Skiing at Christmas - Part 5

The last morning of skiing is always a sad day and Polly and our kid kicked the day off in particularly morose moods and barely capable of uttering a civil word between them until the sheer pace of a particularly lovely run from one of the peaks restored their sense of joie de vivre and set them up for a last day of hard but fantastic skiing.

With the sun on their backs and the legs properly warm at the end of the week they got some serious skiing miles under their belts getting over to Meribel and back to the hotel for lunch. For the afternoon the party split up so each could get their own personal fun in before the end of the holiday and with the sun coming down on a fantastic holiday.

To cap the weekend off they headed off into Val Thorens (wearing their lovely Val Thorens team tops) for a night on the tiles. The decision was taken to drive up their with our hero to ski over in the morning and collect the van, not as it would turn out a very sensible decision. Trying to park in Val Thorens is not exactly straightforward and having dropped off the troops he spent about 30 minutes trying to park up (most of which was wasted in his efforts to get into a car park that turned out to be too short for the van although some was spent trying to resist the urge to run down the pedestrians).

In the meantime however the troops had located a splendid restaurant and they settled down to the usual mix of booze, badinage (including some very interesting revelations) and enormous quantities of food and a very entertaining policy towards vegetarians.

An early start for our hero was required as he had to ski over to Val to pick up the van but with no mishaps they were on the road in plenty of time. Having rented the van from the French side of Geneva airport they were rather obliged to return it to there but having never been their before they were rather in the hands of Chris’s sat-nav (known as Suzie) to get them to that side of the airport. She is quite a cheeky minx and decided on a) taking them a remarkable route through the middle of Geneva and then b) even more comically taking them to the Swiss side.

Getting the vehicle into the Avis car park was quite interesting as the van is so high the Aeriel just scrapes along the ceiling which was quite disconcerting however the level of amusement plummeted when the rep told them she could only take the van on that side of the border for an extra fee, frankly he was so hacked off with the entire thing he would have paid anything but getting stung for £50 was pretty hard going (considering the charge covers them moving the van perhaps 400 yards).

It would be good to report that BMI had restored their somewhat tarnished reputation but not as funny as the reality. Matters started poorly with them picking the counter manned by two trainees and went downhill further when Polly realised that the seats she had paid more to book had not been allocated leaving them scattered around the plane. After 30 minutes of her most piercing Gorgon stares and arguing the toss some rearrangement was made but customer services can expect a most strongly worded letter (probably written in green ink) shortly.

Splendidly matters did not then improve and they had to settle in for a first class delay although BMI Baby very generously supplied them all with the princely sum of £4 to purchase food and beverages to get them through the tedious hours in a packed airport. That letter may possibly be getting longer (and may even now be signed in purple ink).

The flight finally took off over 3 hours late with the comically amusing opening announcement of “Due to popularity on our last flight we are sorry to announce that we have run out of food” oh my how they laughed (and composed another paragraph or two).

A barely tolerable flight was somewhat appositely barely tolerated although another sentence may well have been tacked onto the letter when they pulled up at a bus-stop in the rain rather than a proper gate.

By this stage Nia and Tudur (and the Pofydd’s) chances of making their last train were a bit slim and Nia in particular was a little wrought as they were due to move house the next day. Matters were not improved when our hero reported that having checked the next train was at 1330 the next day.

Despite a desperate dash for the taxis the last train was duly missed and despite Polly’s best efforts to persuade the BMI rep to pay for a taxi to Aberystwyth she was cruelly rebuffed.

Meanwhile back at the flat (to which Christine, Chris and our kid had retreated) a certain feeling of ennui set in as they discovered that Chris’s battery was flat. To make matters worse the cable to unlock the bonnet was broken (and hence the ability to access the battery). An hour later the recovery mechanic turned up and began the process of trying to work out a fix. After 45 minutes he admitted defeat and indicated the only option was to crowbar up the bonnet. An hour later the front of the car was ruined and still not opened so a devastated car had to be loaded on the back of a lorry and sent on its way to London.

