AFPF Travelogue

Mick Fanner’s account of the meeting in Oxford in May 2002

"The Magnificent Seven do Oxford"

THURSDAY AM

Thursday morning was like Christmas morning in the Fanner house as we three prepared to make our excited way to darkest Oxfordshire for the Meet. We'd spent the night not sleeping but staring at the digits on the clock willing the time to go faster, such was our desperation for this day of all days to begin.

OK, that's rubbish, but I enjoyed writing it.

I got up around eight to find that there was still no way of downloading news, so I switched the machine off and forgot about it.
Bobbie looked disappointed. That woman really does have a computer addiction, not like me, I can take it or leave it.

Some time after nine we were on our way and it only seemed like an hour and seventeen minutes later that we swung off the A34 onto the Oxford by-pass. A quick pit stop at Sainsburys to stock up on chocolate supplies and then it was the final leg of the journey to our home for the next three nights, The Pickwick at Headington.

Just a word about Headington. It's a suburb of Oxford and as one approaches it from the by-pass, it looks the pits. It looks like somewhere you might want to escape from, pronto. But me and Wendy had been here before, we knew what lay further down the road, Bobbie didn't.

We could hear the disappointment in her voice as we drove towards the hotel, and then the change to 'Ah this is better' as we moved sedately down the tree lined avenue that is London Road. And then we were there.

A fine place, The Pickwick, ask anyone, well any of the Magnificent Seven. I may well propose that an 'Approved by TMS' plaque be affixed to the exterior of the place, on the other hand, I may not.

We checked in. Too early. Our rooms weren't ready. We went to the pub for lunch. The way you do.

We'd asked about 'Americans' and been told that one had arrived and one hadn't. We sent an emissary to wake the 'arrived' American.

Norma was fast asleep. Leaving a message for her and for the late coming 'others', we sauntered to the White Horse, the nearest source of food (apart from the bag of chocolate).

We three ate and drank and were merry as we waited to see if anyone else would find us. Well of course they did. First Norma, then a short while later Donna came around. Then finally, Big Al and Linda.

We were a group. We were *the* group. Oxford beware.

So where were we? Oh yes, sat in the White Horse.

We'd all met on another occasion, in fact this could be considered the 'Vegas Rump', except that that doesn't sound at all nice so we won't go that route, suffice it to say that we had no need of familiarisation practises. Just a short time (about fourteen point two one seconds) to rekindle the old spark and we were away.

The afternoon seemed to just vanish as we talked about this and that, and of course you. Oh yes we talked about you a lot. It seems we all quite like your sense of humour but one or two of us (them, not me, let's be quite clear about that) doubt your dress sense. Anyway, you'd have been made welcome in spite of that, but I digress...
I asked Donna, at one point, if the bus trip from the airport was enjoyable. I was being slightly facetious because I knew that most of the time that she spent on the bus would have been on the M25 (the London orbital motorway, for those unfamiliar with UK road numbering systems).

Donna looked at me with a serious expression and said that it was most enjoyable, and then she said in an almost conspiratorial tone,

"Do you know, I saw something quite amazing on the way here"
I was intrigued, what could this be, I wondered. I asked.
"Pretty little English sheep".

Now I'm sorry if that doesn't crack you up, doesn't make to roll on the floor laughing, but you had to have been there. If you know the Texan then you can perhaps imagine just how that sounded, but like I said, you should have been there. Whatever, our weekend catchphrase had been born.

At a suitable point in the afternoon we wended our weary way back to the hotel for a lie down and, in our case, to watch Countdown where I scored more points than anyone on the programme got a nine letter word and solved the conundrum first. Just a routine edition of the programme then, but I digress again.

We all met later and the plan was to find food. Now the lunchtime place was fine as far as it went (not *that* far, if the truth be known) but we wanted, needed something better. We set off towards Woodstock.

Not *that* Woodstock, the one about ten miles from Oxford, the one you get to by going round all those roundabouts. the one you get to by sitting in a traffic queue for miles and miles and miles. Norma felt quite at home. Just like driving through Boston.

