foreign readers, a beer festival is a quintessentially English affair.
At 12 noon, the Hook Norton Festival of Fine Ales (2008) got underway. After months of expectation that start with email threads in January, the moment was finally here. We purchased the Welcome pack with 8 additional vouchers and we all carefully selected our beers, annotating our festival guide with comments and marks out of 5. As always, this lasted for precisely one drink.
A short, sharp shower forced us to the sidelines but we still managed to retain the bench.
Tim rolled up on his bike having completed the tricky 4th mountain stage from Cheltenham to Hook. He tried and failed to use the shower facilities from the Hook Hotel.
Darce rolled down the hill, ecstatic to see the bench populated with so many people and nearly trampled right through the brass band, in his excitement to reach the hallowed wooden, beer sodden bench (thanks Pete).
As this wasn't enough excitement, Andy Hibbitt rolled in from sunny Stratford upon Avon for what was, unbelievably, his first ever festival. Unfortunately, his stay was short-lived as he was resisting the call of the music tent and attending a Queen tribute concert later that night.
Inevitably, the pulling power of having Andy H in our ranks soon paid dividends as a beautiful lady approached the bench.
She had two quick questions:
With the welcome arrival of Katie, Georgina and Edward (Tim was too knackered and drunk to cycle another 20 miles home), we now had enough small, medium, large and XXL individuals for the 'Human Pyramid'. More importantly, we now also had a decent football kindly provided by Edward as, inevitably Darcy had forgotten and failed to deliver. Still, at least, he had brought the stove for the Sunday morning fry-up.
The pyramid was duly erected at the prescribed hour of 16:00. We enlisted the help of 'Lee' (donned in a Foo Fighters T-shirt) as a Gibbo replacement. This worked out incredibly well and the 4-3-2-1 structure was rock solid.
Indeed, instead of the pyramid collapsing in a heap with people laughing helplessly, falling onto concrete and badly injuring themselves, the pyramid was dismantled in a controlled fashion. A handful of people looked on perplexed, took photos and gave us some half-hearted, generous applause.
To the play park for some football, where we replaced the Championship skills of Gibbo with an audacious £80 million bid for Kaka. Andy scored a delightful left footer and, once again, featured on the winning side after a close fought 6-5 triumph.
We now entered that late afternoon, twilight zone but the break for football seemed to re-energise everyone as we joined the queues (or in Steve's case walked up the exit lane to skip the irritating 10 minute wait) for more beer.
We had pledged to a lady from the coffee morning to watch her son play in The Heatseekers who were just circa 14 years old but did a decent cover of 'Purple Haze' which was very apt for our state of minds in the dark recesses of the twilight zone.
Steve broke his pledge, ignored the bands and devoured 7 mushy pea fitters in 12 minutes flat and also managed to dissuade Pete from doing the same by claiming they were 'minted'.
Curiously enough, Leo had been singing (well sort of) 'Bryan Adams/Melanie C's 'When you're gone' all morning until Pete finally lost control and hit him with a non-existent frying pan.
So Leo was delighted when a young girl joined the band to cover that very song. We had to hold him back from gate crashing the stage to join in the high-pitched harmonies, screaming 'No, no - you're out of tune - you need to be higher - it goes like this "BABY WHEN YOU'RE GONE, FEELS LIKE I'M IN LURVE"
The Heatseekers had lost their drummer (he preferred middle distance running apparently) and replaced him with a baby faced, fair haired boy who was so young and diminutive, you could barely see him peeping up about his high-hat.
To my astonishment, the drummer came out from behind his drums to play lead guitar and front the next band - a threesome featuring an 8 year on drums and a toddler on bass.
Next up were my favourite band of the festival - The Scholars. Classic, indie, guitar rock supplemented by keyboards with due hat-tip to Interpol and Editors.
Indeed, the front man (who must have been at least 17) introduced 'This is the only cover in the set' and played a very impressive version of 'The Racing Rats' and also covered 'An End Has a Start' as an encore.
With decent weather, the festival was very well attended and tents had actually overflowed and pitched in the car park although oddly the same people had left their cars in the camping field.
Consequently, towels were thrown over various barrels and soon there was only Everard's Dazy Hazy (#39) left and all beer, and quite a few attendees, were completely exhausted by 7pm.
Steve and I were kindly bought a drink by Rubin and his stag party from a neighbouring village. We treated them to a few Mancunian phrases and Oasis impressions which they lapped up and we quickly ran off, never to reciprocate.
Unfortunately, the Pear Tree also ran out of beer (circa 10pm) which was a horrendous event and some individuals were reduced to buying Carlsberg.
One young lady had the temerity to ask for a Vodka and tonic, to be told by an incredulous landlord: 'Vodka - don't you realise this is a beer festival, love ?' She relented and asked for a beer: 'Sorry - love we're completely out of all beer'. 'Oh OK then - so I'll have that Vodka and tonic then' 'Sorry - love but we're out of Vodka too'. It was like a Fawlty Towers sketch.
Alcohol is a curious thing - after drinking all day - someone had the intelligence and foresight to ask Darce whether, in addition to the well remembered stove and fuel, he had actually remembered to bring a frying pan. Somehow, we didn't need to wait for his answer - we already knew we'd be eating pasties and oily fish (again) for Sunday lunch.
Attendees: (decreasing attendance time order): Andy C, Leo, Steve, Pedz, Darce, Wheeldon, Dave (both Friday night only), Tim ( 5 hours on Saturday) Hibbo (Saturday for 2 hours - EFFORT !)
Absent but fondly remembered: Bill (fair weather Hurler), Mez (Perth is a long trip), Ben (ditto for Sydney), Gibbo.
Arrived at Hook Norton around 6pm with none of the travel dramas associated with last years flooding. Well apart from BA losing, finding, losing and then finding a bag not associated with any passenger.
Steve and Pete arrived by bus after Inglis promised to give them a lift and then reneged on the deal. Wheeldon and Dave arrived in a massive MPV that evoked memories of Keenan's 37 footer RV. Wheeldon then proceeded to erect a minuscule 'two man tent' that could probably hold two action men figures (on top of each other) but not two adults - particularly one who is 6'7" tall ! Welcome to Goat Hurling and Hook Norton, Dave !
Inevitably, news of our arrival had hit the Interweb and members of our party received text messages inquiring about our timetable and an anonymous, mysterious voicemail: 'Welcome to Banbury' from known and unknown acquaintances. Net curtains in tens of quaint terraced cottages nervously started to twitch throughout the village.
We greeted old friends (Mym and co.) while we watched Leo set up all the tents in the shadow of the Hook Hotel; a luxury camper van with awning, standalone gazebo, equipped with all mod-cons, hot food, unlimited supplies of food and drink, hot and cold running water, showers, hot tub, sauna and chemical toilets (only to be used in emergencies). But can you really call it 'camping' ?
Went to celebrate the four firm, taut, erections in the Pear Tree by sampling a few pints of Hooky Best, Double Barrelled and Gold in the Pear Tree.
Adjourned to The Bell for out first sporting activity of a fun packed weekend.
We were pleasantly surprised and delighted to discover that The Bell had undergone significant and costly refurbishment especially for our annual visit. The Aunt Sally venue was now equipped with the following:
- new, shiny backdrop. Apparently, the landlord said the previous one had been wrecked by the inaccurate throwing of a Mr R. Gibson from Essex (who now owes him £27.50 towards the replacement costs.)
- new sticks - controversy raged over whether tired, battered, wizzened, old sticks flew better than new, smooth sticks.
- thin metal bar to delineate the foot fault line The bar was electrifed with 800 volts to ensure no participant foot-faulted and instantly ended years of endless arguments and raging controversies.
- ...and best of all, particularly, given the quality of the fading light at 21:47- Floodlights !
Returned via The Sun where we enjoyed a solitary pint and admired the expensive fish menu and some ladies playing lounge skittles. The group then hatched a cunning plan to pool our loose change and purchase a house up for sale opposite the Pear Tree. We would rent the house out during the year and evict our tenants, at very short notice, for the weekend of the beer festival. The tenants would however be able to rent out our tents and camp in the field though.
Back to the Pear Tree for lengthy, rambling discussions on the merits or otherwise of Jonathan Ross, Mark Lamar and 'Mock The Week'.
Saturday
No snoring was heard overnight and everyone enjoyed a restful night's sleep. The highlight of Steve's festival happens slightly earlier than everyone else's with the arrival and commissioning of the portaloos.
To the village shop for oily mackerel (Andy), fresh home-made Cornish pasty (Pete - tut, tut), out of date Smoothies (Leo, Steve) and baguettes warm from the baker's oven. Breakfast was consumed on benches thoughtfully provided outside The Sun, in hot sun, funnily enough.
In keeping with tradition, we then paid the customary visit to the Church coffee morning where we were immediately jumped on by the very friendly, welcoming ladies who plied us with high quality, strong FairTrade coffee coupled with seemingly endless supplies of deluxe chocolate chip biscuits. 'Come on now boys, you do need to line your stomachs, after all'.
Arrived back at 11:50 just in time to reserve the last wooden bench in our favoured position at the heart of things outside the Pear Tree. The Hog Roast was now underway and a welcome return after last year's absence although the pigs may not have shared this feeling.
In an exciting development, our immediate neighbours were a brass band who were setting up and Morris dancers. For foreign readers, a beer festival is a quintessentially English affair.
At 12 noon, the Hook Norton Festival of Fine Ales (2008) got underway. After months of expectation that start with email threads in January, the moment was finally here. We purchased the Welcome pack with 8 additional vouchers and we all carefully selected our beers, annotating our festival guide with comments and marks out of 5. As always, this lasted for precisely one drink.
A short, sharp shower forced us to the sidelines but we still managed to retain the bench.
Tim rolled up on his bike having completed the tricky 4th mountain stage from Cheltenham to Hook. He tried and failed to use the shower facilities from the Hook Hotel.
