I thought long and hard about this ride. I had hardly been out at all during the preceding week, I had suffered arthritic attacks which had rendered me unable to climb the stairs, and here I was thinking about a 40-mile round trip just to have a few pints. It would be madness.
I set off at about 7.25, intending to catch the 7.28 train as far as Wickford. At least that would knock about 10 miles off the journey, but when I arrived at Prittlewell station, there was a problem. Prittlewell is manned only until 1 p.m. and normally by Councillor Dennis Garne (Lab, Kursaal Ward) but there were two reasons why Councillor Dennis Garne was not there. Firstly, it was after 1 p.m. and he had gone, and secondly, he is no longer Councillor Dennis Garne, having lost his seat by a mere 6 votes on Thursday. There was a third problem: the "Permit to Travel" machine was blocked with coins, so I resigned myself to getting on the train without a ticket.
Shortly before the train arrived, a powerfully built young man in a football supporter's hat turned up and was about to put a coin in the machine. I warned him that it was out of order, so he responded in the traditional manner by thumping it very hard indeed. The results were as spectacular as they were unexpected, as coins spewed all over the platform. I reckon he must have made at least £4 on the deal, in 20p and 10p coins.
The train journey was uneventful. I alighted at Rayleigh instead of Wickford, thinking that it would help me avoid riding up a long hill, and set off towards Battlesbridge. There were a few annoying drivers around, a significant proportion of them in BMWs, but once I crossed the Crouch so the traffic thinned further and the last 9 miles or so involved very few cars travelling in either direction.
I arrived at the Hurdlemakers Arms just after Oscar's Dad, Bobb & Tokamak and we settled down for a good evening's drinking. Our arrival at 9 p.m. coincided with the majority of customers finishing their meals, so we ordered a round, sat down and started nattering about life, the universe and everything. OD gave us a quick account of his experiences as a school governor, we had another pint and discussed a few other issues and then it was my round.
This was rather entertaining because I took a young lady's virginity. It transpired that she was normally "kitchen staff" and had never pulled a pint before. The landlord showed her how it was done and very soon four glasses filled with Might Oak "Simply the Best" bitter appeared, quickly followed by a pint of Abbot for Delthebike. Then I ordered the crisps and finally a pickled egg. This last presented problems as the pub didn't sell them and really it was only down to OD being an awkward bugger.
As might be expected, the conversation turned to politics and the different parties' prospects at future General Election. By this time OD was grandiloquent. Even though the status of Boris Johnson as the next London Mayor had yet to be confirmed, we were all in no doubt about the result. OD then surprised us all by declaring that he would bet that David Hamilton would be the next Prime Minister, that Gordon Brown hadn't got a chance because his media appeal was rubbish, and that an entire jar of pickled eggs was hanging on the result. Bobb is nobody's fool and shook hands on this deal, so unless David Hamilton has a quick change of career, Bobb will be the proud owner of a jar of pickled eggs. We considered the Viper in Mill Green, famed for its pickled eggs, as the next venue for the Essex Boys' Cycling and Drinking Club. This is about 15 miles closer to London so it might attract some of the lily-livered London types who spoke about coming out to play this evening but instead sat in to watch the election result.
Del and I set off from the pub at around 11.30 and cycled back towards Southend. We used the Flambirds Farm track and disturbed a dog or two, and a barn owl, but the rest of the journey was very quiet and uneventful. I arrived home to find the back room light and television entertaining each other while Mrs. Wow slumbered in a chair, her knitting slumped limply in her lap.
