Banjo lost? no such luck
After failing to lose Banjo, the evil flatulent dog in The River Thames in Oxfordshire, that nice lady decorator, owner of that unfortunate animal, decides unwisely to leave him in the car. He has of course swum in the murky muddy river so the stench that awaits us later is too horrid to contemplate.
I suggest that perhaps we should leave the windows shut so as not to incommode passers-by with his particularly nasty aroma, but she has spotted that I have left the car in full sun with the heater on and the engine running. She does not believe me when I say it was to keep him warm after his swim.
sunflower field seen on the way from France
The do gooders, the health and safety experts and the political correctness which is now so prevalent in England has destroyed the very fabric of what makes us English. In 1066 at the battle of Hastings and at most battles through the ages, most of the foot soldiers were drunk on mead or beer when they fought and there is a considerably body of opinion in England that suggests we as a nation never quite trust a teetotaler. My contention is that most adults could safely neck 3 pints of beer and drive home safely, it being palpably obvious that it is kids up to the age of 30 who cause most accidents, but us older adults are punished due to the boy racers crashing their dads cars after drink half a pint of scrumpy.
Perhaps this is an extreme view and I accept that, but I will fight anyone who suggests that political correctness and the drink driving laws have done anything to retain the true character of old England.
Anyway, back to The Morris Clown, where the landlord has sensibly placed an extra-large log on the fire to keep out the evening chill. It is a fine pub and one that must be cherished. I know I do, although I am un-used to the necessity to wear long trousers and sweaters
This morning we set off from Oxfordshire under scudding grey skies to Devon, where once again I will be forced to drink beer and eat food covered in clotted cream or some other evil concoction. I may be required to partake of a cream tea, and eat Cornish Pasties, which, as far as I can make out contain offal, tripe, wood shavings, old tea leaves and bits of dead Cornishmen, wrapped in fat laden pasty. This particular delight passes for food in these parts and must smell like Banjo after a swim in the turgid Thames
Several days have been booked in Devon, The Thatched Inn at Croyde being “home” for the next few days. Walking is the expected pastime, and apparently there are some very high cliffs in the area, so I do hope that Banjo doesn’t go too near the edge.
Chris France
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Chris France's Blog 
Heavens above Fracey boy you’re turning into colonel Blimp! However I do find myself in sympathy as I find myself writing in a similar vein to the Daily Mail on an almost tri-weekly basis nowadays. I can recall the days when 3 pints would have seen you legless-remember Sidmouth!! As for all this clotted cream and cornish pasty malarky do remember your high cholestrol condition or Banjo will be having the last laugh.Death will not be accepted as an excuse for failing to meet my golf challenge!
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Yes, I get more reactionary as I get older, one day I may even catch you up! Sidmouth, happy days, but you still owe me for that can of drink from my bar stock at Andover… And I am not paying paying that 80p
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