Mahinda’s Little World

Grrr. I lost a whole damn post on the Macclesfield Beer Festival, thanks to Firefox crashing.

Well, it was fun, and we drank plenty. We — PhlAsh, Paul C, Becky C (née D) and I – also spent over an hour chatting with Nicholas Winterton, the local MP. As one does.

He’s a very outspoken chap (thankfully a bit less controversial than his wife), and a real character. A proper old-style right-wing Tory, too. Oh, and a founder member of CAMRA.

It can probably be summed up by Becky’s phone call to her mother. Both of them are staunch Labour, as opposed to Paul, Becky’s husband, who’s from a very Cheshire Tory background.

"Mum, you’ll never guess who I’ve been talking to!"
…
"Nicholas Winterton! A Tory MP! And he’s actually a good bloke!"

Note the surprise.

28 Weeks Later

On the Sunday, Sarah M was in town, and she invited me out to the cinema to watch 28 Weeks Later. We always go to the cheery ones — the last time we went to the cinema together, it was to see Children of Men.

This film was very different to its predecessor, 28 Days Later. Days was a gritty indie-like affair with largely unknown actors…and Christopher Ecclestone…which was notable for its absolutely amazing portrayal of a post-holocaust London. I’ve always felt, however, that it’s two thirds brilliant and then let down slightly by a poor "let’s all run around lots" final third.

Weeks was altogether more polished, with a lot of Hollywood money. And it showed. Not necessarily in the good way, however. The opening third was pretty damn good — like Days but better, albeit lacking the initial amazing "London like you’ve never seen it before" wow factor.

First third:

Unfortunately, it then became a bit of a formulaic action blockbuster, with much running, screaming and blowing things up. Oh, and helicopters. It was all a bit cheesy too, with the whole "let’s make sure we look after the children".

Final two thirds:

The soundtrack was excellent, like in Days, with a few of the motifs carried through.

There’s probably room for 28 Months Later sometime…but I hope not.

Overall:

I should have had the noodles

Rather than accompany Sarah, Leila, Tall and Jen to Wagamama for noodley goodness, I decided to go home and pack, as I was off to Philadelphia the following morning.

The weather was absolutely filthy — not at all good for driving. I hit the Mancunian Way, and came off onto Princess Parkway. Some numpty boy racer tried to squeeze into a gap that just wasn’t there as I exited the roundabout…I took evasive action…the car fishtailed…I lost control of the back end (it being rear wheel drive)…and span round, whacking the rear passenger side wheel against the kerb of the central reservation.

I’d chewed up an alloy, and the wheel was bent inwards — a bent suspension arm, broken torsion bar and a broken driveshaft, as it happens. Ooops. So, instead of spending a chilled out evening packing, I ended up waiting for RAC guy to come and take me home.

Thankfully, dad came up to Manchester (twice), with parts from a scrapyard, and has all but fixed it. There may be a little damage to the wheel bearing, which is why the thing currently makes a bit of a noise when the wheel’s turning, but it’s driveable.

It’s a Thursday evening in early May, so what should I do but end up chatting about reality TV with a (self-made) multi-millionairess…in a bar…in her basement…drinking her beer. It’s a hard life.

It was a Stockport & South Manc CAMRA trip over to Thornbridge Brewery, in deepest darkest Derbyshire (almost Sheffield, as it turns out).

Normally, a trip to a microbrewery goes something like this:

1. Turn up to dilapidated-looking shed on an industrial estate.
2. Traipse around plant.
3. Drink beer, eat food.

Not this one.

The coach turned through the cast iron gates into acres of sweeping landscaped gardens. There were trees, there was a small lake…there were even swans!

Then we saw Thornbridge Hall itself. A rather impressive stately home with a somewhat chequered past, having had several owners; some rich, some poor. One was chairman of the Midland Railway, I think, and had his own railway station installed round the back of the house. Another was an early-adopter industrialist, who installed all sorts of gadgets; unfortunately, he decided to invest heavily in German industry circa 1910…oops.

