On the right of the picture you can see the last few steps we walked down yesterday, on our way to the Faerie Ring. As we started our descent of the hill, a mad jogger was ending his ascent.
Shorne Wood Country Park isn't a bad place for a walk. We hadn't been there for a few years and had always seen the odd rabbit on the bit of grassland two-thirds of the way round the mainly wooded red trail. Yesterday, we didn't see the odd rabbit.
The place was very busy. The car park is so much bigger than I remember. And the new visitor centre/cafe really deserves a more idyllic setting. It is constructed in local sympathetic materials and the piss water from the toilets is recycled as drinking water.
The two teenagers whacking branches against tree trunks, having a competition to see whose bit of branch would fly furthest were not really in harmony with their local surroundings.
But this little red root vegetable was yesterday at the centre of an enormous furore which at one point seemed to be leading towards litigation against Channel 4 by the famous celebrity chef.
"I thought I was pissing blood," said the celebrity chef after eating 3 kilos of the superfood in one week in preparation for the forthcoming Jamie Oliver series, Superfoods For Super Kids.
The premise behind the series is to hothouse three poor inner city five year old children to prepare them to take Media Studies GCSEs at the age of 11.
The controversial "Superfood" method of study developed by controversial University of Utah professor, Professor Gordon Osmond, includes eating seemingly vomit-inducing volumes of porridge, turkey, blueberries and beetroot. Oliver was persuaded to front the series by British Superfood Guru, Dr Gillian McKeith.
"She said she really fucking believed in the guy," said Oliver. "I told her I'd go ahead with the series but I'd have to test the method myself before trying it out on the kids. She said it was ok, my shit could take it."
Neither McKeith nor Channel 4, however, thought to warn Oliver about the side effects of eating large amounts of beetroot.
"They made me feel such an idiot," said Oliver. "How was I to know my piss would turn red because of the beetroot? I was worried out of my mind for a whole week. I couldn't sleep and I couldn't tell Jools what was wrong."
Channel 4 have today apologised to the chef and made an undisclosed donation to a charity of his choice.
Jacques Peretti's excellent programme Darts Tarts displays a real love for the game and affection for the obsessive characters who play it.
I should rephrase that as a real love for the sport, as darts is now officially a sport. That's thanks to this inconsistent government which bangs on about obesity and drinking and smoking, and now classes darts in the same category as healthy, exciting competitions like ice dancing and rifle shooting.
Peretti describes darts as the working class game, as opposed to middle class snooker which drove darts into the wilderness of satellite tv in Thatcher's eighties.
But was Thatcher to blame for this seismic shift?
Or was it the fact that snooker is just so much more bloody sexy?
Betty has already clearly demonstrated the sheer horn factor of snooker. Where else do you see fit men, bent over a table, a four foot pole perfectly balanced between their gentle hands, their smouldering eyes peering intently at a hard ball, the ball just aching to be kissed into a soft, tight pocket.
How could darts compete? Besides the fact that darts players are generally 5 stone heavier than snooker players, you are extremely unlikely to see a professional darts player bend over and show his arse to the world. A poor arrow thrower may spend half the game bending over to pick up a dart that has missed the board or hit it at the wrong angle and plummeted to the floor. But how many times has that happened to John Lowe over the past 30 years? And really, who would want to see it happen?
So Thatcher's not really to blame. In fact, she probably encouraged many workers to take up darts, practising throwing at a photo of her face on the wall.
No, it really is down to eye candy, not the destruction of working class culture.
I am losing the ability to communicate. I think I gave the impression that I saw Peter Crouch walking along The Strand. I didn't see him.
My dream blog is probably at its end. I've run out of dreams and I haven't had any new ones for months. But, hey, at least I didn't go out at the top of my game and finish a year ago, eh? If you left one or more comments on it, thank you. If you didn't like it, I'm sorry for wasting ten seconds of your life.
This blog will go on forever, however. I may not get many comments because I do not give many elsewhere. As I said, I'm losing the ability to communicate. I can't think of many witty comments and certainly no serious ones.
So this blog will go on and on even after you're all sick of it. I promise to continue to try to be entertaining. Yes, I said "continue", I really have been trying these past 15 years.
In other news, we have just finished watching the brilliant I Claudius. Or "One Clavdivs" as we called it. Then we watched a programme about television portrayals of the Romans. And an unknown (to me) comedian on this programme said that at school he and his chums called it "I Clavdivs".
So our humour is on a slightly lower level than that of twatty 14 year old schoolboys 30 years ago.
