With Bogusboy off enduring the unspeakable hardship of an all-inclusive holiday in Rhodes, Greece, bravely battling through 5-star buffets, sun loungers, and the emotionally draining decision between a mojito or an Aperol spritz before midday, a dozen of Newcastle AC members took on the real challenge: a 5K in Carlingford. And face it, they did.

With the Armagh 10 Mile ominously looming just two months away, the dozen made the rocky road south last Friday night, ready to test their legs, their lungs, and their limits on Carlingford’s infamously fast course.

The sun loitered behind a gauze of cloud, a fresh smelling sea breeze drifted in from the direction of Warrenpoint, and pre-race tension hung thick in the air — that distinct cocktail of cautious optimism, adrenaline, and nausea. Carlingford — smug in its medieval charm and coastal calm — was primed for speed. So were Newcastle AC.

It began at 5pm sharp outside O’Hare’s Bar & Lounge. The team assembled, passports in hand, awaiting the promised club bus. It never came. Complaints? Please direct them to direct to Jack O’Hare. He wasn’t there either. Last seen drinking bottles of Magners and hugging half-dressed mannequins in the Burrendale Hotel.

Crisis was averted when Lieutenant Ernie, fresh from a long day at Hog in the Bog, pulled up in his creaking, six-door 2011 Vauxhall Vivaro. It rattled. It groaned. It had the musical taste of a forgotten Wilmar playlist. But it moved. Orders were shouted, bags thrown in, and the crew piled aboard.

Ernie, the Louth Maestro, claimed to know every bend from Newcastle to Carlingford. And, frankly, it’s possible he laid the tarmac himself. Trucker Ron clambered aboard mid-battle with motion sickness, already regretting both the back seat and that breakfast bap. Miss World drifted in with oversized sunglasses, a flat white, and not a single care. Leaa With the Yellow Hair lit up the van with an entrance brighter than her high-vis. The Butcher, the club’s new Morale Officer, brought the banter, at times very high risk. The Prime Minister (PM), the master of misinformation, arrived late, citing a “vital Zoom call.” No one asked him. No one believed him. No one cared.

Past the Seven Sisters bends, the Vivaro wheezed its way past a pristine Dromore AC club bus — sleek, silent, and insufferably smug. Race mode was engaged, respect was not exchanged, the Vivaro groaned, Trucker Ron groaned even louder.

There was no room for sightseeing. Carlingford’s 5K course is narrow, coastal, and mercilessly flat — the kind of route where your excuses get left behind in the first kilometre.

The Butcher went full kamikaze from the gun exploding off the start line like he had left the ice cream machine running. Miss World ran with silk-smooth poise and pacing, cutting through the field like a metronome on a mission. Trucker Ron, stomach now calm, ploughed ahead with the steady rumble of a diesel DAF engine. Leaa chased every kilometre like it owed her money. Ernie, in his natural habitat, cornered like he was still driving the Vivaro. The PM wheeled out his old chestnut: “I’m not racing this.” Sure. Yet again, his final sprint betrayed the truth. Ashlene, despite being mentally poolside in her 5-star Portuguese resort, still ran like she had somewhere urgent to be, and something to prove.

Ashley Crutchley – 15:58

Matthew Sutton – 16:30

Kerry O’Flaherty – 17:02 (3rd overall lady & 1st V40 lady)

Oran Dillan – 18:03

Neil McGeough – 18:17

Brian McVeigh – 18:42

Ashlene Mussen – 19:51

John Kelly – 20:11 (2nd M65 category)

Lorna Cunningham – 21:23

Ernest Hall – 22:06 (2nd M70 category)

Ronnie Horrox – 22:45

Leaa Walsh – 23:06

And Bogusboy — AWOL with olive overload, last seen fighting through feta and regret.

With legs like spaghetti and hunger levels peaking, the squad descended upon Taaffes Castle, with the chipper next door taking the brunt of their appetite.

Fish and chips were inhaled at fartlek pace. The Butcher, buzzing from both endorphins and vinegar fumes, attempted to pay by card in a resolutely cash-only pub — triggering a Punt collection worthy of Comic Relief. Crisis, again, narrowly averted. Trucker Ron, fully recovered and now in storytelling overdrive, delivered a dramatic re-enactment of the Vivaro voyage — complete with retching sound effects and wild accusations.

Inside Taaffes the night peaked as the twins, with Bogboy in full on pram pushing duties, were spotted dancing to Wonderwall with a Liam Gallagher lookalike, chips in hand, tunes blaring, loving life.

Recovery involved more pints of Guinness than protein shakes, more laughter than lactic acid flushing, and stories swapped with the efficiency of a race relay.

Miss World collected compliments like medals — for form, fashion, and foot strike.

Leaa’s laugh became the unofficial soundtrack of the harbour. Ernie, now back on his native turf, was greeted like returning royalty. The Butcher, pint in one hand, declared he was “cutting carbs” — moments before demolishing half a sausage supper. And the PM? He took multiple calls from “HQ.” (Turns out HQ was the chip shop, ringing to say he left behind his chicken curry chip.)

Between the convoy chaos, competitive carnage, and Carlingford craic Newcastle AC’s Dirty Dozen proved that discipline is optional, but delivery is not. They didn’t just turn up — they deployed. And if medals were given for post-race antics, they’d be a decorated platoon.

Carlingford still bears the scars.

Bogusboy vanishes into the Aegean haze, sipping Greek cocktails in linen trousers and sun-dazed. Trucker Ron limps on, a man forever changed by South Down’s merciless roads. But this isn’t the end. The Dirty Dozen will rise again. And, against all odds… The Butcher will still be trying to pay by card.

Next up is The Dinnywater Dander 5K in scenic Glassdruman, Tuesday 12 August at 7pm. Local terrain. No passport required. Club bus TBC. Still no guarantee the PM will not take suspicious calls and rumour has it Bogusboy might make an appearance.