The Quest...

I t was in deepest, darkest January in the year 2001 that certain travellers made an epic Odyssey, the kind that has not been seen in this day and age since the famous Excursion To The Chippy of 1999. Long will their names live in the annals of the great explorers, but we haven't got a copy handy so that won't be much use. Yet on that ill-fated Sunday afternoon, they did undertake the great and glorious search for that shimmering beacon in the Wilderness of Wolvercote, THE TROUT - also known to the reverent as THE HOLY FISH.

S ing, O Muse, of those few who, after the fall of Troy, did journey for a very long time and how they suffered much, yet never gave up faith in the redemption of the Red Triangle :

14:30pm. Base Camp Alldolts. Status - thirsty. Cat - hanging out to dry.

Traitorous weather had dogged the start of our expedition. Oates went out this morning at 05:00 and hasn't been seen since. Captain Al returned from his patrol at 05:07, cleaning his machete, and reported that the path was clear. After packing all essential supplies in a Christmas carrier bag, we set off. Staggered through the fallen air that reached even above our heads. The light was terrible, not nearly good enough to get a snap of Tom Tower at 1/5000th of a second. After deciding that our next stop would be closer to the pole, we resolved, after much discourse, that the pole lay to the north, and so proceeded in that direction.

Cue David Attenborough :

" Yes, above we see the indigenous penguin of Oxford, the, ah, Lesser Spotted Penguin, named by early explorers after its tendency to knit decorated woolly jumpers. Their staple diet includes last week's copy of the Times, and discarded cardboard replicas of Nobel prizes. The explorers eagerly press on past these fine creatures, that are generally not aggressive, although this particular specimen seems to have taken exception to the microphone. I'll just sort that out. Arrghhghghh......... "

After that expensive introduction (those penguins are 300 quid an hour!), I, the esteemed Martin, have been called in specially from Tunisia to take up the story. After passing the penguins on guard outside Christ Church, we proceeded through the Cornmarket. We decided to take the most direct route possible to the Trout, which as every boy scout knows is up the Saxon Tower and through the middle of the Ashmolean.

Al and Mart drop anvils on top of unsuspecting tourists.

After pausing momentarily to look at Thomas a Becket's handbag, we reoriented ourselves and headed up St John Street, where we didn't meet Morse, because he's dead, which is a rather lame excuse of you ask me. You didn't? Oh, well, some other time then. After going through Wellington Square, where we had a brief discussion about invading Russia with the Duke of Wellington...

Ah, there he is. Anyway, we then passed a shop with a set of handcuffs in the window that Al seemed to like, and headed up Walton Street, down the Oojamiflip and across the first of many bridges, each of them a bridge too far...

15:15pm. Port Meadow. Status - dripping. Umbrella - returned to sender.

Having trekked hard to reach this point, we discovered new mud reserves, mostly around our shoes, up to three inches in places. The water level had risen overnight, and the meadow was now flooded. We found to our dismay that the Russians had found out that we planned to steal a march on them and had posted submarines to prevent such an eventuality...

Port Meadow. 15:15.

We continued onwards, the mud up to 6 inches in places. Desperate to reach those vital beer supplies awaiting us. There was no other choice. We had to boldly assume (and to boldly split infinitives) that the Russians were only using Port Meadow to store their old, rusting, run-down fleets since they have run out of space at Murmansk and at Bognor Regis.

Captain's Log. Star Date 6.6260755x10-34

Have made slow progress through the Meadow quadrant, after encountering heavy mud, up to a foot in places, which forced us to slow below light speed. At one particularly tricky bridge, half of Engineering were forced to get out and push. Having set course for the Perch System, we continued with new caution, carefully avoiding getting too much water on the phasers. You just can't get the cleaning fluid these days.

Life On Earth - Part Aubergine. Cue David Attenborough :

" Yes, this time we were very fortunate. Here you see the Martin Bear, having just left hibernation in the Turf. We see him cautiously set foot into the meadow, the mud nearly 2 feet deep in places. He hesitates. Perhaps he senses us. But, no, he was just mildly perturbed by the gunnery practice on the Russian subs. He ventures on. At a time like this, newly awakened from slumber, the Martin's first instinct it to find a sheltered spot to drink . Here we see him vainly inspect the remains of last night's meal, 7 empty cans of 6X. He will have to hunt again. He catches the scent, ploughing onwards through the mud, nearly a yard deep in places. He halts, and reconsiders... but the call of the beer is just too strong. Wearily, he walks on. "

At this point, yet again, I, said Martin, have been called in at great personal expense from my luxury holiday win Swansea to continue the story. We journeyed ever on. The mud, nearly 4 and a half feet deep in places, continued to drag us under, but using a small American combat tank we made our way through the worst. I vaulted athletically over a gate, showering everyone behind with mud, yet they continued undeterred. We had made it as far as the Perch. We considered stopping, but we were resolved to make it to the promised land. No-one in the future would be able to criticise us as being cowardly in the face of almost certain beerification. Sticking close to the bank of the Isis, we approached an ancient bridge, its courseway blocked with mud almost 6 feet deep in places. We decided to cross by cunningly walking on the wooden sides of the bridge, which worked perfectly well until one point where it became necessary to leap from one side of the bridge to the other. We accomplished this once, but on the second attempt Al was sent crashing into the jungle undergrowth.

