Tatsfield Churchyard...and the Royal Baps!

With a fun-packed day ahead of me on Saturday looking for a new car, I had to get cycling out of the way: not something I like doing. I much prefer to enjoy a longer ride to Westerham, leaving home at a civilised hour (7am instead of 6.30am) but it was not to be.

Having said that, the earlier start – which means reaching Warlingham Green at 7am – is starting to appeal – and just at the wrong time of year. An early start means we arrive at our destination early and we get home early, something I probably mentioned in an earlier post as this Saturday was not the first time that we'd met at 7am.

The Tatsfield Churchyard.

I'm pretty pissed off about the car hunting mainly because the car I had (an old BMW 316) was absolutely fine. In fact, as I waited at the bottom of Sanderstead Hill at 10.30am, or thereabouts, a few Saturdays ago, I was quite chuffed with the old car's general reliability. As I sat in the middle of the road on a bright and clear day, indicating right and waiting for oncoming traffic to pass, I heard the screeching of car tyres and then: Wuuuuuuuuuuuummmp! A red Vauxhall Astra hits me, shunting me forward and giving me a nasty bit of whiplash.

I won't bore you with the details, but the owner of the Astra admitted liability and my faithful old Beamer, which was only worth £850, was written off. Now this just isn't fair and is just another example of how the wrongdoer gets away Scot-free while the victim has to pay. In my case I've been forced to buy a new with money I simply don't have.

I'll leave it there, but suffice it to say that Saturday was week two of 'looking in car showrooms' for a cheap car. I'm convinced we won't find such a great car as our black BMW. It was simply the best and I miss it terribly. We found one reasonable motor and there's a possibility of another later in the week, which we'll hold out for.

The ride to Tatsfield was good, although, for the first time, despite the poor summer, I noticed the bite in the air. It's September, so it's approaching what the Americans quite rightly call 'fall'. I love that. Much better than 'autumn'. Or is it? I'll have to ponder that one. Anyway, fall or autumn, it's not here yet. The trees are still laden with green leaves, but there is a noticeable different in the air and I fear that sooner or later I'll be wearing gloves. Andy's already resorted to long trousers (I never stopped wearing them) but soon it'll be time for jumpers and scarves and there will be a dusting of frost on the grass as I look out from my conservatory. Right now, by the way, it's nearly 9pm and it's pitch black outside – another sign that the nights are closing in.

I'm feeling tired all the time, which is another sign of a change of the season. Either that or it's a lack of B12, according to the Saturday Times, but then I eat plenty of meat, I like an egg or two and, well, it's got to be the change of season. On Friday night I went to bed at 9pm and slept through, which was nice. I was out of bed on Saturday morning at 0550hrs and then out of the house by 0630hrs.

No laughing matter, apparently. Pic courtesy of the Daily Mirror.

The big news of the weekend is the Duchess of Cambridge's baps. Yes, her baps! Lovely word 'baps', especially when related to women's breasts. Baps! I've never been a 'tit man' so the whole furore has passed me by, although I did take a peek online and found the baps in question to be fairly inoffensive. I mean, she's no Chesty Morgan. Remember Chesty Morgan? I remember an old man handing me a photograph of her in a pub. Now Chesty Morgan had baps! Baps! They were more like melted truckles of cheese, but let's stick with baps. Baps!

It's all a big fuss over nothing and what's worse is the way the British press – in the shape of Eve Pollard (I think that's her name) is acting 'digusted' when only a few years ago, the British press was chasing 'The People's Princess' through road tunnels. Anyway, the pix are out there, the Italians want to publish them and the Duke and Duchess are initiating legal action – what a waste of money in these troubled economic times, which, of course the Duke and Duchess know nothing about. What's more, people might lose their jobs if threats to close down an Irish newspaper become a reality. In my opinion, the Duchess should have thought to herself: 'here I am, in a very privileged position when many others have no money. Who am I to risk other people losing their jobs when all I had to do was keep my baps to myself?'

As the editor of the Irish newspaper said, she's only royalty in the UK. Outside of that, she's a celebrity and they've always been fair game for the media, especially if they get their baps out whilst forgetting that high-powered zoom lenses are a reality and might be lurking around in the bushes. Didn't she think as she unfastened herself? Didn't it cross her mind? Didn't she say to herself, "No, perhaps not, you never know...I'll keep my baps covered."

And what's Max Clifford doing standing in front of his Surrey pile and moaning about the whole thing as if totally disgusted by the antics of the press? Pots and kettles. The hypocrisy of it all is maddening.

Before I sign off, I've got just one word to say: Baps! Baps, baps, and more baps! Alright, six words.