Darce rolled down the hill, ecstatic to see the bench populated with so many people and nearly trampled right through the brass band, in his excitement to reach the hallowed wooden, beer sodden bench (thanks Pete).
As this wasn't enough excitement, Andy Hibbitt rolled in from sunny Stratford upon Avon for what was, unbelievably, his first ever festival. Unfortunately, his stay was short-lived as he was resisting the call of the music tent and attending a Queen tribute concert later that night.
Inevitably, the pulling power of having Andy H in our ranks soon paid dividends as a beautiful lady approached the bench.
'A young lady called Emma,Seriously, a delightful lady called Emma who maintains the Hook Norton Web site, had Googled for 'Hook Norton old lady village shop argument' and somehow happened across this site.
Nervously came over all of a quiver,
Are you the famous Goat Hurlers ? she asked.
Yes ? Well I think you're all a pain in the a**e.'
She had two quick questions:
- Q: Will you be doing the pyramid ? A: Yes.
- Q: Why do you only ever post one solitary article very year ? A: because we are deeply boring individuals with no life.
With the welcome arrival of Katie, Georgina and Edward (Tim was too knackered and drunk to cycle another 20 miles home), we now had enough small, medium, large and XXL individuals for the 'Human Pyramid'. More importantly, we now also had a decent football kindly provided by Edward as, inevitably Darcy had forgotten and failed to deliver. Still, at least, he had brought the stove for the Sunday morning fry-up.
The pyramid was duly erected at the prescribed hour of 16:00. We enlisted the help of 'Lee' (donned in a Foo Fighters T-shirt) as a Gibbo replacement. This worked out incredibly well and the 4-3-2-1 structure was rock solid.
Indeed, instead of the pyramid collapsing in a heap with people laughing helplessly, falling onto concrete and badly injuring themselves, the pyramid was dismantled in a controlled fashion. A handful of people looked on perplexed, took photos and gave us some half-hearted, generous applause.
To the play park for some football, where we replaced the Championship skills of Gibbo with an audacious £80 million bid for Kaka. Andy scored a delightful left footer and, once again, featured on the winning side after a close fought 6-5 triumph.
We now entered that late afternoon, twilight zone but the break for football seemed to re-energise everyone as we joined the queues (or in Steve's case walked up the exit lane to skip the irritating 10 minute wait) for more beer.
We had pledged to a lady from the coffee morning to watch her son play in The Heatseekers who were just circa 14 years old but did a decent cover of 'Purple Haze' which was very apt for our state of minds in the dark recesses of the twilight zone.
Steve broke his pledge, ignored the bands and devoured 7 mushy pea fitters in 12 minutes flat and also managed to dissuade Pete from doing the same by claiming they were 'minted'.
Curiously enough, Leo had been singing (well sort of) 'Bryan Adams/Melanie C's 'When you're gone' all morning until Pete finally lost control and hit him with a non-existent frying pan.
So Leo was delighted when a young girl joined the band to cover that very song. We had to hold him back from gate crashing the stage to join in the high-pitched harmonies, screaming 'No, no - you're out of tune - you need to be higher - it goes like this "BABY WHEN YOU'RE GONE, FEELS LIKE I'M IN LURVE"
The Heatseekers had lost their drummer (he preferred middle distance running apparently) and replaced him with a baby faced, fair haired boy who was so young and diminutive, you could barely see him peeping up about his high-hat.
To my astonishment, the drummer came out from behind his drums to play lead guitar and front the next band - a threesome featuring an 8 year on drums and a toddler on bass.
Next up were my favourite band of the festival - The Scholars. Classic, indie, guitar rock supplemented by keyboards with due hat-tip to Interpol and Editors.
Indeed, the front man (who must have been at least 17) introduced 'This is the only cover in the set' and played a very impressive version of 'The Racing Rats' and also covered 'An End Has a Start' as an encore.
With decent weather, the festival was very well attended and tents had actually overflowed and pitched in the car park although oddly the same people had left their cars in the camping field.
Consequently, towels were thrown over various barrels and soon there was only Everard's Dazy Hazy (#39) left and all beer, and quite a few attendees, were completely exhausted by 7pm.
Steve and I were kindly bought a drink by Rubin and his stag party from a neighbouring village. We treated them to a few Mancunian phrases and Oasis impressions which they lapped up and we quickly ran off, never to reciprocate.
Unfortunately, the Pear Tree also ran out of beer (circa 10pm) which was a horrendous event and some individuals were reduced to buying Carlsberg.
One young lady had the temerity to ask for a Vodka and tonic, to be told by an incredulous landlord: 'Vodka - don't you realise this is a beer festival, love ?' She relented and asked for a beer: 'Sorry - love we're completely out of all beer'. 'Oh OK then - so I'll have that Vodka and tonic then' 'Sorry - love but we're out of Vodka too'. It was like a Fawlty Towers sketch.
Alcohol is a curious thing - after drinking all day - someone had the intelligence and foresight to ask Darce whether, in addition to the well remembered stove and fuel, he had actually remembered to bring a frying pan. Somehow, we didn't need to wait for his answer - we already knew we'd be eating pasties and oily fish (again) for Sunday lunch.
Attendees: (decreasing attendance time order): Andy C, Leo, Steve, Pedz, Darce, Wheeldon, Dave (both Friday night only), Tim ( 5 hours on Saturday) Hibbo (Saturday for 2 hours - EFFORT !)
Absent but fondly remembered: Bill (fair weather Hurler), Mez (Perth is a long trip), Ben (ditto for Sydney), Gibbo.
Monday, July 23, 2007
2007 match report (Saturday)
Saturday morning at Hook Norton prior to the festival was a new experience for me. Steve and Peter walked purposefully to the village shop where the kindly shop owner was helping an elderly lady find the right change and placing her shopping into a bag for the tottering journey home. Well he was until he exploded...
The walk back to the campsite took 35 minutes as we had to say 'Morning' to every single person we met and helped to break up a vicious dog-fight.
We broke our journey at the lovely 16th century church who were holding the regular Saturday coffee morning. Not very laddish behaviour but when you're camping and the two portaloo vans haven't arrived yet, the chance of hot coffee, biscuits and a spotless toilet are all very welcome.
The kindness and generosity of the locals never ceases to amaze at Hook. Within minutes, we were brought proper filter coffee ('just tell me if it's too strong') and shortbread with a hint of cinnamon. Steve made a real mess trying to surreptitiously consume a croissant and simultaneously conceal the Sport 'newspaper'.
We met Paula, a lovely lady who actually owns the Hook Norton brewery, who offered us all manner of hospitality at her house (shower, bath, massage, backrub) but best of all, the location of her most coveted asset - an outside lavatory with peach Andrex toilet paper and privacy.
We also met four visitors who were staying in The Sun because they didn't want to catch pneumonia by camping on the flood plain. Inevitably, one middle aged lady immediately made a play for me. Not even 11 o'clock and the first proposition is marked up on the blackboard.
She opened with the highly unimaginative and original line: 'Don't I know you from somewhere ?' After foolishly divulging my home town, employer and Facebook username, she gave up. Finally, in a flash of inspiration, I said 'Do you ever watch Pop Idol ?'
After we heard the parish of Hook was home to 25 widows (and only two men died of natural causes), we rapidly used the facilities (Pete wasn't quite so rapid taking a full 27 minutes) and made our excuses, together with a contribution into the symbolic red teapot.
Pete and Steve then gave an exemplary lesson in speedy and sturdy tent erection and we were ready for action at 11:55. Purchased tokens, beer list, pint glass and pencil and started drinking.
Went to secure 3 benches (with umbrella) to accommodate all the hordes who cried off last night but were definitely, definitely coming today. Watched a gazebo spontaneously rise and walk over from the camp site which was pretty spooky.
Rain started. Chatted to old friends - Cowboy in big jeans, Mym and a Slovakian gymnast who was keen to top the pyramid.
Rich arrived to cheers from the masses. Steve discovered Jude had sent him a text. It was all coming together nicely. Rain forced us into the music tent where we listened to a teenage band who weren't too bad until they launched into covers of Rock Anthems.
A Welsh man (Dyfed Jones, boyo) played a set in a band, acted as compere, played an acoustic set, served at the Pear Tree, cleaned the toilets, did some stand-up comedy and finally headlined.
Football was calling. Pete was sent outside for a pitch inspection. His verdict was 'soft underfoot, playable but will need a 3 inch stud'. Our verdict was 'No'.
Unfortunately, the formation of a pyramid was also cancelled due to the inclement weather conditions (much to the Serb gymnasts' disappointment). Neither was the Hog Roast present this year so the BBQ stall and the Chipper Van saw brisk trade.
Best beer of the festival was undoubtedly Robinson's Dizzy Blonde. Fans Forum was held at the correct time (14:00) but was bitterly disappointing, missing two much needed panelists and the chaps from Burton.
A band played some jingly-jangly Irish music. Their only novelty was a heavily tatooed Hell's Angel. Their music was tedious in the extreme. The lead singer insisted on a lengthy and pointless 'Hey what shall we play next ?' ritual which he thought was amusing. Pointless because they simply played the same song again. It was so bad I stood outside in the rain and did RiverDance impressions.
Suddenly, God in the form of Dyfed interjected 'Two songs left, lads' and we all applauded. The singer responded 'Aye OK but one is a 12 minute epic'. If I'd had any beer left, I would have chucked it at them. In a moment of madness, Pete purchased a CD for £10 (1 track repeated 12 times).
More beer. More rain. Squelchy queues. Jude, the glamorous deputy head teacher, now blessed with a black eye, pointed out a lad in a brown pinstripe jacket and a tribly. She said 'That guy's a real nutter. Stay away from him. He is banned from all football grounds and has an exclusion order banning him from travelling whenever England play.' I thought he was an idiot who liked Babyshambles and walked around telling everyone: 'I am the only Babyshambles fan in the village'.
More vouchers. Morris dancing. More beer. A glimpse of sunlight. More music.
