Everything's A Rush

Everything's a rush today. I try to get up earlier but it's just not possible to get up before around 10.30am on a Saturday. I have to cram in half-an-hour training with MD, as it's only weekends that we get the daylight to do anything in the garden. Then the boys need wearing out on the park, so that we can go out tonight. Dogs dealt with, I have to collect my bike. I end up in a long but useful discussion with the mechanics and the sales people at the bike shop. We conclude that I need two new bikes! One that will cope with the winter weather, they recommend a cyclocross bike which admittedly looks the deal and a snip at £800... Also one for my races. They agree with me that it has to be carbon and they have the Trek Madone on offer at only £1950. Now I feel dizzy. Best get saving.

Then I hotfoot it to the match. For once, its worth it, and we get the rare treat of a Derby win.

I head home and L has been good enough to pick up Cycling Weekly for me, which has a list of all this year's Sportives in it. You never know, I might be tempted, if I get my Madone or something similar. Then it's back over to Derby on the bus, we have a gig tonight.

I never used to bother much with support bands because they never seemed much good but these days, almost everyone we see has something going for them, as do tonight's Official Secrets Act, a four-piece from North London.

That said I can't quite make my mind up about lead singer Tom Charge Burke, who looks a little spaced out in a Pete Doherty sort of way, oh dear, so I'm sure he'll be a star. Meanwhile his bass player looks like a refugee from Adam and the Ants with his war paint splashed across his face and his frilly shirt, as he prowls the stage with a definite sense of purpose, as do the whole band.

They are all decked out in white shirts, which meets with L's approval. Damn, I'm in a t-shirt and fleece tonight, well it is pushing freezing outside and we're stood under a big ventilation fan.



The band warm us up, although I feel they start slow, L disagrees. The more they play, the more I like them and the more confident I think they get. Its basically typical indie guitar pop but clever, modestly paced and more melodic than most. They're like... oh I don't know, the Futureheads meets the Associates. Something like that. Their set is impressive and slick, something I feel they've honed over a period of time. At one point, the keyboard/second guitarist swaps places with the drummer, showing the range of skills they have.

Somebody in the bar is selling CD's for £2 but we didn't hear whose CD is it, we wonder briefly if it was the Official Secrets Act but they tell us their debut album is imminent but not out yet. Anyhow, it couldn't have been them, too darn good for £2. Somehow, I can't see the Official Secrets Act staying a secret for long.

Then its fellow London boys and headliners, The Rakes, who I've not seen live in a couple of years. After a more melodic spell with their second album 'Ten New Messages' they now seemed to have reverted to type, to the punchier sound of their more successful debut 'Capture/Release'. The Rakes briefly made it big on the back of that album but now they're back in smaller venues again.

They preview us half a dozen new tracks from their forthcoming third album 'Klang' and open with new single '1989' which on first listen doesn't seem to be the strongest of the new bunch. Then it's old favourite 'Retreat' and as frontman Alan Donohoe judders around the stage, Ian Curtis style, the crowd get livelier and livelier. It seems he went to the same dance school as Maximo's Paul Smith but obviously skipped even more lessons than Mr Smith did.



No matter, their sound is what the assembled throng came for and although possibly overdone with drums, their tunes, awash with prickly guitars, go down well. The two bouncers have real problems keeping the crowd surfing down to a level that might, on a very good day, by a blind inspector, get their Health and Safety certificate renewed. Even some of the more melodic moments, such as 'When Tom Cruise Cries', are scruffed down tonight. Then there's the speed they play out, racing through a set of, I think, 14 tracks in around 40 minutes to a room full of sweaty indie students plus L, me and few other eccentrics.

So it's a short, sharp set and far too soon they are departing the stage after introducing their longest track, close on four minutes of a rousing 'The world was a mess but his hair was perfect'. Has to be long, in order to get the title in.

They return for three more, closing with a terrific 'Open Book' and finally of course 'Strasbourg'.

The highlight of the bus trip home is a girl debating with the driver about what was the most appropriate ticket for her to get, seeing as she was hoping to not be coming home later but you know, just in case... Just my opinion love, but I'd say you're a bit of an optimist. I'd get the day return if I was you.

Love/Hate Relationships

L offers to let me borrow her 'dreaded' bike, as she calls it, but I couldn’t deprive her, I know how much she enjoys riding it, not, but the world thrives on love/hate relationships. It's just like the one she has with the collies. Instead, I bus in with the intention of running home.

I hope it comes across in my blog that I'm a big fan of the apostrophe, in particular the possessive apostrophe. Not so Birmingham City Council who are removing them from all their street signs. This is despite the fact, that they freely admit, that 'we are constantly getting residents asking for apostrophes to be put back in' but they felt that they had to make a decision one way or another, to end decades of debate over the issue... Well yes but as usual, a council has made the wrong call and has at the same time gone against the wishes of its electorate. As for ending the debate, well obviously it won't, it'll just ignite it further. Wouldn't it have been easier for them to employ someone with GCSE English to advise them?

So spare a thought for the druid who gave his name to Druid's Heath in Birmingham because people will now presumably assume that there was once not one druid up there on the now renamed Druids Heath but a whole clan of them.

Last time I ran from work, I was a bit late getting home, so I pre-warn L, so that she doesn't worry about whether I’ve ended up under a bus or something similar. For a start, I’ll be on the bus, at least part of the way, and it would be terribly bad luck, not to mention extremely annoying, if the bus, having dropped me off, then ran me over.

We can't seem to get five minutes to ourselves in our house tonight and by the time we do, it’s a bit too late to do the planned jaunt to the pub in Beeston. So, it's down the local tonight instead.

The Morning Commotion

When the alarms ring out in our house it's quite a performance. I have my radio alarm, L has her watch alarm which is set to seemingly constant repeat whilst Daughter has well... her radio alarm, her mobile phone alarm and a travel alarm clock all set, there might even be more than that. Son relies on luck and other people. So I'm sure that most of our street are awake by 6.30, apart from Son... and MD who likes to sleep in before a hard days hellrazing.

As the commotion kicks in this morning, L tells me she's quite surprised to wake up at all. She's been feeling a bit under the weather but she kept that to herself, I would have definitely snogged her a bit harder last night had I known, germs or not.

After the surprise of being alive, things seems to keep getting better for her and when she got to work, someone had left a chocolate bar on her desk. Naturally I assumed this was meant for me and that she would be bringing it home later intact but apparently not, she's eaten it. Which she'll regret later. I could have saved her from all that.

Today we try out a new lunch venue, where all meals are usually an expensive, for lunch, £9.95 but as a credit crunch special it's BOGOF, so not a bad deal. The sausages and mash was huge and took some dealing with but I coped. The beer wasn't great though, Bombardier, Pedigree or Deuchars. True they had XXXB but I didn't want to nod off at my desk.

Squash isn't worth mentioning but this is. My opponent makes wine and needs 200 bottles for his latest project. I'm not sure if wine making on such a scale makes him a professional vintner or not. Anyhow, he wants me to save all my old wine bottles for him. No problem. Except that, he only wants proper wine bottles, the ones that take corks. Until recently only your £3 a bottle stuff had screw tops but now corked bottles are becoming an endangered species. The other night we opened one of my old favourites, a South African Pinotage and now they're doing that in a screw top. What's the world coming to? Must be Gordon Brown's fault, everything else is.

Back home for Macaroni cheese and red wine, which is a bit low tech but very nice all the same and hopefully it'll give me some cracking dreams.

No Pressure

I suppose it's a compliment but The View have pinched my review of their gig. It's been edited but at least they did credit it to me and put up a link.

Mid morning, the bike shop call. Seems I'm getting that new bike I've been longing for after all. Only problem is it's going to look like my old one. The 6,700 miles (I've kept count) that I have done on my bike have taken their toll and I've worn both the wheels out. So two new wheels, new brake callipers (too much road salt) and yet another new cassette are required. Expensive but still a lot cheaper than actually buying a new bike.

Daughter looks well creased at the moment, a heavy workload at school among other things. She's got an interview for college this afternoon, so I hope she doesn't nod off in it. It wouldn't really give the best impression. Then this evening we have her parents evening, although she's not required for that, because we wouldn't be able to talk about all her bad points if she was there. Of course, she doesn't really have any bad points...

L bikes to parents evening and apologies to me for being all scruffy. Not a problem, I reckon she does scruffy pretty well. It all goes well. I reckon Daughter has been round all the teachers slipping everyone a backhander because they're nearly all full of praise for her. So it's well worth going but as a consequence, I miss my swim. Of course, L can't resist telling me that she did another 40 lengths this morning. She's trying to outdo me and succeeding.