By this time the welsh mob had turned up at the flat having failed to obtain a hire car (the hire company explained the lack of available vehicles was due to “we ain’t got no fleet, it goes south for the winter” which would seem to suggest they mis-heard Polly’s accent when asking for a car to hire and thought she said swallows.
Polly cooked, everyone drank and slowly chilled out. Nia managed to bully one of her relatives to come and meet them all at Shrewsbury the next morning and so via some convoluted route they could at least get home just in time to see the last of their stuff being moved into their brand new house by their friends and family. For the benefit of those friends and family we have been asked to make clear that this story is not some elaborate hoax to enable Nia and Tudur to get out of helping moving into their own home (and if anyone of them believes that they must also believe in Santa).

Skiing at Christmas - Part 4

Having mended and made good his shabby skiing kit over the last 10 years he has finally cracked and decided to buy some new stuff.

After a day's skiing and perhaps one too many vin chauds he persuaded the Pofydd to come shopping with him and select out something to amuse the occupants of the pistes. They certainly did not let him down and in his new kit he rather cuts the dash (and his skiing has improved no end due to the need to constantly impress).

That said it does rather leave his skiing companions in the Shadow of the Bogun.

Skiing at Christmas - Part 3

Christmas Day on the slopes, sounds magical doesn't it? well it wasn't for our hero who was shockingly hungover but, along with the rest of the group, got into the Christmas Spirit and dressed as Santa although we are not sure what damage seeing a very ill Santa will have done to the local kids. Mind you what they will have made of the sight of 7 Santas skiing down en masse is also an interesting question.

Skiing at Christmas - Part 2

As usual he becomes somewhat overawed by the beauty of nature when off skiing and this was no exception and he waxed lyrical (read bored the tits of his friends) for hours about the beautiful moon (although to be fair it was pretty pretty) on the second morning.

Fortunately they just ignored him and got on with the important job of skiing.

Despite a rather foolish error of allowing Polly to order for them all at lunch (cost somewhere not short of a Rolex each) a very good day's skiing was had by all.

Now as they are in France and they are all papists round here they rather enjoy Christmas Eve as the special day so having got through the skiing the drinks started to be knocked back with very gay abandon. Secret santa presents were exchanged (he got a very fine pair of cufflinks and a Viz annual) and then the beers really started to flow.

It being Christmas of course some carols had to be sung and they joined the various British families singing along. En masse they brought the house down with their actions to "On the twelfth night of Christmas", Tudur, Dafydd and our kid brought tears to everyone's eyes with their beautiful impression of a welsh male voice choir and then our kid ruined it all by sharing one of his stories with the group.

All in all a pretty standard Christmas Eve.

Skiing at Christmas - Part 1

Despite the various problems of the journey they have at last arrived in resort and Chris, who chose the hotel, has prooved himself to be quite the star and it is a brillant place (called the Polar Bear hotel, Daf and he were both rather taken with the polar bear in reception) with a splendid feel and a great bar.

The sense of excitment in the group is palpable and it is given most voice by Nia who is amazingly excitable - mind it is her first ski trip, christmas and the best snow in years so understandable. Although to be fair in light of the crap weather at home if the snow had been rubbish similar levels of excitement would have been attained.

With half the party taking lessons his usual lazy attitude to skiing (get up around 10ish skiing by 11ish) has gone right out the window and he, Polly and Chris were on the slopes by 0915 on day one and certainly got plenty of miles under their skis, the conditions are close to perfect and the three of them have been hoonering around.



They managed to all meet up for lunch and exchange war stories - after Dafydd had sung the national anthem of course as this picture demonstrates.



Towards the end of the day their laziness did rather undo Polly when they found themselves 10 metres away from a bar and decided they could not be bothered to walk so they would ski down, get a lift back up to above the bar and then ski to it. Unfortunately Polly took a wrong turn and she ended up having to take her skis off, cross a road, climb down some stairs and then clamber down a slope to find the piste again.

