Walking… one of the things that we have, as cool and scientific humans, eradicated. Why walk when we can drive, ski, and grab onto the legs of genetically supersized eagles?

One of the internet’s foremost authorities on walking is Wendy Bumgardner, and that’s the fearsome truth, sister. Go on, google it. With Wendy Bumgardner at the helm, I had to get me a piece of the hot walking action. So do you know what we did? We took our asses to Haslemere, damn! I’m talking South of Gibbet Hill!

I slept on the drive to Haslemere, stirring from my hangover only to shout “fucking hell”, and “stop turning left so much”.

The first thing that happened when we arrived was a hailstorm. So we sat in the car for a while, figuring that the car would be getting hailed on in any event, and there was no point us getting out. I mean, us getting hailed on wouldn’t help the car, and it was warm, too. So we listened to music for a bit. And almost - for a beautiful minute - forgot the reason we were there.

But the hail ended, like all dreams must.

PURE NATURE. Note in particular the book that dictated our every footstep, which is made from the trees that are nowhere to be seen in the background.

Following the directions of the Time Out Guide To Fucking Walks let us know, immediately, what hopeless city boys we were. One of the directions told us that we would need to “turn right by a prominent beech tree, then walk in the direction we were previously walking”.

So, what the fuck does a beech tree look like? Trees are just trunks and branches. Rob suggested that beeches were probably a bit more golden than other trees, which - in the absence of any golden fucking trees - helped us about fuck all much.

Plus, what’s walking in the direction we were previously walking? How FAR previously? Does that mean go the same way, or double back on yourself? Walk INTO the direction we were previously walking? Does it mean that? In a compromise manoeuvre, we walked around in a circle, to see if any of us had an arboreal epiphany and thought - “oh yeah, that’s a beech, I knew that, I just forgot thanks to all the USEFUL information I’ve been picking up throughout my life”.

These are the guys I went with, by the way. From the left, Dan, Rob and Darren. What the fuck they’re all smiling about is beyond me. Perhaps they were on a different walk.

I have, however, discovered how camp I can actually be. I’ve always known I’ve had a touch of the theatrical in me, but when I’m running down a muddy 1 in 1 incline (and I swear to you that I am not exaggerating when I say that this slope did a fucking LOOP THE LOOP) then I am a screaming, gay-ended faggot. This is the sound I made;

“Oooooh omigod jesus christ fucking hell ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah wooooooooooo FUCK STOP STOP NOW PLEASE SHIT FUCK GODDAMN PISS CUNT oh shitshit wheeeee”

Plus, trees kept hitting me in the face, and that’s not cool, no matter how many supermodels it happens to. Oh, here’s a picture of some nature. Awesome, huh?

Half-way around the walk, the book scheduled a break in a pub. Yeah. That happened. The book said “cross the road, walk 400 metres up a hill”. And I was trying to do that. Like the book said. But my friends thought that the book was somehow mistaken, so we decided to walk along the A287 for a mile in the wrong direction. Then walk back. Then walk past the hill again - the hill we were supposed to be walking up, and the hill that those other thirsty-looking walkers had just gone up - and instead of going up that hill, we walked down the A287 in the other direction. They should have called this book…

“Time Out’s Guide To Walking Along Major Roads With No Adequate Footpaths Or Even Any Horses To Entice To The Fence By Pretending You Have A Sugar Lump In Your Hand, Because The Only English Words Horses Understand Are Horsey And Sugar Lump”

We eventually hit Haslemere, and went to a Wetherspoons. I won £10 on a fruit machine, which made me do a little victory dance, and buy some celebratory flapjack. Perhaps, I thought, today was going to go my way after all!

On the way back, I played Bunyip and the irritating noise game with Dan. This was the most fun I’ve ever had, even though Dan won the irritating noise game by holding a gurgle for about three minutes.

WALKING IN THE COUNTRYSIDE IS THE BEST. I GIVE IT NINE OUT OF TEN.