We stumbled across a pub which proudly displayed a 'Food' sign, and that was good enough for us. I can't for the life of me remember the name of the pub but I could find it again.
The food was good. I don't remember what I had but it tasted like chicken, so it could have been just about anything.
'Dammit man, I didn't order iguana'. Maybe it was chicken after all.
So that was it really. We headed back to the Pickwick and hit the sack. The first day done. The future looked promising. Roll on tomorrow.

FRIDAY AM

If it's Friday, it must be Oxford. Oh yes, todays the day the the Magnificent Seven actually 'do' Oxford. But first, breakfast.

Breakfast was a peaceful affair, the peace only broken by the pitiful cry of Texus Visitorus, complaining about being woken by some nasty man on the telephone. The 'nasty man' appeared and proclaimed his innocence.
"I was only obeying orders" he said, with downcast eyes. Now where have I heard that before. I had cornflakes and toast. Oh, and tea.

We got the bus to town. I'm in my element with buses in the UK.
I know where they stop and start from so there is very little room for confusion, especially since the Silver Fox (Miss Memory - Blackpool, 1964) had memorised *all* the possible bus numbers that might interest us.
Her system worked, we got on a bus with a number on the front. It took us to the town centre.

Big Al and your correspondent had problems with mobility. We would have struggled to make a three legged race between us. We limped ahead of the ladies and, as if ordained, our pace coupled with frequent sitting down stops kept us on a par with the window shopping speed of t'others.

Oxford is one of the world's great 'people watching' places. Sit anywhere around the middle of the city and observe life. It is an education. Al likes people watching as much as I do. Which was lucky.
We visited Starbucks, the scene of the triumphant first meeting between Big Al and Small Bob. They re-enacted that momentous occasion. We all applauded. We were in the wrong Starbucks. There are two in Oxford. How the hell were we supposed to know that.

Regardless of how many there are, all Starbucks serve coffee, so we had some, and then continued our treck around the city of Dreaming Spires. Al bought some olives and offered to share. Did he know that he was the only one that liked the damned things?

And then quite suddenly we were shopping for a ring.

Not just any old ring this, a specific type of ring, in fact the specification was discussed at length and every time a ring shop hove into view, I found my nose pressed up against the window (with some force, I might add), accompanied with cries of 'Get yer card out, Mick'. Luckily I'd left it at home. Phew.

I still have no idea how they found out about the ring thing. Telepathy, I guess.
We lunched on chip butties and tea, went back to the hotel and piled in the motors. We were off to see Burford.

Burford one of those 'cute little English villages' that are scattered all over the Cotswolds. What was so special about this one? We knew where it was, that's all. It's about sixteen miles past the end of that damned traffic queue that we hit the previous evening.
Yes, that queue that takes an hour to get through at about half six in the evening, takes even longer at three in the afternoon.
So it happened that by the time we got to Burford, the place was closing up for the night.

Lucky really. There are a lot of antique ring shops in Burford.

There were shops open and there was still the place itself to explore, sadly it's on a fairly steep hill and when the thought of going there was first aired back in the dim and distant past, there was no thought given to having any disabled members amongst our number. So we stayed at the bottom of the hill, wandered around, looked at Olde Englishe Architecture, and bought mugs. Nice mugs, with poppies on. Two pound each. A bargain.
But we bought no rings.
And so as the evening began to draw in our merry band was found driving back along whatever road it was, the A something, towards Oxford, looking for food. We'd seen an assortment of eating houses (read: Pubs) as we drove from Oxford so it would be a simple matter of picking a suitable one on the way back. We thought.

I should explain that after the previous evening, when the entire Magnificent Seven packed, sardinelike into Al's Shogun (his new one, not the old beat up one that he keeps for a spare) it was suggested that on this occasion, we take my car as well, to ease the squashing. We had the Texan occupying the rear seat so we never had any problem identifying a whole raft of 'Pretty little English' critters. Horses, pigs as well as sheep, we even diversified into pretty little English roundabouts and pubs. Pretty Little English Closed Abandoned Derelict Pubs.