Jessica Bandwidth wasn't happy. Her boyfriend, Thomas Kilobyte was very sluggish. He would not get up off the sofa. Once he got his feet into those comfy slippers, his heels resting on that luxurious pouffe, his lap full of Doritos, and a beer in his hand, he was just like any other man.
"But I need my rest," said Thomas. "I work hard all day and I do love my Dorito Time."
Jessica couldn't complain. She was getting bigger each week herself. How could she expect Thomas to get off his arse and work in the evening after a long day in the office if she stuffed her face all day with cake?
"I've got a really good idea," said Jessica. "How about you and me joining the gym? It'll give us more energy for the evenings. Look at what it's done for Cassandra!"
"Your sister's an obsessive," said Thomas. "She lives on her nerves. She's not happy. Not by a long chalk. And neither's her uptight prig of a husband."
Thomas took a swig of beer and produced an enormous belch.
Jessica couldn't look at her boyfriend. His swinish habits disgusted her. So he was happy, was he? Well let's see how happy he'd be without a girlfriend.
"If you don't join me in going to the gym, it's all over between you and me, Thomas," she said.
He crushed a can and opened a fresh one.
"It's a choice between me and the Doritos," she said, turning on the BBC News.
"Hasn't Natasha Kaplinsky got fantastic bone structure?"
On the Duloxetine, I am sleeping well. I am sleeping too well. I sleep well all night and given the chance I'd sleep well all day. I've only been taking the little chaps for just over a week so maybe this is an initial side effect. Or maybe the old pills are still in my system, increasing the drowsy effect. Or maybe I'm turning into a modern day Rip Van Winkle. I am becoming my avatar.
Of course getting a good night's sleep means plenty of opportunity to dream. And now my main dream interpreter seems to have too many questions of his own, I'd like to throw last night's dreams open to the House. Does anybody else think I'm losing it?
Dream One - My sister gives birth to five large white seahorses. Thankfully I do not see the birth, but I see them joyfully bobbing around in a tank of water.
Dream Two - Bob Geldof approaches a group of us in a pub. He is collecting money for starving Africans. Everybody enthusiastically gives apart from me. I tell him to "f**k off, you c**t".
Dream Three - I am walking towards the train station from school. I have to walk through an alley which is blocked by a gauntlet of two rows of boys from another school. One of them checks my train ticket. He is not happy with it and is about to hit me when he is called away to another fight.
God knows what I'd be like on acid. I'm such a lightweight.
These people are not my friends. I'm not in the sauna with them, behind the camera, a towel covering my modesty.
The Holy Grail light shining from the midriff of the bloke at the back is not real. What you see is a poor photograph of the front of an advertising booklet. I am not a good photographer.
The words on the front of the booklet, above these four charming young people, are "What is it like in your office during the summer?" The booklet is advertising air conditioning.
Now if this was my office, I would be very unhappy. Because it looks as though I'd be the one doing all the work. To be frank, each of these four employees look as though they're in the midst of their own highly personal erotic dream. I wouldn't mind if it was in their lunch hour but they can't all be on the same lunch, surely. Who's going to cover for them? Muggins, that's who.
It's alright, guys and gals. I'll answer your phones. Even though the calls are probably personal ones from some model agency or other.
This is just typical of the younger generation. They really think they can have it all.
Two Americans in Tokyo. Both unhappily married. One man in his fifties. One woman of about twenty. His wife and family are back in the US. Her husband is based in the same hotel but continually leaves her to go on photographic assignments.
Neither of them can speak Japanese and the Japanese people they meet cannot speak good American.
They naturally come together and fall in love, although because of the fucking enormous age gap they realise there is no future in their union and they go back to their uncaring partners.
Can she only be happy in a relationship with a father figure?
Can he only be happy in a relationship with a daughter figure?
Can Sophia Coppola only be happy under her father's wing?
Can Francis only be happy knowing he is protecting his daughter from the Hollywood devils?
Do I give a shit about any of it?
THE STORY OF LIGHT ENTERTAINMENT - RADIO STARS
The IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME I'M GREAT WITH PEOPLE DON'T YOU REMEMBER THE HOPEFULS? Award goes to Terry Christian with this beautiful put down of multi-millionaire Chris Evans...
"If you've got anybody hailing fucking Chris Evans as a genius, you've got something very wrong with the world, right? He's a working-class kid from Warrington. No passion, no conviction, not interested in music, not interested in culture, not interested in the world of people...Hates people. He's like Morrissey, he's a complete fucking misanthrope."
