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Body milk or goose fat?
By Dave Ord
Watchet. Usually followed by a blow to the nose in West Yorkshire, it is a small harbour town in Somerset. It's where I stayed before visiting Philip Hobbs' yard on Tuesday morning and all in all it was some experience. The room in the B & B was nice but lacked a toilet. Not even a sink for a student wee. So at 1am, dressed only in an ill-fitting pair of grey boxer shorts and covering my man boobs (moobs to those in the know) with a small blue towel, I headed off downstairs to use the communal loo. Disaster nearly struck. Disorientated I spent three minutes trying to gain access to what I believed to be the toilet in the dark. Even the surprise that the door was locked didn't stop me; I kept wiggling the handle. It was only when I heard a female voice inside, just as I was beginning my run-up to put shoulder to wood, did the alarm bells ring. It was another guest room. For the second time in 2007 I was under the threat of pepper spray. My trip to Cheltenham was in the balance. What would the charge be? Indecent exposure? Breaking and entering? A brutal combination of both? The toilet, by the way, was next door. I tootled along quickly, did my business, and returned to my room with haste. Next morning the couple I tried to engage in water sports were already down at breakfast but there was no talk of the incident. They had other fish to fry and were regaling us of the details of a 70s weekend they had been on in the Butlin's at Minehead. Live bands from 12 noon to 2am, the drink flowed, the feet danced, and a great time was had by all. That was until Keith Harris got up. Here was the sting in the tail. Orville has gone blue. Apparently the cute green duck now has an adult act which shocked my new friends. It was funny apparently but Cheeky Monkey took it too far when he came out of his box. He always did. The bathroom had the last laugh. As I took my weekly shower after breakfast I reached over for what I thought was shower gel to make my stench even more fragrant. It wasn't. It was body milk. I didn't realise this had been used since Cleopatra's day but here I was with a thick white goo coating every inch of my flabby front. It wouldn't come off. I scrubbed with nails, bits of wood, even my travelling companion's toothbrush which he had foolishly left in the room, but all to no avail. By the time I dressed it looked as though I had been covered in goose fat in preparation for a cross-channel swim. Another thing to catch my eye at Watchet was the Gay Archer, not a wannabe Robin Hood in a flashing thong but a boat in the harbour. In among the small fishing vessels was something which resembled a Russian warship with a harpoon and missiles on either side. It looked like someone had built it step by step from a weekly magazine which started at 99p but rose to £3.99 a week soon after. Some people have too much time on their hands. Philip Hobbs on the other hand doesn't. He took us through his team for the Festival and the general feeling was that unless he strikes with Detroit City or Fair Along it could be a blank meeting for the handler. Of course he could have a famous double, or even treble on his hands through that pair, but the ground is a concern for the latter. It's becoming one for me too. I always watch the racing with my group of friends on the members' lawn but I don't handle cut in the ground. Any moisture and my slip-on loafers mean I resemble Bambi on ice as I try to navigate around. My remit for next week is to get out and about and bring a sense of the colour of the Festival to readers. Crampons could be the answer.