So on to tonight's Crufts team training, where it's confirmed that Doggo and I will run first. We tried different permutations but bearing in mind the hate/hate relationships between some of the dogs, the sequence with us first worked best. So if we cock it up, then it's all over for the rest of the team, before they even start. No pressure then.

I must confess to a naughty bedtime whisky tonight. No my fault, it was medicinal for L's cold. I'm fine but no one likes to drink alone.

Hold On To Your Hats And Your Breakfast

I've decided that there's much to be said for not running in the morning but instead running at night. For a start, I get an extra half an hour in bed, that's as well as feeling more up for it later on, when it's lighter and warmer. So I get the bus into Derby city centre, wearing my running kit (for later), ignoring the disapproving side glances.

Then I do a gentle jog from the city centre to work, which isn't promising because my knees feel positively arthritic.

It's survey time again, and this is truly shocking, so hold on to your hats and your breakfast. Wait for it... Doner kebabs are unhealthy. There you go, bet you never saw that one coming.

Officials from 76 councils sampled a total of 494 kebabs to test their nutritional value. I hope they entered into the spirit of things and got legless first because no one buys a kebab when sober. They're simply not edible if you are.

Under the supermarket 'traffic light' system, all the lights would turn red because they discovered that the average doner contained almost 1,000 calories and contained 98% of an adult's recommended daily salt and 148% of their daily saturated fat allowance.

L emails to say she's sloshed from the lunchtime leaving do she's been to. She doesn't mention if she's hit the kebabs yet.

Despite treating her liver to another dose of happiness, she still manages a run in the evening with Doggo, whilst I take MD to his class.

Wielding His Spanner In The Last Chance Saloon

6am and time for the now potentially semi-regular Monday morning run. We go around the pond but it's so muddy that we come back along the road, much to Doggo's disgust. MD is also a bit peeved that I don't let him off. I'm not risking letting that skittish creature off in the dark.

Once at work, an email comes through from L bragging that she's also done 40 lengths in the pool, on top of the run, and is therefore one up on me as the day stands. She’ll be well up on me by the end of the week. I'm faced with three days in the car and no swim this week. :-(

L's been for a bit of a health check and her GP tells her she's officially 'very fit'. Which is good news. 'Bring on the crunchy nut cornflakes', she says. Ugh. Not sure that would have been my first thought. Also apparently, even her liver is 'happy'. Whatever that means. I doubt mine is but I didn't know you could get it checked so easily, I'll have to have mine done. So it's a celebratory glass of red tonight then, she's obviously keeping her units too low, unless that is, her GP means her liver is happy because she's keep it so well oiled.

L takes her work home at lunchtime, so that she can be there for when the gasman comes to 'not' fix the boiler again and because he's there to 'fix' the heating it needs to be broken (e.g. off) when he comes, so L's a touch cold because the dogs have naturally demanded that the kitchen door be wide open. When the man arrives, I hope he realises that he's wielding his spanner in the last chance saloon but of course, he fails to fix it yet again.

Later, I take both dogs to Doggo's class and then come home to watch the rest of The Deer Hunter, which we started to watch last night. It's supposed to be a classic film but, just as it did when I watched it the first time years ago, it left me rather underwhelmed.

Right Up My Street

There's extra training for MD this morning. Walking the plank, recalls over some small hurdles and running around some poles. After which he still has some energy left for a vigorous ball session on the park.

We come across an odd but appealing sight whilst on the cold and frosty park. There's a girl involved in what appears to be a genuine photo shoot. Unfortunately, it's a touch chilly and she's being photographed half-naked. Brrr. Although the hot breath from the large crowd, that has understandably assembled, might warm her up. I assume it's a genuine shoot but fair play to the male photographer for pulling it off if it isn't.

I'd quite like to watch some FA Cup football on TV but as usual ITV has picked the most uninteresting games possible. So I also miss the draw for the next round but find out later that in the unlikely event of us winning the replay against Forest we'll be playing at home to Manchester United again. Not really any motivation is it?

In the evening we're at the cinema. 'Slumdog Millionaire' has been billed as the 'feel good movie of the decade', which, as far as I'm concerned, is the kiss of death. I usually cross to the other side of the street and avoid anything remotely 'feel good'. Doom, gloom and depressing is my thing. The trailers also tried to put me off the film but then trailers usually do but I'd read some great things about the film, so I persevered with my intention to see it.

Jamal Malik is an uneducated young boy from the shanty towns. He works as a chai-wallah in a Indian call centre and he somehow flukes his way onto the Indian version of 'Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?', where despite being patronised by the show's host he gets question after question correct because his real life experiences, shown in flashback, give him the answers. They are also asked, conveniently, in the same order as his life story... which is just one of several liberties the plot takes, such as how did a poor boy from the slums who spoke only Hindi for the first half of the film learn to speak English so well? But we'll gloss over them.



As the show ends for the day, with Jamal one question away from the big prize of 20 million rupees the local police arrest him and accuse him of cheating. The officers don't simply question him though they use various horrific means of torture, suffocating him in water, electrocuting him etc etc, to try and extract the 'truth' from him.

So as you can see, so far, it isn't remotely 'feel good', so it scores heavily with me on that score, and it doesn't get any more upbeat. In fact, at times, it's very disturbing. There's a lot of violence and abuse in the film, most of which is towards children. His mother is bludgeoned to death by anti-Muslim extremists' right in front of his eyes. Jamal tangles with a beggars' racket, whose perpetrators blind and maim young children to increase their begging potential. Amongst all this, he falls for Latika, a girl he is destined to love and lose, several times over. Having escaped the racketeers, he and his brother Salem return to rescue her from the jaws of forced prostitution. Whilst Jamal stays relatively on the straight and narrow, Salem has ventured into the underworld and becomes a gangster. Salem shoots dead the leader of the beggars' racket and rescues Latika. Hurrah. Cheers Bro. Then he tells Jamal to get lost, deflowers Latika himself and then gives her to his boss....



I've never been to India but I'm not sure the tourist board will be terribly happy with this film. It doesn't do the country any favours, showing a country, that has one of the world's most successful economies, as a thoroughly depressing, morally bankrupt place, dominated by corruption, even on quiz shows. Whether this is an accurate reflection or not, and I assume not, it's still a cracking film and of course there are plenty of nasty films about western culture around.



There's humour too and shades of director Danny Boyle's Trainspotting as a young Jamal dives into a public latrine in order to meet a Bollywood actor.

The ending was a little disappointing. Having survived the brutal police interrogation and been reunited with Latika, who in another plot hole has, despite being a 'kept' woman, somehow learned to drive. Jamal should have gone on the show for the final question, stuck two fingers up at the obnoxious host, who even gave him the wrong answers, and said 'F*** you, I'll take the money'.



To sum up. Pure fiction, not at all feel good but right up my street. Oh and I thought everyone knew the names of the Three Musketeers?

After the film we head off for a gym session where I struggle to get up to my usual pace on the treadmill, even when L goes on the stepper right in front of me, or perhaps that's the problem. My rowing is good though, a storming 1000m.

Better When (Almost) Sober

After loitering in bed with L for a while, I get up to make MD walk the plank a few times. Otherwise known as 'dog walk' training before taking the boys on park. MD really seems to enjoy our ball games there and is becoming as much of a nag as Doggo, to go there when it's the weekend.

Then I part with my pride and joy, no not MD, not Doggo, nor L... my bike! I take it to the bike shop where it'll reside for a week, whilst they sort out my traction problems. So it's, either a lot of running next week, steal L's bike or get the old dinosaur out.

We're at the Rescue Rooms in the evening and we arrive just in time to get an ace spot on the balcony, as support band the Mutineers take the stage.

On their Myspace page they list a load of influences that should have rocked my boat but as band they simply don't. David Bowie, The Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen, Talking Heads, The Smiths, New Order, The La's ... Duffy wasn't among them but I reckon if Duffy fronted an indie band, they would sound like these boys. No, that's too cruel and anyway L points out that such a band already exist, they're called Keane. Good point. I retract that, I'd rather listen to the Mutineers than Keane any day but even so the Mutineers still don't light my fire.

It seems to get a good performance out of the The View, you need to keep them away from the booze. Which as reports of their various gigs show, isn't easy. A friend of mine trekked over to Birmingham to see them and was appalled at the shambolic and drunken performance that they gave that night.

What we didn't realise, was that tonight's one-off show is happening as way of an apology for what happened at their gig at the Bodega Social in October. Apparently, the band had been in the pub all day where everyone had recognised the lead singer Kyle Falconer and had been offering to buy him drinks, which of course he couldn't refuse. So by the time the gig commenced, he was so drunk that he barely managed two songs before he slumped to the floor in a drunken stupor. The gig was pretty much over before it had barely started and it was left to co-writer, bassist and occasional front man Kieran Webster to do the best he could without Kyle. Afterwards the band apologised, offered refunds and arranged tonight's performance by way of recompense.