The current owners, Jim and Emma Harrison, bought the place a few years ago and have been doing it up mightily, with conference facilities and the like…and a brewery, which is why we were there.

First, we were taken through to the bar for a pint. Thornbridge do a very fine selection of ales indeed — always of very high quality, the St. Petersburg Imperial Stout is one of my favourites, while Jaipur IPA is a very rare thing indeed; an IPA that I actually like.

Beer in hand, we were given a tour of the brewery itself, tucked away in what used to be the carpenter’s shed, etc. and then taken for a walk around the grounds before going back to the bar for more drinks and a pretty tasty cold buffet — proper rare roast beef sandwiches and quality pork pies being the standouts for me.

Freeplay table football and pinball were added bonuses, in what was a very cool little bar — it looked almost swanky nightclub-esque with the lighting and ambience, except of course that it served quality ale. It used to be an air raid shelter, I think.

Eventually, we had to leave, back on the coach to humdrum Stockport.

All in all, not bad for a Thursday evening.

[This has stuck in my drafts pile for ages, so the timing’s a bit off — it was the weened of 28th April!] 

Last weekend had the potential to be great. Properly great.

I was going off to the Lake District for a weekend of relatively hardcore hiking, in the company of Ed, Joe and Caroline. It’s something of an annual thing, except that I’d only made it out to play once before.

It was also the final of the Cricket World Cup on the Saturday — the mighty Sri Lanka, ably led by Mahela, were to play Australia, and I’d made the schoolboy error of not being anywhere near Sky Sports for the big event.

So, these are what would have made the weekend absolutely great: 

• Getting up to the Lakes without a hitch
• Lovely warm weather
• Surviving the weekend unscathed
• Sri Lanka being crowned World Champions once more
• Not writing off my car on the way home 

You’d think that I’d manage at least two of those? Well, you’d be wrong  

It all started off with car trouble, as already documented — I eventually got to the campsite at 11.30pm on Friday evening, well after curfew. Oops. Fortunately, there was Joe’s Land Rover* to look out for, and I didn’t need to pitch a tent.

* A proper old Defender, white with rusty bits. 

Unfortunately, there were three loud drunk blokes in the next tent over who seemed to be playing strip poker at 2am…and taking photos of each others’ arses. One was, apparently, "fluffy".

It turned out that Caroline had gotten her dates mixed up, and completely forgotten about the weekend. Fortunately, she was staying with her boyfriend in Cockermouth, so could make it over for the Saturday.

We were staying at the National Trust campsite in Great Langdale. Very pretty, really, as you’d expect from a valley in the Lakes. The weather was absolutely stunning all weekend — sun, sun and more sun. Good thing I’d packed the holiday hat

Saturday AM

Up we woke, bright and breezy. I’m rubbish at sleeping in sleeping bags and/or tents, unfortunately, so I wasn’t exactly fully rested. Oh well. Bacon was consumed, and we waited for Caroline to turn up before heading onwards and upwards.

The plan was to scramble up Stickle Gill/Ghyll, up to Stickle Tarn, and take it from there.

So, we headed up the path in the bright morning sunshine, until we found a suitable point for getting into the stream itself and starting the scramble for real.

And therein lay the problem. From the side of the path, Ed leapt majestically on to a large flat rock. I followed suit…and landed really badly, right on my right heel. I’d not judged the rock correctly, thinking it was level whereas it actually sloped away from me.

The first bloody bit of the weekend proper, and I’d crippled myself. I couldn’t put any weight on that heel…well, at least not without a fair amount of pain.

We decided that I’d take the path up and see how I felt, while the others would continue the scramble — they’d wait for me just behind a buttress of rock and, if I wasn’t there 20 minutes or so after them, they’d assumed I’d headed back to the campsite.

