So Not Me

It's another one of our long trips up to Preston today and therefore another 5am start. Today it's the North-West Club Championships; we're taking dogging here.

Doggo warms up nicely for Crufts with four clear rounds out of four. As a team we record five pairs of clear rounds in the two events that count for the championship, with only four good scores required. This would normally guarantee a trophy for first or second but I can't help feeling that today's courses have been easier than usual, so there'll probably be a lot of clears.

We are all done by 3pm but hang on for the results which don't appear until gone 5pm. They have computerised the results this year which obviously slowed things down. We don’t get anything in the individual which we'd expected, it's tough in Grade 6 on such fast courses, but to our surprise the team lands first place. What's even more encouraging is that three of our four Crufts team members are in those five pairs of clears; the fourth member wasn't competing today. Doggo and I even get custody of the trophy.

We head back down the motorway, L had got me pencilled in for Kate tonight, and in return I'd got her down for Che tomorrow. That's as in 'Revolutionary Road' and 'Che Part 2' but oddly Revolutionary Road seems to no longer be on anyway. Seems if you don't win the Oscar you're off. L is gutted, she'd read the book especially. She consoles herself by going with Daughter to 'Confessions of a Shopaholic' in the afternoon, which is just so not me but each to their own.

So in the end we stay in and I save my energies for the duathlon tomorrow.

Excellent Drunkenness

I had written a long blog for today and for Saturday and Sunday but that was before I lost the lot when the word document that I had it stored in went corrupt. This was, I'm sure, the fault of Word 2007 which they have given us at work as an 'upgrade' from 2003. It is already becoming clear that this package is the devils incarnate itself. It has always been Microsoft's mission to make the next version of Office harder to use that the previous one and now they've sussed out the best way to do, remove the menus at the top. Problem solved. So no long blog today because I can no longer remember everything that happened today.

I know I came in the car because in the evening we were going over to Derby to see Twelfth Night, done Moulin Rouge style by Derby's Amateur theatre company and first thing in the morning we took the dogs for a spin around the pond. I still managed to make it to work without having to rest my eyes in a ditch somewhere.

We struggled to get tickets for the play due to the box office's computers being on the blink all week. We ended up on the balcony where the seats were a bit on the cramped side, if you've ten years old you'd probably be fine but any one else would struggle.

Viola is shipwrecked as usual put then pitches up in Paris circa 1900 rather than Illyria. Masquerading as the male Cesario she gets work in a cabaret club working for Orsino, who is the boss there. Here the Moulin Rouge pretence ends really. Lady Olivia is still really the same and Viola/Cesario is despatched to do Orsino's romancing for him. Olivia of course only has eyes for Cesario, whilst Viola, were he not pretending to be Cesario, would like to get her hands on Orsino.

The usual humorous subplot is good and better than I've seen it done before. There is some excellent drunkenness and Sir Toby Belch is superb. Sir Andrew is played totally in the style of Tim McInnerny's Lord Percy Percy from Blackadder II. McInnerny once stated that he had based that character on Sir Andrew but I'd never seen the connection before, let alone in reverse.

When they trick Malvolio into thinking Olivia is in love with him, it's a shame they don't keep the Paris theme going and get him to dress up as a Moulin Rouge dancer but no they stick to the traditional yellow stockings cross-gartered.

Then of course Viola's lost brother Sebastian shows up, confusion reigns followed by the happily ever after bit.

All in all very good with some excellent acting. Twelfth Night isn't one of my favourite Shakespeare's but this was better and funnier than any professional play or film I've seen.

Getting A Tow

On the bike again and I try a new route. I’m a bit sick of the long straight stretch through Wollaton. I love the rest of the ride but I really hate that first mile, so I defy death and go down Derby Road with its three roundabouts and fast traffic.

Well, actually I avoid the first roundabout at the QMC by using the cycle path (the asphalt formerly known as pavement) and the pedestrian crossing before joining the road after the roundabout. The second island at Priory was fine but the third; Bramcote Island with its four lanes looked interesting, so I bottled it, waiting for the lights to change then using the crossing to get in position at the head of the traffic.

At lunchtime, the Bridge Inn serves us a killer chicken and mushroom pie under it's 2 for 1 offer, which unfortunately runs out at the end of this month, when we'll have to start looking elsewhere for lunch again.

Now I can barely move. I really need that cycle home, now.

Finally, it is time to cycle home and it's a bit faster than I expected when I catch someone drafting me. I try to outpace him but he stays in my slipstream. So I slow down and let him go past. He's really nice about being a cheeky sod, thanks me for the 'draft' and offers to return the favour. He then goes off like a rocket and leaves me scrabbling for his rear wheel.

We alternate like this for a while, getting faster and faster, until he turns off and I can slow down a bit. It really does work, getting a tow in someone else's 'draft', the only snag is you have to be quite close so you don't get to see the potholes and exposed drains coming, that is until you hit them.

I cycle to the leisure centre to have another go at that elusive swim. I'm armed an extra lock in case I really do need to risk chaining my bike to a fence but wonder of wonders, my little rant seems to have done the trick, not only are the two 'locked but empty ones' now unlocked but the caved in door has been pulled out and repaired. Only one of the three is in use and genuinely so. Hurrah, I get my swim.

Early to bed again tonight, this time with red wine. Have you noticed that the 'a glass of red wine a day keeps your cholesterol at bay' rule now seems to have been scrapped and replaced by 'a glass of red wine a day gives you cancer'. Confusing isn't it and it's no wonder that nobody takes any notice. Cheers.

Post-Holiday Blues

L takes the boys out as I come in on my bike. L's post-holiday blues seem to be lessening a bit, though I think I'll still keep her away from sharp objects and the gas oven for a bit longer.

MD is perhaps feeling a touch of the same blues as L reports that he made three attempts to commit suicide under passing cars this morning. She's not sympathetic and vows to take him out on his expandable lead tomorrow, so that he can succeed. I'm sure she doesn't mean it. She'd be choked if she had to scrape a flat-hedgehog shaped MD up off the road.

