Into Dust

It's time to embrace one of the oldest and noblest of pirate traditions and break out the rum. The wine is all drunk and the Wray and Nephew is calling me like a penniless whore.

But before I give in to my Jamaican mistress and the whole gig gets bandy I need to apologise to you, Dear Reader. Things have been melancholic of late and I'll not labour the reason why, but my desire to indulge in this blogging nonsense has been tested. My intention in stating that in my last post was not to fish for compliments like a saddo but simply to express how I felt.

That said, I very much appreciate the lovely comments requesting that Subversive Running continues in its existence. All I can say is: 'Wow! You dudes are easily satisfied!'

But what has been missed is the fact that I have little say in whether Subversive Running continues or otherwise. That executive decision is taken by an Essex based life-takin' law breaker by the name of Mason. I daren't do anything without his permission or my liver will appear in the lion's food in London Zoo.

Mason got on my case today. I got a text from him saying:

'Oi, Waterman, get yer thumb out of your arse and run. If you don't and I have to cross the Dartford Bridge you'll regret it you scum suckin' knob-cheese.'

If you're unfamiliar with Mike you should know that he runs the show in Essex. Ronnie and Reggie? Pah! They were pussy cats compared to The Mason. But his cover is as a mild mannered executive for Ford and a member of the Benfleet Running Club.....Don't be fooled unless you fancy decorating the inside of a Range Rover with your vital organs.

Anyway, I followed Mike's instruction and ran. Eight miles across Epsom race course taking in a few lung busting hills. I'm not sure about time/distance/splits/all that shit because I don't give a fuck about all that bollocks.

What I do know is that it appears that my body has recovered from the West Highland Way Race. It felt all springy and bouncy and my lungs seemed to work well (springy and bouncy is about as technical as it gets, Dear Reader. Refer to Runner's World if you want a better definition).

So now, before I get all aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrr and practice my pirate-isms, I'd like comment on the articles concerning Dario that were published in The Glasgow Herald, Scotsman and The Sun.

My opinion is that none of them do the man justice. More worryingly, the authors appear to have simply lifted detail from the WHW Race forum and the blogs. There are many individuals who have been associated with Dario and the race for many years who might have important things to say; none, other than Garry Milne and Adrian Stott, have been quoted.

After reading the Herald article I felt moved to take the author to task over his malapropisms. This I did via email.

I hope he knows I'm linked to Mike Mason and takes the hint and doesn't end up as dust.

Innocence

As I sit here in the Station Officer’s room in Battersea I wonder whether this blog has had its day. It started as an idea as I was running with my pal, Jon Vann in 2007. We would meet at our rendezvous for our run, invariably early in the morning and often after having consumed a significant amount of alcoholic beverage the evening prior. Discussion often got round to the race blogs, which at the time were fewer than today, and how they contained a mine of information regarding routes, times, kit etc. We’d laugh and remark how a blog written by either of us would contain detail of how much wine we’d drank the night before and how severe the resulting hangover was.

Subversive Running began after Doc McIntosh launched Brian’s Running Miscellany on the world. I told him I was thinking of writing something a little more alternative and he replied:

‘I’d read your subversive blog.’ And so it was born.

Now I feel less inclined to write frivolously (I’ll not labour the reason why) and the amount of running I do would result in few posts.

But while I ponder the future I have a story that I would like to share with you that made me smile at a time when smiling is a bit of a rarity.

There I was in the 1.25l Bad Boy returning from Tesco with my three youngest children. They all knew Dario and remembered him as ‘the funny man that could work out which day we were born on.’ They had heard of Dario’s death from ex-wife/partner (no.3) and were firing questions at me regarding the detail.

After explaining to them that he had died while running in the mountains Charly asked if his life might have been saved if a doctor had been on the scene at an early stage. I explained that a medical professional was with him but specialist equipment was needed to help, if it was at all possible.

After having a mumbled discussion with my son, Ewan, Charly said:

‘Me and Ewan know what should have happened. If the government had put a doctor with his equipment in a little hut on every mountain in the country Dario might have been saved.’

I smiled at their innocence.

‘Yes, you’re right, that would have been helpful,’ I replied.

Laters.

He Was a Friend of Mine

Dario Melaragni

This blog would not exist if it were not for the West Highland Way Race and the West Highland Way Race would not exist in its current form if it wasn't for the tireless, enthusiastic and professional work of 'The Godfather' Dario Melaragni.

I had the mother of all shocks yesterday to hear that Dario had suffered a probable heart attack whilst running on Lochnagar. Despite the sterling efforts of a small band of West Highland Way Race Family members that were accompanying him Dario died there on the hill.

Death is a matter of fact in the jobs I've been employed in since leaving school, I meet it more often than many. It's been suggested by a particular person that this has hardened my approach to loss and the heart that beats in my own chest is a dark one.

