Subversive Running

Graduating Magnum

2012-01-25T00:14:00.003Z

Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. That's me.

Although I'm an absolutely shit runner and would like to have bridesmaid status (rather than a white dress wearing virgin I am in fact just a homeless, Big Issue seller peeking through the window outside the reception venue), I thought I had this blogging status sewn up. Proper brided up, white dress, bouquet and cheeky blue garter belt, the works.

Then Richard Cronin turns up like Dustin Hoffman in the final scenes of The Graduate and I'm knocked back into bridesmaid territory.

If you have no idea what I'm wittering on about, Richard Cronin is an Irish runner, now ultra runner, and supreme writer of blog material. His online action can be accessed here: The Beirut Taxi.

I think you'll agree that his writing knocks the bollocks you're reading now into a cocked hat. I'd like to say that I hate Richard but he's a fine human being and an all round good guy. OK, so he chose to wear those fuckin' awful running sleeves in last year's River Ayr Way Challenge, but you can't blame a Paddy for dressing up.

While we're on the subject of dressing up, I'm really happy to remain a bridesmaid in the fancy dress stakes to individuals like my buddy Martin Antoninus Horatio Hooper who can be seen here in a number of guises:

As is demonstrated above, there's absolutely no way that I could ever hope to campaign against the Hooper in a dressing up game. The man is the absolute meister at things fanciful. So when I got invited to a fancy dress party I groaned.

The party in question was the celebration of a 50th birthday and was based on a Hawaii 50 theme. Yours Truly decided on a Magnum era, Tom Selleck stylee (probably better than his Two Men and a Baby work which has a limited Hawaiian connection).

So I'm off to the local fancy dress shop like George Michael on way to the opening of a new public loo. Luckily I'm familiar with the lovely owner, Sharon Alexander who sold me the pirate flag that dropped me in such hot water four years ago. So I'm guessing that she's an experienced dressing upper.

'Shazza,' I say. 'I'm going to a party and need to look just like Tom Selleck.'

'You fuckin' knobcheese,' replies Sharon. 'Tom is a tall, good looking individual and you're a little idiot. I'm a fuckin' fancy dress shop owner, not a fuckin' magician.'

So in between dusting her till and filing her nails Shazza throws a wig and a stick-on tash at me.

'Put them on. It's the best of a seriously bad job. That's £97.30,' Sharon proclaims (actually she charged me £7.00 and offered discount.....poetic licence doncha know).

So I don said wig and tash, safe in the knowledge that I am Magnum P.I.

As was pointed out to me.......

'No, you're Bobby Ball ya twat.'

Laters.

Sex, Sex, Sex!!!!!

2012-01-20T21:09:00.003Z

I've never been much of a prude. Never been one to consider the exhibiting of human flesh as something that might be considered offensive or embarrassing. If I seek to establish a history to this mindset I'm reminded of being a young boy and being inextricably drawn to the lingerie pages of my mum's Littlewoods catalogue. I didn't know why at the time, but skimming past the dodgy seventies clothing and the fishing tackle, to arrive at the Charlie's Angel-esque models in sheer bras and panties, gave me a bit of a thrill.

That thrill was probably fully realised when me and my pals found a carrier-bag full of discarded gentleman's magazines behind a bus stop in Camberwell some years later. We were like a gang of frontiersmen discovering gold and we made off with our bounty to my mate's house where his mum was out at work. We pored over the grubby mags in his bedroom and naively puzzled over what chemical reaction had occurred behind the bus stop to glue many of the pages together.

What surprised us most was the discovery that the beautiful women we were looking at had a little beard in a southernmost region. Of course, had these magazines been a modern equivalent, the Brazilian effect would have resulted in a less remarkable impact on us.

Things in my life seemed to switch into fast forward not long after the bus stop magazine event and before I knew it I was a young husband and father. I don't attribute my youthful fatherhood to the early discovery of soft porn but the stories we read in those pages gave me a bit of an idea what to do with my girlfriend. Thank the Lord it was soft porn mags we found and not the harder variety or I might have expected my girlfriend's mum to join us in a menage a trois.

Not long after that I became a member of Her Majesty's Armed Forces where other members of the organisation seemed to rejoice in nudity. I think that the realisation that violent death was no respecter of privacy may have had something to do with that.

I suppose what I'm getting at is that we come into this world wearing a birthday suit and leave it in the same way. To my way of thinking there's no need to become abhorrently offended at the sight of a pair of boobs or a fella's meat and two veg and I know I'm not alone in this belief because Mike 'King of the Essex Underworld' Mason exposed his milky-white arse to me one summer's day in 2007. Don't get me wrong, Mike wasn't suggesting we get jiggy with a bit of sword-fighting action, he was merely making use of the outdoor facilities while we were running the West Highland Way Race in the same way that a woodland located bear might.

Why, oh why then, do grown men insist on hiding behind a towel to get changed at the gym? I even saw one fella last week who came out of the shower with two towels. One to dry himself and another that stayed clamped around his waste like a fucking kilt. And he only took it off once his trousers were on and his belt was fastened. I mean, what the fuck?

Experiencing individuals like this in the gym changing room causes me to be utterly overt in my nudity. I let the old fella dangle for as long as I possibly can. Socks on; tee shirt on; mince about a bit checking my phone and putting my training gear in my bag before my pants go on.

I haven't really got a punchline to this story so I'll finish with the realisation that, despite being told in the media that the creeping sexualisation of our young people is abound, it is in fact going the other way.

This week a member of the Jewish community in Stamford Hill complained that a Calvin Klein advert that showed a skimpily clad woman was offensive and inappropriate. The advert was for underwear by the way.

Sounds like a fair complaint to me. For anyone unfamiliar with this particular area of North London, if you ventured into it you might believe you've been dropped into downtown Jerusalem. A poster advertising skimpy underwear ain't gonna find many interested parties there.

Only problem is the complainant was offended by an advert on the side of a bus that happened to pass him or her.

Sheesh!!!!! I wonder what the young lads in Stamford Hill find dumped behind bus stops.

Millinery catalogues maybe?

Short, Fat and Blind as a Bat

2012-01-15T22:32:00.000Z

I've discussed the subject of ageing on this blog before. The author of the blog you're reading is a perpetual teenager aged 45. In his mind he's a wrinkle free, hirsute young man with a lust for life. In the mirror he's a scabby, greying middle aged dude whose hirsuteness has gravitated south to his back, but still has a lust for life. The problem is that when he indulges that lust he often suffers prematurely and goes for an early bath.

The Subversive Runner looks in a mirror....and sees a Subversive Runner looking in a mirror.

Every time I visit the supermarket (which is often) I like to use those self-service checkouts. I'm not sure why but I suspect it's to keep my hand in should my employment with the London Fire Brigade be terminated and I seek a future clad in a uniform with 'Asda' emblazoned on it.

In my basket I usually have goods that prompt the self-service machine to say: 'Authorisation Required' (despite receiving no pay rise for three years I pay for said goods, Antony Wozza Thompson).

When the dude with the magic card arrives; swipes the machine and the screen that says 'the customer is clearly over 25' appears, I expect to be asked for ID...............it never happens. And I'm mortally wounded every time.
This delusion was brought into sharp focus this week when other things became seriously blurred. Let me provide you with some background:

In my desperate clamour to disguise my own physical, mental and emotional shortcomings I've been known to highlight other people's foibles in order to take the heat off Yours Truly. Mrs Mac's myopia has prompted me to call her 'Specky,' 'Geggy,' and 'Bicycle Face,' followed by a brag that I've got 20/20 vision.

However, I think that 45 years of eyeball use, 30 years of looking at porn, and getting continually punched in the head may have had an unfortunate effect on my vision. This was proven to me the other day after being at work in South Chelsea and discovering I could no longer read printed call slips. Printed call slips are the messages that indicate the nature of the incident and its location. As I directed my driver to an area that was geographically remote to the incident, and he over-rode my instruction because he could read said call-slip, I realised that the chickens may have arrived home to roost....that karma was in operation......that I was getting my cumuppence.

I'm short, fat and blind as a bat.

I've yet to submit to an eye test but maybe this explains why I've found night-time driving increasingly difficult recently.

This leaves me with something of a quandary. If I'm to become a specky, bicycle face, what gegs should I go for?

John Lennon round ones?

Buddy Holly style NHS jobs?

Modern square ones?

I'm not sure and I'm still hoping that my myopia might be a sort lived result of getting smashed in the head by Mason (dog) the other day. The little fella's extreme power was proven to me when he simply moved while on my bed and his elbow hit me in the mouth.

The sharp pain, coppery taste of blood trickling down my throat, and rapidly swelling lip demonstrated that he remains a born in blood fighting dog.

But a lovely one.

When my lip has returned to normal and my eyesight remains blurred I'll consider a journey to the specktician.

Until then I'm looking in that mirror.

Laters.

Happy Hogmanay

2012-01-06T18:16:00.001Z

I've been absent from this blog recently but a suitable length of time has now elapsed following that time of the year. The decorations are down, the wrapping paper has been recycled, and the electronic gifts are back with the manufacturer for repair. Christmas is but a memory and what do I have to say about that?

Thank fuck.

Don't get me wrong, I'm no Scrooge or miser, in fact I fucking love Christmas, but the prospect of sitting home alone is too desperate to contemplate so Battersea Fire Station and the assembled employees of the London Fire Brigade were my home and family for the day.

New Year is almost a week gone by too. What do I have to say about that?

Thank fuck too.

Ok, so I'm starting to sound a bit like a Scroogesque miser now, but New Year.....what's it all about? I've never really got it but once upon a time agreed to take part in the collective belief that one had an obligation to have a bit of a knees up, put past conflicts to rest, and generally have a good time.

I've now dismissed my taking part in that collective belief and just allow my mood to be affected, positively or otherwise, by the acts that Jools Holland puts on on Hootenanny. Previously Jools has secured such musical luminaries as The Eels, Martha Wainwright, Amy Winehouse and Ranking Roger (the geezer with the hat from the 80s Ska band The Beat). All of these artists, and any like them, are enough to make The Subversive Runner a rather happy chappy on New Year's Eve. Any tedious middle of the road bollocks, or idiots with baseball caps on sideways, is enough to turn The Subversive Runner into The Subversive Lunatic With Ideas of Murder Toward Middle of the Road Twats and Idiots With Baseball Caps on Sideways.

Anyway, this New Year's Eve I completed my day shift at the fire station and scuttled off home to plot myself up in front of the sofa with a glass of Vino Collapso and Hootenanny. Jools promised the performances of Imelda May, The Vaccines and Cyndi Lauper- all good stuff. I might have to indulge in some self induced vomiting when James Morrison takes to the stage right enough, but you can't have everything.

My plans were scuppered by a certain Scottish burd with big feet who was visiting Chez Waterman from a strange, far away land where men wear skirts and women have a hierarchical system based on the number of their remaining teeth.

But I didn't realise that New Year's Eve involved searching my Sky Planner for Bastard BBC Scotland and some burd in a kilt called, funnily enough, Jackie Bird.

All her own teeth

Mrs Mac insists that BBC Scotland and the shittiest sitcom ever called Still Game are essential New Year's Eve fare and in an act of outright childishness, The Subversive Runner makes some rash comment involving the words 'Shit,' 'Scottish,' 'Fuckin,' and 'Pub.' He thereafter leaves the house, Mrs Mac and Jackie Fuckin' Bird to something called Hogmanay and heads off to the nearest licensed hostelry.

The same Subversive Runner returns some ten minutes later professing an apology for his grumpiness and an agreement to fully immerse himself in Hogmanay and the lovely Jackie Bird.

Don't you just hate it on New Year's Eve when the pubs operate an entry by pre-bought ticket system?

Laters......oh, and Happy New Year.

Le Chocolat

2011-12-22T23:44:00.000Z

I'm not really into eating massive amounts of chocolate but this blogpost is about just that- chocolate. I suppose if I wanted to make some tenuous link between the brown sickly stuff and running (to justify the name of this blog, don'cha know) I could tell you that Colin Jackson used to chow down on a fuck-off big bar of the stuff just before a race.

Anyway, that's enough about running, hurdling and Welsh people.....back to the issue in hand. So a few weeks ago I was asked to attend a Wandsworth Borough Community Awards event. Let's get this right, I was asked only after all the preferred individuals had knocked it back. Imagine the Queen getting the cold shoulder from everyone invited to her garden party and ending up inviting Gary Glitter.....it's kinda that vibe but without any connection between me and the shoulder pad wearing, bouffant headed sicko.

So I agree to go....a three course meal with complimentary wine, it's a no-brainer if you ask me. Then I'm asked to recommend a local community champion for an award , again, a no-brainer. I know a fella that's kept the local community kebab shops and off licences in business despite a crippling recession, surely a community champion. But that fella will be quaffing complimentary wine and scoffing a three course meal on the same night as the awards, so I'd best recommend someone else.

Of course! My oppo, Vince who I run the local youth boxing programme with. So I recommend him and guess what? He wins!

Of course I win too. Not necessarily because we're a partnership and he takes the award for the both of us....more because I've encouraged the wine waiter to properly fill my glass rather than those ridiculous quarter-filled measures.

Anyway, a local dignitary hears of Vince's success but is concerned that Yours Truly hasn't been suitably recognised. If he'd seen the recycling bin the next day he might have thought otherwise nevertheless, I'm summoned to said local dignitary's office. The guy is a lovely fella and camper than Larry Grayson on his way to a Liberace concert but he hands me this package and says:

'This is for you. Thank you for all your hard work in the community.'

I'm holding this beautiful pyramid shaped box; it's coloured in gold and brown and tied up in a bow.

'Thank you, but what is it?' I ask.

'Chocolates.' I'm informed.

I thank him kindly, we exchange Christmas cards and I'm out the door, hotfooting it down the road with a box of fucking chocolates.

Chocolates. Never been given those before. Beer? Yes; Wine? yes; Whisky? Yes; Chocolate? No.

Chocolates. They're the default present that you buy your aunt because you don't really know her at all.

I get back home and decide that I need to Google said chocolates to ensure they're not gonna play havoc with my lactose intolerance. Google tells me these chocolates cost £120.00 a box.

Yes, I said £120.00 a box.

Fucking expensive chocs

Although I don't dare open these chocolates because I've promised to share them, dying to see what a £120.00 chocolate tastes like. So as we enter the run up to Christmas I make do with my normal wine and kebabs.

So I'm in the kebab shop tonight..... normal large chicken doner with extra chilli sauce. The chef (!) is cooking my kebab and I'm leaning on a table reading a two-day old copy of The Sun. As I'm reading a story about a guy whose wife has run off with his dad I hear the words:

'You wanna the salad, yes?'

I sigh, and without looking up from the newspaper answer, as I do every time:

'Lettuce, cabbage, and don't be shy with the chilli sauce.'

I close the newspaper without finishing the article and fish £5.60 out of my pocket. I hand it to the guy behind the jump and he says:

'This for you, best customer. Merry Christmas.'

And I'm handed a box of Thornton's chocolates. I'm quite choked. I stammer a thank you and walk out of the place with yet another box of chocolates.

I've got more chocolate than that which is hidden behind the jumpers in Vanessa Feltz's wardrobe.

The one thing I'm left wondering is that if you're a well known chocolate chomping community volunteer, or if you consume an inordinate amount of chocolate from the local chocolate shop, do they give you wine as a reward?

Laters.

Why Should the World Stop Turning?

2011-12-20T21:19:00.008Z

I remember back when I was a lad in South London I used to listen to the patter of the adult males upon meeting another of the species. The questions asked of each other to make acquaintance were always the same:

'Alright, mate? Where d'you live?'

The answer was usually one of the various working class parishes around Peckham- Camberwell, New Cross, Catford, Lewisham, Bermondsey, Elephant and Castle, somewhere like that. In those days no-one seemed to travel very far (and they think that postcode wars are a new thing).

The question regarding one's geographical locale was quickly followed by:

'Where d'ya drink?'

On a hierarchical list that defined the male working class Londoner of the 1970s, these two factors sat atop such meaningless drivel as your wife, family and profession. You might detect a distinct lack of that particular facet that dictated the colour of one's scarf - the football club. But that answer could be gleaned from the answers to question 1 and 2 above. You wouldn't want to be drinking in a Millwall public house wearing a claret and blue coloured scarf.

