These boots are made for walking

Good afternoon to you all from the Midlands.

You may have noticed that I've been away for a few days - I went walking with some of the Map Twats (Cynical Ben, Neal and James: Dan's away with his girlfriend, the smug git). We started at the Cat and Fiddle pub, perched high up between Macclesfield and Buxton, then walked along to Shining Tor, down round the reservoir, stopped for an effete lunch (fine butties, rabbit, hare and venison pie), then slogged upwards again for seemingly hours, running out of water somewhat inopportunely. I took pictures, of course, and they may be seen here. It's a while since we went out, and I was surprised how exhausted we all were - the unexpected heat sapped us, and our legs ached for several days afterwards. Sunburn was also a bit of a problem.

In the end, it was a glorious route and a good day's walk. Ben's various opinions were amusing and enlightening and as usual, when two or three are gathered, I was the victim. Having discovered a nineteenth-century Jewish ancestor, I outlined my sense that they are all antisemites, to much amusement from my persecutors.

Ben returned home to his wife, who seemed much amused by us as usual, and James took us home to his elegant new bachelor pad in Chester. After a preliminary few real ales, we ended up at a semi-indie night at Telford's Warehouse, a swish bar/club on the canalside. Somewhat predictably, we ended up dancing like fools to all sorts of rubbish. The climax was Neal and James putting on a virtuoso interpretation of 'Hammer Time', which led to them temporarily making friends with a pair of discerning young ladies while I retired from the field - discretion is, after all, the better part of valour.

The next day saw a good deal of snoozing, mooching around town, pool games and more real ale in some astonishing places, before a more low key return to Telford's Warehouse, by which time James's dancefloor exertions had resulted in a pronounced limp. Sunday was very much a day of rest - a fine Sunday lunch in a village pub and a reluctant trek back to Stumville.

Thursday's version of Friday's Conundrum

Hello all. I'm skiving tomorrow. Cynical Ben, Neal, James and I are going walking on the hills around Macclesfield, armed with pies, but lacking Dan and his map skills. After that, Neal and I are joining James for a weekend of carousing and debauchery in the fleshpots of Chester. Or, we'll find a poky indie club in which to feel old. Either way, no blogging for a few days.

How was David Mitchell's appearance, by the way? I'm afraid I missed it.

So - the Thursday Friday conundrum. It's easy. What, if everything had gone your way up to this point, should you be doing now? Where would you be, with whom? I know Cynical Ben would be where he is, with Jo, but be a published author, but he's a spawny get, to use the demotic. The rest of us - not always so easy.

I, of course, would have received the Golden Boot after scoring enough to get Stoke City to the top of the Premiership and won the Champions League. Again.

OK, maybe not. I wouldn't have minded being a decent fencer, and I'd certainly like to be living in the Welsh mountains, overlooking the sea, or perhaps in Ireland or Shropshire, holding down a full-time post in English/Welsh literature. A book or two published, debt-free, and perhaps somebody there with me. As long as she didn't scratch my records or crease my spines. Not too much to ask, is it?

Alternatively, I'd like to have been running a moderate-sized country, consigning large sections of the population to camps for possessing hairstyles, using mobile phones as stereos, dropping litter, voting Tory, driving 4x4s and generally being objectionable. This is not a vision I have yet relinquished, by the way.

At last, he's back

Good morning, one and all. How was your Tuesday?

I spent it in Chester, which is a big tick on its own - the place is a Roman/Medieval/Georgian beauty near the Welsh border. Better than that, I went there to meet Victoria, one of the very first people I made friends with at Bangor University in 1993. We ate fine foods, walked by the river, bought an awful lot of books (hard to believe, I know) and generally set the world to rights. All in all, the perfect anecdote to spending months in Wolverhampton.

And on the way back to the station, I bumped into James, who's moved to that fair city. He was a bit miffed that I didn't stay to go drinking with him, but we are going walking on Friday and then spending the weekend carousing in Chester.

The birthday that keeps on giving

I'm almost 34 and one month old, yet gifts keep arriving.

Cynical Ben, my partner in crime on The Culture, Cheese and Pineapple - now open - has sent me presents which seem to form part of an attempt to toughen me up. Jenn Ashworth's A Kind of Intimacy, in which a fat stalker gets obsessed with the neighbour, leading to 'a bloody climax' (Ben likes it), Faith No More's Angel Dust, and Pantera's Vulgar Display of Power, to which I haven't listened since I was 16, except for 'Walk'. Cool!

I think that's enough from me for today. I'm away tomorrow, meeting my old friend (the friendship's old, not the friend) Victoria in Chester tomorrow for lunch, gossip and - inevitably - bookhunting. Au revoir

Down with the kids, for a weekend

I went to see Doves in a forest this weekend. Not the birds, but a popular beat combo named after a type of ecstasy pill distributed in the 1990s. Which is odd really, because beyond the occasional post-euphoric number, they're quite downbeat.

Being an idiot, I assumed a few things - like cold weather and a campsite near the venue. So I took along woolly t-shirts and my newish red DMs (which earned an accusation of National Front membership from Cynical Ben, because mentally he lives in the West Midlands circa 1981). It turned out that the campsite (populated by students and refugees from the early 90s) was a good 5 miles away.

Despite John's ability to break his new tent and lose tentpegs, he proved a genial tentmate for a Manchester United fan. He neither tried to 'tap me up' or 'unsettle' me in any way. We ate fine steaks and then took the hour and a half trek with good humour, despite the hilarious drive-by abuse from people in SUVs. Amazing that possession of a dangerous, poisonous lump of metal gives these morons a sense of superiority.

Obviously we missed the support band, Delphic, which was a shame. But Doves were just right for the occasion - the sun set gently as their melancholic notes wafted over the Cheshire countryside. The beer was no more expensive than a trendy pub of the kind I tend not to frequent, and the mellow aroma of cheap grass filled the air. The weather was balmy - I wore only a t-shirt (on my torso) and didn't feel at all cold. I've put a few pictures here. Meanwhile, a taster including Cynical Ben's bottom - being a ground-dwelling mammal, my view is rather limited at these events.

The journey back was equally lovely, though everybody's feet ached, and we weren't overly pleased to be greeted at 1.30 by the drunken voices of public school students comparing A-levels or whatever they do - I jammed in my headphones and listened to some John Adams until they lapsed into sullen silence, about 2 hours later.

Sunday brought a large breakfast, some quality cheese purchases in Chester, a sweaty journey home, and blissful unconsciousness for twelve hours. All in all, the perfect weekend.