We spotted 'The Carvery' on the way down so that was our first point of reference on the way back. It was shut. I'd also spotted a sign that pointed down a PLE lane towards 'The Best food and Ale for miles' or some such, so we made for that. Several miles down this PLE lane we found it. Deserted and derelict. Ooh eck. back to the Carvery, it must open soon.
The Carvery opened at seven we got there at about ten to. They refused us admission. All we wanted was to sit at the bar and wait out the ten minutes before we could eat, but no. Go away. We did.
And then luck struck us for the first time. A small sign almost buried in the hedge. It had a name on it and the sign of the crossed knife and fork. That'll do. We went that way.

The Maytime Inn is a little pub in a small village miles off the beaten track. The village of Asthall has some seriously narrow streets and negotiating these required skill and patience, but in spite of that we got there. And what a revelation.
We parked in the car park and strolled inside. We were greeted by the owner who happily set a table for the seven of us. We got drinks and studied the menu. We all agreed that we'd found some sort of Food/Pub combination heaven. This was worth the driving around.
I could bore you with a detailed report of what we all ate (actually I couldn't, I've forgotten, although I know what I had) but I wont. Just take it from me that it was superb. We all thought about cancelling The Mitre for the Meet Meal and going back to the Maytime. But we decided to stick with the plan. Just in case Toddy showed.
So another day drew to a close, we 'wunce' again wended our weary way back to Headington. One final drink in the hotel bar (Donna's nasty man served us) and we headed to our rooms for a well earned kip.
See y'all at breakfast.

SATURDAY AM

It's Saturday and guess what? The traffic queues that hindered our progress on Thursday evening and Friday afternoon, are still very much in evidence on Saturday morning. But we are the Magnificent Six, we are not easily put off. We went to the races anyway.
But first we had breakfast.
No nasty phone calls this morning, just cornflakes and toast and tea. Well that was me sorted. The others? Ask them, I'm sure they can remember. Donna had chocolate I should imagine. Pretty little English Chocolate.

You will have noticed the word 'Six' up there towards the start, well it isn't a misprint, we were down to six. Norma had some research to continue with and felt it was better done in the comfort of her room, rather than the back of a Shogun - not that Shoguns are uncomfortable, don't ever think that. I can't recommend them highly enough, in fact I know where there's one for sale, if you're interested.

We were going to take two cars again but with the number severely reduced we managed to get into the one machine, in comfort. It was comfortable wasn't it? Donna? Bobbie? Well they looked comfortable enough and they didn't complain.

The trip across to Worcester was enjoyable, very picturesque it was. I'd like to describe the splendours of the Vale of Evesham to you but there seemed to be some debate as to exactly where that is, so you'll just have to accept that we went through it and it was pretty and English.
Little? Probably not.

We passed through Moreton-in-Marsh, but not nearly quickly enough. A treacherous Texan voice from the back called for Al to stop.
'There's a cute little antiques fair. Right over there' I wish I'd been driving. I really do.
OK, lets cut to the chase here. The ring was bought. Good enough? Thank heaven. Perhaps we can get on.
Before we do though, I must mention the fact that Al bought his wife a ring that she really didn't want. At least Wendy wanted hers. Sorry Al, just a joke. It's a long story folks.

Worcester at last. Except, everyone and his dog were going there. We hadn't even hit the town proper before the traffic queue started. And the race course is smack in the middle of town. It was a long slow crawl. But we laughed a lot and tried to spot sheep but there didn't seem to be many in that part of the world. So we settled for counting race courses. One. Just there. We''d made it, just in time for the first race.
Everyone and his/her uncle must be more than familiar with the way things turned out on that fateful day, but for those who don't fit any of those categories, I shall recap.
Race 1.
Horse of choice. Texas ranger.
Reason for choice. Too obvious. We had a Texan in our midst.
We all put some money on it. It won at even money. Good start.
Race 2.
Horse of choice. Legal Eagle.
Reason for choice. We had one of those in our midst as well - in fact it was the same person.
We all put money on it. It won at fifteen to one, or some such decent figure.
Race 3.
Horse of choice. Several (that's several horses, not the name of one).
Reason for choice(s). No obvious Texan connection.
One of the 'several' won, so someone scored. Many didn't. Hey ho!
Race 4.
Horse of choice. Mardani.
Reason for choice. Owned and trained by Big Al's mate, and the driver was wearing pink.
We all bet a fair wedge on this horse, and it duly obliged with a ten to one shot victory.
Lots of whooping and hollering at this. You see it was way out in front the first time round so we all felt that it was bound to fade before it came past again. It didn't, it stretched it's lead.
A superb way to finish our trip.

