After a delayed start as I was needing to see a Osteopath who turned out to be a physcopath, who asked me sign a disclaimer in case he killed me, we were underway again. Only managed a feeble hour or so journey before a stopover at The Malt Shovel at Bubbenhall. It was an experience to remember. Those of nervous disposition, or with snowflake tendencies should stop reading.

“You really are top totty” he said “I’m the last heterosexual left in the country, love my wife but I’ve got 8 mistresses and you’re my number 9”

The friendly landlord had warned us about this giant of a gentleman, and what he’s like after a few spirits. He wasn’t wrong. We hadn’t expected free entertainment. For a Monday evening this traditional and old school pub was busy with its farming regulars & we were welcomed to join them.

The young lady, partner to a Kaleb like friendly chap they called Tractor Tom, was the object of his affections this evening. Tracey was relieved, although she’d have chewed him up. She already put him in place, when asking what Daisy was “it’s a dog” she replied. He left her alone after that.

Tractor Tom & his brother I think were chatty too, but not drunkenly. Interesting to hear they’d worked on Clarkson’s Lambo tractor & knew him quite well.

“Where’s my jeep” he kept asking, prodding at his phone. It was around 11:00 by now and he was a rambling, happy drunk. Wobbly & 6’7” was not an ideal combination. “My jeep” turned out to be a pleasant, tolerant Indian chap; his driver Majjeep. The tall man turns out to be a millionaire meat mogul. Has a driver, but literally lives 500 yards from the pub. “I can’t walk back, fucking sniper will have me” “Majjeep lives next door to Bin Laden, comes from Bongo Bongo land” he slurred. Majjeep was tolerant as apparently he earns a wad of cash for looking after this chap. On one occasion he’d got his ride home, but lost his keys & gate zapper. Ended up climbing over his 6’ electric gates, razor wire all round his walls apparently too.

I’m not naming him though, made that mistake already and the Tall Guy was apparently ex SAS. Didn’t want to upset him. We learned he’d later been banned from all connections. Bizarrely he also has a photo in his home bar playing darts with Lady Di, a chap in the bar told us. Didn’t stop him from having no idea if he’d driven or where his car was though. Absolutely ratted by this point.

“I’m no homo, but I’ve had a meerkat up my arse. Been rogered up the bum” he felt he needed to advise everyone. He’s pushed his luck with the girl at the bar, touching her leg. She handled him well to be fair. “You’re a dam fine filly” he patronised her “I would” he went on to tell her.

To try to get him to tone his language down his mate told him I was the new Vicar. Didn’t stop him effing & jeffing, but for a moment I think he thought I was the Vicar of Dibley.

“I was in Ukraine last week, on my private jet” nobody was listening by this point.

To be fair he paid for lots of drinks but not idea who for or how much, just handed over notes. Landlord was great though, patient, tolerant and watching him.

After much trying his mate of 40 years shepherded him into the car and home, propping him up.

A memorable stay! Southward now for our holiday proper. We certainly won’t forget this character!