The public house. The place where the men met after work to spend their hard-earned while the women were at home making sure that the spam, peas and chips were on the table. My own 'local' was the Greendale pub; the place that saw me and my brothers sitting outside on an early evening eating Golden Wonder crisps and sharing a bottle of Cream Soda.

The Greendale today. Peace in the Valley

When the door of the pub opened to eject a customer and a cloud of cigarette smoke we looked expectantly to see if our old man had had his fill. Usually not. Not before darkness descended, anyhow.

The Greendale was a small community of Millwall scarf wearing men from the surrounding housing estates (with the addition of women at weekends). Everyone knew each other and there was an unspoken rank system that operated there with the hardest man at the top and the divvy fella that suffered a lack of oxygen during birth at the bottom (but he wore his blue and white scarf regardless of the weather so he was on the firm).

I don't know the position of my old man in that rank system; at the time I fantasised that he was just below the top boy, Lenny. Now I suspect he may have been just above the divvy fella in the scarf.

But my old man had a rule. Regardless of the regulars being in attendance, the one single day in the year that he downright refused to go to the pub was Christmas Day. The Greendale was swerved and the 25th December was set aside for family, presents, overcooked turkey and a sickly concoction of advocaat and lemonade known as a snowball.

I followed my old man's rule into adulthood and never stepped over the threshold of a licenced premises on Jesus's birthday; family, presents and overcooked turkey are the order of the day (I can't face the fucking advocaat).

That was until two years ago when I found myself in a position that I believed didn't exist. No one gets left alone on Christmas Day, right? The little boy outside in the cold looking through the window always gets invited in, right?

Nope.

There I was, arrived home from work on Christmas Day morning. The house was cold and empty without the smell of a turkey that had been cooking since the early hours just to make sure it was drier than a nun's fanny. I shuffled about a bit, fed the fish, made a cup of tea, looked out the window and thought:

'How the fuck has it come to this? I'm at home, on my own, on Christmas Day.'

Then I had a spark of genius....the pub! So I binned my old man's rule, poured the tea down the sink, put on my blue and white scarf and hot-footed down the boozer.

I walked through the door imagining that I'd be greeted by similarly sad individuals wearing drab clothing and drab facial expressions celebrating Jesus's birthday with a pint of warm ale.

How wrong was I?

It was a veritable hothouse of fun! All these years my old man had got it wrong....the place was banged to the rafters with festive cheer, Christmas tunes on the jukebox, and snacks on the bar. Fantastic.

I proper filled my boots until it reached my two-hour window to see my youngest children so I skipped out the door to arrive home to a frosty ex-wife/partner (no.3) who was sat outside my gaff in her motor. She commented negatively on the beer fumes on my breath (such an odd occurrence at Christmas) before zooming off down the road back to the bosom of her family.

Christmas Day with the children was odd. They'd already eaten so my attempt at force feeding them turkey, mashed potato and piccalilli was met with the kind of welcome Gary Glitter might get at the opening of a new kindergarten (I thought that the mash and piccalilli might add an extra dimension to the norm but it just got a bleurgh).

The two hours came and went in a flash and as ex-wife/partner's (no.3) car zoomed off down the road I was left in unspeakable quiet and surrounded by discarded wrapping paper.

No problem, I've got the answer: pub, pub, pub, pub.

So it was on with the blue and white scarf and I'm off out the door like George Michael exiting a public loo upon hearing the words, 'Hello, hello, hello.'

I hotfooted down the road longing for the festive cheer, Christmas tunes on the jukebox, and snacks on the bar.

But as I tugged on the door that wouldn't move, and looked hopefully through the darkened window, the suspicion that was created when I noticed a lack of internal lighting was realised. The fucking place was closed. All those happy individuals earlier in the day were happy because their opposite number was at home cooking the spam, peas and chips.

My old man had got it right all those years; he swerved the pub on Christmas Day because the bastards only served til mid afternoon.

So I shuffled off home to a rerun of Only Fools and Horses and, when the beer ran out, advocaat and lemonade.

The moral of this story is this: If you're with your family this festive season, please don't take it for granted. If you're on your own, remember that the pubs close early so get some extra beer in.

Thank fuck I'm working.

Bombay Snake Charming

2011-12-16T14:11:00.001Z

Fail to prepare and you prepare to fail; that's what they say, right? Well, there could be no failing this week so preparation took a front seat. With a works Christmas do which required attendees to dress in a James Bond theme in a hotel in Farnham; sixteen boxers to weigh and confirm their fitness to fight; a mad-cap dash to Weymouth for a birthday celebration (yep, as I sit and type this, single fingerdly as typing was never gonna be a requirement for any employment likely to come my way, I've hit true middle age- 45. Ugh!) ;and an extravaganza of pugilism at the Clapham Grand, there could be no failing allowed.

Unfortunately, planning for Marcothon slipped off the agenda so a failing occurred. Run for 25 minutes or three miles every day in December. Fail.

Ho, hum!

I suppose if I had been that motivated or that ruthless in my planning I could have fitted in a 25 minute run around the streets of Battersea after preparing the Clapham Grand for the boxing and before the doors opened. But I didn't. Instead I went to the pub with Darrel Wilkins Jacobs, an Anglo-Indian colleague of mine who once graced the posts of this blog with alarming regularity. That evening Darrel was to be the MC at our boxing show.

Due to his absence you may have mistakenly believed that Darrel Wilkins Jacobs had suffered some terrible fate and perished. That's a fair bet to be honest, after all, a man that decides he's gonna set out from Fort William in a pair of flip-flops and trek his way to the airport is likely to suffer blisters and exposure at best. Then, after enquiring at a petrol station as to the distance involved, and to be told 100 miles, then deciding that a Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodle and two KitKats will be sufficient sustenance, is almost definitely making A&E rather than Glasgow Prestwick.

But no, Darrel Wilkins Jacobs lives!

So Marcothon got shelved and me and Darrel went to the pub. We were dressed smartly, me in dark grey suit and regimental tie and Darrel clad penguin-like as pictured above. We walked into the Slug and Lettuce to be greeted by the sight of many thirsty individuals that had aims of being spectators of pugilism some time later. Many of them we recognised as colleagues.

A certain individual sat at the bar with three friends that were unknown to us. He, on the other hand, was recognisable as an Asian firefighter that stands by at our fire station occasionally.

'Hey, Darrel, how you doing, man?' enquired the Asian firefighter. I could detect a perception of some unspoken, racial brotherhood from the guy. Unbeknown to him Darrel is more Delboy Trotter that Dev Anand.

'I'm alright, mate,' replied Darrel in his South London cockney accent.

'You're looking smart but why are you dressed like that, man?' asked our friend.

'I'm just about to start my shift at the local curry house next door mate. I do a bit of part-timing there to make ends meet.'

'Really? Wow! That's good. It's funny because we're on our way to a boxing show and you look like one of those microphone dudes! Maybe we'll pop in for a meal afterward, a few extra popadoms on the house, eh?'

I managed to supress my laughter quite easily. After all, I've had many years of witnessing Darrel Wilkins Jacobs reel in the gullible and easily duped. He recently convinced a German film crew and a number of international Urban Search and Rescue (USAR) teams that he's a USAR snake charmer and rids international rubble piles of poisonous serpents before the USAR teams get to work. He told them that snake charming has been in his ancestry for generations and he puts his skills to use for the benefit of rescue workers. This happened in Texas where rattlers and other nasty reptiles are abound.

It was as Darrel played an orange plastc recorder to the expectant massed ranks of American and European search teams, and the German film-makers rolled their cameras, that a rubber snake was encouraged out of a colleague's breast pocket by a length of invisible fishing line, and around fifty USAR operatives and a German film crew were introduced to the world of Darrel Wilkins Jacobs and the letters N-A-I-V-E.

So I guess I'm saying Marcothon got shelved but I had the joy of witnessing another classic performance from the snake-charming, popadom serving, Bombay Bad Boy.

Oh well, I might pick it up again before it gets too late.

At the very bottom of this post I've attached a video of Darrel in action (MC-ing.....not snake charming or waitering).
Laters.

Post Script For Murdo or How I Almost Became a Legionnaire

2011-12-08T13:39:00.000Z

Murdo McEwan has asked me to enlighten the readership of this blog as to the outcome of the tale of woe regarding my encounter with a Royal Military Police dog that I wrote about in my previous post.

Did my two pals escape?

Did I contract rabies?

Do I now howl at the moon on a monthly basis?

Here's the answer:

I ended up spending that night in a cell in the local RMP post where I was made to stand to attention until morning. I was later transferred to the regimental gaol which was run by a sadistic Provost Sergeant called Jacko.

My two buddies made it back to the regimental lines and safety and in a truly supportive act of concern for my welfare got their heads down.

The next day an estimation was made regarding the cost of making good our night's activities; to repaint the squadron blocks and repair the four-tonner the bill came in at DM 60,000.00, which when converted to Stering in 1988 was about £20,000.00.

I shit you not.

Although I claimed otherwise the Regimental Sergeant Major disbelieved that all that work was my own and at a regimental parade at 10:00 hours threatened that every man in the regiment would share a portion of that bill unless the culprits came forward or were grassed on.

Of course we were British soldiers and had each other's back. Grass? Never.

By 10:20 hours the Regimental Sergeant Major was given the names of my two cohorts.

The three of us were to face a Court Martial where it was guessed that we would either:

1. Be required to pay the £20,000.00 from our salary (about £500 a month back then) which would entail staying in the army forever.

2. Be sent to the Military Corrective Training Centre in Colchester to serve a hefty stretch.

The three of us decided that neither option was too attractive so a plan was hatched to do a moonlight flit, get a train to France, and join the French Foreign Legion.

Two days before the French Foreign Legion were to be offered the benefit of our soldiering skills and artistic talents we were told that due to our previously exemplary records the Colonel of the regiment had acquired supplementary powers from the Brigadier and could hear the case within the regimental lines.

The plan to exchange our berets for Kepi Blanc were put on hold and a week or two later we stood outside the Colonel's office in our No. 2 dress uniforms minus belt and beret.

I remember the following words to this day:

'Accused and escort! By the front, QUICK MARCH! HEFT,HIGHT,HEFT,HIGHT,HEFT,HIGHT...'

Now, military justice is an odd fellow. Before you know what your sentence is to be you're asked whether or not you accept it. I never met anyone who failed to accept their sentence but I'm guessing it's the equivalent of being given the option of having a criminal case heard in a higher court.

There was no question of us three not accepting our sentence as our Colonel had done us a huge favour in gaining supplementary powers, so when he said:

'Trooper Waterman, do you accept the sentence I'm about to award you?'

I crossed my fingers and shouted: 'YES, SIR!' (We had to shout in such scenarios. I don't know why.)

'In that case I'm fining you five hundred pounds and you will serve 28 days. Sergeant Major, march this soldier out and to the guardroom.'

My two pals were awarded the same sentence and we all decided to ditch the plan to learn French.

For a while after I attracted the nickname 'Rolf Harris' and, when my monthly wage slip showed a minus figure on the bottom line, spent thirty or so days watching BFBS while the usual nightly sound of merriment drifted into my window from the squadron bar.

Thankfully, I learned my lesson and would never repeat another act that would drop me in hot water.

PS.....That last line is obviously meant to be ironic.

Laters.

Dog Bit Man

2011-12-07T23:38:00.004Z

If you're an avid reader of like minded blogs you'll know of the author that I contend is swiftly becoming the Don of the blog world. I speak of the pyjama wearing, cheese sandwich consuming former Petrocelli-like Richard Cronin who pens (taps?) The Beirut Taxi.

Richard's blog is amusing, intelligent and incisive.....but he knows fuck all about dog bites. In his latest offering he complains of being mauled by a vicious cur of enormous proportions.....and then shows us what appears to be a bee sting. Richard's story, Dog Bites Man, has prompted an act of self plagiarism and forced me to retell a story that last appeared on my blog some years ago. Of course that post is now obliterated so I'm hoping you'll forgive the self plagiarism bit, but it's essential I relate a real dog attack to our man in Cork, Ricardo.

Let me transport you back to 1988. I was a young British squaddie with boundless energy and a desire to get involved in anything that might attract the word 'action.' It was November 19th, which is the date of the eve of the Battle of Cambrai, my regiment's most glorious campaign. After an initial fantastic success in the latter months of 1917, the gains made by the British Army were lost; come Christmas almost everyone of my cap-badge wearing forebears was dead. As I type this Jona Lewie's Stop The Cavalry plays in my head.

Anyway, let's get back to 1988. There I was in the squadron bar with a few muckers remarking how the tradition of marking Cambrai by attacking the neighbouring regiment had been largely forgotten in recent times. It didn't take too many more bottles of Herforder to encourage us to mount our own Cambrai campaign. So off we trotted, clad in our usual off-duty uniform of desert boots and flight jackets, heading for the Royal Hussars barracks armed with spray cans of silver paint (my mate Matt had been covering repaired crash damage on his Cortina). My can must have been less full than the others; the significance of this will be made clear in a while.

We sneaked up to the Royal Hussars Officers' Mess, where a mess ball was in full swing, and sprayed our squadron name 'CYCLOPS' in massive letters on the outside wall. One of my more perceptive colleagues (there were only three of us) indicated that we'd left a pretty decisive indication of the identity of the guilty party on that wall. So we added the other squadron names: 'AJAX,' 'BADGER,' HUNTSMAN,' and 'NERO.'

Then we did the same on the wall of the Sergeants' Mess.

Then on one of the Royal Hussars squadron accommodation blocks.

Then we stole a four-ton truck from the vehicle compound.

Which broke down.

In the middle of the parade ground.

It was as we were making our way back from the Royal Hussars parade ground to our own regimental lines that we heard a distant shout that went something like: 'This is the Royal Military Police....stay where you are!!'

A chorus of three voices returned the suggestion: 'FUCK OFF!'

My two colleagues made off like Vanessa Feltz chasing a departing ice-cream van but yours truly had the flash of inspiration to repeat our suggestion in silver letters on the ground.

But I was short of paint.

I rattled that can like I was making out with Madam Palm and her Five Sisters but I only achieved 'FUCK OFF R..' before a closely located torch beam was switched on and the words: 'Stand still; RMP!' were shouted in my ear.

In true boundlessly energised, British squaddie style I threw my almost-empty can in the direction of the blinding torch light and took off down the road.

Then I heard three words that really, really confused me.

'Go, Dog, Go!'

What the fuck does that mean?

I found out seconds later when I heard a growl, smelt the unmistakable aroma of Pedigree Chum, and felt sharp canine teeth sink into my forearm.

The bastard RMP was an accompanied dog handler.

As soon as I hit the ground with a massive German Shepherd Dog attached to my arm I heard the word: 'Release!'

My hairy German attachment immediately released my arm and sat down like a good pooch.

It was then that I made what was probably my second biggest mistake of the night. I mistook my canine friend's obedience to be capitulation and took off again like Sir Jimmy Savile en route to a TK Maxx sale.

Before I'd gained three feet of distance on the four-legged resident of Alsace the fucker's teeth were embedded in my right hip and he wasn't for letting go this time. It was then that I made what was probably my biggest mistake of the night. I repeatedly punched the dog in his face.

I think that the feeling of a canine tooth, gradually gouging a groove into your pelvic bone, is enough to make any boundlessly energised British squaddie piss his pants. So that was me, nicked and banged up with wet keks and an injury that, now healed, is very apparent on my right hip. Admittedly the scar is kinda lost among other marks of battle, some that were, like the bee-sting mentioned above, etched in Richard Cronin's homeland.

Anyway, this isn't intended to black cat Richard (nor black dog), but might be regarded as proof that men that sleep in the altogether are superior to those that rest in British Home Stores PJs.

Laters.

Marcothon

2011-12-04T12:54:00.000Z

December. The month of festivities, parties, hangovers and indigestion.

And Marcothon.

For the uninitiated Debbie Martin-Consani created this event a few years ago which involves running for at least 25 minutes or three miles every day throughout December. At the time I thought it wasn't a great deal different than many of the other idiotic challenges people I know subject themselves to. Running from Glasgow to Inverness; running from Fort William to Milngavie....and then back again; running the West Highland Way in the depths of winter. Of course none of these things involve festivities, parties, hangovers or indigestion (OK....maybe a spot of indigestion. And vomiting. And pain) so they're not the usual, run-of-the-mill winter activities.

