For those kids reading this who live in Surrey, you’ll know that we live in an area of outstanding natural beauty and for those kids reading this who don’t live in Surrey... SUCKS TO BE YOU, MOTHER FUCKERS!! Recently I’ve started going on walks around the hills in the Valley of Moles to see some of the wondrous vistas on offer from that big old fake in the sky known as God. It didn’t take long for these walks to descend into debauchery or for my walking buddy and I to build a laid back vitriol towards toward our fellow country enthusiasts. We are a small group, the main constituents being myself, a fantastically bitter guy named Codey and our illustrious leader Johnson Funk who we’ve never actually met as he is entirely fictional. It all started one sunny day back in march when Codey and I decided to head up Box Hill going via Pixham, over the weir and along the fields until we reached the path leading to the viewpoint. We packed some vital liquids (about 8 cans of Grolsch) and a couple of pork pies and started our merry little jaunt. All went well for the first couple of miles, we stopped at the weir for a beer (yes boys and girls that rhymes... do you know what rhyming is?) and carried on up the steep slope of the Box toward our goal. After two or three breaks to allow our burst lungs a chance to knit themselves back together we reached the top and were met by several hundred people wearing colourful Lycra skin tight suits, stupidly expensive sunglasses and riding equally expensive looking road bikes (there was some kind of cycle race going on, for those who can’t put two and two together). They were everywhere. My mind was awash with images of plagues of locusts ravaging the corn fields of America, causing utter destruction wherever they went. However, unlike the locusts, these cyclists weren’t destroying crops but instead getting in the pissing bastard way. There was a cue to the toilet at the national trust centre a mile long, the queue for ice-lollies took about twenty minutes and then when I got there the silly fuckwit in the not-so-snazzy black and red all-in-one lycra body suit had a Calippo and was looking was rather chuffed but when I ordered the Calippo I had been waiting for the leather faced malignant sow behind the counter grumbled “No Calippos left sweetheart, only fizzy lemonade lollies or slush puppies”. Who in their right mind wants a fizzy fucking ice-lolly? And who, after having walked two miles and up a very steep hill, wants the fucking brain freeze that the Blue Raspberry Slush Puppy will inevitably give them. Needless to say that the chap in red and black was oblivious to the fact that there was a vexed and sweaty Warwick contemplating attacking him with his own Bicycle. Then, just when Codey and I thought we had reached the pinnacle of over-heated frustration, the icing was dropped on the cake in one great big sloppy dollop. We tried to walk through the entrance to the gravel car park and all of a sudden there were race officials bellowing at us to get off the mat. “What fucking mat?” I asked before looking at my feet. We were standing on a pressure sensitive mat that had been set up to count the cyclists upon their return and we had thrown the count out... Heh, heh. They didn’t like that. Now it was time to visit ‘Smith and Western’, the theme bar up the road for 2 halves of Stella (Stella ‘cause it was all they had and halves because they didn’t serve pints) and procure a bottle of Louisiana hot sauce, the greatest hot sauce in the world. After that we stomped off over the Mickleham Downs and towards the Running Horses in Mickleham for a well needed refreshing pint of real English beer. On the way, though, we encountered lots of old people with those dual walking poles that make them look like trying to ski without the skis, wearing brightly coloured waterproofs and bum bags a maps sticking out. All in groups of two going up to groups of about eight or nine, walking five abreast and moving painfully slowly. Sometimes they’d stop to look at something and you could quickly overtake them only to be caught behind another set a hundred or so metres up the path. They were talking about birds, church, how little Jimmy had done in the egg and spoon race at ‘Fuckwit Primary School’ and all things that the aged use to fill the void in social situations. By the time we got to the pub I was in a state of desperation for beer. The exposure to demonic cyclists and murderous ramblers didn’t put us off walking though kids. Instead it steeled our desire for it. We started planning routes around pubs (Dorking to Reigate is a cracker), singing little two line chants and stopping for cans of beer between pubs. Soon we were averaging between fifteen and twenty miles in one walk with at least four pubs on the way. We had become everything the aged rambler was not; drunk, moaning blokes wandering the countryside and bitching to each other about anything we could. We were the scourge of the cyclist, nemesis to the rambler and thus the Anti-Rambling Society was born. Before I finish this and go to the pub I’d like to say that I have no problem with cyclists or walkers as long as they respect the fact that other people use the country to and that that they cannot have exclusive rights to get in the way of cars or other walkers just because they are in groups. Good old Y**** is a cyclist and he’s never gotten in my way, well not outside a pub at least and I, by my own admition, am a walker. it’s just the path and road hoggers who grind my gears. I’d also like to tell you to put down the TV remote, gather up some chums and head for the hills!! Just don’t forget the beer and smoke!! Enjoy the country kids and get some exercise.
Today’s rant was brought to you by the letters ‘F’, ‘U’ and the number ‘2’.
Warwick Fahey (Anti-Rambler).
photo by jess baker (bike belonged to connor woods)
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