That's not true. My heart broke when I heard of Dario's passing and his voice rings in my head now and I can visualise his energy and animation. The depth of loss I feel is too great for me to put into words and there are others that will do it in a significantly more eloquent manner than myself, Mrs Mac being a case in point. But I know that the loss to the ultra running community is great. I know also that the loss to the West Highland Way Race Family is even greater. However, I can only imagine how Dario's family are attempting to cope with their loss today.

On a personal level Dario, the race and the Family came into my life four years ago and the part they play in it now is significant, to say the least.

But now Dario has gone and I feel an emptiness that keeps changing places with disbelief. What can I say? I'll miss you, buddy. I'll even miss your appalling choice of colour when designing the race buffs.

I'm reminded of last year when I had the honour of having Dario stay with me while he was working in London. I'd had a bet with Mike Mason that I could get photographic evidence of Dario smiling:

'...we had a bottle of Glengoyne malt whisky, my favourite tipple and an excellent tool which I realised might enable me to win my bet with Mike Mason and turn the Dark Godfather into a Ray of Sunshine. Okay, maybe that's pushing the envelope a bit...at least get him smiling a bit.

However, it wasn't long before Dario and I were steaming through the whisky and I got lost in tales of past races; of the lunacy of one Mad Jim Drummond; of stories of Kate Jenkins, Lucy Colquhoun, Murdo McEwan and Jez Bragg. In my stupor, (yes, I've considered the possibility that Mike and Dario were in cahoots) the only picture I managed to procure is the one below. Yes it's grainy, yes it's poorly focused and yes it's taken at night- but I'd say it shows the Race Director crackin' a smile.'

Of course, in reality Dario smiled often. And laughed too.....often at his own poor jokes! How I wish I could hear him telling one of those crappy jokes now.

I'll miss you mate. Rest well.

The Romper Room

Voltaire said:

‘I may disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.’

Well, I’m a firm believer that your blog is your blog and you should write what the hell you like on it. Of course if something is written that’s particularly inappropriate or abusive the author will end up being taken to task over it sooner or later anyway- either by the associated hit counter registering zero or getting a good shoeing late one night in a dark alley.

I also think that if readers take the time to comment on your posts their comment should remain live regardless of the criticism that might be directed toward the author.

Who cares about blog critics anyway? In another life I’ve had criticism directed toward me by individuals that do it rather well. Sammy Clarke, my old Troop Sergeant, was often critical. If his criticism got really animated (usually over some matter regarding discipline-fighting with police dogs and the like) he made you an offer: either march yourself up to see the Squadron Sergeant-Major or spend five minutes in his ‘Romper Room.’

The Romper Room was the troop cage, a room on the tank park created from welded steel mesh and covered in DPM scrim. If you opted for five minutes with Sammy you generally emerged with an imprint of his size ten boot on your face and urinated blood for a few days- distinctly better than being charged by the Squadron Sergeant Major, believe me!

I see old Sammy at the Regimental reunion every November. How we chuckle as we remember the sound of splintering ribs and cracking teeth!!

Anyway, back to blog critics- sometimes rather than criticise per se they may point out an error of fact. Take ‘Anonymous’ for example:

‘Not sure that's quite right as Thursday night you were spotted with two elder gents in The Slug in Clapham Junction consuming several pints of the black stuff followed by several whiskies ... not sure that's classed as Ribena!!’

I’m pretty sure I know who ‘Anonymous’ is-if it’s the attractive burger seller, you tinker!!! If it’s Paul Davis- you git!!!

‘Anonymous' is right, I was in the Slug and Lettuce in Clapham Junction later that night with my mucker Phil Emberson, a man who’s forgotten more about technical and specialist rescue that I will ever know, and Paul Davis (Daisy), a possible contender for ‘Anonymous.’ Both are elder gents in that they are a little more experienced than myself, but both are extremely young at heart.

But I never said in my post that I wasn’t out that night-just that my post earlier that evening was accompanied by Ribena and tea and my planned run the next day did not take place……ahem….that was because of the later consumption of ‘black stuff followed by several whiskies.’

Anyway, it’s time for me to skadoodle. Before I depart I’d just like to say that my own blood family have never been very close to me. I found brethren within Her Majesty’s Armed Forces and it hurts each time I read or hear of a brother ascending to the Green Fields in that hell-hole that is Afghanistan. I found brothers and sisters within the West Highland Way Race Family too and remark every day at how they have taken me to their bosom. It hurts also to lose one of them.

Here’s to you, my brother. You'll never be forgotten.

A Dry Post.....Honest!!

There was a suggestion that my last blog post was created whilst under the influence of high percentage ABV vino. While a betting person might regard their money as safe if placed upon the likelihood of a subversive evening of blogging with wine, last night this was not the case.

