What A Nice Day For The Eton Mess

So is L feeling fit after her mega training session yesterday? Not sure. When she finally replies to my emailed question, she admits she’s been kipping on a pile of files. Ah, that’s always an indication of a good training session.

She’s says she seriously considering tucking into the meringues she’s bought for my post-race Eton Mess tonight to boost her energy levels. That’s a dessert by the way and not something kinky involving confectionery. According to Wikipedia, Eton Mess may have been invented by a Labrador, who accidentally sat on a picnic basket. I wonder if they picked the dog hairs out before they sampled it?

Today's shopping challenge. Daughter has asked for pesto, a green one. Unfortunately there are lots of green ones on the shelves at Sainsbury’s. L advises that she'll probably like any of them and to 'just close your eyes and reach out'. Sounds like a good way to get arrested.

In the evening it’s race three of the Grand Prix, the Wollaton Park 5k. So local that I can just walk across to it. I feel well recovered from the White Rose and have decided I’m racing this one. Full race pace. L and the dogs come across to support and even Daughter is on the park, although for unrelated reasons but she ends up kind of supporting me, which is cool.

I always target certain people in these races, usually women, because well, apart from the fact I don’t like being beaten by our fairer sex, they’re easier to recognise and pick out than the men. For example only five women beat me in the first race this year but seventy men did and it’s a bit difficult to remember the identity of seventy men. Today however the person I select for special treatment is a man. He’s beaten me in both races so far but because he’s quite distinctive I know from memory that I usually beat him. So he’s the ‘rabbit’ for tonight. He’s also over 50, so beating me should be illegal anyway.

As we line up at the start I’ve already got dessert on my brain, ‘Hello hurrah, there’s a price to pay, to the Eton Mess, Eton Mess’ as Paul Weller once said, or something like that.

Then we’re off and I pass my target early on. ‘Hello hurrah, cheers then mate, it’s the Eton Mess, Eton Mess’. That’s it really, game over, so he’s not much of ‘rabbit’ for me.

Not only is Wollaton race three this year when it’s usually race two but we have a new course as well. It seems more on path than grass which makes it a little quicker but to counteract that it seems to be hillier than usual or perhaps that’s just my imagination.

I beat my ‘rabbit’ by over a minute and record a PB for 5k, in fact about 20 seconds up on my old best, albeit on a dubious course which may have been nowhere near 5k but my position is good so I’m pleased.

So home for dessert. ‘Hello hurrah, what a nice day for the Eton Mess, Eton Mess’

The Sort Of Stupid Thing I’d Do

As I lay in bed this morning the old legs are just gently aching. The next task is to see if they’ll support my weight. Luckily they do, it’s always embarrassing to end up lying in a heap on the floor because your legs have given out and you haven’t been at the shandy.

I hobble off to get the bus into work, where there aren’t many of my colleagues in today. How annoying when you need someone to brag to but I have a good go at wowing the ones that are.

Daughter is being induced again today. She was at Ncn college on Friday, whilst today and tomorrow she’s at Bilborough college. At some stage she has to choose between the two of them, that is if they both still want her after they’ve spent a day or more with her. I'm sure she's charmed them.

Both colleges seem intent on giving her the full on ‘college experience’, e.g. one lesson followed by a forty minute break. She'll be having to take up World of Warcraft to fill the gaps...

I’m taking a bike break today and probably for most of the week, as I’ve got two, if not three, runs this week. L however is doing some serious training for her birthday present, the Hathersage Triathlon. She cycles to Derby, runs with her friends, then cycles back. Sounds like the sort of stupid thing I’d do.

One of her friend’s owns the sick collie we’ve been worried about for sometime. We’re slightly horrified that they’re off on holiday at the weekend without him. Not sure how they can contemplate that, I’d be worried sick all the time I was away and neither of our two have got the hang of text messaging yet, which in the case of the gobby MD is probably a good thing.

I get home from work and catch the start of Andy Murray’s match which is played under the new roof at Wimbledon. Today is the first time the roof has been used and as the weather isn’t terribly bad you get the impression it’s more a case of 'insurance' because if Murray doesn’t get a shift on it won’t be completed tonight.

The match is still going as I drive to dog class. After training, it’s nearly dark but the match is still going on as I drive home, good job they shut that roof and put the lights on then. It’s around 10.45 when I pull into the drive and Murray finally finishes off Stanislas Wawrinka in five sets.

So a good result for Murray but an even better day for the BBC who get to show five full sets all on prime time TV.

Awesome Toast

5.30am, an early start and immediately a problem, my new bike won’t fit on the bike rack on the car roof. Damn. It is just too streamlined and there isn’t enough room between the rear wheel and the frame to get the clamp on. Oh well, the front wheel comes off and thankfully with it being smaller than my other bike, it fits in the back of the car alongside MD, who’s in his box. Then we head up to misty Ilkley.

The White Rose Challenge is a new cyclo-sportive event in aid of Cancer Research UK and a local Yorkshire charity supporting kids with cancer called Little Heroes. There are three routes, 182km, 130km and for the wimps, 80km. All of which ‘showcase the best the beautiful Yorkshire Dales has to offer’, what they mean is they go up some bloody big hills. There is a disclaimer at the bottom of the webpage that acknowledges that ‘this is one of the toughest sportives on the circuit and we would ask that you do not underestimate it’. So naturally I thought, bring it on. Then I look at the map of the route, thought a bit harder and then decided, yep, bring it on but only the wimps route please.

It’s not a race, well not officially but there are Gold, Silver and Bronze awards depending on your finish time. We are all kitted out with a SPORT ident SI card that is fastened around the wrist; this is then ‘dibbed’ into an electronic box at the start, finish and at each control point. Just like orienteering. There’s also a free breakfast but regretfully it’s not a full English but there’s cereal, porridge, toast and hot drinks.

At the start I’m just about to roll out with a large group of other cyclists when I see L and the ‘boys’, so I go over and say hi before I start. The group promptly rolls off without me. Damn but you have to say a tearful farewell to your loved ones just in case you end up going head first down a Yorkshire crevasse or whatever they have up here. Anyhow, another guy and I decide to give chase. He goes off like a rocket, I don’t. I end up a bit isolated and because the signposting wasn’t too hot, I promptly get lost. Damn and I was hoping for a silver award too.

Once back on track, I waited for another group and rode with them for a while but once we hit the hills, I had plenty of company, there were bodies everywhere. People who were obviously regretting not saying a proper goodbye to their collies. As I thread my way across the battlefield, I also notice that I wasn’t the only one getting lost. There were signs and a lot of chalking on the road but they were easy to miss. All of which caused an awful lot of scratching of heads. I discovered one old chap climbing back up a hill having missed an un-signposted sharp right on a hidden bend and he’d descended down the other side before realising he had gone wrong. There were enough hills already without having to do extra ones.

Luckily, he saved me the same fate. True, there was a sign, half way round the corner, only useful if you have eyes in the back of your head. I would have stopped to thank him but I had just dropped almost the entire Harrogate cycling club on the climb, in revenge for them all passing me on the flat and they (I assume) were now all out to get me, so I needed to get a head start before they all out descended me on the other side of the hill. I do hills rather well but everybody else seems a lot quicker on the flats and the descents.

There were a lot of hills, as expected, and you start to get blasé about them after a while. Oh, he’s another hill you think and just get on with it. I was glad I had my new bike, which rode very well, but there were plenty of people on dead basic bikes. I even passed a tandem going up one of the hills, slowly. That looked hard work. I’m sure that couple won’t be speaking to each other tonight.

The feed station at Grassington eventually arrived about two hours in at 47km, so over half way. I take on lots of refreshment, drink, flapjacks, tracker bars, gels. It was well stocked. Although the drink was SIS stuff which tastes a bit like toilet cleaner and isn’t anywhere near as nice as my High Five.

I take a ten minute break or something like that, I wasn’t counting but it was putting my silver in jeopardy for which I had to break three hours forty-two minutes. Gold was out of my league at three hours twelve minutes, at least this year. Although I did 40km at the Ashbourne Duathlon, which is hilly and half this distance in one hour twenty-five minutes and that was after a 12km run. So in theory a gold award is possible, one day.

As I roll out in a group and we come to the point where the three routes divide, they all go off on the longer routes leaving me looking a bit lonesome as I alone head down the wimps route. Once again I don’t have anyone to offer me any useful advice, such as how to properly sneer at the people on the aluminium bikes.

Most of the remaining distance is fairly easy going, undulating but not too demanding, even on tired legs until we turn off the main road, away from the comforting signs telling us how close we are to lovely Ilkley with its finish line. That is if we took the direct route, instead we head up, and I mean up, to somewhere called Langbar. I will never forget Langbar. It was evil personified, perhaps not as hard as what came before but I had two relatively fresh legs then. Halfway up this monster, my legs shouted up at me, something along the lines of, ‘FFS we are not going up that’. So I stopped for a few seconds to talk them round. There was no way I was walking and pushing my bike as some people were doing but I allowed them a brief stop to calm down. Now legs, are you with me? They were, at least temporarily. We had another brief stop just before the top and then we crawled over the summit to be met by two marshals with control boxes for you to dib into. Sneaky, this checkpoint was to make sure you didn’t follow those comforting signs and take the shortcut down the main road.