Skiing at Christmas - the prologue

We at Bogun Towers have been rubbing our hands in anticipation of this most recent skiing trip with the Pofydd , Nia, Tudur , Christine and Chris
for some time with great excitement at the material that should be made available for out use and your delectation.

With everyone congregating at our kid’s flat in Brum on the last Friday before Christmas their journeys were of varying quality but on arrival with some rejuvenative mulled wine, beers, good humour and haggis spirits were much improved and a good dose of banter was engaged in and the process of briefing Nia and Tudur on all of our kid’s stories was begun.

A very short night’s sleep was had by all before the 0415 alarm call for their flight. Some grumpiness was to be expected but the gentle sense of keen excitement overcame all of that. However Birmingham airport quickly quashed that, the check-in queue was relatively short although it ended with the rather amusing news that despite already paying for his skis to be transported BMI had decided they wanted another £30 or he could whistle Dixie but these little bumps in the road are to be expected.

The queue for security which wound all the way around the terminal was less expected and certainly unwelcome leaving no time for breakfast before boarding. Of course some idiot had decided to try and get his boots on board as hand luggage and had to be sent back to check them in which caused 30 minutes of delay. Eventually a new slot was found and the plane started to trundle down the taxiway but then broke down. 30 minutes later the engineer gave up and they were de-planed ready to be loaded on another plane. Now our kid is a forgiving sort and understands these things happen but the captain decided to lie (presumably to avoid the bad PR of admitting the plane was broken) and claim that the decision to re-plane them was for “operational” reasons due to fuel. A complete load of hogwash…his lies were not helped by the ground-staff announcing that the problem was indeed a knackered plane.

As one can imagine the party’s confidence in BMI was somewhat shaken at this stage and matters were not much improved when this bus turned up as their replacement flight.

A mis-spent youth

This weekend just past included a quick trip down to see the nieces. He and Thea (the eldest) went out together and ended up in the part where Thea, bless her, decided to pick up some litter for throwing in the bin.

Sadly the litter was a can of Fosters so she looked like a wino and he looked like the worst kind of father whenever they met anyone else in the park.

Meanwhile back at the house, Phoebe was being painfully cute.

Skiing in Satsuma - Part 5

The last day, he and scrapper alone on the slopes and so back to Nendaz to see the lovely Andrea again (passim). Easily the best skiing of the trip, decent light, fantastic snow and some great fast runs...and some gentle flirting.

Sadly all good things must come to an end and so with this tale, a drive back to Geneva, a row with the custodians of the BA lounge at the airport (unwilling to let our kid in, no huge surprise) and dull flights back.

All in all some fine skiing, some good nights out, one very scary moment on the slopes and a possible addition to the property empire scoped out. Difficult to grumble really.

Even better he is only back for 10 days before he goes skiing again (this time with the Pofydd, Christine, Chris, Nia and Tudur) for Christmas so the stories should just keep on running.

Skiing in Satsuma - Part 4

Day 4 promised to be a rather dull day for our kid with a serious of meetings lined up with a builder (he is looking to buy a little pad out here) and then the financier and the lawyer.

The meeting with the builder was pretty dull although the place itself is fantastic and we at Bogun Towers are particularly excited about opening a Swiss Bureau but as was to be expected he got bored half-way through and decided to go skiing. Sadly despite the best endeavours of the builder the local lift could not be opened for him specially and so another trip to Verbier was called for.

Just he and Gay George (Not Actually Gay) headed over there and with Gay George (Not Actually Gay) having to get on a train to Geneva at 1400 time was short for much skiing.

The conditions were pretty poor with the snow coming down and very low cloud and as the two of them set off from the top they quickly found themselves a) into their waists in deep snow, b) blind, c) lost and d) in a world of trouble.

Having skied no more than 5 minutes off the top it became apparent that they simply could not go on having no idea where they were going and so, for the first time ever, the skis came off and a trudge back up the hill through the very deep snow began - think Gimli trudging through the snow in the Lord of the Rings. They were utterly knackered within a few yards and both rather concerned that a helicopter was going to be needed to get them off. Eventually (2 hours) they somehow managed to get back to the top of the lift which they promptly took all the way back down again. Not the best value.