Adjourn to The Bell for Aunt Sally. We had the misfortune to happen upon two members of the the Cotswold Division 2 Champions (2005) who thrashed us 6-1 (well done, Pete). Some boring opponent claimed we had wagered a pint per point so we made a quick exit and left Steve to argue. Rich denied all requests to visit The Sun (for food) as part of the traditional crawl and the only sustenance available now was 'more beer'.
Evening (and more rain) fell. The headline band, the compere's urgings and 168 gallons of real ale got everyone up and jumping around in the mosh pit. 'Will I stay or will I go' resulted in a pint of beer being thrown over my head. Hmm. Druid's Fluid - No 81. Quite strong.
As I stood back trying to identify the culprit, 'I Predict A Riot' became a self-fulfilling prophecy as I witnessed Mr Babyshambles launch a vicious and unprovoked attack by head-butting a random bloke. Maybe Jude was right, after all. Two security men moved in, looking menacing but doing nothing.
Adjourned to Pear Tree. Last orders called very promptly (11:30) much to general disappointment and rioting.
Rich went to the car park to fetch his Thomas The Tank Engine pyjamas and, frustrated at the early close, lack of footy or human pyramids, decided to embark on his very own moonlit 'Horse of The Year Show'. He was unable to undo the catch on the gate to the campsite (hint: there was no moon) so he attempted to hurdle it and ended up flat on his face, covered in mud.
An excellent festival and plenty of laughs, despite the weather and low turnout.
Present: Andy C, Pete, Steve, Rich, Inglis (Saturday twilight zone only).
Apologies: Leo/Darce ('please excuse me from gym, I've a terrible cold coming on'), Wheeldon
Status unknown; Anson, Mez, Ben, Con, Mullins, Thompson
'Here - put that flaming butter back. You haven't paid for that. Jesus. What the hell do you think you're doing ?'
The walk back to the campsite took 35 minutes as we had to say 'Morning' to every single person we met and helped to break up a vicious dog-fight.
We broke our journey at the lovely 16th century church who were holding the regular Saturday coffee morning. Not very laddish behaviour but when you're camping and the two portaloo vans haven't arrived yet, the chance of hot coffee, biscuits and a spotless toilet are all very welcome.
The kindness and generosity of the locals never ceases to amaze at Hook. Within minutes, we were brought proper filter coffee ('just tell me if it's too strong') and shortbread with a hint of cinnamon. Steve made a real mess trying to surreptitiously consume a croissant and simultaneously conceal the Sport 'newspaper'.
We met Paula, a lovely lady who actually owns the Hook Norton brewery, who offered us all manner of hospitality at her house (shower, bath, massage, backrub) but best of all, the location of her most coveted asset - an outside lavatory with peach Andrex toilet paper and privacy.
We also met four visitors who were staying in The Sun because they didn't want to catch pneumonia by camping on the flood plain. Inevitably, one middle aged lady immediately made a play for me. Not even 11 o'clock and the first proposition is marked up on the blackboard.
She opened with the highly unimaginative and original line: 'Don't I know you from somewhere ?' After foolishly divulging my home town, employer and Facebook username, she gave up. Finally, in a flash of inspiration, I said 'Do you ever watch Pop Idol ?'
After we heard the parish of Hook was home to 25 widows (and only two men died of natural causes), we rapidly used the facilities (Pete wasn't quite so rapid taking a full 27 minutes) and made our excuses, together with a contribution into the symbolic red teapot.
Pete and Steve then gave an exemplary lesson in speedy and sturdy tent erection and we were ready for action at 11:55. Purchased tokens, beer list, pint glass and pencil and started drinking.
Went to secure 3 benches (with umbrella) to accommodate all the hordes who cried off last night but were definitely, definitely coming today. Watched a gazebo spontaneously rise and walk over from the camp site which was pretty spooky.
Rain started. Chatted to old friends - Cowboy in big jeans, Mym and a Slovakian gymnast who was keen to top the pyramid.
Rich arrived to cheers from the masses. Steve discovered Jude had sent him a text. It was all coming together nicely. Rain forced us into the music tent where we listened to a teenage band who weren't too bad until they launched into covers of Rock Anthems.
A Welsh man (Dyfed Jones, boyo) played a set in a band, acted as compere, played an acoustic set, served at the Pear Tree, cleaned the toilets, did some stand-up comedy and finally headlined.
Football was calling. Pete was sent outside for a pitch inspection. His verdict was 'soft underfoot, playable but will need a 3 inch stud'. Our verdict was 'No'.
Unfortunately, the formation of a pyramid was also cancelled due to the inclement weather conditions (much to the Serb gymnasts' disappointment). Neither was the Hog Roast present this year so the BBQ stall and the Chipper Van saw brisk trade.
Best beer of the festival was undoubtedly Robinson's Dizzy Blonde. Fans Forum was held at the correct time (14:00) but was bitterly disappointing, missing two much needed panelists and the chaps from Burton.
A band played some jingly-jangly Irish music. Their only novelty was a heavily tatooed Hell's Angel. Their music was tedious in the extreme. The lead singer insisted on a lengthy and pointless 'Hey what shall we play next ?' ritual which he thought was amusing. Pointless because they simply played the same song again. It was so bad I stood outside in the rain and did RiverDance impressions.
Suddenly, God in the form of Dyfed interjected 'Two songs left, lads' and we all applauded. The singer responded 'Aye OK but one is a 12 minute epic'. If I'd had any beer left, I would have chucked it at them. In a moment of madness, Pete purchased a CD for £10 (1 track repeated 12 times).
More beer. More rain. Squelchy queues. Jude, the glamorous deputy head teacher, now blessed with a black eye, pointed out a lad in a brown pinstripe jacket and a tribly. She said 'That guy's a real nutter. Stay away from him. He is banned from all football grounds and has an exclusion order banning him from travelling whenever England play.' I thought he was an idiot who liked Babyshambles and walked around telling everyone: 'I am the only Babyshambles fan in the village'.
More vouchers. Morris dancing. More beer. A glimpse of sunlight. More music.
Adjourn to The Bell for Aunt Sally. We had the misfortune to happen upon two members of the the Cotswold Division 2 Champions (2005) who thrashed us 6-1 (well done, Pete). Some boring opponent claimed we had wagered a pint per point so we made a quick exit and left Steve to argue. Rich denied all requests to visit The Sun (for food) as part of the traditional crawl and the only sustenance available now was 'more beer'.
Evening (and more rain) fell. The headline band, the compere's urgings and 168 gallons of real ale got everyone up and jumping around in the mosh pit. 'Will I stay or will I go' resulted in a pint of beer being thrown over my head. Hmm. Druid's Fluid - No 81. Quite strong.
As I stood back trying to identify the culprit, 'I Predict A Riot' became a self-fulfilling prophecy as I witnessed Mr Babyshambles launch a vicious and unprovoked attack by head-butting a random bloke. Maybe Jude was right, after all. Two security men moved in, looking menacing but doing nothing.
Adjourned to Pear Tree. Last orders called very promptly (11:30) much to general disappointment and rioting.
Rich went to the car park to fetch his Thomas The Tank Engine pyjamas and, frustrated at the early close, lack of footy or human pyramids, decided to embark on his very own moonlit 'Horse of The Year Show'. He was unable to undo the catch on the gate to the campsite (hint: there was no moon) so he attempted to hurdle it and ended up flat on his face, covered in mud.
An excellent festival and plenty of laughs, despite the weather and low turnout.
Present: Andy C, Pete, Steve, Rich, Inglis (Saturday twilight zone only).
Apologies: Leo/Darce ('please excuse me from gym, I've a terrible cold coming on'), Wheeldon
Status unknown; Anson, Mez, Ben, Con, Mullins, Thompson
2007 match report (Friday)
In a London pub back in March, Steve had persuaded the southern based Goat Hurling contingent to commit to a full weekend at this Hook Norton beer festival.
On Friday morning, as I watched a monsoon over SW London and cars floating around under Kingston bridge, I desperately wanted to reconsider my pledge. Still, I am nothing if I am not a man of my word. After lunch. the sun came out and the rain stopped so I packed up and ignored The AA's sage advice 'Please, please do not even contemplate any journeys unless they are absolutely necessary'. Well this is the Hook Norton Festival of Fine Ales so yes it is absolutely necessary.
My journey was slightly shorter and less eventful than my unfortunate fellow hurlers. However, just as I was licking my lips in anticipation a mere 1.5 miles from Hook Norton, I encountered a ford in the road. I was about to slowly proceed until I realised this ford was actually about 5 foot high. So I diverted around Swerford and arrived at 18:30.
I extracted a thing called a tent from my boot. It had lots of plastic bags, green and orange material, loops, zips, ties, some extendable poles and rusty metal pegs. There was a fine drizzle as I attempted to 'get it up'. Seasoned caravanners (on the moral and literal high ground) took delight in my confusion and tardiness in completing this simple task.
The fine drizzle then turned to heavy rain which improved my mood considerably. I decided to secure a brilliant pitch at the foot of the hill with spectacular views of the mobile loos and pyramid tent.
Three hours later, the tent was finally up. Fortunately, I hadn't missed any ale as Steve and Pete were still en-route from Stockport and Reading respectively.
Rich and Leo simultaneously texted me for a weather update. I replied 'Fine drizzle. Not too bad. Definitely on'. As I walked down the hill, I noticed sandbags piled up outside the Pear Tree. I decided not to share that piece of information and enjoyed a celebratory Hook in the Pear Tree and onto Banbury to collect Steve and Pete.
Stupidly followed signs to Banbury BR station which deposited me in an industrial park 10 minutes from the railway station.
Surprised seven passengers by emerging from the rear entrance and bellowing 'Taxi for MORRELL. Taxi for PETER MORRELL !' Inevitably, Steve text'ed with yet another transport delay so we adjourned for a drink while we waited.
