StreetCowboy

Letters I've written Never meaning to send

Ye're dedoanthair, if Ah could ignore thon CowboyClown Ah'd beoanit like a dogoanabeetroot. It's only fair to advise that in the argument over whether I have imagined the Imam's fictional character, or vice versa, I have been unable to substantiate his claim to have a Facebook page. Aye,right, Cowboy - if Ah wiz a figment ae' yer imagination, wid Facebook huv blocked me fir ma Sectarian views?

I doubt that this was intended to be such a maudlin thread, but maybe it is better to go sooner, rather than later, and be sorely missed with only good memories, than to hang on tiresomely beyond your best. I posted on another thread about Perfectionists and Competitors, but some guys just love their sport above all else, like Andy Murray or Paul Gascoigne. The latter is maybe a bit of a nuisance in his neighbourhood, and maybe the kids don't play in the park... Saturday afternoon, in a park near Gazza's house. Kids playing football in the park... Gazza: "Gie's a ball! Gie's a ball!. Hawaiy! Watch this... Howzat! Ah... Mefookin'hip!" Sunday morning in the hospital Doctor: "Mr Gascoigne, you're almost 60 years old- you can't be playing energetic sports. And you could never score from bicycle kicks" As I was researching the above, I was surprised to learn that Gazza is younger than I am. He's got until 18th August to get his bike over here for Pubcycle XI. SC

I can’t believe Lee Brilleaux is still dead. After thirty years of saying that, I have to admit it’s not true. I can now believe what I could not believe in my youth. I’ve never seen anyone smoke a cigarette so quickly. I suppose it’s scarce wonder he was late so soon.

As you know, we are short weeks away from Pubcycle XI, so I took a take round on Saturday to get some photos for the poster. While I was about it, I took a meander through this road, a few hundred metres from KL Sentral Pubs en route. 18th August, if you are joining. Just send money if you’re not. All proceeds to Agathians’ Shelter.

I’m going to have to replace the rear tyre on my road (cyclocross) bike within a matter of months. I want to stick with Schwalbe Marathon Plus, which suffer so few punctures that I have lost the skill of fixing punctures. I have the option of a 28 mm (from a shop 40 km distant) or 35 mm (shop 10 km distant). I don’t remember any dramatic change when I previously switched from 35 -> 28 mm. The 35s are nominally 85 psi, the 28s 110 psi. I ride 97% tarmac albeit some rough roads, and occasionally gravel, sandy roads and rarely mud dirt tracks. My buddy rides 25 mm on the same route, but he has better bike handling skills. How much difference do you reckon between 35s at 85 psi and 28s at 110 psi - on ordinary tarmac (efficiency and speed)? - on gravel and sand (getting bogged down)?

I have been to a few international Thai rugby matches, and they are competitive with their neighbours. Rather than condemn minor nations because you don’t see them on your televised Olympics, maybe you might want to go and see the nation in international competition.

I’d have perved at someone nicer. You got what you deserved.

When it comes to copping a clap, a polite demeanour, strong self restraint, and a generous and polite, tolerant demeanour will stand you in good stead. self restraint will also help avoid copping the clap, along with slim fit rubber boots, although stoic abstinence may be the best Ye cannae whack wair brush ‘n’ Dettol.

Ha’ ye e’er had a clap in th’ chops wi’ a clarty cloot?

No. I do not believe that things happen for no reason. Some things happen for unknown reason. I caught a clap in the chops in Dubai from a gentleman who did not share my sense of humour. I caught my gogs myself, others interjected, and that was the end of it. To the best of my recollection, which may be true bar one possible exception, I have never come to blows in East Asia.

If reading’s not your strong suit, you’re best to stick to what you’re good at.

Good vocabulary never gets old.

You are right. But in English, we sometimes speak figuratively, saying something IS something, when we could equally use a metaphor, saying it was LIKE something, but we don’t literally mean that Bangna is a poor, Jewish neighbourhood, rather it is a district where Westerners find it easier to live, and maybe Thais prefer them to live there.

I agree. You don’t need to ‘go bush’ to become local. The people you meet every day will learn how you are, and the people you don’t meet every day will treat you with a smile same as they meet any stranger. And probably slightly happier if you avoid any faux pas. I guess it also depends how much time you spend in your neighbourhood. Some people seem to be forever racing off to the beach, or the mountains, or the islands. If you don’t appreciate your neighbourhood, you start off on the back foot with your neighbours.

We’ve got flies in our eyes. How can codgers like you and I be expected to know if we’re old?

Snuff

If ye play t’yer stereotype, ye’ll kenwhit people thinkae’ye. If you don’t conform to confirmation bias, you’ll always be fighting an uphill struggle.

Catching up, or catching on?