Finally I arrive back in Ilkley in one piece and my time is three hours forty-one, under the time limit for silver by, ooh nearly a minute. Cut that a bit fine but never mind. Awesome toast as Daughter would say.

There’s a free pasta meal and plenty of hot tea and coffee but oddly not really any thirst quenching drinks. In fact the entire area seems to all out of appropriate thirst quenching drinks and I end up in a pub on the outskirts of Leeds, supping a bloody Kronenburg, to go with my Sunday lunch.

This event was possibly the hardness thing I’ve ever done. It was also excellent. Now, what next?

Snakes And Ladders

Dog show today. It’s only a small local show but in four events we record:- 1st, 2nd, 5th and 9th. So not bad. Our win comes in something silly called ‘Snakes And Ladders’. In this they set out a course of just hurdles and then complicate it by spreading other equipment around the course. The idea being that if you do a more complicated obstacle (the ladders), such as the weaves, see-saw, A-frame or dog walk you get to skip forward three jumps but if you go into a tunnel (the snakes) you have to go back three jumps. It’s all a bit daft, not to mention complicated and I reckon we are slower over most of those obstacles that we would be over the jumps. The only one I reckon we’re quick on is the A-frame, so I decide that is the only short cut that we will take. Then when I’m on the start line I can no longer remember which jump the A-frame came after, so in the end I miss that out as well and just do the jumps. Totally within the rules but not really within the spirit of the competition and we win, easily. So it just goes to show that no one else could do those obstacles as fast as we could do three jumps either and no one else had the audacity to ignore them all and just do the jumps. Ha. Silly event but we’ll take the win.

Back home I have to get my preparation right for tomorrow’s White Rose Challenge. Hmmm, now which pub to choose? L fancies trying out her new gym routine as devised by her personal trainer, so she heads off there and I meet her afterwards, then we have a few in the Johnson’s. I hadn’t intended to have three but never mind, it’s all carbohydrate.

Overreaction

Well we all kind of suspected he wouldn't turn up but in the end Michael Jackson didn’t even get chance to prove us wrong and attend what he himself had billed as his ‘final curtain call’. They'd already hinted that wasn't up to singing much, so we assumed he'd do a 'Britney'. They'd also said he wasn't up to dancing much and had been auditioning body doubles. Hmmm, perhaps they'll just go ahead anyway. Then again they reckon he was rehearing like a ‘good un’ just before he snuffed it. Who do you believe?

If true, that also snuffs out the rumours that he could have faked his own death to get out of the shows and escape his debts. It would have been a good ploy. I mean could anybody have verified it was him? Does anyone know what he looks like anymore? What’s for sure is the aftermath will keep the lawyers busy.

This overreaction sums up 'waste of space Britain', a woman called our local radio station this morning to say that she was so distraught by his death that she’d had to ring work to tell them she was ‘too upset to come in’. The presenter asked what her employer had said when she told them her reasons.

'Oh I couldn't tell them why obviously, my reasons were too personal’, no I bet she couldn't. I just hope someone from her company was listening to the radio. The thought of work leaves most of us too distraught to get out of bed in the morning but you just get on with it.

L has signed herself up with a personal trainer, in what’s called the One-2-One Scheme. Ok so it’s through the council, so we’re not exactly expecting the selectors for the 2012 Olympics to be hammering at our door immediately but give it time. It’s also free with our membership, so I could have one too if I wanted. L’s got four Friday afternoons booked, where her trainer will put her through her paces. Hope he doesn’t take too much out of her, we often have our own Friday evening One-2-One, when it doesn’t get hijacked but tonight both kids are out.

Daughter is off to her School Prom (oh the horrible Americanisms) and after I get home, I drop her off at a friend’s house where she is going to get ready. Son is already out... playing football? That’ll wipe him out; it’s been years and then he’s heading up to a mate’s place for the rest of the night. He’s not coming back until tomorrow. So we have the house to ourselves... then the phone rings, it’s Son, its half time in his evening. Can he come home for some tea and a shower? The phone goes again, it’s Daughter. She’s forgotten the belt for her dress, can someone drop it round? The best laid plans...

Later we head up to spectate at said ‘prom’, my father turns up too and surreptitiously lurks in the bushes taking photos. He’s lucky the NYPD doesn’t arrest him but of course it’s only a themed limo and actually he’s not really that surreptitious because some of my photos clearly show him stood on a wall taking pictures of the event from above.

Afterwards we head to the pub. Which is an added bonus, we had expected to have to find something non-alcoholic to do because we assumed Daughter would need a lift home but she’s given us the night off. Damn, she’s stuffed my alcohol units now because I opened a bottle of wine last night in lieu of an AF night tonight. Oh well, we’ll cope.

After a few at the Plough we watch a bit of Glastonbury. Doves and Bloc Party are both good. Although Doves play more or less the same set again with one notable exception, they treat Glastonbury to the brilliant ‘Cedar Room’. Lucky swines.

Why Do They Call It That?

Run number two tonight but I’m training not racing. Not that L, or anyone else for that matter, will believe me. So I bike in to work and then I will bike straight to Ruddington for the race. That’s proper training and a good leg stretch before Sunday’s White Rose Challenge bike ride.

I intended to get up early because my front tyre has gone right through the rubber to ‘who knows what’ underneath and all week I’ve been ignoring my post-it notes (electronic ones) to change it. Getting up doesn’t prove that easy and L’s not helping, I suppose I could just swap the wheel with the one on my new bike, problem solved, but then I might get it dirty, it might rain. OMG, I hadn’t even considered that it might rain on Sunday, then I’m stuffed. Anyhow, be strong, get up, and change that tyre. I do.

Tyre done, and I’m running a little late, so I rush off to work. Then I realise that I’ve left the old one lying on the floor outside for MD to chew. Who knows what state that’ll be in when I get home.

Wimbledon continues, the sun shines, the balls fly, the girls grunt and our Ukrainian tamely bites the dust.

Today is Daughter's birthday, sweet sixteen, why do they call it that? She heads straight into town to spend some of her untold wealth. Not sure what’s she shopping for, there’s very little left that she doesn’t already own but somebody’s got to bring the country out of recession.

We’ve purchased her a pair of shorts and a tube-top but times have obviously changed because it’s nowhere near as indecent as I expected. Still, it should get her a few extra tips on her paper round.

It’s an interesting cycle to the race from work. I have to dismount to get past a two-seater sports car convertible who someone has carelessly parked at the entrance to the cycle path under the A50. At first I assume it’s been stolen and dumped until I see the entwined couple inside it. It’s a common spot for that sort of thing but they usually park a bit more out of the way than that. Exhibitionists. I can see they’re really struggling, they’d be a lot more comfortable if they rolled the roof back. I'm tempted to stop to offer advice but I’m running a bit late so I don’t.

A bit later a chap from the Long Eaton cycling club passes me on his carbon time trial bike, he's taking it really easy, so it's a bit embarrassing that he passes me so effortlessly. I need a sign pinned to my back, 'cycling to a running race, taking it steady', just to clarify my situation.

Then I greet a runner coming the other way with his young lad accompanying him on a tricycle. Now that’s serious training, for the lad.

The ride to the race turns out to be just over 37km (23 miles), check that out, but it’s a bit further than I anticipated. So I’m well warmed up and raring to go. Not.

So the race is taken even easier than I’d planned but I still clock under seven minute miles which is quite pleasing, although afterwards I feel like I’ve done another tough Duathlon, which I suppose I have and I’ve still got another 12km to ride home. I’ll need one of L's pick-me-up smoothies when I get home, applied externally.

Dick Turpin

An unwanted hat-trick. Three days in a row in the car but needs must, the car has to go for its MOT today. L asks me to take some kit for her in the car, for when I meet her later but I don’t want to leave it at the garage. So once I've taken the car in, I then walk the rest of the way to work with a girlie bag over my shoulder.

MOT, service, new tyres, new brake pads, new pollen filter (whatever that is and believe me it doesn’t work, even when replaced, if it’s supposed to stop me sneezing that is), new kitchen sink etc etc = expensive. All routine stuff says Dick Turpin as he asks me into input my pin number.

A dog which went missing in Cornwall in February has been found 550 miles away in Haddington. Blimey. She looks very good for 17, regular 550 mile jogs obviously does the trick and she skipped back into their car without a twinge of arthritis. Must be on at least two joint sticks a day, I must start taking them myself.

At least being in the car enables me to get to the pool a bit earlier, where they’ve obviously switched off the pool heating to save money. As the weather is nice they’re evidently hoping no one will notice. Well I noticed, it was bloody freezing and I like the cold. The girl who jumps in after me, without first dipping a toe in, emerges from the water gasping for breath and promptly turns blue. So it’s not just me. I look up to the temperature display, 30 degrees it says, which is what it always says. Hmmm, always thought that sign was a sham.