Debs advertised the Marcothon on Facebook and on her blog and the thing took off. I suppose it's because in the great scheme of things Marcothon is achievable by anyone with a basic level of fitness and it pokes a thumb in the eye of the determined couch potatoes who see December as being the month when 99% of the population realise that indolence and gluttony are the watchwords for life.

Last year Mrs Mac and I both took part in the Marcothon. If you don't know her Mrs Mac is a tall Scottish burd with huge feet who occasionally does a spot of running. When she faltered in completing her three miles or 25 minutes I reminded her of our friend Martin Antoninus Horatio Hooper who, at the time, was on operations in Afghanistan. I reminded her that Hooper didn't have the option of having a lie in allowing Terry Taliban the run of the country so neither should we.

So here we are again running every day in December. And when I say the Marcothon has taken off, it really has taken off. There are colleagues of mine doing it down here in London, most of whom have no idea why the event is called 'Marcothon.' Even the cast and crew of Batman Live are doing it. See here.

Today is Sunday 3rd and so far I've done a three miler at night, an eight mile hilly run on Box Hill, and a 25 minute trot with Mrs Mac.

Mason (dog) has accompanied me on all of these jaunts so even he is partaking of the 3 miles or 25 minutes. He bloody loves it.

Witness The Fatness

2011-11-26T21:44:00.001Z

I was listening to a talk radio programme today where it was revealed that British women are the fattest in Europe. Personally, where the female of the species is concerned, I don't mind a bit of flesh to hang on to. I went out with a very fit and muscular girl once and it quietly disturbed me that I knew what it was like to share a bed with another fella (minus the hairy back and large hands.....that's a story about a German woman for another time). But that's not to say that I have a penchant for those adult market, female performers labelled as BBW. Golly, no!

Then I got to thinking about an excellent blog post about lard-buckets called Fat is the New Fit that I was directed to by the author of The Path Less Travelled. Check it out here. It fits in nicely with the revelation about muffin-topped, pie-eating Brit burds.

All of this talk of obesity had me dismayed and scuttling off to the gym like Vanessa Feltz on her way to an end of season sale at Gregs. I got there and was further dismayed when I saw the state of the place. David Bastard Lloyd charges me seventy quid a month and the racquet obsessed twat can't even tidy his fucking gym up!

There were barbell weights and dumbells littering the floor and bits of old tissue whose former owners had insufficient brain-matter to recall the final two stanza of the government's 'Catch it, Bin it, Kill it' campaign.

So I indulged my OCD and set about putting all the weights away. I don't wear a basebell cap in the gym, I don't wear a stupid fucking shirt emblazoned with 'don't get big get massive' and I don't leave my weights lying about for other people to put away.

As I imagined a slowly moving snake of gym attendees clad in baseball caps and stupid fucking shirts, slowly trudging their way to a firing squad, it occurred to me that not a single one of these people were fat.

It was then that I realised that there are qualities among the obese that should, nay MUST, be championed. I've compiled a list and I invite you, should you so wish, to add to it. Here goes:

1. Fat people rarely leave their weights lying about in a gym. Admittedly this is because they're at home lying on a sofa watching Jezza Kyle.

2. Fat people don't wear baseball caps and stupid fucking shirts in a gym. For the reason why this is so I refer you to point 1 above.

3. Fat people rarely win prizes in beauty competitions, so for the rest of us that leaves more burds available (or fellas of course....although women seem strangely drawn to fat men that also have the attribute 'rich').

4. Fat people almost always finish behind us in a race; so for me it matters not that I'm about as athletic as Stephen Hawking after a night on the piss, I'll always beat a fat lad.

5. Fat people prove that it's OK to eat burgers, fries and kebabs.............hang on.........I know what you're thinking...........stay with me on this one. They prove it's OK because, to a person, their fatness is the result of a glandular problem. It's fuck all to do with an over indulgence in fatty and sugar laden shit.

So there you have it. We need to champion those women that can't see their feet and those men whose penis to stomach size ratio suggests they own a clitoris.

Witness the fitness.

Christ in Richmond Park

2011-11-24T22:15:00.003Z

Check out my bad self! I'm gonna start off this post by wittering on about running.

I occassionally run in the Royal Park that is situated in South London. The one with the roaming herds of red and fallow deer. My running in said park has yet to include Mason (dog) but having experienced the Staffordshire Bull Terrier's penchant for the close investigation of squirrels, sheep and horses I doubt I'll ever run with him in Richmond Park off the lead.

The reason for my refusal to do so is demonstrated by this video, taken in Richmond Park, that has become a viral internet hit.

The video clearly shows Fenton (dog) closely investigating a herd of red deer while his owner dismisses any concern for clear thinking and self restraint and resorts to the public calling of Jesus Christ to bring Fenton (dog) under control.

This is definitive proof that either:

(a) God does not exist.

(b) Red deer made it aboard the Ark under a false passport.

Personally, Fenton (dog) owner's behaviour made me laugh my cock off. Thankfully, when the laughter began to subside I discovered the following spoofs that confirm to me that regardless of the existence of Christ, humour resides in the souls of fellow internet users and for that we should thank The Lord.

November. More Than an Excuse for Facial Hair

2011-11-21T23:49:00.001Z

A couple of years ago I tried to complete the Nanowrimo challenge. I failed miserably.

I briefly examined the reason behind my failiure, not for too long, it has to be said, as other failures occur and I end up with a backlog which I try to work my way through and end up failing at other things as a result. Failure is a self-perpetuating cycle of failure. Fact.

I contented myself with the idea that the Nanowrimo dudes decided upon November as the month for the challenge and that was the reason behind my epic fail. It isn't my fault that the Allied and Central Powers decided to call a halt to the unmitigated slaughter in November 1918; that the Tank Corps found shortlived victory at Cambrai in November 1917; that we remember the fallen of the two world wars and subsequent campaigns in that month; and that those anniversaries require my attendance at commemorative events that traditionally result in an over indulgence in alcoholic beverage.

So here I am, on the 21st November, having put myself about in front of various commemorative structures, drunk a trailer load of booze, and spent enough money to make the Greek economy a blueprint for fiscal excellence.

I'm always happy to have arrived at this place and look forward to inhabiting a body brought back from the brink of self destruction and to taking a break from quietly buying a drink that will never be drunk by absent friends. Your beer is on the bar in the Barley Mow, Graham.

Onward and upward.

To say I'm on the wagon and in the gym for the forseeable future is a lie, actually. It's a lie because my partner in the Champions Mentor boxing programme, Vince is the winner of a 2011 Wandsworth Civic Award. This award will be made tomorrow night at a three course, slap up meal with wine at the Town Hall. It would be rude not to.

Vince doesn't know he's won this award yet (one which I nominated him for) and neither does he read this blog, so I feel safe in making this public proclamation. Vince doesn't drink a hell of a lot so luckily my Borough Commander, Nigel and I will be there to make up for his lack of thirst. Like me, Nigel gets particularly thirsty at such events.

Anyway, guys and gals, here's a few pics from this weekend, care of Mrs Lee Maclean, and a quick rendition of the regimental march 'My Boy Willie.'

We will remember them.

Laters.

My Way

2011-11-11T22:23:00.002Z

I try to make conversation of things other than running. It's my contention that to read about it or hear about it is enough to send you off at a rapid rate of knots with a rope for a neck-tie. But I chatted with someone today who opined that many of our successful sports people find their success as a result of seeking atonement for injustices suffered in childhood.

Personally I think that's bollocks, although if one reads of the recent departed Smokin' Joe Frazier's childhood I'm willing to be challenged on that. I guess this is my opportunity to bid farewell to a man that would have stomped on the heavyweight division in any other era but was unfortunate enough (or fortunate if viewed from another angle) to share the ring with heavyweight luminaries such as Muhammad Ali and George Foreman.

Message to Joe: You were always my preferred combatant in the Ali v Frazier rubber competition. Not because you were an Uncle Sam; simply because I felt a definite connection to your march forward throwing hooks style of fighting, and indeed knew no other way to fight. If your doggedness and aggression were enough to experience victory in your final battle we'd have a cure for cancer. Sleep well Joe.

Anyway, back to this idiotic idea of childhood suffering resulting in sporting excellence nonsense. If this were true Jez Bragg would be a grit-eating muther. And it would be my grit the Blacks poster boy would be eating.

Here's why:

I've heard many people argue that the school they attended as a child was a battleground like no other. I hear this and chuckle to myself. That's because they didn't attended the Beaufoy School for Boys in Lambeth where I was taught between the years 1979 and 1984 (please don't assume I was actually present for all of my required attendance). On my first day at Beaufoy I witnessed a PE teacher kick a knife out of a pupil's hand before dropping him to the ground. Back in those days it was considered appropriate to hit the offender on the arse with a running shoe and throw the weapon in the bin.

But the in-yer-face physicality of the PE teacher wasn't just confined to the gym. I remember my drama teacher, Mr Dawson using our first drama lesson to introduce us to 'anticipation.' This involved arranging the classroom chairs in a big circle with the students kneeling on, and facing backward over said chairs. We were instructed to kneel there with our eyes clamped shut while Mr Dawson made his way around the group with a cane.

When you heard the cane cutting through the air you truly understood anticipation. You learned about pain and relief too. Your involvement in either of those experiences depended upon whether you heard the squeal and crash of a fellow pupil or felt the sting across your own arse and tumbled forward to crush your fingers as the back of the chair hit the ground.

It was as a child that I realised corporal punishment in school doesn't work. We had teachers hitting pupils for fun; when the teachers chastened their charges for something worthwhile the boys of Beaufoy wore the cane marks on their hands like a badge of honour.

To be honest none of this really concerned me. I'd grown up playing 'fighting in the dark' with my brothers, the rules of which were simply that you close the bedroom curtains and from a standing start against an opposing wall, run windmilling into the middle of the room. The winner was the last man standing. I was pretty good at that (oldest brother!).

The thing that really cut me up, and one that I realise I'm opening myself up to again for, was inspired by my drama teacher's rapier wit. You see old Mr Dawson had the ability to make a scything anagram of your name and with mine he changed Waterman to 'Wetwoman.'

So I endured years of being taunted with this sobriquet until I'd hit enough of my fellow pupils to convince them otherwise.

Judging by the argument above I should have been the Light-Welterweight champion of the world. I'm not.

Neither am I a remarkable runner so I can only conclude that:

1. The theory driving this blog post is utter nonsense.
2. My formative years weren't as colourful as I'd thought.
3. I can't sing as well as Smokin' Joe.

Laters.

London Bound Astronaut

2011-11-08T18:49:00.008Z

For anyone that hasn't yet realised it, a requirement of this blogging lark is to stumble through life experiencing the things that affect us all andthen turn them into something that might be considered interesting for the online delectation of others.

Anything else, like logging your running hours, miles and calories burned is exactly that- a log (I was being polite there, for 'log' read 'big, fat, steamy shit').

So here I sit on a Virgin Pendolino having left the Land of Jock where I ran not a step and burned few calories but consumed many. My sole encounter with ultra running involved meeting the uber-cool ultra supremo, Debbie Martin-Consani on the Glasgow Central station concourse and having a right good blether with her.

Have I gripped you yet? Of course not. The Subversive Runner is sitting on a train with a Staffordshire Bull Terrier for company having been afforded five minutes of Mrs Martin Consani's time, what's so interesting about that?

Not a lot.

But you'll agree that we meet individuals in life who make us shake our heads (God knows I'm surrounded by people, all day long, that shake their heads) and maybe make half-decent blogging material.

So I boarded the train to London and went about locating my booked seat which turned out to be one of those side by side ones rather than the preferable table seats. A woman located her seat about the same time as me and seemed slightly disappointed that she was to spend the next four and a half hours in the company of a Staffordshire Bull Terrier.....of course the tattooed South Londoner that accompanied said pooch was nothing short of an absolute joy.

A delicate and very professionally delivered suggestion by the female guard that the tattooed South Londoner and Staffordshire Bull Terrier relocate to the free wheelchair seats in coach 'C' was met with appreciation from all involved.

So there we were, me and Mason (dog) plotted up on the double seats designed for wheelchair users, with room to stretch our legs, an ability to utilise the electricity access point, and just chill out.

Then she gets on. The blog material. She's a young attractive woman bedecked head to toe in expensive designer garb. She's a recent mum and has her first born with her who's safely encased in one of those buggies that shouldn't cross minimal weight-bearing bridges and would probably withstand a Taliban IED.

She looks at me and I look at her. I'm not sure if she speaks because Bob Dylan is singing 'Idiot Wind' to me through my headphones so I motion to the empty seat next to me.

It quickly becomes obvious that it's both seats she wants. The Maserati pushchair ain't for dismantling and in any case it's so loaded down with blankets, bottles and bags that she's gonna have to conduct a boot sale to get rid of the stuff first.

My first response is that I'm a fully functioning, fit man so I'll move and give Ms Maserati both seats for her and Junior.

Then I think, hang on, she's chosen to travel with the bomb-proof buggy and failed to reserve a seat in First Class where there's more room, so fuck it, you and Junior can have the seat next to me and Me and Mason (dog) will crack on here.

Ms Maserati chooses the spare seat space for Junior's buggy, within which remains Junior, and sits in the seat opposite me.

She then spends almost thirty minutes mixing bottles of powdered milk, one of which is spilled over the laptop of the young fella sitting next to her, and getting out of her seat every fifteen seconds to check on Junior.

She's obviously concerned about being as far as seven feet and eight inches away from her first born but the thought of him/her sitting on her lap and crumpling her designer blouse is too awful to consider, so Junior remains in the buggy next to Yours Truly.

Then the unthinkable happens. Mason (dog) wakes up, stretches and his superior olfactory system detects a new arrival in our space. So Mason (dog) does what dogs do and has a sniff. Now don't get me wrong, he doesn't pounce on the pram like a deranged, rabid Hound of the Baskervilles; no, he puts his nose near the buggy and has a sniff.

Ms Maserati leaps into the air amid flying milk bottles and in a swirl of Dolce and Gabbana and Balenciaga she removes Junior, the buggy and all her shit and scuttles off to First Class wittering on about how wrong is it that such a wild cur might be allowed to use public transport.

I feel offended....never been called a wild cur before, but I carry on listening to Bob Dylan nonetheless and Mason (dog) and I stretch out again.

Then the track changes and Professor Green starts singing to me instead. Not my usual kind of tune but the Prof encourages me to put the laptop on and attempt to match his creative writing skills but all I can manage is to type this drivel, so check him out.

Rather good.

A Lesson for Alanis

2011-11-04T19:18:00.001Z

In a former blog post I discussed Alanis Morissette's flawed definition of irony. I stand by my argument that a no smoking sign on your cigarette break is nothing more than the implementation of the smoking ban and dying at ninety-eight, whether you've won the lottery or not, is simply reaching the end of your life at a pretty appropriate time.

You want irony, Alanis? Check this out you warbling, wide mouthed supposed former infatuation junkie.

In an impressive act of preparation, the like of which hasn't been seen since I wore a green uniform and dog-tags and travelled the world meeting interesting and stimulating people of an ancient culture....and killed them, I had everything in place for a journey north to a strange, far away land where men wear skirts and women have a hierarchical system based on the number of their remaining teeth (Ok, Ok...maybe there's a new reader that hasn't heard that one yet).

In an attempt to secure an affordable journey I had purchased a ticket on the 05:40 from Euston to Glasgow. The limitation being that I had to be on that train and no other. Getting to Euston at that time was to involve a 03:00 wake-up, a drive to Battersea, a night bus to Trafalgar Square, and another night bus to Euston.

Everything had to be prepared, any haring around packing bags prior to leaving the house, as is the norm, might result in a tattooed South Londoner and a Staffordshire Bull Terrier standing on a platform watching a Virgin Pendolino disappear into the distance.

Bags packed, 1.25l Bad Boy fuelled, alarm set, bed time and the tattooed South Londoner is determined to get some shut eye before a ridiculously early start. On the pillow, next to the tattooed South Londoner is a mobile phone, the device which is to ensure the journey to Euston occurs according to the time-frame mentioned above.

Sometime during the night, Mason (dog) decided to occupy his usual sleeping position spread out on the bed.

At 06:15 the tattooed South Londoner wakes up and retrieves the mobile phone from beneath the Staffordshire Bull Terrier to find the thing switched off. The realisation that the Virgin Pendolino left the platform over thirty minutes ago and the weekend is fucked hits him and he considers returning Mason (dog) to his former home in Battersea.

