When I was presented with a copy of the local newspaper on my final day of a crazy week in North Devon (proof I'd be accepted as 1% local), I read the headline as "I'll run from the woman who saved my life". It was symptomatic of the mentally toughest weeks in BRAPA history. It was bad enough physically, but because pub ticks were so few and far between due to a paucity of public transport, no kindly chauffeur or a reliable taxi service, I was forced to work so hard for so r

I'm waving the white flag early on September pub ticking, knowing for certain that there will be no more BRAPA activity between now and 11:59pm on Wednesday. A useful analogy would be a cricket umpire calling time shortly before tea on the final day of the county championship season. The five wickets required for victory in the final session isn't an insurmountable ask But an ultimately pointless exercise for a beleaguered team finishing runners up in every competition ever