Ben Linfoot and I are now one-up on The Duke Of Wellington. Apparently the hero of Waterloo visited the quaint Somerset town from which he took his name only once during his lifetime, despite owning an extensive property in the area. Scoop and Ord have now been twice and our empires don't stretch beyond Pontefract.
On both occasions we've stayed at the Blackbird Inn, a lovely old establishment on the A38.
True you take your life in your own hands when crossing Somerset's main thoroughfare from the car park but once there you have three cask ales and more meat than you shake a stick at.
The Grand Old Duke missed a trick.
It was a little like Groundhog Day as John Candy and Gollum where ushered into the same room as 12 months ago (four) while the barman (ginger and terse) seemed to have lost a little weight during 2011.
I won't be shedding the pounds after a 14oz rib-eye but at least the fried cherry tomatoes and one shallot got rid of two of the five-a-day.
The Palmers Copper Ale was a treat - the Exmoor Best Bitter a little harder to digest and I swerved the third brew - the Tawny Owl bitter - as I didn't like the way the bird of prey was looking at me from the pump. It was also the potion that led to Linfoot dreaming of killer frogs in 2011.
In many ways that was preferable to him watching erotic videos on his iPhone after we retired to our twin room. I asked him to put the headphones on as I didn't want the guests in rooms three and five to think the odd couple next door were producing the grunts and groans piercing through their walls.
I was just about to drift into the kingdom of sleepdom when my roommate asked: "What on earth is Tyrone doing with her?".
I'm an open-minded man so decided to investigate but it seemed Scoop had moved onto watching Coronation Street. I was asleep moments later.
A fine breakfast (one sausage a significant blow) later and it was off to Pond House to meet team Pipe.
Having missed the turn for the yard (along with four other cars following me) it was time for a U-turn in a small junction and an obscene gesture from a tractor driver but we got there.
I even managed to reverse the car into a small space next to Alan Lee despite the great man being in his vehicle at the time. I was on fire.
Then came the acid test.
The tweed jacket remains three inches short of fastening and that's what was on my mind when Martin Pipe offered me a sausage roll. That description doesn't do it justice. It was a mound of sausage meat covered liberally in pastry. It screamed Ord.
But I stayed strong (until a Ginsters at the Strensham Services on the M5) and walked away.
The Pipe visit was excellent, Grands Crus looked magnificent but neither father nor son would offer any indication as to which way he'll go at the Festival.
Scoop thinks Betfred Gold Cup, I say RSA. That was one of our longer conversations on our five hour drive north.
Thank goodness for Steve "Wrighty" Wright and the Big Show. That carried us home from just north of Birmingham but he's not a man to cross. There was an advert for Anneka Rice's new Radio 2 show in which the former 'Rear Of The Year' pleaded: "Join me from 6am every Saturday".
"No thanks" the retort from the leader of the posse before he read out another great show email.
Suddenly a colleague who dreams of frogs and watches erotic adventures on his hands free phone doesn't seem too bad.
