Don't Forget The Tissues

I think the bed pulled on us all this morning, even I struggled to get up, although two dogs weighing me down didn't help. Daughter, who in the last year has gone from being sheer hell to get up to being probably the best in the family at rising in the mornings, also seemed to struggle. Well, a little, she wasn't in danger of being overtaken by Son or anything.

The dogs get a good report off L, even MD, well apart from chasing some moorhens off the university. I'm sure they had no right to be there, so he was more than entitled to tell them so.

It's a nice spring morning with no wind, so it's a good day to cycle. My legs though say 'take it easy', so when I keep catching a chap who's very slow going uphill, I stay behind him. I'm in no mood or shape for a race this morning and his speed across the flat is quite impressive. That said to my delight I see him again on the way home and this time I have him. In the process I chip another 20 seconds comes off my PB. Wow.

L gets in her 300 calories worth at the gym or a pizza slices worth according to the Daily Mail. The Mail in their wisdom have printed an article entitled 'Going to the gym could make you fat'. Hmmm, a bit of balance might have been in order. How many Daily Mail readers will now be scoffing biscuits in front of the TV tonight, thinking 'thank goodness I didn't go to the gym'.

After a brisk half an hour on the park we head down to the Showcase cinema, where oddly (but we're not complaining) they seem to be running the adverts before the advertised start time.

It's L's fault. It all started when I got the usual pleading 'please take me' email and being the dutiful partner, that I am, I naturally obliged but I should have known better. I should have trusted my natural instinct and stuck with Coen Brothers films, Che double bills or even something with Leonardo DiCaprio in it. Ok, so perhaps that's pushing it.

Now don't get me wrong, 'Marley and Me' is decent enough film and full of doggie humour, but it really should have been given an 18 certificate. It's horrific, it's no cuddly dog story. It's certainly not suitable for young children or even sensitive forty-something's for that matter. It's quite simply the most harrowing film I've seen in years, probably since 'Lassie Come Home'.

But here we are - L, Daughter, myself and even my parents. I bought my Mum the book for Christmas a couple of years ago and I think she liked it. We're always been a doggie family. The film is based on that book which is effectively the memoirs of John Grogan and about how his dog, Marley, influenced his life. The 'plot' is incidental really, yes there are people in it but the only character development that happens or that matters is that of Marley.

John (Owen Wilson) takes the plunge out of the 'dream' life of a single male, that his friend Sebastian prefers, and into wedded life with Jennifer Aniston. Not too bad a plunge when you think about it. Both are journalists and after their wedding they move to Florida. At which point John brings another blonde into his life and in an attempt to short circuit his wife's 'biological clock' buys her a Labrador puppy. They nickname him 'clearance puppy' because he was going cheap for reasons that soon become apparent. Deciding not to call him 'Bob', John christens him 'Marley' instead. For this point onwards their lives are never the same again but if you've a dog owner, you'll know that that would be the case.

As Marley grows up he never he loses his puppy energy and destructive streak. No object is beyond the capabilities of his teeth, which all sounds spookily familiar. Marley proves almost un-trainable and even humps the dog trainer, played by Kathleen Turner and a worryingly accurate reflection of some of the ones I've met. John sums Marley up as the simply the world's worst dog.

He is also there to intrude on their most private moments; although quite how those full wine glasses remained upright I'm not sure. He also embarrasses John when he is house hunting and plunges into the swimming pool. Yep, that happens.



Instead of chucking him in the skip, although at times Aniston is clearly tempted, but like a child, and again there you're tempted, a pet is not someone you give up on because they are hard work. Well not for most of us. In the end, she realizes that Marley is, and always has been, an integral part of the family.



Meanwhile life goes on but Marley remains the constant denominator throughout. They try for kids, at first they miscarry, and then they manage three of them. There is a stabbing in their neighbourhood, so they up sticks and move. John has by now become a successful columnist and bases most of his articles on Marley's antics. I must mention Alan Arkin who is rather good as his editor but enough about the people. This film's about a dog.



So is it a good film? Well probably not. In fact I'm sure it's a lousy movie if you're not a dog owner. Someone without a dog would just see it as a mediocre chick flick with a silly dog in it and if you've seen one Jennifer Aniston romance you've probably seen them all. Perhaps the film doesn't try hard enough to make non-dog lovers love Marley because he's mostly shown destroying something. Us dog owners know that the rest of the time your dog is loyal, adorable and your best friend but not enough of that was shown.

I take the view that it's a memoir and can therefore gloss over the flaws. The problem with this memoir is that having been shown a period in John's life and all of Marley's, I suppose we had to be there to the bitter end. So if you've a dog lover, I warn you that if you go see this film you need to know what you're getting yourself into and don't forget the tissues.



As Marley grew older and his legs started to go, I saw what was coming and I spent the last thirty minutes or so of the film trying to prepare myself for the inevitable. The whole film connected with me on a personal level because it jolted back memories of the three dogs my parents had when I was younger, that I watched grow up, mature and then leave us and of my two back at home.

When the ending finally came it was far harder to take than I had anticipated, partly because it was way too long and emotional. It was absolutely excruciating stuff for any dog owner, who knows that one day he'll be having that final conversation with his best pal on the vet's operating table. As Marley slowly closes his eyes, knowing that his duty to his family is finally done, John tells him 'You're a great dog' and there's not a dry eye in the cinema. I'm sure there were grown men crying out loud or were they all biting on their knuckles, as I was, to muffle the sobs.

In the end it was quite a realistic portrayal of what owning a dog means. I wonder if John got himself another dog and if he didn't, what the hell did he write his columns about?

As the credits roll it's time to regain a little composure and drive home to see our boys. I give Doggo an extra big cuddle, oh and MD as well.

Most Unpleasant

L's still hobbling and I'm actually tired as well, so we skip any running. I'm sure MD's little legs could do with a rest as well. I go to work in the car and give Daughter a lift. She uncharacteristically has her school tie done virtually up to her chin after her encounter with Jaws last night.

L reports in that she's made it up the stairs to her office but the trip down to the basement was most unpleasant. She tells me that she doesn't intend moving much further than the hot bath tonight. I'm not sure whether the correct terminology is 'intend' or 'can't'.

There's no dog training again tonight, so I've moved squash into the gap. Not that this makes any difference to the result. It also raises the dilemma of whether to have a beer or not on what should be an AF Monday. Oh what the hell, it is stout and porter month after all.

I head home to one of L's cranky specials, butternut squash stuffed with chilli. Sounds odd but it was very good.

I spend the evening blogging and when I come to bed I have to wake L up because she's gone to bed in some seriously slinky gear. I just hope I read that right way.

Keeping Ourselves Warm

The bad news this morning is that L cannot walk. Which is kind of hilarious. It's a while since she ran the sort of distance we did yesterday but I can't help feeling she would have coped fine had she not been attached to MD, whose zigzagging tactics probably doubled the distance.

Both dogs are nagging for the park but it's tough because I'm saving MD's paws for his training this afternoon. It's particularly tough on Doggo but they both get a run at my parents afterwards.

In the evening we're at another new venue. Tucked away in a small side street around the back of the impressive new 'Curve' theatre in Leicester there is a venue called The Musician. With a capacity of 220 it's certainly cosy but it's well laid out and it looks like a great place to see a band. It even serves three real ales at the bar and in real glasses too, so I assume they're not expecting a riot this evening.

L and I, true to form, blag a spot stage front in time to catch tonight's support act, Ross Clark and his band The Scarfs Go Missing. I had to google that, such was the depth of Ross's Glaswegian accent I never manage to decode the name of his band at the time.

The bespectacled Ross, looking and acting a bit like a cross between Black Francis and the Hold Steady's Craig Finn, and his band entertain us with his Scottish take on what you'd probably call blues/country. They are very good and clearly enjoying being down here in England. They tells us what a great time they had in Blackpool last night and if we buy a few of their CDs they might be able to have a great time in Leicester too and perhaps even get to eat.



By the time Ross and his boys have finished the place has got really busy and it looks like the Musician could be full for tonight's main event.

The first thing to say about Scott Hutchison is that he can hardly be described as a frightened rabbit caught in the headlights of fame, far from it. It's obvious from song one, the terrific 'Backwards Walk', and for once a band get L's favourite in early, that this rabbit has great stage presence but then as he's someone who bares his soul so much in his songs, I suppose he can't afford to be shy.

