Musings From The Padded Cell

Day Two – Greetings From Hubberholme

“The beauty about being out in the wild is there are no knobheads…well, apart from the ones you’re with.”

Months of extensive planning and now we knew why Binny and JB had bailed out; my first experience of bunk beds since I was 15, this is why I would not do well incarcerated.

We had been allocated our Home Office digs to ease our aching bodies. I had a top bearth largely due to a combination of the infirmity and obesity of my fellow piss artists.

Whispering took one look and promptly decamped to the floor as the three fat lads took the bottom berths. I climbed my rigging to inspect; it would be a long night.

From arriving shivering and worn out at The Black Horse, Big Al had recovered remarkably, testament to the healing properties of a gallon of beer.

That he survived the night though was only down to the humanity of Whispering and myself. I have never heard snoring like it.

Patch was bad enough being directly underneath me offering a good impression of a wheezing pig but the big one was at a different level.

I can only say it was like a Tsunami; giant gulps of air akin to a beached whale and then the unbelievable aircraft boom of the expulsion causing the rickety bed to creak and groan.

To add to my woes I kid you not the fire alarm went off at 6am – oh what a night this was – and the only possible explanation had to be the building shaking.

As for the mustard gas smell, well I can only say that the top deck was far from first class.

There was no option but to abandon ship and try to eke out some sleep on the landing.

A broken man

Day two and with rumours of stormy weather a good night’s sleep would have been a positive. I fingered my breakfast knife, looked across at Big Al and remembered the previous night’s sleep.

And then there were four…

Sadly Whispering could not continue, his chronic back allied to a newly acquired sleep deprivation meant it was the end of the road.

It was getting like a Take That reunion tour.

Off we went up Bank Lane; the portents were not good. We would have made a quicker trot had Big Al not stopped to text Luckless every five minutes.

It was grey and grim but the shortest day; where there’s hope.

Kettlewell came into view and Zarina’s tea shop looked like heaven. The cakes were fluffy, the tea Yorkshire…bliss.

As we left Kettlewell a car screeched to a halt.

“We love the blog…keep going boys…Bradford loves you!”

Autograph books were thrust in our faces and selfies demanded; fame at last. We shook off the groupies and headed off.

Highlight of the afternoon under wetter skies was Patch trying a mile detour to avoid cows. As Leapy drily offered:

“F*** me Patch they’re vegetarian!”

Big Al was sweating faster than his normal beer consumption, losing his water bottle looked a critical blow.

Finally we viewed the promised land – The George at Hubberholme – and would you believe it a lovely Bradford exile behind the bar.

Big Al informed us it would be a good idea for an early night…somehow we all knew that may be a complete load of bollocks.

Survival

P.S. – cracking pub and ale…chances of an early night…zip!
P.P.S – Big Al and Patch have single rooms
P.P.P.S – if Patch throws another bit of dead foot skin at me Take That will be three

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