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Marathon log 1 - No rest until Blackheath Common

So it maybe September 1st, an ordinary Saturday just like any other. Though some of you maybe still comatose from the evening before on the town - Some maybe contemplating the weekly shop or thinking of what excuse, not, to that DIY job that you have been putting off for ages.
For me, the 1st September is the day I begin my marathon training. The marathon be not until April next year, but you have to start somewhere, as time has a nasty habit of slipping by, as the next thing you will know it will Christmas again.  The aim is to get some decent mileage under my belt before then.....come to think was that not my plan last time out...?
To begin training for a marathon is a very unassuming start. As I step from my front door, there are no brass bands or cheering crowds. No busty super model, to wave a chequered flag to get me on my way, just the postman, trudging up the road with his heavy sack on his shoulder, and a dog cocking its leg against the lamp post. The only evidence of a marathon is the slogan on my T-shirt: 'MARATHON RUNNERS DO IT LONGER'.
So this is it, no rest until Blackheath Common. Over the coming months I will go through highs and lows. I will question myself. My body will get fitter. Meaning that my body will transform from it current shape resembling the condition of Del Boy Trotters three wheeled Reliant Robin, with a slow puncture, to that of a Bugatti Vagon. Which means ladies, my body will transform. It will become more sporty (Great eye candy) – it will develop sleek lines (no more beer belly) – It will become lean and flexible (can handle a shopping trolley), and will do 0 to 60 in two and a half seconds (prone to premature ejaculation).
Here we are once more. This is the beginning of my challenge, and along with your support, it won't be a case of the loneliness of the long distance runner, as I am sure your words of encouragement will be invaluable and motivational...even if they are words like "Pratt and loon for taking on another marathon....!"

Marathon log 2 - Was this a good Idea..?

Day 2, and for those keep track, it's the 2nd September. Running, tired today. Well I guess not going to bed until two in the morning is not being a true dedicated athlete. But in my defence, I am putting it down to research. No not checking out the talent at the local night club, but watching the world championship women’s Marathon from Osaka - Japan. There is something strangely exhausting about watching a full marathon being played out from the comfort of your armchair, with a cup of tea and a biscuit to sustain you, and to carry you on through the wall. Well that's my excuse for my below par Sunday morning session.
So it is early days, and the session was more fartlek than a consistent well paced run. But one saving grace is that, I am putting in an average of 7.30 pacing between pauses to get my breath back. Another factor was the air quality today, as the chest felt very congested, causing me to cough and splutter like an old boiler, which is about par for me. Coughing and spluttering, not resembling a old boiler that is.
Knowing that the pace there, give confidence, and I am drawing a picture of areas I need to build on, the first being, to focus on my stamina to keep it going. I need to develop a more even paced run on my Sunday long runs. But this will come turn, and having read my stars today, Mystic Meg claims Saturn has arrived back in my chart for the first time in 28 years...so welcome back Saturn. This will either mean that I will win loads of money, or I may be come a love god....I could even end up winning next years marathon. Maybe I am taking my stars too seriously...?

Marathon Log 3 - The wheel has fallen off...

Typical this, you motivate yourself, you get on that runners high, you even focus your mind to your goal….. Then the wheel falls off. But I guess it is one of those things, and I am glad it is now and rather than later.
Call it an occupational and daily hazard of working in a busy office, were a sneeze at one end, can result in bubonic plague by the time it reaches the other end. So swift is the incubation period of bugs and virus's (not the computer ones) within the office that I work, that any ailment that goes around is readily shared. The one that I really am waiting for is, the rare and contagious plague, which is called a pay rise to do the rounds.
In the papers and on the news, there are reports of a ‘Foot and Mouth’ out break and on the radio, there was a case of ‘Blue Tongue’ reported…whatever that maybe…? Though an explanation by an expert in such fields insists that, ‘Blue Tongue’ is carried by a midge from France, and surprise surprise, they are blaming global warming, as lower September temperatures should have killed the midges off by now. I always thought that ‘Blue Tongue’ was what Bernard Manning suffered from, and the last time I had blue tongue, was when I was at school, and sucked on a blackberry flavoured gob stopper.   
Though both, ‘Foot and Mouth’ and ‘Blue Tongue’, only relate to livestock, and not the rampaging virus stalking our office, they can't be held to blame for dickey stomachs, and the thumping head aches that have wiped out half the office. It could be down to global warming, as everything else is blamed onto global warming these days. Even, Jose Mourinho’s exit from Chelsea was due to the change in climate.
"Oh no, not another English winter is descending. Brrrrrr, I'm buggering off back to the warmer climes of Portugal - gringo...!! Were reported to be his parting words….             
For me its horrific news, no not the constant visits to the toilet, the sneezing, sweaty palms, and snotty nose. It’s worse than that…..I can't run…!! Well I am not risking it, anyway.  Let's just clear it up, and anyway it's early days. To fight this little bugger, I am taking every pill known to Boots the chemist. Even my medicine cabinet, now resembles that of an East German shot putters mini bar. With all the pills and potions, I should be on a high, and I should be bouncing around like Bambi on ecstasy...whoops typo there - Bambi in ecstasy, after Disney favourite was nominated for the Oscar for best actor, for his cameo in Quinten Tarantinos latest blockbuster, ‘Road Kill’. But I am not. Depressing, and frustrating as it is, you just have to sit these illnesses out, twiddle your thumbs, and read a back copy of runner’s world, until the day you are well enough to get out on the road again….
The moral of the tale is simple, look after your body, and don’t run with colds and flu. If the schedule says you must run, ignore it, as you are doing more damage than good. (sept 23)

Marathon Log 4 - Back again..Well almost...!!

Just when I thought that my stress levels were evening out, then Paula strides back into town. It has been 21 months since we were sitting on the edge of our seats, biting our nails in anticipation, as Paula Radcliffe turned running a marathon into a soap opera of, will she, won't she proportions.  I say this with the greatest respect to Paula, knowing the highs and lows, and the emotional rollercoaster that is marathon running. No other athlete has brought that emotion and motivation out in me, as I mentally lived out every record breaking stride that Radcliffe takes, and only finally breathing a sigh of relief when she has crossed the finish line safe and sound. To raise that amount of passion within a person is the mark of a true champion, and that is what we see every time that Paula laces up her Nike's. We know that it is going to be something special and complex, with a sprinkling of the plot of a Shakespearian play, we then know that it is going to be undoubtedly a classic performance.

Like me, Radcliffe has been off the scene for a while. Injury and illness, oh and not forgetting the small hiccup, that was her pregnancy, have kept her pre-occupied for the past 21 months, but at long last, business beckons, and it’s another day at the office. Unlike my office, a rectangular box, with windows and a photo copier.  Paula's is the 13 miles, from Newcastle to South Shields, which is the legend, which is the Great North run. For those who spend most of their lives as arm chair athletes, Paula would possibly be a good odds-on bet. The media would off blown the dust off the continuing script that is the life and times of Paul Radcliffe, and life would continue as it did two years ago. So at 7 miles when the American, Cara Gocher, began to ease away, disappearing into the distance, you could sense a hint of panic rippling across the land. It was as if, the spectre of Athens rose like the Phoenix from the flames once more.
                                                                                                                  But if you were a like minded athlete, you would have a greater understand of the mechanics of the whole scenario. We have one athlete, Radcliffe, her first race for 21 months, and race rusty mother of one. Then we have the American Gocher, who is having the best season of her running career, recording personal bests as if they were going out of fashion. You don't have to be Einstein, to figure out that the inform athlete is going to take the advantage over than the less than race fit athlete. But to beat Radcliffe, who had set the barrier and tempo high, would mean it would take an athlete at the top of her game to compete at that level, which was a performance that earned Gocher the American record for the distance.