Scott has been playing under the stage name of 'Frightened Rabbit' for the last five years and what started out as a solo project has gradually turned itself into a full-fledged band. His brother Grant soon joined him to play drums and then a couple of years ago Billy Kennedy came in on guitar. Andy Monaghan joined them more recently to help them perform last year's 'Midnight Organ Fight' album live.



Tonight it's an 'unplugged' acoustic show, in aid of their recently released live album 'Liver! Lung! FR!', although I'm not totally sure of the precise definition of this. Scott does have a proper acoustic guitar with a taped on microphone but we still have electric bass and guitar, as well as a keyboards, although the use of electronics does seem to have been toned down. This means that his vocals come through more clearly than on record and you can get to grips with every word of his emotive songs.

Frightened Rabbit are just one of many critically hyped bands that we've seen recently but at a lot of these gigs the punters that have turned up to see what the 'buzz' was all about have simply stood, watched and quietly appreciated (presumably) the music. Tonight no one can accuse the crowd of being here simply because of the hype. Most were fervent devotees and sung along to practically every word of the songs from both of their studio albums. It also seems the norm to shout out your requests at Frightened Rabbit shows. The band came with no prepared set list but seemed to know what their first half a dozen or so tracks would be. 'Good Arms Vs Bad Arms' lead us into a succession of most of the 'big' moments from 'Midnight Organ Fight' and included the country blues of 'Old Old Fashioned' when rather appropriately Ross Clark joined them on stage. Returning the favour from when Andy Monaghan played keyboards on one of their tracks.



They then proceeded to adlib the rest of the set according to what the audience wanted to hear, which was mainly stuff from their debut album 'Sing the Greys'. Tonight we get 'Go-Go Girls', 'Square 9' and a cover of N-Trance's 'Set You Free'.

Throughout, the band put just about everything they have into their performance especially Scott, who literally sweated buckets for the cause, although it was very hot in the Musician. I had L on 'faint watch' for most of the evening.

All too soon they're finishing off with 'Modern Leper' and retreating behind the curtain at the back of the stage for a well earned towel down. After a vociferous shout for more, Scott returns to stand right at the edge of the stage and play a truly unplugged 'Poke', pure acoustic guitar and not even a microphone to carry his voice.



Then I wonder if there might be a fight after all as people try and get their favourites played. Another popular request follows with 'Be Less Rude'. Then Scott finally relents to crowd pressure and plays another of his 'heart on the sleeve' classics 'Snake' which he explains does not refer to any part of his anatomy but to a draft excluder that he took to American to woo a girl he knew there. He didn't tell her that he was coming because she'd have told him not to bother if he had. The tactic didn't work, as he suspected it wouldn't, but at least he got a song out of it. It's clear he's had a harder time than most of us with women. I wonder how many more heart wrenching tales he's got up his sleeve.

One song that you didn't think people would be so keen to sing along to is the superlative 'Keep Yourself Warm' but everyone seems pleased when he closed the night with it and of course the whole room joins in, as they have done all night, passionately bellowing all the F words back at Scott in unified fashion. A classic moment.

The whole set was pure quality from start to finish.

Afterwards, we head back to the car where we've both got something to keep ourselves warm, a flask of hot coffee.

We are greeted back home by a battered, bruised and err... bitten Daughter, back after her night out clubbing. Hmmm, someone seems to have been marking their territory on her. Not the bruise though, that was her own silly fault.

Too Many Layers

This morning it's L and I, two dogs, fifteen miles and a lot of cakes. It's the Charnwood Marathon. Well it would have been had we done the full 26 mile route but we opt for the more sensible shorter route. This is necessary for a young pup and the ageing Doggo. Of course L and I could have done the full Monty, no problem. What's that Dear? I'd be on my own... perhaps not then.

My father turns up for the start, anything to get a photo of the dogs, and then impressively reappears several times around the route which takes us through other villages, across countryside, through a couple of country parks and over some serious hills via two checkpoints where, did I mention, you get cake.

Early on I have my doubts about whether my troops are up to it. Doggo looks like he's struggling after the first few miles but the old git seems to get better as we go along, coincidentally picking up after the first cake stop. It's even nice weather for it, although it starts off cold and I opt for too many layers. L would say there's no such thing as too many layers but that's a girl thing. It soon warms up and even the rain has the decency not to bucket down until after we've finished and tucking into hot soup and even more cake.

Then it's back home for a hot bath and a chance to compare aches and pains. I'm sure we brought two dogs home with us but neither can be summoned during the afternoon. A job of dog exercising well done.

Daughter turns up late afternoon, in time to be dropped off in town. Talking of this girl thing of too many layers, it's odd to see someone, who watches TV wearing a heavy fleece and/or her dressing gown with her duvet over herself in front of the gas fire with the central heating already on, go out in 5-degree weather in just a t-shirt. Suppose it's cool, literally.

L and I have a few beers in town with L's brother before we meet up again with Daughter and Son for a late night curry. They both arrive from home on separate buses; that's brotherly/sisterly love for you. Whether late night curries are a good habit to get them into, I don't know but it's good to get everybody together.

Hot Tea

I take L and the dogs out for a run this morning and then I jog down to catch the bus into work. Then I plan to run part of the way home tonight. We're got a fifteen-mile run (with cake stops) planned for tomorrow but this is all about building stamina for my forthcoming birthday treat of the Hellathon.

Bugger. Having cleared up my computer virus that I've been battling with I now seem to have managed to re-infect myself from one of my backups. So this blog has been getting a bit behind mainly because I've been unable to do much blogging in my lunchtime at work due to this situation.

As I make my morning drink I'm reminded of something that I read in today's paper. They're now telling you to leave your tea for four minutes before drinking it or you face an eight times increased risk of getting cancer. Eh? From hot tea? Now we are getting silly. It's wasted on me anyway, as L will tell you, there's no way I can get anywhere near a mug of hot tea until it's cooled for at least ten minutes.

Apparently it's hailing in Nottingham. We have a bit of rain over lunch in Derby but no hail, at least not yet; it's probably saving it for my run home. Tomorrow apparently could be worse and colder. I don't envy anybody out running fifteen miles tomorrow.

L's bought some new trousers and I stand well back as she tries them on, in case she spontaneously combusts if they don't fit. Thankfully they do and look great. Which means that we don't need to head out in search of the copious amounts of alcohol that that she was threatening. Which is relief as it would have to have been copious amounts that won't give us a headache for tomorrow's run, which wouldn't have been easy. In the end we stay in, after all, Daughter is staying out tonight and such opportunities are just too rare to miss.

Super Glue

I cycle in and it's very windy again. A head wind naturally but hopefully it'll blow me home again.

In fact on the way home I have such a decent pace on that I catch and then overtake another cyclist. He is a more senior gentleman than myself but as soon as I've done it I regret it. On second glance he looks like a wizened hard man who's probably around my age but has done so many Hellathons that he's aged prematurely. He's riding a bike that was probably state of the art technology thirty years ago but he's kept it in good nick ever since and he looks well capable of whupping me on it.

The moment that I realise my mistake has come home to haunt me is when I notice that he is attached to my back wheel, seemingly with super glue. I go up a couple of gears to try to lose him and I power up the hill out of Borrowash. No luck. The sun is behind me and I can see his shadow, so I know that the crafty old bugger is letting me pull him all the way up the hill. I ease off at the top and still he doesn't conform to etiquette and come past. I free wheel to the bottom of the next hill, still no movement. Do I turn around and give him a mouthful?

After a much slower assent of the next hill he finally comes past, smiles a cheery 'hello' and starts to chat about triathlons, having seen my Derby Tri t-shirt. Apparently he's a 'novice' triathlete like me e.g. he also only does pool swims. I try and put him down a peg or two by mentioning the Ashbourne Hellathon, which seems to rattle him. Only problem is that I best enter it now, in case I see him again and he asks how it went.

I cycle to the pool. I've not been for a swim for ages, what with grudge races and all that. Tonight it's not lane night and it's a total free for all. The two lanes that are set up are packed, so I try the main pool but there's too many people swimming diagonally or doing handstands in the deep end so eventually I have to join the lanes. There's now only two others in lane two but unfortunately one of them is doing backstroke down the centre of the lane. It was easier negotiating my way around the handstanders. The other occupant of the lane and I have to continually swim around and past this obstacle, whilst avoiding each other at the same time. Although I wouldn't be too distraught if I collided with her.