After work, I bike straight to the swimming pool, its weeks since I managed to get a swim in and I'm out of luck today as well. When I get there, I can't get a bike locker. Only one of the four is in use but two of them are padlocked and empty, they have had the same padlocks on them for a least two years, whilst the fourth has had its door caved in. I grumble my complaints at the centre, who reckon that some of their staff use the lockers... to store fresh air presumably.

I head home swim-less because I'm not leaving my bike chained to the fence outside, exposed to the vagrancies of the local mafia.

Tonight's it's our final team training session before Crufts next Thursday. It goes well and Doggo does particularly well. Before his session, I try to do a bit with MD but whereas at his Tuesday training each dog trains individually on these Wednesday sessions two or three dogs could be training at once. It's worth a try but he absconds almost straight away, desperate to join in with what the other dogs are doing, which looks much more fun that what he should be concentrating on.

Then back home to L who's ready for an early night, seems those blues really are lifting.

The Big Squeeze

Those takeaway fish and chips weren't a good idea last night. That's what I realise when I'm out running at 7am this morning. It was hard to get up and do it, even without all that grease sloshing around inside me but still, I did it. It had to be done; I have to push myself now if I’m going to live through my target event, the Ashbourne Duathlon in April and of course that makes it 1-1 with L. Who then informs me she's been for a swim, although she reckons her heart wasn't in it. Not that that matters a jot, its still 2-1.

I offer to cheer her up by sending her the Kate Nash mp3 I’ve been listening to... just out of curiosity. She’s covered Cold War Kids' 'Hang Me Out To Dry' and it’s put me off my porridge.

Someone else with a target, is a colleague here at work. He has his eyes on the Long Eaton 5 miler and he's been badgering me for an entry form but it's not until June. He’s very keen; the forms aren't out yet. I know that's not really his target. His real target is to beat me. He's been doing 35 minutes for five miles in training, which apparently places him just outside the top 100 on last years results. Blimey, I was 60-something in 32 minutes. Worried.

L's also in search of a target, a big run or maybe a big swim. Apparently, those 'Great Swim' people now have an English Channel one. Before she knows it, L will be off across the Atlantic like that 56-year-old American who recently was the first woman to do it, in a mere 24 days. Gulp. She had to swim inside a cage to protect her from sharks. Gulp. Gulp.

I jog the mile to the city centre and get the bus home. It's a bit of a plod but still, shall we call it 2-2.

Now if you're eating I apologise but tonight's entertainment is supplied by Doggo and his anal glands. He's been biting his own rear end a lot lately, which, I know from previous experience, means, said glands are all bunged up. L finds something on the internet that tells you how to relieve your pet of this discomfort without taking him to the vet, basically how to empty them yourselves... The last time he had to have this done though, the vet delved a bit deeper than the website implies you have to... so no DIY job here. The vets it is.

L comes along offering moral support as the vet gives him what's known in the trade as an anal squeeze. You see, I know how to give my girl a good night out.

It turns out to be more entertaining than even we thought it would be, although Doggo nearly chews through my arm as I hold him and the vet squeezes the first side. 'His glands are very full' she tells us, as the first side squirts the young vet in the eye. Ugh. I have problems persuading Doggo to have the second side done but I talk him round. The vet also looks reluctant, with good cause as it turns out, as the second side goes all down her trousers. I really hope she didn't have a hot date lined up for tonight.

Job done though, and I'm sure Doggo must feel a stone lighter now, for which L feels dead jealous. They go off for a run as I take MD to his class. Taking of jealous, that makes her 3-2 up.

MD has a very good class; he is my little star. Although I get more convinced every week that the class is structured around us, apologies to the other pupils.

Healthy Fish And Green Veg

I ought to get up early and run this morning but the dogs look like they need a break. Next week perhaps.

Daughter is very jovial this morning, despite not arriving back from Italy until around midnight, although she did mention that she was looking forward to a two hour kip in her first lesson. I hope she didn't mean it; she's relying on that particular GCSE.

Whereas when I return from a holiday, I can attack work, that I had no appetite for before I went away, with a new found fervour, L goes the other way. She's not very good at Mondays anyway, let alone a first Monday back from holiday. She usually swims on a Monday but didn't go today, in case she tried to drown herself. Instead, she locks herself in at work and says she's not answering the door. Oh dear.

Of course getting back from holiday means you can get on with looking forward to the next one and I'm so tempted to suggest a weekend ski break abroad. We could get Daughter to dog sit... but she'd be furious and I don't have enough money for the sort of bribe that would need. Kennels would be far cheaper for the dogs.

The Oscars happened last night, there were no great surprises. It turned out that Oprah Winfrey was right; she reckoned Kate Winslet’s 'natural' chest deserved an award and so it proved.

The dogs are back at work today as well. MD gets a good short session before Doggo's class. Doggo himself is a little bit off the pace, which could have something to do with the fact that he's booked in for an embarrassing little session with the vet tomorrow.

We pick L up from the gym on our way home, so one up to her already. That is after I've picked up my take away, healthy fish and green veg. Oh ok, fish, chips and mushy peas.

All Good

Well our holiday got 'interesting' before it even started. On the morning we were due to leave, I was awoken by the sound of retching, as MD vomited in his bed. A habit he continued for most of the holiday. The day he took off, Doggo stepped in, they really are such a team.

So I got up, ushered him outside and cleaned up the mess, only for him to return a few minutes later with some dung hanging decoratively from one ear. Just like one of those dangly earrings. So both he and his bed got early morning baths. I think L slept through the whole thing.

Then as I loaded up the car, I complete the 'bad luck comes in threes' thing by kicking over a bottle of wine. Now it was MD's turn to offer to clean things up but I declined his helpful offer. Red wine and broken glass would I'm sure simply bring on more vomiting.

We dispatch Daughter to school for her ski trip, who were, as ever, running late and try to wave goodbye to Son, but he's already written us out of his life for the week and returned to his room. So we left them all to it and hit the M6.

Seven and a half hours later (which isn't bad), we are driving up and down the evil A82 (it's a hellishly fast road) in Glencoe looking for the concealed entrance to the track that leads to the romantically secluded cottage we have booked. Eventually, after dicing with the traffic, we find it.