The moral of the tale, if you want to go out and ruin Radcliffe’s party, then you have to go out and work hard at it as it’s not going to be a easy ride. Paula and I are trotting along the same pathway now, her ultimate destination Beijing, and more glory and fame, my destination, London with toil and strain.   (1/10/07)

Marathon log 5 - Today I clicked…..

So 20 million applied online for Led Zep tickets....Okay 20 million and one including me....But guess what I was rejected, nothing new in life there is there..? So after weeks of being bombarded with mails and texts from realbuzz about the first ever BUPA London 10km I was not going to miss out on this one. The digits went in to serious training - I did pilaraties for thumbs and fingers to help with the flexibility - got the rubic cube to build stamina, and to build speed I got the axe out, plugged it in, and like my name sake in Spinal Tap turned up the volume to 11 and ran through a few riffs at lightening speed that would bring tears to Eddie Van Halens eyes and make my fret board smoulder longer than Hendrix Stratocaster.

A minute to high noon, I logged on to the website. With thirty seconds to go, I have entered my details and credit card number. I was in the secure zone with 15 seconds to go, and the cursor hovering over the 'Make Payment' button. As beads of sweat began to roll down my brow I gripped the mouse tightly, with my finger poised to click at the strike of noon. As the second hand jerked ever closer and the beads of sweat now dripping off the end of my nose the hour arrived. My eyes closed at the first 'B' of the bong - My finger hit the button on my mouse and...........!!!!

My F******** computer crashed....aHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.....!!!!

Lightening quick I leapt to my colleague’s computer and logged back on and got my place in next Mays event....phew..!! Booking online is getting to dangerous for the stress levels especially at my age.......(3/10/2007)

Marathon log 6 - Running Blind.....

"Oh sh*t, its five past ten.....” give or take a few other expletives.  I have just rolled over, and seen the time on the grinning face of my alarm clock that has refused to activate, as it sits on my bedside table chuckling away to itself. It maybe just another Sunday morning to him, and a day that is worthy of a lie in, but this is not a normal Sunday morning, its race day, and I should of been out the door and on my way, not starring at the ceiling scratching my never regions. Leaping from the comfort of my duvet,  I am washed and changed, done breakfast, knocked back a cup of tea, and relived to find myself on the campus of Birmingham university in less than 45 minutes. Even for me that is a PB, which was much better than last year, when I rolled up seven days too late. 

Today, I know is going to be a catalogue of errors, and over sleeping is going to be one of those to contend with. The next is not having my entry and race number, due to the post strike. So I have to queue with others in the same predicament. To add to my frustrations, the display on my Garmin forerunner goes blank. Deep joy.....So today I am going to run the University 5km blind.

My Forerunner is my virtual training partner, my on board computer and my co driver. It tells the time, it gives me pace information. It tells me when I am running too fast, and when I am running too slow. If I tinker with the programming, it will show me how many calories that I have burnt lacing up my trainers, and give an altitude reading for when I am running up the north face of Everest. It acts as a brain and gives me a running history lesson. Even when I get home after a run, it tells me were we have been should I have suffered memory loss. As it is linked by GPS to a US satellite, even George W Bush, the Pentagon and Mulder and Scully can also tune in to see how fast and how far I ran last Tuesday. Does the Forerunner have any draw backs...? Well yes, it is limited as a virtual training partner. It may have the brain of Einstein, but lacks the social graces of a true training buddy. It doesn't fart, swear, or tell smutty jokes. It doesn't even wolf whistle at young ladies as we pass them by, and now mine has gone brain dead, as the power as just mysteriously drained away from the dormant unit on my wrist. Where has it gone...?

Its back to basics, as I will have to rely on my natural pacing instincts, my Jedi training, and not rely on artificial intelligence on this one, which come to think, is not a bad thing as we do rely too much on artificial intelligence in today’s world. Or is that just me being rebellious...? Today is not about racing, it is more about assessment. It is to see were I am at, what needs to be done, my strengths and weakness's. Today, I won't be finishing with a medal, but a shopping list, a Sainsbury’s shopping trolley of things for me to do so that I would be ready for that marathon in April, and the Uni 5km is just the place to do that.  A testing and challenging course is in store, as the route ingeniously twists and turns like a rubics cube. The route around the campus is as equally puzzling, with short sharp inclines at the right points. It is not a 5km for those seeking an easy ride, as running at a higher tempo the course doesn’t allow you to ease off into cruise control as there are turns and undulations to contest, all ingredients for a challenging event indeed.

So I didn't break 25 minutes, as I have done so with ease in training. It doesn't help over sleeping, and it doesn't help lacking race fitness. All of which I will sit down and work on in the coming months. There would have been a time when I would have been disappointed with my performance, maybe I am mellowing in my old age...or maybe we have the technology on our wrists.....when it works properly.....?(14/10/07)

Marathon Log 7 - The trees are confused...

There is a reason for why I have been suffering from breathing, chest and asthma problems. Apparently, the trees are confused and Mother Nature has lost the plot.....!! This diagnosis does not come from my doctor, whose idea of a cure is to fill me full of antibiotics, tell me not to exercise, and live my life in an oak box six foot under. 

No, this startling claim comes from a woman off the radio, possibly a new aged hippy with flowers in her hair, who wears a kaftan and smokes strange smelling cigarettes. To her, the reason why the trees are confused is due to the extreme weather conditions and that with all the damp weather during the summer that never was, the trees don't really know and confused when to release their pollen. It could be today, tomorrow....it should have been at the end of May...but it rained. 

I was always under the impression that rain only stopped the play of cricket, and was good if you were a duck. Now the trees are complaining. I know that the running of the railways are governed by the right type of snow and leaves on the line, now I am governed on when I can train by a tree that is confused and has an identity crisis......anyone know of a good tree psychiatrist....? (21/10/2007)

Marathon Log 8 - Doing it the hard way....

Doing it the hard way....
So Louis Hamilton didn't become world champion this weekend, nor did the England rugby team lift the world cup. Many paragraphs have already been written to why and why not. There have been many hours of speculation spent analysing the strengths, weakness's and chinks in our champions armour. But why do we as a nation make world championship performances such hard work....?

Our sportsmen and women seem to continuously follow the same principle, 'Nearly, but not quite' as time and time again we sit on the edge of our seats in eager anticipation. We stand in crowded bars with baited breath, and with high hopes we cheer our teams on so they may achieve the top spot. But why do we do it, when we know all too well what the ultimate out come is going to be....?

