The Doogie and his Growler
Time for another of those perky, uplifting calls that I so live for with the Doogie. We had a long run over the weekend, and you know, it’s good sometimes just to check up on your old running buddy - just to see that they’re still fit, hale and hearty, and that they’ve been stretching properly. By the way, that is one of the few disadvantages of being a young ‘un like the Doogie: you can’t be bothered to stretch, your muscles get tighter and tighter and then TWANG, your Achilles has gone and that’s you down £3,600 and out of the Marathon des Sables for another year.
He answered the phone in the usual cheery, chirpy fashion that reminds me why it was that, three years ago, I first signed up to do the Marathon des Sables with Doogie.
“Yeah,” he says. “What do you want?”
“Hi Doogie,” I say. “How are you?”
“Stiff as a bloody board. Why are you calling?”
“Just because,” I said. “I’m not just here for the bad things in life. I’m here, even on those days when you’re not out training - which, now that I think of it, probably accounts for most of your week. I’m just calling for a natter.”
“Okay.” The sound of scrunching. Oh my sweet aunt - he’s onto the crisps. Crunch-crunch-munch. The sound of Doogie eating crisps in my ear can send the hairs juddering up the nape of my neck.
“Doogie - dearest Doogie,” I said. “Can you please, please do me a favour and not eat crisps while I am talking to you on the phone? You’re making me feel ill.”
Munch-munch-munch. “What did you say?”
“Stop eating those bloody crisps! You’re driving me crazy!”
“Cooo,” he says. “Tetchy.” He now does something which I find is, possibly, even more irritating. Very softly in the background, I can hear the crisp packet rustling. He delves into the packet, quietly places the crisps into his mouth and then starts to sort of suck and chew on them.
“Who taught you table manners?” I said.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Nobody. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing - nothing at all,” I said.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “How are we going to get down to Farnham for this Pilgrim race?”
“I don’t know. I thought you were organising it.”
“Trains and planes are pretty pricy these days. Have you seen how much the sleeper is?”
“Don’t tell me - we’re driving.”
“It’ll be really good fun -”
“Yeah - about as much fun as the last time we drove down to a race.”
“Exactly! And we can stop off at the Westmorland Farm Shops again and have a couple of their Growlers!” [Westmorland Farm Shops, by the way, is a service station on the M6 just close to Penrith, and it is the best service station I have ever been to. By far. Their speciality in the farm shop is the Growler, a beef pie with horseradish, but they do at least another 15 types of cold pie. I could not recommend the place more highly - though I’m told the shops are better on the route south than when you’re heading north.]
“Oh yes,” I said. “The famous Growler!”
“And I hear,” he said, “That they’ve got a new pie with a new recipe. It’s going to be called the Brazilian Growler.”
“Ha ha.”
“It’s a very funny joke, isn’t it? Ginny loved it.”