We stay in that first night and celebrate Valentines Day a day late with red wine and something sexy from Figleaves for L. It's so nice to be on our own for a while, I'm not sure we've ever had a cottage for just L and I before. So no Daughterly interruptions and even the dogs are too knackered to bother us much.

We walk the paws off the dogs the next day, so that on Tuesday we can do some snowblading at Nevis Range. There's snow but just like last years trip, we are a week late for the best conditions. Last week the snow was fantastic and temperatures around zero, this week it's a much warmer eight-degrees and the snow is receding fast. Conditions are rather slushy but still good enough to give us a decent ski and MD gets to venture up in his first gondola.

On Wednesday we ski the White Corries at Glencoe, where it's always icy but even there the lower slopes are very soft. It's a nicer contrast to the evil ice at the top. I assume it must be icy there even in July.

We had hoped to return to Nevis Range on the Friday but high winds shut the lifts, so more walking for the dogs. Who got a good walk every day, even when we skied. Both collies seemed wrecked by the end of the week and it'll take MD a further week to recover from it all. Scotland is good for him, not very sheepy, so he had lots of off-lead time.

Apart from a couple of nights in, our evenings were spent on the terrific Scottish ales at the Clachaig Inn. The daring walk back along the A82 and down our mile long farm track isn't too bad when you're nicely anaesthetised.

The Clachaig is the only place where you can get a pint in Glencoe and even that's a couple of miles outside the village. The Glencoe Hotel is still closed, as it was last year. The planned refurbishment has been delayed but when it happens it'll be another luxury hotel 'with leisure facilities'. The last thing the area needs is another one of them.

The Clachaig is absolutely heaving every night and making a fortune. If only I could afford to take the Glencoe Hotel on. I'm sure a Clachaig style venture, a decent bar with a few cheap rooms, that's an ode to skiing/walking/climbing etc would do a storming trade, and also cross promote the winter sports industry which most people don't even know exist. It would also give the locals somewhere to have a drink.

Daughter is with us in spirit, if not in person. She is never further away that the next text message. She keeps us informed and amused about her own holiday in the Italian Dolomites. As the week goes on, we await news of her assassination, as she seems to be top of the class skiing wise and getting smugger by the day. That is when she's not bitching about her homesick roommate who also happens to be a serial snorer.

When someone does get the better of her on skis, a teacher, she complains that they're 20 years older than she is and have been skiing since they were nippers. You can imaging what the teacher was texting back home, complaining about one of his pupils who's 20 years younger than him, been skiing since she was nipper and he only just managed to beat her. It's a similar complaint that I have when some young whippersnapper beats me in a race.

On Saturday, we drive back for a night in the Lakes, at Wasdale, which we have neglected for far too long. A night in the Wasdale Head Inn completes what has been a horrible week for the alcohol units, horribly nice.

By the time we get home, we have completed the audio book of the White Russian, so that's another impressive title to put on my reading CV.

We return home to Son, who has managed to hold the fort, not flood the bathroom, kept the heating running, sorted out the milkman and collected the dustbin off the street. There's not even a pile of pizza boxes. So 'all good' as he would say on one of his two word text messages.

He's waiting at the door with a box of chocolates to welcome us home... Well not quite but he does leave us a weeks worth of dirty plates, which is almost the same thing.

On Holiday

I Can't Remember Doing Anything To Upset Them

This is my last blog for a while. I'm having a break, hopefully not literally, in Scotland, where we hope to do a mix of skiing and walking in Glencoe.

We have a cottage for the week, just the two of us. Well four actually, the dogs are joining us. Daughter is off skiing with school and Son is staying at home. L questions whether we would strangle each other alone for a whole week but in reality, we'd both be too busy strangling MD.

We have the cottage booked from today but the school omitted to tell us that their trip was a Sunday departure, a late morning departure at that, so we won't be in Glencoe until around 8pm on Sunday. We'll top up the week with a night in the Lakes in the way back.

We've stayed in Glencoe several times, each time in a different cottage but we couldn't get in to any of ones we'd stayed in before. Last years place is even now saying 'no pets'. Hmmm, I can't remember us doing anything to upset them...

On the way up, and perhaps the way back as well, we'll be glued to the audio book of the White Russian. I'm up to the end of disk four, which has took me weeks. I'm a slow reader, even on audio books. L has caught me up with the book and she only started on it last week.

Regrettably, I'll miss the Manchester United cup game on Sunday but you can't have everything.

Today is the usual mix of dog training and wearing them out on the park followed by some packing for the holiday. Later we hit the gym and follow that with a few pints in the Johnson Arms.

Friday The 13th

What a day to get back on the bike, Friday the 13th, perhaps tempting fate a bit. L is feeling a bit superstitious and isn't keen on me cycling but statistically fewer accidents occur on Friday the 13th than other Fridays, simply because people are more careful because of the date. Wikipedia reckons that the fear of Friday the 13th is known Paraskavedekatriaphobia, which rolls off the tongue. It's Greek apparently. Oh course, Wikipedia is never wrong, so it can't be a hoax.

Spring must be on its way because it really bright this morning, I don't really need lights on my bike. The roads are fine too, all last night's snow has gone.

I do get one spot of bother as a chap overtakes me then see a bird he knows on the pavement, so he slows down, waves at her and then pulls over right in front of me. Emergency stop time. As I try and still my rapidly beating heart, he winds down his window and gestures for her to come over. If he's hoping for a kiss through the window, he's out of luck because rather than go around him, I go down the inside, so now he's got cyclist in his face.

Somehow, the gremlins of Friday 13th stop L's emails getting through to me. When she finally makes contact, she tells me she was on the point of calling out the search party. What's worse, she says its already upped her alcohol intake for tonight. Its 10.30, I’m disappointed, she used to say 9.30 was the point at which she called them out.

Four spoons of decaff today in my coffee. Now we're getting somewhere... well perhaps not, I'm just getting bitter tasting decaff.

The snowman we built at work last Thursday has been hanging on in there but he's down to just his feet now, by tomorrow I'm sure he'll have departed this world.

I survive the curse of Friday 13th on the way home too. Despite some chap trying to blind me with the brightest rear light I've ever seen on a bike. Can't imagine what battery power he's got behind that. It's like a car fog light.

