Out in the field. Heavy wind. Cow flew past head. Numb extremities. Frozen piss. More soon.
RB
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A veritable word on rambling.
@ 2008-09-02 – 19:54:23
"...halfway into the opening of the anus until the hilt.
However, back onto the subject of rambling, a veritable pastime which may empower and deflower the mid-day walker to such degree that he may exact a firm level of glee, gait and gaiety.
We ramble. We ramble. Why do we ramble? We cross over fence and fen to enoble the spirit. To fill the lungs with crisp atominons of airfresh and taste the scent of honeysuckle, the rimflower and the quiverhorse into our souls.
We ramble, not because we can, but because we must.
But moving back to the anus..."
Rambling in the Eighteenth Century, and Musings on Defecation by Sir Quicey Nice IV
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Rambling, A Sure Footing
@ 2008-08-14 – 22:38:41
I decided after many moon's rest to put the bramble feelers out and test tread upon the idea of reforming the once guilded, Anarchist Ramblers of Scotland and England.
Regular readers of this walker's oeuvre may be able to tell you that at one time there was nothing more noble to the hinterland trekking cause, nothing more reassuring, more impenterable and more tighter than A.R.S.E.
In dark times ladies and gentlekind, we begate our greatest members in the hard struggle to free this nation's walkways, fords and bramble paths from the crushing fist of privately controlled tyranny. Our members were murdered, had their reputations smeared and their berghaus defecated upon. Yet never did we crumble in spirit. Our members may have scattered beyond the fields of justice. But with such names as Alex J Walker, Buck Tremaine and Findlay Vinecreep upon mine shield, I shall set forth to rebrand A.R.S.E. We can rise again. We can break free from the amistad of barbed field gates, streams deliberatey polluted with nematode worms and lusty, erect bulls. We can embark on the long, lonely road to freedom once more!
Over stile with style!
Up the A.R.S.E!
Bob Rambling.
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Rambling has gone out of fashion?
@ 2008-07-30 – 20:28:41
Some miscreant smacked my window with a rock at half four this morning. I leapt out of my bed and rushed to the broken frame in time to see the bandit sprinting off into the twilight.
Attached to the rock twas afixed a message,
"Welcum (sic) back, Bob. Your (sic) dead you total cunt. There (sic) going to kill you. Cunt. You and ure (sic) kind make me sic (sic)."
Normal service resumeth.
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The Homecoming
@ 2008-07-17 – 23:33:34
...I walked through my old front door for the first time in an age.
The door, heavy and unlubed creaked on its hinges and took some mighty thrust to ejaculate the heavymound of newspapers and junk mail which had accumulated under the letter slit.
Under a quilt of cobwebs, dust and heavy funk, I could make out my old furniture - the old Edwardian globe given me by Alex J Walker, the fine oak drinks cabinet left to me by Great Uncle Ricktawd Rambling before he lost his face in the Boer skirmish and, most lovingly of all - my old antique gramophone.
I put on Ayn Rand's best accordian melodies and lit myself a pipe - ease myself back in nicely.
RB
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The Horror of the Precumia Monster (Abridged)
@ 2008-07-10 – 21:31:29
He was a big brown, hairy fucker with razor teeth and nineteen eyes and fourteen cocks.
I tamed the prick and rode upon his back across the valley to safety.
Ha!
Rambling Bob returns!
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The Perilous Mountains of Precumia…
@ 2008-06-11 – 11:11:04
…hath claimed many a kinky rambler. The Precumia, an unforgiving and hostile range of sheer drops and glens of pain and shame lay ahead of me like a big hassle.
I was in the midst of a snow storm, the coldness of which, piercing my uncovered neck soon became a warmth. I was slipping into delirium.
I fancied that I saw a giant pineapple and Max Bygraves.
I had to get out of the Precumia quickly or soon I would be nothing more than a frozen rambler – never to be found.
Naturally I had heard tale of the abominable creature which roamed the mountain pass near the four fingered gulley. The direction I had to take to get homeward. The terror of the Precumia monster had to be faced. I had no option. I pushed on.
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The Rambler Returns
@ 2008-06-05 – 13:22:35
The traitor bastard.
Some minute and frankly scrotal faced young Japanese looking boy, with a rather contentious irksome face tried to chop me in sectons, and there, above me, Jez Winklepicker, trusted friend and one of the founding members of Anarchist Ramblers of Scotland and England, stood above me, ready to hammer the final blow home.
The grotesque little fuckarse - Willing to sacrifice the glorious and guilded name of A.R.S.E for his own personal oneupmanship.