It didn't look promising at the start tonight either, when Kieran took to the stage with a bottle in each hand, although thereafter he seems to be drinking orange juice, presumably with a quadruple vodka in it. Drummer, Steve Morrison arrived already shirtless, so at least he appeared hopeful of being on stage long enough to work a sweat up.

The crowd are already ritualistically chanting 'The View, The View, The View are on fire', as Kieran dedicates the opening 'Glass Smash' to everybody who was at the original gig. Then the pints go flying in the air and we're off and running. Well apart from the fact that they seem to have problems with one of the guitars and for a while, there are almost as many road crew on the stage as there are band members.



Next up their recent single '5 Rebeccas' and then the place erupts, cue more beer hitting the sky for, the impossible to sing along to, 'Wasted Little DJs'. Kyle seems to sing 'All out of our little f****** heads' without any hint of irony.

It's totally manic down the front, we watch from the safety of the balcony and are rudely lambasted for doing so by guitarist Pete Reilly. To think they were all once Catholic schoolboys or perhaps that's the problem.



In many ways, the band are still a little shambolic, disorganised and seem to argue among themselves on a regular basis but when they do get around to playing, it's rather good. Talent they certainly have. The set consisted mainly of old favourites from the 'Hats Off To The Buskers' album with a few newbies thrown in from their upcoming and snappily titled 'Which Bitch?' album.

Kyle may not be so intoxicated tonight, although it's hard to tell with that mop of hair lapping across his face, but it's still a case of phrase books at the ready. That is if you wish to understand his thick Dundee brogue. There's plenty of nigh-on incomprehensible banter, which adds to the ambience, but it's the music we came for and tonight with a set full of jangling indie tunes, The View are everything pop should be. Fast, furious, fun and almost sober.

Both Kyle and Kieran were excellent when they took lead vocals. The pair of them are quite a contrast, they're almost a Gallagher-esk pair, particularly with one having to bail the other out occasionally. At least Kyle stays upright tonight, not so the fly on his jeans, which he seems to have problems keeping control of all night.

Then a real treat, a quick paced almost ska version of 'Up The Junction', which is excellent. Harking back to their days as a covers ban, when they apparently specialised in Squeeze and Sex Pistols covers, nice variety there.

Other highlights are a funky 'Skag Trendy' and an almost poignant 'Face For The Radio'. Then their new single 'Shock Horror' heats things up for a finale of 'Same Jeans' and then after a word from a chap, who was presumably 'the management', probably saying 'get a move on you've overran by at least 15 minutes', they close with a storming 'Superstar Tradesman'. Pete Reilly jumps in to join the crowd surfers as the crowd continue to chant 'The View are on fire'. Yep. Now boys, you can go off for a drink.

We too head off for a post-gig beer or three. L's been telling me that she's getting a bit bored of Leffe but she seems to put a brave face on it tonight.

On The Verge Of Disowning Me

It can be a bit difficult getting MD to walk in the mornings, he doesn't seem to like getting out of bed. L reckons this is because he takes after her side of the family. I think both dogs have quite a lot of her side of the family in them.

L runs in today and gets a good soaking, whilst I take the nice dry bus. I plan to run later. She reckons that when she runs, no one tries to run her over, unlike when she's on her bike. She's obviously not running in the right places, when I ran home last night through Sandiacre and Stapleford, I had about four attempts on my life. Drivers were continually coming at me from side roads/driveways etc, without a glance obviously.

After work, I run to my parents' house, from where I'll go off to the match. I'm hobbling a bit with a tight calf but I'm determined to run it off.

I think L is a bit surprised and also on the verge of disowning me for so embracing my ipod 'gadget' that tells me how far I've ran. I can see her point. I have always regarded running as an almost equipment-free activity compared with the amount of gear that is involved in some sports, like cycling. All you used to need is a decent pair of shoes... but... isn't technology a wonderful thing?

Tonight though, I'm tempted to mess with technology and falsify my weight on the gadget, by say doubling it, to see what Lance makes of that, if he pops up again. Now that would look like a serious number of calories burnt and a world record 10km time for a 22 stone man. In end though, I don't, and in any case, Lance doesn't put in an appearance.

Tonight I've had Paula. Paula Radcliffe that is but she doesn't say much and doesn't stay around long enough for us to compare injuries.

It has to be said it's a cracking FA Cup tie between Derby and Forest, if only all games involving the Rams were like that. Sadly they're not. Unfortunately, it ends in a 1-1 draw, so we have to do it all again at the other end of Brian Clough Way in ten days time.

Post match, I meet up with L and her brother in the Smithfield. A good post match plan if ever there was one. I was sure I'd need a stiff drink. Thankfully, there's Bramble Stout to drown my sorrows in. Which will do nicely.

Chipped The Right Way Up

The Red Arrow is my chosen method of travel today. 'Chosen' not being the right word, without my bike these decisions are being almost thrust up on me. I have my running kit with but instead of running to work, I plan to run home instead. As it's raining when I catch the bus, it's not a bad call. Whilst L, the hardened cyclist, is on her bike again.

Derby may have pushed Manchester United close (ish) in their Semi-final on Tuesday but Burnley came even closer to beating Tottenham last night.

Just what is the situation with the away goals rule? Burnley were
4-1 down from the first leg but were 3-0 up on the night at full time and had the away goals rule been applied, as it is in European games, they would have been through. However, in the League Cup, away goals only count after extra-time, during which Burnley conceded two late goals.

I really can’t keep up, I know they've abolished the away goals rule completely in the two-legged play off semi-finals (no idea why) and now a friend of mine is asking if they count in the prestigious Johnsons Paints Trophy semi-final, where his team, Scunthorpe, are 2-0 up after the first leg. Probably they do, but when, who knows, perhaps only if the scores are level after penalties...

As 5pm approaches, the weather seems to be brewing up a storm, out of spite. It obviously has it in for both of us, L on her bike and me running.

I run the 2.5km to Chaddesden, with my gadget working beautiful now that I'm chipped the right way up. Then I get a rather crowded and very late R4 as far as Stapleford before running the remaining distance home, which turns out to be a further 7.5km. So a rather convenient 10k run. As I stop my Ipod and put my key in the front door, Lance Armstrong leaps out of my iPod to tell me that 'I've burnt some serious calories there'. I'm a tad shocked to hear Lance, to say the least, and especially with his obsession with calories. What about the time Lance? Don't you think that was rather good too? and just who else is lurking with you inside my Ipod? I'm a touch worried about using it now, who will pop up to offer congratulations or possibly even abuse next?

We have a meeting for Daughter's ski trip tonight where we're expecting the red carpet treatment and lots of grovelling as the school have increased the price by 10%. Yep, it's that tired old 'credit crunch' excuse again. So it's very disappointing not even to get offered the coffee and biscuits that they served us at the last meeting. I suppose they'd say they have to cut back; it's the credit crunch you know...

I walk the dogs back from the meeting, doing heelwork all the way. MD is rather good at this. It was never this easy with Doggo.

The Not To Be Trusted Two-Wheel Thing

I leave the not to be trusted two-wheel thing at home, a sentiment that L would agree with or in her case anything at all that has wheels. Instead, I run into work, where my new Ipod gadget malfunctions and refuses to track my distance. It really isn't my week. That apart, it wasn't a bad run. Still a bit icy underfoot though. Despite that, L, the brave girl, is on her bike again.

I look on the internet to see if there are any clues posted there as to why my gadget isn't working. Someone suggests getting the chip correct way up on your shoe... yep, that does the trick.

I know I really shouldn't analyse the Brit Awards; it's just not worth it. I mean, that Duffy character is incredibly popular; her album was (inexplicably) the biggest-selling album last year and as for Coldplay, well...

But someone tell me how Scouting For Girls can be up for best live act. True they nearly got an award off me, in my top gigs of the year list, but they were vying for bottom spot with the Hoosiers and it was a very very close decision but they narrowly lost. Sorry lads.

The nominations for the international category are a very different story: - AC/DC, Fleet Foxes, The Killers, Kings of Leon and MGMT, now there some quality there. When compared with the UK nominees it makes it look as though British music is in a bad way, which couldn't be further from the truth.

Talking of music, we can now all sleep easy in our beds tonight because it’s arrived, Daughter's new Ipod. Now she can stop nagging me. Please.

I get the Red Arrow back to Nottingham and then run to the pool, carrying my kit in my rucksack, which isn't as hard work as I expected. The pool is again manic. One thing about not using my bike, it means I'm going to get a lot of running miles in.