In my life time, we have only won the football world cup and the rugby world cup once. The number of times that we have retained the Ashes, I can count on one hand, and will an English man ever win Wimbledon before I go and meet my maker...? Mansell, Hill and Fogaty, not forgetting the late Burns and McRae have up held dominance in Motor sport. While in athletics, we are a far cry from the golden days of Bedford and Foster, Ovett and Coe, and will we see Paula Radcliffe finally taking gold in the 2008 Beijing Olympic Marathon.....? I already have my tranquilisers on stand by for when I watch every agonising mile, as once more Team GB does it the hard way.

So here I am knocking our champions, but there is no way that I am going to become a world champion in my sport. Well, not unless I indulge myself in the contents of a East German shot putters cocktail cabinet. I will not be a world champion because I have a full time job, and I won't become a world champion because I have no multimillion pound sponsorship deal.  But I do share one thing with a world champion, and that is because I am passionate and dedicated to my sport. I may lack the support crew and dolly birds of a formula one racing driver. I may even lack the coaching and advisory staff of an Olympic athlete, and I lack the presence of a premiership footballer WAG. But I still have a love of running and I have a passion for the sport.

So as Louis Hamilton consoles himself over his Scaletrix, and the English rugby boys cry into their pints in a bar off the Champs Elyse while teaching the French a few new rugby songs, I, on the other hand find myself content with my performance this weekend. Therefore the moral of the story is - If you want to become a world champion...? Emigrate to Papa New Guinea - change your nationality and change your name to Pablo Lindquist.   If you don't want to become a world champion....then take up running.....  (22/10/07)

The Vampire shift.....
My chest feels like a sumo wrestler has sat on it, and my head feels like it has been struck by Ricky Hattons mothers hand bag. It's a grey day, one of those mornings that remind you of the dreaded school cross run. The only difference then and now is that I am older and I have no excuse why not to run. This is funny, as when I was at school I had a whole arsenal of sick notes to fall back on. Once I was suffering from a bad case of Bubonic Plague.  I once had a contagious case of Red La La fever and even a life threatening verruca. More lame excuses were, constantly getting out of breath when I ran, an allergy to sweat, and that I had one foot bigger than the other, all of which failed to get a remote hint of sympathy, resulting in me being made to run an extra lap for being cheeky.

Today, you can't stop me running, and I have a whole new arsenal of reasons to run. Even if I do feel out of sync as I do today. Somehow I have pulled myself out of bed and put in a session, but something is out of place. I don't feel unwell it’s just how I feel inside. My body feels out of synchronisation. It maybe my body clock detecting a change in seasons, as Mother Nature shouts at the squirrels to gather their nuts in, and encourages tortoise’s to think its time for bed, and to hibernate. For us, this weekend marks the end of British summertime and we turn the clocks, good news as we get an extra hour in bed, but the bad news is winter is around the corner and the nights get longer.

This is the time of year when I change my name to Bella Lugosi. I go around in a long black cape and grow fangs, as I am now doing the Vampire shift, which The Vampire shift is, getting up in the morning in the dark and returning home from work in the dark. I will then take to the streets to train in the dark, and then return home to my coffin to sleep, and then the whole routine begins again. Daylight will be something that will be missing from my life for the next five months and this could open up a whole new can of worms.

As I now begin the lifestyle of a vampire, I may even start to loath Indian food and cringe at Charles Aznavour records, due to the garlic content. Though, I do tend to cringe at the later anyway. I will have to re-plan the routes I run so I don’t pass any churches or arrive at cross roads, just in case I burn up and my remains will be a pile of ash on the pavement. Any reference to steak is defiantly off the menu, and I am not to date any women called Buffy. How boring is life going to be...?

However, there is one more danger lying ahead. I may just become sad and come down with Seasonal adjustment disorder, S.A.D, a condition that leads to depression during the winter period. It is due to the lack of sunlight, which for many of us in our working environments is replaced by artificial, unnatural light. They say how harmful the rays of the sun can be to the skin, but on the other hand the sun supplies supplements that keep us stimulated and the lack of this can result in us being depressed and gloomy. It is not helped either in this gloomy time of year. So there is a fun time ahead that is if I escape a stake through the heart, or topping myself due to depression. There again I may do both if I receive a London Marathon rejection letter in the next few weeks. (28/10)

The Monster Dash
If it wasn't bad enough with having to cope with being a vampire condemned to a life in a world of eternal darkness this winter, I now have Halloween to contend with. The day started badly as I woke with a head like a werewolf, but I am alright nowooooooooooh...!! Then it sank even lower as I crossed the draw bridge of my haunted stately pile for my evening run only to be confronted by three characters that remotely resemble Yoda from Star Wars, ET the extraterrestrial and Zippy from Rainbow.
"Trick or Treat...?" They look up at me like three out tune carol singers in ill fitting fancy dress costumes.
"BOG OFF....!"
This band of munchkins begs a question or three. Where has the scary bit gone to in Halloween, you know ghosts, ghouls and things that go bump in the night. Scary stories that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and gave you nightmares.  Scary people like Vincent Price and Boris Karloff, and why don't trick and treaters go and knock on Peter Cushions or Christopher Lees door for a change. Further more, why don't they go and knock on Simon Cowells door and see what they get...? There again, he'll select them for his next show of cringe worthy talent less no hopers to suffer on a Saturday evening. Now that's scary.
What has happened to the Halloween I used to know..? Has it, like Christmas become a commercial exercise, as supermarket giants like Tesco and Sainsbury’s rub their evil hands together at the Ker-ching of every cash register....? I guess the scariest thing about Halloween today is, looking at your shopping bill and wondering what are you going to do with all those pumpkins that you have brought....?

So has Halloween lost its tradition then, is it as spooky anymore and has the Grim Reaper come and despatched it to another place...? Where have all the witches gone who ride around on broomsticks and have black cats...? They can't of surely all married rock stars that bite the heads off bats and become X factor judges can they...? What of the Headless horseman and the Grey Lady, have they all become spirits and appear in trendy wine bars as the new vodka based fruit drinks for binge drinkers...?
Like most things in today’s world, I sense an Uncle Sam influence. Even the adult in the red leather jacket and the unconvincing theatrical make up, acting as minder for three wise midgets, fails to bear any resemblance to a zombiefied Michael Jackson from the 'Thriller' video. And since when has Michael Jackson been female.. Or, was it one of his transformations that had gone horribly wrong...? I guess if your plastic surgeon is named Frank N Stein, you do pay your money and take your chances.  And I can only presume that the creature clutching her hand is Igor.
"Trick or treat...?"
It looks like I am going to have to play along with this, or I will nether be rid of the Adams family.
"Okay, give me a treat...” Five hundred pounds would be nice, a Caribbean cruise, or a tip for the 3.30 at Kempton Park. No reaction at all, as all three stand looking up at me with their hands held out. I know this is not Christmas, but I can do a scary Halloween Scourge.
"Okay, trick...” I can do a few card tricks, or I could be Paul Daniels and get the Black and Decker from the shed and saw Debbie McGee in half. I could even do a few bar miracles, like turning wine into water. Were they impressed....? No, what I trick it got was being pelted with sponges and kicked in the ankles by Yoda. I let out a blood thirsty cry, “Ha bloody ha....!". 