We regret that no photos are available of him stuck in the snow, they would be worth laughing at.

Skiing in Satsuma - Part 3

With the snow piling down and scrapper showing a very general disregard for their safety, hand-brake turning round the hair-pins for example (particularly amusing when all of the snow on the roof suddenly swept forward over the windscreen leaving them blind, viz:-

Through the screams of terror they eventually made it to Nendaz (another resort in the area) for a day of skiing although mainly it involved drinking Vin Chaud in a little restaurant on the slopes although the attraction appeared to be a young lady called Andrea rather than the actual drink.

The general conditions were pretty cheeky with some very poor visibility and the snow coming down at a ridiculous rate.


The vicar and Gay George (Not Actually Gay) were however determined to extract every last moment of skiing and managed to get the last lift up. As we demonstrate below it was rather dark for their descent.

Skiing in Satsuma - Part 2

Sambuca on the first night is unlikely to be a good idea and so it transpired for Gay George (Not Actually Gay) who found himself in a shambolic state not helped by his complete failure to remove any clothes before passing out on his bed.



A quick drive up into the mountains and soon their spirits were improved with some first class conditions.




That said due to their rather sensitive dispositions little actual skiing was endeavoured before they retreated to their hotel in La Tzoumaz (the real name for Satsuma). The hotel is best described as a "local hotel for local people" and duly populated with some right weirdos and for reasons of self-preservation a quick pact was reached that no-one would be left alone and indeed investigations were quickly begun as to how best to barricade the doors.

With Ket, the vicar and a couple of girls joining them for supper they felt safe letting their hair down and having recovered their equilibrium from the sambuca set about the local booze although the local rose seemed, to the unsophisticated palates of our kid and Ket, to be white. The round of calvados at the end of the evening was strictly speaking unnecessary.

Skiing in Satsuma - Part 1

As promised he has been away on the sauce with Scrapper and Gay George (Not Actually George) (or Gayorge as Scrapper took to calling him).

To kick matters off after they had met up at Geneva airport Friday afternoon they shot up the motorway to Sion (the main town at the bottom of the valley below their ultimate destination).

Our kid was, frankly, battered before leaving the hotel with two pints of strong local disco fizz inside him as his resolve has been totally blown away having not really done anything for the amusement of our readers (shurely drunk? - ed) for some weeks.

A couple of bottles of wine and some more beers followed on before they struggled into a night club and decided to hit the Sambucas. A subtle sign that they were a little past the battered marked was their abject attempts to light the stuff although they did manage to get most of it down them without too many burns and certainly less than this fellow.

An apologia no. 2

We here at Bogun Towers are very disappointed about the lack of recent reporting. We blame Polly for making him promise not to drink until they go skiing at Christmas (although he may have slipped up on that once or twice).

Desperate times call for desperate measures and so we have agreed to sponsor a skiing trip for him, Gay George (Not Actually Gay) and scrapper to Verbier next weekend to hopefully provide some decent raw material.

The inestimable Mrs Churchill

This last weekend saw a family christening. His cousin Amanda's second child, and first son, to be precise named Zachary.

Foolishly he chose to rely on the RAC website for directions which, as he discovered, works on the basis that whenever one is turning off a roundabout one is turning left. When one is in the more general sense actually turning left this can, and did, cause confusion.

Fortunately despite his travails he made it on time. Whilst waiting for the other child to arrive (15 minutes late, it may be fashionable to be late for weddings but we feel christenings are a step too far) he observed that, as the other child was called Alfie, it was the A to Z of christenings. The snake in the grass that was the vicar promptly leapt on this line and sought to use it in the service without attribution. Much to the vicar's chagrin his sense of comic timing rather ruined the line in any event.

After the service he shot off to get to Hampstead to have lunch with Pofydd, Christine and Chris, Dogs, TCO and most importantly Mr and Mrs Churchill who are visitng from DC.

