"Calling agents Main? Check in please"
"Agents Main reporting as requested"
"Your GPS signal and reception are weak. I hope you haven't stupidly got into a situation where all your equipment is running out of batte..."
7:26:41
7:26:42
7:26:43
"We've arrived at the safe house"
"Excellent. Let's stow our belongings and prepare our legends for tonight's event"
6:10:45
6:10:46
6:10:47
6:25:56
6:25:57
6:25:58
"Agent, you smell. Take a shower, and that's an order"
"As you say chief. Copy that"
6:42:32
6:42:33
6:42:34
"Agent, we're in Kilburn now. Please conceal your comms equipment as the locals may engage in hostile action at any time."
"Copy that."
5:29:18
5:29:19
5:29:20
"I'm not sure I can make it"
"Look, if you're not up to the job go home, we can bring someone else in who is. There's no time for messing around"
4:15:25
4:15:26
4:15:27
4:52:21
4:52:22
4:52:23
"Check in with the General: Dog report: zero car window head count, zero swim count. Over."
4:53:12
4:53:13
4:53:14
4:56:10
4:56:11
4:56:12
"Time's getting tight. We need to get this done and we need to do it fast"
4:58:47
4:58:48
4:58:49
---
3:28:20
3:28:21
3:28:22
3:40:43
3:40:44
3:40:45
"Coming out of deep cover now. Only one Waitrose sighted in the past two miles. Do you copy?"
"Affirmative. What is your current status?"
"Now somewhere in Hendon. We have an agent injured by by the house prices but he'll live."
"OK. You need to move quickly now. You'll have to make it to the safe house in Paddington by 6 or you'll never make your final deadline, and then it won't just be your ass on the line - it'll be mine too."
"Roger that."
3:44:50
3:44:51
3:44:52
"We've just been tasked with a new job. Agent EJ wants data on Connexions and she wants it now"
"How does that feed in to the mission?"
"I don't know but she's willing to exchange the data for resources and at the moment a copy of the Young People's Survival Guide to York and a couple of pints are just what we need"
"Roger that - the files are on their way"
2:14:25
2:14:26
2:14:27
2:40:35
2:40:36
2:40:37
"Status report: almost through Finchley. Surrounded by Londoners, and at least four Waitroses in the last hour."
"Sounds serious. Suggest going dark."
"Copy."
2:42:52
2:42:53
2:42:54
2:56:15
2:56:16
2:56:17
---
2:59:43
2:59:44
2:59:45
"We've just finished processing al-Symington's intel. It would appear that Diziet is in possession of a nuclear device powerful enough to destroy the entire country. He's currently holed up in a safe-house near Nottingham. We have to act now or risk the lives of milions of people and their pets and kiddies."
"What are you suggesting?"
"We have to obliterate Nottingham, and we have to do it now."
"This isn't what I signed up for. Don't the residents of Notingham get any say in this?"
"It's either the residents of Nottingham or the whole country. How many innocent lives do you want to be lost on your watch?"
"Well, you've left me no choice. But I don't like it. I don't like t one bit."
"Backup, prepare an assault team. I want to see results within the hour."
13:16:01
13:16:02
13:16:03
13:58:31
13:58:32
13:58:33
"It's done. Nottingham has been wiped from the face of the earth. Someone get Spanners to download the satellite imagery to verify."
"Copy that."
13:59:12
13:59:13
13:59:14
"Quick, pass the salad cream!"
"Why?"
"This salad needs neutralising. And go easy with the salt, homeland security played hell last time we requested more before they thought we should need it"
12:25:41
12:25:42
12:25:43
"Something's coming through on the wires. There's been a break-out at Uttoxeter high security prison. Isn't that where Mad Dog was being held?"
"Yes. And GCHQ has just paged me with some chatter they've been picking up. Looks like Mad Dog's old terrorist cel has been in communication with al-Symington. Looks like that one should have been given a higher threat rating at this week's briefing"
"That gap she blasted in Watford may have been more than a warning shot after all. We've really dropped the ball on this one and we need to pick it up again, right now. I want all the intel we can get, within the hour."
11:05:59
11:06:00
11:06:01
11:28:22
11:28:23
11:28:24
"I've got Division on hold. Al-Symington's on the line with some demands."
"I thought I made it clear to you during the Harper-Corby affair - we do not negotiate with terrorists!"
"She's offering us intel on Diziet's plans, in exchange for full immunity for Watford. I think we may have to do this."
"This stinks to high heaven, but if it's what we've got to do then I guess we'd better get on and do it."