In the evening, we walk the dogs to the Victoria. The beer isn't great but it's still a good night out.

That Old Trick

It's minus three but I brave it and bus/run to work. I run in the morning rather than in the afternoon because running after work, like Cycling, doesn't give my legs enough time to recover before squash. Then I arrive at work to an email telling me that my opponent has cancelled squash due to him having a bit of a sniffle. That's my diagnosis not his, he says he's on his death bed. He won't play me if there's any chance his performance is likely to be impaired to an extent that I beat him. So, I could have cycled and indeed could have swum post-work.

He claimed last week that I hadn't beaten him for a year. Hmmm, how embarrassing. I checked back through this highly useful blog and discovered that we'd had three 2-2 draws and in fact one, but just the one, 2-1 win for me. This I assume he's not counting because it was the one where he retired from heat exhaustion because it was so hot on court. Obviously, I am counting it. Why wouldn't I? I would happily have played on that day.

Excitement at the swimming pool for L, when the fire alarm goes off and they are evacuated. L decided she'd rather burn than get dressed outside the leisure centre so she, like all the other girls, slipped the essentials on first before finishing off in the foyer. Meanwhile all the chaps were outside freezing to death.

Apparently, it was one of the blokes who had accidently set the alarm off with the hair dryer. Ah, that old trick. He probably just wanted to watch all the girls get changed in the foyer. Someone always used to do that at school whenever the fifth form (year 11 in modern money) girls were in the showers after PE.

We're out of real coffee at work and only have de-caff, consequently I've been struggling to stay awake all day.

On the way home it starts snowing; we have around half an inch of pretty decent stuff. I take the boys for a walk in it, fearing it could be the last of the year. I don't reckon this batch will stick around long but obviously, the schools will be closed tomorrow.

So MD gets a good bomb around the pond. Doggo doesn’t bomb of course but is happy just meandering around in his own time, he likes to leave the bombing to others but even Doggo looked concerned when we thought we'd lost MD at one point. He reappeared eventually, from somewhere, and then sheepishly stuck to my side the rest of the time.

At home L is baking us a fruit cake for Scotland, whilst Daughter serenades us with White Lies, so they must have left an impression last night.

The Most Absurd Dancing Of The Evening Award

I'm in the car today, so I walk the dogs this morning. L is getting a bit stressed by MD's tendency to attack passing cars. However, with me this morning it was dog number one who came closest to getting flattened, but by me, when he absconded after another dog. He ended up being put back on his lead but he seemed to think it was worth it.

There are a lot of bikes about on the road, despite the slightly icy conditions. I should have biked this morning really but my knee is really sore, too much running I think. I also need to get back early because we are off to the NME Shockwaves Awards Tour this evening. The Awards Tour has been running since 1995 and takes place in the run up to the awards themselves. It is designed to showcase up and coming talent from the indie rock scene.

Rock City is packed and buzzing as early as 7.30 for the first of the four bands. We have both kids in the tow, although Son departs before the end; articulating his right to critical expression, I suppose.

It seems a lot of people have either read the hype about Florence And The Machine or just simply arrived early to see if Florence Welch can stay inside her dress, which seems precariously balanced on her frame at best.

The London lass, who will later this month collect the Critics' Choice Award at the Brit Awards, skipped on to a stage decorated in brightly coloured flowers, herself looking all bohemian, and kicked off the night's proceedings with a theatrical performance. She proceeded to bash seven bells out of a drum as her band opened with 'Between Two Lungs' and what lungs she had...

L described her as Kate Nash with balls but it's another Kate, Kate Bush, who Florence admits she grew up listening to, who perhaps wields the influence here. It's quite an entrance and it doesn't get any less dramatic.

Can she live up to the hype? Well she certainly gave an assured vocal performance as she treated us to her strange and gruesome songs, although tonight there are none of her famed cover versions. She casually introduces her song about 'cutting a girl’s eye out' called the ‘The Girl With One Eye’, an ode to disfigurement. She rants, screams, hyperventilates and at times even sings quite normally through her half hour set during which the recent singles 'Kiss with a Fist' and 'Dog Days are Over' are highlights.

Her stagecraft could probably be best described as eccentric, nothing wrong with that of course. It’s a remarkable sight as she prances around like a horse on hot coals. She invites everyone to not sing along but to howl along, I used to get warned off girls like that, to a song that I believe was also called 'Howl'.

Among her musicians is a harpist playing a large golden harp and another lass on keyboards who is almost as hyperactive and ditsy as Florence herself. Also on stage with her is Charles Cave, the bass player from White Lies, who plays half the set with them. Her debut album, as yet untitled, is due for released in July.



Could it be that tonight’s opening act has stolen the show. Well L would say yes but I'd so not, that honour goes to Ealing's White Lies, who of course I've seen before.

Since then they seem to have cheered up a bit and even brushed up on their stage manner. Their songs are still full of doom and gloom lyrics but at least they now play them with a smile on their faces. I suppose a number one album helps. Opening with 'Farewell To The Fairground', they too like Florence were an instant hit with the crowd. Gloomy lyrics aside they do write great choruses. An impressive set but they again lose momentum when they choose to play the slower tracks '50 On Our Foreheads' and 'The Price Of Love' back to back near the end.

Part way through their set Florence returns to the stage, to great applause and duets with Harry McVeigh on 'Unfinished Business' but she doesn't have eyes for Harry. As she departs, she appears to hug and snog the bass player, hinting at what business it is that remains unfinished.

As with life and White Lies, it all ends fittingly with 'Death'.



If Florence thought she was going to win the most absurd dancing of the evening award, she can think again. That honour goes to Ed Macfarlane, lead singer of St Albans' Friendly Fires. Now he is a man who truly cannot dance but doesn't care, as he gets on down with the rhythm of their opening track 'Lovesick' and doesn't stop for the rest of the set. Friendly Fires are entertaining and they keep the energy of the evening buzzing along but they're also not my type of thing at all and I find them underwhelming, despite Ed's animated efforts. Another thing I don't like is that they were basically playing over a backing track and just adding to it. So karaoke really and I can get that down my local pub, should I want to. Still all good fun. I thought they'd be the least popular of tonight's acts but no, they'd got their hardcore in tonight and seem to go down well.