Mason (dog) can't do tricks. He can't play dead, he can't roll over on command and he can't say 'sausages'......but he can switch a fuckin' mobile off.

Now, Alanis can use my tale above for her next song about irony if she likes. It'll match her original because it's a story of sadness, not irony.

Here's the irony: I had tickets to see the Airborne Toxic Event at the Shepherds Bush Empire. Due to my decision to take part in the Glen Ogle 33 ultra marathon I would be 450 miles away from Shepherds Bush when the band took to the stage so got tickets for their Glasgow gig instead.

When I missed the train it wasn't just my attendance at the Glen Ogle 33 that disappeared into the ether.....it was the Airborne Toxic Event too.

'At least you've got the London tickets,' I was told today, just as my mobile phone beeped to tell me a text message had arrived.

It read: 'Thanks for the free Airborne tickets you gave me, Dave can't wait to see them at Shepherds Bush.'

That's irony, Alanis: the recipient of your largesse seeing your favourite band live while you're sat at home listening to them on a CD.

A Small Car Enters the WHW Race

2011-11-03T15:29:00.000Z

This summer the author of The Beirut Taxi wrote about temptation. This concerned Richard's battling with the temptation to end a punishing training run early. I've met temptation in that guise many times myself.

In fact I've never been one for avoiding temptation, while wearing running shoes or any other footwear. If it were me in the desert rather than Jesus, I'd have skipped off down the track with the Devil to partake in bastard hot curry, rice and chips to spend the rest of eternity stoking the fires of hell (like music, it's my contention that the Devil has all the best food). Yep, if it had been me there would have been no need for thirty nine of the scheduled forty days and nights and there would be no Christianity, no understanding of moral resistance and no bland-as-shit chicken korma.

My weak willed resistance to temptation was proven in February when I visited Battersea Dogs and Cats Home. My intention was to exploit the voluntary entry fee and the undoubted attraction of the doe-eyed homeless mutts that would give my youngest daughter an enjoyable but cheap day out. It was absolutely not to give one of those homeless mutts a home.

At the end of that day I left Battersea Dogs and Cats Home the owner of a Staffordshire Bull Terrier who occupies more than half of my bed and has a diet that's significantly healthier than mine.

I truly am a spiritual wimp.

Anyway, I've decided that the time has come to face the Devil and smite him. For the past six years I have entered and started the West Highland Way Race, it became a kind of raison d'etre. Six years of training (well, planning to....and then my old friend temptation encouraged me to do something far more enjoyable. Like eat kebabs and drink wine), six years of planning, and six years of playing the race-with-no-training lottery.

The entries are now open for what would be my seventh race and the temptation is strong.

But I must fight the urge to enter and demonstrate some willpower. My reasoning here is not personal as it concerns the well being of others. You see my old mucker Martin Antoninus Horatio Hooper has entered and so has David Ross from Strathaven.

In a requitable act of selfless duty I am sworn to perform the role of back-up crew to two men that did the same for me in years gone by. To give in to temptation would be to place crewing responsibilities on others and leave Martin and David a person short.

That's the official line, anyway.

The unofficial line is that between them Martin and David weigh the same as a small car. With the two of them running together I fear for any poorly constructed building in the near vicinity for the ground is sure to shake and tremor.

Neither man is built for distance running; both are about as incongruous on the start line of an ultra as Ann Widdecombe in a lap dancing club. This is where my skill and experience come in. I know the West Highland Way like the back of my hand and am a trained search and rescue technician.

Ok, so if one or both collapse while running it's unlikely that their considerable bulk will be covered by a windfall of leaves (a mixer-truck delivery of cement might just do it) but if they do go down I'll be able to find them. Admittedly the detail of my strategy for extracting them to civilisation has yet to be worked out but I'm working on the idea of a Chinook with up-rated winch.

The issue of temptation is one that effects not just myself in this sordid tale of ambition and ability. Both Martin and David will have to fight off the ever-present temptation of pies.

Now Then, Now Then...

2011-10-29T18:23:00.002+01:00

I learned today of the death of a truly important national asset. A man who's entertained and amused the populace without ever really intending to. A man whose dress sense might be likened to that of a drunken chimpanzee running naked through TK-Max covered in glue.

Fear not, Dear Reader, the Duke of Edinburgh is still alive. I'm talking of the irreplaceable Sir Jimmy Savile.

If I had a pound sterling for every letter I wrote to Jim'll Fix It I'd be....err....a bit better of than I am now (by about six quid), but my point is that Sir Jim did all the things mentioned in my first paragraph and became a fixture in the lives of those of us that are now in the middle aged bracket.
Say whatever you like about the man but he was a character.

I'm reminded of an evening in the month of June, sometime in the late nineties (I can't remember the exact year.) I was walking the West Highland Way with two pals and had arrived at the Kingshouse Hotel. We pitched out tents in the field outside and headed into the bar for a beer and some scoff. We plotted ourselves up in the scummy 'walkers bar' and got properly on it.

As the night wore on and the beer flowed we heard a mention that Sir Jim was in the main bar. This came as no surprise to uis because we'd seen the jingly, jangly, comb-overed, kiddy botherer on Louis Theroux and knew he was a regular in the Kingshouse Hotel due to having a gaff down the road (and ownership of a mountain if he was to be believed).
So we kicked a bit of the mud off our boots and headed through into the main bar to see if Jim could fix it.

As we walked through the door we saw this little fella at the bar in a black, shiny shell suit. He had the obligatory jingle, jangle jewellery and shock of dyed blonde hair. He was accompanied by about half a dozen hangers on who laughed at his jokes and bought him lemonade.

It really was Sir Jim.

'Alright, Jimmy,' my mate said.

'Hello young man,' said the Fix It man.

And so began an hour of us taking the piss out of a man that the Queen had seen fit upon which to bestow a Knighthood.

I'm sorry.

I'm also sorry that after Jim left the bar we carried on drinking and remembered from Louis Theroux's programme that he routinely slept outside the establishment in his camper van.

I'm even more sorry that we located said camper van in the car park and stood either side of it, rocking it and shouting 'Now then, now then...jingle jangle..'

I'll never get the opportunity to apologise to Sir Jimin person so I'm hoping this blogged apology might suffice.

I guess it's close but it's no cigar.

Laters.

Love, Life, Hate and Murder

2011-10-25T21:17:00.000+01:00

So I started this blogging nonsense some three years ago. It was initially intended as a foil to those that took their blogging, and their running, far too seriously. Me and my old mucker Jon Vann would run along and laugh at how, if we kept a blog, we'd log our beer consumption as opposed to our mileage and record our hangovers rather than our minor injuries.
Then my blog became a reality.

After what I considered a fair start and a developing blog habit that amounted to a post every other day, I had my legs taken from under me by Big Brother. After a close shave where a change in profession became a clear and present danger my blog posts were subsequently deleted and I am now obliged to consider the ramifications of anything I say online.

This has resulted in a dearth of blog posts but an increased threat from the Romania based King of Essex in exile, Mike Mason. Mike has decided that an appropriate sentence for my lack of blogging is to drive an electric power drill through my hip bone.

As far as I'm aware this is an innovative gangland punishment and one Mike devised while attaching the bride and groom statuette to his daughter's wedding cake. You see it involved a screwdriver and a fixing through the hip area of his son-in-law's plastic representation and bingo! Mike came up with a new and untested means of persuading anyone on his radar that Masonic Law is one that is never tested.

As far as I'm aware Mike's son-in-law is a loyal and doting husband which is proven by the fact that he walks without the need for crutches. And as I'm now attached to my computer and logged on to the blogger website I'm hoping to avoid a visit by a couple of black clad, steroid-fuelled lunatics with Essex accents and a Black and Decker.

Old Mike has a funny way of mixing life, love, hate and murder.

Anyway, onward and upward. The author of the wonderful blog The Beirut Taxi, recently brought to my attention the odd practise of Geocaching. After seeing what it was all about I realised that I have other friends that already engage in this activity. Martin Antoninus Horatio Hooper had a pretty adventurous go at it when he secreted his missus's tiny (for tiny read finger sized; the thing cost a fortune) engagement ring on the biggest mountain in England.

And of course a book dedicated to the late, great Dario Melaragni rests in a secret place on the West Highland Way, planted there by our leader, Murdo The Magnificent.

If you don't know what geocaching is all about, hear this: There are nerdy treasure hunters all over the country that spend their time creating caches of junk to be hid in remote places of natural beauty. Personally I think this is simply the thinking man's means of getting past the littering laws and emptying the kitchen drawer of shit. And having now engaged in a wee bit of geocaching myself, I have to say that it goes against the grain to retrieve plastic lunch boxes full of crap from tree stumps and not throw them in the nearest bin.

But it's got my daughter out the door and up to five-mile walks and Mason (dog) is getting more exercise than Myleene Klass on her wedding night. It's also got Yours Truly out the door and doing a bit of running in preparation for the Glen Ogle 33 Ultramarathon.

That, Dear Reader, is enough about running.

On to the food of love....music.

Occasionally you happen upon a new band and they go right ahead and change your life. The Airborne Toxic Event did that. Well, I was tripping about on Youtube the other day and came across a band whose most recent album is described as 'fourteen songs of love, life, hate and murder.' They are brilliant.

I'm not sure Mike Mason is as yet a devotee but I'm sure the music could be the soundtrack to that snowy night in Rettendon back in 1995.

Ladies and Gentlemen, have a listen to The Hillbilly Moon Explosion.

Laters.

Glen Ogle 33

2011-10-01T20:03:00.002+01:00

I'm not really sure what happened to me. I had managed around thirty-plus miles of the River Ayr Way Race before my knee started to sing, my ankle throbbed and my legs complained at being taken the furthest distance since June (actually they began to complain at mile six when they passed the June threshold, but I told them to shut the fuck up. By mile thirty they stopped listening).

As I pushed on to Dam Park and the finish my mantra changed from:

'Each step a little nearer,'

to:

'Never again; and if I waiver please drive an electric drill fitted with a large masonary bit through both of my kneecaps.'

I decided that ultramarathon running clearly wasn't for me. In fact running should be something to be experienced only after attracting the unwanted attention of a person in the uniform of the Metropolitan Police Service.

But the sweet taste of success was intoxicating enough to consider an entry in the Glen Ogle 33 a day or so later. I think it's kinda like childbirth; after the passage of time the pain is forgotten as the sight, smell and texture of baby shit assaults one's senses to anaesthesia (that's the second time I've used that word in a week). Although finishing an ultra obviously hurts more than shelling a rug rat.

Supplement the taste of success with a few pints of Arthur Guinness's Black Gold and I'm on a GO33 application like a nun in a cucumber field.

However, after dissing the west coast based former doctor, Tim Downie in my earlier blog post, I've been challenged to a first-over-the-line-gets-a-pic-of-the-other-kissing-his-arse competition.

I don't like the taste of hairy, sweaty bum cheeks, and I'm kinda guessing that Tim's not an attendee at a back, sack and crack clinic; so I'd better get my sorry arse out the door and do some training.

On the face of it Tim should put me to bed without too much bother. His times in every race except the most recent RAW are infinitely more superior to my own, and I suspect he was just out for a bimble in last week's race. But what the fuck, I'll give it a go.

I was talking to someone pretty close to the George Groves camp this week and was told the plan for Groves' success against James DeGale was to simply to mirror everything DeGale did in the ring.

I'm wondering if the same thing might work against Tim in November.

Hmmm.........

I'm not sure I can effect an indistinguishable accent and adopt a slightly camp running style.

Laters.

The River Ayr Way Race: Swimming With Sharks

2011-09-28T16:58:00.000+01:00

The River Ayr Way Race (Challenge). It's a reported 41 mile source to sea route that follows the course of the River Ayr from Glenbuck to its terminus in the North Atlantic (now shortened to bring the particpants' misery to an end at the Dam Park stadium in Ayr).

I've run this race every year since its inception and despite my shortcomings in 2011 decided to partake again in this, my Annus horribilis.

For me, like any race that takes place in the land of the skirt wearing man, the journey begins at a public transport hub in or near London. Due to Mr O'Leary's distaste for Staffordshire Bull Terriers aboard his Ryanair freedom birds I'm pretty much limited to the train; so it was the 12:30 from Euston to Glasgow for me and Mason (dog).

Aaaah....the train. Let the train take the strain. I may have become used to taking this idea to the extreme. Boots off, Ipod on, glass of vino collapso poured and lose oneself in a psychologically contorting world of music and alcohol.

The key to this particular journey is the timing. You see the 12:30 requires its passengers to change trains at Preston in order to reach the journey's end in Glasgow. Likewise my innate ability to time the quaffing of the wine to coincide with the journey's completion kicks in to ensure the final sip is taken as the train arrives in Preston.

A twenty minute connection provides the adventurous traveller with the opportunity to seek out and purchase a second bottle of wine to be enjoyed on the Preston to Glasgow section of the journey.

And so Glasgow City sees the arrival of a Londoner with lips so purple he resembles The Joker out of Batman and legs so wobbly he could give Shakin' Stevens a run for his money. This is, of course, standard fayre for the Subversive Runner who has a history of mixing hangover and race. But the existence of a drunken Londoner in Glasgow is like an alternative reality of the drunken Glaswegian complete with purple can and shouting at the traffic in England's capital city.

Anyway, race day and sobriety arrive and Richard Cronin, the author of the excellent blog, The Beirut Taxi, who is in town from Ireland to undertake his first ultramarathon, is raring to go on the start line having indulged in nothing more intoxicating than Strathaven tap water. His attempt to hogtie the Subversive Runner with spiced beef failed miserably as historically this particular Irish delicacy is probably the forerunner of the kebab- a normal pre-race meal for SR.

Personally I toyed with the idea of not starting the race: I haven't trained (nothing new there); I've suffered major emotional and mental kickings this year; I've been gorging on spiced beef all night. But what the heck, I'll have a go anyway.

I know I've got fifteen decent miles in me and after that I know I'll start to suffer a little. I should be able to get over that hurdle to grind out a marathon after which I'll just hang on as my body slowly begins to fall to pieces.

And so I begin the race in my normal way: no plan, just run comfortably and await the pain. I know the route but the recent wet weather has transformed the going under foot to little more than a bog and the reduced income of the local authority has allowed the nettles to grow to armpit height.

To begin with I try to dodge around the nettles with my hands above my head. I feel and look like John Inman in Are You being Served so before I start developing an appreciation of Kylie Monogue and Cristiano Ronaldo decide to man up and allow the nettles to sting me to anesthesia.

As I run I know that Richard is in front of me and I'll never catch him. In my wake are Rachel Stevenson, Tim Downie and Big David Ross. I sense their belief that the under trained wine appreciator is easily catchable and will be eaten up like a Krispy Kreme doughnut left alone with Vanessa Feltz.

This keeps me moving forward and after 8 hours and sixteen minutes the Subversive Runner arrives at Dam Park (do you get the idea that I'm not going to bore you off your tits with running shit?).

Shortly after my arrival Rachel runs in with Brian Kennedy. Shortly after that Tim arrives. Tim is astounded that he's been beaten by an idiotic Londoner and staggers about dazed, and in a strange accent reminiscent of someone from the land south of Hadrian's Wall, repeats:

'He beat me....he beat me....he beat me...'

To be fair Tim hadn't trained either. But there's something I failed to explain the Running Fool at the time that I will detail here.

Racing against an under trained idiot from London is like avoiding a shark attack.

If the shark has been caught and is flapping about on the land it's easy to avoid his razor sharp teeth. You just stand a foot or so away and laugh in his face.

The grounded shark is me in an under trained condition and his tormentor is a fit and race-ready Tim.

However, if the shark is in his home environment and free to manoeuvre and the person that tormented him on land is now attempting avoidance he will be caught, eviscerated, disemboweled and beheaded in a frenzy of blood and foam.

The shark is me in and under trained condition and his tormentor is Tim in similar shape.

The lesson of this tale, Tim is that if you're gonna swim with the sharks make sure you're inside one of those metal cage thingies.

Laters.

Goodbye Horses

2011-08-27T16:02:00.001+01:00

I've never been a fan of horses.

Actually, I ought to qualify that statement. I've got nothing against the beasts themselves, they look pretty majestic without a saddle, stirrups and all that other horsey paraphernalia. It's the people that ride horses that get my goat.