No vino, no Guinness, and no whisky lubricated that particular blog post......just some Ribena and tea. This was due to two reasons:

1. I was due on duty in South Chelsea the following morning to engage with the natives of Battersea, and they've been all frisky just of late.

2. I had intended to run before work taking in the majestic Old Father Thames and the Royal Chelsea Hospital- the home of the Chelsea Pensioners.

So a dry early evening and absolutely zilch on the telly drove me to my PC. I wondered why the suggestion of an alcohol influenced post might have been made and a slight suspicion was confirmed by Mrs Mac who said:

'There's rather a lot of swearing in it.'

I didn't think there was until I read it through again. Of course the smidgen of Irvine Welsh upped the cuss-count but there were a few cattle-trucks and merchant bankers of my own in there.

I will attempt to moderate the colour of my language in future but I have to say that whilst insuring the safety of the residents of SW11 today we had a shout that made me laugh my fuckin' tits off.

So we were called to a man in the river at Wandsworth Bridge. Off we shot up the road, blues and twos wailing. We arrive at the scene a few minutes later where there are a good number of London Ambulance Service personnel, another fire engine and a large crowd of Battersea's residents who are apparently 'between jobs.' All are looking into the river that was to have hosted my run that morning (can you guess it didn't?).

A bystander relates to me what has occurred:

'A geezer was in PC World and he nicked two hard-drives and a memory card. The security bloke spotted him and chased him so he legged it over to here. He jumped over the wall and into the river to escape by swimming away.........but the tide went out a few hours ago.'

A quick look onto the muddy and shopping trolley festooned foreshore, which was four metres down by the way, confirmed the hapless thief sporting two newly broken legs and hollering louder than a market trader at packing up time.

The attached video was made available to me by an Ambulance Service colleague who filmed the event for training purposes. We, of course, are strictly forbidden to carry cameras or mobile phones whilst on duty and are punishable by death if found to have recorded operational events.

It shows the HEMS chopper fighting to take off against the river with the alleged computer thief on board.

Enjoy. I did!!

The Return of an Old Pal

You now how it is. Sometimes you meet someone for the first time and you know from the outset that you're gonna get on with them.

If it's a bird some might argue it's sexual chemistry (if it ain't and the feelings are the same you're probably a poof-house). If it's a fella more likely you'll pick up on his deeply ingrained familiarity with the etiquette of the public house; or maybe his obviously encyclopedic knowledge of boxing.

This very thing has happened to me upon meeting particular individuals involved in the West Highland Way Race. At least that's what I like to believe anyway......there's an equally good chance, that I'm deluded and those very same individuals say:

'Oh no it's that bloody pest Waterman again.....quick, let's hide behind the sofa and pretend we're not in.'

Or maybe:

'If that mug Waterman sets one foot in Essex I'll 'ave his fuckin' knee caps.'

But regardless of the unrequited love demonstrated by recently repatriated emigres from Romania, I have an example to support my argument:

There I was in 2006, about fifty of the ninety-five miles under my belt but with a knee that was swollen and painful and restricting my forward movement to little more than a crawl. As I stumbled along up comes this Australian fella.

'Hi guys,' he says to me and John, my support runner. 'My name's Keith and I'm the sweeper. I've caught up with you and that means you're last.'

I immediately warmed to Corned Beef's dismissal of any polite formality. My affection for him was further cemented when a car drove past where the track nears the road just outside Tyndrum. A brown arse was sticking out of the open window and a chorus of:

'Waterman, you wanker,' ripped through the highland silence as Darrel returned his naked posterior to the safe confines of the vehicle.

Keith didn't bat an eye-lid, just said:

'Your support crew, huh?'

Well, today I was reunited with another fella that possesses a similar ethical persuasion to myself; a man educated in the similar masculine scimmages; an earthy individual with a love for life; a man who has a deep love of art....so much so that a good percentage of his body is covered in it.

I refer to Mr Frances Begbie, a hero of mine ever since I read of his exploits in Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting. Welsh's original heavily set pit-bull of the Hibernian terraces was replaced by a more diminutive, yet equally ferocious, Robert Carlyle in Danny Boyle's take on the book. But rather than water the psycho-casual down, I reckon this gave Begbie's character even more appeal.

Well now the man's appeared again- this time in Welsh's new book of short stories from mainly out of print anthologies and magazines, Reheated Cabbage.

Check him out, it's Christmas Day:

That fuckin Sandra. Nivir mind the fuckin turkey, stick that fat cunt in the oven n wi'll be feedin half ay fuckin Leith through until next Christmas. Ah dinnae ken aboot stuffin it but, ah'll no be volunteerin fir they fuckin duties anywey. Nae fuckin chance.

Ok, so it might not be your cuppa if your preferred reading matter is Mills and Boon or the National Geographic, but at least after reading Irvine Welsh I can kinda get a handle on what the hell Mrs Mac and her family are saying to each other.

I always wondered who this fella 'Ken' was they kept referring to.