Again the RAC let him down this time directing him to turn right into a road that cannot be turned right into and he was a good hour late on this occasion.

A splendid luncheon (at the same place as he had supper with Katie Melua, passim) was had and much catching up engaged in. Afterwards the party withdrew to Christine's pad for coffee when our idiot managed to get TCO's name wrong in the most appalling manner. His effusive apologies just about made up for his faux pas.

The usual splendid weekend in other words.

Green Fingers

Finding himself at a loose end he decided to invite himself down to see the Pofydd in Aberystwyth. As a price for their hospitality he was however instructed to a) bring wine and b) be prepared to do some gardening.

To add spice to the weekend he decided to get the train over which was a real treat surrounded by the dregs of humanity. The highlight was the drunk woman (never a good sign when they are drinking neat vodka out of a coke bottle) who tried to engage him in conversation. She went so far as to pull his headphones out of his ears. This delightful creature ended the conversation with the memorable line "you need to lose some weight you fat bastard."

The Pofydd were markedly more friendly.

Saturday was marked as a day clearing the front garden and whilst Dafydd set about chopping down a tree (a subject to which we will refer) he was handed a rather posh looking Hoe and told to get on with it. His efforts in clearing the garden speak for themselves as does his sacrifice of rather nasty blister.

Meanwhile as we have observed Dafydd was cutting down a tree with admirable results unfortunately when Polly appeared to inspect their work she observed her surprise that he had chosen to chop down that tree, well we say surprise what we mean is horror. Dafydd will likely never forgive himself for picking the wrong one.

He had rather thought that this would be the extent of his efforts but come Sunday he was required to have a bonfire. An act of sweet cruelty as he is allergic to bonfire smoke.



That said a splendid weekend barely tarnished by the pact between them that they will not now drink until Christmas. We doubt he will last long.

Delivery debacle

Having purchased his boy's toys (passim) the next challenge was getting them delivered. His flat is in a rather busy coomerical district and parking large wagons anywhere near it is a challenge and so he told them to send a small van.

We do not feel we necessarily need to paint the picture but for those of you who are a little slow on the first day the delivery was due a large lorry turned up, the driver decided he could not park and off he went promising it would be redelivered on a small van two days later first thing in the morning.

Our subject can be extraordinarily naive but on this occasion showed unusual suspicion and later that day rang the delivery company to check. Surprise surprise it had been booked in for another day entirely. After a complete strop it was re-arranged back to be a small van, first thing 2 days later.

Cometh the day cometh the hour not cometh the van. At 1000 he rang to enquire where his first thing delivery was. His ire at being informed he was in fact an afternoon delivery was impressive.

Eventually they turned up at 1630 in, can you guess?, a lorry. After much weedling and cajoling they agreed to park it up relatively close and set to work delivering the toys and setting them up.

Fortunately after all this the toys are fantastic although the TV does rather dominate the flat.

Idiot

It is rare that we at Bogun Towers can be so forthright in our condemnation of our subject's stupidity but on this occasion we are on firm ground. We present the facts unvarnished for your consideration:-

1. He borrows a pool car from work to get to Birmingham for Friday and Monday.
2. He therefore leaves his own car at work in Bristol.
3. Tuesday morning he drives down to Bristol in the pool car.
4. Tuesday evening he intends to drive back to Birmingham in his own car.
5. However Tuesday morning, half way down the M5, he remembers his car keys are in...Birmingham.

If anyone disagrees with our "Idiot" analysis do let us know.

Political slot

We at Bogun Towers try to steer clear of political commentary but we feel obliged on occasion to step into the fray and this is one of those occasions.

Our previous Foreign Secretary was, to say the least, an uninspiring character; Margaret Beckett surely comes top of the list of women least likely to reach high office (run a close second by the new Home Secretary but that is another matter) and as her idea of a foreign holiday was to take the caravan to Cornwall her qualifications for the Foreign office looked a little thin but at least she tried to do the job.