The trio scampered off down the pathway, closely followed by Michael Jackson dragging along poor old Igor. You could say....
They did the dash....
They did the Monster dash.....
They did the dash...
It was a graveyard splash....
They the dash...
They off in a flash.....
They the dash
They did the Monster dash.....!!!
(31/10/2007)

New York New York....
It’s a morning with a nip in the air. There is a gentle mist mixed with the wafts of smoke from smouldering bonfires. There is the pungent smell of spent firework and Guy Fawkes singed doublet and hose. I add a splash of colour to this monochrome back drop in my blue running kit, yellow woolly hat and the silver flash from the reflective strips of my Adidas running shoes, as I take to the streets that are covered in a grey autumnal shroud. But does anyone notice...? I make about as much impact as the bead of sweat that drops off the end of my nose. Plop.....!

A million miles away in New York however, it is 11c and the sun is shining. In the air there is the odour of beef burger and yellow cab exhaust fumes topped with a hint of cappuccino. What a great day to run a marathon as it is a day of colour and carnival on the streets of the city that never sleeps.  Unlike me, it is also the day for Paula Radcliffe to create an impact as the beads of sweat that drop from the end of her nose send out ripples to the world of distance running.  Splash....! Paula is back...!

A few weeks ago, we relished and agonised at her return to the sport, as she laced up her Nikes and took to the Great North Run. That day it felt like watching a dud Catherine wheel, it failed to spark. Had the great Radcliffe fire been extinguished...? The short lived answer to that question is, No, as today in New York she took your newspaper filled Guy Fawkes by the throat, and kicked the tabloid stuffing out of it. The spark had been rekindled and Paula Radcliffe exploded back to form.

This was classic Radcliffe, a runner in control of her own domain, confident in the driving seat, and, as ever providing thrilling entertainment. Who says that the marathon is boring when you have a, 'will she, won't she', scenario right up to the line. A TV soap opera would have filmed three different cliff hanging finalises. Here there was only one definite finally and if anyone wanted to change the script they would have to work hard to do it. Gete Wami, Paula’s co-star in many a marathon campaign, sat in Radcliffe’s shadow and within the last 400m dared to make one final effort to rewrite the script. But with the usual Radcliffe determination, Paula sailed past Wami to a decisive victory.

I may not have made an impact on the running world, but Paula Radcliffe has once more put the world of running in the public eye. Today she looked a different athlete. The birth of her daughter has brought a new glow, and there is a new determination. I feel that there is another chapter of the Marathon running handbook still to be written by Radcliffe, and for those who expressed doubt I think I can smell cooking... Humble pie anyone....? (4/11/07)

Light the blue touch paper and retire immediately……. 

Shit..!! What was that..? I know the term for getting a move on is to stick a rocket up your rear end, but that was too close to call.

Someone, possibly the responsible adult has allowed the three wise pyromaniacs, Yoda, ET and Zippy to have fireworks.  Not content with scaring the living day lights out of me on Halloween, they are now using me as target practice with 'moon zoomer' mini rockets. Thank god they already have a guy on their bonfire. I wonder which poor unfortunate that is.... Funny, I have not seen the postman all today.

There was a time when all a firework did was go whoosh...! Crackle...and Fphut...! Today they are made from old military ordinance left over from the cold war. No wonder they couldn't find weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, as you can find them for sale at my local newsagent. Not only that, like any good High Street arms dealer he has them on special offer, buy one - get one free, so you can blow your other hand off too.

Fireworks were once filled with gun powder.  Guy Fawkes himself had enough gunpowder to blow the Houses of Parliament to smithereens, and ruffle the tail feathers of a pigeon perched on Nelsons column. The 'Venus Thunderbolt', and the 'Crystal Cracker box', both contain enough semtex and depleted uranium to wipe out Bognor Regis, and have enough fire power blast your garden to the moon. Of course, there are advantages to this.  Firstly, you are left with a smoking creator ideal for the swimming pool you always longed for, and secondly, the added bonus of no more holidays to Bognor with your Granny. 

Today’s fireworks are loud and pack a punch.  One good bang and you can make the earth move, just like a night of passion with Jodie Marsh. For one weekend a year it sounds like a Saturday night in old down town Bagdad. Rockets, sparks and colour add to the excitement of bonfire night, and emerging from the purple smokey haze form an exhausted Roman Fountain, appear the three BMX riders of the apocalypse. Huge grins on their faces and tears rolling down their little cheeks. Their eyes light up at the bangs and flashes, as they gorge themselves with hotdogs and fizzy pop.

If Guy Fawkes inspired the firework industry, he also inspired a number of cliché for tonight’s run....'It was a cracker'......'I put in an explosive effort'.....'It was a blast' and the unforgettable...'Oh fphut....!!'
(5/11/2007)

What is the connection between Captain Scarlet - a 4x4 - the Bugatti Vayron - a comfy chair, a pair of carpet slippers and a pipe, and Laurence Llewellyn Bowen....?

Answer, a pair of Adidas Supernova that are on my feet....

The Supernova, Mi edition, is my current running shoe of choice.  I am now into my second pair of Mi's, something that I favour as they give me a more customized fit which makes a difference.

In fairness, I have also dabbled with other manufacturers down the years, and have tried various running shoes for one reason or another. But I have always drifted back to Adidas, as they have provided me with a item of footwear that is reliable and true to its name. The heal tabs on Nikes I found too high, so I had to take a scalpel to the classic Pegasus I once owned to avoid an achiles tendon injury.

The Brookes Chariot was the first quality shoe I wore, if only for the smell of new leather and suede which may sound a bit kinky. My first ever running shoe was a pair of Hi Tec Silver Shadows, I also dabbled with the Reebok Phase 1 and Phase 2, until Reebok phased them out completely. But the first serious work horse of a running shoe was the Adidas Response. I had found the holy grail of running shoes, well ones that suited me.  I forget how many pairs I owned until that too was temporary phased out, which meant my allegiance then fell to Asics. But it has always been Adidas that has carried me over the 26 miles of the marathon.

My first marathon was in a pair of the then revolutionary Adidas Torsion. A unique innovation were part of the sole was cut away and ingeniously replaced by a flexible thermo plastic bar, giving the shoe more flexibility and allowed the natural movement of the foot. This kick started a revolution in running footwear technology and today, this and more innovations can be seen across the board. A whole host of manufactures have developed ground breaking innovations, but at the end of the day they all provide the same function, a pair of trainers to run in, period. 

Lighter developed shoes help us run faster - cushioning shoes give us a easy ride and controlled shoes are designed for anti pronation and injury prevention.  Air technology, gel, the GRID, hexolite, Adidprene are just a few terms to baffle us. But were next do we go in the evolutionary progress of the running shoe...?  Already you can plug you ipod into your shoes, so how long before you find your trainers fitted with a turbo charged V8, anti lock breaks and a air bag fitted in the toe box to prevent injury just in case you stub your little toe...?

I am content and confident with what I have on my feet. I have found that the range of Adidas running shoes that I have worn over the years do share that Captain Scarlet characteristic. They are indestructible. I like my shoes to give me that confidence and stability for when I run over mutli-terrain, the supernova has that 4x4 ability. Though it may not do 0 to 60 in 3 seconds, there is no chance of the Supernova out running a Bugatti Vayron unless your name is Linford Christie, said that, the Supernova is as sporty as the Vayron or any super car that you would like to mention.