It is disappointing after the interaction between the first two bands, that Friendly Fires and headliners Glasvegas do not bond with the others. On a tour like this, that would really have added to the night.

What can I say about Glasvegas that I haven't already said in my previous reviews of them. Well I could say that it's now all getting a bit samey. They open with 'Geraldine', which I suppose is a bit of a departure for them but then we get the same old favourites. The same stuff they've been playing for the last four years. There's nothing from the Christmas EP, there's nothing new, there's nothing old that's not on the album and there's no 'Killing Moon' cover that they did in Liverpool.

They have at least learnt to pause between tracks but I'm not sure this works for them and they've developed the tinniest amount of banter with the crowd. The big problem tonight is their sound, which seemed in a right mess, a lot of the vocals disappeared in a sea of feedback and where was the trademark smoke? I think a lot of the crowd lost interest. They are in my opinion much better suited to the smaller venues that they were playing.

There were rumours of an encore but one didn't appear tonight. In fact, I think their set is actually getting shorter.



We get home and L needs a glass of wine to help her recover from the shock of paying £8 for two Newcastle Browns, this is why we don’t usually drink in there.

Unnecessary Risks

There's a complete lack of snow this morning. Where was the massive dump they'd promised us? Weather forecasters eh? I almost go in on the bike but decide not to, in case the roads have been heavily salted, that is if they have any left and my mechanic (at the bike shop) has advised me not to go out in such conditions on my revamped bike. So instead, I jog to the bus with the intention of running home later.

Here's an interesting thing. It says in the paper that every year more boys than girls are born. Yet by the time, these people reach adulthood the tables have been turned and girls outnumber boys 51%-49%. The reason, apparently, is the testosterone-fuelled risk taking behaviour that wipes out the excess males before they reach the age of eighteen. Hmmm, don't believe a word of it. Us males don’t take unnecessary risks. It's just a coincidence that nearly all the cyclists on the roads are male.

If you're female and looking for a mate, the demographics don't get any better because that trend continues, plus far more men than women end up out of circulation in prisons and there's also the fact that there are more boys who prefer boys, than girls who prefer girls. Despite all that, I don't particularly remember being in short supply when I was younger.

I head over to Derby for MD's training, which goes well, whilst L and Doggo are able to run due to a distinct lack of the white stuff.

Not Fair Play

With the school unexpectedly shut on Friday, this morning we were hurriedly checking various websites, the school, the council, the local BBC one but helpfully nothing seems to have been updated since Friday afternoon. Radio Nottingham promised to read out the list of school closures but by the time they got around to reading out the mammoth list of three schools, it was 7:55, by which time anyone waiting for the bulletin was going to be late for school anyway. The school as it turns out was open.

Whilst doing my usual Monday lunch time shop in Sainsbury's, a girl and I both dive for the same queue. I'm annoyed but I have to grudgingly admire her spirit and her Loughborough Students Athletics Team jacket but the use of the elbow as she bashed me out of the way wasn't really fair play. Hang on a sec, do I recognise that body swerve and that ponytail. Hmmm, not sure. Could it be one of my old foes? I'm not certain and I don't usually forget an icy glare.

The traffic is bad on the way home and I'm late getting to class with Doggo so I don't manage to get time to train MD. His evening gets worse when Doggo picks on him in the boot of the car. Exerting his authority, I think it's called. So, and L will call me soft, I end up travelling home with MD in the car with me. He curls up on the passenger seat and is no trouble, bless.

Unusual Circumstances

It's a typical Sunday, for a Sunday when we're not doing anything stupid, event wise but there is one interesting twist. I read a book, a whole book, in one sitting and it wasn't even full of pictures but more of that later.

Around 5pm we go to the gym. Gyms smell great don't they? Well now, New Scientist magazine reckons that girls are certainly not sugar, spice, and all things nice once they hit the gym, in fact sweaty girls, it says, smell of onions. Whereas sweaty men smell of cheese. Which incidentally are two of my favourite foods? So now you know why working out makes you feel hungry; it's the enticing smell of food emanating from the person next to you. I'm off for a sandwich, maybe even cheese and onion.

Now I don't read many books but as I said, this morning I read a book, which was F Scott Fitzgerald's 'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button' cover to cover. Impressive eh? Ok, so it was only about 30 pages. Then this evening we went to see the film, which is very loosely adapted from this short story.

Benjamin Button tells us he was born 'under unusual circumstances'. To be precise he was born a rather ugly and wrinkled baby of eighty odd years old. In the book, he started as a full sized eighty year old, so it's no wonder his mother died in childbirth but the film is done a bit differently and he is baby sized.

In the film version, his father abandons him on the steps of an old folk's home, where he is taken and raised by Queenie, a carer there. At first they think he's going to die but the ravages of old age are gradually shed from his body and he progresses from wheelchair to walking stick and then beyond. As everyone continues to grow older, he grows younger. Brad Pitt plays Button pretty much all the way through with the help of heavy make-up, CGI and having his head electronically placed on other actors bodies.



We follow his life story, from his birth in New Orleans on the day that the First World War ended right through to his death. It is told in my 'favourite' form, that of flashback, and from the deathbed of his truelove, the now elderly Daisy (Cate Blanchett) as Hurricane Katrina rages outside. Daisy's grandmother was a resident at the same home, which is where she first met Benjamin. They remain in contact throughout their lives, seemingly destined to be together, despite the two of them ageing in different directions.

It is read from his diaries by her daughter, Caroline (Julia Ormond). It’s a method I'm not sure I like as it continually breaks up the storyline.

There are also other oddities. The addition of Mr Cake (Monsieur Gateau) and his train station clock that ran backwards in the hope that it would wind back time and undo the death of his Son and others from the battlefields of the Great War. I never grasped why this and its tenuous link to Benjamin's life running backwards was added.

Also, at times the film tries to do too much, like mapping out the sequence of bad luck that led to Daisy's dancing career being ended when she was struck by a Parisian taxi. Then there's the old man who was hit by lightning seven times... a slightly funny diversion but not much more.



