Public schoolboys just cannot leave it alone

Oh dear, yesterday seems to have passed me by without my noticing. As I awoke this morning I have a hang over, a sore throat and I smell of curry. I recall certain events, such as deciding to have a walk around Arundel and having reached the other side deciding to stop for a pint in a quintessentially beautiful English pub, The St Mary’s Gate. There they were selling an ale called Hopping Hare and then and I recall popping into the Kings Arms for a pint of London Pride on the walk back. Given the warmth, I had developed a thirst again by the time we got home so diverted into The White Hart next door for a pint of Harveys.

This should not be construed as malicious boozing, the tour had a developed a scientific research element, balancing the relative merits of three English real ales.  Conclusions? I hear you say, well, I have decided that the research may have been unsound so there will have to be a new research programme, but not today as my head still hurts.

It seems that someone in the pub next door was recommending that I try their house Cote Du Rhone red, but I said I preferred the Rioja, so as I was in the mood for research I decided to try both alongside each other and as far as I remember that’s when the trouble started.

By this time the sun was going down and it being so near the Arctic Circle, it was probably about 9pm and that is when it all goes a bit hazy. I remember sprogs arriving in the pub yard which adjoins our house to fleece me of some cash, talking someone into opening an account with Currencies Direct, that nice lady decorator conking out and retiring hurt at about 10, but the sore throat and the curry? I see that one of my Havana cigars has gone and on a brief early visit to the kitchen I was appalled by the smell of curry and the half eaten remains of a Lamb Jalfrazi and various evil smelling containers containing, well, I know not what. I was about to wake up the sprogs and remonstrate with them over the mess that they had left when I had a sudden flashback and realised that I may have been the guilty party. As that nice lady decorator said this morning “the next time I suggest a walk around the village we must not go into every pub we pass”. It is a good point, well made.

For sale indeed

The picture above is especially for those public schoolboys who number amongst my friends and, to a man, refuse to admit they read this daily column. They seem to have invaded the estate agent business. Mr Clipbeard has form in this area having been in charge of the estate agency when Suzie Lamplugh went missing. As I may have mentioned before, they all seem to share an affinity with and some may have a passing nod towards homosexuality and so when I saw this sign, I knew it was just that, a sign.

Today, after the daily retail therapy (there is no space left in this tiny house, what more could she want to buy?) We will go walking. The plan is to skirt the river Arun, the railway and the fields and try to find the George and Dragon at Burpham for lunch. Ordnance Survey maps have been laid out and my entreaties for a taxi have fallen on deaf ears, so unless I can feign illness, or successfully employ the old “shrapnel moving around” defence, I shall be walking for miles later this morning. It is not that I don’t enjoy walking, I do, but not with a hangover of this intensity.

Chris France