Then I’m off to meet L at a book launch. Cultured or what? I must add, at this point, that I got seven out of seven on the BBC’s ‘7 questions on GCSE English literature’, whereas L only got four. Ha. There may have been a few inspired guesses in there, I always was very good at sussing out multiple-choice questions, but nonetheless it says I’m a bookworm. L really ought to read more.

The book launch is a session with Patrick Gale, who’s ‘Notes from an Exhibition’ I recently read (aurally) and liked, together with Mark Mills, a new author I wasn’t aware of. They are good and effectively interview each other as well as read from their respective books. It's something I’ve not been to before and quite interesting. L has bought both their new books, signed of course, so if she rates either of them, I can borrow them, or wait for the CD to come out.

This all makes me a bit late for dog training; yes it’s a busy sort of evening. So both the boys get a reduced run out and MD is a bit of a pain chasing other dogs. Best not tell L, she’ll threaten to get the knife out again.

I get home to see the ‘box of drugs’ that Daughter emailed me to say had been delivered for me. She’s such a charmer. At least she’s not opened it and started on them. It’s actually our new mini hi-fi and very dinky it is too.

Eight Seconds From Retirement

Ah, it’s summer and for once the weather is cooperating. It’s also the first few days of Wimbledon and the traditional slaughter of the Brits is in full swing. It all makes riveting viewing over the internet at work, whilst hammering our broadband connection at the same time. We’re all hooked on the carnage and taking side bets on whom, if anyone, will make it through into the second round with Andy Murray, if indeed he does. We pin up a list of the ten candidates and then cross them off one by one as they are dispatched to meet their grisly end. There are some valiant efforts but by the time I leave work, no victories and only one name remains obliterated on the list and she hasn’t taken to the court yet.

L asks if I’m feeling fit for the race. Well, I feel about as fit as a collie who’s had a hell of a weekend. I'm referring to the fact that both of ours still looked well out of it this morning. L though, having walked them this morning, has a more recent update on the situation and it sounds like MD’s in hot water again. So hot in fact that L reckons she come to a definite decision. e.g. balls off. The poor mite. She says if I chase anything that moves, like MD did this morning, I'll be top 10. No problem. At least she promises not to take the knife to me.

So, Nottingham Grand Prix time. Race 1. Holme Pierrepont. And no supporters. L is stuck at work and it’s hot, seriously hot, so the dogs have to stay at home. Hang on; who’s that chap with the camera. Scrub that, I have support, my father is here. Now I must try not to puff and pant too much, just in case my Mum’s here too, I know it upsets her but thankfully it turns out she’s at home watching Andy Murray.

Whoever is out to get me, and trying to sabotage my running career, which being paranoid I assume is everybody, has obviously infiltrated the organising committee of this race because they’ve marked it in miles. You can’t do that, it’s a 10k! I hate races marked in miles. Last year it was marked in kilometres, so why change? Isn’t it obvious, it’s a plot.

I take it steady. These next two weeks of races are time to ease myself back into shape. The watch says 6.07 for the first mile, OMG, nowhere near steady enough. Take it steadier. Two miles gone, a lad in a ‘Survival Of The Fittest’ t-shirt, that Men’s Health assault course thing they held in Nottingham, passes me. Too steady. I speed up and retake him. He smells heavily of deodorant and I mean heavily, probably indicates he’s not washed that t-shirt yet, the event was only in October I suppose.

Three miles gone, a girl passes me. Enough of this messing around, time to kick on. I grab a drink from the drinks stop, which I never do, but I have not intention of drinking it, over the head and then let's go.

As I’m in ‘training’ anything in the 41’s would be great, fall into the 42’s and retirement becomes a real possibility, 43’s and I’d be forced to drown myself in the rowing strip. Let’s just say I was eight seconds from retirement but oddly pleased.

I take my supporter for a drink and L meets us there with the dogs. She’s on the gin, so MD must have been even more of a pain than I first thought.

Oh yes, nearly forgot. Late into the evening, in near darkness and whilst getting into trouble with the BBC for inappropriate 'language used in the heat of the match', basically a bellowed f-word four minutes before the 9pm watershed, so check your watch next time girl, we get a result.

Stand up Elena Baltacha, ok so there's a touch of Ukrainian in there but we didn’t give you an earthly, well done.

Avoiding The Wino

As I’m in the car today I take the bin bag full of empty cans to the recycling, breathing in a sea of alcohol fumes as I drive. It’s worse at lunchtime when I push then one by one into the recycling bin as a lot of them are not even empty. Youngsters these days are so wasteful. I can tell I smell of alcohol as I walk around Sainsbury's afterwards, other customers are giving me a wide berth, avoiding the wino.

L’s still feeling the after effects of the ‘Midsummer Dream’ and emails to tell me that she’s standing at her desk, I assume she can’t sit down, holding a carton of milk against each thigh. This conjures up such a wonderful image.

When I get home it looks as if Son’s thrown another party, then I realise that it's just the usual mess that gets accumulated by two teenagers being alone in the house all day. To be honest there's not much difference.

I don’t get to train MD tonight because when we get there nice and early, some horses are using the horse arena, which I suppose they’re entitled to do. So L takes him off for a walk instead. When the horses finally vacate the arena I train Doggo. Which goes well but it’s rather hot in there so I don’t try and do too much with him.

After collecting L and MD we head home for the latest of L’s little schemes, ‘Meat-free Mondays’. Which sounds great, I love a bit of cheese on toast on a Monday. Perhaps we’ll get more into the concept when we have more time.

Forgetting The Roof Rack

Just back from a three day break in Devon. The five and a half hour drive down reminded us why we rarely go ‘south’ these days, took us less than four coming back mind you.

It’s been a while since we’ve been down there and it’s all change with the local pubs. The ‘Hook and Parrot’ now sells the rather good Cornish beers from Sharps whilst the ‘Anchor’ now sells Dorset beer from Hall & Woodhouse, the dreaded Badger Ales, although I do have a liking for a spot for Tanglefoot, their strong ale. The point is though that they’re not exactly standing up for the Devonian brewing industry. Nowhere sells our favourite local brew, Otter Ale, not even the ‘Ship’, which was once a nailed on certainty.

These things are important. Local beers and ciders are one of the few remaining ways of telling you where you are in this country. A country that has identikit high streets in every town, all full of the same brand names. I mean you can’t come home from a weekend away and rave to your friends about the fantastic pint of Fosters you had in the local Wetherspoons, can you. New experiences and new discoveries are what travelling is all about. Finding those unique little pubs tucked away down some quiet lane where they sell the local firewater brewed by a tiny microbrewery is all part of the holiday experience.

Beer apart, our main reason for going down there was to support the ‘Midsummer Dream’, previously advertised as 17 miles, 5 pubs and a cream tea. Ok, so it was more of a stagger than a run and I’d never done it, although L had several times. So typically, as soon as I enter, the ‘sue anything that moves’ culture means that they have to scrap this format and instead put on a ‘dry’ run with a modified route that takes the runners away from the temptation of the pubs.

Some people clearly decide to opt out of the new arrangements and run the old route, under the old rules, whilst the rest of us make the most of the new situation. It goes ok, well, as well as 17 miles attached to a couple of collies can do. It’s all very leisurely, which isn’t my thing at all but then I’m only really here for the weekend away. We don’t get enough of those these days.

It’s a really scenic run, across the cliff tops and then back across country. Some odd person decided to mountain bike it because they were injured. Running on one leg would have been easier. Talking of which, L did run it on one leg. She appeared to hop round most of the 17 miles which was mightily impressive, all due to her semi-injured state. I regret not putting the roof rack on the car, as this may be the only way to get her home. It looks unlikely she’ll be able to sit down afterwards.

The run all started and finished at a music festival in the village of Beer. Unfortunately, the festival was sadly lacking in one key ingredient, beer. Unforgivable for place called Beer. Well decent beer at least, so we, like many others, were forced to decamp elsewhere, so that we could sample the ‘local’ Cornish and Dorset brews.

It all just wasn’t quite the same without the pubs on route, although the cream tea survived, so they’ll need to come up with some other gimmick if the race is to survive.

Everything else went really well, the camping was good and we seemed to get the best of the weather all weekend. It was really hot and like a sauna at times in our tent, although we did have two dogs in there helping to heat things up. We’ll have to go back again, race or not, because we didn’t get chance to give the campsite’s unisex showers a whirl, as is tradition.

Doggo got to cool off in the sea, although he lost us a lot of a sticks, he loves a paddle but won’t go out of his depth to fetch them. MD kept his distance from the water completely. Seems there are some things he’s not confident about.