11:31:07
11:31:08
11:31:09
11:52:34
11:52:35
11:52:36
"al-Symington's information is all very well, but we've still got this gaping hole in Watford for anyone to see. The last thing the Agency needs today is a PR disaster on top of everything else"
"What are you suggesting?"
"I'm going to commandeer this construction team. The gap's big and it needs filling - to hell with protocol"
11:56:17
11:56:18
11:56:19
"Damn it! We need to work out how to cross the M25 to get to Barnet before noon today."
"That is not on your brief, Agent. You are working outside the remit of this organisation."
"Yeah? Let me tell you from someone who knows - over at Division it might be all about remits and regulations, but out here in the field there IS such a thing as a free lunch, but ONLY - repeat: ONLY - if we get to Caffe Uno in Barnet to spend our Tesco vouchers. If you care about the success of this operation you'll give me and my men all the backup we need."
"OK, point taken. I'll get on with Campion-Spall and see what I can find out."
10:08:10
10:08:11
10:08:12
10:36:12
10:36:13
10:36:14
"That's strange. If I didn't know old Mad Dog Diziet was safely behind bars, I'd swear that man behind us has the exact kind of cover his men used to use"
"Old Mad Dog! Those were the days though. You can say this for them: at least back then we knew what we were fighting for and who the enemy was. These days it's sometimes hard to tell what side we're on any more"
10:41:50
10:41:51
10:41:52
10:50:35
10:50:36
10:50:37
"OK, Agent - I've just got off with Campion Spall and it looks like you're on a clear trajectory to pass unimpeded below the M25."
"I can't believe you got off with her. We're married!"
"There's no time for emotional outbursts. Do you copy or not?"
"Copy that. I'll be going under within twenty minutes."
10:51:52
10:51:53
10:51:54
"Stevens at division is pulling rank over that task he set us two weeks ago"
"The North-South divide? Surely he's not demanding that kind of thing on a day like this"
"He wants it and he wants it now"
"Well I'll upload the raw data streams, but he'll need Spanners to decode the information and he's prepping for the Morocco trip: wheels up in less than 24 hours. Stevens will get it when he gets it."
9:20:04
9:20:05
9:20:06
9:43:51
9:43:52
9:43:53
"OK, we've cleared Hatfield. Now in the region of Welham Green. Repeat: Welham Green."
"Copy that."
9:44:02
9:44:03
9:44:04
"Morning!"
"Morning. What shall we do today?"
"I quite fancy going for a 26 mile walk. What do you think?"
"Yeah, can't see why not. I'll just pop for a shower before we set off."
8:01:04
8:01:05
8:01:06
8:27:28
8:27:29
8:27:30
"Nearly ready to leave, I think."
"Me too. We should be able to get going within the hour."
"Yes, I think so. Let's just hope we don't get embroiled in a complicated anti-terrorist operation. That would be REALLY annoying."
8:29:03
8:29:04
8:29:05
8:58:36
8:58:37
8:58:38
"Hang on, incoming transmission"
"What is it?"
"Some rumours going round suggesting some kind of event going on at 8pm in the Founders Arms, London"
"Think we should check it out?"
"It's the only lead we have"
"In that case we'd better get going"
"Copy that"
8:59:58
8:59:59
9:00:00
An all-new drama
Starring
Ewan Main
Gill Main
"TWELVE"
Also starring
Hatfield
Potters Bar
Caffe Uno, Barnet
The streets of London
The Millennium Bridge
A poncy hotel
and the Founder's Arms pub, South Bank
Today, as we approach the end of this monumental jaunt, was the time to attempt the first challenge we received - to bring a smile to the face of Dunc's recently-bereaved friend by bringing a memento of his much-cherished Luton Town Football Club. Dunc suggested a local paper showing some football results, but we thought we'd try a little harder than that.
Sadly, though, after several phone calls to Luton Town themselves and a conversation with none other than the club secretary (a woman named Cherry, if you'll believe THAT) we came up against the now all-too-familiar conversational manhole:
"...And you're doing this for charity, are you?"
"Erm, no, we're just doing it for no reason at all, really."
"Just for the sake of it?"
"Well, yes..."
And as you can imagine, it all went downhill from there. You'd have thought these people would have more of a sense of adventure.
We have however managed to acquire three pieces of memorabilia including a copy of the Luton and Dunstable Herald and Post, so Dunc's friend won't go too hungry.
We managed through the course of the day to clear up a matter that has bothered us for a while - what the phrase 'Garden Village/Town/City' means when located after a place name. It seems to mean 'new and charcter-lacking but prosperous estate where streets are named after commonly known flowers and shrubs'. We were sorry that we didn't see a pansy crescent, though.