L had a similar problem the other day with psychos doing butterfly and you never mix with people doing butterfly unless you want a broken nose. Although she obviously had a good butchers because she says men look awesomely sexy when they are doing butterfly. Sounds like I’m going to have to learn how to do it. (a) to look awesomely sexy and (b) to break the nose of anybody doing backstroke down the centre of the lane. If I had a go now the best I could hope for would be that the chap backstroking would die laughing.

I get home and walk the dogs up to L, who's been working late. I'm trying to get MD used to as much traffic as possible, to get him over this fondness for hurling himself under them. Tonight, he's fine. We don't meet any other dogs though, which is his other Achilles heel.

Over a beer, I do the business. Job done. I've entered the bloody thing.

Wine By The Pint

The wind is back with a vengeance this morning but even that didn't really spoil my ride in. What did spoil it was when it started raining on me when I was only about a mile from work. That was just cruel.

Bad news at work. I think I've kind of accidentally downloaded something I shouldn't and infected my new computer at work with a virus. Looks like another reinstall of everything. Oh dear.

L won't even mention what happened on this morning's walk with Doggo and 'he who shall not be named'. Oh dear again. Her day doesn't seem to get any better when she is force fed chocolate biscuits. She's threatens to have a pint of wine tonight. Which would be horribly expensive.

In the end it's three glasses, which is about a pint anyway, but at £1.90 a glass at the Bodega Social, that's not too bad but oddly it's £4 for a decent beer. The prices in most places are usually the other way around.

We're at the Bodega because L was so impressed when we saw the Rakes in Derby earlier this year that she requested a repeat viewing. Not of the Rakes though, of the support band, the Official Secrets Act. As they're currently still a little known band, we're not expecting a large crowd and the Bodega is perhaps a little over half full.

The lass on the door is informing everybody that they’re checking id tonight but when L asks her if she wants to check ours, she declines. One rule for the youngsters and one of us. So we get our ‘electric banana’ hand stamp and free entry to club night, should we feel the urge, with no hassle.

First up are a young looking guitar band from Nottingham called Frontiers. So young in fact that they seem to have brought their proud parents along to swell the crowd.
The band are far from original and call on a whole range of influences but they definitely have potential. They have some really great intros, although a few of the songs fell away a little thereafter. At first I'm not over impressed with lead singer Alex Noble, as it seemed at times that he had trouble coping with playing guitar and singing vocals at the same time but he seemed to grow more confident as the set went on.

It’s clear that Joy Division are in his record collection. Frontiers became the latest band to cover ‘Shadowplay’. Well isn’t everybody doing it. I hate having to keep mentioning good old Brandon but Frontiers version was definitely better than his.



Certainly a band I'll be looking to see again, if only to see how they develop.

Another band with too many influences to mention are Official Secrets Act. Although I thought they were good when we saw them earlier this year, I wasn't quite so enamoured with them as L was but on second listen they're certainly getting there. Tonight they are in Nottingham promoting their début album 'Understanding Electricity'.

They play a confident and energetic set to the small crowd with Tom Burke not looking quite so spaced out this time. In fact he's looking Mr Cool and professional tonight as he purposefully dishes out his vocals. The bass player too had cleaned up his act and ditched the war paint but the keyboard player lets the side down a touch by having, what looks like, glitter in his chest hairs!

It's easy to play spot the influence. Tonight I think Razorlight or the Strokes perhaps but don't hold that against them, it's still a good performance where the singles 'So Tomorrow' and 'Victoria' stand out. They can certainly play and they are one of a growing number of bands whose members can interchange with each other instruments.

I feel they are already at a crossroads, where they go from here will be interesting. They could be the next indie success story of the ilk of say Franz Ferdinand or Arctic Monkeys but if a major label gets hold of them they could be the next 'Scouting For Girls'. Worrying.



Afterwards L fancies a t-shirt and as we stand at the mechanising stall no one is there, then Tom Burke rushes across and serves us himself. Rock n roll. We even get a pound off for having the display item.

'Understanding Electricity' is out on Monday.

A Gastronomic Delight

On the bike. Very pleasant weather. Yesterday's high winds have thankfully blown themselves out.

Whilst I'm cycling in, L is having one of those therapeutic walks that all dog owners have in the morning, not. Her morning walks with MD aren't going well. He keeps having a coronary at other dogs, luckily his jacket that he wears has a useful handle type thing on it so she can pick him up, which leaves his legs spinning in mid-air, and she can then point him in a new direction. There's often little you can do about his yapping though and apparently he tried to throw himself under a car in frustration. It’s never that 'exciting' when I take him. Deer apart.

My bike home is also good; in fact it's my fastest cycle home ever. I break the 48 minute barrier.

A quick snack with one of my staple foods of the moment, fish fingers. Well it's hardly a gastronomic delight but it's good quick snack and better than sausages or cheese and hopefully healthier. Then I'm off to MD’s training where they tell us the course is being discontinued. Oh bugger. How can a young dog learn his ABC of agility, and how not to throw himself under cars, when that happens.

Boys And Their Toys

I opt out of the Monday morning run, deciding it’s better to save MD’s energy for later, when I will destroy him on the park. I take the car as usual on a Monday and the traffic is predictably terrible. Oddly I have more trouble staying awake than I do after we’ve run, that’s what an extra hour in bed does for you.

I send L out for Cycling Weekly because Sainsbury’s have sold out again. The staff again tell me that they don’t sell many, so they don’t tend to stock a large amount. Quite how they hope to increase sales with that strategy I’m not sure. It comes out Thursday and you can never get one from there beyond Friday. I’m after the latest bike reviews and it seems that others have already snaffled all the copies and so will be getting on the internet and buying the new bikes before I do. This is good really because it saves me money. Boys and their toys as L would say.

I guess everyone has had a look at this new Google streets thing. It’ll be a few more years before they invent the live action one, which would be really useful for keeping an eye on people. Of course there’s already been loads of complaints. Allegedly. Some 200 members of the public have complained they are identifiable on the photos. Of course the remaining thousands of folk who spotted themselves on the photos were ecstatic about their fifteen minutes of fame.

Unfortunately Google have already removed the snaps of the two work colleagues pictured in an apparently compromising position, the one of the man caught leaving a sex shop, the man being sick outside a pub and the chap relieving himself in Birmingham. The cycle accident in Bristol is still there though.

L tells me she really needs to run tonight, so I offer to leave her running stuff outside the front door. Which I though was a good offer but she didn’t seem to think so. In the end she goes to the gym instead and I pick her up from there on the way to the cinema.

The Screen Room (maximum occupancy 21) is positively packed tonight for Revolutionary Road - take two.

It's the 1950's, Frank and April Wheeler, but we’ll call them Leo and Kate, are living the American dream in a nice suburb somewhere on Revolutionary Road. Everything seems great on the outside, but in reality neither is happy. Kate wanted to be an actress but she was crap at it so she became a housewife instead. Leo hates his office job but has no idea what else he could do instead. Leo at least livens up his dreary day by takes a dip in the typing pool but Kate, stuck at home, just becomes the bored housewife from hell and quivers that bottom lip, which has been cut and pasted from ‘The Reader’. Other than that, not much happens. It's rumoured they had kids but you only see them a couple of times, I think they got taken into care. It's perhaps all true to life but it makes odd cinema and it’s hard to feel sorry for either of them.



Then Kate suggests that they move to Paris, just because they can. They don’t have to be like everyone else in the suburbs. They can escape their rut of repetition and have a life instead. She'll work as a secretary for one of the big organizations whilst Leo becomes a kept man so that he can find himself. A good offer but Leo’s a bit sceptical, after all what's life without the typing pool, but Kate quivers that lip and talks him round.



Cue a few minutes of bliss and Leo even jumps her in the kitchen but it's probably not the best eighteen seconds (approx) of her life. Then it all falls apart, it's a costly eighteen seconds as Kate falls pregnant and Leo gets offered a, too good to turn down, promotion at work. The lip quivers some more and their relationship deteriorates. Of course had this film been set in the modern day, Kate would have just taken the boat tickets, the kids and gone.