If you are training for and running a marathon, you spend many hours in a pair of running shoes, so you need the comfort. The Supernova, is as comfortable as getting home from work, slipping into your carpet slippers, settling down in your comfy arm chair with a pipe and newspaper. The other likeable innovation of the Mi is that they are designed to fit your feet. The process is one of collecting data and examining your heel strike so you get the perfect fit for you. What is more pleasing to those Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen types, you get a choice of sole, unique colour and styling. They will even put your name on them, making your Supernova Mi a truly unique running shoe and experience.      (11/11/2007)

It may look like a scene from a Christmas card and it maybe the first dollop of snow this winter......But its only 'bloody' November...!!

This is true, last night we had a covering of snow.  To all those lovers of this globe that we live on, it provides yet another excuse to once more bang the Global warming drum. These are the folk who hug trees and go on about the ice caps melting, though I feel on this occasion they may have a point, as I look from my bedroom window to find the frozen waste land that is polar ice cap has relocated into my back garden. Even more, the iceberg that was responsible for the sinking of the Titanic is now residing in the fish pool.

To Yoda, ET and Zippy global warming is not an issue, just an excuse to play out in the white stuff, build snowmen, and use the responsible adult as target practice in a snowball fight, which makes a change from targeting the runner next door. Me. Personally, I don't think this is the work of global warming at all.  I think that the Greek god of Christmas shopping, Argos is to blame.

Let me explain. Is it just a coincidence that a new Argos store is opening just half a mile away, and that Argos launched their Christmas adverting campaign in July. Is this covering of snow just a Argos smoke screen, and part of a marketing package for the giant to flex its retailing muscle, and remind us that the festive season is only four weeks away. Or do we face a further threat, that if you don't spend your hard earned cash with us we will snowball you again with another dollop.....?

Has the commercialism of Christmas gone to far...and is the Christmas spirit now something that is a 'buy one get one free'  offer at your local Sainsbury’s wine and beer section...? The big High Street names now film huge epic commercials, with Hollywood A listers....why...? I know that it is Christmas, it happens the same time every year, so why the reminder...? Do I need Clint Eastwood to ask me if "I feel lucky...?" by purchasing my toys from, Toys'R'us. Do I need Bruce Willis to burst through my TV screen in his vest, to remind me to get my mince pies from Marks and Spencer....?

Maybe I do need Gerry Haliwell to remind me to get some Old Spice for my grandpa, and Girls aloud, to remind me to get in some crackers to pull, but do we really need all this hype...? Do we really need Charlton Heston in a Santa suit to remind us the true meaning of Christmas... and do we all need this when it’s only 'Bloody November....?
(19/11/2007)

Only on Planet Brum

Did you know that you are not allowed to drink coffee on planet Brum after 6.30pm....? There is a law in this great metropolis that forebodes coffee being consumed after such an hour or you maybe arrested by the coffee police.

All well and good if you’re a Brumie who prefers a mug of steaming hot Bovrille, but what if you’re a visitor from the North, were they still drink pints of coffee from tankards. Wear flat caps, and hold a length of string with a whippet attached to the end of it. Then there are the Southerners, were coffee is served 24 hours a day - seven days a week, not like here in the Midlands, were coffee has a curfew. 

I find this embarrassing, especially when you show off our fine city to a visitor from the south, only to find that Starbucks close their doors at 6.30pm. Anywhere else on the planet, no problem, you would be welcomed with open arms. But here in the second city I should coco, well unless that particular tipple is quaffed before midnight.

I was meeting the new Whizz Kidz fundraiser for the Midlands, and over a coffee, I was going to use this piece as an opportunity to explain to you what a great charity whizz kidz are. I was going to explain how Whizz Kidz work tirelessly to provide mobility aids, such as customised wheel chairs, tricycles to disabled youngsters, enabling them to improve their quality of life and interact with their surroundings independently, giving them a greater confidence and a better start in life, something so important at a young age.

Then, I was going to conclude with, how Whizz Kidz offer support to the kidz and their families through providing wheel chair training, so the kidz get a better understanding on how to get the best from their equipment, develop their wheelchair skills, and how to cope with day to day obstacles, such as crossing the road and road safety, which are all elements that lead to a greater independence. 

Being confined to a wheelchair with a disability can be frustrating, especially when you’re a child, were all you want to do is play and join in games with your friends. I am finding it frustrating to find somewhere the serves coffee after 6.30pm in Birmingham that is a minor frustration compared to the thousands of kidz in the UK who are still in need of mobility equipment to improve their lives. So this is why I support Whizz Kidz, as I am lucky to be able to run and walk, thus another reason to why I am running another marathon, and uses my ability to help improve a disabled child’s independence.

Well I think that is more rewarding than staring in to a Starbucks medium latté, wondering when the coffee police are going to come and feel your collar.  (20/11/2007)

Oh my god it's the end of the world once more....

Well maybe not to you and me, in our world the sun maybe shining and the birds singing.  But to the media, football pundits and a small corner of our office, it’s a black day indeed. There is a dark cloud hovering because Inger-land has lost another football match. Nothing new there then you may think. But, maybe this loss was rather more important, as it was a loss that has put Inger-land out of the 2008 European championships. 'Ouch...!!'

Occasionally, I have a bad day in the office, or I have a bad training session.  I may not even get a entry into the 2008 London Marathon through the ballot this time around, and face another rejection letter. To me that would be a big 'Ouch...!!'  But at the end of the day, I will just shrug my shoulders, get on with it and no one will bat an eyelid. But football is funny old game, and I am sure the Samaritans were inundated with calls from fans of the glorious game as they cry into their meat pies and cans of flat Black Label at just another disgrace.

A crucial 3 - 2 defeat by Croatia, does come with ramifications, and to not see the Inger-land football in a major tournament is costly even treason. Firstly, it has cost Inger-land coach Steve Mclaren his job and who is now looked in the 'Bloody tower' with Ericson, Kegan and Hoddle. The tourist industry will suffer, as many knotted handkerchief and bracer wearing British Inger-land fans will boycott package tours to Croatia next summer. And Gary Lineker will have more time to appear in more Walkers crisps advertisements. Just when you thought that a Inger-land defeat was bad enough.

But have we not been here before...? Is it not the same old script and hoo-hah being played out...? If Inger-land manager bashing was a sport, surely we would be undefeated world champions.  To be an Inger-land Manager, is being like one of those rotating ducks on a fairground shooting range. Whoever sits in the hot seat is a sitting duck, a target for the media and pundits to shoot at and fire criticism and blame........until...."Next....!!"

But there are those who do queue up for the opportunity, and do relish in taking the flack. Don't these people read script and are they totally oblivious to what has gone before...?. It would be a job I would touch for all the tea in China. There again with my knowledge of football, I might stand a chance should I retire from running marathons.

Already, following McLarens departure, and long before his seat in the dug out has gone cold, there is a new name in the frame. There is also a twist in the plot, as once more they are considering another Johnny foreigner to take the reins. He is Italian, there again it could be whose and be a Croatian.....then what would the media and pundits have to say about that...?    (21/11/2007)

The day I had a sense of humour malfunction....