Back home Son had arranged for a two-day long party to go on in our house whilst we were away. Whether this was planned to be one continuous event or two separate ones I’m not sure. When we returned home the damage wasn’t too severe, considering the amount of empty bottles and cans that were stacked up outside. As we arrive home, Son is actually out, seeing off the last few guests who have only just left. Must have been some weekend.

Nottingham Riviera

I’m in the car today which is a shame as the weather seems to be holding up well. It's great cycling weather. We should be in for a good weekend, we are down in Devon for a few days from tomorrow.

Of course the weather will have reverted to type long before Nottingham Riviera opens on July 22. Nottingham City Council plan to dump three hundred tonnes of sand in the Old Market Square. There will also be a promenade, beach cafes, bucket and spade stalls, a large paddling pool (that’s already there, it’s called the fountain), deckchairs, crazy golf, trampolines, fairground rides, Punch and Judy, as well as rock and fudge with ‘I Love Nottingham’ stamped them.

Rather nice perhaps but also rather pointless and presumably rather expensive. Meanwhile they continue to cut services and to L’s frustration have recently decided to close the city library on a Friday to save money. Nice one, Nottingham.

The advantage of having the car is that we can do the Flowerpot for lunch. The new chef now has an assistant. All they need now is some customers. They desperately need to get back all the customers they’ve lost over the last six months due to the lack of a food service.

In the evening I take MD over for his Thursday training. It's his last for three weeks as I chuck up his training in favour of the madness that is the Nottingham Grand Prix’s four running races in ten days. Sorry mate.

Seems we did the right thing getting MD chipped and not getting him tattoo. You can’t be too careful particularly if your artist is Romanian, you do need to be careful to be clear about what you want and not to nod off. This is the story of the girl who had 56 stars tattooed on her face when apparently she only wanted three modest ones but all seemed fine until her father saw her face. 'I cannot go out on to the street, I am so embarrassed. I just look horrible.' she says with her face plastered over every newspaper on the planet.

It all reminds me of that Australian girl who put herself at the disposal of the entire England rugby team and then thought ‘oh shit’ when her boyfriend asked her to explain why she was late home and ended up launching a police investigation.

So I'm off on a short blog break now whilst I soak up the sun and beer in Devon. Brilliantly enough we’re off to a place called Beer.

Time To Watch My Back

Heatwave over, it’s raining.

As part of National Bike Week Nottingham are doing something called the Wheelie Big Breakfast for anyone who turns up in the Old Market Square with a bike. Which leaves it open to abuse by a mass of students after a free breakfast, all sharing the same bike. Well it's what I would have done.

It’s just a shame it doesn’t start until 8am, which is far too late for most people to stop off for breakfast and still get to work on time. If it started earlier, I’d be there. I’m tempted to take the morning off to claim my free breakfast but I guess that’s not really the idea is it. L went though. This is an achievement in itself what with the one-way system, the tram tracks, and all the buses and taxis in and around the ‘traffic-free’ Market Square to circumnavigate.

To avoid the expected fried breakfast in bap she’s told them she’s vegetarian which means she’ll probably just get cornflakes.

L reports back that there was a wealth of cycle related stalls, penny farthings to ride on, a bicycle powered smoothie machine and even a five-a-day stall, where you could talk to healthy eating experts whilst you munch on your sausage, egg and bacon bap. To eat, she actually managed to purloin a quite healthy vegetable burrito.

There was also a ‘what Nottingham is doing for cyclists’ stall. To which the swift and cynical answer is ‘not much’ or well, that's the general consensus. It probably wasn’t a very big stall.

I’m on my bike too, albeit without a Wheelie Big Breakfast inside me. So far, it's so far so good as regards any aches and pains. So I decide now it the time to sign up for next weekend's White Rose Challenge ride up in Ilkley.

Today, the Times newspaper outs another anonymous blogger. To be fair ‘Night Jack’ had been pushing his luck a bit with his disclosures about the police force and had given out some quite sensitive details about some of his investigations. It went to court but the court refused to protect his anonymity because his identity was apparently ‘in the public interest’. Don’t understand that one. In fact the reverse is true because his blog has now been deleted. So now there's no information available to the public at all.

So I best watch my back, in case the Times outs me and you discover that I’m actually a twenty-stone spinster with a house full of cats who wouldn’t know a fitness regime if it parachuted itself into her back garden. Do you think that threw the journalists off the scent?

I get home and take the cats, sorry I mean the dogs training. Well I train MD at home and then much to his chagrin leave him at home whist I take Doggo to class. Once home again MD is so so pleased to see Doggo, as he usually is. Doggo though, doesn’t reciprocate the delight, as he usually doesn’t. A growl and a snarl is what he gets for his trouble. Doggo I guess is saying ‘Out of my way, I’m tired, I’m hungry and I’m covered in sand’, as he heads off to find an unoccupied duvet to dust himself down on.

A Good Butchers

Appropriately as its National Bike Week I’m on my bike today.

I wonder if this means they’ll be an amnesty this week on the attempted assassinations of cyclists. I take the hilly route to work today, to test the old legs out. As I sit at the Balloon Wood traffic lights I look back at the Chelsea Tractor that has pulled up behind me to try to ascertain, as I usually do, whether they’ve seen me or not and therefore whether they will attempt to drive over the top of me, when the lights change, or not. The female driver seems to be still getting dressed. Then she glares at me as if it’s my fault for noticing! She doesn't appear to realise that she’s not worth wasting an eyeball on. Well at least I now know that she’s seen me, whether this means she will still attempt to drive over the top of me or not, I’m not sure.

If you think this is all rather a lot to notice as I simply wait for a set of lights to change, let me tell you that the Balloon Wood traffic lights have five roads that intersect and they take an age to change. Enough time to have a good butchers around, or in fact to finish getting dressed.

It’s quite hot again today and this mini heatwave causes us a bit of a dilemma at work where the computers and the sun heat up the office very quickly. Our air conditioning, despite numerous temperature and fan settings, effectively has only two modes, on or off. ‘Off’ means that in this weather you can pretty soon fry an egg on the top of one of the laser printers, whereas the ‘on’ setting cools the office down so fast that within ten minutes we can have snow falling inside the office, which really clogs up your keyboard. A setting in between, however, seems to elude it.

An email entitled 'What the crap' appears in my inbox. Must be Daughter. She’s been having problems with the 'content lock' feature on the 'stupid brilliant piece of junk', that's her affectionate nickname for her phone. It’s stopped her from using Meebo, well it has got a daft name, because she can't confirm her age as being over 18 because, well she isn’t over 18 and hasn't got a credit card number to prove it. I think she wants to borrow mine.

Now it’s blocked her from accessing the La Senza website... and why not, you don’t want all these youngsters viewing websites which have photographs of ladies in their underwear do you. Even if she did only want to see how expensive their socks were. Oh well, and she can't even go on Meebo to bitch about it.

I access ‘my’ online account for the phone, it’s all registered in my name, where I can see everything she’s been up to on it. Cool. Big Parent is watching you... Whilst I’m there I unlock the thing for her, now she surf as much porn as she likes.

My opponent took some time to decide whether we play squash or tennis this week, after his defeat last time. So long in fact, that I doubt now that we would get a squash court at such short notice. So tennis it is, the only proviso he says, is that the first ten-year-old girl who walks past, laughs and says her younger sister could hit the ball harder than that, we are off the court. So that's the rules decided, may the tippy-tapping commence.

I actually try to play some shots and wins some points this week, rather than just tapping it back to my opponent for him to make the mistakes. It’s a glorious failure. So back to plan A next time.

Chocolate Teapot

L heads out on the 'chocolate teapot' this morning, this is her new pet name for her bike, wearing two t-shirts, a fleece and her fluorescent cycling jacket. Which by the time she gets to the gym, she regrets. It’s not that cold, even if you’re L. Meanwhile, I’m in the car because we’re back on the early training shift this week.

I see Britney’s in the news again. Perhaps I shouldn’t take advantage of her? She is really just cheap 'n' easy blog fodder but you have to don’t you. It’s been common knowledge that she mimed ‘a bit’ during her recent eight night stint at that former-Millennium Dome place that is now named after a phone network. The news today is, that it appears to be beyond any doubt, that she in fact mimed her way through the entire 19 song set, every night. What value for £50. Naturally the kiddies loved it but then they weren’t paying, whether the accompanying wallet carriers were so enamoured, no one’s saying. They were probably just glad when it was all over.



She escaped from that cage by the way. Damn. But at least someone made the effort to try to stop her performing.

So, follow that then Michael... and it seems that he intends to. The word is that the ‘great’ or should be the ‘once up on time great’ Michael Jackson intends to focus on the 'spectacle' side of the shows on his mammoth ‘This Is It’ tour of... well, Greenwich and not the singing. E.g. he intends to mime and presumably make a 'spectacle' of himself. Personally I'll be stunned if he even turns up but I’m just a natural cynic. So, ‘This is it?’... err, no it isn’t. Hope no one’s paid a lot of money for their tickets have they?