Finally, back to Hook and the Pear Tree to enjoy the different flavours of Hook. Oddly, resident Mild connoisseur extraordinaire, Peter, barely touched his Hooky Dark claiming it was weak, watery and horrible. Well - that's Mild for you.
Although the barmaid wasn't too impressed by Steve's journey from hell, ('8 hours from Manchester, you say - why that really is interesting. That'll be £6.90 please'), the tired and weary travellers got their reward with a welcome lock-in.
Sergeant-Major Priest then conducted a detailed worthiness check on my tent erection skills. He quickly found loops without pegs, loose flaps, a beautiful Roman archway that was completely wrong. He re-pegged a couple of guy ropes and realigned my diagonals before spotting a schoolboy error and a cardinal camping sin - the inner was touching the outer. He screamed 'It's leaking in this bottom right corner. Have you never put up a tent before, you 'orrible little man ?' He then mopped it up with my lovely clean, dry, pink bath towel and swapped places so he remained dry and I ran the risk of sleeping in the suspect corner.
As he possesses very short legs, Pete kindly offered to sleep in the glove-box to avoid getting mud on the car seats.
On Friday morning, as I watched a monsoon over SW London and cars floating around under Kingston bridge, I desperately wanted to reconsider my pledge. Still, I am nothing if I am not a man of my word. After lunch. the sun came out and the rain stopped so I packed up and ignored The AA's sage advice 'Please, please do not even contemplate any journeys unless they are absolutely necessary'. Well this is the Hook Norton Festival of Fine Ales so yes it is absolutely necessary.
My journey was slightly shorter and less eventful than my unfortunate fellow hurlers. However, just as I was licking my lips in anticipation a mere 1.5 miles from Hook Norton, I encountered a ford in the road. I was about to slowly proceed until I realised this ford was actually about 5 foot high. So I diverted around Swerford and arrived at 18:30.
I extracted a thing called a tent from my boot. It had lots of plastic bags, green and orange material, loops, zips, ties, some extendable poles and rusty metal pegs. There was a fine drizzle as I attempted to 'get it up'. Seasoned caravanners (on the moral and literal high ground) took delight in my confusion and tardiness in completing this simple task.
The fine drizzle then turned to heavy rain which improved my mood considerably. I decided to secure a brilliant pitch at the foot of the hill with spectacular views of the mobile loos and pyramid tent.
Three hours later, the tent was finally up. Fortunately, I hadn't missed any ale as Steve and Pete were still en-route from Stockport and Reading respectively.
Rich and Leo simultaneously texted me for a weather update. I replied 'Fine drizzle. Not too bad. Definitely on'. As I walked down the hill, I noticed sandbags piled up outside the Pear Tree. I decided not to share that piece of information and enjoyed a celebratory Hook in the Pear Tree and onto Banbury to collect Steve and Pete.
Stupidly followed signs to Banbury BR station which deposited me in an industrial park 10 minutes from the railway station.
Surprised seven passengers by emerging from the rear entrance and bellowing 'Taxi for MORRELL. Taxi for PETER MORRELL !' Inevitably, Steve text'ed with yet another transport delay so we adjourned for a drink while we waited.
Finally, back to Hook and the Pear Tree to enjoy the different flavours of Hook. Oddly, resident Mild connoisseur extraordinaire, Peter, barely touched his Hooky Dark claiming it was weak, watery and horrible. Well - that's Mild for you.
Although the barmaid wasn't too impressed by Steve's journey from hell, ('8 hours from Manchester, you say - why that really is interesting. That'll be £6.90 please'), the tired and weary travellers got their reward with a welcome lock-in.
Sergeant-Major Priest then conducted a detailed worthiness check on my tent erection skills. He quickly found loops without pegs, loose flaps, a beautiful Roman archway that was completely wrong. He re-pegged a couple of guy ropes and realigned my diagonals before spotting a schoolboy error and a cardinal camping sin - the inner was touching the outer. He screamed 'It's leaking in this bottom right corner. Have you never put up a tent before, you 'orrible little man ?' He then mopped it up with my lovely clean, dry, pink bath towel and swapped places so he remained dry and I ran the risk of sleeping in the suspect corner.
As he possesses very short legs, Pete kindly offered to sleep in the glove-box to avoid getting mud on the car seats.
journey from hell
Anyone offering any excuses for non attendance would do well to read this epic.
Friday 20 July
14:02 Steve - Just seen Norman Whiteside on Alty station. Must be some sort of omen for the weekend.
15:55 Andy - Superb!
16:12 Steve - What the fact that I might get as far as Lem if I'm lucky or Norman ? Are you on your way yet ?
16:19 Pete - Travel is proving a little vexing. Give me a call when you get to Banbury !
17:17 Steve - Where are you ? I may have to go to a hotel at International. What larks. Has it been raining down here or something ?
17:18 Andy - Nr Oxford.
17:19 Steve - Doing well then. Keep going to Birmingham and you can pick me up.
17:26 Pete - Are you on route ?
17:33 Steve - Going home. Sorry guys. See what's what tomorrow. Looks like it's going to be next year now.
17:37 Pete - Train to Oxford. Where are you ?
17:39 Andy - Get a bus.
17:46 Steve - Yeah right you ought to see it here. It's like World War 3. People walking around like zombies.
17:47 Andy - 4 a drop of rain or has a bomb gone off ?
17:49 Steve - I think it's the former but it feels like the latter
17:51 Steve - Change of plan. Looking for a bus...
17:54 Andy - Effort !
18:02 Pete - Just thought. Are you near Oxford ? As I am not sure I can get from there yet ?
18:15 Andy - No. Well past Ox.
18:26 Pete - I am on train to Ox! Hurrah.
18:28 Andy - Roads flooded at Hook. Boo.
19:31 Steve - On a train to Brum Int. Hope to get one from there to Lem and then on to Ban. Keep the faith and save me a pitch.
20:00 Pete - The lure of Hooky Best is working its charms. I am on a train to Ban. Maybe 10-15 mins. See you there.
20:01 Andy - I am supping Hooky. Tent is up (sort of). What's ur status ?
20:06 Steve - At Moor St. There is a rumour that a London train is coming, I have been here before mind. Could be there by 21:30.
20:15 Andy - Keep the faith !
20:25 Pete - Arrived at station entrance !
20:26 Steve - I'm in the vault. Next stop Banbury. Well Solihull but you know what I mean.
Sunday 23 July
10:37 Steve - The nightmare continues.
Friday 20 July
14:02 Steve - Just seen Norman Whiteside on Alty station. Must be some sort of omen for the weekend.
15:55 Andy - Superb!
16:12 Steve - What the fact that I might get as far as Lem if I'm lucky or Norman ? Are you on your way yet ?
16:19 Pete - Travel is proving a little vexing. Give me a call when you get to Banbury !
17:17 Steve - Where are you ? I may have to go to a hotel at International. What larks. Has it been raining down here or something ?
17:18 Andy - Nr Oxford.
17:19 Steve - Doing well then. Keep going to Birmingham and you can pick me up.
17:26 Pete - Are you on route ?
17:33 Steve - Going home. Sorry guys. See what's what tomorrow. Looks like it's going to be next year now.
17:37 Pete - Train to Oxford. Where are you ?
17:39 Andy - Get a bus.
17:46 Steve - Yeah right you ought to see it here. It's like World War 3. People walking around like zombies.
17:47 Andy - 4 a drop of rain or has a bomb gone off ?
17:49 Steve - I think it's the former but it feels like the latter
17:51 Steve - Change of plan. Looking for a bus...
17:54 Andy - Effort !
18:02 Pete - Just thought. Are you near Oxford ? As I am not sure I can get from there yet ?
18:15 Andy - No. Well past Ox.
18:26 Pete - I am on train to Ox! Hurrah.
18:28 Andy - Roads flooded at Hook. Boo.
19:31 Steve - On a train to Brum Int. Hope to get one from there to Lem and then on to Ban. Keep the faith and save me a pitch.
20:00 Pete - The lure of Hooky Best is working its charms. I am on a train to Ban. Maybe 10-15 mins. See you there.
20:01 Andy - I am supping Hooky. Tent is up (sort of). What's ur status ?
20:06 Steve - At Moor St. There is a rumour that a London train is coming, I have been here before mind. Could be there by 21:30.
20:15 Andy - Keep the faith !
20:25 Pete - Arrived at station entrance !
20:26 Steve - I'm in the vault. Next stop Banbury. Well Solihull but you know what I mean.
Sunday 23 July
10:37 Steve - The nightmare continues.
Friday, July 20, 2007
2007 Agenda
Friday night
17:28 - Erect tents.
17:30 - BBQ - no-one has brought burgers or rolls, just lard.
18:01 - Beer in Pear Tree
19:28 - Aunt Sally tournament @ The Bell
21:21 - Food somewhere
Saturday
12 noon - Festival opens - beer
13:00 - Londoners arrive
13:15 - Brighton contingent arrive
14:29 - Londoners finally 'get it up' (the tent)
13:00 - Football fans forums (West Ham, Man Yoo, Citeh, Seagulls in heated discussion)
14:00 - Comedy half-hour - Sven Goran Eriksson and Manchester City
14:30 - Torrential downpour. Adjourn to play chess.
15:00 - Rain relents. Adjourn to park for real-life football
16:12 - Twilight zone - Queues build for Roddy Doyle's (Fish&Chip) Van
17:09 - Some barrels start to run dry
19:45 - Pear Tree for community singing
23:27 - Police encourage locals to go home and stop fighting
Sunday
08:26 - Full English Breakfast is served. Unfortunately, no-one brought bacon, eggs, mushroom, sausages or ketchup (just lard)
17:28 - Erect tents.
17:30 - BBQ - no-one has brought burgers or rolls, just lard.