Our latest incarnation, David Miliband, simply cannot even be bothered to do the job; this week the Saudi Arabian King and his Foreign Secretary are in town for their first visit in some 20 years, unsurprisingly many months ago a meeting was arranged between Miliband and the Saudi Foreign Secretary but at the weekend Miliband cancelled the meeting because he considered that the Saudis are not important enough in providing stability in the Middle East, keeping terrorism at bay and in controlling massive oil reserves to make them more important that somebody else’s child joining his family.

We despair.

Shoptastic

A quiet weekend has just passed, indeed perhaps the quietest weekend he has had for some time. Having spent most of Saturday asleep (no doubt catching up from the sleep shortage built up over that period) he got up just in time to watch the Ospreys stuff Worcester and then decided to go and see about buying a new TV.

20 minutes later (what a salesman's dream) he walked out of the store with a new 50 inch TV, surround sound system and Playstation 3 and quiet a lot poorer.

He has managed to avoid using a credit card since before his travels and so unsurprisingly the fraud program at his credit card company was set aringing by this purchase and telephone authorisation required. The usual stumbling through security questions and trying to guess the password set many years ago followed. However it is clear that the credit card people were really nervous about this transaction as about 20 minutes later they rang him to check that it really was him. Now one security check would seem reasonable but two?

Cheetah

We at Bogun towers have been intrigued by this video. In the year 2007 and so many years after the fall of apartheid is it really appropriate for 2 fat Afrikaans to be setting a wild cat on a black man?

York Races, Part 2

Having survived the delightful horror of finding last night's kebab, girded his loins for turning up at the racecourse in tails and dealt with Daf's new look the troops headed to the Knavesmire for the Ebor meet.

Polly of course won on the first two races and despite the foul weather and some criminally poor luck on his behalf a first class time was had by all. He of course was the only person at the races in tails which had the surprising advantage that none of the gate-wardens asked him to produce his badge and so he found himself in the owners' enclosure towards the end of the day.

With money rolling out of everyone else's pockets they went into town to the Lowther (scene of much drinking in times gone past) to watch the rugby (apparently England were playing France in a semi-final). With the dinner table booked for half-time the party rather split between the girls who hate rugger and the welsh on the one side and the others on the other side with the first side heading to dinner and the others staying in the pub and cheering themselves hoarse.

With England through to the final, what a miracle, an inordinate quantity of booze flowed late into the night.

The best said about Sunday is that breakfast was splendid, the 4 hour train trip less so.

Another first class weekend with chums, well done Polly.

York races, part 1

To celebrate the splendid Polly's birthday a mob of the usual suspects descended on their Alma Mater (York) to drink, eat and gamble at the races. Having all survived the various horrors of their journeys they headed into town hitting the Hansom Cab (scened of many a horror in years gone by) amongst others.

The inestimable Jib-cub was roused out of his den and was on fine form and not changed a bit, the last time he was scene was some 11 years ago, whilst claiming tiredness our hero called it a night around 1130. He purchased a kebab on the way home which he promptly forgot about and put in the freezer much to everyone's surprise when discovered the next morning.

Unicum not Kumul

Apparently we were mistaken in reporting the drinking of Kumul as it appears the actual firewater was something called Unicum. We apologise to the makers of Kumul for blackening their good name and wholeheartedly blacken the names of the makers of Unicum instead.

We are sailing, again

Part 2 of his lengthy trip away (passim) was a couple of days sailing in the Solent. In accordance with usual principles on arrival on the good ship Whistler his response to the query, "so got your oilskins and sleeping bag?" was a resounding no.

A few fevered moments running round the chandlery turned up some spare oilskins to his considerably relief as the forecast was not exactly brillant.

No such problems on day one however with conditions totally becalmed and the sailing really being motoring. Day two however was much more to our liking with the rain horizontal the visibility a touch poor (always a treat in the busiest piece of water in the world) and as can be assumed with him tied to the helm he copped the worst of it, particularly as it became apparent early doors that the oilskins were lying around spare for a reason (their lack of oilskin type qualities).

