Wednesday, 20 October 2010

Rambler ramblings.

I'm not very keen on ramblers. Probably because I've never felt the urge to walk the downs with a bunch of anally retentive people, wearing my trousers tucked into a pair of red itchy socks, with a laminated map, and Christmas cracker compass hanging round my neck. It also annoys me that they take up all the outside tables at the pub, to eat their own sandwiches (invariably Shippams Bloater paste, on thin white plastic bread) and share a communal half of shandy with twenty four straws.
So yeah, up until today, I wasn't keen on ramblers, but my tolerance was pushed to the limit this morning, and as a group, ramblers moved above wet socks, and just below okra, on my list of strongly disliked things.
Why? Because today, this bunch of intrepid explorers, upset Madge, and that really isn't going to happen without incurring my wrath. Not content with wandering around, dressed like Worzel Gummidge wannabes, these fishpaste munchers have now added walking poles to their endless list of must haves. Gaylord was skipping along, with a teasel stuck in his beard, tossing acorns, Pie was trying to get as much of a cow pat down her neck as fast as possible, before I could catch up with her, and Madge was bumbling along, with her nose to the ground, on the scent of anything that could potentially be dinner. We were just about to walk through a stile, but as I saw two people walking towards us, I made the dogs wait, because Pie's beard was dripping with green stuff, and I just knew she'd feel the need to sniff at least one of these strangers in an area where a green stain wouldn't be appreciated. The dogs were really fidgety, because as soon as they get through the stile, they know they are seconds from the river, but the ramblers were taking their time, and Ted wasn't prepared to wait any longer, so he squeezed through a gap in the hedge. The girls stayed with me, and finally the fishpaste munchers emerged on our side of the stile, complete with rucksacks, that looked like they were carrying enough crap to survive in the wilderness for at least six months, and a walking pole each....bare in mind I live five miles from the M25, and manage this walk with just an iPod, and a blue, made in Taiwan, Pets @ Home, tennis ball thrower. I really don't give a monkeys, that these people are as overdressed and overprepared, as I'd be, turning up at McDonalds in a cocktail dress, with a table cloth, silver cutlery, and a cut glass decanter to pour my milkshake from, tucked under my arm, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't seriously pissed off, when these idiots, started using their damn poles, like extras in some third rate swashbuckling film, to fend off two well behaved ladies, who just wanted to go swimming. What the hell was wrong with these people? I'll admit Pie wasn't looking her best, with cow shit dripping from her chin, but the only danger the ramblers were in, was the distinct possibility that she'd shake her head, and they'd get splattered with green spin gloop. Then the female rambler made a HUGE mistake, she hit Pie with her pole, and was screaming at me to control the dogs. It really wasn't the dogs she needed to worry about, but she didn't seem to have realised that. This stupid woman had walked towards Pie to hit her, but it wasn't Pie who was bothered by the whole bizarre event, it was Madge. She was leaning against my leg, shaking like a leaf, and drooling for England, while the ramblers continued to fend off a bemused Pie, who'd now been joined by a soggy, overexcited Ted. Mr Rambler, was yelling at Mrs Rambler, to stop being daft, Madge was having a breakdown, Ted was shaking the River Mole over both Mr and Mrs, Pie was prepared to go another few rounds with anyone who was up for it, and I had lost all sense of decency, and was explaining that we were on the North Downs, not the frigging foothills of Kilimanjaro, but unless Mr Rambler, wanted to see his wife skewered on her walking pole, he'd better drag her sorry arse out of my reach.
Yes, I know I've blown my chances of joining the WI, but I think that might have happened last week, when Madge ran into the allotments and took a dump on Mrs Meadows plot (head of flower arranging), and had Mr Rambler not carted his potty wife off, I could well have ended up being the second person from my village to stand trial at The Old Bailey, but, the rectal insertion of a four foot six walking pole in a rabid rambler whilst defending my dogs, is a marginally more acceptable crime, than the last person to appear there, who was accused, and found guilty of several close, loving relationships with pigs at a local farm.

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