Dear Walk-Watchers,
Well as you can see, the website is working again after two weeks of repairs. All I know is that the server had a catastrophic collapse, much like Northern Rock or, fingers crossed, the Halifax; just think of what a utopian world it would be if the Halifax had to close; no more Howard, surely the most annoying man on tv, (yes folks, he's famous now; it's a wonderful world) and even more annoying does he become when you find yourself becoming unconscionablly fond of him. No more of that preternaturally happy Chinese guy singing 'woke up this morning feeling fine, we've a current account, which doesn't even scan', or the white girl who thinks she is a soul legend even though she appears not to have a diaphragm and instead sings through her nostrils.
Anyway, enough of all that, though I'm am confident that you are all in agreement, right?
Some of you will have seen the last blog which told the very exciting story of my car breaking down and consequently being scrapped. It was a truly gripping piece of auto-writing, the like of which Clarkson and his ilk can only dream about. Unfortunately it was lost forever in the great server collapse of '08, but to recap: I scrapped my car, it had a personalised number plate which was put there by the previous owner. Who was called Roy. I have never much cared for people with personalised number plates. It's always struck me as kind of vulgar, like gold, or Su Pollard. But with Roy being such a dull name, I couldn't work out whether the owner was displaying breathtaking vanity or just a very nice sense of humour. Hats off to him anyway, however big his head.
So I loved the car to begin with; I loved it's ugliness, with it's square-arsed boot and Duranteesque bonnet, I loved the fact that the number plate said 'Roy', but it cost me a fortune when, after running beautifully for a year and insinuating that our union would be a long and happy one and that one day, maybe in our twilight years, we would together haul a caravan around the country's b-roads at 35 mph, it started going wrong and in the end I was glad to be rid of it. I thought we were friends but it turns out that Roy did not reciprocate my love. I should have renamed it Karl. This means that I am now walking to and from work which is a round trip of 8 miles, including a hill that gets steeper and steeper the further it climbs (about a mile and a half, finishing outside my place of work, since you ask).
There is a kind of serenity that descends upon you after you lose your car. For a while, in my case about six hours, you panic and think that your life is over and wonder how on earth you might cope with going anywhere or doing anything and that now you will only ever be able to buy feathers when you go shopping because they are the only things you will be able to carry home. This is nonsense of course. You cope and you save a fortune. It used to cost me the equivalent of a short war just to go to the chip shop in Roy and return trips to Brentwood from Huddersfield would easily set me back £100 in petrol alone. Absolutely nonsensical. Trains become your friend (not buses, I don't do buses, and I am 14 years into my boycotting of all coaches) and you discover how great it is to walk everywhere. At this point you might be expecting me to start banging on about how much better for the environment it is to walk rather than driving a car, not that I ever have done before, but I don't need to because you already know, so I won't.
When I lived in Brentwood, I always thought that wherever I went, there was a hill to negotiate; in my case, the hill on Kings Road that connects Brentwood station and our old flat at Drake House in Sir Francis Way. I now look back on my former, pasty, sweaty, fatty self with something approaching incredulity and no little shame, for I would often just get a cab home whenever I got off a train. Let me tell you here and now all my Brentwood brothers and sisters; that part of Kings Road is by no stretch of the imagination a hill. Save your £3 for when you get to the top of Kings Road for we all know what awaits you there, gleaming like an oasis in a cultural desert; that's right, the wondrous H and H kebabs.
As far as sponsorship and walk funding goes, things are still very quiet. I have so far raised £200 to go towards the funding of the walk (thanks to Jon Bishop and Jane Vaucher-Grand) but need approximately £5000. This will pay for food, water, repairs (hip replacements), clothes and accommodation for the whole year. I will mainly be camping (which I hate) either on designated campsites or in farmer's fields but would much prefer to stay in B and B's where I can have a shower and a hot meal, rather than carry around a load of kit, not to mention setting it up at the end of each long day. So please, please, please, if you can, donate to this cause. Even a fiver will be invaluable at this point and I would be very, very grateful. You can get contact details in the 'contact us' section.
I have written to every Premiership football club requesting a shirt signed by the first team squad so that I can auction them. So far only Middlesbrough have said yes and Bolton Wanderers have sent me a signed pendant, so big thumbs up to them. Big thumbs down to Manchester City, yes the same Manchester City who have just been bought by a man whose family have a combined wealth of over one trillion dollars, West Bromwich Albion and, though it breaks my heart to say it, a massive thumbs down to my beloved West Ham United, who were the first club to say no. I wonder, if I had all the money I have spent on supporting West Ham over the last 30 years, would I be able to pay Lucas Neill's wages for one extra week?
Thanks for reading and feel free to comment/pour scorn etc
Alaric - Total Walker
PS: Please don't try and buy a kebab in H and H with £3, they will laugh at you. It was artistic licence.
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