The Judas little rimmer.
I found some inner strength. I thought of Jasper and Argos. I must survive for their sakes - for them and rambling, and you, dear reader.
I raised myself from my back and thrust the hilt of the bollock ninja's sword right through the centre of his ball-dome. I then leapt to my nimble ramble feet and, turning to Jez, who now cowered back in frightened whimperment, I thoroughly and precisely proceeded to cunt him in the bastard.
Soon he was but a distant, guilty smudge on the cave floor.
But the greatest enemy keeping me from my beloved pets and the smell of wild spunk flowers lay ahead.
The craggy rocks of the mountains of Precumia.
I had won the battle, but the war still lay precariously on the rim of the great teacup of fate. Would I escape into the saucer of glory?
Or fall back into the tealeaves of failure?
Time, as every rambler knows, would soon tell.
Rambling Bob Esq
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I can has a rambling?
@ 2008-05-28 – 12:54:40
I awoke with a bruised dome.
My first thoughts, randomly, were about my love, and the fine Ramblers Broth she would cook over open flame. How I longed to taste that soupy glory with the wonderment of the wild spunk flower stock, which told of vast expanse and no cars.
Then I remembered the cave and Bob...and Hom-Ken.
I rose slow tense. My kneecaps felt slippery and I stumbled. I became acutely aware of my two cave companions grappling on the floor. I wanted to help but my arms had gone numb way.
Hom-Ken held his blade over Bob and pinned him to the floor with his knees on his thin empty vessel chest. I had to save Bob or rambling was over!
I picked up a rock. I could cave his skull in and save the day!
I Jez could be the hero of ramblers everywhere!
I, Jez!
I!
If I killed him. This blog would be mine. Mine
The Adventures of Rambling Jez!
Why should I surrender it to him?
It's mine. It's mine!
I raised the rock, Hom-Ken smiled and eased off. He knew. He knew.
Bob look quiz like and destroyed. Rambling could be mine!
I CAN HAS A RAMBLING!
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The Cave, Our Narrator and the Fate of Rambling everywhere
@ 2008-05-20 – 13:31:41
Inside the cave - foosty, murky nothingness.
Trepidation t'were mein footfalls filled.
In the darkness something brushes against my bearded face - it could have been some bizarre strain of fookercreepers evolved to survive sans photosynthesis in this dark, grey place. The annexe cave of rim. Or it could have been the spiderweb of some fell arachnid funkbeast - or it could have been candy floss left by some erstwhile scout group, but I doubted this greatly. If it was going to be something, it was going to be something proper annoying like - well, I digress. I drove on...
Hom-ken was behind me I knew that much. But I hadn't seen that forboding dot behind me for three days. I drove on. Hunger tore at my gut like a wild hinterbeast. Thirst burned my thorax like sulphunk acid. Hunger and thirst had claimed me as their bitch. I didn't like being a bitch. It wasn't nice.
I felt my way like a blind pervert. Crevasses shaped my footing. Small ditches and decaying rock made the going tough, and the strange crispy sounds under my bare feet were disconcerting and a total hassle.
And then, by perchancery, I came like liquid milk upon a small crevice off the main route of the ancient cave ways. I had to turn my body quick-style into the sharp space, from which a kink of light came and a strange human musk - the smell of sweat and hair and too much crying.
And there. There. In the darkness. Rambling Bob.
His eyes, thin and with little behind them searched me for signs of hostility or friendship. Neither of which, judging by his emaciated man frame - he would be able to do anything about.
I reached out. Offered him something human. He sighed - relieved, finished.
"I never...I never"
"Don't try to speak, Bob. Take mein hand. Sorry my speach diverts to German when I am distressed"
"I never doubted you'd come, Jez"
"Mein ramblor colleaguen freshen" I wept.
My heart was lifted by his acknowledgement. It gave me added strength. I cradled him in my arms like a small ostrich.
"Jez..." He spluttered.
"Sssh. Ich bein back"
"The, the..."
"Nein, Bob. Rest now."
"No, no, you have to..."
"Sssh" I shook him like I was soothing a child gonk.
"Jez. My beard is caught in your belt"
I looked down and saw that this was true. His long, Bible beard had caught in my rope belt. We shared a laugh.
Then the blade.
It cut deep into my shoulder.
I dropped Bob and fell. Blood, crimson blood in the darkness.
Hom-Ken.
The Scroturai assassin.
The relentless pursuer.
The death in his eyes.
The total hassle.
Jez
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