I suppose if I were to examine my dislike of horsey people I'd probably remember when I was a boy and was bitten by a mangy old thing that wasn't long for the glue factory. His owner, some circus numpty, simply laughed. And I suppose the fact that ex-wife/partner (no.1) was a lover of horses and told me the following might have alienated me slightly:

'I doubt we'll remain together because my love of horses will outlive and outshine what I feel for you.'

Sure enough, ex-wife/partner (no.1)'s love for horses is as strong today as it was back then (1983) and Yours Truly is nothing but a memory and a name on a filed away Decree Absolute.

So when I met Jon Vann today for an eight mile run on Epsom Downs the likelihood of meeting at least one beast and man in unison was as sure as the Pope saying his prayers.

Actually, an experience of my meeting horse riders while out running was detailed within this blog. That's now lost like tears in rain since I deleted everything after being taken to task for my online mutterings. But it involved an over confidence in map reading and being geographically confused while being borne down upon by half a dozen race horses. In that instance a promise of the rapid and close quarter delivery of a left hook/right hook combination, to rider and horse alike, was enough to deter the mounted zealots from a continued confrontation.

Sure enough, as Jon and I ran toward Langley Vale, we caught up with four or five race horses, clip-clopping along the road, with riders on their backs clad in colourful riding garb. The fact that we caught up with them ought to provide a clue as to their speed.

I felt anger and despair well up inside me. Why, when you're onboard an animal that's bred and trained to move quicker than a German eyeing the remaining sunbed, would you travel at a snail's pace?

As we approached the group, which as you might imagine was followed by a line of cars that snaked up the hill and into the distance; one of the horses began to leap about in fright.

'Do you mind?' asked the rider, as his mount pirouetted around like an organic fairground ride. 'The horse is young and scares easily. If you wait there til we're gone. Thanks.'

In the past I might have told him where to put his request and continued running. Because that's what we were doing....running. Not standing around getting cold and looking at the disappearing sight of a knob end on a horse. But just lately I've been working hard at being nice. After all, it's nice to be nice. So I stopped and waited.

Now Jon's not a guy that enjoys conflict. He witnessed my previous meeting with the mounted zealots and still comments on it to this day. But just lately I've noticed a shortening of his fuse, a less liberal approach to fools and idiots.

'You shouldn't be on the road with it if you can't control it,' said Jon.

I don't think the rider heard as his charge leaped about like a loony as the group disappeared up the hill.

'I though I might have seen you in action, there,' Jon remarked. 'Getting soft in your old age? Poof.'

'It's nice to be nice, Jon,' I replied. 'They're gone now, let's crack on.'

And crack on we did. Jon must have been training pretty hard recently because I couldn't keep hold of him. He was way in front of me as we crossed the race course and made our way off-road toward Headley.

As I rounded a corner I saw another horse approaching being ridden by a young fella in a riding smock reminiscent of a Dennis the Menace jumper. I got closer and slowed down so as not to scare the beast. In my new found guise as Mr Nice Guy I even said 'good morning' to Dennis the Menace.

As I began to speed up I heard it. It was a muttered comment but the wind was from behind and it carried the word from the rider's mouth to my ear.

'Wanker.'

I turned around but Dennis had quickened the horse's speed to a canter and was disappearing from view. I fumed and ran on, attempting to close the distance between Jon and I. When I eventually caught him he said:

'I suppose you stopped for that horse as well.'

'I don't stop for horses anymore, mate. The people that ride them are all twats and I hope they spend all eternity in a fiery hell turning knackered old donkeys into glue.'

'That's more like it,' said Jon. 'Welcome back, mate.'

The Return of Vann the Man

2011-08-26T22:57:00.001+01:00

You're not gonna believe this but I'm about to mention the 'R' word.

Yes......running!

I was at the gym today and after having beasted myself to within an inch of my life (when I tell you this I have to say that I wasn't actually near death; but vomiting in one's own mouth while performing 'snake press ups' comes pretty close to the extreme end of physical exertion, right?) I got a text from my old pal and West Highland Way Race veteran, Jon Vann, which said:

'I'm back. Run tomorrow?'

Now when considered in a modern, electronically enabled communicative way, Jon might be regarded something of a Luddite. He doesn't do email; he thinks Facebook is an intellectual version of the 'pearl necklace'; and to him Tweeting is what the birds in his garden do just before he blats them with an air rifle for daring to approach his newly laid grass seed.

Despite being in receipt of a text that probably took Jon over twenty minutes to create, I replied quickly:

'Cool, name the time.'

After I showered, applied moisturiser, dressed and brushed my hair (Hair? ha, ha, ha....I'll get there before you), I received a reply:

'9'

Jon and I need not specify a meeting place, as we always meet outside the Leg of Mutton and Cauliflower public house. Now, I always told people that this pub had the longest name for a hostelry in Britain. However, I recently discovered that I was talking bollocks because I came across the fantastically entitled 'The Old Thirteenth Cheshire Astley Volunteer Rifleman Corps Inn.'

Long pub names matter not because The Leg of Mutton and Cauliflower is known locally as 'The Leg' and The Old Thirteenth Cheshire Astley Volunteer Rifleman Corps Inn is known in them parts as 'The Pub.'

But even expecting Jon to type 'The Leg' may have impacted negatively on the available time to make such a rendezvous on Saturday morning so I expected and received no reply.

This means that tomorrow I will be outside the Leg at 09:00 to meet Vann the Man and might even end up with a bloggable running tale. Whether I am or not I fully expect that every time that Jon and I are overtaken by a fitter and stronger runner, Jon will utter the words:

'Twat. I bet he can't drink as much beer as me.'

Laters

2011-08-24T00:06:00.001+01:00

I once heard of a guy who had never bought a record in his life (I suppose that ought to be the overarching term of 'form of recorded performance' now given the availability of CD/MP3 etc).

Well, for me I'm the opposite. I've spent my life buying plastic, CD and MP3 and if I actually had everything I 'd ever purchased I'd have a fucking big collection. I suppose I should be happy that half of my collection was stolen some years ago (the thief is now dead. Karma? I wouldn't wish that on him plus whoever inherited his record collection now owns my original 45 of Gene Vincent's Race With The Devil).

But, in essence, I guess I'm looking for an easy blog post that requires little work because I'm tired and beaten now. So here goes, in a YouTube thankyouesque kind of way:

How I saw myself as a lad:

A few years later and a whole lot older I appreciated the idea of 'live to fight another day' so I guess things were more like this:

I guess you might have picked up on the fact that both of these songs are based on the theme of leaving.

So tonight, as I prepare to leave, I give you this. I couldn't find a song called 'Laters' so I say thank you to the late but magnificent Mary Travers.

Obliterating

2011-08-18T00:41:00.002+01:00

The thing about John Kynaston's blog roll is that shit happens to you so you have a drink. Then fortified by strong wine you write what you believe is an appropriate blogpost that conveys your pain. This piece of alcohol affected artistry then appears at the top of John's blogroll for all to read.

In the morning you decide your efforts of the previous evening were entirely self serving and indulgent so you scurry over to your computer, having woken up the best dressed man in bed, and delete your embarrassing blogpost with a contented sigh. How many people could have read it during the hours of darkness, you wonder? (I applied the same argument to a comment I made recently about a politician and got eight weeks in the cooler for my troubles).

Then you get phone calls and texts all day long enquiring about the likelihood of suicide because the fucking thing is still at the top of John's blogroll.

For those of you that are confused by the motivation behind said (now deleted) blogpost, I'm afraid I cannot say more due to my refusal to indulge myself again. But mainly I'll say no more because I'm not drunk.

Regardless of this little piece of shit, there are other little pieces of shit that may be conveyed by the medium of blog.

Take, for instance, Monday's session at the Battersea Caius Boxing Club where I coach the young, disaffected hoodies of SW11 in the art of pugilism. The aim is to create more socially aware and responsible individuals. Sometimes we produce socially aware and responsible individuals that can hit like a mule. It's the socially unaware and irresponsible individuals that can hit like a mule that provide ammunition for the anti-boxing lobby.

Anyway, it was as I was teaching one of these lads the art of defending oneself to a hook that I got dealt the little piece of shit that is conveyable by the medium of blog.

'You throw a hook and I'll place my gloved hand over the side of my face to block your hook. All the while ensuring my elbow and upper arm provide protection to my body,' I instructed. Then placed my right hand over my face and said 'Go on then.'

The little angel couldn't believe my offer. I stood there like an idiot with the right side of my head completely covered and he looked at me before smashing a right hook into the completely unguarded left side of my face.

BANG

'Thanks for that,' I said, as my eye began to swell.

Anyway, this particular individual is usually a good boy and understands fully the meaning behind the statement I made when he turned up at the club:

'This is a hard sport for hard people.'

I could do with a bit more smashing about at the moment so I've decided to take up my place in the Hell on the Humber Bridge race on Saturday night. I'm required to run back and forth over the Humber Bridge between the hours of 19:00 and 07:00.

At the end of that I may wish someone was smashing me in the face.

p.s If you haven't worked it out this blogpost is designed purely to obliterate my deleted one from the blogroll.

Laters.

Soy un Perdedor or The Child That Scoffs Kebab on the Sabbath Day is a Loser.

2011-08-14T19:12:00.001+01:00

Today is Sunday.

If you're of the religious bent you'll be at church (assuming you're Christian, of course) dressed in all your finery. God wouldn't be happy if you turned up at his house in shorts and flip flops.

If you're a traditional type of person that wasn't attracted to the 'shopping with violence' event of last weekend you'll be roasting a great big joint of beef and awaiting the arrival of your family.

If you're a runner you would have probably been up early and performed your weekly LSR (long, slow run).

If you're John Kynaston you would have done all three.

Well, beginning with the first of those Sunday events, I'm of the belief that the Most High dwelleth not in temples made with hands, so I gave Church a bit of a wide berth this morning. Instead I took Mason (dog) to the park.

Now while God may not dwell in man made temples I don't think he hangs around Ashtead Recreation ground either. If he does and he's responsible for the empty beer cans and used condoms he can bloody well get his sorry arse out of bed and clear his shit up (if you're reading this Big Fella, and being omnipresent I kinda guess you are, that was a joke by the way).

Regarding Sunday event number two on my list, I like to consider myself a traditional type of guy and there's nothing I like more than a slap-up Sunday dinner with all the trimmings. However, as a single father whose daughter has infinitely cooler things to occupy her time on a Sunday than dinner with her old man, I can't be arsed to cook for myself. What's left has a hierarchy of sadness that goes something like this:

Sad
A few weeks ago the absolute sadness of buying one of those microwaveable Sunday meals-for-one had me almost slitting my wrists. Then, in an act of out and out snobbery, and desperate for a Sunday dinner, I decided that a Marks & Spencer Sunday meal-for-one was quite acceptable. However, the act of eating it alone, on my lap, in front of the telly was full of such in-your-face sadness it may as well have come from Lidl.

Sadder
I tried going to the pub for Sunday dinner. Apart from the fact that this type of behaviour has friends labelling you an alcoholic for occasioning a licenced establishment during daylight hours, the quality of pub grub round these parts ain't that good. So while, on the face of it, 'eating out' might appear quite sophisticated, the 'ping' of the microwave oven from the pub kitchen and the fact that you're publicly eating alone makes this infinitely more sad than eating a radiated meal at home and in secret.

Saddest
Today I plundered the depths of saddoism to such a degree that I'm quite disgusted with myself. In fact, I'm so utterly disgusting that my estranged sister, whom I've heard nothing from for years, contacted me to slag me off. Yep, today I realised that microwave meals for one and being Billy No-Mates in the pub are one thing; but hitting the local kebab shop for your Sunday dinner is in a league of saddoism of its own.

I mean, the shop is open on a Sunday so you'd expect the proprietor to welcome the custom. But I'm sure after I said:

'Large chicken kebab, plenty chilli sauce and a can of Coke. Oh, and is there any chance you can arrange it on a plate clockface fashion with a dollop of horseradish sauce on the side? And put Songs of Praise on the telly?'

I caught him making a letter 'L' on his forehead and ringing my sister and saying:

'We've got that loser brother of yours in here asking for a kebab for his Sunday dinner! Ha, ha, ha!'

Anyway, after my kebab I headed off to the running club to complete Sunday event number three on my list. Now this club has a membership that are such a collection of motley individuals it's almost as alternative as my Sunday dinner.

No LSR for this lot. No Siree, it was an hour of hill sprints before they all scuttled off wittering on about roast pork and crackling.

If you thought you were about to get a descriptive rundown of the training session with split times and all that other bollocks, forget it. I've got indigestion.

Laters.

Anarchy in the UK

2011-08-10T16:33:00.002+01:00

It's a little bit difficult to write anything here without mentioning the events of the past forty-eight hours. I had planned to get all high and mighty and tell you that I'd returned to the running club after a three week layoff; a layoff that was brought about by nothing more than idleness and indolence; but I'd imagine you'd be looking into your computer screen and hissing:

'Bollocks to the running club! What about the riots?'

So while treading very carefully and avoiding falling foul of any extant policies on the use of social networking media, I offer you this:

It was Monday afternoon and in our own enclave of South West London we doubted any of the weekend's rioting and looting that had scarred other areas of the capital. After all, as I stated in a former post, Battersea has become something of an upmarket location in recent years. And when we saw groups of young, masked hoodies giving the riot-gear clad bobbies the run around outside the fire station it was more comedic than serious. A kind of Benny Hill romp in Burberry.

However, when the smoke grenades started being aimed at the fire station it became a bit more of a serious proposition. Then we heard tales of a local fire engine being targeted in Brixton and hoodies removing the axes from the lockers and using them as a means to gain entry to the crew inside. Apparently it was just the quick reaction and remarkable ability of the driver that got the crew and appliance out of a pretty sticky situation. It's not easy to perform a J-turn in a fire engine.

We pitied the oncoming watch as we changed over and headed home. One of our number didn't actually get there due to meeting a hostile band of natives just up the road who surrounded him on his motorcycle and proceeded to kick seven bells out of him. He's now recovering at home with an interestingly coloured torso and the word 'ADIDAS' temporarily imprinted on his face. Part of what occurred later that night is captured here on Youtube. The area was continually misrepresented by the press as 'Clapham.' It is in fact Clapham Junction......which is in Battersea.

Driving into work the following day was like entering some kind of war zone. The detritus of a hard night's looting was spread across the road that spanned the sealed off area of Clapham Junction. Broken glass was absolutely everywhere and the still burning party shop seen in the video above belched black smoke into the sky.

It wasn't long before we were out on the fire engine relieving the tired and dirty crews that had been fighting the fire during the night. They had done a good job considering the upper floors were inaccessible due to the staircases being burnt through. In fact, they had done such a good job that by 14:00 we had the fire fully out and the scene cool. My crew were filthy, hungry and exhausted and we began to wind the job up, all the while watched by a crowd of community minded locals who had arrived with brooms to help clear the mess up. At that stage they were held behind tape and a line of coppers but they waved their brooms indicating their burning desire to get to work (Note to self: If this type of community assistance continues I wonder how viable it will be to claim that my garden has been set upon by a gang of rioting, green-fingered hoodies?)

Just then I saw the blonde, bouffant head of a stout, suited man in the distance. He was surrounded by an entourage of hangers on and a woman I instantly recognised as Theresa May. And they were heading our way.

'Stand by, chaps,' I said. 'Boris is on his way. Look lively and make sure your chinstraps are done up.'

'Nah, it ain't Boris,' said one of my lads. 'He's on holiday.'

'He cut his hols short 'cos of the riots,' I explain.'He flew back this morning.'

As I affected my most professional stance, scanning the front elevation of the building for hot spots, I watched the Mayor's approach out of the corner of my eye.

Make sure my handshake is firm.

Make sure I speak clearly and don't swear.

Make sure I take complete responsibility for all the hard work the other crews did.

Boris was almost upon me, walking with purpose. I did a final check of my lads ensuring they weren't slacking or fucking about.

I was sure I could smell Boris's aftershave masking the fading tang of Factor 30 sun lotion.

I swivelled to meet the Mayor of London and held my hand out to greet him.

I'm sure I saw Theresa May make that hairy palmed gesture at me as Boris swept past us majestically, not even acknowledging our existence, intent on engaging with the group of volunteer cleaners, all waving their brooms like demented Mary Poppins.

