There seem to be a handful of languages spoken here. Most people use English speaking to me, but slip into that chirpy West Midlands accent, which I can understand for the most part. There's also Welsh, which nobody expects me to understand, and then Forestarian.

I thought Chunky was joking when he told tales of the Forest of Dean. It's all true, including this bit:

In herefordshire where RatpatrolUk live Foresterian is a foreign language spoken in The Forest of Dean 6 miles away. A land locked in the Dark Ages (before America was invented). Possibly a Uk version of The Deep South. An example of Foresterian.

Two Old Guys sat in a shop;

OG1 says ' Obergurgle urbergurgle?'

OG2 'Yarp!'.

Three of us heard this, 1 of us a Forester refused to translate.

I myself observed the following exchange:

OG1: 'Dji habba goo nu jobber?'
OG2: 'Yarp, izza razzer nuff'

...and M23 (who grew up in the Forest) sang a wonderful version of 'I will survive' in Foresterian.

I myself didn't really adopt a Ghanaian accent, because I wasn't speaking English there, I was speaking a mix of pidgin and twi. So in the absence of the influence of Chicago English on my voice, and so long without using English at all, you know what surfaced? My southern drawl. You can take the trash out of the trailer...

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Another thing that took me by surprise here in Ross was the constant and public consumption of high-grade marijuana. Nobody smokes cigarettes, just spliffs, and they smoke them at the pub, in the park, on the street, whereever. It took two days of complete blur before I realized that they must be smoked not like a joint, not like a cigarette, but like a cigar. Otherwise you're flat on your back because they also chain-smoke them like cigarettes. Also that british obsession with tea (another drug) is no myth, they have tea-or-coffee time like six times a day. I got really sick when I a) drank nothing but cider and coffee for three days, b) accepted spliffs when I didn't know how to operate them, and c) had my first fast food in six months. The subsequent weakening of my immune system allowed another attack by the malaria, which was fortunately taken care of by their efficient and free health service. I've got a double-prescription in case those buggers put up another fight, but supposedly as long as you don't get bit after you're cured it shouldn't come back. I hope that's true, I am of course still taking prophylactics but they ain't workin.

When I arrived in Gloucester, I tried to call Chunky, but I couldn't get the wacky British payphones to work. So I called the operator and told her that it took my money, and she rung Chunky and said, "I have a call from a faulty payphone..." Thus when I got sick I became Fawlty Payphone.

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Saturday was the Rat Race, with representatives of three gangs gathered for a 'group ride with observed sections' through the nearby wood. If you look at the picture in the previous post, you'll see Mike (a 4000-quid Molton rider who I was surprised to see on the rough course), Chunkolini of RPUK (in VICTORIAN MAN! pose), Gareth (young Foresterian rugby player who is the RPUK's try-and-break-it tester and also into Freewalking, which means jumping from high places and balance-beam-walking on high skinny things), Tallmartin (an absolutely insane genius into stupid vehicles (above right) as well as stupid bikes (like his bedstead bike)), Lonebiker (the Enemy, of Bikehotrod, who managed to sell a chopper to Kona), another Martin of RPUK (who brought along his extremely embarrassed teenage goth daughter- oh, how painful it must be to have such a dorky dad! This is why I must never breed), M23 of RPUK (banjo-uke player and fire eater), myself, Charlie (affiliated with Klunkerleaguenow and avid skater/surfer/mountainbiker), and Elspeth (sig. other of M23 and the only one of the spouses who didn't stay back at camp and talk about what weirdos their husbands were).

The route went across town, through some of the local alleys (a treat due to the distinctly European custom of providing walkways through private lots), across the firing range, up a mountain, down a treacherous hill, then around and back over the mountain again. On the way we saw some terrifying hand-sized badger prints and I swear, in a boar-waller, a boarprint the size of a salad plate. M23 and Gareth tried to toss The Enemy into said hogwaller but got tossed in themselves, and I did a little mudbawgin myself (see below). For the downhills I traded with Elspeth, whose chopper had no brakes, and so I skidded down the mountainside with a foot on the front wheel- fun stuff!

Then we retired to the orchard for kebabs made of squirrel, pheasant, pigeon, and rabbit.

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I let Johnny Rattooth out for this job:



First you cut a slit in the rabbit's belly, then reach between the skin and the body until you've got a handle of fur on it's back. From that point the rabbit just peels like taking off a sock.

When you've got all of widdle fuzzy bunny's fur hanging off the head, you just twist and pop and off the head comes.

From that point it's just a matter of digging out the livers etc, and pushing the shitpipe out the bunny's widdle fuzzy butthole. Rabbit intestines look like a string of black pearls, as they are a factory for round pellets.

Here we are comin' down the first descent. Note the trees in the background indicating the steepness of the hill.