Button is lucky he was born in 1918; had he been born in 2009 he would have been all over the papers and labelled as a freak. His life would have been 'I'm Celebrity Get Me Outta Here' hell. Instead, he leaves America working on a tugboat. He visits Russia, where he has an affair with Tilda Swinton, well someone has to I suppose, and he ends up involved in the Second World War.



When he returns, he rediscovers Daisy, now a successful dancer. Yet he turns her down, preferring to wait until he is 'young enough' for her.

After her accident, they eventually end up together and have a child. I think we all worked out long before Caroline did, what her relationship to Benjamin was. She won't remember him though because as he hurtles his way towards short trousers, he walks out of their lives. Knowing that when he becomes Kevin The Teenager, he'll be good for nothing but angst and sulks.



I thought it might end there and that they'd bottle his death as he faded back to zero, but they didn't. In fact, he came back, after a trip around the world, sowing his oats. Teenagers, they're so unreliable. Would Daisy be tempted to have one of the road and see if he was as good aged sixteen, of course she would.

It's all rather sad at the end as Daisy takes charge of the infant Benjamin and nurses him towards death.

The film has been given quite a bit of criticism in reviews but then has also gained a load of Oscar nominations. Realistically I don't see any great acting performances here, but that doesn't seem to matter, although at times the New Orleans accents grate a bit, as a whole it's a very clever film. It's also a long film but it never drags. I loved it.

Button went through much the same plusses and minuses in life as the rest of us, just in the opposite direction. The film tries to show you life from a different perspective. Like all of us, he spent a lifetime trying to figure out how this love thing works and still only just about got there. The message is that age is after all just a number and no matter what that number is, we can choose what we do with our lives but in the end, Button, like all of us, is unable to stop time.

From The Ridiculous To The Sublime

Daughter went off last night to her father's and is due back this morning. Son is going this afternoon and coming back Sunday. They do get on, honest. Well, sometimes. They've both had to cancel their morning paper rounds on the day they're away, when they could have covered for each other, and therefore both got a full wage but that would have required communication and cooperation.

From the ridiculous to the sublime, Derby win for the third time is eight days and in style 3-0 away at Plymouth.

L and Daughter spend the afternoon shopping, getting frilly undies for their respective holidays or something like that and don't actually make it home. Instead, they crash in Cast. I head down to join them, to save L from herself and from the Leffe. Although to be fair, I'm not a great help.

Cast, which is both a bar and a restaurant, has recently gone into administration. Which, when they refuse to sell us any bar food because the kitchen is too busy serving the restaurant, you can see why.

Slightly oiled but not fed, we head off to the Theatre Royal. The three of us have tickets to see The Graduate. Not only a novel by Charles Webb and a film starring Dustin Hoffman but it is a play too. Daughter was keen to join us; I just hope she doesn’t get on her moral high horse during the nudity, particularly as we have seats near the front. I like to be near the front, whether there's nudity or not.

Set in 1960's, Benjamin Braddock is at a party to celebrate his graduation. It's a party that Benjamin wants no part of, he doesn't want follow the American dream. He fends off congratulations from a variety of family friends but he cannot fend off Mrs Robinson, who totters on to the stage, a drink in one hand, a fag in the other and promptly tries to seduce him. It never happened to me like that. When she gets her kit off in front of him, keen to make good on her offer, he is appalled by her advances and runs a mile. Nope, that never happened to me either.

Benjamin is at odds with his father, his studies complete, he has no desire to work or study further and wants to experience real life instead. He tries to leave home but returns very quickly, with his tail between his legs.

Perhaps the experiences he was looking for have been on offer all the time. So he calls Mrs Robinson, despite his uncomfortable experience with her, he is clearly intrigued by the older but attractive woman. On reflection, this is a lesson in life he rather fancies. They meet up and he stumbles out of his clothes and into bed with all the style of an adolescence Mr Bean.



So, much to his father's annoyance, Benjamin continues to spend his days doing nothing in particular, that is when he's not meeting up with Mrs Robinson. Mr Robinson, unaware of what is going on, encourages Benjamin to date his daughter, the rather shallow and staid Elaine. The exact opposite of her Mother in many ways but so similar in others.

Mrs Robinson is understandably horrified at the prospect, Benjamin too realises that involvement with the daughter of his lover could be disastrous, so he does his best to make her dislike him and takes her on a date to a strip club.

After which, he is overcome with guilt and apologises. He comes to realise that Elaine is interested in him whereas her mother may provides drunken sex on tap but is not interested in anything he has to say.

When they begin to go out together, Mrs. Robinson threatens to tell her Daughter of their affair. So Benjamin comes clean, confesses all, and is subsequently dumped.

Despite that set back, he won't give up on Elaine and follows her to University, effectively stalking her. Despite her becoming engaged to someone else, Benjamin refuses to give up hope and gatecrashes their wedding. Where amongst much mayhem, Benjamin and Elaine eventually runaway together. They end up in a motel and sharing, bizarrely, a box of Cheerios.

It's all good stuff, a witty script and I think the play is possibly funnier than the film. An ode to everyone's shambolic teenage years. All backed up by some excellent Simon and Garfunkel tracks.

We head back home, stopping to pick up a take-away curry on the way. An excellent night.

We Forget To Light The Candles

It's an exceedingly warm 1.5 degrees this morning and the roads look wet, not icy, so I cycle. The roads are also really quiet, so half the country must still be skiving. Oddly Daughters school is one of the few still closed. Surely it can’t be because of the weather... they must have heating failure or something. Thank God though; the libraries are back open.

I was sad to hear the news recently that a rock-anti-icon of mine, the lead singer of The Cramps has died, although I can't believe Lux Interior (not his real name!) was actually 62. He was hard to put an age to because after years of alcohol and drug abuse he'd looked 62 for the last 40 years. In fact, it was rumoured he died twenty years ago but nope, he kept going. He may have been a hellraiser but he stuck with his wife and fellow band stalwart Poison Ivy (yep, not her real name either) for thirty-seven years. Bless. Which is nearly as long as L and me, if my sums are right...

So tonight I shall lift a glass of something to Lux, whose band's sordid punk-rock lyrics taught me a lot in my teenage years. Some of it was even accurate, some of it even useful. I shall fondly remember their notorious live shows, of which I saw several.