Post work it’s head home, pick up the dogs, as well as L and Daughter. Drop Daughter in Mickleover, train MD, let L have MD to run to Mickleover, train Doggo and then collect the rest of them from Mickleover. All almost as involved as doing a Triathlon.

Time To Retire

I’m not looking forward to this. The Long Eaton 5 miler, last year I ran 32.15. On Wednesday I was 90 seconds slower over the same distance and it nearly destroyed me. Can’t see there being any improvement today.

L runs there, which is seven miles. So that’s quite impressive in itself. I warm up by throwing balls for the dogs and glaring at everyone who I think will beat me.



I start the race with what I think is a steadier pace than Wednesday but at the mile marker, with my protégée alongside me, we clock 5.55, and he had the nerve to say I started too fast on Wednesday. This is the same suicidal pace that caused me to set 32.15 last year. I have no such lofty illusions this year or the stamina to do so. Protégée deserts me at two miles and that’s the end of that. I finish 15 seconds slower that I did on Wednesday. Protégée edges under 33 minutes. Time to retire perhaps and make way for the youngsters.

At least they have the free Marston’s Pedigree on again and L buys me some cakes as a pick me up. Then we drown my sorrows in the Navigation. That’s the pub, not the canal. Although it’s tempting. Perhaps if I look particularly wounded and desperate L might offer me some TLC this afternoon.

The rest of the afternoon is spent chilling in the garden where, in a slight reversal of earlier, the dogs throw balls at me. In an attempt to persuade me to throw them back, they have no sympathy for tired (and old) limbs.

The Male Perspective

A bit of a ‘normal persons’ day today. No shows, no races. Instead a bit of food shopping, walking the dogs, hedge cutting... nothing very exciting.

Suppose I do fit in a bit of training with MD, that is after I've repaired the garden to make it safe to run around by filling in all the holes he’s dug. Then I have to repair the hurdles that he’s chewed... Eventually we get down to some training.

After we’ve had a good session and I've gone back inside the house, I look out of the window to see him batting all three poles off the hurdles with his paw, then trying to pull the rubber supports out with his teeth, so that he can chew them. Not happy!

Meanwhile L and Daughter are in town searching for shoes to go with her prom dress. It'll be the last time she sees most of her school year and personally I think she’d make more of a lasting impression in thigh length boots but obviously that’s the male perspective. The shoes are actually rather impressive; as well as pink (but we'll gloss over that), I just hope she’s ok with heights.

In the evening we go for a wander round some of the pubs in Wollaton. It’s been some time since we last looked into the ones that we don’t normally frequent. The ‘Willoughby’ is no longer known as the Willoughby but despite a bit of a paint job not much else has changed, the layout has never been conducive to ‘just going for a drink’ and this hasn't changed. The food was never any good either, so hopefully they’ve improved that. They have a trio of ales on which is a good effort and a slight improvement but still nothing very exciting, so we don’t stay.

‘Middletons’ which was formerly the ‘Roebuck’ is now a totally different pub and seems to be an improvement. They have five ales on, so we decided to stay, again nothing earth shattering but enough to keep us entertained on a low alcohol night. Three halves... must be a race on.

Twittering

I’m on dog duty this morning and I set off for a short wander with the boys. We’re hardly out of the front door when we come across a chap and his wife pointing a pair of binoculars at the window of one of the houses at the end of the street. How odd. Particularly as I’m sure there’s nothing worth spying on over there.

‘I’ve never seen one like that before’, the chap says rather loudly as I pass, as if this was an appropriate explanation.

I’m sure you have mate, I think to myself, its age you know, you forget.

‘I’ve never seen a bird like that’ he continues, ‘and I’ve been twittering for thirty years’.

Twittering? Is he sure that’s what he means. Is this the new buzz word for voyeurism?

‘There look’, he says pointing, as a bird flies out of the tree in front of the house he has his binoculars trained on.

I think he means twitching but then again I wouldn’t have wanted someone to come up to me in the street and confess that they’ve been ‘twitching for thirty years’ either. The boys and I cross over to the other side of the street and continue our walk.

Before he can compete in agility, MD need either a microchip, a tattoo or a passport style photo for his agility licence. They don’t encourage the use of photos, it’s not very high tech and I suppose the usual rules apply. You know, look straight at the camera, eyes open, no glasses or hats, no smiling, grinning, frowning or raised eyebrows, with mouth closed etc etc, which is all far too much like hard work for a dog.

I also can’t see MD sporting a tattoo, he’s just not that sort of dog. Although it might be worth it just so that he’s the first one in the house to get one. It might even make Daughter jealous. Perhaps the vet could do them both at the same time... perhaps not. So a chip it is then.

When I get him there, he’s all friends with the vet, in his naivety. That is until the vet gets the big needle out and sticks it in MD's neck. MD promptly tries to leapt into my arms for protection. Bless.

A few seconds later it’s over and no harm down. It will take more than a needle to keep MD's spirits down for long.

That done, I plan a short run, because I ought to do something to loosen up before Sunday’s race. L says she ought to do the gym, so we organise a dog-and-clothes-exchange at the gym.

So after her session, I meet her outside the gym where she takes some clothes and the dogs off me whilst I go off for a dog-free run. Then we meet up again outside the Victoria. It's a bit like a relay with the dogs as the baton and a beer at the end of it.

Complete Bed Rest

L’s having a bad week in the pool, today is the second time this week she’s had to finish on a number that doesn't end in a zero and she hates doing that. It will spoil her whole day. I think they keeping blowing the whistle early just to annoy her.

My colleague isn’t gloating too much at work. He says his legs are ok but I never actually see him get out of his chair all day, although I guess he must have at some point, when I wasn’t looking. I also note he wasn't on his bike this morning, nor was I.

He reckons I’ll be trying extra hard to beat him on Sunday and I did run an impressively stupid 32.15 at Long Eaton last year, he did 33.10 yesterday. Not sure I’ll be anywhere near as quick this year.

In order to get me ready for the re-match, L prescribes complete bed rest over the next few days. I’ll look forward to that! But personally I think a bit of light training might be in order.

Daughter sends some more dog photos through to work. The ones of MD show a dog who is getting progressively more fed up with posing for the camera with each shot. You can see it in his eyes that he's plotting to get his own back and is thinking 'I'm going to chew up as many pairs of her best knickers as I can get my paws on.'

He has my sympathy. Everyone can suffer from too much Daughter syndrome. Never mind MD, there's only thirteen weeks to go until she starts college.

I go to Thursday night training with MD and then back home, I cook up a curry and we relax with a glass of wine whilst Daughter is out seeing the comedian Russell Howard. I’m on standby to pick them up afterwards and after a phone call from Daughter I drive off to collect them. Only to be told when I’m nearly there that I have to turn back because she’s in a queue to meet him for a photo and to get his autograph, presumably on a body part, underwear or hopefully something more suitable. I turn the car around and drive home, the joy of kids (part 2). At least I get to drink some more wine and she does at least manage to get a bus home.

Too Many Syllables

It’s the Beeston 5 mile race tonight and naturally rain is forecast again for later.

It’s also Daughter’s physics exam today for which she’s had to borrow a calculator. A few days ago we had three calculators downstairs but in the meantime, somehow all three seem to have got mislaid. I’m tempted to text her and ask if she’s checked the bathroom to see if she’s stacked them up in there, alongside the purse she lost last week.

L tells me she’s heading off to the ‘Arb’ at lunchtime to read her book and presumably chill with ‘da kidz’ (the students). The ‘Arb’ used to be known as the Arboretum but that’s too many syllables obviously. Of course she’ll need a can of Strongbow in one hand and will have to wear her trousers at half mast if she really wants to blend in. She shouldn’t bump into Big D because he should be in his English Literature exam about now.

She’s reading a book called 'Atlas Shrugged' by Ayn Rand, which she says makes War & Peace look like an Enid Blyton. To be fair, it does look like heavy going which is perhaps why she keeps getting distracted into chick lit. So 'Atlas Shrugged' probably isn't the only book she’s got with her.

Run time. L walks the dogs over to the race and I meet her there in the car. She plans to then run back whilst I take the dogs, and my father, for a pint or two. The run starts conveniently just behind one of our favourite pubs, the Victoria.

I have to say I don’t feel particularly fit. All my aches and pains appear to have cleared up but the consequence is I’ve barely trained at all for this. I look around and the race has pulled an impressive field of 170 and there’s some outstanding talent here, running talent I mean, obviously. I quickly downgrade my expected finishing position. At least the rain hasn't materialised.

It’s a horrible run, pancake flat, which might sound good but it’s not really my type of course and my legs just won’t co-operate. I run a 6.10 first mile which is perhaps a touch suicidal and at two miles my protégé from work, on his race début, comes past me. I stay with him most of the way but I just can’t close the gap and I finish thirty seconds and five places adrift. I’m a minute and half outside by best time for the distance, that’s lack of preparation for you but to be honest, it’s still not a bad time. My colleague though, has done very well. I’m not bitter, he ought to be beating me really, he’s fit, trains hard and his legs are a lot younger than mine. The only thing that may have held him back was a lack of belief, he didn’t actually think he could run that fast. Well now he knows he can, so they’ll be no stopping him and I’ve got to race him again on Sunday. I’m not optimistic.