Jolly Ice

L describes it as 'jolly icy' this morning. She had promised to tie me to the bed if it was icy to stop me getting on my bike but I was lying there for ages, waiting but no, nothing and I was so looking forward to it. It was left to the dogs to do their usual trick of pinning me down.

The lid has broken on my thermal flask and looks beyond repair. It was rubbish anyway, it annoyed me, it was incredibly hard to drink out of but I don’t think there are any better ones on the market. I have a smaller metal one that I use for dog shows, so I try that instead. I find a use for an old sock (washed) and wrap that around the flask to stop it rattling.

The problem with that flask, as I soon find out, is that it's far too efficient. My drink stays way too hot and I have to drink most of it after I've arrived at work which wasn't really the point. As for the jolly ice, I didn’t see any. I must have been going that fast I just skimmed over it.

The way home is even more eventful. In fact, I think my bike is trying to tell me something e.g. 'get the bus'. I suffer from a chronic lack of traction in my gears again and eventually I give up before I end up stranded in the middle of nowhere. The R4 bus takes my bike and me back to Nottingham. Where once I get off the bus and back on the bike, my gears are fine again but clearly not to be trusted.

Then it's back over to Derby for MD's second training class, this week with a lot more agility. He gets to walk the plank (dog walk) and bomb in and out of the tunnel. Not exactly coordinated yet but he seemed to enjoy himself.

Again, as last week, we drop Daughter off at L's parents and L runs with Doggo. We reconvene there where the second leg of Derby's semi-final against Manchester United has reached half time. United have pulled back their first leg deficit and some more. Derby are 3-0 down. So game over really but a final flourish rescues the situation a little, we lose 4-2 on the night 4-3 on aggregate and only one goal from potentially taking it into extra time and an away goals win.

Former Favourite Haunts

We've decided to try to take the dogs for a morning run on a Monday, partly to vary their routine for them. Of course, it will also do us good. Naturally, this morning dawns wet, so we skip the pond, which will be a quagmire and stay on the roads. There isn't really anywhere more exciting to take them. Exciting, otherwise known as Wollaton Park, is locked in the mornings.

The morning run, on top of last nights bashing that the treadmill gave me, means I'm close to nodding off on the way to work. Thankfully, it's nose to bumper traffic all the way, so it wouldn't have been disastrous had I done so, just embarrassing holding the queue up while I snooze.

L keeps trying to talk Son into doing some exercise, which is a bit of an unheard of concept for teenage boys. It was even in my day, unless you played football. She keeps trying to get him to the gym, which I reckon is an unheard of concept for men in general. There’s only two reason guys go to the gym, either their Doctor’s told them to or they’re trying to pull one of the customers/staff or possibly I suppose, if they've been silly enough to enter another duathlon, like I have.

One of our favourite haunts has become a victim of the credit crunch; Scruffys has closed. I have little sympathy for the Derby Road one after its shocking pink makeover and the removal of dark Leffe took away all of the reasons to go there. We did instead occasionally visit the Stoney Street one, which was still excellent, non-pink and always busy but just the wrong side of town for us.

Hopefully, someone will buy the Derby Road one and scruff it down again. Although it'll take something to wrestle back the trade it has lost to the Ropewalk.

I take both of the dogs to class tonight because L is out on the pull in Derby, black tights and all. After class, I head over to pick her up and take her home, before anyone else does.

Gentle Exercise

One those ridiculous 5am alarm calls, then Doggo and I go over to rendezvous with a fellow dogger for the drive up to a cold and damp Accrington. Doggo gets to ride in a cage, which I didn't think he would like, but he's fine. There's no room to take MD as well, so he has to stay at home with L, where we expect the lonesome pup to sulk and basically be a pain all day. As it turns out, I don't think neither Doggo nor I are missed.

We chalk up three clears out of four runs but none are good enough for a placing at our now illustrious level. In our first Olympia qualifier at that level, where the top ten qualify, we don't even scrape into the top twenty-five, such is the standard of competition. The third clear was in pairs and our partner demolished half the course, which was why we didn't get anything there.

On the fourth course we got 'eliminated' which was a shame because it was the sort of course we should have got something on. Tight and twisty with plenty of traps to catch out the other dogs. Unfortunately, one of those traps, a tricky 180 degree turn into the waves, caught us out.

I get home and everyone is going out. Daughter is off clubbing and Son has gone to watch Ice Hockey, not the Nottingham Panthers though but the much better looking, Nottingham Vipers, in which some of the girls from his college play. Looking at their website, there's plenty of reasons for extra study time there.

L and I go to gym. Where I do 5km at race pace on the treadmill and then, after a short break, another flying 1km at a bit above race pace. After which my legs feel totally gone, so I have a sit down on the rowing machine and do 1000m there. After which my arms have gone too. I leave L in the gym to go for a lie down and a coffee. They have a very nice new café there now but as its Sunday evening, it's shut, so I end up sitting on the floor having my coffee. A few chairs would be nice please.

I need to get some life back in my arms and some gentle exercise down the Johnsons Arms is called for. Then home for a late late Sunday lunch and lots of trifle, another of L's specialities.

This Is The Life

Daughter has for some time been working as an unofficial tester for all things mp3. Her main brief appears to be testing headphones for durability and she has tested and rejected, oh at least, 129 pairs. Not one pair has met the stringent standards she demands. Every time she twirls them around her head like a lasso or hits the puppy around the ears with them they break, which simply isn't good enough. I even considered getting her a six-pack of headphones for Christmas; such is the sheer quantity her testing programme forces her to get through. Well now, the Ipod itself has decided enough is enough and has given up the ghost, so I am tasked with ordering her a new one over the internet, which she will then reimburse me for.

First though as I lie in bed on a pleasant Saturday morning, it would be nice if someone fetched me the morning paper. 'Do I look like your slave?' Daughter replies when I politely ask if she will kindly do the deed, well no, she looks like someone who wants me to order an Ipod for them... so off my little slave trots to the paper shop. Ah, this is the life; I wonder how long I can string this out for. No long it seems, I am too soft and I order the blessed Ipod. If I was Apple I'd refuse to let her have another one, it'll only get their product an unreliable name.

I need to take the dogs on the park but first I need to do some homework with MD. After a very fraught hours training during which time Doggo has to be shut inside because he gets so in the way, we finally make it on to the park. On the way I attempt to get both dogs to walk to heel and, much to my surprise, it goes rather well.

Then it's the match and Nigel Clough's first game in charge. His team put in an inept performance which is down there with all our other inept performances this season, even by our low standards. It's not looking good. Our chairman is under the deluded impression that the players are actually good enough and that simply changing the manager will get them performing. We all know he’s wrong but by the time he realises it, it could be too late.

Later we head into town for a couple of pints and a film. We had intended to go see Slumdog but it's sold out at Broadway, so instead L talks me into one of her cranky specials, 'OSS 117: Le Caire nid d'espions (Cairo, Nest Of Spies)'.

Yep it's a French film and it's billed as a comedy/farce, which had me worried. I'm very sceptical about the French nation's capacity for humour. French comedies usually turn out to be, well, not funny.

I needn't have worried, OSS 117 was really amusing, not the out-loud belly laughs of the chap next to me. it wasn't that funny but funny it was. Although there were quite a few French speakers in the cinema and perhaps I missed some of the really funny French only jokes.

It's 1955 and a spy has disappeared while tracking a Russian cargo boat on the Suez Canal. They send his best friend, our hero (!), agent OSS 117 (Jean Dujardin), to find out what has happened. He takes over from the other agent as head of a poultry firm in Cairo, his cover whilst he's investigating. The problem is OSS 117 is in a country he doesn't understand and he proceeds to upset just about everyone with his arrogant and chauvinistic attitude.



What follows is a film that cannot be taken too seriously as it performs a rather clever parody of James Bond and other such characters. Jean Dujardin even looks a bit like Sean Connery and successfully copies many of the mannerisms of Connery's Bond. He's not a suave as Connery, although OSS 117 clearly thinks he is. Excellent stuff.



It all looks low budget but it's based on a series from back in the 1950's and looks just like something from the 50's should, it even has that washed out colouring of films of that era.



It doesn't have a great plot but then it doesn't really need one. Instead, almost every type of spy film is melded into one and we get a host of differing characters. There are Russian spies, former Nazis who don't seem to realise the war is over, then there's the local nationalists/fundamentalists/extremists (delete as applicable) and of course, in true James Bond style there's the local crumpet to bed. Step forward the sublime Bérénice Bejo... or not bed in OSS 117 case. There's a suspicion that he might 'bat for the other side' (had to get that one in, Daughter will understand), although he does appreciate a wonderful catfight between the two leading women where they tear clothes off each other. I had to avert my eyes obviously.