Yes, that was it for us. We had a long drive back to Oxford for the Meet Meal, and if we got caught up in the rush to leave at the end we'd never have made it back.

Overriding memory of the races: Nothing to do with horses at all.
Three women discussing the dress sense, or otherwise, of a woman who was obviously 'with' an owner, if not the owner herself.
After dissecting the hat, the dress and everything else, I heard one voice say;
"My, but aren't those ugly shoes".
It just sounded so...y'know. Well, you had to have been there.

SATURDAY EVENING

So that was it. We headed for the exit, managing to drive out of the course just before the exit road was closed to allow horses to thunder past, and headed back to town and a very good evening.

Of course nothing is as easy as it seems and you might just have gotten the impression that we sailed back to the hotel with not a care in the world. Well we did, almost.

The infamous traffic queue that had bedevilled our every trip out of town, had, for reasons known only to itself, turned around and bedevilled our journey back into town that evening.
Much was made of the service road that ran adjacent to the queue that we were in. Much more was made of the cars that pulled out of the queue behind us, drove past us on the service road, and rejoined the line some way further up.
"Don't let him in" was screamed in several different accents, at drivers ahead who showed the slightest hint that they might just be about to do so.
"Don't let him in" was screamed at Al as he approached the point where the errant drivers were emerging from.< But Al is made of stern stuff. He let no-one out. Mainly, I think, because all the 'out seekers' had been given free access by the car in front. There was no-one for us to block and verbally abuse. We sulked. We had so looked forward to blocking and abusing. Finally back at the hotel, we found Norma, looking fit and well. She declared that her research was complete and that she would be happy, nay delighted, to join us for the soiree. We all went to our rooms for a little 'R and R'. (Note: In case there is any doubt, that's 'rest and recuperation' rather than 'rock and roll', although it's fair to say that I have no idea what the others did in their rooms. I just make assumptions) At the appointed hour the, once more complete, Magnificent Seven assembled in the lounge and then marched boldly across the London Road to the bus stop, where we caught a bus, the very bus that was bound for the centre of Oxford. Weren't we clever? At least we got off at the right place this time. I say that, but in fact we got off a stop early and had to walk a touch further than either Alan or myself really wanted to, but it gave Donna and I the chance to 'Toddy spot'. "Look, there in the window. It is isn't it?" Well it certainly looked like Anne from Perth, but closer inspection (not that close, you understand) doomed us to disappointment. It was obviously a double that Toddy had hired to do the sordid bit. The bit where she chats up young men in bars. A wise move if you ask me. We staggered to the bar of the Mitre and acquired drinks. We found a seat (each) and we talked to Win on the Smudgephone. We all said hello and Win said Hello back. She should have been there. We all talked to Kelly but she ignored us. We sulked. But not for long. The Magnificent Seven get over things like that. We moved to our table. What can one say? The meal was excellent, the company even better. Al's pudding was outrageous, as was Bobbie's performance with the night porter, but I'll gloss over that last. Have you seen a photo of Big Al's big chocolate thing? It looks good enough to eat, so he did. All of it. Alone. Ye gods. All good things come to an end, so we finally left the staff to clear up the mess and went in search of transportation for the homeward trip. Al found us two taxis. Four sevenths of the gang piled into the one, and three sevenths piled into the other. The one with four in roared off into the night. The other with me and Wendy and Donna in, followed, but not before..... Our driver half turned and asked where to... We started to explain and then Donna just shouted (quietly, in a ladylike fashion) 'Follow that cab' He followed. Boy did he follow. It seems that Donna had always wanted to say that thing, but this guy had equally always wanted to do it. Nothing phased our boy. Red lights, buses, pedestrians, all fell in the wake of our careering black cab. It has to have been the trip of a lifetime. We laughed the whole way back. Our driver thanked us for making his day - but he still wanted paying. Humph. We found the lounge locked and bolted, (they must have got word of our approach) so some went to bed, some ended up in Donna's room, eating chocolate, and some lay awake in the room next door listening to chocolate being eaten in Donna's room. A great day, from start to finish, but it was over. Tomorrow we say our farewells. See you at breakfast. SUNDAY AM Sunday dawned bright (Did it? I can't remember.
Wait a minute. Yes it did.
Sunny but cold, so there you go) and the Siete Magnifico gathered for one last drag of the collective cigarette in the beautiful gardens of the Pickwick Guest House, before our final (for the time being) group breakfast.
In honour of that momentous, and sad, occasion, some of our number broke the habit of a short break and ordered a different breakfast. Big Al and I, however, remained faithful to our original selection. Me, because I don't much like fried breakfasts. Al, because there was nothing left to change to.
Were we sombre that Sunday morning? I doubt it.
It is not the way of the Seven to grieve for what is gone, or soon to be gone anyway.