And poor Kenny Everett, such a comic genius, he did all his own jingles, he was a broadcasting original, he died tragically young.
Remember Sid Snot, the high voiced Bee Gees, big-arsed Rod Stewart, the all in the best possible taste woman, Marcel whatever the bloody hell his name was (the shit mime artist)?
I'm not supposed to be here, at home. I have one sick day in a blue moon but today I feel like shit so I rang in sick and called the doctors'...
"Hello. Can I help you?"
"I've had a sore throat for the past week and now I ache all over and I'm bringing up this yellow mucus."
"I think you've got the wrong number. This is The Co-operative Funeral Directors."
Actually that didn't really happen. But just imagine if it did! No, I saw the Practice Nurse and she stuck something in my ear to check my temperature, asked me to lift my teeshirt so she could listen to my chest, and shone a light down my throat.
"You're not allergic to Penicillin, are you?"
"These'll sort you out. You'll be feeling right as rain after taking these."
I picked up my Duloxetine along with the Penicillin. My cold turkey starts tonight before I can start taking the new pills on Monday evening.
The wonderful thing about blogging is you can write anything you like about anything that happens in your life without some sharp-minded editor saying, "You can't write that, Geoff. Who's going to be interested in that?"
That's why I left The Independent (after pissing in Janet Street-Porter's coffee).
Due to popular disinterest, we shut up shop on Search Me a week and a half ago.
But as it's easy money, I'm going to continue to bring my legion of reader all those hilarious searches brought to me exclusively by Statcounter.
But first an explanation of the title of this post...
The vast majority of my hits are continuing to come from surfers looking for the lyrics to the Sandi Thorn song. Yes, that's Sandi THORN. And of course many of these searchers are big fans of Ms Thorn. And some can't help themselves from telling me exactly what they think of me and my friends...
I love this song..jenne x
you know that i'm just like you people , making fun of everything that is idiotic and sensless , but maybe just maybe you are so wrong ....k the words don't make a lot of sence , she's truly lost when it comes to what is a hippy rocker or punker etc. but she has a point there.anyways just thaught that eventually someone will leave all the judgemental crap behind and read between the pooooorllllllllly done lyrics.heck i could never write a song and i'm betting that all of u are unable 2 do so 2 .
well actully i love tht song it dusent matta wat the words are its the tune people listen to leave sandi alone i bet u cudnt write a better song then tht actully im puttin it as my ringtone !!!!11
ITS AN AWESOME SONG. WHY ARE YOU SO DAMN BITTER? WHO CARES WHETHER SHE IS CORRECT OR NOT? I FEEL SORRY FOR YOU; A BUNCH OF OLD, BITTER SADISTS
OK, I've probably been had and these anonymous comments are really by my blogging friends taking the piss out of the idiotic text speak of the younger generation. But, hey, whatever. Whoever you are you've given me a good laugh anyway.
Another thing that makes me laugh is Google's William Burroughs style cut up technique. So when a googler types in...
Frank Sinatra is the shit
They see under Contains Mild Peril...
Frank Sinatra is a man's man. Just look at the Rat Pack...link arms, and do a kind of hokey cokey, kicking the shit out of the 30 year old spinster...
Go on, Deano! Fuck me, you can't even walk straight let alone kick!
Or when a punter asks for...
Beverley Callard breasts...
Beverley Callard and Simon Gregson perform Guns & Roses Sweet Child O' Mine. Wow!...Matronly breasts.
And when they look for...
Country Artist 'Bleeding Angels'
How many more times in my life will I have to listen to bleeding Angels?
And finally in this extremely bitty post (not "bitty" as in Bev and Simon), 22 of the best searches I've had recently.
1. In Peril 2. Boneless boy falling 3. Pictures of obese men 4. What does a dream mean when dreaming of a policeman with the name Harry? 5. Wet arseholes 6. Wish I was a punk rocker shite 7. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty To Long-Haired Men (No. 4 in Google search from Finland) 8. Paul Merton wank sock 9. Tuna smell cheese 10. Boris Yeltsin gooses (a 19 minute reader from New York) 11. I hate Ben Elton 12. I hate Chelsea 13. I think I'm James Dean 14. Paul Merton is living at...? 15. Pulled Arseholes 16. Mild scarf bondage 17. Taking a bath in public dream 18. Ritchie Blackmore, wig 19. Sexy girls crapping 20. Thigh squeezing 21. The great white shark spotted in Kent in 2006 22. Ground control to make the thumb David Bowie