As far as we can determine (and we do wish, at this stage, that we had the Professors here to give a learned opinion), we are for tonight residing in a travelodge that is literally on top of the M1. If anyone can confirm this through looking at google maps we would be most grateful.
We also had to break our way in to and out of a CCTV monitored building site to get here, but such trivialities are of little consequence currently.
Flitwick area, c.1530 hours - We appear to have happened upon a primate enclosure of some kind. Slightly smaller than a man, they were engaged in uttering a wide range of sounds in a register slightly higher in pitch than that of their human cousins. Furthermore, at exactly the time at which we arrived, the inmates were staging some form of break-out. In their hundreds they were streaming out onto the surrounding streets, clad in what can only be described as some manner of ritual decoration, possibly for mating or hunting purposes. A mass of black blazers, black trousers, white collars and matching ties swam before our eyes as we attempted, finally successfully, to negotiate this tide of livestock.
1830 hours - Eureka! The ovine research project, as issued by Mr. & Mrs. Charles Hunt of the Royal Society, has been completed with great success. We shall be presenting our report to the Society imminently.
Conducted brief field trials this morning to determine the answer to this age-old question, contemplated by all the greats of the past century. No time for the full text of our article as am currently observing the effects of some road-side berries I found on the academic mind, having quietly adminstered them to Professor Ewanson's drink whiole he was looking the other way. Some brief excerpts from our field notes should suffice in the meantime.
Task one: ordering breakfast in a local bar: Prof. Ewanson administered some basic tests looking for intelligence which included asking the simple-looking staff to match up spoken words in their own language with pictorial representations of the same. Although we can report some loose correlation between pictures selected and words spoken, we are unable to report any notable indicators of intellegence. Must also report that subjects leered impertenantly throughout testing.
On a local thoroughfare:
Hordes of natives sighted sitting over the pavements, drinking strong liquor despite the early hour.
Furthermore, a rather frightening altercation with youthful native on a bicycle, who swore at Prof. Gillson in its local tongue and seemed unable to distinguish between the pavement and the road.
A savage and uncivilised place indeed.
It's no Moose steak
SIR- Now that smoking in public has been banned, isn't it about time our interfering 'Big Brother' government also gave some serious thought to outlawing vegetarianism and insisting that these pasty-faced bean-eaters do their bit for the environment too?
It is proven scientific fact that each flatulant Norwegian moose expels 2,100 tonnes of harmful methane in to the atmosphere every year. That is the equivalent of driving 13,000 kilometres in a gas-guzzling Jee, or two jumbo jets flying across the Atlantic.
If you factor in all the obnoxious gasses produced by cattle, sheep, goats, hens and other farmyard creatures, the amount of pollution must be absolutely astronomical.
Eminent scientists are forevr warning us of the terrible damage all this is going to do to our environment, causing global warming, melting of th icecaps, widespread flooding, hurricans, tsunamis and, no doubt, plagues of boils.
Therefore it must surely be incumbent on us all to do our bit for humanity be eating as many of these flatulent animals as posible before they have the chance to pollute the atmosphere still further.
Most, if not all, of those scruffy, long haired, bearded Swampy-style beatniks who recently picketed Heathrow Airport were probably vegetarians.
I suggest they would be doing more to protect the environment if they went home and tucked in to a nice juicy moose steak instead of sanctimoniously haranguing innocent people flying off to Torremolinos for a well deserved summer holiday.
No doubt some Leftie do-gooders will moan that banning vegetarianism would be a 'breach of civil liberties'.
But is it any more so than the Guardian-reading busybody who threatened to have me arrested last week for lighting up my pipe as I stood innocently in the pouring rain, annoying absolutely nobody, on Flitwick railway station?
Charlie Garth,
Flitwick Road, Ampthill
Today, we walk through Ampthill.
Yesterday's walk passed by in fairly routine manner - blazing, alarmingly intense sunshine, further equipment breakage (the water carrier), some Sport Beans and a few rock anthems thrown in for good measure. Shortly after arriving at this, our fifth Travelodge so far, we decided on a brief trip to the local pub.
The Bird In Hand sits on the corner of a large housing estate in which every road is named after a bird. (Curlew Crescent was a particular favourite.) We walked into the main bar to find the room empty save for two people. The barman, a very widely-built fellow with shaven hair and a fixed stare out into the room, stood motionless. In the far corner, a man whose piercings were threatening to outnumber his tattooes sat slumped at a table, gazing at a copy of The Sun without ever turning the page, his two empty and one half-full pint glass on the table next to it. On one wall was pinned a food menu offering four options: chilli and chips, burger and chips, hot-dog and chips, chips. The stillness of the room was underlined by the two ceiling fans that hung motionless in front of the bar. One had its full set of four blades; the other only three. Wading through the silence, we made our way to the bar, ordered our drinks and sat down in the far corner.