Today I am not my cheery self and like Elvis, my sense of humour has left the building. I feel like a depressed Bob the Builder: “Am I disappointed...? Yes I am...!!"
I should be full of life and bouncing off the walls like Sponge Brain Square Pants, but instead I find myself as flat as a pancake as I have an empty feeling of rejection.

What has brought this on you may ask...?
Well on this occasion it is a magazine in a polythene wrapper delivered by Postman Pat and his annoying Black and White moggy. It contains my rejection letter from the 2008 London marathon and filled to the brim with inspirational material on how good it is to run a marathon....Alass not this one which has lead to my sense of humour malfunction.

As a result I have stuck my customary two fingers up at the marathon organisation, which I feel I did last year, and the year before that, and the year before that. One year in the very near future I feel there will be a hearty hoorah...!

Well I do have my gold bond secured and I am in training, so the faith lives on. It is disappointing, even with a guaranteed place, to receive that rejection notice and makes you even more determined to prove a point. So a point I will prove.   It is now time to get some decent mileage under my belt, as the real work begins in earnest as we have a marathon to run, and as there is only 4 months 9 days 13 hours 41 minutes and 20 seconds, I better full my finger out as there is no rest until Blackheath Common. (1/12/2007) 

Off my trolley.......
It never surprises me at what you can purchase from a supermarket these days. Once upon a time, you could only buy food. Today you can buy clothing, electrical goods, and I have even seen in one supermarket, a concrete mixer for sale, should you want to mix lumpy custard like your granny used to make.

So, I wasn't that surprised when it was announced in my local Sainsbury, that they were offering flu jabs to all customers. What was surprising though, for a small prick and 5 minutes of your precious shopping time, they were charging you fifteen quid. Surely you can get a better deal by booking Timmy Mallet for a hour at the same fee.

Today’s Supermarkets are designed to conveniently meet our needs and desires. Supermarket shopping should be therapeutic. In fact, it should be undertaken with pleasure and ease. To help to achieve this supermarkets are opening their doors for us longer, and as part of the Tesco aim for world domination, Tesco now have their own brand of week, consisting of a 34 hour day and the week lasting for 11 days, thus reducing the pressure on the busy professional or the hard pressed housewife. Now extinct is the need to dash to get your shopping in before the Supermarket doors close for the day.

Within this great plan, it leaves the great British consumer plenty of time to gently glide up and down the aisles, at the leisurely pace of a snail on a Sunday afternoon drive in the country. This will in turn give us more time to peruse the produce for sale on the shelves in comfort, meaning we will more spend money at the checkout.  Well alass not - In fact, it is quite the opposite as there is a flaw in this plan. One element that has not been taken into account is the supermarket shopping trolley.

It is a known scientific fact that once a shopper gets their hands on a shopping trolley, there is a change in personality. The shopper, from being a humble Dr Jekyll, becomes a evil Mr Hide.  Your granny starts to wear her baseball cap back to front and becomes a boy racer, and we all become 'Trolley Jockeys'.  The whole shopping experience transforms into one of riding the dodgems at the fairground, with the shopping trolley becoming a formula one racing car, screeching around corners like Mike Schumacher in a desperate race to be the first to get our hands on the 'BOGOF's'.

I too have fallen into this category and have been known to do the occasional speed and fartlek session, while wheeling my up and down the aisles past the frozen peas, just like Linford Christie going for Olympic glory. Who needs a lunch box when you can have a shopping trolley...? (1/12/2007)

Operation Ferrero Rocher....

We have now arrived at the season of good cheer, and here begins the traditional round of tipsy office parties, drunken choruses of 'Agadoo', and hanging sprigs of mistletoe up in the stationary cupboard. For those more inherited and bold, it is the time of year when you foolishly sit on the photocopier, and fax photocopies of your backside to your boss. 

For me, I too, have been invited to my first function of this festive time of year, and it is the reason that I am heading to London. I'm travelling first class of course, which befits an athlete of my calibre. Okay, hands up, it was a very good deal that couldn't be resisted when booking in advance with Virgin. 

This is a rather special do that I am attending. Not your usual shin dig, with pineapple and cheese on cocktail sticks. There will be no sausage rolls or pork pie. There will be no Karaoke, paper hats or pass the parcel. It will be a function were pints of Black Label will not be consumed out of cans, but champagne drunk out of flutes, and the ambassadors wife will serve Ferrero Rocher. This will be a posh do. So in order to impress, I have pulled the suit out from the depths of my wardrobe and dusted off the smell of moth balls. After a hair cut, a good scrub with a Brilo pad and a shave, I must admit ladies that I do scrub up very well indeed.

As we pull into Euston, the business suits flow from the 1st class carriages, like Moss Bros has just burst at the seams. Armed with stuffed brief cases and laptops, they are ready and prepared for high powered business meetings. Amongst the pin stripe brigade there is me, standing out like a sore thumb wearing combats, a Nike t-shirt and tugging at my wobbly wheelie suit case and strutting down the platform like R2D2 and CP3O from Star Wars.

The suits maybe heading off to a boardroom meeting, but for me the House of Lords beckons. Hence the suit and tie, as opposed to my usual attire on these functions of Whizz Kidz t-shirt and jeans. I am off to the seat of power, the home of MPs, Lords, Ladies and peers. The Queen visits here and Guy Fawkes once tired to blow it up. Now for some bizarre reason they are letting me in. Of course, I will have to be on my best behaviour, as one slip of the tongue could result in me being imprisoned in the Tower, though I will insist on being banged up in the Sportsman wing of the Bloody Tower, along with failed ex-England football coaches and former Wimbledon Championship disappointments.  I would put in a request to have the cell between Freddie Flintoiff, and the one they are preparing for Louis Hamilton. Just in case he should get a puncture at a critical moment in his next race.

So what is it like to enter the corridors of power, and the stately building that we see on postcards, tins of biscuits and 'Bong...!' The opening titles of the News at Ten...?  Entering Black Rods entrance and crossing the small enclosed court yard, Hogwarts, instantly springs to mind. The house feels like stepping into the realms of a public school, as the tall gothic walls reach up into the night sky. You can't help feeling that at any moment you may get summoned into the headmaster Gordon Browns study for detention, for treading on the cracks in the cobbled courtyard.  

The Lords, is a building were 'ye olde' oak doors all have iron latches that go 'clunk', echoing around the building as they slam shut. The floors creak, and you can fell the power ooze from the walls. Now and then you feel a ghostly breath on the back of your neck, as the historic spirits of the great figures of British politics still stalk the corridors of power. Disraeli, Lord George, and If you listen carefully, you can hear the shuffling feet of Atlee in his ghostly carpet slippers. There is the ghostly scent of stale tobacco smoke from Harold Wilson’s pipe, and in the distance the ghostly clink of Dennis Thatcher’s empties.

There is a strange but sombre ambiance to the building. You would imagine it to be a vibrant hive of activity. I am sure there are chambers were this is true, given the heated debates and struggle for power down the years. It is a building were its walls hold many secrets, and its corridors many tales. The Lords is a solid and strong building, and beneath my feet sits, anchored firm, the true foundations of this countries democracy. I know, I am standing on it. Beating beneath my feet is heart that governs our lives, the heart of government. You could say, it is like the foundations of my own belief in the work of the charity that I support, which lies firmly in my own heart. Without it, we would be a lost cause, and then what would drive us...?