We look forward with heads held high, anticipating the time when we will once again, en masse, stumble over pretty little English sheep, but I digress.

The day is young and there is still time for doing stuff.

Sadly we were about to lose our Smudger. Bobbie was to spend a few days with her sister, a sister who was arriving at eleven to whisk our sister in crime away up North.
The meeting place of the day turned out to be the Peartree Park 'n' Ride car park. Salubrious or what? Anyway, there was a minor snag.
There are in fact two Park and ride car parks on the outskirts of Oxford.
Now which one was Peartree?
By the time we'd loaded the cars and filled up with petrol, there was barely enough time to get to one car park by eleven, let alone find it was the wrong one and have to drive right across town to the other one.
Anyway, we got lucky.
The one we chose to head for turned out to be the right one, so with tears in our eyes, we handed Bobbie over to the safe keeping of her sister, and we waved them away towards, well, wherever they were going. Nobody tells me anything.

Down to six and down to Hampshire.

The residue of 'our gang' would spend what there was left of Sunday, in deepest Hampshire as the guest of your correspondent and his fair wife Wendy.
The mini-convoy screamed down the A34, passing sheep of varying prettiness, until we arrived at Junction 7 of the M27.
Incidentally (1), the A34 runs into the M3 which in turn runs into the M27.
At Junction 7 is Sainsburys.
Incidentally (2), For non-Brits. Sainsbury's is a large supermarket.

The plan was to send a small band of brave souls to obtain such food as was deemed necessary to feed the Six.
Bread and cheese and ham. Stuff like that.
The small band grew larger until only Al and me were left guarding the cars, so we listened to the motor racing on the radio.
Time drifted. Barrichello led the race. I told Al, it wouldn't last. It didn't. The small band returned. We drove home. We ate.

Now this was rather neat. All these nice folks in our house eating and laughing, and just being good company. Methinks there is room for a repeat at some future time, we'll see.
Tours of the house were conducted (free tours, I might add). One or two even ventured into this very room, but ran screaming back to the safety of the lounge or the back yard. And then without further ado, we went to the seaside.
I live about four miles from the sea (It can't be much more, I used to cycle there) and it seemed too good a chance to pass up. A trip to the seaside for ice cream. Meon beach is not sandy. There was no chance of building sand castles, which was an obvious disappointment to one or two of our members but we had fun playing with the stones and trying to find ones that look like things (other than stones).

We bought our ice creams and we posed for photographs.
I pointed out the Isle of Wight - "Over there is the Isle of Wight".
I indicated such wondrous sights as the power station and the refinery.

I pointed thataway and said if you go over the horizon a few miles and turn right, you'll find Bobbie Smith's house.
I didn't mention that if you go too many miles over the horizon and turn right, you'll find Iceland.
They wouldn't have been interested.
The shadows lengthened and it was time to go. Time for the farewell to end them all (as far as me and she were concerned - other farewells would take place the following day).

I drove to the motorway, just to help Al get his bearings. I drove along the motorway and waved them past. Much waving and horn blowing brought a smile to my face, and then the Shogun was away back towards Oxford.
We turned off at the next junction. and they were gone.

Posted June 1st 2002