Agent OSS 117 sleepwalks through the entire investigation without ever beginning to understand anything but in the end solves it almost by accident... and is sent to Iran, to sort them out.

Stop Worrying And Enjoy Your Life

I'm on the bike again today and so is L but it's not me who has the 'incident'. She tells me she was a bit embarrassed when two young girls came to her rescue... can't see the problem personally.

What is more worrying is that L is talking about get panniers for her bike. That's as in those saddlebag type things, not those toasted cheese sandwich things you get from coffee shops.

A bus driver has apparently refused to drive his bus because it has the slogan, 'There's probably no God, now stop worrying and enjoy your life', down the side of it.



Why do religious people find other people's points of view unpalatable, yet they are usually more than happy to push their own views. Fair play at least to the Methodist Church who reckon it would be a good thing if the slogan gets people to 'engage with the deepest questions of life'. Exactly.

Perhaps someone should buy the bus driver one of these,



In the evening, we amble down to the Victoria and it is an amble, we're already late leaving and we don't get there until ten to ten. In truth, I probably wasn't expecting much on the beer front, so it was a bit of a downer to get a fantastically quaffable Blueberry Stout from Funfair and not enough time to drown myself in it.

They Took The Passion Out

Ran in today with my new Ipod gadget, which got the distance right this time, correctly indicating my run as just over 7km, I think that's pretty accurate. The weather wasn't great but somehow, I managed to avoid the worst of the rain.

L's back on the bike today, after she skipped a day yesterday because of the icy conditions. She probably made the right decision; if she’d had an ‘incident’; it would have put her off for good. Particularly as I find out that, a cyclist died yesterday after a collision with a car in Kirk Hallam, which is on my route. I wonder at first if it was someone I was on nodding terms with but it was early in the morning before I'm usually in that area, so it wasn't. Still not good news though.

This lunchtime we start the process of trying to replace the Flowerpot as our lunch venue, they still haven't got a replacement chef in. Our luck, as usual has gone to lunch without us, the Blessington's kitchen is closed for one day only, today. We ended up in the Seven Stars listening to Kelly Jones for a hour, the entire Stereophonics collection I think, and even then we only got a sandwich. That said the cheese and onion was good and traditional, strong chunks of cheddar, none of this grated rubbish.

I'm really looking forward to tonight at the theatre. 'Flashdance' was one of those movies that defined the early 1980's and among other things propelled the legwarmer to dubious stardom. It may not have been cool for a sixteen-year-old boy to like a film about dancing but I wasn't the only one.

Imitation is said to be the sincerest form of flattery and so many scenes from that film have been copied and parodied over the years. Now, twenty-five years on, further flattery arrives in the guise of 'Flashdance the Musical' at Nottingham's Royal Concert Hall, starring various minor soap stars and it even has a Nolan in it. We are four rows from the front and L has promised me plenty of thigh.

Everyone knows the plot, Pittsburgh girl Alex, a high school dropout, works among the blokes at the local steel mill as a welder and dances in a club at night.

Victoria Hamilton-Barritt who plays Alex, can sing and dance with the best of them but from the moment she removes her welders mask, I have a problem. Now this is probably a male thing but although she's got the hair, you can see straight away she's no Jennifer Beals and Jennifer Beals was Flashdance. Beals was your sexy girl next door, whom you could just about see as a welder but she made an unlikely dancer. Hamilton-Barritt with her perfect makeup is the opposite. She looks like a dancer or even a model, but you cannot imagine her living next door, let alone seeing her with an arc welder in her hand. Where as Beals spent the entire film in her scruffs and her lycra, Hamilton-Barritt spends almost the entire show in her designer jeans and as such seriously disappoints on the 'plenty of thigh' front.



I must say she's good in her part; it's just the wrong part. In fact, there are plenty of sound performances on the acting, singing and most certainly the dancing front, which was sharp, professional and well choreographed. Some of the characters were very well played, particularly the nightclub owners: - the bad guy, Dr Kool (Simon Harvey), and the good guy, Harry (Gavin Spokes).

The set was good too, with clever sliding panels to hide the scene changes. To further distract you they had soloists dancing across the stage while the scenery changed but I saw what they were up to.

Then there are those three memorable and heavily parodied scenes. First up, was what all the audience members who were 16-year-old boys in 1983 were waiting for. The notorious scene that suddenly all the girls were copying and frustrating boys everywhere with, where Alex casually removes her bra from under her baggy top whilst all the time carrying on her conversation with Nick, the nephew of the steel mill owner and soon to be her man. The scene works but it isn't as sexy because Hamilton-Barritt cheats, you can clearly see (from row four!) she has another bra on underneath.

Second up is the shower in the chair scene, its there but it's somehow unsatisfying, it seemed too short to me, too brief, not enough build up. After which we break for the interval, whilst they mop the stage down, we mop Daughter down after L unintentionally chucks red wine over her.

Part two and eventually, the memorable audition scene. This plays out well and enables Hamilton-Barritt to show off her dancing skills although the vocals to 'What A Feeling' are contracted out to others, most notably the girl who played Gloria, who's singing and acting is excellent throughout. Ah, Gloria, 'I think they got your number, I think they got the alias that you've been living under'. Quite. You weren't even called Gloria in the film were you?

They've renamed and rebranded her to fit the song. The waitress Jeanie, who aspires to be an ice skater but ends up working in a strip joint, skates to Laura Brannigan's Gloria. Not how the musical has it.



It's ok as musicals go but a lot of it just doesn't feel right and this is probably because a lot of the plot has been changed. In fact, the musical possibly overcomplicates the story. Whereas Nick loses an ex-wife, Alex acquires a mother, played by Bernie Nolan, who's possibly the best singer on show tonight, albeit in a small part. In the film, it was Alex's dance teacher who tried to persuade her to go for the dance audition and whose death it takes to jolt her into it, not her mother.

They've also ditched many of the original songs and replaced them with slower numbers that fit the plot, but they were incredibly cheesy and not very memorable. It's a shame, none of music in the film felt the need to fit the plot but it worked and whereas the film zipped along nicely at a rate of knots, the musical felt laboured to me. The film had energy but tonight only the finale of 'What A Feeling' had that buzz. Which is a bit like a band playing all their new material at the start and then saving the hits right to the end, it doesn't work.

It was still a fun night out but I'm sorry, I just don't like people messing with the plot or the songs. The song says 'take your passion and make it happen', well I think they took the passion out of this one.

The Thrill Of The Chase

On the way to work, I end up chasing a very nice tail. You could even describe it as foxy. Big and bushy it was, well ok, it was a fox. It was running down the road and I was gradually reeling it in. I could see I had it worried and then it did exactly what cyclists do when you're about to overtake them. It turned off, in this case disappearing into the hedgerow. Wimp.

I enjoyed the thrill of the chase and in fact the entire ride in, although I didn't think I was going to, all my limbs were a bit stiff after all that powering yesterday. Thankfully, L talked me into some loosening up exercises before I departed, which did the trick. I tell her how good my ride was but she doesn't understand what I mean, as far as she's concerned the words 'cycling' and 'enjoy' do not belong in the same sentence together.

It was a bit icy out but the main roads seemed ok. My work colleague who's just ditched his MTB in favour of a ‘proper’ bike made my mistake from before Christmas, used the ungritted pavement and slipped off. Twice. Ah, you don't get as much grip as you do with those MTB tyres.

As I sit having my first coffee of the day, I read on the internet that if you drink enough of the stuff could start seeing ghosts or hearing strange voices. Cool. If you also indulge in other caffeinated products such as tea (check), chocolate (check) or energy drinks (check), you're in trouble (check).

Some coffee addicts have reported seeing things that were not there, hearing voices, and sensing the presence of dead people or perhaps in extreme cases, foxes racing your bike down the road (check).

They say if you drink more than seven cups of coffee a day you are three times more likely to hallucinate than those who drink just one. Time for another one I think. Bring it on.

After work, I cycle to the pool, which is packed. In fact, they are limiting your time in the pool, not that I intend to be there for more than 20 minutes anyway. The least rammed lane is the fastest, lane one. I've not dipped a toe in there for a while. A first there's four of us, and then five. I am the slowest of all of them and it's absolutely knackering trying to keep up. I do my 20 minutes and crawl out of the pool.

We haven't got much in the cupboard at home, so I cook up some leftovers for tea. Turkey scraps and some ageing veg out of the fridge, heavily disguised with a few spices and loads of tomatoes. My hand slips with the chilli powder and I exit quickly to dog class before Daughter starts tucking in, I'm sure she'll kill me when she tastes how hot it is. Funnily enough later, L tells me that Daughter was full of praise for it and can I do it again... Is this a trap?

