Through the Matrix
It has taken me a bit of time to process our recent visit to the Sun at Feering. I don't think any of us really expect to experience a trip across the multiverse as part of MEMWNS (not on the way there at least
).
But how else to explain the mysteries of a couple of weeks ago. The only other possible explanation would be that I am extremely unfit and had not been out on a Wednesday for some while but a parallel universe seems far more likely.
It all seemed so normal as I trundled away from my offshore lair but that soon changed. The first thing I noticed was that it was becoming dark. It isn't dark on the way to the pub.
I then realised that I was barely moving relative to the effort I was expending. Newton's laws of motion clearly did not apply on this world.
It wasn't just the atmosphere and physics that were out of place. I eventually arrived at the pub to be greeted by a "wotcha Ted" in a broad Essex accent but from that well known man of the Valleys (and Suffolk) the Strangler. This Essex Strangler looked like the real Strangler but when he gave me a full tenner towards the kitty, I knew for sure I wasn't in Kansas any more. In for a penny, in for a pound I thought as I ordered us a pair of lagers and waited to see what happened next.
It didn't take long.
I had barely made it away from the bar when I spotted a couple looking exactly like Jemango. Except this version were wearing matching bobble hats and "I love rambling" badges rather than the carefully-curated cycling gear we associate with ACME's glamour couple. When I asked them why they hadn't cycled to the pub, they just looked at me rather sympathetically and said (as one) "we don't cycle, we walk, you should try it". The ensuing discussion involving the unfolding of various OS maps, a compass and what looked like a cross between a ski stick and a crutch is one that will live long in the memory.
By the time I made it back to our table the Essex Strangler had been joined by the BFC, the Hustler and Huggy. Well I say that, he had been joined by someone who looked like he was auditioning for the role of Bad Santa, a guy who rides audaxes even though he is supposed to be retired and somebody who had been to a sunny version of the west of Scotland. The arrival of our geriatric squad (aka Tomsk and Gilbert Inkster) looking spritlier than the rest of us combined didn't even come as a surprise.
Fortunately there were the joint touchstones of sampling ale and talking rubbish to ground me somewhat. At least the important things were a constant in this new world.
In the continued absence of a quorate Quaffers' Choice Committee, no award could be made but Shepherd Neame's Five Grain lager would have been a contender. The BFC's transition from professional to amateur status cannot come soon enough for the Committee. I believe he only has 6 more months if we use the fastrack procedure but I do need to refresh my memory of Schedule 6.
Just as I thought things could not become any stranger, they suddenly became normal again. A few harsh comments about those of us who are becoming folically challenged re-established Jem's cruel streak and we were back in the room.
Mind you, the temperature falling to low single figures on the way home and my continuing issues with speed and gravity had me questioning everything again but the plunge into darkness at 1am reassured me I was definitely back in the correct version of Essex.