The room remained silent. Attempting not to draw attention to ourselves and thereby incur the wrath of an establishment whose unspoken code had been breached, we kept our voices to a whisper. Meanwhile, the barman stared. Bereft of anybody to serve or any barmanistic tasks to undertake, he simply... stared.
After some fifteen minutes or so had passed, the barman disappeared from sight for a moment. From nowhere and with no warning, the room was filled with the loud, loud strains of music. "Son, you are a bachelor boy, and that's the way you'll stay," it sang. "Son, you'll be a batchelor boy until your dying day."
Perhaps you've heard the song before. We hadn't. And we never want to again.
The music having reached its bizarre conclusion, the room was once more plunged into silence, as abruptly as it had been hauled out of it moments earlier. Shortly afterwards, the barman came over and closed all the windows near us. That way, nobody would hear our screams.
We left quickly.
All this fades to nothing - nothing! - though, when you see the full deviousness of this challenge. The supposed shop, called BJs, appears in no telephone directories for Rushden. It appears in no on-line directories. It cannot be sighted on a stroll down the streets of that town. No indeed: the nearest shop of that name would appear to be in, of all places, Corby.
Yes, what we have here is a vicious insabotagiationising effort of our Corby-loving nemesis. She, it seems, would have us halt our quest and return to the land of the damned, where we can only assume she has some nasty, twisted fate in store for us.
But never fear, we're not to be distracted from our task even if it does mean we're a pizza down. Onwards, then, to Bedford; BJs be damned.
Oh dear. What have we let ourselves in for in coming here?
Sam: sadly there was no Merry Man action whatsoever in the vicinity of Robin Hood Airport, nor did we even see a single bow or arrow. Which was quite a relief after last year.
Kat: Your advice was good. All hail Compede, for it is good and noble.
Rosy: Your bribe is good. To be honest we were planning on doing the sheep thing anyway in thanks for such a lovely evening before we set off. Any other tasks you'd like to request?
Sue and Pam: Get knitting!
Kate: We still blame you for Corby.
Only this time it's nearly all stopped working. The first inkling that all was not as it should be was before we even set off, when we discovered that our "hotline" phone was completely functional unless you wanted it to make a sound of any kind. Not terribly helpful as a telephone then.
Next was the comment left anonymously on our blog simply asking "Where are the pictures supposed to be appearing?!" Indeed, it appeared that not a single photo had been posted, despite our using a Flickr service especially designed to do just that. Unable to fathom why, we've taken the Argument From Ignorance approach and assumed that someone just has something against us. Anyway, we quickly found a solution to that. His name's John.
Next, our internet tracking system stopped working for an entire day (see earlier post). That has now been put down to the fact that most of Leicestershire has rubbish mobile reception.
Next, the big one: on a roadside outside Corby (where else?) Ewan knelt on and thereby resolutely smashed the Pocket PC that has been the source of our navigatory prowess as well as our blogging panache. Yes, the poor old thing, on its last legs already, was unceremoniously dispached from the world of function.
But at least we could still send blog updates by text message. The marvellous little service whereby we send a text and it appears as a blog post a moment later. You may remember it from such gems as "We've got a Yorkie," and who could forget the classic "Selby does a marvellous curry"?
Well, no. A couple of days ago we discovered that since about day two, none of those has got through either. The reason? Two days into our walk, the SMS Country service spontaneously changed to become only available to those in India. No, really. So it turns out that you had no idea that we'd been answering al your comments, and even composing poetry, as we walked. Not a word of it.
Anyway, the real purpose of this post is to announce that it all now works again! Without going into too much detail, let's just say that Curry's in Kettering came to the rescue, and we are now once more entirely blogtastic and hotlineal. And we'll start answering your comments... Again.
- The Yorkshire region of our walk was defined by power stations.
- The Midland region has been defined by windmills, both functional and decorative. The functional ones scared us a bit at first but we liked them in the end.
- Fewer southerners request that we have a reason for our walk: we began last year, when people asked why we were walking to Edinburgh, to consider saying things like 'It has been foretold', or 'Because our ASBO requires it'. Southerners, maybe being more used to pointlessness, just tend to laugh and congratulate us. And in the case of a receptionist yesterday, insist on giving us more tea.