Poor old Kate, looking a bit haggard I'm afraid, can't even get a decent shag. In frustration she indulges her neighbour Shep (get down boy) who has been panting after her even since they moved in. He takes his chance after Kate's had one too many one night but he can't even match up to Leo's standards.



Kate decides she wants rid of the baby and when the smoking and drinking heavily during pregnancy fails to work, she goes for the DIY home abortion kit instead. At the end you hope Kate is going to shoot herself, in fact you hope she shoots Leo first then herself but no, the abortion goes wrong and she bleeds to death. After Kate dies Leo is shown running down the street, presumably to the nearest bridge to throw himself off but that doesn't happen either. Depressing - yes, but nowhere near depressing enough.

Michael Shannon, steals the film as John, the mentally 'ill' neighbour who's been through the electric shock treatment. He tells it how it is and unsubtly hammers home the message but does it with panache. He was Oscar nominated for the role, where he lost out to that dead guy.

I have to say L loved the film but then she's read the book, I got the impression that a lot of useful background information was missing, including all the character development. The film opens when Kate and Leo meet at a party and you are left to assume they actually liked each other at this point. Then almost immediately the film fast forwards seven years to when they hate each other. Cue lots of yelling and screaming. Whether this was a progressive falling out or whether they just woke up one day and smelt the coffee, I don't know, we’re not told that either. There are a couple of short flashbacks but any others must have ended up on the cutting room floor.



It's a very pretty, well made film but I can't help feeling it was just a vehicle for Kate and Leo. I think the story got lost somewhere along the way.

The Yapping Machine

It’s the first outdoor dog show of the season today and it’s a local one as well, so too good to resist. The weather is even good for it, well for March. Doggo gets off to a sluggish start and, although clear, he is painfully slow in our first event. I consider retiring him there and then. Our second run is much better but horror of horrors, two obstacles from home, he has the long jump down. I think that’s only the second time ever that we’ve come to grief on the long jump and the first time since we were newbies.

The yapping machine (aka MD) is loving every minute of... well just simply being there. So much so that I have to put him back in the car and put a blanket over the window, partly to block out the sun to keep him cool but mainly to shut him up.

It’s also a good opportunity to catch up on the latest club politics which will influence the already complicated selection process for the two teams for the Crufts qualifier at Nottingham in May. This process doesn’t often have a lot to do with ability. Which I suppose is also true of most sports.

After a clear in our last run but still no sniff of a rosette we get ready to head home when it comes to our attention that someone from our club is unintentionally winning grade 5 agility but doesn’t want to because it’s so tough up here in 6. It seems the only person likely to beat them is someone else from our club, who doesn’t want to win either. Quite a crowd assembles to watch this duel, that neither of them wish to win but of course there has to be a winner. Welcome to grade 6. You’ll love it.

Eventually we’re on our way home. L’s parents are coming round later as its Mother’s Day, so we'll get to misbehave alarmingly and have wine on a Sunday. I warn L that we're on our way, so that she can put away the hoover and bring all the washing in before the yapping machine gets home and morphs into the wrecking machine.

A Deer Problem

I wake up in Bingham on the floor in my sleeping bag, whilst L is home alone, well, with two collies for company and warmth. She’s intending heading off into work for a couple of hours, which means I have to get a shift on to catch some of that company and warmth before she goes.

I drop her at work before heading on to the park with the dogs where we have a bit of a deer problem. A pack of about twenty of them appear out of nowhere and mug us. I have to say MD was a little star, in fact both dogs were. Not that L and Daughter believe me, ‘yeah right’ was the response I got when I told them. Actually MD was terrified, once he’d ascertained that they didn’t want to play, he hid behind me.

The real problem was when we realised that we’d lost one of their balls. After a long and fraught search, with the deer watching over us, we eventually saw it. Nestling amongst where the deer hooves, so we had to shoo them away before we could get it back.

Then I head over to Derby for what turns out to be a truly awful game of football and a 0-0 draw. Although to be fair, Barnsley deserved the points. How come it’s always so awful when I go.

There is food out when I get home but L has gone to the gym. She plans to go straight to the theatre at the Lakeside Arts Centre from there, which is a pretty stylish thing to do. I try and coax our printer into printing the receipt for the tickets so that I can pick them up from the box office.

Eventually the printer relents and I meet up with L. She slips her hand into my pocket and quickly discovers my guilty secret, the mini bottles of red wine I’ve stashed there. L was the guilty one who purchased them. We’re refusing to pay the theatres prices and usually just go ‘dry’ but tonight we intend to sit outside before the play and during the interval sipping our own.

Then we get brave and try to take one in for the second act. We even have our own plastic glasses because one of the wines came pre-packed already in plastic glasses. The ultimate convenience drink. Unfortunately our plastic glasses are a lot posher and more realistic than the theatre’s own and they think we have real glass ones. They ask us to tip the contents of our impressive fakes into their ‘real’ plastic ones, which is a bit surreal. I can tell one of the staff on the door can see they’re plastic but the other is convinced they’re glass and offers to take them back to the bar for us. I take advantage of their confusion, throw a dummy and make to take our fakes back myself. The lad on the door looks well confused, so I leave him to his confusion.

The play is called ‘Empty Bed Blues’ and is by Sneinton's Stephen Lowe. It’s set in
1929 and is about another local lad, Eastwood born DH Lawrence. Lawrence is 44 and doesn’t look good for age, possibly because he’s dying of consumption. He’s also practically destitute and his latest book, a little piece of controversy called 'Lady Chatterley’s Lover' has been banned in Britain. Desperate to get it published and as a last resort he’s chasing the American dollar, just like Premiership football clubs do and Lawrence, along with his wife Frieda visit the estate of a wealthy young American couple on the outskirts of Paris.



This odd couple are Harry Crosby and his sculptress wife, Caresse, pronounced 'caress'. Caresse and he have an ‘open marriage’, which is not a bad contract, in principle. Her name is apparently the much plainer Polly but Harry persuaded her to change it. I wonder what he calls all his other girlfriends; apparently he has quite a few. Oh and they have a dog called Clitoris; Harry has problems finding it in the dark.



It’s a good job Lawrence doesn’t have a weak heart because Harry makes an (almost) spectacular entrance from a cleverly constructed on stage lake containing real water, stark naked. I look at L and can see what’s she’s thinking. It’s not the most impressive of entrances after all and the air of disappointment amongst the female members of the audience is palpable. I wonder if any of them asked for a refund. Lawrence’s wife though seems smitten straight away.

The paradox of the play is that the Crosby’s 'open marriage' clashes with the Lawrence’s more staid view of life, which is odd for a chap who’s just written ‘Lady Chatterley’. Meanwhile the supposedly open-minded Crosby’s are appalled by Lawrence’s explicit novel. Though Lawrence corrects them when they assume he has based the main character on himself. Lawrence explains that he based the book on his wife's affair with their Italian gardener and in doing so reveals his impotence to them. Which probably explains Freda’s fascination with little old Harry.



So you would think Caresse would be glad of a little openness but I think she’s a romantic at heart and doesn't seem so keen on such martial arrangements. Frieda, in fact seems much more of a goer than Caresse and the first opportunity she gets, her kit's off and she in the lake, swimming off for some fun with Harry.



Poor Caresse meanwhile is reduced to showing Lawrence the brassiere she invented and when that doesn’t work she throws everything else at him but even she can’t cure his impotence. So she too heads off into the lake to play gooseberry to the others. Mind you, she's lets the side down and keeps her underwear on. Boo.

That apart, it’s all good stuff and very well acted. The stage set is also excellent. Aside from the real lake, the rest of the set is just as ingenious and comprises of a very effective video-projected backdrop, complete with rippling lake and flying birds, which change to stone walls and a log fire for the indoor scenes. Then later we get some great scenes of the characters swimming across the projected lake.

As a footnote to the play we are told that Harry eventually published a novel by Lawrence but not ‘Lady Chatterley’ instead the less provocative ‘The Escaped Cock’. A cute title but it’s actually about a bird. Not long after that Harry and his latest diversion, a married woman called Josephine, shot themselves. Lawrence himself died a year later.