I get home and then just before 11pm we get a call from Son who’s been in Bakersfield, e.g. on the other side of town, miles away, watching the England match and he’s missed his last bus. As I’ve had a few beers, L drives and I ride shotgun to navigate. Eventually we locate him in some obscure corner of Nottingham and bring him home. It’s only about an hour’s round trip. The joy of kids.

Hula Hoops

I take it easy on the bus today, where I discover that if Doggo or MD should ever fancy a trip on the Red Arrow, they can. I can vouch for the fact that they accept dogs. Well they appear to, that is judging from the volume of dog hairs on the back of the seat in front of me.

It dawns on L that, last night, she may have agreed to a 21 mile run. Yep.

Daughter, revising hard for tomorrow Physics obviously, sends a photo of both dogs snuggled up together on the sofa. Hmmm. I assume it was taken immediately before she chucked them both off and seriously reprimanded them. L says she shall use it as her windows backdrop.

As I wait for my bus home, I see standing in the next bus queue a lad who seems to have got a hula hoop stuck inside his earlobe. No, not one of those you swing around your hips, one of the potato snack type things. I think it’s supposed to be an earring but you can see daylight through his earlobe. I know it’s fashionable to look gross and face mutilation is so very in vogue but it’s really gut wrenching... as well as fascinating. There’s a girl in my queue who can’t take her eyes off it and laddo thinks she’s giving him the eye, so he promptly starts preening his greasy hair. I think you’re deluding yourself mate, that's not an eye job she's giving you, she’s just thinking, like the rest of us, that you're an idiot to have done that to your ear.

I’m playing tennis at 7pm and rain is forecast for... yep you guessed it, 7pm. Time to pray to the Sun Gods then. Even if it doesn't rain it’s not exactly warm, our pre-match knock-up will add new meaning to the phrase ‘warm-up’. Oh for a nice warm squash court or perhaps not, there's warm and then there are the council unventilated squash courts.

In the end, the weather forecast is stunningly inaccurate and it doesn’t rain at all. As I make a dreadful start and lose the first set 6-0 I start to wish it was raining. Things though, take a turn for the better and somehow I lead the second set all the way through. Obviously I don't expect this to last and of course it doesn't, but then just as it looks like we’re heading for a tie break, things go my way for once and I take it 7-5. So a decider. Losing even a set can send my opponent slightly crazy, as I well know from squash, and as he rants and raves on his side of the court, I storm into a 5-0 lead. I then try desperately to throw it all away but amazingly I still win 6-3. Cool, I won.

Then I get ready to duck as I’m sure a racquet will come flying over the net but no, he's quite calm, just a couple of tennis balls dispatched in anger at 100mph and they’re heading over my head towards the next but one court, so I’m safe.

Then I have a good smirk into my post match pint.

Under The Influence

I'm on the bike today and again our car park is really busy... with bikes. My ride goes ok but my knee still feels dodgy and now I seem to be struggling with saddle soreness which is perhaps my knee just ruining my posture. Either way I think I’ll take the rest of the week off cycling, which isn’t difficult because I didn’t want to do too much before the 5 mile run I have on Wednesday night.

After work I train MD at home and then take both of them to Doggo’s class. We watch the end of the previous class and MD offers his vocal support, well he tries to. His halti not only keeps him in check whilst out walking but it also has the added advantage of holding his mouth shut if he gets over excited and tries to bark at anything. Result.

L is over in Derby running with a friend of hers. Which is partly for fitness, partly a social call and partly out of necessity because we’re desperate for news of her dog, who has been very ill and not eating but she’s completely rubbish at keeping us informed by text or email. We’ve both been worried sick.

He is now apparently recovering after being put on a diet of fresh fish and potatoes. Well you would wouldn’t you. Both our two dogs would lay it on a bit thick if they thought they could get that sort of dietary prescription.

She then heads over to her parents where I pick her up from, which totally meets with the approval of the dogs because this means they’ll get biscuits. Lots of them.

L seems quite sloshed, apparently the only measure of wine that the pub sold was 250ml. That's a third of a bottle, which breaks a woman’s daily allowance of alcohol units in one glass.

The good news is that later I may profit from her sloshedness but the bad news is the 21 mile run she’s been talked into... It's a common tactic, L's got me to sign many an entry form whilst I've been under the influence.

Evil Eye

Doggo is giving me the evil eye all morning. It's still raining and I reckon he’s worried in case we’re off to the dog show again. Then when I think he's come to the conclusion that he's escaped that, he starts giving me a different sort of evil look in case I've forget that I haven't taken him to the park yet. Despite the fact that it's still bucketing it down, in fact it’s far worse than yesterday. So even I’m glad we’re not at the show but the boys will just have to wait for their session on the park, there's little point going out whilst it’s like this.

The rain has also put paid to my other planned activities today. Those being hedge cutting and taking my new girl out for a spin. That's definitely off the menu, there's no way I'm getting her dirty, even if does eventually stop raining. Oh well, we'll just have to chill in bed a bit longer.

Late afternoon I decide to join L at the gym. I do 5k on the treadmill, 5k on the bike and 1k on the rower. So, not a bad workout. The council will be pleased. I was a touch put out when they wrote to me recently, urging me to use their facilities because it could ‘greatly improve my health and well-being’. They have obviously not been paying attention!

Enclosed with it was a leaflet containing fitness advice for the over 50’s. On second thoughts perhaps they have been paying attention and have joined in with taking the Michael. Hmmm.

We’ve taken the dogs with us and as it has, at long last, stopped raining, I walk them home, around the University and across the park for a ball session. So Doggo can now finally stop glaring at me.

Old Punks Don't Die

As I lay in bed I can hear the pounding of the rain on the windows, not that the word rain does do it justice, because it’s hammering it down. I have one loyal canine warming my feet and the other to my right crashed out on the floor. Neither of them are showing any inclination for movement. Then on my other side, alongside me in this nice, snug, dry bed is a warm, soft, female body, who if I push the right buttons could, well...

So what do I do? I get up of course, abandon all that bliss, drive to Ashbourne and stand in the rain for six hours. Logical eh? The loyal canines aren’t particularly thrilled to join me but having been pre-programmed to be ‘loyal’, they do so anyway.

The dog show isn’t even really worth it, even if I pretend it isn’t raining. The courses are far too straightforward and therefore too fast for us to shine. So all a waste of time really. L doesn’t help by texting that she has the house to herself.

Doggo does ok but he’s pushing his luck all day on the contacts and finally, in our last run, he misses one on the A frame and gets us faulted. When he doesn’t stop on his next one, the dog walk, I pick him up and put him back on, thereby getting us eliminated.

Thankfully we finish quite early, so we head home to dry out and to see what buttons I can push.

In the evening we’re at the Nottingham Playhouse to see the play Garage Band. The thing is, I’m not sure whether I ought to write a gig review or a theatre review?

The show opens with a ‘not the best’ rendition of The Damned’s ‘New Rose’ performed live by the four cast members in their on-stage garage. Yep, Nottingham Playhouse has gone punk.

The premise is that old punks don't die, they simply end up living in suburbia, middle-aged, with a dull job, a mortgage and probably a few kids. In this particular corner of suburbia, the 15th most pleasant village in Britain, these four ex-punks get together to form their own 'tribute' band, although don't use that word in front of Gavin. If nothing else, it will help to relieve the current tedium of their lives.

Gavin (Robin Kingsland, keeping me awake this time, not so the last time in The Price) takes it all far too seriously, which isn’t very punk. He’s the driving force behind the group and also its drummer. First time around, he was right in the thick of things and part of a band called Grunt. A band who never quite made it.

Back in the day, Grunt were asked to support The Damned but when his brother died in Northern Ireland, Gavin didn’t make it that night and when their lead singer was killed in a car crash a week later, that was sadly that. These sorts of disclosures are gradually revealed by all the cast members as the play progresses.

Gavin is desperate for a second chance and to try to recapture the energy of the late 1970's. He has a willing recruit in Alan (John Elkington). Alan is a guitarist who practices every night on Guitar Hero, usually playing the very un-punk 'Freebird'. He seems to be a bit of a sad singleton, who never really grew up in the first place.

Another desire that unites them both, is that they’d both like to get it on with bass player and single mum Penny. Penny (Suki Smith) looks respectable enough but actually she’s always wanted to be Beki Bondage and she’s having teenager Daughter problems, that gets a lot of the audience nodding in agreement. She says that her Daughter hates her and has moved out so that she can do exactly the sort of punk things that Penny used to do. Which worries Penny, because she got pregnant at 15 and had to have the child adopted.

These three throw themselves full heartedly into the project, as Penny says 'It's more exciting than the Alexander Technique or line dancing'.