L and I debate what to do this evening. L threatens to be sprawled on our bed when I get home, which means Daughter must be out. In fact, we first have to walk Daughter to the bus stop, then we have the night to ourselves.

We stay in, L's feeling poverty stricken anyway and reckons she would need to barter Daughter's Cobra Starship ticket, that she has taken in part payment for a Maximo Park ticket, at the bar. She'll be getting it refunded, because they've rearranged their gig again, rather than using it. Somehow can’t see her even getting a bag of scratchings for a Cobra Starship ticket but you never know. They're not terribly well known.

We need to run, but is a muddy run with the dogs a good idea? The steamy bath afterwards would be fun but then the dogs would need one too. So instead, we crack open the mulled wine, the red wine and the candles. Although, damn, we forget to light the candles.

Meteorological Armageddon

The snow is back and it's actually rather impressive. I rule out taking the car, it's probably still the quickest way into work but you just know someone will do something stupid and I'll be stuck in a queue for the next millennium. It's just not worth the hassle. In fact, as L confirms, it's already happened and someone has abandoned their car in the middle of the traffic island by the Dog & Topper. Actually, it's now Tesco's, isn't everywhere, RIP the Dog & Topper. At least it won't be holding the traffic up.



Cycling also looks a non-starter, oh for a mountain bike, which would do the trick and all this snow would make a soft landing should I come off. I consider running, the snow is runnable but then I'd have wet shoes to come home in. So, in the end I take the bus all the way. It's understandably running late because the roads are actually quite bad and the bus crawled all the way. Not much gritting in evidence.

I assume the holdups are due to the weather and not just Forest supporters throwing themselves in front of moving cars, they're taking last night very badly.

Everyone at our company makes it in eventually, skivers we are not. Someone comes in on his MTB, ooh I'm jealous, it would have been good fun on the path down by the river, must get one, bike number four.

Once at work L tells me that Daughter has been sent home because the school has been closed, this is all announced after all the kids are well on their way in. If this is for alleged 'Health and Safety' reasons, I think the amount of children involved in sledging incidents recently shows it's probably safer for the kids to be at school. I can't recall my school ever closing due to the weather, despite the bad winters we had back then. There were times when we couldn't physically get there but the school always remained open for those that did.

What’s worse is they've now suspended all bus services. Great. Can’t imagine why, the Red Arrow coped brilliantly this morning and conditions are clearly improving, not getting worse. So now, I have a fourteen-mile walk home. Thankfully a few hours later, after a deluge of complaints, they restart them.

My squash match goes ahead despite the meteorological Armageddon. This is a shame, in a way. L has already suggested we take the collies around the pond again, followed by mulled wine and perhaps candles. Très romantique.

I'm kind of surprised the leisure centres are open but they are. Bravo. Oddly though, the council has closed all the libraries... work that one out, oh and five city parks, which really doesn't make any sense. The fun police are out on the prowl again.

The staff at the leisure centre greet us in their new uniforms. They're all very nice but I can't help feeling they could have saved the money and put it to a new door for the squash court, which still won't close properly.

You Couldn't Make It Up

The forecast is promising so it's finally back on the bike today. Although I choose to walk through our estate first before getting on at the main road. The main roads aren't as good as I expected and it seems that the rumours of the councils running out of grit may be right after all. Bet they wished they hadn't chucked it all on the roads in November when it was a not so chilly 5 degrees or so, claiming they had a surplus of the stuff.

The roads aren't icy but the gutters are, where us cyclists are supposed to be and the cycle paths haven't been cleared of course. So I have to ride well away from the curb which annoys at lot of drivers, which is an added benefit.

I arrive at work safely with all body parts still attached. L though has a slight tumble on the icy pavement and claims to have a few bruises on her thighs and hips. I shall have to kiss them better later.

L warns me that she has a hard day ahead of her and that she may not be AF tonight. That's fine, I have a hard evening ahead of me. I reckon I'll need a stiff drink after tonight's FA Cup replay, whatever the outcome.

After I've cycled home and amused the dogs in the garden for a while, I head off to the City Ground for the match. This is almost a 'home' game for me, as Forest's ground is a lot closer to me than Pride Park is.

I wonder if the Derby fans will exact any revenge for the two disembodied sheep's heads that were thrown into pubs in Derby. Wouldn't be quite the same to throw a disembodied tree through a pub window.

Well it was a cracking match and if you're going to beat your bitterest local rivals in the fourth round of the FA Cup, what better way to do it. Give them a two goal lead on their own ground and then beat them 3-2 with one of their former players scoring the winner. The words classic cup tie swing to mind. You couldn't make it up. The best bit though is to come out of the ground afterwards, see all the long faces and hear all the Forest fans moaning, whilst trying not to look so damn happy.

Home to Old Peculiar, those hips and thighs, and the news that ITV have produced another classic FA Cup moment. TV viewers missed Everton's late extra time winner against Liverpool as ITV's coverage went in to a pre-programmed advert break. You couldn't make it up.

A Self-Fulfilling Prophesy

'If that little so and so plays up again I shall bring him home again.' So says L as she departs with the dogs this morning.

MD tells me he didn't mean to bite his lead or Doggo's yesterday, he just can't help himself. L should understand, it's just like when someone leaves a chocolate bar on her desk at work. Today though he's too preoccupied with lunging at cars, the way they crunch through the ice really winds him but he doesn't get taken home. It's a good job too because he and Doggo are needed to hand out medicinal licks to the face when Daughter slips over.

I leave early for the bus, in case they're running late but it was bang on time and we got into Derby early. There aren’t that many cars around; I think most people are skiving off even though most of the snow has now gone. Either that or they're forced to be at home because their kid's school has closed. The councils need to look at this because for every teacher who can't get in, for primary schools at least, that causes up to 30 parents to take the day off work with all the damage that does to local businesses.



Somebody managed to battle in through the half inch of snow to put that sign up!

The media have been telling us how bad things are, weather wise. Whereas they're probably just referring to a square mile or so in the south-east, it still has the effect of terrorising the whole country and therefore like the recession, that they're always talking up, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy.