Afterwards we stagger off to the Johnson's. L having got her round in at Sainsbury’s, leaves me with the more expensive one. I have a dog show early tomorrow but whereas Doggo needs to on the wagon, I’m not bothered. One becomes two becomes three; some plays take more dissecting than others. Although three pints on top of the wine was perhaps pushing it a bit for a 6.30am start.

Weekly Allowance

My legs don’t want to get on the bike this morning but I just tell them to get on with it. I’m sure they’ll be grateful afterwards.

L confesses she would actually do the London Duathlon if I did but at £53 not only is that above her weekly allowance, it’s above mine. Instead I propose the Humber Bridge Duathlon which is on the same day and a mere £35. She seems interested because part of it, the first run, actually goes over the bridge and amongst other terms and conditions is the requirement that she can do it on her shopper bike. Hmmm, but then I realised, one of us is swimming Windermere the day before... so we’ll put that one on ice until 2010. L seems relieved that she can leave her bike in mothballs. I'll just have to find something else to tempt her with.

I arrange to meet L after work by the park gates, which would be a very romantic meeting place if it wasn’t for the canine company. This means I have to change my bike route to approach the park from a different angle, so it’s L’s fault that I have to drag my weary legs over the hills and through Ilkeston. Well at least I get to try out the new cycle path through Wollaton.

It’s an ‘on the road’ one which scores heavily with me, it’s also tremendously and unnecessarily wide. Not that I’m bothered much about that but the council may get a flood of complaints from people about the new bus lane. The other thing is the markings keep stopping and restarting, often just because there’s a central reservation, which implies I suppose that cars are allowed to crush you at those points but not elsewhere. Odd.

I rendezvous with L and we give the boys a good ball session which means L shouldn’t have any trouble with them whilst I’m over at the Bingham Beer Festival tonight. I'm staying over, so the dogs won't have to fight over bed space. I can see I won't be missed.

Bingham Beer Festival isn’t terribly large, only eight beers and none of them dark. We do initially get excited to see four barrels marked at over 6% until we realise that they’re ciders. Oh well, best make the best of it.

Ample Redress

I head out on this morning’s run with stiff legs after my momentous victory last night. L joins us, flashing her ‘wished I’d stayed in bed’ eyes at me. Not working. Doggo trots along, ears back, full of concentration. In contrast MD’s ears are up, full of enthusiasm and the joy of life. He keeps looking and smiling at Doggo, thoroughly enjoying it, practically touching noses which generates a 'grrr' from Doggo. Doggo’s just desperate to get on with it, to get the 'on the lead' bit over with, to get to the bit where he can get some off lead and no longer be attached to the little pain.

I have to divert through Dale Abbey on my drive in to work, after a road closure at Kirk Hallam. Good job I wasn’t on my bike, that detour would have took me ages. Although sometimes the police do let you cycle past an accident site. I opt not to start the next audio book I have lined up and instead sing along to a spot of Frightened Rabbit instead. A good stay-awake ploy.

We’re back at the Flowerpot for lunch today, as we’ve heard a rumour they’ve now got a new chef. Hmmm, using the word ‘chef’ would be over glamorising the new appointment a touch. They have a young girl in to microwave, fry chips and chop salad. It’s probably not her fault she’s not very good at it, they’re probably only paying peanuts, hence you get what you get.

Our food is fine, although others do complain of under/overcooked food. The problem is that the ability to multitask, so necessary in a kitchen, has passed her by and the service is incredibly slow. We are forced to take a ninety minute lunch, for just a sandwich and some fries and when it comes it's served with an absence of a smile. The bar staff offer the group ahead of us free drinks but not us. Where are ours? Do they think her low cut top is ample redress?

Well at least we had time for an extra half of the Leeds Brewery’s ‘New Moon’ which I feel I’ve earned it after my hectic week. It's a very nice 4.3% dark beer. Who says dark beer is dead? It was only last weekend that I was drinking Taylor’s Ram Tam, so that’s two dark Yorkshire brews in one week.

We’re stuck with Clifton again for squash. Portland’s courts are closed because they are refurbishing the changing rooms and the corridor but not the courts obviously. I tell my Yorkshire born opponent about the possibly that Yorkshire is leading a renaissance in dark beer. Well something has to have a Yorkshire Renaissance, as it’s not going to happen on the football pitch. He complains that he hasn't seen Ram Tam on the bar for years. What he means is they don't sell it at the pub at the end of his road, the extent of his explorations. I point out that there are other pubs. Well, there are at the moment but the government is addressing this.

Showdown

Showdown time. The half a dozen or so runners at my work have been making use of a 3.6 mile route around Pride Park that someone devised. I held the record for this until it was beaten a few weeks ago. So tonight I will attempt to lower it again and hopefully set a mark that can’t be broken. All the others could participate in this 'race' but instead they all opt to watch, except for the young pretender, who’s the current record holder, and I, who will go head to head.

The debate for me has been, do I run or cycle into work, as I usually would or save my legs. The bottom line is I’m supposed to be training, so L helps me warm up and then I cycle in.

When it comes to 5pm and race time, the legs seem to be in reasonable shape. L wishes me luck and but threatens to withdraw her services it I lose. Fully motivated by that, I set off at a fast pace and then quickly regret it as I’m not shaking him off.

I ease back a little and we’re together for about a third of the way and then he starts to fade. By the last mile, I’m feeling safe and can relax a touch, only to up the pace again towards the end to try and lower the time as much as possible.

I knock nearly two minutes off my previous time and take a minute out of the record, finishing thirty seconds ahead of the young pretender, who comfortably sets a new PB. So he’s pleased. The company MD even hands out certificates to us both, declaring us 1st and 2nd in the winner of the company’s 1st 3.6 mile race. Oh no, does this mean there’s likely to be another one.

I text L to tell her I’ve won, so she’s doesn’t have to deny me anything, not that I’m capable of even standing up at the moment. Ah, and I’ve got to cycle home yet.

After a bit of a rest I manage the bike home. All good training for the Ashbourne Hellathon, although the distances in that event are approximately double what I've just done and then there’s a 4km run to finish... ouch.

Instead I go for a romp around a horse arena with Doggo. Actually, I reckon a 4k run would probably have been easier than running through all that deep sand in the arena.

Doggo tests the old legs by being quite up for training tonight and I struggle to keep up with him. Perhaps that's because I’ve left MD at home. L’s taken him for a run instead, in revenge for nipping her finger while jumping and biting his lead this morning. Either that or it's down to a three week break from Wednesday's, he’s got so many old friends and foes to catch up with and wind him.

Name That Tune

An early morning run with the dogs and then after all the early morning activity the struggle to stay awake in the car. The gripping ‘Notes From An Exhibition’, that I’m now onto the last disc of, helps.

L’s looking forward to tonight’s gig but they’ve got a lot to live up to after the performance of the Red Light Company last night. I have every confidence. I’ve been playing little else but the Doves for weeks, it’s my gig of the year and we haven’t even been yet.

She tells me she's particularly looking forward to them playing ‘Last Summer’. Last Summer? Are we talking about the same band here. Oh hang on; L's not got any of the titles for the ‘Some Cities’ album on her ipod and has seemingly renamed all the songs herself. That’ll be ’Snowden’ then. I like a round of ’name that tune’ first thing in the morning

Many suspected that the Doves may have flown the nest for good but no, they have taken flight once more and tonight come home to roost in Coventry on St Patricks Day as part of a six date mini tour. Enough of the bird jokes.

Of course once we had tickets for Coventry they announced a bigger tour and come to Nottingham. No matter, this is the place to see them. A new venue for me, pre-new single, pre-new album, we get to hear everything first.

I'd never heard of the Kasbah and this turns out because it is the former Colosseum which was well known and affectionately known as the ‘Colly’, now there’s an unfortunate nickname. It was somewhere I always wanted to visit for a gig. The place underwent a £1 million refit in 2007 and now has a Moroccan theme, lanterns, ornate mirrors, velvet drapes.... Hmmm and you though theme bars died in the 90's. Luckily it still has the Colosseum name emblazoned across its roof which will be handy when it reverts, as these places usually do, to its better known moniker sometime in the future.

The problem with going somewhere new and arriving late, as we do tonight, due to the 50 mile journey to get there, although this does enable me to finish my audio book, is knowing where the good viewing spots are. We head up to the already crowded balcony just at the support band, the Invisible are finishing up. The first support band we've missed in some time. Amazingly someone in front of us chooses this moment to vacate their vantage point and we slip in. Perfect timing.