W ith such things being as they were, therefore, in this way, thus, at this time, Jane, daughter of her parents, granddaughter of her great-grandparents children, the cider-drinker, did look upon the world, and in a voice like unto shepherds when they have gently governed their flocks by the bank of Father Tiber, who, as the weary sun rests himself once more in Ocean, having returned to their humble abodes, and having made offerings, and folded a double layer of fat around the bones and spitted the meat, then cooked it, and a pleasing smell is lifted to the Gods, and then drawn of the meat, and set to eating, with no man going without an equal share in the feast, like unto them she did say: "WHERE'S THE BLOODY PUB?!?"

A nd so the quest continued. In the dark forests of Yewing they were forced to eat Martin's minstrels. And there was much rejoicing. Until one day...

Yes, finally we made it to the Trout. The sense in the air was one of great jubilation, mingled with the slight tang of steak and ale pie and salt and vinegar crisps. I shall hand over to my friend, Murray Walker, for commentary:

" Aaaaand you join us for the exciting start of the Italian Grand Prix, this year held at the Trout circuit, and we're all expecting high speed action. GO GO GO!!! And they're off with Nigel Mansell in his purple Skoda in pole, oh, no it's not, it's Martin in his mud coloured trainers, promptly taking the lead as he returns to the bar for the second time. What is this? And yes, no, yes, he's pulling in for fuel, yes he's definitely, no, yes, these new generation straight sided glasses develop such great power, and yes - It's a BASS stop!!! He's pulling out of the lane, neatly avoiding Alain Prost, or is it..? No, it's a tourist, and he carefully skims past. Such down-force these new style, self-propelling, gravity operated feet have. And he'll definitely win now, no one can possibly beat him as he heads into the final bend to reach the table and.... OH NO!!! There's a walking Christmas Tree on the track. Well I never..."

Life On Mars - Part Fred. Cue David Attenborough :

" Yes, the lesser emulsioned Christmas tree peacock, indigenous to most continental formula 1 circuits. It's prime source of nutrition is from rolled up balls of string, and has been known to attack small HGVs. Known to be highly aggressive, it will climb trees and glare at passers-by, while producing a long straw to try to steal Draught Bass off people sitting nearby."

Right, Birch's pub review bit. The Trout is a delightful country pub set next to the Isis, with a weir cascading outside the beer garden. Food list looks pretty good, the beer is Bass, a very good pint if you get the barman to take the sparkler off. Inside, the place is full of ancient looking beams, and open log fires. As it is famous for appearing on Morse, the place is always full of tourists, but there is plenty of room. If you want to come here in winter, especially one of the wettest ones in years CATCH THE BUS!!! Winds light to variable, Forfar 4, East Fife 5.

Captain's Log. Star Date 1.60217733 x10-19

Having stayed in the outer quadrant for an hour or so, Engineering reported that the cold temperature was disturbing the golf simulator on the holodeck, resulting in the First Officer hooking a ball into the warp core. After three quarters of the crew died in the resulting radiation leak, it was decided to reposition more strategically next to one of the log fires indoors. Sickbay reported that the goat had finally found the problem in the automated tooth extractor, and we were now routinely scanning the crew for traces of an excess number of wisdom teeth. Bloody customs will charge duty on anything these days.

Yes, Al, Jane and I moved inside, and occupied a table near the fire. Many pints passed. The conversation became deep and meaningful. At one point, Al put a knife to my throat. He cut deep, slicing through my carotid artery, the blood poured out like the water pouring down the weir outside, and I died, cursing him with the last of my breath. You don't believe me. That much is evident from the way that you're looking at me. I got better!

18:45pm. (I think) Base Camp Trout. Status - wobbling. Peacock - jumping on the head of a passing rhinoceros.

Evacuated Camp Trout, returning to Alldolts. Started at the Light Infantry quick march until realised rest of the team didn't know what it was. It was then realised that Captain Al had left vital military technology behind - his camera. Proceeded back to Camp Trout at the Hoplites slow sprint. Recovered the camera, before the peacock could develop the film and use the classified information therein to further its own machinations for political power. It might even try to reintroduce free milk for school children. The global economy could have collapsed. Were awarded pewter castings of Knighthoods for preventing this breach of national security.

After these military manoeuvres, Jane, Al and I implemented Plan B, also known as Operation Taxi. In a stealthy tank, cunningly disguised as an Oxford cab (shown above), we travelled back to Carfax, making impersonations of pigeons and checking the Christmas carrier bag for explosive yetis. Having reached our destination, we split up, promising to do it again some time. I returned to college, bought a bottle of college port, and started laying into it. It had been a long, exciting day, and I wondered why Elvis had picked this particular day not to visit Oxford.

CREDITS

MARTIN	ALBERT EINSTEIN
AL	COLONEL GADDAFI
JANE	JULIUS CAESAR
DAVID ATTENBOROUGH	THE LESSER EMULSIONED CHRISTMAS TREE PEACOCK
EXPLODING YETI	ROLF HARRIS
THE BARMAN	CLINT EASTWOOD
ADMIRAL NELSON	THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON
THE PENGUINS	INFAMOUS KILLER PENGUINS INC.
TAXI DRIVER	ROO GRIMLEY

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