18:01 - Beer in Pear Tree
19:28 - Aunt Sally tournament @ The Bell
21:21 - Food somewhere
Saturday
12 noon - Festival opens - beer
13:00 - Londoners arrive
13:15 - Brighton contingent arrive
14:29 - Londoners finally 'get it up' (the tent)
13:00 - Football fans forums (West Ham, Man Yoo, Citeh, Seagulls in heated discussion)
14:00 - Comedy half-hour - Sven Goran Eriksson and Manchester City
14:30 - Torrential downpour. Adjourn to play chess.
15:00 - Rain relents. Adjourn to park for real-life football
16:12 - Twilight zone - Queues build for Roddy Doyle's (Fish&Chip) Van
17:09 - Some barrels start to run dry
19:45 - Pear Tree for community singing
23:27 - Police encourage locals to go home and stop fighting
Sunday
08:26 - Full English Breakfast is served. Unfortunately, no-one brought bacon, eggs, mushroom, sausages or ketchup (just lard)
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
2006 match report
The day dawned sunny and bright and I packed all my gear (sleeping bag, two T-shirts) into the car and set off for Hook Norton.
My hefty sleeping bag completely filled the boot leaving no room for my 20 quid tent that I bought specially for this years festival to avoid having to put upon Rich and Darce. This particular sleeping bag was rated at 27.5 togs and the label said 'As used by the Norwegian military in the Arctic'. Pity the weather was a sweltering 34'C but still. At least I wouldn't be cold.
As I rolled down the familar hill at 12.18 precisely, I saw a familiar figure in the same pale blue shirt wearing the same, battered, tired old beanie hat. Two other regular attendees, proud father (Pedz) and son (Ben) were also present on the same, familiar bench in front of the Pear Tree.
I bought my festival pint glass, beer tokens and sat down to savour my first pint. Rich and Darce turned up. 58 minutes later after erecting their tent and having a quick nap, the two boys from Laandaan finally deigned to join us.
Then a strange thing happened, the skies went a funny grey colour and spots of wet stuff fell from the sky. This has never been known to happen before in 7, 8 or is it 9 years at Hook. Our glorious leader, Steve, insisted that we all simply stay put and sit it out. He had seen a TV program 'When twisters go bad', where a family were literally on the edge of a weather system and finished their picnic amidst surrounding chaos and destruction.
After 40 minutes, with our clothes dripping, sitting in total isolation in a raging torrent flowing down the hill, we thought Steve might just be wrong on this occasion and adjourned to the beer tents. Although, initially disppointed, this change of scene had some advantages. We were stood a mere three feet from the barrels. No more time wasted standing in queues.
Also, we were able to make some new friends. Steve had already been accosted by Mym, the GHS stalker and newly appointed official photographer for the weekend. Mym was camping it up (literally) and recognized Steve from his massive tool - sorry - crumpled beanie hat that morning and striking good looks.
Rich discussed his favourite real ales with this gentleman and the pace of drinking accelerated considerably while Steve broke with GHS tradition and got chatting to a female. Worse, it was a young, pretty lady.
This exciting development was brought to our attention when a breathless Pedz scuttled up the back passage, lifted the tent flaps up and breathlessly exclaimed 'Lads - come on. Quick. Steve is chatting to a GIRL !'. We all said 'Yeah, yeah, of course he is, Pete' and we all proferred another couple of tokens across the table for another lovely pint.
Anyway, when Ben arrived minutes later and breathlessly screamed 'Quick - lads. Come to the chess board. Priest is talking to TWO girls', we all deposited our pints with Rich's mate and sprinted across the muddy grass to the checkers board.
Sure enough, Steve was holding court with a teacher - sorry deputy head - and a lady from Wales. We all crammed onto a single black square, muscling old ladies and Morris dancers with broken sticks out of the way.
With pleasant female company, the afternoon simply flew by. Business cards were exchanged. Eventually Steve's companion said 'Look - it's stopped raining now and everyone's outside. Do you really have to stand so close to me ?'
With the improved weather, the deferred football fixture took place. The Hurlers took on a young, understrength Hook team with bare chests, no talent and no manners. Andy C scored the goal of the season with a delicious chip from the half-way line and celebrated with more running than he has produced in the last two festivals. Darcy won the coveted 'Most Improved Player' award.
And so to The Bell. Unfortunately, this venue has fallen into disrepair and needs some tender, loving care. Worse, the Sally was missing so a can of Stella was used instead. Someone won and one missile struck the top of the metal barrier and nearly ended up back in the lounge bar.
Steve then played some audio snips from his phone including 'Hells Angels from Hell' who interrupted his sleep the previous night and a rendition of 'Working on the Railroad' from the sadly, absent, Mr. Michael Wheeldon from last years festival.
Back to the Pear Tree for the formation of human pyramids. Firstly, a small 3-2-1 by the burger stall to get those old muscles loosened up and to check the viability of Steve's dodgy knee.
Then, to the grassy knoll, for a hugely impressive 4-3-2-1. Inevitably, Steve cajoled a young lady to form the top row. She was very enthusiastic 'Ooh. I love to go on top. Please let me. Please let me. I am really good on top.'
Then some more enthusiastic, drunken, local teenagers joined the party and we repeatedly attempted a 5-4-3-2-1 pyramid. This has only been completed once before (Warwick Graduation 1984). Unfortunately, novices tend to put their knees on backs insread of shoulders and several attempts failed in crumpled heaps much to the amusement and raucous applause of the assembled masses. Why - we even got a bigger round applause than the Morris Dancers and the Shire Horse defacating on the road put together.
Back to the beer tent to clean up the 'session' ales and into the Pear Tree for a proper glass. Another break with tradition - we actually watched some of the bands. Some big names were playing this year due to the cancellation of Glastonbury - Muse played a really good set as did 'Blues Out Loud' with three superb musicians and a guitarist to rival Hendrix but who wore glasses and looked like a Linux geek.
And back to the pub for the traditional sing-song. Lead singer, Steve Priest, was mysteriously missing in action in the disco tent and desperate messages arrived begging us to rescue him from the clutches of the teacher - sorry deputy head - but we ignored him.
As a consequence of steady drinking all day, we all seemed in good form apart from Rich ('not tonight Darce I have a headache') so we tried and failed to get more beer to take away ('Off Sales ? Sure - Coke or Lemonade'). Andy even ran all the way to The Bell carrying his 4 kilo sleeping bag but also came back empty handed.
On his return, Andy was staggered to learn that finally the Hurlers had been afforded a rare privilege - a lock-in in the lower beer tent. And what's more, in recognition of all our visits to the festival, our pyramids and contribution to the economy of Hook over the years, it was free. Well, it was free for us once Pedz had stumped up 10 quid.
A perfect night was then spoiled by some irritating young, spiky haired Charlton supporter who oscillated wildy between hugging us and looking to fight us.
The walk back to the tent saw us dodging locals fighting on the street. Curiously, it was the young lady who had straddled Pete earlier on the pyramid. Apparently, her fiance was annoyed that she had only 'gone upstairs' with another bloke to 'have some fun' and he was politely enquiring 'why the f**k did he have his top off then ?' I noticed Pedz hurriedly putting his T-shirt back on, a false beard and hiding behind a large tree.
Another fantasic new innovation for this years festival occurred on Sunday morning when Rich who was bright and breezy while we all had the headaches. Rich (Ray Mears' bushcraft) Gibson surmounted massive logistical difficulties to finally ignite his billy stove and rustled up bacon sandwiches all round.
All in all, a fantastic and enjoyable festival depite the low attendance (quality not quantity) and the weather.
Ben's already submitted his excuse for next year. He is also going to live 12,000 miles away.
StopPress: Official GHS photographer Mym has been sacked. His total output from the weekend is a photo of a fat pig here but he failed to capture any human pyramids or Jude.
My hefty sleeping bag completely filled the boot leaving no room for my 20 quid tent that I bought specially for this years festival to avoid having to put upon Rich and Darce. This particular sleeping bag was rated at 27.5 togs and the label said 'As used by the Norwegian military in the Arctic'. Pity the weather was a sweltering 34'C but still. At least I wouldn't be cold.
As I rolled down the familar hill at 12.18 precisely, I saw a familiar figure in the same pale blue shirt wearing the same, battered, tired old beanie hat. Two other regular attendees, proud father (Pedz) and son (Ben) were also present on the same, familiar bench in front of the Pear Tree.
I bought my festival pint glass, beer tokens and sat down to savour my first pint. Rich and Darce turned up. 58 minutes later after erecting their tent and having a quick nap, the two boys from Laandaan finally deigned to join us.
Then a strange thing happened, the skies went a funny grey colour and spots of wet stuff fell from the sky. This has never been known to happen before in 7, 8 or is it 9 years at Hook. Our glorious leader, Steve, insisted that we all simply stay put and sit it out. He had seen a TV program 'When twisters go bad', where a family were literally on the edge of a weather system and finished their picnic amidst surrounding chaos and destruction.
After 40 minutes, with our clothes dripping, sitting in total isolation in a raging torrent flowing down the hill, we thought Steve might just be wrong on this occasion and adjourned to the beer tents. Although, initially disppointed, this change of scene had some advantages. We were stood a mere three feet from the barrels. No more time wasted standing in queues.
Also, we were able to make some new friends. Steve had already been accosted by Mym, the GHS stalker and newly appointed official photographer for the weekend. Mym was camping it up (literally) and recognized Steve from his massive tool - sorry - crumpled beanie hat that morning and striking good looks.
Rich discussed his favourite real ales with this gentleman and the pace of drinking accelerated considerably while Steve broke with GHS tradition and got chatting to a female. Worse, it was a young, pretty lady.
This exciting development was brought to our attention when a breathless Pedz scuttled up the back passage, lifted the tent flaps up and breathlessly exclaimed 'Lads - come on. Quick. Steve is chatting to a GIRL !'. We all said 'Yeah, yeah, of course he is, Pete' and we all proferred another couple of tokens across the table for another lovely pint.
Anyway, when Ben arrived minutes later and breathlessly screamed 'Quick - lads. Come to the chess board. Priest is talking to TWO girls', we all deposited our pints with Rich's mate and sprinted across the muddy grass to the checkers board.