L’s been naughty and splashed out on a Doves t-shirt which she obtains before the gig. The problem with that is, if the gig is awful you now have a memento of its awfulness but I’m sure the Doves won’t let us down.

They make us wait forty-five minutes before Jimi Goodwin and twin brothers Jez and Andy Williams make their entrance. I suppose after going missing for four years, what’s another forty-five minutes.

A shout goes up 'f***in legend' from a voice in the crowd before they even start. No pressure then. The place is packed, allaying any fears that time and perhaps their public may have moved on or that perhaps Elbow had nipped in to steal their thunder. Jimi Goodwin admits 'It’s been a long time but we're back now'.

Then 'Jetstream' fizzes out from the stage, a free download sampler from the new album, which features guitarist Jez Williams on lead vocals. The Doves have landed. Sorry I said no more bird jokes.



Judging by the reception it gets, a fair number of folks have obtained the track. Then it's time for 'Last Summer', sorry I mean 'Snowden'.

Something I’ve noticed recently is that guitarists seem to be trying to outdo each other, to see who can have the most foot pedals, well they can call the contest off right now because Jez has clearly won.

They alternate tracks from the new album: - 'Winter Hill', 'The Greatest Denier', '10:03' with classic oldies such as 'Rise' from Lost Souls, a terrific 'Words' from Last Broadcast and then there's 'Pounding' from the same record, which... well... pounds.



It's all good stuff, though there's a slight lack of momentum with them mixing in the newer less known material and also perhaps less emotion as the band choose to say very little to the crowd throughout. It's a workman like performance, although Jimi does claim to be a bit under the weather. Introducing the new songs to us would have been nice, songs which are unfamiliar to most.

The new single and title track of the new album 'Kingdom Of Rust' is actually introduced and sounds good. Twice Mercury Music Prize nominated for their first two albums, could it be third time lucky. It is followed by a funked up 'Black And White Town', a song inspired by their home town of Wilmslow.

‘The Outsiders’ turns out to be the best of the new stuff and really rocks, then after an excellent ‘Caught By The River’ they are gone.



You may have got the gist previously that I don't much like gigs where if you jot down a bands most famous sixteen or so tracks before you go, you will effectively have the set list for the evening. Surprises and disappointments are very much a part of everyday life and I like my gigs to be the same.

So this is my sort of gig because Doves are a band that are prepared to pluck stuff off obscure albums and singles to please the hardcore fans, not just play what everyone expects them to. Not that I'm Doves hardcore or anything but it’s good to have a challenge when trying to assemble the set list afterwards.

Cue the acoustic b-side ‘Northenden’ to kick off the encore. They also dish out the disappointment with no 'Cedar Room'. Instead we get their debut single from 1999 ‘The Here it Comes’ with Andy on vocals and Jimi behind the drum kit. ‘Last Broadcast’ follows and then they finish up with a corking ‘There Goes The Fear’. Top night.

Old gits that we are, we’ve brought a flask of coffee with us to drink on the way home. Forgot the biscuits though.

The Skinny Folk

I swap my days this week. I cycle today and will take the car tomorrow. I have no dog training tonight, in fact Monday training is taking a break for a while but in any case we have a gig tonight.

Tonight’s we're at the Bodega Social, which we like because nothing really happens there until quite late. So we get time to eat, catch up with each other and L gets her back massaged, well scratched. If you do the same to Doggo it makes him roll over on his back and become ultra pliant. It’s always worth a go with L and was working well, until Daughter caught us and put a stop to it. Until she disappeared upstairs that is.

There’s a rare queue outside the Bodega although most of them are checking into the gig and then going into the bar for a drink. This seems to be the younger element, which allows us oldies, of which there are quite a few tonight, all obviously watching their units and drying out after the weekend, to grab the best spots stage front.

I’d spent the afternoon checking out the Grammatics’ odd-ball sound as reviews have suggested that the Grammatics along with headliners the Red Light Company have produced the two most impressive debut albums of the year so far. The few downloads that I can get hold of though, leave me a little underwhelmed. So it’s somewhat of a surprise to discover how phenomenal the four-piece from Leeds are live and that’s before you take into account that they come equipped with a Swedish lass in black tights with a cello between her thighs. Apparently Emilia, fresh from the Stockholm Youth Symphony Orchestra, answered an advert they posted up at Leeds University. Tried that, never worked.



Emilia is actually a bit underused, I know, because I kept an eye on her and got accused of taking a lot of photographs of her. This simply isn’t true because she was hiding in the shadows at the back of the stage and good photography just wasn’t possible. When she does get involved though it’s to impressive effect, with her playing her cello just like she would a guitar.

The star of the show isn’t Emilia though, sorry love, but lead singer, guitarist and all round skinny bloke Owen Brinley with his clever lyrics, intense vocals and his guitar which dominates most of their sound.



The band seems genuinely grateful to people for turning outing to see them. I’m glad we took the trouble. A very pleasant surprise.

Talking of skinny folk, there’s not much meat on any of the bands tonight, as an equally undernourished Red Light Company take the stage and open with ‘Words Of Spectacular’.

Red Light Company are a cosmopolitan bunch, vocalist Richard Frenneaux is English but grew up down under. Bass player, Shawn Day was born in Osaka. Whilst James Griffiths (drums) is Welsh and Paul Mellon (guitar) Scottish. Chris Edmonds (keyboards) spoils it a touch by coming from Maidenhead.



The wonderful and criminally overlooked single ‘Scheme Eugene’ is next, with its sing-along chorus to which a fair number of the crowd oblige. You can imagine that had someone like the Killers recorded it, it would have topped the charts for eons. In fact, Brandon is probably spitting feathers that he didn’t pen it. Unfortunately the sound isn’t quite right for it and it doesn't quite hit the mark tonight but the dodgy mix is just right for the brooding ‘With Lights Out’ and so too for ‘Bahnhof Zoo’. A favourite of mine, which has a touch of the Editors about it.

Aside from ‘Bahnhof Zoo’ which was a b-side, they stick to stuff from the ‘Fine Fascination’ album, so L doesn’t get her favourite ‘Dirty Water’, perhaps somebody had pre-warned the band that she was in the audience tonight.

Red Light Company have been accused of being a bit emotionless but tonight Frenneaux is the perfect front man, eyes on the crowd, a bit of banter, plenty of gratitude and even a smile. Plus by the time ‘The Architect’ appears the sound is spot on and they've really into their stride.



The band have some ‘huge’ records, pulsating drums and meaty riffs. ‘Meccano’ is simply terrific, full of hooks, although the attempt to let the crowd do the vocal work doesn't quite work out. No matter how appropriate “crying out loud, the weekend is over” is for a Monday, the songs are not quite that well known, yet.

‘Arts & Crafts’ follows and is equally excellent. Then it’s all over far too soon with the grunge of ‘When Everyone Is Everybody Else’ and the band depart amid a fuzz of feedback.



They have planned an encore and hope to be shouted back for it but again they're not quite that big yet and the Bodega isn't really big enough to create that sort of atmosphere but they come back anyway to finish us off with 'The Alamo'.

A very easy band to enjoy and enjoy we did.

Heading For A Fall

I’ve no idea whether MD’s Sunday training is on and I can’t get a straight answer out of anyone, so assume it isn’t. It's not been a great addition to our training repertoire so far. Instead I take boys on the park but it’s a bit hot for them, which I suppose has to be good for March. Afterwards they both look exhausted so I slip off to meet L at the cinema. I thought she was off for a girlie cinema afternoon with Daughter but Daughter has declined. She'll have to make do with my company instead.

So hot on the heels of the Arthur Miller experience on Friday night, I get to see another classic, The Great Gatsby. Now I’ve already ‘read’ the book, on audio, and I couldn’t really get the hang of it. Well I understood it but just couldn't get excited by it. Perhaps the fact it was on audio was the problem.

The film, made in 1974 and not a huge success at the time, seemed to stick very closely to F. Scott Fitzgerald's novel. Which perhaps wasn't what I needed.

We are sometime in the 1920’s, when Nick Carraway moves into a modest Long Island cottage next door to the large mansion that belongs to the mysterious Jay Gatsby. A man who frequently throws lavish parties but rarely bothers to attend them himself. Gatsby is played by Robert Redford, who somehow to me, just didn't seem right for the role.