I didn’t see them at all, so just continued to Stickle Tarn at the top (almost 500m up). I assumed they’d waited, not found me (I was taking it pretty slow), and continued. So I sat in the sunshine for a while, foot in the icy cold water…until I got a call from Caroline.

It turned out that they weren’t ahead of me after all — somehow, our paths had crossed without me seeing them. So, we all met up once more. I hobbled around a bit, and decided that I’d head back down while they continued on for a bit of harder scrambling.

Dejected, I meandered back down the path, pausing to rest my aching foot and occasionally (okay, frequently) swearing copiously.

It just seemed such a shame.

Saturday PM

The others eventually returned to find me reading a book in the sunshine, and we headed off to the Old Dungeon Ghyll Hotel for beer and food. I put my SL cricket top on, and got asked by loads of people what the score was. "I don’t know" was my general response, given that there was no TV or internet coverage available to me…although a brief check on TMS in the Land Rover did reveal that play was held up due to rain.

The food at the pub was pretty good — nice and filling, and tasty too. Beer was also lovely, and the sun was still shining.

After food, we headed back to the campsite, and Caroline had to go back home. A very cute blonde in an early ’90s Porsche 911 (red) certainly draws many admiring glances!

We had a few beers, and ended up playing cards (mostly shithead) in the Landie, with the cricket on LW radio.

I’m not going to write much about the cricket, suffice to say that Sri Lanka got absolutely battered by a much better team on the day. It ended in absolutely farcical conditions, hopefully never to be seen again in such a major event.

This made me sad. More beer required.

Sunday

Get up, go home, not write off car. And that’s about it. My heel really hurt. 

I’m not quite hurting from head to toe, but it’s close.

My right heel is still hurting (from the weekend before last’s camping trip — I’ll be blogging that in due course), and I’ve now picked up an ear infection.

Any sudden head movement leads to a jolt of pain in my right ear, and there’s a general feeling of nausea.

Just in time for my flight to Philadelphia on Monday. Something tells me that that’s really not going to be a pleasant experience. 

So, last week. I say last week, as I’m cunningly editing the timestamp of this post to make it look as though I’ve not spent bloody ages without posting. Because that’ll fool you all.

Last week. Definitely last week. I did…stuff, but it was mostly about my car and the weekend. There was plenty else besides…

Mike and Debbie’s Wedding

Okay, technically the week before last (before last). I headed down to Bury St. Edmunds for Mike and Debbie’s wedding. Seeing Mike getting married was bizarre enough, but seeing him getting married to a woman topped it off

Mike’s a friend from uni — we lived together (amongst others) in 2nd year, and he’s never quite forgiven me for moving out. Debbie, or "Debbie-the-nurse" to use her full title was, surprisingly, one of a group of nurses we knew. She was the best one! 

I stayed in the White Horse, over in Beyton, which really was rather nice — a proper old inn with decent rooms (in a converted barn/stables) and really helpful staff. Daz and Woolly Phil (plus associated other halves), two of Mike’s old school chums, were also staying there, which was handy. I knew Daz from Manchester stuff, and bizarrely knew The Wooooolly One through some MUGSS friends who shared a postgrad lab with him.

Anyway, the wedding itself was at rather more impressive Ravenwood Hall Hotel, specifically in its Edwardian pavilion — as a location for a wedding (and reception), it gave it all an air of Victorian (yes, I know) summer society. The Pimms helped.

I killed two birds with one stone by staying at the parental abode on Friday night, then returning on Sunday to help host a barbecue. What I’ll never understand is just how mum, despite being an absolutely excellent cook generally, cannot barbecue at all. We’re talking raw-on-the-inside chicken here. I manned the grill for the whole afternoon, before driving home pretty late, knackered.

Hockey in the Park VII

It’s back! The first session ended up 7-a-side or thereabouts, complete with a scattering of newbies (Sandrine, Helen and Judith).

The ground was particularly lumpy, Rosy was particularly manic…it was good.