On the bus, someone is playing Britney Spears’s new single on their mobile phone as loud as they can, trying to be cool and controversial after the furore over the title 'If U Seek Amy', say it slowly. Britney doesn't seem overly bothered about locating a girl called Amy after all.

MD's training tonight is on. I couldn't see why it wouldn't be but as I've said, the smell of a bit of snow does strange things to peoples minds. He'll be pleased he gets to see his group of pals. He's quite the socialite.

The Poor Mite

We've had snow overnight so we cancel our planned run because of the dangers of being attached to couple of collies in the slippery conditions. It still doesn’t appear to be snowing in Glencoe though, where we head to in a few weeks.

Instead, L takes them out for a walk as normal but whilst I'm in the shower, I hear the front door open again, harsh words said to one of the dogs and then the front door slammed shut again. I come out of the shower and see MD sitting by the front door, looking crestfallen and contrite, waiting for his Mum to return for him. Within seconds, I have a distressed little collie sobbing on my shoulder. I take pity on the poor mite and take him for a walk in the snow. He had to practice heelwork though, so it was a punishment of sorts, for whatever he'd done.

The scattering of snow has, of course, caused madness on the roads. Apparently London is practically closed and they're forcing people to walk miles because they've withdrawn the bus service. Although looking at the webcams they don't seem to have had such more than us.



I drive in and arrive half an hour late, for no apparent reason, because the main roads were fine. I almost wish I'd cycled but I can’t see me being allowed out on my bike for a few days.

Admittedly the side roads are a bit interesting. As I was getting a newspaper, someone crashed their car in to the curb outside the newsagent. Then as I pulled into our road at work, a chap crossing the road fell over in front on me and I had to slither to an emergency stop. Some people were slithering along on bikes. What they all need is a cyclocross bike, like the one I looked at the other day; those knobbly tyres would be really useful.

Pride Park is already gridlocked by 4pm because everyone seems to have left early to beat the traffic but this just has just brought rush hour forward an hour. By the time, I leave at 5pm it's all dissipated and the roads are quieter than usual.

Dog training is cancelled, so instead we take the dogs around the pond in the snow, walking. Running would be interesting... so we don't. We fix MD up with a light and then release him. We watch him have great fun bombing around in the snow. A moonlit night makes it really pretty up there.

L's experimenting on me again tonight. She asks whether I've ever had a Bobotie? Is this a trap? Apparently, it's South African but it's not a disease, a new band or a sexual position, it's a dish and very nice it is too.

Two Hours Of Arguing

A similar morning to yesterday. Again, failure to get up early but it doesn't really matter today. Then a longer and more productive session with MD followed by a good long walk on the park with both of the dogs.

Later we take in a film.

'Rachel Getting Married' was a film I was looking forward to because on paper it sounded so promising. Take a typical dull family wedding and toss in the hand grenade of a young, unstable female who also happens to be a drug addict, an alcoholic and the sister of the bride, stir well, then stand back and watch the fireworks but...

Of course, it would have been hard for the estranged sister, Kym (Anne Hathaway), to throw a spanner in the workings of this affluent, privileged family from Connecticut because it was already adequately dysfunctional without her intervention.

Kym is back from a spell in rehab and returns home for her sister Rachel's (Rosemarie Dewitt) wedding. All the family's friends and relations have gathered for a whole weekend of eating, drinking, music and vomit inducing declarations of love for each other. That is when they aren't arguing. Director Jonathan Demme invites us to this wedding but just as you often wish you could, when you're invited to a real one, this invite should have been declined. It's like being forced to watch someone else's wedding video. It's even filmed like a home movie, with a hand held camera.



Honestly, you don't want to be there. They have a pre-wedding 'rehearsal dinner' that lasts longer and has more excruciating speeches than most of the worst weddings you've ever been to. Problem is we have to sit through it twice because they do it all again the next day during the wedding itself, which is the most culturally diverse wedding you'll ever see, it ticks every race and religion box on any council application form.

Other people's weddings are usually boring, that is until something 'happens' and not enough happens in this. You think go on Kym, kick some ass, burn the whole place down but it doesn't get that exciting. There's far too much love and hugging for my liking, as well as the arguing. Where was the misery I was expecting?

You just want the wedding all over, so that you can get back to the story, but it never works out that way, there's always another speech just around the corner.

We learn little about Kym, who looks like she's had a colourful past, a seriously baggage laden one but little is elaborated on. When the film starts, she appears clean of drugs and sober, so you can't even reconcile her as an addict. One of her first moves is to get off with the best man, whom she also met at a rehab meeting and I wonder at one stage if she'll kick things off by jumping the groom but no, that would be far too interesting.

Because we learn little about her, there's no reason to like her, feel sympathy for her or even really to hate her. The same can be said of the other characters, who pretty much all come over as unlikeable and self absorbed. It makes you wonder why the groom, a seemingly nice guy called Sidney, wants to have anything to do with them.



Then there's the arguing, two bloody hours of it, which never seems to lead anywhere. Interestingly, Rachel is about to become a doctor of psychology, but she seems to have no insight into the psychology of her own family.

Debra Winger plays the sisters' equally estranged mother, who has chosen to turn her back on the family and to block out her guilt over the death of their youngest child, Ethan. Ethan died whilst in Kym's care, in a car accident, after her Mother engaged her drug addict Daughter as a babysitter. Truth is, she probably left Kym in charge so that she could slope off for a quickie with the man who is now her second husband but they didn't bother filming that bit, their loss and ours.

There's also some inconsistencies, Kym and her mother have a fistfight (nearly exciting that) from which the mother appears without a scratch, whilst Kym takes off in her car, crashes it into a large rock but later we see the car towed away without a mark on it...

Then once the wedding is over Kym simply goes back to rehab. It was such a disappointment; it had so much unrealised potential.



The film would be nothing without Anne Hathaway, who puts in an exceptional performance but she was really the only thing worth seeing. That's not quite fair, as there were other good performances but they just weren't as pretty as her. As a film though, it could have been disturbing, thought provoking, edgy, controversial... but it was none of those.

We head off to the gym afterwards and I manage 6.5km on treadmill at a better rate this week, followed by the usual 1000m on the rower.

Back home that bottle of Old Peculiar looked just too tempting and so it proved.