Nick is gradually drawn into Gatsby's world, the world of the decadent upper-class, helped by the fact that Nick's cousin, Daisy Buchanan, and Gatsby were once lovers. Gatsby is still totally in lust with Daisy, although she is now married to the immensely dislikeable Tom, who could give her the life of privilege she so desired because five years ago Gatsby had nothing. That’s some women for you; chase the wallet and not the heart. Since then Gatsby had worked his way up the moneyed scale via some highly dubious means.



Now with Nick’s help, because Gatsby comes over as a bit on a wimp on the seduction front, they restart their affair. All this happens amidst a series of indiscretions by, well just about everyone. Daisy's husband Tom brazenly carries on his own infidelity with Myrtle Wilson, the local garage mechanic's wife. While Nick himself longs to get physical with another high society babe, Jordan Baker, but seems to be the one getting the least action.



Naturally they’re all heading for a fall and the film builds slowly towards this. I found the book slowly paced, and it's only like a pamphlet (or four CDs!), but the film takes things on to a new, two and a half hour level.

The story culminates in tragedy, several deaths and perhaps a dose of the ‘just desserts’. Myrtle is run down by Daisy but Gatsby carries the bullet for it, literally, despatched by Myrtle’s husband, the only moral person in the story. Who then turns the gun on himself. Despite this triple tragedy, high society and in particular Daisy and Tom carry on regardless, without a care to what had happened. Only Nick and Gatsby’s father attend his funeral.

A pleasant and glitzy period film but not exactly riveting, I’m afraid.

Later I fit in another run, this time with the dogs; both look reluctant although MD is first to the door. Doggo hides under the table, not that this is unusual. Once we start running, MD changes his mind and after he’s seen a couple of squirrels off, he’s ready to be carried home. Eventually, after a lot of coaxing, we meet L at the gym.

L meets us outside and then goes off to get us a couple of drinks. Whilst she’s gone MD starts having a yapping fit and it takes me some time to calm him down. Unfortunately I hadn’t translated his yaps very accurately or else I would have known that he was saying ’Look, look, Doggo’s gone inside the leisure centre’ and sure enough he had, having negotiated his way through the electric doors and past reception. We watch as L lead him back outside again with a security guard in hot pursuit.

We walk back and spend a chilled Sunday night with curry and another episode of South Riding. One day, I’m sure, we’ll finish this series.

Well Worth Rotating

A blissful lie-in, a bit of food shopping and then onto the park with the dogs. Afterwards they look so creased I manage to slope off out for a dog free training run, just 6km but every bit counts.

Daughter is out clubbing tonight, which is odd as under 18 events don’t usually happen on a Saturday. It takes us a while to find out where she’s going, as naturally she’s oblivious to her intended destination but eventually after a phone call she provides the information. ‘My parents are being parents’ she tells her friend on the phone, which makes us proud that we are doing our job.

Then we head off to Burton on the bus for a birthday party, not a riotous 18th like Son’s last night but a 42nd. This actually turns out to be pretty raucous in its own right, in a lots of good ale and skittles sort of way.

We have to change buses in Derby and have time to stop for that much lusted after liaison with Penny’s Porter that I was denied on Wednesday night. Except it’s not on, the swines have already drained the barrel. So it’s Ram Tam instead.

After which we head off to get our next bus where we bump into my friend from Wednesday night, who is also going tonight, just as we were about to start talking about him. Damn.

Shamefully I’d forget that Derby were playing today, how disloyal is that but we’ve had so few Saturday 3pm games recently you get out of the habit. I have to look up the score on my phone. A 4-2 defeat, oh well.

We’re at the Burton Bridge brewery tap where the Porter and the Festival ales are both excellent and well worth rotating. The Festival goes down so well with L but not too well and she's doesn't carry out her offer to give my friend some tips on speed dating. She does though get well into the skittles, despite the fact everyone is divided into teams and she loathes being in a team for anything.

She’s also very competitive with me; I’m in a different team. I put her in her place by scoring eight on my second bowl and start thinking of a forfeit for the loser of our duel. Then when I score only one on my next turn, it doesn’t look such a sure thing any more. We end up tied at thirteen points each, which is very fair and both of our teams are knocked out in the quarter-finals which means we can get our planned bus back home without upsetting anyone for abandoning our teamly duties.

An excellent evening, despite the incredibly unhealthy buffet. The entertainment doesn’t end there though; it’s an engaging bus journey home, bare legs and black stockings everywhere. I’m only mentioning that because L pointed it out, naturally I was too busy debating the merits of Arthur Miller to notice.

The Price Is Right (ish)

I’m on the bike today, the ‘highlight’ of which, comes on the way home. I’d got a fair old pace on when some local loon in a silly hat jumps out at me. Whether the idea of this is that he wants a bike travelling at around 25mph to run over him, which hurts quite a lot, or whether he wants to make me swerve into the traffic, therefore killing myself I’m not sure. Somehow I manage to avoid doing either but landing on the youth was favourite. Then as I slow down to give him a mouthful over my shoulder, I notice the girl that he was ‘with’ and presumably trying to ‘impress’, by his misinformed definition of the word, has saved me the trouble by slapping him pretty hand across the face. Bravo. Guess he won’t be getting his leg over either. Ha.

Son is off out on an eighteenth birthday party tonight and L has swapped the chequered shirt for something that is more in keeping with son's discerning tastes, a Cookie Monster t-shirt. I’m not sure whether that will enhance his pulling power but what do I know. If it works I’ll get my friend the speed-dater one.

After cycling home, it’s a quick change of kit before I head out for a run with the dogs and L. I’m feeling rather knackered after that, so I hope tonight’s entertainment ‘The Price’ by Arthur Miller is lively enough to keep me awake. Arthur Miller though, to my knowledge, doesn’t do lively.

Thankfully we arrive too late to get a drink in, which could really have pushed me over the edge, but by half time we are both positively gagging for one.

Now I have to say, this play was L’s idea, e.g. not my fault, although we both do like to see the ‘classics’. What clinched it though, was the £5 last minute tickets, which simply yelled out ‘come on down, the price is right’.

It’s 1968. Victor, a police sergeant, who is coming up for retirement and his wife, Esther, who may have a bit of a drink problem but we don’t go there, are trying to dispose of a pile of family belongings, after his father’s death. These items bring back many troubled memories for Victor, going back thirty years or more.

Victor’s brother should really be involved in this process but its sixteen years since they last spoke. Walter is a successful doctor who doesn’t have time for his brother, not that Victor is very keen to see him either. Instead Victor agrees a price for everything with an elderly furniture dealer called Solomon. All of this, very simply plot, is debated in long drawn out detail. Then at the end of act one, Victor turns up to cast doubt on the agreed price. Cue stampede to the bar.

Never has a drink, even when it’s Deuchars IPA, seemed so welcome. I've been to see many many plays but I can honestly say I’ve never been to the theatre where the audience has been so restless, well nothing where the audience was out of short trousers. L clearly has been struggling to stay afloat throughout the first act but I’m sure the girl on my other side had succumbed; either that or she was being overtly friendly. Twice her head hit my arm.

After the interval, the brother’s rake over their past and we find there’s more baggage being lumped around by them than by a couple of forty-something’s at a speed dating event. The price it seems is not just a financial one.



The stage set was good, realistic and filled with meticulous detail. The acting too was good, in fact superb. It’s just the material left something to be desired. I didn’t really care about the brother’s past or their present for that matter.

They say ‘The Price’ is not one of Miller’s best and they’d be right. There’s a lot of arguing which never really seemed to go anywhere. Think ‘Rachel Getting Married’ but without Anne Hatherway to look at. You come away still not really sure what their issues were, why it took then sixteen years to speak and even after all that, nothing got sorted. I suppose this sort of family dispute happens but you don’t usually pay to sit through it.

The lesson, I suppose, is that we all have to live with the price of our decisions. Our decision tonight cost us £5. That I can live with.

Is My Girl Cultured Or What?

There is some invisible force holding me down in bed this morning. For once, it’s neither of the dogs, thankfully, and it’s also not L, regretfully. It seems to have something to do with the quantity of beer and food that I consumed last night. So basically, I bottled out of running to work and got the bus instead. I would normally, under such circumstances, have run home instead but its squash tonight and I need to be fresh for my defeat.