Tonight I swap back to dog number one because we have a special training session for our Crufts team. It’s pretty chaotic, lots of poor baton changes and a team member (dog) who insists on savaging the next dog on the start line. Thankfully, that's not us, Doggo and I run first (of four) this week, which might be how it happens at the event. Unfortunately, Doggo is about top of this dog's hit list and at our next training session in two weeks time we'll be shuffling the order and we'll probably try running second, so expect fireworks.

Time To Up Those Revolutions

It's not so much a resolution as a bid to up those 'revolutions' and I powered it in to work this morning. My times have really been tailing off in the last few months, I used to cycle to work in under 55 minutes but now it's generally taking me around the hour mark. I did better today and got it back down to 55 but it still needs work to get it down to my PB of just under 51.

Well that's it. I've arrived in John O'Groats. So on to the next challenge. L reckons it should be to emulate that chap on the much-played Orange adverts and cycle around the world.

Our star collie is understandably a bit tired this morning after his award winning performance last night and pretty much refused to walk, spending almost the entire walk biting his lead. I shall look forward to re-creasing him this evening, when he starts an obedience class with me.

L, and for that matter Daughter, has gone boots man recently. As in footwear, not the chemist. Not that I'm complaining, I like a girl in boots, so I ordered L another pair in the sales and they are delivered to work this morning. She's keen to try them out tonight. I'm keen for her to do so too, unfortunately I'm not sure how I'm going to get them home on my bike. I could wear them but I'd probably look at bit daft and they might be a bit mucky by the time she gets them.

I opt to stick with my cycling shoes and I get paced part way home by a work colleague. The resulting time, 51 minutes, is my best for ages and that's despite practically stopping to avoid a dog running the wrong way around the Asda roundabout. I hope it was alright, I couldn't really do anything to help it.

Then it's time for my first class with MD. We drop Daughter off at L's parents house who live near by, whilst L goes out for a run with Doggo, which is possibly to avoid another viewing of Mamma Mia which is apparently ready to roll in their DVD player.

Class goes well, although it includes a lot of heelwork. Something I haven't really attempted with MD but all credit to L, his stays, waits and recalls are all excellent. We also do some agility related stuff, which is the whole point of me going and I must say he looks promising.

A Symptom Of His Nerves

L's decided she's on her bike today and I have a feeling this might be my fault. I pointed out that it would get her fitter, no matter that's it's only a short ride and would also open up around an hour of her day, in travel time saved. Only problem is she's picked one of the foulest days of the year to do it, there's a howling wind and it's raining.

Well she makes it to work safely, without being blown away. It must have been a tail wind because she was emailing me before I'd even gotten around to sending an ‘are you alive’ message.

If that wasn't stressful enough, tonight will be. It's MD's exam at dog training and she's convinced they'll fail. Especially since she had severe words with him this morning when he was biting her shoes. I'm sure it was just a symptom of his nerves; it's the equivalent of L reaching for the Mingles or something. The whole scenario would have seriously increased tonight's alcohol intake, had it not been an AF night.

It seems to be a case of 'out with the old, in with the new' at Sainsbury's, staff wise. Perhaps it's a New Year's resolution of theirs to improve the quality of their checkout operators. After all good-looking friendly staff cost the same to employ as ugly miserable ones. They know it makes sense, though it did seem to generate some uneven queuing patterns, with the men anyway. I see one trusty staff member has escaped the cull, the grumpy old dragon at the end. They really need to address this, everyone avoids her till, despite the fact it has the shortest queue.

I have the afternoon off, as a man comes around to have another 'look' at our boiler. Yep, it still 'looks' like a big white box with pipes coming out of it. He scratches his head, pulls a few levers that I could have done myself, before saying 'see how you go with that' and disappearing. Two hours later, it breaks down again.

I have a last minute pep talk with MD. He seems very confident, I’m sure he'll get L through tonight. We do a bit of practice brushing and he's a saint.

Later, I drop them off about an hours walk away from their dog class. They're meeting up with a fellow dog owner and walking her, with her dog, to class tonight, to take the edges off the animals. Apparently, she's a youngster of 20-years-old. I don't know, one rule for L, one rule for me; I'd get into trouble if I did that sort of thing.

Well, during the test, MD attempts to savage a fellow examinee; another dog that is, the dislike is apparently mutual. What you would do in this situation probably varies depending on whether there's an examiner present or not. E.g. don't get violent towards the other dog. Presumably, L coped with the confrontation correctly, as they passed. I had every faith.

MD is more or less out for the count from the minute he gets home. In fact, everyone's knackered tonight, L's all examined out and Doggo's had a hard night at class too. So, I settle down to finish Chris Hoy, although hardly a literally classic, that's my first book of the year out of the way.

Over Confident With The Skittish One

A momentous occasion this morning, not only is it my first run of 2009, having been restricted by 'the cough' until now but it's also MD's first off-lead around the pond. Perhaps I'm being over confident with the skittish one but he loves it.

We have a lunch date in Derby at 'Le Bistrot Pierre', not quite as posh as it sounds, because today is my brother's 50th birthday. He's quite a bit older than me, so for a day at least I feel less of an old git. Although don't they say 50 is the new 30, whatever that means. My Mum and Dad get revenge on him for the big inflatable '80' he got them for their birthdays with a big 5-0.

We get the whole family out for such a significant occasion and as we chat, we find out that, surprisingly, Son backs up what Daughter said last night. He too prefers it when we go out on a Saturday night. He reckons we're a 'pain' when we stay in. Not sure, what he means, we rarely see enough of him to inflict any pain and he doesn't elaborate... it's so nice to be wanted.

Son also informs us that he still has plans to go to University, although he's not giving any assurances that this means he'll leave home. He seems keen to study something law related, which I'm sure would be good, even if he doesn't want to become a lawyer. As L points out the lad in 'The Reader' was a law researcher, which looked a cracking job, although the chance to study war crimes trials doesn't come around that often. There are other parallels, just like Son, he was also studying literature. So all Son needs now is his Kate Winslet, preferably without the Nazi uniform.

Staying In

Another early alarm call and another two and a quarter hour drive up to Preston. We're going up there that regularly for the dog shows it's starting to feel like a home fixture. L has got me a new book to 'read' on the way up, it's called 'White Russian' by Tom Bradby but so far there's no mention of any cocktails in it. She promises me plenty of death and on that, it delivers, opening with a double murder on a frozen lake in Russia.

It's minus four when we arrive at the show e.g. bloody freezing, hopefully it'll warm up later. Doggo uncharacteristically has a pole down in our first event, which probably means it was my fault. We are then clear in our remaining two runs but the standard is very high today and we come home empty handed. As we leave the car informs that it's now minus three, yep knew it'd warm up...

Derby's match at Cardiff is postponed due to a frozen pitch, so we don't get to find out how Nigel gets on in his first match. So now he's only got one league match and the simple matter of the second leg against Manchester United before we face Forest in the FA Cup. Meanwhile Forest's game is on and they're undergoing a bit of a dead cat bounce under their new manager, that mad Scotsman, and are catching us up in the league.

I get home more or less at the same time as L and Daughter who have been off doing girlie things such as mooching around shops in Chesterfield. Well at least that's what they tell me they've been doing.

Its cold out and I can see that L isn't keen to venture out tonight. I also can't be bothered to travel too far in search of some decent beer, so we make a revolutionary decision for a Saturday night and decide to stay in. It's so cold I'd never have got her to go out in anything slinky anyway and I'm hopeful that I'll see more of her if we stay in, particularly if I let her have the heating on.

The decision to stay in doesn't go down well with Daughter, who's well livid. She tries to persuade us to go out, even offering us money to buy a drink... we wonder if she's expecting someone!

It's A Good Job I Wasn't In The Middle Of A Duathlon.

Finally on the bike and what an eventful journey it turns out to be. All the local 'Stepford Wives' seem to have been received bigger and uglier 4x4's for Christmas. I expect the government will soon have to undertake an urban road-widening scheme to cope with the ever-increasing size of these monsters.

Problem number two is that I've forgotten to charge up the batteries for my bike lights over Christmas and as I cycle along I'm rapidly loosing power and hence visibility.

Then problem number three arises and I suddenly lose all traction. My bike just wouldn’t go into gear, any gear. I prodded it, poked it, swore at it, spoke nicely to it, kicked it etc, etc. Then frustrated I started to think about plan B and started to walk to find a bus, then suddenly it started working again. Bizarre. It's a damn good job I wasn't in the middle of a duathlon.