'Right guys, pack up, we're going home,' I instruct my lads and we head off back to the station for a cheese roll and a round of mutual back-slapping.

So as I wind this blog post up we had a quiet night in London last night. The clue might be in the 16,000 pissed off coppers on the streets and various gangs of vigilantes. I'm kinda hoping they're out and pissed off tonight too because I'm about to head back to SW11.

Laters.

Faux Dog Tags and Shirley Valentine

2011-08-06T18:10:00.002+01:00

Listen, I've done no running and very little physical activity of any kind lately so if the word 'Running' that occurs in title of this blog had you logging in hoping for some split time action forget it.

Although I do actually spend some of my time running I've never considered myself much of a runner (good job really considereing some of my non-achievements...I prefer that to 'failings'). I'll never be a runner and to be quite honest I have little time for runners. They tend to stand around in ridiculous clothes looking like they need a good meat pie. And all they do is yabber on about bastard running. Let's face it, as cave people we either ran after our food or ran away to avoid becoming someone else's food. We didn't need compression socks or stupid fucking sleeves to do that. Neither did we need to convene a meeting of the hungry gang to discuss the most efficient way to run up a 2% incline.

Anyway, now I've offended a very good percentage of my friends I'm kinda hoping that I might flush my anonymous contributor out from his/her hiding place and encourage another pearl of anonymously created wisdom.

If 'Anonymous's' calling me a tosser was based on the dual meaning of the hairy handed antics of a man that lives alone coupled with his or her distasteful opinion of me, that was very good. However, I doubt his or her consideration actually ploughed that deeply. Come on, 'Anonymous,' have another go. You do wonders for my hit counter, by the way.

Anyway, with no running stories to entertain you I'm drawn to my employment as one of those people in London that extinguishes fires (is that oblique enough to argue that I haven't actually mentioned I'm a fireman?).

However, I am disallowed to mention my employment in any detailed degree so I'm not in a position to regale you with the antics of the natives of SW11. What I might be permitted to say is that I was in Battersea the other night 'on business'and it was like a return to the old days. In recent times it's fair to say that Battersea has become something of an urban village. An area of Nappy Valley domiciled by city types and young professionals.

As a boy from Peckham I remember Battersea being considered a dark, frightening place that was dangerous to enter. And when I started my current career that perception hadn't changed greatly.

I first visited Battersea 'on business' as a fresh, green person-that-puts-out-fires back in 1992. My colleagues that were based at the far more salubrious Kingston were terrified to report to the three storey building on Este Road so I was sent instead. Those were the days when the local Battersea Belles shagged the fella that worked in the local kebab shop because they thought they were being Shirley Valentine-esque.

Or when the fellas all got faux dog tags made by the local cobbler and hoped for a random game of volleyball because they'd been so thoroughly affected by Top Gun. How they ever hoped to play ball games while being permanantly attached by rope to a snarling beast that would later fall foul of the Dangerous Dogs Act, God only knows.

Back then as you entered Este Road you were greeted by joy-ridden Ford Capris and dog fights.

Those days are now gone. Although, as I stated above, my last night in Battersea while 'on business' was a bit of a return to form. Yep, the never-quiet-silence of a Battersea night (the Ford Capris and Pitbull Terriers might be gone but the trains still shunt in and out of Clapham Junction throughout the hours of darkness) was pierced by a warring couple who were both desperate to rush the other to a hole in the ground. The screaming and hollering went on for at least an hour in a Vicky Pollard meets the Right Reverand Ian Paisley kinda stylee.

On convening in the morning in the room where meals are served my colleagues all looked bleary eyed and tired.

'What's up, lads?' I asked. 'You all look like you've been up all night.'

'Didn't you hear the screaming?' I was asked.

Of course I did. but to me it's a bit like being the guy that lives next to the motorway and never hears the traffic.

It's great to be back.

Tosser

2011-07-30T21:52:00.000+01:00

It's been a while since I sat here and tippy tapped a blog post. That's mainly down to my old, steam driven PC really beginning to give up the ghost and die. It's taken to just shutting down of its own accord now. That's very infuriating if you're in the middle of writing something important. Luckily for me I use my PC for nothing more important than playing music and watching porn. That said it's still infuriating if Mick Jagger's half way through singing The Next Goodbye or Nina Hartley is midway through doing her stuff.

The PC ain't quite dead yet although it's operating naked at the moment. I've removed the cover as I reckon the internal bits are overheating. Probably a bit too much Nina Hartley action. But while I'm on the subject of death I'm quite nicely segued into the latest comment from my anonymous contributor. His/her latest offering can be seen attached to my last blog post but basically it states that I was a tosser when those photographs were taken and I still am now and I should crawl off and die in a hole.

I could, of course, simply delete this comment but I'm a fervent believer in freedom of speech. If 'Anonymous' wishes to state publicly that I like one off the wrist who am I to argue with him/her? I wonder if any of my compadre bloggers suffer the same anonymous contributions?

Anyway, I am now back at work after a tour of duty that had me feeling very vulnerable. I kept thinking that someone might leap out from a cupboard with recording equipment having captured some inappropriate comment or other and finish me off for good. Unlike 'Anonymous' I make all of my comments in my own name.

Vulnerability aside it didn't take long for the natives of SW11 to welcome me back into their slightly warped bosom. My problems of late seemed to dissolve when I witnessed the aftermath of the gentleman that mistook the engine air vent on his girlfriend's Smartcar for a fuel filler cap.

After wrenching off the vent cover (surely the fact that it didn't unscrew smoothly should have been a clue) he proceeded to pump £7.04 of unleaded over the hot engine.

Highly flammable liquid plus red hot metal is a fine combination if you're trying to achieve an impressive conflagration in a petrol garage and the destruction of your girlfriend's new Smartcar. Luckily for the boyfriend he suffered no injury. Well, at least he didn't whilst at the scene. I suspect his (ex) girlfriend might have given him the good news when he got home in a cab.

Anyway, tomorrow is another day and I'm due back in SW11 for more fire related shenanigans. Our new Fire Brigade Union branch rep is due to address his members to inform them of the latest round of attacks on our terms and conditions.

Unfortunately the new branch rep is a tosser.

Well, according to 'Anonymous' he is, anyway as the new branch rep is Yours Truly.

Who'd have thought it? A man whose politics sit slightly to the right of Genghis Khan.

Laters.

Memories in Black and White

2011-07-20T10:24:00.000+01:00

Right this is a bit of a cheap shot. A bit of blog indulgence that takes little effort.

I ran into an old friend the other day. Adrian is from a posh family and back in the day was a high flying university undergraduate.

'What the fuck was he doing running around with you, Waterman?' I hear you ask.

I used to go out with his sister.

Anyway, he decided to do an examination of the cult London Rock-a-Billy scene of the 1980s for his sociology degree. It just so happened that I was part of that cult. It was a cult not unlike the cult of the West Highland Way Race in that everyone knew each other and gathered at the same events except that rather than Ron Hill Tracksters and Inov-8s we wore Levis 501s and dealer boots.

At the time Adrian gave me a load of hard copy photographs he took of us Rock-a Billies. They were in black and white to effect a 1950s feel. Over the years and through moves to West Germany, Canada and Ireland the photographs were lost to the four winds. Forever, or so I thought.

Then, after 25 years I ran into Adrian again and he have me a disk of the lost photographs. So in a cheap shot, an act of blog indulgence, I attach some here. I was about seventeen or eighteen. You will notice that we spent an inordinate amount of time combing our hair (of course I selected specific photographs to illustrate this, but in those days losing your comb was the 80s Rock-a-Billy eqivalent of losing your mobile phone).

If I could achieve this level of skinniness again I might give Jez Bragg a run for his money.

Back

2011-07-17T13:00:00.000+01:00

Well, in terms of stressfullness that was about as tough as Brixton parking warden. I am disallowed from commenting on the detail of the Carpet Parade and each of the individuals that arrived at Meerkat Manor to testify to what a great bloke I am were instructed the same so don't expect too much detail from them either. Oh, by the way, if you are one of those that turned up to support me, the cheque's in the post.
(Nb: If you happen to be reading this and are in the employ of The Man, that was a joke....no money actually changed hands. Although I bought an awful lot of alcoholic beverage immediately after.)

But I have to report that on Friday morning I took roll call in South Chelsea to applause from my lads. Later I took my place in the chair in the mess where I always sit. It's not 'my chair' as we don't do designated places around the mess table at Battersea.....but it's the chair that I mostly sit in and bristle with concern when someone else sits in it.

Anyway, I'd like to claim that things are back to normal now but I have this feeling that I've been smashed about these past eight weeks and it'll take a little while to get over.

While I was at home and making like Steve McQueen in the cooler I had much time to think. I decided that if I returned to my role as a Station Officer at Battersea I would be a soft, fluffy Guv'nor that tolerates all the foibles of those around him.

That lasted a day.

It didn't take long to spark at a lack of courtesy and fairness and metaphorically slap one of my younger charges down.

Daddy's back.

Anyway, I'm gonna sign off now and prepare for my first night duty in eight weeks.

Laters.

Flipping Flippant

2011-07-13T15:54:00.000+01:00

You may have noticed a wee bit of jiggery pokery having taken place. Basically the last blog post I wrote is no more. It's zapped, kaput, ironed out (although I'm assured that it resides somewhere in Google's cache.)

A good friend suggested that given my current situation my last post was flippant. Firstly, every blog post I write, unless it concerns suicide or death, is flippant. If flippancy were a banned concept on my blog, I would have no blog.

So I guess in that sense it was flippant, but not carelessly flippant, or so I believed. I had intended to convey a message. But if it appeared carelessly flippant to him then it must have to others as well and for that reason I removed it.

Secondly, what I was trying to suggest was that this situation hasn't broken me. I'm still the same man that I was in January when my professional conduct attracted a different type of attention. But saving life is what a person in my employ gets paid to do....get over yourself. Insult a politician, however, and prepare your sorry arse for a flailing.

Anyway, the fact that I've spent hours upon hours with a cloth and a tin of Parade Gloss, going round and round in circles on my shoes, should be a demonstration of a lack of flippancy.

Bulling shoes is a well known concept in service personnel circles but for the uninitiated it involves spending forever rubbing shoe polish and spit into one's shoes to achieve a mirror-like shine. Then as soon as you put the shoes on your feet a good fifty percent of your hard work cracks and pings off onto the floor.

I also picked my undress uniform up from the dry cleaner's today. I have no idea why it's called an undress uniform because it's a dress uniform complete with rank markings and medals. It's a naval thing, I think.

The last time I spent this much time preparing my undress uniform it was in preparation to represent my employer at the Royal British Legion Annual Service of Remembrance at the Albert Hall.

How things change.

Anyhow, tomorrow will come and tomorrow will go. See you on the other side.

Blue Spots on Parade

2011-07-07T00:58:00.000+01:00

The discussion went something like this:

'Dave, are you running the Horton Park ten mile race on Sunday?'

'No.'

'Oh, go on. It's for charity.'

'No.'

'There's a bottle of wine for the first three finishers.'

'Is Steve the Snake running?'

'No, he's injured.'

'What about Dickie the Dart?'

'Injured too.'

'Fred the Flash?'

'Injured.'

'Brian the Bullet?'

'He died two years ago.'

'What percentage is this wine?'

And that's pretty much how I got talked into running a ten mile race two weeks after running sixty miles on the West Highland Way. Artistic licence has been taken with the names above (you don't say!!) but it was an examination of a relatively small field of 58 runners and the lure of a bottle of Vino Collapso that made me don my Royal Tank Regiment running vest on Sunday and go out the door at a stupid time to run around Horton Park.

So I arrive at the race registration and immediately think that I'm fucked as I see some serious looking, lean runners around me. The preponderance of Garmin GPS's always makes me feel technologically inferior and like a fella that's woken up after a night on the wine and decided to do something he's clearly not prepared for.

Probably because that's exactly what I am.

Anyway, the race starts and true to form I hare off like George Michael after hearing a new public toilet has been opened on Hampstead Heath. For a short while I'm leading the pack and I can smell the demolition of my recent ignominy in failing at the West Highland Way Race. Even before I've reached the first mile marker (bags of ambition....fuck all ability).

Then the familiar sound of footsteps behind me increase in volume and I feel like a floundering fish being reeled in by some eager angler.

I look over my shoulder and see some fella I recognise by sight just hanging on to my pace. For a moment I compare my frustration to that of Jez Bragg in his battle with Stuart Mills in this year's Highland Fling. Then I realise it's a bit like Del Boy Trotter likening 79 Nelson Mandela House to Kensington Palace.

Anyway, I ease off the gas a bit and engage my shadow in conversation.

'Alright mate, what time are you looking for?'

'Don't know....I've never done a ten mile race before, only half marathons.'

'What's your PB for a half?'

'1:33.'

'I'm gonna stop for a piss, mate.'

So off he trots and I slot into second place. The rest of the race is run at bastard threshold level as the sun rises in the sky and the morning gets hotter. I'm in such a serious, Paula Radcliffe style zone, that when I really needed a piss I have a quick look about and then get my willy out and piss on the move. You know that way that leaves a zig-zag trail down the road.

Somehow the Gods smile upon me and inflict everyone behind me with feelings of inadequacy. A 44 year old fella with wine stained lips breaks the tape in second place in 1:17 on a course that was actually measured at eleven miles.

So what now?

Well, I didn't get my wine because I bugged out before the prize giving as Mason (dog) needed a walk. The wine cannot now be located (probably because some other fucker has drunk it) but I also have a free one hour session with a physiotherapist.

This quite excited me, particularly when the race organiser identified said physio as a she. Then he pointed her out and I realised that I've 'won' an hour with a Jo Brand lookalike.

This all goes to prove that it matters not how high and mighty you can convince yourself you are, in a big willy contest, John Holmes is just around the corner.

Or on parade, when you've decided to use Klear floor polish on your shoes, there's always an unexpected rain cloud on the horizon (only squaddies will get that....blue spots).

Laters.

A Broken Toe???

2011-07-03T20:34:00.001+01:00

Listening to David Haye's constant verbal demolition of Wladimir Klitschko began to rile me a bit. Hearing Haye tell us how much he disliked Wlad, refusing to shake his hand and ignoring his cheery welcome was just downright rude. But I stomached it knowing that Haye was cranking up the pressure and selling tickets for the unification of the WBA, WBO, IBO and IBF Heavyweight belts.

I've met David Haye and I coach the youths of Battersea in the Noble Art with a very good friend of his. Also, Haye boxed out of Fitzroy Lodge, a boxing club not far from Brixton where I boxed as a boy, so I feel a definite link with the now former WBA Heavyweight World Champion.

Despite my loyalty to David Haye I couldn't help developing a sneaking admiration for the big Ukranian. He offered his hand in every meeting with the South Londoner and then listened as Haye likened his accent to that of Sasha Baron Cohen's comedic creation Borat. Possibly ignorant of the fact that Wladimir was speaking in one of the five languages he's mastered.

But in boxing, the hardest of sports, it matters not how many languages you speak nor what inflection you employ to speak them. One's fists do the talking.

So I settled down last night to watch David Haye stomp all over 'the big robot' and teach him a masterful lesson in pugilism.

Oh, boy! What a disappointment.

David Haye was outclassed, outboxed and made to look very ordinary. Wladimir Klitschko proved beyond doubt that talk is very, very cheap.

After twelve one-sided rounds the Ukranian collected Haye's WBA belt (and, in his Borat voice, no doubt said thank you) to celebrate with his brother, Vitali, the WBC Heavyweight Champion. The brothers now own every version of the World Heavyweight title.

But what of David Haye? Well, he has claimed that a broken little toe was his undoing and even climbed upon the desk at the post fight press conference to show us his little piggy.

I must admit it did look sore and slightly swollen.

I wonder what my mate, Mark 'Drama Queen' Hamilton makes of that. A man that broke his ankle five miles into the West Highland Way Race in 2006 yet continued to run for another ninety miles to collect his finisher's goblet.

I wish I could type a bit more of this blog post but I stubbed my toe so I don't think I can. Instead I'm linking a video made about a man that might have made a very good boxer.

Mr Mark Hamilton.

Getting the Gonads

2011-06-29T23:51:00.001+01:00

There's got to be more to life than running.