It is not everyday you get to meet a Baroness, as it is Baroness Blood who is hosting this reception. It is not everyday that you get to meet a few of our leading politicians, those faces you seeing grinning on Question Time, and it is not everyday that you get served drinks on the terrace of the House of Lords. But it is inspirational on the days when we get thanked for our dedication....? It’s not the reason for doing those things, but appreciated when it happens.  (3/12/2007)

It could only happen in London.....

Oh my head..!! No, I am not hung over. It's just that I am not used to drinking on a Monday evening when it’s a school night. My usual tipple on a Monday evening would be a bottle of Lucozade after my evening run. I am not sure what's to blame, the 2 pints of Stella or the bucks fizz.....I am having trouble 'making my mind up...'.

I noticed something last night that I am tiring to get my head round. Why is it whenever I travel up the Embankment towards Big Ben runners keep passing me by...? It happens when struggling up that final mile and a bit in the London Marathon, and now it happens when just generally walking. Is this something that I will be plagued with for the rest on my life, or can this only happen in London...?

A shower and a light buffet breakfast of cereal, sausage, scrambled egg, sausage, mushrooms, sausage, beans, sausage, bacon and sausage finally revives me. I am now ready to face the world.  I will also admit to still feeling a little important, after the previous evening’s reception at the House of Lords. A stroll up the Southbank will be a tonic and one that will bring me back down to earth.

The Southbank is one of my favourite parts of London, and stepping out from my hotel I find myself on the set of Bridget Jones, as much of both films was filmed in Southwark’s, Borough Market. The market, shadowed under the arches of London Bridge railway station, with the trains rumbling overhead, holds an array of many great fresh foody smells that would excite and make the plates Jamie Oliver and Worrell Thompson do somersaults. It is vibrant and there is a buzz of activity at this early hour of the morning. I guess 9am is dinner time for a market trader.

There is a fine mist in the air, and the sky is that undeceive grey colour, were it can't decide if its going to rain or not...? Not I hope. Walking up the Southbank towards Westminster, you pass so many wonderful things of interest and things to stimulate those historical senses. From London Bridge onwards is a rich vein of London's past history.  As you head up the narrow cobbles of Clink Street, you find were the local prison was situated, now a museum. Hence the name 'Clink', as referring to jail. Around the corner you pass the Anchor Pub, an old and original hostelry were Samuel Peeps wrote his diaries and William Shakespeare once sang karaoke, which could only happen in London. 

There is a big connection with Shakespeare in this part of London. A few streets away, buried under some smart apartments are the original foundations of Shakespeare’s Rose theatre, and its white and thatched replica now sits on the banks of the river. The Southbank was known as the entertainment side of the river. Bars and theatre thrived here. It was the place to come for a good time in Shakespeare’s day, should you require merriment and a lady of the night. The West Bank, as it is today, was the business centre of the old city, and looked down on the seedier side of life on the opposite bank.

Art still is a major factor of the Southbank. The old power station is now home to Tate Modern, home of an art form I just don't get. Give me a grand old moody Turner in oils any day. The Southbank is home to the National Theatre, were the greats of stage and screen have once tread the boards, and the Southbank is also home to 'This Morning' with Fern Briton and Phillip Scofield. Approaching the studio, there is a hive of activity taking place. A set has been built resembling a Christmas grotto. There are cameras and wires all over the place. People looking important with clipboards and headphones on, while standing by a eight foot Christmas tree are two girls dressed in evening dress. Bear in mind this is ten o'clock in the morning on a wet and misty day. Well it could only happen in London.

The largest attraction on the Southbank, holds the world record for the worlds largest hamster wheel, the London Eye. There are great views of the city and beyond. Unfortunately, this is not the day, as you would have trouble in the mist defining whether the white specs on Nelsons shoulders is a bad case of dandruff, or pigeon droppings. I opt for a tube ride from Waterloo to Bond Street.

As this is about running, I should add a running reference. Exciting Bond Street tube station, I battle my way down Oxford Street to the Adidas store, which should be a Mecca for Adidas kit.....not...!! I have an interest in a pair of off road shoe, but when I ask the assistant for a multi-terrain shoe, he shows me a blank expression.
"Is it for the Marathon...?"
"No, off road running, running over the country, a shoe with a studded sole for running on soft ground, and a sole that will give me grip and traction over a multi-terrain surface....."
"Oh...!!" The assistant rubs his chin still with a blank expression, and shrugs his shoulders. I make a quick exit, as this could only happen in London.

I don't fancy battling down Oxford Street again, so I go on an adventure down a side street towards Mayfair. Some very nice boutiques and shops down here, the names of Viviane Westward, Channel and you can even get a short back and sides at Nicky Clarke’s. The jewellery shops not only have security guards inside the shop, but outside as well, and the streets are lined with chauffer driven Mercs. You could say there is some serious money around here. Well only in London. 

Maybe I am still hung-over, as I head over to Burlington Arcade. Am I seeing double, as two very attractive and similar looking young ladies, both casually and similarly dressed are hurrying towards me. There again, maybe I am not hung-over, they could even be twins like the Cheeky Girls...? Cheekily, with a second glance as they brush by, I realise that they are the real McCoy. That was the Cheeky Girls. My celerity spot is not over, far from it, as over in Covent Garden, I spot a WAG, with a HOB (Husband or Boyfriend) attached. Peter Crouch and his squeeze Abi, are taking time out from chasing a bag of wind around the Wembley, to marvel at a street entertainer juggle his balls. Well only in London.

Celebrity is not all that it is cracked up to be. Is what you see believable. Do we build preconceptions of what we see on the silver screen or the cathode ray tube? Are we that gullible...? So when I arrive at St Paul's, I make a shocking discovery, and my own preconceptions are smashed to smithereens, as I find out that Dr Who's companion, K-9 is remote controlled. It’s not real...!! It's a toy. It’s something that should be reviewed by that nice Suzy Perry on the Gadget Show. I am stunned. Well it could only happen in London.

Doctor Who's Tardis has landed outside Chris Wren’s classic building. It is surrounded a BBC camera crew who are just sitting there looking important, not so different to the crew shooting at the 'This Morning' set earlier that day. I make a further shocking discovery, after spending most Saturday evenings of my childhood hiding behind the settee from the scary cybermen. I find that there are four of them standing behind me. Not only do I find this disturbing, as they were responsible for my fear of baking foil, but they are liable to be arrested for indecent exposure, as they as topless.

Once more I am disillusioned. The Cybermen are not terrifying machines of mass destruction, but with their helmets off, they are all extras dressed up. They are not real. They are like me and you, human beings, well in my case as human as you can get....What a disappointment. Dr Who, while I was a child gave me many sleepless nights, and countless nightmares. It may have scared me for life, with all the scary monsters he encountered, and now at the age of 46, I discover it was all a sham. Kiddies beware Doctor Who is not real....!! So how gullible have I been then..? As I look around the set at all the Doctor Who kit, I feel cheated. Neither the less, they maybe filming a documentary about the Doctor Who phenomenon for all the Doctor Who anoraks out there, but the for me illusion has been shattered. My Saturday evening viewing will never be the same again.  Well it could only happen in London.
(4/12/2007)

Ding Dong Merrily on the High Street.....bah humbug...!