I'm sure it's all designed to stop me reaching my goal, John O'Groats. Well, it's not going to work; I'm now over the bridge across the Dornoch Firth with just 55km to go.

Oggy turns up today but shows no remorse for standing me up yesterday.

In the evening, we play chauffeur for some friends who are off to a show at the Arena. In between, dropping them off and picking them up, we pop to Broadway to check out Steven Soderbergh epic 'Che'. Well part one anyway; the original four-hour film has been cut into two parts. The first part is known as 'The Argentine'. Fingers crossed, if they keep the adverts to a minimum we should be on time to pick them up afterwards.

'Che: Part One' is probably best described as a 'slow burner'. So don't have a pint before it and one during it, as I did. Also, don't tire yourself out cycling to and from work, as I did, because you might miss vital batches of subtitles if you briefly rest your eyes. Another vital tip is don't choose a cinema that is full of restless folk with weak bladders; apart from the icy draft you get from an ever open door, you are also liable to miss more of those vital subtitles as people block the screen on their way back to their seats. It's certainly a popular film; everyone must have come to find out more about the man on that famous t-shirt. They may well go home disappointed.

The story opens with Ernesto 'Che' Guevara at a dinner party in Mexico where he meets Fidel Castro for the first time. Castro convinces Guevara to turn his back on a career as a doctor and instead join his '26th of July Movement'. Guevara is then heavily involved as Castro's men invade Cuba with the aim of removing the United States backed dictator Fulgencio Batista.



The film is shot a bit like a 'fly on the wall' documentary but there is no narration, the only aid is a few titles flashed on screen indicating the date and the place. As the revolutionaries march across Cuba, reading literature, puffing on cigars and occasionally spouting a bit of revolutionary wisdom, Soderbergh leaves the viewer to fill in the missing bits themselves. It's not a film that educates me about Guevara as I had hoped and it means that you really need a good grasp of the facts before you go. I guess this accounts for a lot of the restlessness in the cinema.



Guevara goes on to play a key role in the two-year guerilla campaign, that eventually achieves its aim. He rises through the ranks and becomes 'Comandante'. The film shows us a lot of battles along the way but never in any great detail and it becomes increasingly difficult to grasp the overall picture. Often I can't quite see what the army are doing, or trying to achieve. Often when the guerilla warfare threatens to get interesting, we skip off to see Guevara years later, at the United Nations. Then when we return, we are some place else but we don't really know why we are there or again, quite what is happening.

Overall, despite the confusion, it's a beautifully shot film and I grow to like Guevara the man. The film paints him as quite a nice guy and as a rebel with a cause. He even gets a bit of eye candy among his revolutionaries with the arrival of Aleida, his future wife.



The film redeems itself in last twenty minutes or so, as it picks up the pace and gets more absorbing. The story stays in the 'present' and concentrates on the battle for 'Santa Clara'. This was the decisive victory of the campaign, after which Batista fled Cuba and Castro's forces claimed overall victory.



I was really looking forward to this film but found it quite unsatisfying. If you know all about Guevara then I imagine you'll love it because you'll be able to follow it, if you don't, then like me, you're in trouble. It did at least inspire me to find out more about Guevara, so I went away and looked up all the details but I'm not sure how many of the audience will be bothered to do that. It will be interesting to see how full the cinema is for part two.

More Gives You More

Doggo's eye is improving. Which is good news, I need him fit for Saturday. Can't see him being able to judge those hurdles very well with only one eye.

After last nights free scarf debacle, Derby County promise that anyone who didn't get one can pick one up from the club shop as long as they have a match ticket. They are as good as their word but it could end up costing them a lot in scarves because all of the 30,000 people who had tickets could in theory turn up to claim one, irrespective of whether they got one last night. In fact, it could be more than that because they didn't mark my ticket to say I'd got one, so I could go back again tomorrow. If I went back often enough, I could start up my own market stall.

So now the Oggy van deserts us, we'll soon be having to eat each other out here in the middle of nowhere in the Pride Park desert. I embark on the long trudge across the wilderness to Sainsbury's.

Pity this poor skier, who was left dangling from a chairlift after he became stuck upside-down with his trousers round his ankles. Jolly embarrassing and potentially some nasty frostbite.



Squash and I lose 3-1 but it could have been so different had the first game, that ended up 17-15 gone my way.

For some unknown reason, at the leisure centre we are now being directed to the women's changing rooms, whilst the women are being directed to the men's. Now can somebody please explain to me the point behind that?

I've now had the 'pleasure' of getting changed in both, so I know that the only difference is that one has urinals and the other doesn’t, and of course the women now have custody of these. Which begs the question what are they going to do with them? Unless there's some other obscure reason, that they've vacated the women's... I check for holes in the wall, the absence of heating, hidden cameras etc, even for large spiders but there's nothing. Well bemused.

Perhaps we'll find the answer in 'More' magazine. I get home and catch L reading Daughter's copy of said magazine, a least I assumed it was Daughter's. Typically, she's on the problem page. I confiscate it naturally. Fascinating stuff and there's a regular feature called 'position of the week', road tested and rated not only by their readers, who send in photographic proof but also by Ken and Barbie (the dolls). I kid you not. There's almost as much bare male flesh in More as there is bare female flesh in Son's 'Gamesmaster' magazine and in case you haven't read 'Gamesmaster', let me tell you that's a lot.

We retire to bed, still pondering 'More' magazine. I bet none of their readers have to worry about getting a collie in shot as they take their photographic evidence.

Time For A Celebratory Pint

L's looking and feeling a lot better this morning, well she doesn't reject my advances anyway. I'm still in the car partly because of my cough that just won't take the hint and go away but also because of the logistics of having the big match tonight.

At least I should get some sport in later this week, its squash tomorrow and then hopefully I should be able to bike on Friday. I'm desperate to get something in, some activity of some sort.

Just as I'm leaving work L texts to say that Doggo has a poorly eye and she's rushing home to tend to him. I'd planned on staying in Derby and going straight to tonight's big semi-final but now I'm all primed to head home for a vets trip. Thankfully, L reports back that's its not too bad now that she's bathed it for him. I begin to wonder whether MD has slotted him one.

So to the match, where our new manager is watching from the stands, the Academy coach is in charge tonight, Nigel officially takes over tomorrow.

Derby try and treat the fans to a free programme and a scarf tonight but as usual mess up the execution of it. They dispense with the usual programme sellers and instead have two places outside the stadium where they are being dispensed, cue massive queues and disappointment as they run out of scarves. I had to queue for twenty minutes just for a programme, I would happily have paid for one and not had to queue! Why didn't they give them out at the turnstiles or simply put them on the seats? Thankfully tonight the team aren't as disorganised.

Manchester United turn up as expected with half a team of youngsters but they still put out more first teamers than I thought they would. Their passing is impressive at first but gets them nowhere and then even their passing falls apart as Derby take charge.

Kris Commons scores a belter on 30 minutes and Derby come close to getting a second on several occasions. With an hour gone, enter the United cavalry - Rooney and Ronaldo. Ronaldo goes very close with a free kick, if he hadn't been blinded by the floodlights reflecting off his own green boots her might have got it in. As for Rooney you wouldn't have known he was on the pitch.



Derby are good value for their 1-0 win, it should have been more. It's just a shame we have to have a second leg in two weeks. Lots of credit is due to David Lowe, the Academy coach and to the departed Chris Hutchings, who devised the strategy and the team for tonight. For once, they looked organised and played with purpose.

Time for a celebratory pint me thinks and to check on the patient at home.

Making Plans For Nigel

My alarm goes off at 5.15am and I start the long journey down to the other end of the world, thankfully I'm not driving. The M11 is shut which nicely takes the journey over five hours.

We arrive hoping to salvage a project from which one of the three main protagonists has just 'left by mutual consent', to coin a football phrase. Which probably means he's been sacked but we're not sure. Another member of the team kicks off the meeting by telling us that he resigned yesterday... terrific, and then there was one. Don't you just love office politics. At least the journey back only took three hours but I still don't get home until 8pm.

I don't really understand it but a majority of the Derby supporters seem to have been getting all excited at the prospect of a former Forest stalwart becoming Derby's next manager. Personally, I thought this was a very distant prospect. Well, the big news today is that it's been confirmed that indeed they have given the job to Nigel Clough. I hope I'm wrong but I'm sure it'll end in tears.

I just don't think he has the experience for the job, having only managed at non-league level and even there, although he's done well, he's only achieved one promotion in ten years, although a second is currently on the cards. That's not the sort of success rate expected by the fickle Derby public. Good luck Nigel, I've a feeling you're going to need it.

It's Time To Turn Nasty.

