Epping? That prevents nothing. I'd go ahead and win it, but it'd be a hollow victory over you all and I don't think I could explain how in sufficiently simple language. So I'll just ride over to Cockfosters.

Arnos Grove. Cock your fosters at that, losers.

You know Homo Erectus played a more intelligent and complex version of the Great Game than you lot are managing, and there were precious few podumes about in those days. I will attempt to inject a little quality into the proceedings with a rather deft Amersham / Chesham bifurcation. Buckinghamshire is wild.

What's up with him? Did he step on the live rail at South Wimbledon?