Then there’s Danny (Mark Jardine), a lecturer, who claims that Joe Strummer changed his life but with a new baby at home, he finds it hard to be committed to the band. All the same, when Gavin arranges some gigs for them and even a full tour, he is eventually persuaded to sing vocals for them. Gavin gets his hair cut Mohican style and off they go.

Cue lots of decent songs played by the band themselves as they get a chance to relive their youth and perform in front of willing audiences.

White Riot
Babylon Is Burning
Ever Fallen In Love
Neat Neat Neat
Sound of The Suburbs
I Fought The Law
Anarchy In The UK

They also play them rather well. Gavin turns out to be an excellent drummer; the guitar and bass are good too. There are some impressive vocal performances, complete with suitably punk posturing by Danny.

Their tour is a huge success and they finish feeling reinvigorated by it all but of course you can’t permanently recreate your youth. The mortgage, the kids, even the pet dog will all still be there. Times change.

Danny reveals that he will be quitting the band. He has written an essay on punk and the influence it wielded, and has been called to lecture on the subject over in America, just as the band are preparing play a festival in Germany. Gavin gives up, already estranged from his wife, family and job, he packs his bags and plans to walk away from the 15th most pleasant village in Britain.

Until Alan stops him. Their Facebook friends have demanded that they do one final farewell concert. Even Danny agrees, so one night at the local village hall and supported by the local Brownie Recorder Troupe, the band take the stage for one last concert. They go down a storm and even play ‘Dead to Me’ a song originally recorded by Gavin’s former band Grunt.

They close the show with a much more polished 'New Rose' to rapturous applause from the audience. I think an encore would have been appropriate but then that wouldn't have been very punk would it.

It’s an excellent play. Part comedy, part nostalgia, part rock concert and part well observed observation on life, particularly some of the stuff about teenagers... we can relate to that!

Garage Band runs at Nottingham Playhouse until June 20th. If you’ve got even the slightest dose of punk in your blood go see it.

We head off for a triple Leffe debrief in the Ropewalk. Among all the nostalgia and exploration of the psyche of old punks, the play asks the question whether punk really did change the culture of this country. L and I debate this thoroughly and tend to agree that it didn't. Punk certainly shook up the music world but the country, no not really.

Garage Band In Rehearsal





***

The ’lost video’ of 'Dead to Me' By Grunt

The Only Excuse You Need

I blew my tyres up this morning and gosh it made a difference, so much easier and quicker. I ought to do it more often. Only two bikes in the car park today. I know one of my colleagues has had to temporarily suspend his cycling due to his shredded knees but I don’t know what everyone else’s excuse was. Then again, as L points out, perhaps wanting to stay alive was the only excuse they needed. I guess I wasn’t very encouraging yesterday.

So put the bike back in the shed and have a curry instead because apparently having a curry once or twice a week helps prevent the onset of Alzheimer’s and dementia. It's all down to turmeric you know but it’s not quite the news the obesity endemic needed.

They've been testing all this out on mice. Only last year it was in the news that they were forcing alcohol down mice. Perhaps a laboratory mouse’s life isn't all that bad after all... or perhaps not.

Researchers are now going to test the impact of higher doses, like a curry every day but sorry, they're not asking for volunteers. If it works they might even put a curry pill on the market. A curry pill... why? Isn’t that taking all the fun out of it?

I manage to cycle home in the dry but not by much and it soon starts raining. Eventually we venture out, the dogs need walking and we visit the local.

Hunt The Onions

Arghhh Sainsbury’s. I have my lunchtime shopping trip down to a fine art. I can bomb around Sainsbury’s in around twenty minutes and get a week’s shopping for home and a week’s lunches for work in one go. Then of course there’s the twenty minute wait in the checkout queue as you listen to the operator gossiping to the customer in front of you but that’s another story. When will they introduce a fast lane for people in their lunch hour?

'Sorry', the checkout girl says, ‘are you in your lunch hour?’ and then immediately starts scanning everything really quickly which obviously doesn’t help as I disappear under a week’s worth of bread.

Anyhow twenty minutes is how long the actual shopping takes, unless of course L throws me a ‘googly’ by asking for something I don’t usually get. Which today she does in the form of Pot Noodles for Son’s lunches. We’ve been trying to get him to have a more healthy lunch. So we’ve weaned him off the burgers and sausages and onto, ermm... Pot Noodles. Result! Not. Anyhow, last time I bought a Pot Noodle was about fifteen years ago and Sainbury’s have probably moved them to another aisle by now, so finding them took some time but actually they’ve moved everything this week. So my ‘actual’ shop takes twice as long and I have to give up on some of the items I want. Some seem to have disappeared completely. So I spend far less money than usual in their store. So what a good idea that was Sainbury’s. Another way to reduce your takings. Expect a profit warning from the stock market any time soon.

I’m not the only one a touch miffed either. Other people doing the same sort of lunch hour shop look ready to punch the nearest assistant.

‘Look this is a supermarket isn’t it?’ one chap asks the assistant.

‘Yes sir it is’

‘So I KNOW you sell onions, don’t you?’

‘Yes sir we do’

‘Well they were there last week’, he points, ‘so where the (insert expletive) have you hidden them this week?’

When I was 18, I thrilled to be allowed to vote and eagerly went off to do so, despite not really knowing who to vote for. We live in a democracy, and even if it’s not a very good one, we should be grateful for that fact and we should all therefore exercise our democratic right to vote. I have never not voted.

As a student I knew a chap who disagreed with all the parties then and probably still does now, even he voted, drawing a line through all the parties and writing 'no suitable candidate' or less polite words to that effect. Then when the results were announced, including the number of spoilt papers, he could proudly say one of those was his. At University we had a better option; we used to have 'RON' on the ballot paper. ‘RON’ stood for 'Re-open Nominations'. If ‘RON’ won, the election had to take place again. I rather liked that idea.

Sometimes it's difficult to vote and I suppose it’s a democratic right not to vote but apathy is no answer. Not voting is simply a vote for the ‘Status Quo’, and nobody wants Francis Rossi in charge, ha ha, sorry. Low turn outs never resolve anything, nothing is ever achieved by doing nothing and if you play your cards right you can come away with a free pen.

Today, less than a week into his 19th year, Son doesn't vote. Meanwhile the Government are on about lowering the voting age to 16 to give teenagers a voice. Any point?

Post work, I head over to Derby and training for MD. He does rather well and isn’t as distracted as last week when he chased the cat. He is distracted naturally, a lot, but it’s still an improvement.

L joins us and walks Doggo along the canal, then we reconvene at home and crack open the wine.

Near Death Moments

When you have one of those near death moments, your whole life is supposed to flash before you but today that doesn’t happen, perhaps because I’ve seen it all so many times before. Such is life on my commute to work by bike. Instead it’s Matt Slater's blog on the BBC website that flashes before me; I read it just the other day. He was on about, why when he’s cycling to work, keeping fit, doing his bit for the environment and freeing up the road space for the Chelsea tractors, are people trying to kill him? Quite.

This particular Chelsea Tractor just wouldn’t wait and pulled out of a side street, causing me and more alarmingly a chap on a moped to take evasive action. They waved a half hearted apology. So that’s alright then.

So that’s put you off cycling now hasn’t it? If it hasn’t, this might. My colleague came in this morning with two gashed knees and two gashed elbows. It was his first day using his new clip in pedals. Oh dear.

So now you’re totally put off, so asking anyone to cycle during ‘Change Your World’ week is pointless isn’t it? ‘Change your world’ runs from 29 June – 4 July 2009 and urges people to swap just one car trip and walk, cycle, use public transport or car-share instead. You could always walk?

In the evening we are in Derby for a gig. As we walk in to the ‘Red Room’ of The Royal, the first thing I notice is how busy it is, which is a pleasant surprise. The second thing I notice is that the band currently on stage don’t appear to have a lead singer. Then I see him, right up on top of the speaker stack. That’s an old trick for sure but not often performed by a band third on the bill. These are 'The Souvenirs' the first of two local bands playing tonight. I immediately think Eddie Argos and Art Brut; it's the way singer Dale Dawson dresses, struts about and the art punk sound of the band.



We only catch the very end of their set, so it’s difficult to comment really but if the state of Mr Dawson is anything to go by, it must have been a good set. He looked totally wrecked.

Serenaded to the stage by Suede’s ‘Animal Nitrate’, Ryan Needham of ‘You Animals’ tells us that they were only given two days notice of this support slot and by the way he disses Derby, I get the impression they’ve hot footed it across Britain in a transit van to fill this slot but no. A quick look at their Myspace reveals they too are Derby boys, and like 'The Souvenirs', well established on the local scene.

They are an energetic five piece who struggle for space on the stage and have something of ‘The View’ about them or is that just because they’re a tad shambolic at times, in a good way. We’re not tally convinced about the point of the keyboard player though, the token girl seems oddly lost, as is her contribution. Her keyboards get lost somewhere amongst their riotous sound, which has potential and would become more intelligible, if they calmed down a touch.