- Whilst all regions are equally primarily suited to Meatloaf and Alice Cooper, the south leans toward 70s disco classics where the North was all with the 70s and 80s glam stadium rock.
- The south has also seen a surprise entry on to its top 10 listening classics with the hits of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
- A key split between north and south is revealed in public footpath blocking methods. Where the north favoured piles of manure and farm machinery, the south has so far revealed a penchant for motorways and huge piles of felled trees.
Drat. It appears that our photos aren't getting through. We'll try and fix it when we're not in a field near Donacster.
From: 118118
To: Gill
Message: No charge. The 118118 Text Team is really sorry, but we're unable to answer the question you sent us. Thank you for using 118118 SMS, please try us again soon.
Hardly.
1. Having a Beehive: 10/10. Indeed there was one.
2. Cake References: 7/10, all from the jukebox. Even though there were only two, it was more than can be expected from a Grantham pub on a Wednesday evening.
3. Décor: 8/10. Classic pub orange with painted slogans making little to no sense.
4. Quality of patronage: 6/10. Unremarkable save for the man who smiled at us when MacArthur Park began playing.
Snacks: 6/10. Kudos for the 3 kinds of nut, but no Mini Cheddars to be seen.
Accessorising: 8/10. Stuffed bees, pictures of leaves on the menus, tropies and handled pint glasses all on display.
Music: 10/10. MacArthur Park as already mentioned, Lay Lady Lay, Handbags and Gladrags, and well intentioned if inaccurate promises that the sun ain't going to shine henceforth. All accompanied by an ever-changing display of photos of dead people on the jukebox screen, including Kennedy and James Dean (not the real one).
Over all, not outstanding but really not bad at all.
Unfortucoincidentally, it appears that the GPS tracker stopped working on the day in question, so we can't ask you to see for yourselves how long it was. We're working on getting that fixed. Buit you'll just have to take our word for it that it really was very, very, very long indeed. We don't want to describe anything else about the day, as we're concerned that that might distract you from the sheer and unmitigated longocity of the event. So, that's all we're going to say.
...Except this one other thing: the small village of North Luffenham. It is a wonderful, wonderful village simply because it contains the Fox And Hounds pub. And the Fox And Hounds is a wonderful place because it contains a man whose name we never asked but who is the husband of the landlady there. We dropped in there at about 9:15pm, at which point we still had another 2.5 miles to walk. (Did we mention that yesterday was a long one?)
The man - let's call him Mr. Fantastic - came over and asked if we'd like to pitch our tents in the pub garden to save us walking any further. We explained that no, we weren't camping, but were only 2.5 miles from our stop in Morcott.
"And you're going to walk that?"
"Yes."
"Tonight?"
"Yes."
"That's a terrible road. You can't walk down that road tonight."
"No - it's fine. We've walked a long way already. Only two and a half miles left."
"Not down that road, in the dark?"
"Yes, we know it's not ideal, but it's the only route."
"Give me 15 minutes. I'll sort you out."
At that point he sped off purposefully towards the other people he'd been sitting with. We realised what he was going to do, and called him back to explain that it was very kind of him, but really, we couldn't accept a lift from anybody as we had to walk the whole way.
"No you don't."
"Yes, I'm afraid we do. But it's a very kind offer - thank you."
"Why do you have to?"
And now, friends, we'd like you to imagine how stupid we felt giving the following reason. It was the only reason there was, but at that moment it really didn't seem good enough:
"Because we'll be really disappointed in ourselves if we don't."
An expression passed across his face; the expression of a man who knows firstly that he is right, secondly that the person he's talking to is barmy, but thirdly that this is a situation in which logical and careful reasoning just is not going to win the day. Like a man confronted with a door-to-door evangelist.
He accepted defeat - well, not really, but backed down with the comment: "You're on a mission. I can respect that" - but warned us to be very careful, adding that he was worried about us and would hate us to get hurt. We thanked him again and he left, only to return a couple of minutes later with...
(and you'll like this)
...a pair of high-visibility workmen's jackets! Explaining again what a dangerous road we were about to walk along, and how all he wanted was for us not to be hurt, he bestowed these wondergarments upon us, gave us exact directions to where we were going, and finished with something along the lines of "Stay safe, kids." Upon our leaving, he came out, shook our hands, and repeated the directions.
And so it has come to be that, from the team who brought you the Pillock Hat on last year's expedition, we are now the proud bearers of the Builder Jackets! And we shall be sporting them proudly for every remaining step of the journey.*
*The last sentence is not true.