We even went for a curry afterwards. Now that the mighty King Cobra is no more (as documented previously, I’m sure), we ended up deciding to try a new place — we walked along until we found Shandaar, which none of us had tried before. Or, in my case, since about 1997. It was good, with plenty of unusual special dishes…none of which came with descriptions. I’ll definitely head there again sometime.

Car Trouble

On Monday, there was a bit of a scraping sound coming from the front driver’s side wheel of my car. It was very faint. I’d have said that it was most likely a brake pad…except that dad and I had checked them not too long ago, and they had plenty of wear left in them.

By Wednesday, it was considerably worse, and it wasn’t just when braking. I feared that it was a dodgy wheel bearing.

On Thursday morning, it was so bad that I checked it into a garage on the way into work, fearing the worst. It turned out that the brake pad had worn down completely, and was scoring the disc. Ooops. The garage also pointed to a few issues with the back brakes.

I called dad, and he said I should just change the front pads and ignore the rest. Easy…in theory. I had two pairs of pads in the boot, and a Haynes manual. I tried to do it that evening after work, but found that it needed an Allen key somewhere between a 6mm and a 10mm. 8mm then, 7mm being a silly and uncommon size.

So, I left the car at work and cycled in on Friday morning, all tooled up. Come 4.30pm, and I started. The wheel came off, to reveal pads that had worn down to the metal and a disc that was looking a bit scratched (although nowhere near as badly as the garage had made out). I triumphantly applied my 8mm Allen key…and it didn’t fit.

Bugger.

I stuck my head into the wheel arch, and checked that it really was an Allen bolt that needed sorting. It was. 7mm. Who on Earth uses one of those?!

Somewhat devastated, I hopped on my bike and headed to Halford’s. None of their Allen key sets featured a 7mm. None. I purchased a cheap socket set — even if the ratchet head failed, it had a simple bar that could be used.

Back to the work car park, and I applied the new tool. The first bolt loosened happily, so I left that half-off and went for the second.

I pulled, and the damn thing snapped. Not the ratchet head — oh no, that would be simple. The "bit", as in, the 1-inch bit of metal that formed the actual Allen head, had sheared clean in half, diagonally, leaving half of itself embedded in the bolt that I was trying to remove.

At this point, I was almost in tears. The one thing that had gone right for me in the whole operation (it was now after 6pm, and I was trying to get to the Lake District by 10pm)…and it had f***ed up through no fault of my own.

I spent the next 40 minutes swearing at the embedded bit of metal, trying to get it out. Being at the back of the brake caliper, it was a bugger to access, never mind remove — I couldn’t see what I was working on, and relied on touch.

I finally got it out and headed back to Halfords. At this point, I really wasn’t in a good mental state — definitely a bit unstable. I probably looked it, too, as the chap in Halfords offered to replace the set without much fuss.

As a last resort, I went and begged the bloke at the bike shop. I must have looked a state, covered in grease and with a distinct whiff of desperation, pleading for a 7mm Allen key. It worked! Blokey then spent the best part of 10 minutes rooting through the toolbox looking for one — he’d never used one on a bike, anyway. One was found, and I was told that I may as well keep it for the weekend — it wasn’t as though they were going to use it there!

Thank you, human nature. And thank you, Alastair from Halfords in Altrincham.

Back I went, and changed the offending pads. The piston (that pushes the pads on to the disc) was pretty stiff, but I sorted it eventually with brute force.

Off to the other front wheel…and the pads were fine. Absolutely fine, with at least 60% of their lining left on them. Very bizarre — I’d not noticed uneven braking or anything, so for a matched set of pads to wear down so unevenly is very odd indeed. Needless to say, the sensor was on this side…which is why it hadn’t fired earlier.

Pads changed, and it was 7.30pm. Just managed to get into the office before the security firm locked off, to wash my hands before heading home.

I showered, packed frantically, and left the house just after 9pm, I think it was. I had to get up to the Lake District!

But that’s another story…