Sure enough, Steve was holding court with a teacher - sorry deputy head - and a lady from Wales. We all crammed onto a single black square, muscling old ladies and Morris dancers with broken sticks out of the way.
With pleasant female company, the afternoon simply flew by. Business cards were exchanged. Eventually Steve's companion said 'Look - it's stopped raining now and everyone's outside. Do you really have to stand so close to me ?'
With the improved weather, the deferred football fixture took place. The Hurlers took on a young, understrength Hook team with bare chests, no talent and no manners. Andy C scored the goal of the season with a delicious chip from the half-way line and celebrated with more running than he has produced in the last two festivals. Darcy won the coveted 'Most Improved Player' award.
And so to The Bell. Unfortunately, this venue has fallen into disrepair and needs some tender, loving care. Worse, the Sally was missing so a can of Stella was used instead. Someone won and one missile struck the top of the metal barrier and nearly ended up back in the lounge bar.
Steve then played some audio snips from his phone including 'Hells Angels from Hell' who interrupted his sleep the previous night and a rendition of 'Working on the Railroad' from the sadly, absent, Mr. Michael Wheeldon from last years festival.
Back to the Pear Tree for the formation of human pyramids. Firstly, a small 3-2-1 by the burger stall to get those old muscles loosened up and to check the viability of Steve's dodgy knee.
Then, to the grassy knoll, for a hugely impressive 4-3-2-1. Inevitably, Steve cajoled a young lady to form the top row. She was very enthusiastic 'Ooh. I love to go on top. Please let me. Please let me. I am really good on top.'
Then some more enthusiastic, drunken, local teenagers joined the party and we repeatedly attempted a 5-4-3-2-1 pyramid. This has only been completed once before (Warwick Graduation 1984). Unfortunately, novices tend to put their knees on backs insread of shoulders and several attempts failed in crumpled heaps much to the amusement and raucous applause of the assembled masses. Why - we even got a bigger round applause than the Morris Dancers and the Shire Horse defacating on the road put together.
Back to the beer tent to clean up the 'session' ales and into the Pear Tree for a proper glass. Another break with tradition - we actually watched some of the bands. Some big names were playing this year due to the cancellation of Glastonbury - Muse played a really good set as did 'Blues Out Loud' with three superb musicians and a guitarist to rival Hendrix but who wore glasses and looked like a Linux geek.
And back to the pub for the traditional sing-song. Lead singer, Steve Priest, was mysteriously missing in action in the disco tent and desperate messages arrived begging us to rescue him from the clutches of the teacher - sorry deputy head - but we ignored him.
As a consequence of steady drinking all day, we all seemed in good form apart from Rich ('not tonight Darce I have a headache') so we tried and failed to get more beer to take away ('Off Sales ? Sure - Coke or Lemonade'). Andy even ran all the way to The Bell carrying his 4 kilo sleeping bag but also came back empty handed.
On his return, Andy was staggered to learn that finally the Hurlers had been afforded a rare privilege - a lock-in in the lower beer tent. And what's more, in recognition of all our visits to the festival, our pyramids and contribution to the economy of Hook over the years, it was free. Well, it was free for us once Pedz had stumped up 10 quid.
A perfect night was then spoiled by some irritating young, spiky haired Charlton supporter who oscillated wildy between hugging us and looking to fight us.
The walk back to the tent saw us dodging locals fighting on the street. Curiously, it was the young lady who had straddled Pete earlier on the pyramid. Apparently, her fiance was annoyed that she had only 'gone upstairs' with another bloke to 'have some fun' and he was politely enquiring 'why the f**k did he have his top off then ?' I noticed Pedz hurriedly putting his T-shirt back on, a false beard and hiding behind a large tree.
Another fantasic new innovation for this years festival occurred on Sunday morning when Rich who was bright and breezy while we all had the headaches. Rich (Ray Mears' bushcraft) Gibson surmounted massive logistical difficulties to finally ignite his billy stove and rustled up bacon sandwiches all round.
All in all, a fantastic and enjoyable festival depite the low attendance (quality not quantity) and the weather.
Ben's already submitted his excuse for next year. He is also going to live 12,000 miles away.
StopPress: Official GHS photographer Mym has been sacked. His total output from the weekend is a photo of a fat pig here but he failed to capture any human pyramids or Jude.
Monday, July 18, 2005
2005 match report
[ We had lengthy tedious discussions about the chronology of the GHS/HK festivals - what year was the parrot sanctuary, what year did Cowling buy a round, what year was lard so I thought a write-up was required ]
Stung by Steve Priest's harsh criticism in previous years and mindful of the fact that it takes a little longer to get to Hook Norton than you might think, I set my alarm clock for 05.30 prompt on Saturday morning.
The weather was cloudy as I drove up the M40 and I was a little concerned that I omitted to pack my winter style fleece, thermals and a 15.5 tog Arctic-Meister sleeping bag. However my worries proved to be unfounded as I travelled through the winding, country lanes up over the oh so familiar hill and as I entered Hook Norton, the blazing sun broke through.
11.30 on Saturday morning represented my earliest ever start to the Festival of Fine Ales so I was relieved to see Steve had completed his morning ablutions. Apparently, he was queuing up and knocking on the Portaloo doors from about 07.00am. The festival wasn't even open yet so I had a quick Hooky from the Pear Tree. Surprisingly Pete declined my first and last kind offer of a drink. Maybe he was feeling a little delicate having supped 3 pints of shandy in the Pear Tree the night before.
The Festival opened and as the queues were tolerable, got a few different halves of different ales in. Tip - sometimes you get a generous half in a pint glass.
News of Rich Gibson's arrival reached me on the grapevine so pretended I was fully occupied in the Hog Roast/Toilet/Ale queue to avoid being roped in to help him 'get it up' over in the camping field.
Darcy arrived from Laandaan. While he had remembered to pack the tent that was no longer required and a warm sweater and fleece, he had forgotten the sleeping bag that was so had to divert via Black's in Banbury to buy another one. Obviously, he was not feeling that confident of pulling a buxom young, country lass with rosy cheeks with
a warm, inviting bed to share. Darcy had made yet another far more serious oversight. He was supposed to give Mark Harden a lift from Stratford tube station but forgotten. Oh well. Maybe next year.
Unfortunately, Peter Mullins joined the long list of no-shows. He came over to Melton Mowbray two weeks previously to visit his mum and avoid the festivities at Hook Norton.
Richard Gibson was sporting a lovely goatee, silver beard which looked very stupid - sorry - distinguished.
The 52 bus rolled into Hook Norton and deposited Michael Wheeldon into our midst.
Some ale was supped. Pete got some mild and claimed it was a mishtake - honest. More ale was supped. A innovative new stall appeared at the festival this year - Chutneys, jams and marmalades which was absolutely fantastic. God - those lightweights will be even more sick they missed the festival.
The afternoon drifted along (with music from Coldplay in the Pyramid Tent) and we entered the twilight zone - people starting buying more tokens than their drinking prowess merited so Darcy will be looking to shift 40 1 quid tokens on eBay Monday morning.
Time for the pyramid on the grassy knoll and it was an absolute rock solid example of the art. We maintained it for 7 minutes without a wobble and safely dismantled it without serious injury to participants or amazed spectators. Pity it was only a 3-2-1'er !
Off to the park for the traditional footy match. We had Des, Jed, Dominic and a fair haired accordion player making up the numbers this year. Andy Cowling played superbly - blocking goals with breath taking saves at one end and then popping up in the opposition box, screaming 'IF YOU WANT, IF YOU WANT' to score the winner.
The recreational theme continued as we made out way to The Bell for the Aunt Sally tournament. A massive kitty was started to buy loads of ale (fiver in). Darcy unsuccessfully tried to contribute tokens. The manic landlord with bulging, staring eyes got out his best, polished mahogany missiles which are usually reserved for Pub competitions against Swerford.
We took on an AllComers team from as far away as Oxford featuring a lovely, bubbly girl with Red hair (think Ginger Spice but worse), who Rich insulted by calling 'Ginge'. Also, Iris and Jim, a quietly spoken couple who looked very much in love.
We were all on excellent form and beat them handsomely in the evening sun (6-1, 4-1, 3-0). Clean hits, no metal.
So, on to The Sun, packed with locals who despise the festival and all who attend it. Cold, hard stares as we walked in. Even colder, harder stares when Darcy fills their lavatories with his own version of Festival Mix.
Back to the Pear Tree to the sing-song in time honoured fashion. Thankfully, Wheeldon is present to recount correctly the 18 verses of 'On The Railway'. We succeed in cornering a young couple, who are very much in love and enjoying a quiet little, romantic drink. She was an optician from Oxford but lives in Cardiff with a lovely smile and great figure. He was her husband.
Gibson was the first to weaken and was heard to utter 'Why can't we just go to bed now ?' which was a good line but failed to impress hubby that much.
A lovely comfortable night on the rock-hard ground eventually passed.
Awoke to hear radio reports that an earthquake had struck in Chipping Norton during the night registering 5.7 on the Richter scale. This transpired to be a false alarm and was later attributed to Darcy's snoring.
Trip to the Village Shop for unhealthy pasties, pork pies and lard. Thank the Lord, Tim Anson was not in attendance. Apparently, he is auditioning to be the next Harvey on Fat Club.
Rich cooked up some delicious bacon sarnies but, for some reason, Pete declined in his very own, personal, moving tribute to the starving millions in Africa (or maybe he just felt a tad queasy).
Watched while Rich packed up. Drove home via Cheadle Hulme ('no, no Andy don't follow the signs to Banbury station') and Oxford.