The horror of Kumul

His long trip away's first leg involved a dinner party thrown by the inestimable Christine and Chris (the other guests being Dogs, Glen and TCO). A splendid feast was layed on and great badinage and conversation ensued until the Kumul hove into view. Kumul is an Hungarian spirit and is uttely repellant; meths would be a more attractive digestif.

He rapidly fell down hill with that inside him and awoke the next morning with a raging hangover. Imagine his joy therefore that due to engineering works he could not get back to his mother's by public transport.

Forget me not - Part 2

Several days away from home were planned and his forgetfuly streak bore up well with him opening his bag at his mother's on Saturday morning to discover a complete lack of socks and underwear. Should be charming come the end of his trip.

Forget me not - Part 1

His employers took a table recently at the Birmingham Brain Game for Macmillan Cancer Relief. He failed to check the dress code and was delighted to be informed 5 minutes before it was due to start it was dinner suits. A quick check at home revealed his dinner suit was not in Brum but in Bristol and so a frantic trek round Brum ensured which ended with him buying a new dinner suit.

As he said to Dicky on getting to the event, "if I see anyone in lounge suits there is going to be trouble." His joy was unconfined when he spotted Austin Healey wearing one.

Recovering his composure did not seem to aid the team much as they came around the bottom third for the evening. Plenty of beer was consumed so not all bad.

Rugby overload

Another weekend with chums loomed but this time up in Wakefield with his best man, Tom, his lovely wife, Lucy, and their little girl, Emily.

A frankly appalling amount of rugby was watched starting on Friday night with the Frogs stuffing the Bogtrotters, followed by two games of domestic New Zealand rugby Saturday morning (Hawke's Bay v. Waikato and North Harbour v. Bay of Plenty), followed by England v. Samoa, South Africa v. Tonga (great match from the Tongans) and Argentina v. Namibia. Oh and to top all that Wigan v. Hull in the Rugby League as well.

In amongst this sporting frenzy he managed to watch most of the Twenty20 cricket and catch a shocking cold from the devilish Emily.

As usual a splendid weekend with chums and even better he was so ill he had to skivve off Monday from work.

Green and Pleasant Land

After the debacle of the rugby (passim) he set off to spend the weekend with his splendid friends Rob and Helen and the Pofydd entity (along with Pop the dog) at Rob and Helen's place in Beaconsfield, South Buckinghamshire (it is important to add that detail apparently, well Rob always used to at university).

A long tramp in the country early Saturday to pick blackberries followed by the boys flopped in front of the TV watching the Wales Australia match (our analysis was good performance from the taffs, shame about Thomas G's efforts at getting over-physical backfiring, with a lot of luck could have won it) and then enjoying some splendid wine, food (including blackberry crumble) and the usual badinage.

Sunday was more of the same; walking in the countryside (save with pigs on this occasion).

The usual splendid weekend with chums in other words.

Rugby was the winner

His firm very generously hired a function room and laid on food and drink to enable the staff to sit back and relax and watch the first big match of the Rugby World Cup - England -v- South Africa.

Now your correspondent maintains a neutral pose in all matters and is merely concerned to see that rugby is the winner but having listened into Mike Catt's pre-match interview ("so, mike do you think you can win it?"..."er,... well i suppose anything is possible in international rugby") we at Bogun Towers were somewhat concerned about England's prospects and as it turned out rightly so. Indeed the only thing that England's supporters could be glad about was that their pre-match concerns about whether they had a good enough kicker were not proved good (mind you that was only because England did not have a kick at goal).

It seems the only people to enjoy the evening were the four Welshmen (our subject included) who declared themselves delighted to see rugby coming out the winner.

Gone climbing

Having fished out the river local to his sister's (passim) he has had to find alternative entertainment for his nieces. Encouraging them to climb trees appears to be the current favourite.
The utter panic when they get stuck and he realises they have got too high for him to reach is a real treat to behold.

Mind you it appear to have inspired a general desire to greater heights for Phoebe who has taken to wearing heels already.