Actually, who am I kidding? That's been part of my problem....indulging in all the other temptations life has to offer and missing out on the running part. In fact, I've possibly indulged a little too much in online political comment just lately and might not be in my current situation if I'd decided to don my running shoes and deliver my political comment on foot and in person. And while I'm on the subject of running shoes I should tell you that according to Richard Cronin, the author of the excellent blog, The Beirut Taxi, all I have are 'shoes, a bottle of wine and a strong self-belief that anything is possible as long as you want it hard enough.'

But as well as running shoes I have other sporting footwear to accompany me in my love of wine and deluded self belief.

Whilst metaphorically clad in my boxing boots but literally glugging wine I had the recent good fortune to come across a website called My Boxing Coach. If you have any interest in the Noble Art I recommend visiting the site. It's an absolute gold mine of information and advice and is run by a Scouse geezer called Fran Sands.

Fran is a rare breed. He's from Liverpool but appears to lack the innate desire to enter Debenhams whilst wearing a big overcoat with deep, empty pockets. And, indeed, to leave Debenhams a short time later, at speed, with the pockets full.

Neither does he spend his days watching re-runs of Jeremy Kyle while awaiting the arrival of two important documents in the post. The first being his dole cheque and the second an acceptance to his application to be a guest of Jeremy Kyle.

On the site, Fran often replies to my critical comments (I prefer to think of them as cheeky rather than offensive) which are usually based on the regional stereotyping of the Liverpudlian. Fran's latest cutting riposte was to grant me free access to his newest product based on the premise that I need the money to 'enlarge my collection of Chas and Dave records.'

Here is an example of Fran's excellent coaching advice:

If you care to visit Fran's site you'll encounter pure pugilism in its most artistic form. No mention of dirty tricks like leaning on your opponent, striking him with the elbow after he deftly avoids your hook, or kicking him in the bollocks.

I am a devotee of Fran's site and thank him for the paucity of dirty tricks because I feel a little like I've been twelve rounds with Roberto Duran right now. Not as a result of trading blows, however, more due to the unfortunate outcome of being hit by life's little upper cuts.

The latest kick in the bollocks was to arrive at my place of employment (from where I am officially banned.....unless completing outstanding work) to discover that the leave I had booked for Mrs Mac's race in July has disappeared into the ether. Assuming I return to work after the Carpet Parade on 14 July, I will be mixing it with the natives of SW11 on the 16th rather than sweeping the Clyde Stride.

In another post I might have termed this 'ironic' and attached a video of an attractive Canadian woman with a mouth so large she could have made a fortune in porn (!!). But it really is just a fuckin' kick in the bollocks, so enjoy.

Step Aside Alanis, This is Irony

2011-06-26T08:45:00.003+01:00

According to the curly headed, wide mouthed Canadian songstress, Alanis Morissette, irony can be defined by rain on your wedding day or a free ride when you've already paid. I'd argue with her on both counts and suggest that the former is to simply ignore the long range weather forecast and the latter is just bad timing. I reckon I could have a go at outdoing her on the ironic front.

How about this:

You discover that a colleague that holds a senior position to you is taking part in the Three Peaks Race. I'm talking the Ben Nevis/Scafell Pike/Snowdon one rather than the real challenge in Yorkshire. He looks for advice on various hill walking matters and eventually arrives at the subject of dealing with blisters. Being a generous kind of fella you provide him with advice on taping one's feet and give him a large amount of the sports tape you've acquired over the years. Despite the fact that you yourself have a major physical challenge looming that in the past has caused blisters that look not unlike Marty Feldman's eyeballs.

Fast forward to last Sunday and you're walking through Fort William high street with your support crew treading gingerly on Marty Feldman's eyeballs because you had insufficient sports tape to make a significant impact on the blister prevention front in the West Highland Way Race.

Then, just to prove it really is a small world, the same senior colleague appears in front of you bounding along on feet made a size larger due to the abundance of sports tape covering his toes.

You introduce him to your support crew as the recipient of your largesse. And as the senior colleague that suspended you shortly after trousering all your sports tape.

Now, Alanis, forget having a black fly in your Chardonnay, have a read of the event above.... that's ironic.

Or how about this?

Despite being suspended you seek permission to enter your workplace in order to finish some outstanding work that failed to get completed due to being unceremoniously marched off the premises some weeks before. You're granted said permission and arrive at the place that has felt like home for the past fourteen years. After being greeted by colleagues and engaging in the normal type of banter associated with that profession ('You're back!!! I didn't realise we had a new cleaner!' and 'That's a bit off isn't it? Making you come in to collect your P45!' etc, etc) you notice a letter addressed to you in the mail tray.

You open it to discover it's a letter of congratulations from your senior colleague acknowledging the fact that through your hard work and personnel management skills you've reduced the levels of sickness absence in your workplace.

Now, Alanis, forget ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife, have a read of the event above.... that's ironic.

Anyway, the blisters are healing well and my absence from my workplace has had little impact on attendance numbers due to my hard work in ensuring we're fully staffed. So I'll use these reasonably healthy feet and abundance of time wisely and head out the door to the running club. But before I go I should make a mention of the comments section of this blog. I've always felt it appropriate to allow anyone to comment in anyway they wish.

It's called freedom of speech (!!!!!).

But I've had to take the decision to moderate all comments due to an avalanche of spam. I'm not sure freedom of speech extends to receiving unsolicited advice on how I can enlarge my penis using some king of vacuum pump; how to unlock an I-Phone 4; or where the best strip joints are in Israel (honest!).

I just hope my credit card isn't raided when they take the money for the vacuum pump.

Not a Religion

2011-06-21T09:36:00.002+01:00

When I was a boy I used to look forward to Christmas so much that December 25th became the single most important event in my calendar. It was the defining day around which 364 other days were either placed in preparation for, or in remembrance of.

If I had occasion to argue with my parents and subsequently decided to run away from home I would be put off because Christmas was either looming and I'd fail to receive my presents or because Christmas was still a live memory and I couldn't run away and take all of my presents with me.

Then it all went tits up when I learned that Santa Claus didn't exist and that the celebration of Jesus' birthday had been bastardised to sell cheap, plastic crap to the parents of misguided children while giving said parents a few days off work and an excuse to get shitfaced.

I think in many ways the lost Christmas of childhood was replaced by the mid-summer weekend and the West Highland Way Race.

So today, in the hangover of Christmas, as the pine needles gather on the floor and dust collects on the baubles, I remember that day. Not the 25th December, of course, but that ninety five mile journey that begins in Milngavie and ends in Fort William....or somewhere short of.

I shouldn't have even been on the start line. Fact. But if you've lived your life as a chancer as I have you can easily delude yourself into believing that having completed a distance training programme that amounted to two twenty mile training runs coupled with a bit of muscle memory is enough to carry you ninety five miles through the Highlands of Scotland.

So on Friday 17th June I appeared in the car park in Milngavie with my support crew, as I have for the last five Christmases, and duly registered for the West Highland Way Race.

'You look fit, Dave,' I was told by Thomas Loendorf, who was to storm to a fourth place finish some hours later.

Indeed as I stepped onto the scales to have my weight recorded at 72.6 kg a suggestion might have been gleaned that my leanness was as a result of spending hours in the hills.

Alas, no; both Thomas and the scales were unaware that a loss of 4 kg in weight had more to do with the stress and concern caused by other events in my life than by a dedicated training plan.

So the race began and I took care to leave Milngavie at a very reserved pace. Every time I got the urge to close another runner down I reminded myself that the race has not yet begun and will not do so until I'm clear of Loch Lomond some forty miles north.

The first checkpoint at Balmaha came and went in four hours and seventeen minutes and I was feeling quite comfortable. Maybe there's something in this minimal training plan and muscle memory, I thought.

Then, with twenty three miles under my belt, my legs began to complain. I don't blame them as it's the farthest they've travelled since the River Ayr Way Race last September but I could have done without it with not even a quarter of the race in the bag.

As I neared Rowardennan at twenty six miles the muscle fatigue and accumulation of lactic acid made the ignominy of a very early withdrawal a real possibility. How could I possibly continue with another seventy miles to push when I was shuffling along like Albert Steptoe?

Anyway, I arrived in Rowardennan to be greeted by my fantastic support crew and was given clean socks, hot soup and fresh water. I quietly told Mrs Mac that I doubted I would see the end of the race but got up and pushed on anyhow.

To my surprise I found a second wind and was able to make good progress all along the Lochside to Beinglas Farm at around forty miles. The running seemed easy and my legs had loosened up which created mental images of my fourth finisher's goblet, full of red wine, resting in my hand. As quickly as those images appeared I banished them from my mind and gave myself a good mental slap. Deal with the here and now.

After leaving Beinglas Farm there was a bit of run/walk action over the undulating ground and when I arrived at Derrydarroch Farm the familiar feeling of tightness and muscle fatigue in my legs reappearred. I hoped that I could walk it off on the journey to Bogle Glen but things just got worse.

I was weighed at Auchtertyre Farm by Eddie Welsh to discover another absent 3 kg in body mass. If nothing else at least I'd at last achieved the fighting weight I failed to make in my last ring encounter two years ago, but the weight loss was somewhat portentous for my immediate future.

There was some confusion at Auchtertyre regarding taking an accompanying runner. I was sure that the recently amended rules stated no co-runner until Bridge of Orchy but discovered that a local decision had been taken to adhere to the established rules of an accompanying runner from half way. That was good enough for me and I set off with big David Ross who had the instruction to kick my sorry arse if I faltered.

All I can describe the next ten miles as is an unmitigated disaster. My legs were obviously shot and my already blistered feet were becoming worse. Both of these factors reduced me to a walk on a section that I can usually run the best part of. Coupled with that I felt violently nauseous and immediately vomited up a wine gum which was the only sustenance I'd attempted since the half way point.

To make matters worse a driving rain had been a constant companion for the past few hours and there appeared to be no letting up. Poor weather isn't usually a problem for me but without an intake of fuel and the ability to move fast enough to keep warm it was just another nail in my rapidly sealing coffin.

I shuffled into Bridge of Orchy having travelled sixty miles and decided that for me, the war was over. I knew I was making the right decision despite some vociferous opposition from my support crew and the suggestion that my sexuality was in question. I knew that to venture out on to the bleak and exposed Rannoch Moor in a rapidly deteriorating condition would have been irresponsible.

So what now?

Well, Santa Claus doesn't exist and Christmas is no longer. I will not run the race next year but would like to remain involved, either as support for big David Ross and/or Martin Antoninus Horatio Hooper or as a marshall.

Finally, and very poetically considering the allussion to Christmas, my pal Tomo put the whole experience into context:

'The West Highland Way Race is only a footrace.....it's not a religion.'

Laters

More Unbelievable Than a Soap Opera

2011-06-15T15:53:00.004+01:00

My Clever Plan......it was implemented and executed perfectly. I've even managed to avoid hospitalisation due to overdosing on Brufen. I should, therefore, be prepared for the West Highland Way Race this weekend.

But as the saying goes, no plan ever survives first contact with the enemy. In this case the enemy isn't some suicidal, sandal-clad Taliban (Ok, Ok, in my day the enemy would have been a donkey jacket wearing member of PIRA.....or more usually a member of the neighbouring British regiment but you get the idea). Nope, the enemy, in this case, is my own seventeen year old daughter. Allow me to explain.

Following my employer's close scrutiny of my online witterings I'm afraid I lacked the minerals to leave three years worth of blog posts on here. Although none compromised the security of my employer nor revealed the identity of any of our 'customers,' many mentioned the lighter side of my job. If my previous non-job blog posts had survived the cull you might have read how I left my family home at the age of fifteen and by the time I was seventeen I was living in my flat in Peckham with ex-wife/partner (no.1) and my then one year old daughter. Back in those heady days in the 1980s I considered myself quite independent and capable of taking care of myself.

I applied this idea of independence and capability to my own seventeen year old daughter and planned to leave her for a few days while I travel from Old London Town to a far away land where men wear skirts and women have a hierarchical system based on the number of their remaining teeth (stop yawning and wake up at the back!).

What could possibly go wrong?

Then, as My Clever Plan is running along nicely, I get a telephone call informing me that my independent and capable daughter has been involved in a motoring accident. After discovering she's suffered no injury we have a discussion that goes something like this:

'Dad, I've crashed some boy's car and I need £800.00 to fix it.'

'I don't understand. You can't drive and have no licence. How could you possibly have crashed some boy's car?'

'He let me drive his car from the road onto his drive but I crashed it into a post.'

'Did he know you have no licence, no insurance, no experience behind a wheel and a father that will kill him slowly?'

'Yes.'

'Then tell him to come here because I've got my cheque book ready.'

I hang up and realising the nearest tattoo studio is closed simply use a biro to write the words 'cheque' and 'book' onto my knuckles. Then my delight at avoiding hospitalisation due to Brufen abuse dissolves and is replaced by an acceptance that I am to be incarcerated for life for the vicious slaying of 'some boy.'

There's also an acceptance that I clearly can't leave my daughter alone for a few days and a rather large spanner is thrown into the works of My Clever Plan. I related this story to my pal and fellow West Highland Way athlete, Keith 'Corned Beef' Hughes (see what I did there using the words 'fellow' and 'athlete'.....stop laughing).Corned Beef's comment was:

'Your life is more unbelievable than a bloody soap opera, Cobber (he's Australian).'

So the next instalment of the soap opera that is my life, that is a 95 mile race from Milngavie to Fort William, appeared to be in jeopardy again. But a knight in shining armour appeared in the form of the mother of my daughter's friend and the gig's back on.

Daughter will stay with friend's mother for the period of my absence so I can be assured that:

1. My house will not be burned to the ground.

2. A Facebook event involving a rave at my address will not be created.

3. A phone bill that would make Bill Gates shudder is not on its way.

I do hope that friend's mother will heed my warning and keep her car keys safe.

See you in Milngavie.

My Clever Plan

2011-06-08T12:09:00.003+01:00

Right, this ain't funny now.

I injured my back last Friday and despite the fact that I was in serious pain I guessed it would be better soon. After all, it's simply the recurrence of a very old condition that I acquired when I used to lift very heavy weights off the floor, off a bench, or in a squat.

Powerlifting....it lacks the technical aspects of Olympic lifting and is purely a demonstration of brute strength. But get it wrong and say hello to a lifetime of lower back problems.

So right now it's just ten days until the West Highland Way Race and I'm still hobbling around stiffly like the tin man out of The Wizard of Oz. All he needed was a bit of lubrication to get him going but sadly I can't claim the same. I've covered my arse in so much Ibuprofen gel it's greasier than an Asda car park. In fact it's so greasy that if I dared sit on a bicycle I'd have to have the seat surgically removed from my rectum.

It seems to be having little effect, however, and I'm starting to get slightly nervous about starting the race. I've phoned the doctors two days on the trot and failed to get an appointment. I call the moment the lines open to be greeted by a recorded message that tells me:

'Hello, your call can't be answered at present and is being held in a queue. Please hold for a member of staff or hang up and call back later.'

On the first day I hung up and called back later. I was told:

'There's nothing left at all today, I'm afraid. Please call back tomorrow first thing.'

So this morning I called the moment the lines opened. I got the recorded message and held. When I eventually reached the top of the queue I was told:

'There's nothing left at all today, I'm afraid. Please call back tomorrow first thing.'

That recorded message. What it should really say is:

'Hello, your call can't be answered at present because there are two hundred coffin dodgers, asylum seekers and hypochondriacs that called a microsecond after we opened the lines. They are all in front of you in a queue and you don't stand a snowball in hell's chance of getting an appointment. Please hold for a member of staff to disappoint you or hang up and spend a while in blind optimism then call back later and let us disappoint you then.'

So, I have a clever plan, and my clever plan is thus:

CLEVER PLAN

1. To continue to fund the NHS through my taxes to ensure that everyone bar me gets an appointment at the doctors.

2. Keep slapping the Ibuprofen gel on my arse.

3. Swallow Ibuprofen tablets like a child left alone in a ball pond full of Smarties.

4. Go for a very gentle run tomorrow.

5. Go for a much longer run on Friday.

6. Do nothing physical thereafter.

7. After my admittance to hospital for overdosing on Ibuprofen hope I'm released in time to start the West Highland Way Race.

Sciatica....A Pain in the Arse

2011-06-05T18:44:00.003+01:00

It's taken me a little while to report on it but I had the interview without coffee. It went something like this:

'Do you recognise this reproduction of a comment made in your name?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Did you write it?'

'Yes I did.'