L's still a bit under the weather so I take the dogs out this morning, where the real weather starts flurrying with snow but it's all too brief. We've had all this cold weather and we're still got none of the white stuff to show for it. How depressing.

As it's my first day back after New Year it's predictably mad at work which is made worse by the fact that I'm due at the other end of the world, e.g. Maidstone, tomorrow.

We're both back at our doggie classes tonight. First, though L has to make it back from a tight schedule involving getting the kids to the dentist but all goes well, so she is back in time. Everyone is given a clean bill of health. Even Son whose teeth haven't made an acquaintance with a toothbrush inside the last four years, which flies in the face of all the advice you are given and it's not as if he avoids sugary foods and drinks because he doesn't. Baffling.

It's MD's last class tonight before his exam next week. He seems ok on most of the obedience type stuff it's just this 'brushing' business that might cause him to come unstuck. He can't bare the sight of a brush and he has to be groomed as part of his test. He's had intensive training in this over Christmas, using the 'being nice' and plying him with treats approach, which has been, largely, a failure. It's time to turn nasty. Well that's the approach the dog trainer takes. I think she growled at him and now he's fine. He'll let you do almost anything. Wow. Wonder if it works on women too.

Letting Our Hair Down

L joins us on the park this morning, I don't think she's feeling up to much more as she seems to be going down with the full blown lurgy now.

Back at home, I watch a bit of the FA Cup on TV, whilst trying to keep MD occupied at the same time, which is always entertaining. Keeping his teeth out of the furnishings etc. The living room rug has been slowly disappearing before our very eyes and it would be nice to retain what bit is left. If only for sentimental reasons.

After the live cup game, they make the draw for the next round, which is a bit on the early side as there are still two games left to play, one tonight and one tomorrow evening. It will also come as a bit of a disappointment for those folks who plan to tune in for the traditional Monday lunchtime FA Cup draw only to find out that ITV drew it on Sunday.

Liverpool v Everton is out first, amid cried of 'fix'. Then as the draw progresses and there are only six balls left and one of them is Derby and another is Forest, you just know the outcome and it is duly delivered.

Daughter is out clubbing tonight so L and I get a rare chance to really let our hair down. We can get up to anything we want, anywhere in the house and behave as badly as we like, without fear of reprimand or interruption. Yep, you guessed it, we get chance to watch another episode of South Riding.

We All Have To Have Some Perks

A bit of a quiet weekend, often the case after New Year. No races to do and no dog shows to cock up. So a bit of food shopping then I drop L at the gym before taking the boys on our usual circuit of the park. Both were very lively and I had lots of words, especially with the younger model when he tried to eyeball the cats, the squirrels, other dogs, the deer, a chap in a motorised wheelchair and a selection of female runners. I let him off the later though; we all have to have some perks.

So whilst L get nice and toasty in a post-gym sauna, the boys and I 'chill', quite literally, it's a bit on the brass monkeys side, on the park. Daughter joins L for the sauna, which is cheating a tad, as she didn't do the gym first.

Today is the best day of the football season, FA Cup third round day. Derby are involved in one of those traditional ties with loads of banana skin potential, playing non-league Forest Green Rovers at their ground, which is called the New Lawn but which turns out to have nothing in common with lawns at all, let alone a new one. Well unless your lawn is like ours, trashed by a puppy and consisting of mainly mud, frozen mud.

Forest Green storm in to a 2-0 lead, so here we go again, more embarrassment, but amazingly Derby are level by half-time. We then dominate the second half only to let them sneak one on the break. Thankfully we level again almost immediately and then nick it with a penalty a few minutes from the end. Skin of the teeth or what? A classic tie as you would say but I have no fingernails left. Even ITV seem impressed and make it their main game on their highlights show.

In the evening, we finally get to the Flowerpot to try out those Christmas ales, although someone seems to have got there first and drunk them all. Oh well, still a good night.

Read To Me

I'm still off work but then isn't the whole world. Another lie in but shorter. L seems to have developed 'the dreaded cough'. For a change we get the car out and take the dogs for a walk on Bestwood Park where there are lots of squirrels for MD to sneer at which means my arms come back considerably longer. There is also a new experience for him, horses.

In the afternoon, I actually manage some sport. I go for a swim whilst L hits the gym.

Then we take in a film at Broadway where both Jaipur and Rosey Nosey are on. So we sample both. After that the film better be good or else I'll be nodding off.

It is 1958 in Germany and Hanna Schmitz (Kate Winslet) discovers a fifteen-year-old schoolboy throwing up outside her home. She charitably cleans him up and helps him back home to his family.

The boy is Michael Berg (David Kross), he turns out to have scarlet fever, and is bedridden for three months. Once he is well again, he returns to visit Hanna with a bunch of flowers to thank her. Hanna is a bit offhand about his gratitude and even starts to take a bath in his presence. Michael runs away in embarrassment.

Eventually Michael decides to return, presumably just to catch her in the bath but this time, after a bit of a mishap, it is he who needs the bath and Hanna duly supplies one. Seeing him in the bath gets her thinking. She decides she fancies a bit of that as a thank you and gets her own kit off. In this manner, Michael begins a passionate affair with a mysterious woman more than twice his age.

Hanna tells him that she likes being read to and he discovers that if he reads literature to her, Hanna will be passionately grateful in return. The 'kid', as she calls him, treats her to 'The Odyssey', 'Huckleberry Finn' and 'The Lady with the Little Dog' among others and in return she treats him... to... well plenty.



All the time, Hanna is remote and uncommunicative. He learns little about her, although he does asks her name as early as the third shag, pushy or what. Other than that, she doesn't offer anything to him, other than herself. It is clear she is using Michael, in more ways than one, but he is enjoying it immensely and finds himself hopelessly in love with her. This causes friction at home and with his schoolmates where he passes up on a girl called Sophie, who appears eager for him to read to her.



Hanna works as a glum conductor on the trams but when she is offered promotion to an office job, she disappears and Michael is heartbroken. The story moves on eight years. Michael is now studying law and his class attend a war crimes trial. Which is a pretty cool field trip to have.

He is stunned to see Hanna across the courtroom, standing as a defendant in the trial. Talk about someone popping the bubble of your first love. He learns that his former lover was an SS guard during the war and she is on trial with five other women for allowing several hundred prisoners to burn to death inside a church. The trial traumatises Michael, he has never gotten over his love for Hanna, and now he is guilt ridden for having fallen for her.

He also realises that what he knows about Hanna might influence the trial. He discusses this with his teacher but these conversations aren't elaborated on, which is a shame. In the end, Michael holds his silence and so condemns Hanna to a lifetime in jail. It also begs the question as to what Hanna's lawyer was playing at. Didn't do his research very well, did he?

The film portrays Hanna as a simple person, used to taking orders, someone just doing her job. Hanna herself seem to understand little of what she was accused of and was prepared to take the wrap for the others rather than experience a little embarrassment because of her own inadequacies.

Michael never felt able to visit Hanna in jail, but as a way of erasing some of his guilt he records himself reading the same books he read to her during their love affair and sends them to her in prison. Michael is now played by Ralph Fiennes, whose glum demeanour makes Hanna look positively cheerful. It is such a change from the lively young Michael played by David Kross. Michael now comes across as a weak man, unable to get his head around the two sides of the woman he knew.

As her release draws near, he finally visits her, now played by a cosmetically aged Winslet. However he is as distant to her as she was at first to him, if not more so and he basically condemns Hanna a second time. This time she takes her own life.

At the end of the film, Michael travels to the flat of a Jewish woman who was one of the survivors and wrote a book about it. Her book was used in evidence at the trial. It is Hanna's dying wish that her few savings went to her. Michael makes an embarrassing bodge of dealing with this. What did he hope to achieve? Somehow, he appeared to think he might be welcome.

It’s a good film, full of interesting ideas, but suffers from an uninspiring execution of these idea. There are too many questions, not enough answers. This was surely the intention but it is unsatisfying. The key element of the story became clear to me early on. It may even have been a better film had it been made obvious at the start and therefore elaborated on. I also like a bit of controversy in my films but I'm afraid, on that front, this was a letdown too.

Winslet is good but in trying to play Hanna as moody but comes across as a bit wooden and she's better than that. Perhaps, in trying to push for an Oscar she's pushed too hard. Fiennes part is more of a supporting role, at times it is unnecessary, and undoes a lot of the good work done by David Kross, who is excellent.

We retire for a debrief at the Hand and Heart, where we get accosted by one of Daughter's customers from her paper round, or it might have been the neighbour of a customer. He is very drunk but full of praise for her. We have to time our exit well because he is dancing with all the customers as they leave. It's his fault that we have to have a second Leffe.