As L is dying to discuss ‘Notes From an Exhibition’ with me, she lets me prise her audio-book filled ipod off her. I get quite a few chapters in on the way to work and it’s a lot more interesting than reading the Metro.

So no wailing to the Doves this morning. L of course has to go one better. Not only does she run to work but she does it listening to an eclectic mix of
Mantovani’s ‘Elizabethan Serenade’ and ‘Sunday Night Just Keeps On Rolling’ by the experimental Icelandic group Múm. Is my girl cultured or what? On second thoughts, don't answer that.

My MD makes the coffee this morning, that’s as in Managing Director, not Mini Doggo. That MD hasn't got the hang of the kettle yet. I know, I shouldn't be ungrateful and it's such a rare treat but he makes it so weak, it might as well not be coffee at all for all the stimulus it gives me in the morning.

Son wows us with news that he got an ‘A’ in his Sociology exam and in the same breath asks for more deodorant. This is excellent news, the results I mean, not the deodorant. Although obviously it’s good to know that these things get used.

L hopes he’s now in a such good enough mood that he’ll wear the nice chequered shirt she bought him the other day and which he turned down. Hmmm, not sure about that. Daughter might though, she likes chequered shirts; she’s been wearing an old one of mine that I unsuccessfully tried to throw in the recycling.

Despite the fact that my opponent claims to have worn himself out playing badminton last night, squash goes to form, e.g. badly.

Wailing (Quietly)

Today the weather has gone oddly cold again and there is a heavy frost. It was so cold that MD had trouble doing his usual trick of swinging on the towels on the washing line because they were frozen solid and even he couldn’t get a good grip on them.

I run in today and as I leave the house I can hear barking nearby, not MD surely. L and the ‘boys’ had gone out on their walk a few minutes before me. I find out later that it probably was him. Apparently he had a go at catching a juggernaut that was minding its own business on the main road, that was before he started on the ducks on the pond. He’s such a spirited little thing.

I run listening and wailing (quietly) along to the Doves, who L has talked me into taking her to see next week. They’re really good, I’ve not really listened to them much before. They’re so very ‘Elbow’ but with a bit more of a darker edge. L reckons they’ve been top of her ‘must see’ list for about two years. This is why we’re going over to Coventry to see them. Of course once we’d got tickets for Coventry they announced a Nottingham date. However the Coventry gig is a pre-tour tour, if you know what I mean, so it should be extra good.

L thinks I should run in listening to my audio book instead because she can't wait for my opinion on Patrick Gale’s ‘Notes From an Exhibition’, over a bottle of wine naturally. I don’t think I could run to a book. I’m sure it would slow me down.

In the evening I’m out with my friend from school, so I get to hear more about his disastrous dating exploits. He’s recently taken up speed dating.

We’re in the Royal Standard tonight where the head brewer is behind the bar and will be introducing some new brews during the evening. A nice idea but he doesn’t seem very good with the till and it creates some monstrous queues.

Beer wise, the Dashingly Dark is... well dashing, dark and very moorish, that is until it runs out. It isn’t replenished because it’s down to be replaced by a new brew, just not yet. In fact all the beers seem to be ‘in transition’ and there isn’t actually much on. We also have a disaster ordering food. It’s fifteen minutes before last food orders when we join the queue but by the time we get to the bar they’ve stopped serving meals. I throw my usual strop and they relent only to tell us what we want is sold out anyway. So we drain our beers and head elsewhere, just as Taylor’s Ram Tam is being put on the bar, damn. Then as we walk out the door I spot one of the new beers, Penny’s Porter. She sounds right up my street.

Our destination, the Standing Order, isn’t too bad. My pie is good if a bit too stodgy and the Ringwood Forty-niner is very good. My friend has egg, ham and chips for £2.99 which sums him up really. Oh yes, that reminds me, the speed dating.

Now girls, one of the questions you need to ask in your three minutes is what your potential date would select off the Wetherspoon's menu, because it could tell you a lot about them. Speed dating actually sounds like a fun way of spending an evening (although I doubt I'd be allowed to find out how much) and my friend seems to get quite a few phone numbers out of it (and that's why) but unfortunately that’s where the speed bit stops because he’s terrible at taking it on from there. I spent most of the evening banging my head against the pub table. I really couldn't put you through the details.

How Lazy Is That?

When it’s too late L tells me that she was supposed to get up a bit earlier to take the dogs out for a longer walk this morning but she failed dismally due to the bed’s amazingly powerful gravitational pull. She didn’t tell me this plan of course because if she had I would have kicked her out of bed at the appropriate time. Which I assume is why she didn’t tell me.

As I cycle into work, I realise that it’s a good job that I can spot an inattentive motorist from miles away. One of this, far too common, breed pulled out of his parking space right in front of me this morning. I slam on the anchors, luckily, as I said, I was half expecting such a manoeuvre. However, the chap was not content with this and then tried to reverse over me as he attempted a three point turn in the street. I desperately tried to find my own reverse gear, not easy on a bike, to get out of his way. You would think he would thank me for not letting him kill me and therefore saving him from a lifetime of guilt but no, he just glares at me, as if it was my fault.

Have you heard about Michael Jackson's ‘Farewell’ UK Tour? He’s now up to an impressive 45 dates but his Sat Nav is obviously faulty because they are all in one place. 45 nights at that Millennium Dome thing, now called the O2 Arena. How lazy is that?

At MD’s training tonight, they are training the ‘table’ obstacle, a not often seen piece of agility equipment. MD is strangely suspicious of it and won’t get on it. Then I tell him to imagine that it’s the settee. Then he gets the hang of it.

The Venn Diagram Principle

We go round the pond again this morning but MD hasn’t quite got the hang of all this running yet and keeps biting my feet. I’m not sure if this is a sign that he’s tired, hungry or whether he just likes being a pain. L reckons he just doesn’t know what's expected of him when we run and he'll get used to it. The 15 miles of the Charnwood Marathon that we have planned for him should sort him out then.

It’s pretty weird at Sainsbury’s when I go there at lunch. Their refrigerated section has broken down and they’d got all their staff pulling everything off the shelves, presumably to put it in cold storage somewhere. Meanwhile you’ve got customers like me trying to grab the stuff they need before it disappears. I had a bit of a fight with another chap over some chicken fillets but he had to back down in the end.

L’s now swimming every morning because she’s entered a 2.5km Swimathon as well as the Windermere swim. Unfortunately she’s not training in anything like race conditions because she keeps getting a lane to herself. She needs to start practising with six to a lane because I’m sure that’s what the Swimathon will be like. She’ll have to join me at the madness that is the Wednesday night lane swim.

I’m an occasional reader of 'private secret diary' which is a blog by a chap who works from home at his cottage in Norfolk and occasionally goes a bit crazy with just the rabbits to talk to.

Anyhow, the other week he was on about how couples work on the ‘Venn diagram’ principle when it comes to music. In that, when you're in a relationship you have to have at least a small overlap in musical tastes. Although, I suppose this applies to all the other things in life as well and not just music.

Well he and his partner, LTLP, which stands for ‘Long Term Life Partner’, don’t seem to have a very big overlapping bit in the middle of their Venn Diagram. What there is, he says is basically the Proclaimers and the free CDs off the front of the Observer. Oh dear. Thankfully L, which I suppose, by the same analogy must be an acronym simply for 'Life’, and I do quite well.

She may not have enjoyed the ‘Gaslight Anthem’ as much as I did, but we’re usually both up for anything musically. We have a couple of gigs planned next week and she seems more than willing to join me for my choice of the ‘Red Light Company’ on Monday, as am I to join her for her selection of the ‘Doves’ on Tuesday.

When we first met we discovered we had a lot of the same CDs and now we have a lot of duplicates on our shelves. Of course, this will come in very useful if we ever split, as a lot of the CDs are soundtracks to classic moments in our life together.

In fact, some of our most passionate moments have been sound tracked. So if they ever make the film of our lives, avert your eyes when you hear tracks from REM’s ‘Monster’ or Catatonia’s ‘Way Beyond Blue’.

Dog class this evening for Doggo. I again take MD but again fail to get him calm enough to do any training with him. Doggo does alright though.