Present: Steve, Andy C, Darce, Gibbo, Wheeldon, Pedz
Apologies: Leo (Ashes Tour), Inglis (training Muslim kamikaze pilots in gliders), Mez (couldn't be arsed), Anson (teetotal, health evangelist), Mullins (failed to wake up), Conrad (hates inbred country types and Darce's snoring)
Stung by Steve Priest's harsh criticism in previous years and mindful of the fact that it takes a little longer to get to Hook Norton than you might think, I set my alarm clock for 05.30 prompt on Saturday morning.
The weather was cloudy as I drove up the M40 and I was a little concerned that I omitted to pack my winter style fleece, thermals and a 15.5 tog Arctic-Meister sleeping bag. However my worries proved to be unfounded as I travelled through the winding, country lanes up over the oh so familiar hill and as I entered Hook Norton, the blazing sun broke through.
11.30 on Saturday morning represented my earliest ever start to the Festival of Fine Ales so I was relieved to see Steve had completed his morning ablutions. Apparently, he was queuing up and knocking on the Portaloo doors from about 07.00am. The festival wasn't even open yet so I had a quick Hooky from the Pear Tree. Surprisingly Pete declined my first and last kind offer of a drink. Maybe he was feeling a little delicate having supped 3 pints of shandy in the Pear Tree the night before.
The Festival opened and as the queues were tolerable, got a few different halves of different ales in. Tip - sometimes you get a generous half in a pint glass.
News of Rich Gibson's arrival reached me on the grapevine so pretended I was fully occupied in the Hog Roast/Toilet/Ale queue to avoid being roped in to help him 'get it up' over in the camping field.
Darcy arrived from Laandaan. While he had remembered to pack the tent that was no longer required and a warm sweater and fleece, he had forgotten the sleeping bag that was so had to divert via Black's in Banbury to buy another one. Obviously, he was not feeling that confident of pulling a buxom young, country lass with rosy cheeks with
a warm, inviting bed to share. Darcy had made yet another far more serious oversight. He was supposed to give Mark Harden a lift from Stratford tube station but forgotten. Oh well. Maybe next year.
Unfortunately, Peter Mullins joined the long list of no-shows. He came over to Melton Mowbray two weeks previously to visit his mum and avoid the festivities at Hook Norton.
Richard Gibson was sporting a lovely goatee, silver beard which looked very stupid - sorry - distinguished.
The 52 bus rolled into Hook Norton and deposited Michael Wheeldon into our midst.
Some ale was supped. Pete got some mild and claimed it was a mishtake - honest. More ale was supped. A innovative new stall appeared at the festival this year - Chutneys, jams and marmalades which was absolutely fantastic. God - those lightweights will be even more sick they missed the festival.
The afternoon drifted along (with music from Coldplay in the Pyramid Tent) and we entered the twilight zone - people starting buying more tokens than their drinking prowess merited so Darcy will be looking to shift 40 1 quid tokens on eBay Monday morning.
Time for the pyramid on the grassy knoll and it was an absolute rock solid example of the art. We maintained it for 7 minutes without a wobble and safely dismantled it without serious injury to participants or amazed spectators. Pity it was only a 3-2-1'er !
Off to the park for the traditional footy match. We had Des, Jed, Dominic and a fair haired accordion player making up the numbers this year. Andy Cowling played superbly - blocking goals with breath taking saves at one end and then popping up in the opposition box, screaming 'IF YOU WANT, IF YOU WANT' to score the winner.
The recreational theme continued as we made out way to The Bell for the Aunt Sally tournament. A massive kitty was started to buy loads of ale (fiver in). Darcy unsuccessfully tried to contribute tokens. The manic landlord with bulging, staring eyes got out his best, polished mahogany missiles which are usually reserved for Pub competitions against Swerford.
We took on an AllComers team from as far away as Oxford featuring a lovely, bubbly girl with Red hair (think Ginger Spice but worse), who Rich insulted by calling 'Ginge'. Also, Iris and Jim, a quietly spoken couple who looked very much in love.
We were all on excellent form and beat them handsomely in the evening sun (6-1, 4-1, 3-0). Clean hits, no metal.
So, on to The Sun, packed with locals who despise the festival and all who attend it. Cold, hard stares as we walked in. Even colder, harder stares when Darcy fills their lavatories with his own version of Festival Mix.
Back to the Pear Tree to the sing-song in time honoured fashion. Thankfully, Wheeldon is present to recount correctly the 18 verses of 'On The Railway'. We succeed in cornering a young couple, who are very much in love and enjoying a quiet little, romantic drink. She was an optician from Oxford but lives in Cardiff with a lovely smile and great figure. He was her husband.
Gibson was the first to weaken and was heard to utter 'Why can't we just go to bed now ?' which was a good line but failed to impress hubby that much.
A lovely comfortable night on the rock-hard ground eventually passed.
Awoke to hear radio reports that an earthquake had struck in Chipping Norton during the night registering 5.7 on the Richter scale. This transpired to be a false alarm and was later attributed to Darcy's snoring.
Trip to the Village Shop for unhealthy pasties, pork pies and lard. Thank the Lord, Tim Anson was not in attendance. Apparently, he is auditioning to be the next Harvey on Fat Club.
Rich cooked up some delicious bacon sarnies but, for some reason, Pete declined in his very own, personal, moving tribute to the starving millions in Africa (or maybe he just felt a tad queasy).
Watched while Rich packed up. Drove home via Cheadle Hulme ('no, no Andy don't follow the signs to Banbury station') and Oxford.
Present: Steve, Andy C, Darce, Gibbo, Wheeldon, Pedz
Apologies: Leo (Ashes Tour), Inglis (training Muslim kamikaze pilots in gliders), Mez (couldn't be arsed), Anson (teetotal, health evangelist), Mullins (failed to wake up), Conrad (hates inbred country types and Darce's snoring)
Thursday, July 24, 2003
The day dawned sunny and bright. I simply had to go, mainly because all the best excuses had been taken :-
- had heart attack, resulting in triple bypass surgery last night
- unexpectedly sent to outer Mongolia to do some consultancy for 9 months starting today
- impromptu trip to Boston to visit Cheers bar
- little Johnny's 12th birthday party + cricket match against Sussex second XI
- 14th Wedding Anniversary and annual blow-job imminent [thanks for the cards, lads]
- had anti-alcohol tablets inserted into stomach lining that make it impossible, 'oh go on then, a pint please' to sup ale
Arrived at Hook Norton around 13.45 - God it takes a little longer than you'd think to get up here. Simply must remember that next year. Maybe it's because I'm driving Caroline's underpowered Red Polo 1.4CL instead of my underpowered Rover 414i. Terrible journey. Caroline left me with no petrol and I couldn't fathom how to fast-forward the tape over rubbish tracks.
Anyway, rolled down the famous hill to see two of last years attendees (Pedz and Priest-meister) installed. Shurely shome mishtake. No - look more closely. The GHS Bi-Centennial Hurl had indeed convened enough members to merit two benches to be placed in an adjacent manner. Fantastic start.
New faces, Ben (WhipperSnapper) who possesses a fair head of hair for a Morrell, Paul Selby (who's from Stockport, not Selby), Mez (I got someone else to fly to Boston), Gibbo (2nd meeting in 2 weeks), the effervescent and effusive Gerard ('West aaaammmm') Darcy, Mike ('I left the Palace at home, you mucky bastards') Keano Keenan and a studious looking lecturer who I thought was on the wrong table but did sport very familiar Lennon spectacles, Mr Mike Wheeldon.
T-shirts dished out. Excellent quality and excellent value for 10 quid. Very pleased with my choice of Black XXL. Actually covered my gut which was a bonus. The odd socks didn't show in Red. Pale Blue OK but like a cheap Ciddy shirt.
Rich pontificated over the quandry of possibly being offered an interview a British American Tobacco. Opinions firmly divided.
Anyway, enough of the perfunctory greetings - to business. Stumped up 10 quid for the complimentary Pint glass and 10 tokens to be told it was 5 quid for the glass and 10 quid for the tokens. Shame. Started with a lowly rated pint and then chalked off the strongest ales, they had going.
Avoided the Lees despite Mez's recommendation. Looked like he had inadvertently picked up a stray pint glass from last year from the hedgerow, given it to a member of staff who went behind a barrel, urinated in it, added some slops, passed it back and said 'There you go, Sir. Pint of Lees. A big favourite every year.'
Good conversation, good company, fine ale, all refreshingly free of female input ('Janet called Johnny a pooh-head in the playground - what do you think about that ?'). Venue seemed busier than last year and yet oddly queues for ale less so. Bizarre. Maybe the 5 quid premium was worth it, after all.
Lack of any totty to ogle at from afar. Maybe we should get Bill Inglis back next year and swap him for Mez.
16.00 and we enter the late afternoon twilight zone. Superb 4-3-2-1 pyramid is formed - just the right number. Solid as a rock too and I was at the base. Tried to get a little ambitious and go for a 5-4-3-2-1 but failed to cajole two little boys to clamber up to the top level. Mind you, I'm not sure I'd want to clamber over Pedz's, Darcy's and my very own backside for a half-hearted round of applause and embarassed laughter.
Some Hurlers had broken protocol and gone for fish'n'chips way too early but were now going to play the penalty as we headed for the rec ground for 5-a-side footy. Got two lads to help out (Skinny and Plaster Cast) - God they were shit. Fine goal keeping from Gibbo and honours ended, well, even-ish. Positive that last goal was offside though.
Some ales were running out and the initial tokens and 4 top-ups were exhausted so we adjourned to the Pear Tree and awaited the totty to approach. Experienced a personal crisis of confidence around 19.30 that was cured by having a walk outside or, maybe, it was just my round. Can't quite recall.
Thankfully, Mrs Buggins, although present, kept her massive heaving breasts and interminable conversation to herself this year. Was this a consequence of William Inglis not putting an appearance in ?
Pub ran out of ale (again) and closed to new entrants but we were fine. Don't remember Pedz having to resort to mild this year.
Bedded down in Old Man's tent with Pedz and Paul. Very hard floor and we all rolled to the bottom of the slope. God - I wish Pete had remembered his spirit level.