The weekend saw us take off for the hot springs of Slim River. Slim River is simple to get to - 100 km up the North South Highway, or the Old Route 1, or my route. I was feeling slightly sheepish with the first navigational error on the first line of directions : “Monkey Road”; perhaps more detail would have helped for the first 40 km, even though it was familiar roads. I’d had breakfast, as I was anticipating 125 km, but the gentleness of the gradients had pulled us into a false sense of comfort. I was drinking for mouth dryness, but I could hardly stomach any more water. Eventually, I had to stop for a rest. I sat at the side of the road until I felt better, and stood up, and didn’t. I tried lying down, but when I sat up, I felt dizzy. “Well, this is not getting us any closer to cider” and I stumbled onto my bike and struggled on. I insisted on going in front, because I didn’t want to find out how slowly I could be dropped. We’d gone less than a kilometre to the next junction, and a roadside food hut. We ordered some fried rice, and iced lemon water, which came back up 60 seconds after swallowing it - fortunately, with sufficient time to get to the roadside gutter. After the rice, I felt better - as in - not so bad, and we hauled ourselves the last ten km into town. It was a nice route, though. Very gentle gradients, mostly very sparse traffic - although there were more trucks on The Monkey a road than on a Sunday, and our hotel was very close to our arrival into town, which passed by a 99 Speedmart cider merchant. Dinner was not so convenient. I’d identified The Mountain Cafe as a suitable feed stop, but it was on the wrong side of the main road through Slim River, which is the Old Highway One. Daunted, but never thwarted, we trusted to our road sense, the courtesy of local drivers, divine intervention and perhaps a modicum of good fortune to get there. The MountainCafe was not the biggest disappointment of the weekend, but disappointed, though not thwarted, we proceeded to search for a Chinese coffee shop. To be fair, my buddy had been there a few weeks previous, since we were not searching a clean slate. The coffee shop wanted to close some time around 9 pm, so we took the fourth round of guinness back to the hotel. The morning saw us set off at a reasonable time to the hot springs, and as I expected, the ride there was fairly gentle. There is a Strava segment that goes substantially further, to the crest of the hill, but the Google StreetView car had not been able to complete the segment, and we turned back too. Not here - gravel is OK, but when the road flies up in your face like stepping on a rake - well, we had a long ride home in the morning. The hot springs were a disappointment in their casual failure to commercially exploit nature’s wonders. Boiling water bubbling out the ground is great - but where was the bath-house? The development I’d seen during planning was the base location for a white-water rafting business a few km up the adjacent river. 99 Speedmart provided the cider to prepare ourselves for Guinness at the Chinese coffee shop, and in the morning, we packed up for an early start home. my apologies for my bike facing pannier-side away. Learning from Saturday’s experience, we made four stops on the way home, including food for lunch. We made a wrong turning again on familiar roads, but I was confident I could get us home based on road signs. I was less confident when I thought I recognised the same village for a second time,but Strava tells me we took a fairly direct route, and all these little villages look similar. We arrived home before our regular pub opened 4 pm during the week, but 50 metres further to the Bell& saw us over 300 km for the weekend.

Back in the day, pensions were paid by the government / public out of other people's current earnings. Since about the 1980s / 1990s, people are expected to have saved and invested their own pension funds.

I met my family there, and I went bevving with my Wee Boy. It had all changed, and it was not the same as I remembered. There was a general dissatisfaction on my part that I struggled to find the shortest route the "... streets I used to know...", but we got there in the end. So I'd had slightly longer to build up the Dublin Arms than I had planned, and we walked into the hotel - and it was gone! There was a nightclub instead, and I pushed on the door, but it was definetely not open at 7.30 pm. I pushed again, anyway. And I turned to the Lad, and gave him a shrug as if to say "Je ne sais quoi", or maybe "your confusion is matched only by my my disappointment" and we turned to go out. The Doorman said, as we were leaving "Dublin Arms has moved upstairs", and whether the upstairs bar was better than nothing or not is a moot point, but any disappointment is easier to swallow with three pints of Guinness. Things are not what they were. I was very impressed with the level of effort to make Dubai pedestrian-friendly, but probably the most important part of that was December.

Perhaps 'nostalgic', rather than 'sad'. We should save sadness for worse times looking forward, and make the most of nostalgia while we can still remember the good times. And even then, sadness might be discouraging for those around us, and they might struggle to keep us cheerful in our future tribulations. I suggest you do a 'Search and Replace' on "sadness" with "nostalgia" / "stoic fortitude" / "sanguine humour" as appropriate.

I think the phrase in their case is "... get someone". Back in the day, we discovered it easier to get your men, like the Birmingham Six, or Five, or the Guildford Four, because that made it more anonymous and less personal. If only Ally Macleod had had a co-manager - the Argentine Two. He might have been released by now.... the Scarlet Pimpernel can only do so much.

I am going to pretend that I did not read the OP all the way to the end. It appears that you did, and then commented. Good on you, mate. It's guys that you that keep up the traffic on this site, and beguiling the advertisers. Personally, I would only post on a topic if I had something constructive to say, or if I was deliberately trying to wind up someone whom I thought was short-tempered and easily riled, out of badness. Or for the sake of a pun. Or an obscure connection. Or for other reasons. I think if you want to abuse someone, rather than riling them up to tempt them into stupid self abuse, you would be more polite to do it by way of personal message. For the sake of being constructive, you might want to append "... and I know where you live" to the message, with reckless disregard for the truth of that last clause.