The highlight of the night almost arrived when Ryan seemed to contemplate swinging on one of the Royal’s ‘posh’ chandeliers; it used to be a hotel you know. He seems to change his mind at the last moment, it’s a good job, it would not have held his weight and could have fused the whole building. He just gives it a shove instead, popping a bulb in the process.

They finish by pushing a speaker off the stage and hurling a guitar after it, everyone’s gone so 'rock n roll' tonight and it’s a good job the crowd are standing a little back. Ryan then plays the last few notes on the cymbals with his microphone. I hope they find fame and fortune soon because they’re going to be going through some equipment at some rate.

Ryan does appear to be a big Joy Formidable fan, having seen them last month at the Dot-to-Dot and seems thrilled they’ve got in to see them free tonight.

The Joy Formidable certainly aren’t local, hailing from Mold, North Wales. They sneak up onto the stage with little fuss but quickly set about living up to and then trampling all over their already impressive live reputation. They’ve improved since we last saw them, their sound becoming a bit more distinguishable, less of a haze but still sounding ethereal; think early Lush with balls and a touch of Kim Deal thrown in for good measure. The critics have tagged it ‘shoegazing’ as they did then and do so again now.

They open with their current single, the terrific ‘Whirring’ and immediately put everything into a thumping delivery of it. An approach they continue all night. In fact it leaves you exhausted just watching the amount of energy they expend, particularly Matt Thomas on drums. Such fantastic drumming and his pounding rhythms are the backbone of the power of the band. His efforts leave him visibly gasping for breath. Regrettably my camera battery gives out before I can get a photo of him and his under fire drum kit.

Suppose you could also feel sorry for my ears, his thundering delivery, along with Ritzy Bryan’s eardrum-shredding guitar makes my ears wonder why we elected to be front row.



‘Whirring’ ends or rather doesn’t and instead merges in to the thumping intro of ‘Cradle’. Possibly their two best songs back to back, a brilliant duo of urgent, thrusting pop.

The band clearly know how to write a catchy song even if they do choose to layer a haze of noise over it. They could of course go away, capitalise on that inherent catchiness, and write a classic pop song. I’m sure they’re well capable. They could bag a big hit and never look back, never play the likes of the ‘Red Room’ again, which would be shame of course, but judging by the new stuff played tonight ‘Greyhounds’, ‘Anemone’ and ‘Spectrum’ (I think), they have no intention of deviating from their current path. Good job too. ‘Spectrum’, if that is indeed what it is called, was a definite highlight for me.



Ritzy manages to juggle looking pretty cool in black stockings, boots etc, whilst playing guitar and managing not to trip over her huge pedal board, although sometimes only just, whilst all the time slaying us with her voice. She doesn’t talk much but perhaps she doesn’t have the breath to spare and instead seems to rely on her piercing eyes to communicate with the crowd.

Then there’s the great basslines laid down by Rhydian Dafydd. At times you need three sets of eyes to take it all in.

A thundering version of ‘The Last Drop’, think Breeders, is followed by the more mellow ‘Ostrich’ which ends with its solemn drum beats, giving Matt a rest of sorts.



Then it’s the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of ‘Austere’, which may or may not have something to do with the ‘Moaning’ part of the title of their oddly entitled mini-album ‘A Balloon Called Moaning’. The song does seem to hint at erotic intentions, although it’s often difficult to make much sense of Ritzy’s lyrics. One of their fans clearly got very excited about it and compiled a video for it using clips from the website Beautiful Agony, which was promptly banned by everyone, even YouTube. The band loved it though and still host it on thejoyformidable.com. It’s actually really good, rather ermm... arty, although probably NSFW.

They finish their nine song set with the anthem that is ‘The Greatest Light Is The Greatest Shade’. It’s a fitting finale; good enough to make the hairs on your neck stand up.

We come out of the gig and seeing that the Silk Mill has signs up talking up their real ale potential and advertising no less than nine brews on the blackboard outside, we pop in to try one. It would be rude not to. Wentworth Oatmeal Stout, one of my favourites.

Bloody Cyclists

I run in with my ipod and thankfully don’t get electrocuted. What do you mean you haven’t read Apple’s warning about static electricity shocks from the headphones.

"When using headphones in areas where the air is very dry, it is easy to build up static electricity and possible for your ear to receive a small electrostatic discharge from the headphones."

Today the air is very dry.

They go on to recommend applying hand lotion to prevent getting an electric shock from their device. I’m not sure whether they mean to yourself or the ipod. Either way the answer is no.

I was obviously so busy try not to electrocute myself that I nearly got ran over by a cyclist. Bloody cyclists, oops shouldn’t say that, I am one, usually. Well, he was on the pavement.

As it’s hot, the question is do we continue with our games of hot and humid squash on those airless courts or do we cancel the court and go for tennis instead, which of course will cause the weather to take a turn for the wet and windy. Tough choice. My opponent decides that, come hell or high water, its tennis. Bad choice of words, he’ll regret saying that.

I've recently finished John Gisham's 'The Innocent Man', his first non-fiction book. It was rather slow and drawn out at times but it gradually gripped me.

The book tells the story of former minor league baseball player Ron Williamson of Ada, Oklahoma. He along with another guy, Dennis Fritz, were convicted of the murder of a cocktail waitress in 1982. Williamson was sentenced to death, whilst Fritz was given life in prison.



Basically it was all a miscarriage of justice and the book criticises the shoddy police work, the dubious confessions, the unreliable witnesses and the generally flimsy evidence. Luckily, since a death conviction sets in motion a series of appeals, in 1994 a fresh look at the evidence by a U.S. District Court judge halted Williamson’s execution five days before it was due. A retrial was ordered but it was another five years before Williamson and Fritz were finally exonerated by DNA evidence. Williamson had spent 11 years on death row and, never a stable man, bore the psychological scars of the experience.

The book also touches on the case of Tommy Ward and Karl Fontenot for another murder, this case, although according to Grisham to be a miscarriage of justice, is as yet unproven and they are still in jail. Another case covered is the proven false conviction of Greg Wilhoit for the murder of his estranged wife. All the men were, at one point of time, on death row with Williamson.

Unfortunately the book is a bit on the unbalanced side and provides only one side of the story. There clearly was a miscarriage of justice, at least in Williamson and Fritz's case, but the book is far too dismissive of the prosecution's case against them. Although mistakes were clearly made, Grisham, who is very anti-death penalty, evidently had a bit of an agenda against those involved with the prosecution. The day after finishing reading the book, I looked up the case details on the internet and also visited the website of the Bill Peterson, who led the prosecution. It is interesting to read his views and the other facts of the case that are freely available. When you look at all the evidence it's not as clear cut as Grisham makes it sound. As regards the case of Ward and Fontenot, having read the evidence, although not completely convinced either way to their guilt, I can see understand why they are still in jail.

So tennis it is and I even buy some new balls, ones that bounce, much to my opponent’s disgust. The match result though, is much the same as at squash. Yep, I lose. Tennis used to be great game, when the courts were longer, the nets lower, the racquets less highly strung and the balls not so bouncy or is my memory just playing tricks on me?

A quick beer then back for chemistry revision.

The Bright Side

It’s a glorious ride in as its lovely sunny morning. I might even get a tan, well a lobster pink one anyway.

Maths D-day today, if Daughter gets there that is. Apparently she was still doing her make-up at home half an hour before kick off. Which is putting undeserved trust in the time keeping of Nottingham City Transport and there aren't even any extra marks for perfect make-up.

There are four bikes in our car park today as another employee succumbs. If we get organised and coordinated we could make it six in the car park in one go. Another person is debuting a new bike today with his SPD clip in pedals. We’ll all be checking for cuts and bruises tomorrow.

I reckon L’s had a good morning but then I'm a great believer in looking on the bright side, whereas my beloved is perhaps not so inclined. I think is very impressive that she managed a long cycle, a swim and a weights session, all before work, even if it wasn’t what she intended. Her bike ride took longer than she expected which ate into her swim time and then her planned yoga class was moved to later in the morning so she had to do weights instead. Frustrating perhaps but still impressive.

A recent post by fellow blogger ‘Private Secret Diary’ made me smile. He was trying to teach his toddler the merits of the phrase ‘go back to bed’ but to no avail. Then he ponders on at what age children’s brains develop enough to know that ‘go back to bed’ are four of the best words in the English language. His other favourite batches of four words are ‘fancy a quick pint?’ and ’shall I wear boots?’.

Someone else has commented, before I had chance to, that of course the best eight words in the English language are 'Shall I wear boots? Go back to bed'. Ha ha.

After work, I train MD in the garden and then take Doggo across to Derby for his training session, it’s too hot to take MD and expect him to wait in the car. When we get back it’s as if we’ve been gone for a week. He is very pleased to see us.

Apologies to anyone who read last Thursday’s post where I wrote 'We all squirt across the field into the early evening sun'. Sorry for any confusion, it’s now been corrected.