Drove home with Professor Wheeldon who kept me awake. Staggered and shocked to spot Darcy and Gibbo helping a damsel in distress with two young children. Christ - do those Essex boys never stop trying to pull !
Imagine that, you're driving down the empty M40 on a quiet, sunny Sunday morning. You get a puncture, lose control, smash into the central barrier and come to a halt, 90' across the carriage way, waiting and waiting for following cars to smash into you. You have had a narrow escape with death and you nearly no longer had to worry about how to fill in the long 6 week summer holiday with the kids as they ascend into heaven. All three of you will certainly be featured on the next edition of 'When reconditioned Steel Radials go wrong at 80 MPH'.
Then two kindly, Good Samaritans clad in GoatHurling 'Festival of Fine Ales' T-shirts (one Red, one a very tight fitting Blue with a moustache - hmm is that one gay ?) escort you all safely to the hard-shoulder. Strange, how they don't call the police but the driver is 3 times over the limit. You're safe, you've had a narrow brush with death. You're in shock, you're trembling.
And now you got have got the gay one asking you whether you think Dr David Kelly was murdered by MI5, whether that golfer should indeed have been disqualified or whether Joe Cole will start the season for West Ham - and all in one long sentence in 5 seconds flat.
Got home. Kids still away camping. Slumped in front of the Golf all afternoon. Hoovered lawn and mowed the lounge.
Until next year, 'MORE BEER !'
- had heart attack, resulting in triple bypass surgery last night
- unexpectedly sent to outer Mongolia to do some consultancy for 9 months starting today
- impromptu trip to Boston to visit Cheers bar
- little Johnny's 12th birthday party + cricket match against Sussex second XI
- 14th Wedding Anniversary and annual blow-job imminent [thanks for the cards, lads]
- had anti-alcohol tablets inserted into stomach lining that make it impossible, 'oh go on then, a pint please' to sup ale
Arrived at Hook Norton around 13.45 - God it takes a little longer than you'd think to get up here. Simply must remember that next year. Maybe it's because I'm driving Caroline's underpowered Red Polo 1.4CL instead of my underpowered Rover 414i. Terrible journey. Caroline left me with no petrol and I couldn't fathom how to fast-forward the tape over rubbish tracks.
Anyway, rolled down the famous hill to see two of last years attendees (Pedz and Priest-meister) installed. Shurely shome mishtake. No - look more closely. The GHS Bi-Centennial Hurl had indeed convened enough members to merit two benches to be placed in an adjacent manner. Fantastic start.
New faces, Ben (WhipperSnapper) who possesses a fair head of hair for a Morrell, Paul Selby (who's from Stockport, not Selby), Mez (I got someone else to fly to Boston), Gibbo (2nd meeting in 2 weeks), the effervescent and effusive Gerard ('West aaaammmm') Darcy, Mike ('I left the Palace at home, you mucky bastards') Keano Keenan and a studious looking lecturer who I thought was on the wrong table but did sport very familiar Lennon spectacles, Mr Mike Wheeldon.
T-shirts dished out. Excellent quality and excellent value for 10 quid. Very pleased with my choice of Black XXL. Actually covered my gut which was a bonus. The odd socks didn't show in Red. Pale Blue OK but like a cheap Ciddy shirt.
Rich pontificated over the quandry of possibly being offered an interview a British American Tobacco. Opinions firmly divided.
Anyway, enough of the perfunctory greetings - to business. Stumped up 10 quid for the complimentary Pint glass and 10 tokens to be told it was 5 quid for the glass and 10 quid for the tokens. Shame. Started with a lowly rated pint and then chalked off the strongest ales, they had going.
Avoided the Lees despite Mez's recommendation. Looked like he had inadvertently picked up a stray pint glass from last year from the hedgerow, given it to a member of staff who went behind a barrel, urinated in it, added some slops, passed it back and said 'There you go, Sir. Pint of Lees. A big favourite every year.'
Good conversation, good company, fine ale, all refreshingly free of female input ('Janet called Johnny a pooh-head in the playground - what do you think about that ?'). Venue seemed busier than last year and yet oddly queues for ale less so. Bizarre. Maybe the 5 quid premium was worth it, after all.
Lack of any totty to ogle at from afar. Maybe we should get Bill Inglis back next year and swap him for Mez.
16.00 and we enter the late afternoon twilight zone. Superb 4-3-2-1 pyramid is formed - just the right number. Solid as a rock too and I was at the base. Tried to get a little ambitious and go for a 5-4-3-2-1 but failed to cajole two little boys to clamber up to the top level. Mind you, I'm not sure I'd want to clamber over Pedz's, Darcy's and my very own backside for a half-hearted round of applause and embarassed laughter.
Some Hurlers had broken protocol and gone for fish'n'chips way too early but were now going to play the penalty as we headed for the rec ground for 5-a-side footy. Got two lads to help out (Skinny and Plaster Cast) - God they were shit. Fine goal keeping from Gibbo and honours ended, well, even-ish. Positive that last goal was offside though.
Some ales were running out and the initial tokens and 4 top-ups were exhausted so we adjourned to the Pear Tree and awaited the totty to approach. Experienced a personal crisis of confidence around 19.30 that was cured by having a walk outside or, maybe, it was just my round. Can't quite recall.
Thankfully, Mrs Buggins, although present, kept her massive heaving breasts and interminable conversation to herself this year. Was this a consequence of William Inglis not putting an appearance in ?
Pub ran out of ale (again) and closed to new entrants but we were fine. Don't remember Pedz having to resort to mild this year.
Bedded down in Old Man's tent with Pedz and Paul. Very hard floor and we all rolled to the bottom of the slope. God - I wish Pete had remembered his spirit level.
Drove home with Professor Wheeldon who kept me awake. Staggered and shocked to spot Darcy and Gibbo helping a damsel in distress with two young children. Christ - do those Essex boys never stop trying to pull !
Imagine that, you're driving down the empty M40 on a quiet, sunny Sunday morning. You get a puncture, lose control, smash into the central barrier and come to a halt, 90' across the carriage way, waiting and waiting for following cars to smash into you. You have had a narrow escape with death and you nearly no longer had to worry about how to fill in the long 6 week summer holiday with the kids as they ascend into heaven. All three of you will certainly be featured on the next edition of 'When reconditioned Steel Radials go wrong at 80 MPH'.
Then two kindly, Good Samaritans clad in GoatHurling 'Festival of Fine Ales' T-shirts (one Red, one a very tight fitting Blue with a moustache - hmm is that one gay ?) escort you all safely to the hard-shoulder. Strange, how they don't call the police but the driver is 3 times over the limit. You're safe, you've had a narrow brush with death. You're in shock, you're trembling.
And now you got have got the gay one asking you whether you think Dr David Kelly was murdered by MI5, whether that golfer should indeed have been disqualified or whether Joe Cole will start the season for West Ham - and all in one long sentence in 5 seconds flat.
Got home. Kids still away camping. Slumped in front of the Golf all afternoon. Hoovered lawn and mowed the lounge.
Until next year, 'MORE BEER !'
Monday, July 21, 2003
Wednesday, July 16, 2003
Monday, July 14, 2003
Good News Bad News Time
Good news (for the northern lads) is that the car is now booked. so the proposal is to meet at (or around) Stockport Station (Edgeley approach) at 1pm on Friday. If anyone has any problem with this arrangement then speak now or forever hold your peace.
Bad news is that levermu is an unconfirmed non-starter.
Steve
Good news (for the northern lads) is that the car is now booked. so the proposal is to meet at (or around) Stockport Station (Edgeley approach) at 1pm on Friday. If anyone has any problem with this arrangement then speak now or forever hold your peace.
Bad news is that levermu is an unconfirmed non-starter.
Steve
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
I knew the big G wouldn't let us down.
What a hurling jamboree this is turning into.
Andy, I think you may have write a new account for 2003 and could you have it done a bit sooner this year, Monday morning doesn't cut the mustard with me, young man, I expect it on this site by teatime Sunday.
What's everyone wearing?
What a hurling jamboree this is turning into.
Andy, I think you may have write a new account for 2003 and could you have it done a bit sooner this year, Monday morning doesn't cut the mustard with me, young man, I expect it on this site by teatime Sunday.
What's everyone wearing?
Monday, July 07, 2003
Ha Ha Ha. Mr P will have his merry little japes at my expense. Of course I meant I was worried that the festivities on the Fri nite would negate the amount of beer available for consumption on the Sat, which of course is still a great worry to my prodigious appetite for ale, as I doubted my ability to restrict my consumption to a manageable amount, unlike Mr P, who seems to be preparing the way for his usual nite-time slumbers, albeit with some nubile female fawning over his prostrate body.
And more power to Timbo - a magnificent effort to attend, unlike some of our one-time celebrated colleagues. However, perhaps next year, we shouldn't mention the awesome quantity of ale expected to be consumed, and no doubt these feeble and puerile excuses will be no more. It'll be great to see Levermu there..
And more power to Timbo - a magnificent effort to attend, unlike some of our one-time celebrated colleagues. However, perhaps next year, we shouldn't mention the awesome quantity of ale expected to be consumed, and no doubt these feeble and puerile excuses will be no more. It'll be great to see Levermu there..
Friday, July 04, 2003
Rejoice!!!
Pedz will be pleased, he was secretly worried that as you were only going to be there for the friday you might want to consume your whole weekends worth of beer in the one evening. He likes to take it easy on the first night (even easier than the second if that is possible) and he was worried he might not be up to the festival ale on Saturday.
Now if I can just get Levermu to answer his phone........
I hope no one does top Tim's excuse.
Pedz will be pleased, he was secretly worried that as you were only going to be there for the friday you might want to consume your whole weekends worth of beer in the one evening. He likes to take it easy on the first night (even easier than the second if that is possible) and he was worried he might not be up to the festival ale on Saturday.
Now if I can just get Levermu to answer his phone........
I hope no one does top Tim's excuse.
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