This is me. In the hail. Hail doesn’t really show up in the photo, so you’re probably thinking I’m being a big puff, but it was there. And each hailstone was bigger than a church. (You can see some of it on my shoulder, though. It only looks normal because I’m so huge.)

Victoria Wood’s barnstorming encore song, The Ballad of Barry and Freda, introduced to the nation the erotic notion of spanking people on the bottom with a Woman’s Weekly. She started it, did Victoria.

Likewise with Hostess Trolleys. The very idea of being bent backwards over a hostess trolley sent shivers of innovation through upper-working class families. Suddenly, thanks to this song, everyone was surrounded by fiercely erotic objects. I wouldn’t be suprised if, nine months after this show aired, hundreds of millions of babies were born to Artex-ed housing.

This, however, is just a poem I wrote over the internet with someone I’ve never met in real life, called Scoobsuk. He plays Freda, I play Barry, in italics. I hope you enjoy. My bits more than his. I’M THE FUNNY ONE.

Let’s do it, let’s poo it, do it while my poo is fat.
It’s crusting, I’m thrusting,
I’ve always wanted to try scat.
It’s like porn; I must warn,
That when you come to taste it then you may find sweetcorn
Let’s do it, let’s poo it tonight!

I can’t do it, I can’t do it, I don’t think that I ever will,
The comedown from bumbrowns really leaves me feeling ill.
No heaving - I’m leaving,
For a time of childish innocence I’m now grieving…
I can’t do it - I can’t do it, tonight.

Let’s do it, let’s poo it, while I’m really in the mood
It’s easy, not queasy
A dirty sanchez ain’t that rude
Try pieces of my releases
I bet you never knew of so much fun with faeces
Let’s do it, let’s poo it tonight!

I can’t do it, I can’t do it, the stench’ll put me off my lunch.
I fear your diarrhoea,
Is far too wet for me to munch.
It’s shocking - panblocking -
You could at least have taken off your nylon stockings…
I can’t do it, I can’t do it tonight…

Let’s do it, let’s poo it, I really want to scream and shout
No hurdles - This turtle’s
head is really poking out!
It’s squirming, it’s firming
I’ve got to drop this on you while my ring is burning…
Let’s do it, let’s poo it tonight!

I can’t do it, I can’t do it, I rimmed once and it made me wince…
I’m too cautious and nauseous,
To daub myself with anal mince.
Please refrain, and don’t strain,
This is a new nighty and I don’t want it stained,
I can’t do it, I can’t do it, tonight…

Let’s do it, let’s poo it, do it cos it tastes so sweet…
It’s swelling, compelling,
Me to thrutch and then excrete.
Don’t feel dread, don’t play dead,
And careful of the backsplash on the candlewick bedspread,
Let’s do it, let’s poo it tonight!

I can’t do it, I can’t do it, I don’t think that I’d like the taste.
I’m not frisky, I need whisky,
To even think of human waste.
I’m balking - and like Hawking,
I’m speechless at the notion of your bum uncorking -
I can’t do it, I can’t do it, tonight…

Let’s do it, let’s poo it, take it like I know you can.
I’m straining - stop complaining,
Chew my poo just like a man.
It’s smutty, it’s slutty,
And here’s a toothpick for your gums in case it’s nutty -
Let’s do it, let’s poo it tonight!

I can’t do it, I can’t poo it, the smell is more than I can bear,
I’m flattered, but it’s matted,
Thick with crusty buttock hair.
Beg pardon, your brown garden,
Stinks enough to wilt an angry rapist’s hard-on,
I can’t do it, I can’t do it, tonight…

Let’s do it, let’s poo it, really make the bedsheets brown
It’s manic, volcanic
My sphincter stretched from here to town
It’s squeaky, it’s leaky
Wipe it off my bottom with a Woman’s Weekly
Let’s do it, let’s do it tonight!

Another token first post on another attempt at a blog. Hello, world!