Tales from my handbag

I’ve had a very green and rambly weekend. On Saturday, me and friend X did an 8 miler around Devil’s Dyke culminating in a cup of tea in a ponsified barn. The man at the kiosk, after fleecing us £3 for a small piece of gloop-topped cake with scratchings of old sawdust in it, told us that the Knights Templar used to live at the nearby farm and that we really shouldn’t leave without taking a gander at their donkey wheel. We took his advice but, like the cake, we got little pleasure from the experience. However, the next day’s ramble was full of thrills. By the River Ouse, which friend X found very unsatisfactory, as far as waterways go, owing to it being tidal and not looking like Wind in the Willows, we met a man with two-tone shoes and a wife who was like the human equivalent of a dalmation, blotchy. Being so close to where Virginia Woolf had finally succeeded in killing herself, we had a long conversation about what she was wearing when she died. Two-tone man said she had a jumper on whereas I felt confident that it would have been more a comfy cardigan. Whatever, she must have had very big pockets to accommodate the size of stone necessary to drag her thin, Bloomsbury body down into the depths. Friend X thought maybe, having spent most of her life moping about in dusty drawing rooms with bi/tri/pan sexual deviants, she wouldn’t have had the time to learn to swim, so that would help speed up the drowning process. After that, we came across some very noisy lady frogs in the bullrushes who, as relayed to me by a passing geriatric jogger, were gagging for frog cock so were trying to out croak each other. Further on, we passed through a very smelly farm which friend X, thought was dirtier than it should have been and had a queer atmosphere. Her feelings of discombobulation were compounded when she saw a field of crucified crows, wings-akimbo like Jesus and those other naughty boys. What fun!

I read somewhere that rambling is good for the soul as well as the body. It’s something to do with the colour green; it lifts and separates. Or maybe that’s a Platex bra. Whatever. Me and my coterie of ladies had a lovely ramble yesterday. We were a small group but we were fabulous – bonnets, culottes, Alpine tuppaware. We drove up to Devil’s Dyke, parked the car and did a circular walk that took about two hours. The route, which was a bit sticky (lots of mud and dog dirt – nice) followed the dyke itself, down through some woods into Poynings where we paused at the village school to look at some pictures of lost hamsters. Then, we cut across some fields, past a stables and along to a lovely old church. In the graveyard we had a teabreak. Susan had brought along some rather plain biscuits. I, however, had a lovely selection of pastries! Then it was up through the woods and onto the summit of Newtimber Hill where I had once got hot and bothered in a bush. That’s the beauty of living near the countryside; you can pop off for a bit of dogging whenever the fancy takes you. 

It was Beachdown over the bank holiday weekend at Devil’s Dyke and, as if I haven’t had enough nights under canvas, I decided to pay a visit. I loved it, despite the rain and the lack of sleep and the fact that I didn’t wash for two days (strangely liberating although I could have done with a clean gusset). I found a corner of a field that was forever England – the England of my youth: acid house, jazz funk and reggae. Hosting oldies and goodies galore, the aptly named Beach Bar had sand in it so while swinging my pants I was giving my legs a good work out. I put my hands in the air and shook them like I just didn’t care. There were a lot of others that looked like they just didn’t care but that could have been the proliferation of magic mushrooms around the joint. Just a few matters to clear up: why don’t gay men go to festivals? if you use the ‘poo in a box’ do you then have to carry it to the toilet to dispose of it or keep it by your pillow where you can presumably look at it from time to time? If the Queen came to festivals, no doubt she would take an anti-poo tablet, thereby enabling her to eat curry, drink beer and take copious amounts of drugs without need of a turn-out.