'Then you're a very naughty boy, and I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy My brothers. And you will know My name is the Lord when I lay My vengeance upon thee.'

Actually, the final part of the interview wasn't like that, but it might have been if you believe the words of the person that made the third comment on my last post (thanks for that, Anonymous....keep taking the tablets....).

Anyway, I will now wait until sometime in early July when I will return to Meerkat Manor to have my fate decided upon. Until then I have a 95 mile foot race to prepare for. And true to form, as I enter the final phase of the pre race process, I have injured myself.

ITB? Nope.

Ankle? Nope.

Hip girdle? Nope.

STD? Nope.

It went kinda like this:

A brown envelope comes through the door. I open it. No lottery win, no pools success, not even notification that I've achieved the next stage in a prize draw where I could win a new car, a holiday abroad, a flat screen telly, or one of 3,500 boxes of Vienetta that's nearing its 'Use By' date

All it is is a poxy electric bill.

But wait....what's this????

'You are now £538 in credit. You need to do nothing, we will carry your credit over to your next bill.'

A phone call later and the customer service representative is told I'd rather the credit accrue interest in my account rather than burgeoning the ever inflating coffers of Southern Electric.

But she needs a current meter reading.

'Wait right there,' I tell her.

So I'm trying to squeeze my body through a six inch gap to get past the washing machine and deep into the cupboard under the stairs that houses the electric meter. At one point I'm almost upside down with a headtorch on but, by golly, I'm getting that meter reading and recovering the five hundred quid that Southern Electric wish to kindly carry over.

It was during this operation that I trapped my sciatic nerve and now have a sharp localised pain at the base of my spine just above the crack of my arse that has me walking like Douglas Bader with a rather large marital aid shoved up his 'Arris.

I've had a good look through the Yellow Pages and have located a decent local chiropractor that should be able to cure this problem in just under two weeks.

For about five hundred quid.

Cheers, easy.

My injury, painful as it is, failed to prevent me, Mrs Mac, Horatio and Mrs Horatio (Horatiette?) Hooper from being the guests of my Borough Commander at the Colonel's Review of the Trooping of the Colour yesterday.

True to form my training for a 95 mile footrace suffered the usual setback of a light lunch that turned into a furious engagement with much Guinness and whisky.

I attach the following pics.

Laters.

Interview Sans Coffee

2011-05-30T21:28:00.003+01:00

Tomorrow I have an interview without coffee. It's at an establishment that was once housed in a rather grand and traditional building that sat equidistant between the MI5 and MI6 buildings on the south bank of the River Thames. That building had offices, board rooms, meeting rooms and a great big room that was decked out like a courtroom where discipline cases were conducted.

However, the establishment was moved a few years ago to a new premises near London Bridge. The new building is a modern, open plan affair with plenty of glass. But it's the open plan feature that's important here.

As you go in you're not met by heavy oak doors that detail the occupant's name and rank as per the building's predecessor. As you enter the new one you find yourself in a vast open space where uniformed officers sit hunched behind flat computer screens. Whenever I enter it reminds me of the opening scenes of The Office, where a telephone rings in the distance and there's the constant murmur of tippy tappy keyboards. As you pass through the threshold and into the work area heads pop up above work stations as the residents crane their necks to discover who's just entered their territory. It's this behaviour that has led to the new building being termed 'Meerkat Manor.'

So tomorrow I'm at 'Meerkat Manor' for an interview and to be presented with formal charges. I've been a very naughty boy. Tomorrow is the forerunner to The Carpet Parade and the familiar words:

'Soldier and escort......by the right....QUICK MARCH!' which echo loudly in my mind.

But what's this?

Have I hurt anyone? No.

Have I killed anyone? No.

Is there mass loss of property due to my professional incompetence? No.

But someone is offended so I'll tap the boards tomorrow in grey slacks, blue shirt, blazer and brogues.

I will admit to having been slightly nervous about tomorrow. Not because I'm of a nervous disposition but because I know many of the residents of Meerkat Manor and the shunning of the diseased one will be embarrassing for both myself and those I know.

But a blog post by a friend brought me to my senses and made me remember where I've come from and my nerves are no more.

I'm not from a privileged background and a good school but from the mean streets of Peckham and the hell hole that was The Beaufoy School for Boys.

I'm not from a comfortable office where the tea boat running dry is a major calamity but from the British Army where a major calamity transposes to a colleague paying the ultimate price and going home in a flag draped coffin.

I shall reproduce my friend's blog post here.

It's short. It's sweet. It's to the point. And there's more plagiarism to come.

As I travel this path less travelled I have to say thanks, Tomo.

Song for a Pirate

FEAR NAUGHT

Annales Volusi, Cacata Carta

2011-05-27T21:37:00.003+01:00

There's this fella that lives down the road from me called Robert McCaffrey. He's better known in running circles as Dr Rob and you may know him from the Runner's World forum where he's particularly active. He's also the director of the Trionium group of races which includes The Picnic, which was voted 'the hardest marathon in Britain' by Runner's World.

I'd dearly like to call Rob a friend, indeed he once was, but when I separated from ex-wife/partner (no.3) Rob was one of those fellas that picked a side. As his missus is great mates with ex-wife/partner (no.3) the side he picked wasn't mine. So now if I see him we exchange pleasantries and a bit of running chat, but that's about it.

Anyway, I saw Rob this week as I dropped my wee Maddie off at school (due to my enforced idleness I've been doing the school run, catching up on my ironing and considering what coffee mornings I might attend).

I stopped and chatted to Rob and he asked me if I had any races in the offing.

'As usual I've got the West Highland Way Race in a few weeks,' I told him.

'Do you know I read an article by a woman that runs ultras and she does them on normal mileage. None of this thirty or forty mile training run rubbish. Just normal mileage. She says it's all in the mind,' Rob replied.

Now this is something that Rob shouldn't have told a chancer like me. As I walked away I thought about it. Normal mileage? I'm doing normal mileage now! (Normal mileage is fifteen miles a week, right?). I've cracked it. I've found the secret. Richie Cunningham doesn't stand a chance.

Anyway, despite being the absolute king of chancers, I decided that a hard twenty mile training run today would allow me to see the effect that 'normal mileage' has on the build up of lactic acid and muscle fatigue after over three hours of hard, off-road running.

The route I chose really is twenty miles. It's not like, 18.5 miles rounded up. It's bang on twenty. I know this because my mate and fellow West Highland Way Race finisher, Jon Vann measured it. Jon dots the 'i' and crosses the 't'. Unlike me.

The route starts with a solid two mile incline to reach a ridge on the North Downs. In the past this climb has kicked my arse and to be honest I was a little intimidated by it today. But I had Mason (dog) with me, so anyone seeing me rigged in full ultra running gear but walking would be too afraid of my canine pocket battleship to take the piss (forget the fact that he's as soppy as soaped up Katie Price).

But what's this? The climb was an absolute piece of piss! There might be something in this 'normal mileage' claim after all. Indeed as I trotted along the route, stopping occasionally to call Mason (dog) back, who was having the time of his life hunting squirrels, I remarked at how strong I felt.

I hit the turn around point and started to head back and felt that familiar burn of lactic acid and muscle fatigue. I have to say that the last two miles were somewhat painful, particularly that I had a pain in my back that felt muscular/cramping. I've never felt it before but I wondered if it was what Mrs Pacepusher felt recently in her fantastic slaying of the Cateran Trail Race.

Not too sure about the 'normal mileage' claim now.

Anyway, despite the revelation that 'normal mileage' is entirely dependant upon the person, and 'normal milegae' for Yours Truly might be fuck all, I'm very happy to report that I am now to accompany the legend that is Ray McCurdy on the West Highland Way Race this year. Ray has had a few issues securing a support crew so we'll run together and my crew will take care of him.

Ray's version of 'normal mileage' is an ultra race every week so I guess I'll get my sorry arse kicked. *Sighs*

Now, let me say one more thing. What you've read here (assuming you made it this far) is shit. I know it's shit and I was told it would be shit. But I'm prevented from writing about ghosts, fox's piss, pregnant women in lifts and sharks attacking men in public phone boxes. So you've had to make do with running. Which, in it's written form, is shit.

A couple of good things that came out of today that are not shit:

1. Mason (dog) likes my home made onion bhajis.

2. Mason (dog) now knows how to drink water from a Platypus (other bladders are available).

Laaaattterrrs.

Head. Arse.

2011-05-25T21:34:00.002+01:00

Without compromising the policy on the use of social networking media of a particular self regulatory, autocratic organisation I ought to be able to tell you with some degree of safety that my head has been well and truly up my arse for the past two weeks.

I consider myself to be a resilient, calm-under-pressure kind of guy. There are many examples I could give you that would illustrate this but I'll refer you to my comment above regarding the policy of a particular self regulatory, autocratic organisation. So instead I'll remember back to my infamous flying of the Jolly Roger flag from my house, a story that was well documented within this blog, now sadly no more. Luckily, however, I have the attached memory saved among the pictures on my hard drive:

It was on the day that the BBC arrived at my house, complete with massive truck adorned with aerials and satellite dishes and a mobile make up studio, to make a filmed report of my crime detailed in the newspaper report above. The researcher had skipped off down to Sharon Alexander's shop in the village to ask her to appear with an array of different national flags. Sharon owns Abracadabra, the local fancy dress shop, and was the purveyor of the £5.00 Jolly Roger you can see in the picture.

Sharon duly arrived with a dozen or so brightly coloured flags of different nations from her shop with the intention that it might be demonstrated that I could fly any one of the flags in her possession, but not the Jolly Roger that was Gaffa taped to my house.

'Bloody Hell, Dave!' exclaimed Sharon. 'When I sold you the flag I would never have dreamed it would have come to this. I've got to say that you don't scare easily.'

And the point I'm trying to make is exactly that. Usually I don't scare easily.

But a week ago I felt fear. I was scared.

More scared than entering any burning building.

More scared than when I re-entered the competitive boxing ring after an absence of nearly twenty years to fight a hard bastard from Portsmouth nearly half my age on an unlicensed boxing show. In Portsmouth.

So what scared me so?

It was the prospect of facing the embarrassment and emasculation of unemployment for exercising my right to free thought and free speech.

It's taken two weeks but I'm not scared anymore.

Not because the threat is now removed. It remains a very clear and present danger. But because I've had the time and I've had the support of the person closest to me to get my head out of my arse.

Yep, my head is now clear of my sphincter and I can clearly see how this matter ought to turn out.

I am happy to answer for my actions. I accept that I work for a disciplined outfit and indeed I myself insist upon discipline within my own sphere of influence. If anyone abuses that they answer to me. I am now the one under scrutiny and welcome the due process, providing it's balanced, fair and just.

If it's not then I have only my dignity to fall back on. I swear that in the worst case scenario I will turn around and march out of that office without moan or whimper.

I might get shit faced very shortly after, right enough, but what's new there?

Alpha Male

2011-05-24T08:38:00.000+01:00

It's been suggested to me that I try something new. Like running.

I'll have you know that for the past few weeks I've religiously been an attendee at the newly formed David Lloyd Epsom Running Club (I have, after all, got time on my hands). If I had access to my former posts I could direct you to proof of this running but since I've deleted everything I can't.

I should have considered the result of deleting everything before I made that rash decision. It occurred to me yesterday that the only place that held a copy of my appearance on London Tonight where I informed Ben Scotchbrook that 'I'm not guilty of any acts of piracy and have never sailed the high seas in a galleon' was within the pages of this blog.

Anyway, like a lone Krispy Kreme Donut in the near vicinity of Vanessa Feltz, my former posts have gone. So I'll tell you about my last run out with the David Lloyd Epsom Running Club to prove that I do, occasionally, run.

Believe it or not I'm something of an elite athlete at David Lloyd Epsom Running Club. This is if you accept that elitism is an acceptable concept when applied to one's immediate surroundings only. A bit like accepting that Peter Andre would be intellectually elite if he were caged with the apes in London Zoo. You see my elitism doesn't come from being a sub-three hour marathon runner but from being club mates with a load of well-to-do but very nice women who run purely to fight the flab.

That was until last week when a fella that I know in name only arrived at the David Lloyd Epsom Running Club. Steve Wynder is something of a local celebrity because if he enters a race you know that the winner's medal is going home wrapped around his neck. But I'm a geezer that's spent a whole life time proving that it's possible to have ambition by the truck load while being in possession of ability that would fit in a thimble.

So Pete the coach sets us off on a 2.5 mile warm up circuit of Horton Park. Yours Truly is setting a fearsome pace at the front (I know, I know....warm up....the clue's in the name) and Mr Wynder is on my shoulder. There's no letting up in my Kenyan-like running and I'm starting to think that I've missed a trick here. Forget ultra marathons, my star is obviously set at the 5km distance.

Then around a mile and a half into the 'warm up,' Steve breezily says to me:

'So do you come running with this lot often?'

While I'm convinced this isn't some cheesy chat-up line I'm without the ability to inform Steve that I don't swing that way. Mainly because I'm demonstrating the near collapse runner's art of breathing out of my arse. I take a gulp of air and in one exhalation manage to say:

'I'm gonna let you go, Steve.'

'Oh....OK,' Mr Wynder replies and changes out of second gear showering me in grit and dirt as he belts off down the track.

The rest of the session includes sprints and intervals and I manage to slot myself in among the women and keep well clear of Steve Wynder. Then the final task is set by Pete which is for Steve and I to run two laps of a mile circuit while the women follow Pete up and down the track.

I manage to stay with Steve for the first circuit and as we finish to start the second he informs me that he's gonna run back to the gym as he's got a lunch date in London. I bid him farewell (while really thinking: 'thank fuck for that') and crack on with circuit number two.

As I arrive at the end of my second circuit Pete's there with the women.

'Where's Steve?' asks Pete.

'He said that my pace was so fast he couldn't manage a second circuit so he took an early bath,' I lie unconvincingly.

Then we all skip off back to the gym with me in Alpha Male status. As I said above, immediate surroundings and all that.

Laters.

A Virgin Coprophile

2011-05-21T10:32:00.000+01:00

An apology and a bit of an explanation is in order, methinks.

For the past week and a half my blog has been available to me only. This was due to a security alert and a plan to delete any posts that mentioned my employment. But sifting through over three hundred posts to find references to the job that I am currently employed to do was a mind-numbing and energy sapping exercise so I took the bit between my teeth and deleted every single post. This has pissed me off somewhat because apart from detailing three years worth of ups and downs of an 'alternative lifestyle,' it did actually serve a worthwhile purpose. It allowed me to scan back to confirm that I'm just as unprepared to run the West Highland Way Race now as I was in 2010, 2009 and 2008.

So I begin again with a virgin blog. I'm afraid to say that, in future, tales from South Chelsea will be non existent. In fact, depending upon the outcome of the present situation in which I find myself, the opportunity to mention South Chelsea or the London Fire Brigade may well be removed anyway. It seems I may be a 'future pension liability.'

I shall say no more about it than that but would suggest that a clearer explanation may be found in my mate's blog, The Beirut Taxi, which is linked on the right.

So, we'll see how we get on with the blog in it's censored form and with its right to free speech limited. Richard, the author of the blog mentioned above, has stated that it will be shit. He may well be right but I doubt it will get anywhere near the shit situation I am now in and how shit I've felt this past week and a half.

My shit situation is so shit that it's shittier than a coprophiliac considering a Cleveland Steamer while armed with a knife and fork (I'm aware that my more morally upstanding readers will have no idea what a Cleveland Steamer is so I've added a link to the Urban Dictionary definition. Click it if you dare).

To give you an idea of how shit this shit situation is consider this:

Mrs Mac had secured employment in Surrey and was due to relocate herself and her daughter from Strathaven to Chez Waterman.

Like, next week.

Oh the prospect of my house becoming a home again with the sound of a family echoing within its walls rather than the silence created by a single father and a Staffordshire Bull Terrier (there is also a seventeen year old daughter but she makes little noise from her bed where she seems to spend most of her time).

Oh the prospect of coming home to freshly cooked food that ensures the ingesting of five a day rather than stopping at the kebab shop for a large doner with chilli sauce.

That plan has now changed and Mrs Mac remains unemployed and a resident of a far away land where men wear skirts and women have a heirarchical system based upon the number of their remaining teeth. This is a direct result of the shit situation I am now in.

It seems the silence and kebabs are to continue for some time yet.

But at least the blog is back up and running. Shit though it might be.

Laters.