There is a good reason to why I have been training hard over the past few months. Many of you were maybe thinking that I was training hard for the marathon. Wrong. My preparation has been one in earnest for this yearly event, otherwise known as, Christmas shopping.

There is a art to this Christmas shopping lark, it requires you to be quick on your feet, and as light on your toes as an hundred metre sprinter. It requires you to be sharp and alert, like a golden eagle.  It also requires you to have the stamina of a world class endurance athlete, and it also requires you to have the wealth of Donald Trump. Though I may possess a number of these abilities, wealth is the one thing that still eludes me. So Santa, if you are reading this, all I want for Christmas is five numbers and the bonus ball.

Now maybe a good time to confess that I am not a professional shopper, this maybe partly due to my disability....? I am a male of the species. Christmas shopping for me has to be planned with the utmost military precision. So much so that I have to borrow a book from the library to help me on my way, the 'Colleen Mcloughlin SAS survival guide to Christmas Shopping'. 

Chapter one, of the serial shoppers guide states that you must firstly make a list of what presents you intend to thrill your family with on Christmas morning - a Nintendo Wii for your Granny, a pipe and slippers for your sister, and a pair of the most grotesque socks available for your aunts and uncles.  So that  you can finally seek revenge for the pair of grotesque socks that they sent you last year, and the year before that, and the year before that.....

Chapter 2, suggests that you do a recognisance of what stores your intended haul is located in. This is the first stage of Operation 'Bah Humbug'. Chapter three advises you how to draw up, and put into place a plan of attack.  A surgical strike detailing the shortest possible distance to walk ladened with the goodies, with a quick exit strategy should it all go pear shape.  You are now armed and dangerous, and with your credit card at the ready, you are now licensed to shop.

By the cover of darkness, I pounce on Birmingham city centre at seventeen hundred hours on a Friday evening.  This by coincidence is the same time that every man and his dog appear to also have planned their operations too. This has caused an increase in traffic, and has created a grid lock in the town centre. So I opt for plan B, and disembark the personnel carrier, a number 9 bus, and continue my sortie on foot. Chapter 4 of the survival guide covers camouflage. So disguised in woolly hat, scarf and winter coat, I blend in well with the native population. No one would guess that I was on a top secret operation to buy Christmas presents.  

The city is a hustle and bustle, and mix match of shoppers and office workers, who quickly dash home or disappear into bars for a Christmas party. The stores are packed, and there are long queues at the checkouts. I am lucky, as my first hits were successful. Then I arrive at HMV. I locate the DVD's on my list, success, and then I get to the checkout. I hand over my credit card, and I am asked by the space cadet assistant to enter my PIN number. Nothing, my mind has gone blank, what is my PIN number....? I have suddenly become struck down with alzimmers.  I can picture all the right digits, but not necessarily in the right order, and the transaction is not accepted. Not only is that but the queue behind me growing. Once more I make another attempt, and, still frustratingly the transaction is not accepted. The queue behind me is getting even longer, and I even spot a partridge in a pear tree at the far end of it. I also sense there is unrest as I have suddenly held up Christmas.

We now face a dilemma, as a third attempt will lock my card. Which means my cash flow will dry up, I will be forced to use paper money and I will spend Christmas broke and destitute. Digging deep in my pockets, I go prospecting for lose change and any old crumpled notes that maybe stashed away in the recess's of my pockets. The ever growing queue has now become a choir, and they are now swaying from side to side humming carols, or something that sounds like carols...."Oh come on...all yee faithful....."

To add to the chaos, the space cadet has gone into melt down, as the microchip in his epos decides at that very moment to crash, thus locking the till drawer, which brings further joy to the ever increasingly heavenly throng, the queue now seems to stretch back all the way to Bethlehem, with some little kid in a manger bawling its head off..."Shut up...shhhhhh..!!".

Three wise men then suddenly appear, bearing gifts of 'wit', 'Frankenstein' and 'have not got a clue'. The one with wit chuckles loudly at the dilemma that we are in. The second, resembling Frankenstein is seven foot tall with a flat head and bolt through his neck. He looks menacing and must be the store manager. The third just stands there scratching his head without a clue. All three ponder the situation, as I notice that a rotund man in a red outfit and white beard has now joined the huffing and puffing queue with a reindeer with a red nose. They prod the keys and rattle the till draw. They make phone calls, and then Frankenstein suggests something really technical. “Why don't they just switch it off and on...?  Low and behold it works, and a host of heavenly angels descend..."Halleluiah...!!" I can now purchase my DVD's and make a hasty retreat, as discussed in Chapter six, of the 'Christmas Shopping Guide', the chapter after the one on how to make a tit of yourself in front of hundreds of frustrated shoppers. 

One lovable thing about Birmingham at Christmas is the German market, a seasonal, festive village of wooden huts that appear every year. There are gifts such as hand carved wooden toys, jewellery, candles and sweets. They play Christmas tunes of the fugal horn and wear lederhosen. You feel that you are in the Alps rather than the heart of an industrial city. You can drink and sample German wine and beer, and the smell of frying Bockwurst fills the air, and from a young German girl called Helga, who strangely has a Brummie accent, you can even get a mug of Bovril.   

No matter how much I try, I will never be a professional shopper. There should be a set of ground rules for Christmas shopping to follow, as in the 'Scrooge Guide to Bah Humbug Christmas Past - Present and Future'. Christmas shoppers should be between the age of 21 and 50. Kids should be banned, and be grateful of what the get from Santa Christmas morning. Banned also, should be single mothers with buggies, along with buskers, Big Issue sellers and carol singers. All shop staff should be trained and have a permanent smile etched onto their faces. They should be seasonal in their greetings, and not use the words "Sold out...!!" "Don't know, what is it...?" "Mate" and "NEXT....!!" The shop keeper should also have the ability to read your mind as you enter the store, as to relieve your frustration of wondering "where the hell is it..." when looking for that elusive gift. All of which would lead to a less stressful shopping experience.

I will be out shopping again tomorrow, but this time I will be one step ahead of the game. As tomorrow, I will be buying gifts for Christmas 2008. Now there is a plan that Colleen McLoughlin never thought of. (14/12/2007)

Where is Santa...?
Were, are all my Christmas presents... Santa has not been, he has not slid down the chimney, he has left me out...? I have been a very good boy this year, and I have even written him a letter and shoved it up the chimney. So were, is Santa...? I have left him a mince pie, not any old mince pie, mind, but a Sainsbury 'taste the difference' joby, and a glass of Sherry to wash it down with. So where has the bearded one got too...?

Maybe, he is sleeping off a hangover somewhere. With all those Sherry's left out for him, it has to have some effect.  Maybe the police have pulled him over, for being drunk and disorderly while in charge of a sleigh. He may have failed a breath test and he has been arrested for binge drinking..? There again, he could of got lucky under the mistletoe. That will teach him for visiting Jodie Marsh's house first.

Maybe Rudolph has got reindeer flu or blue tongue. The Elves maybe working to rule, or it could that Santa has lost the CD's containing all the data with the address's of all the boys and girls he is due to visit. Though personally, I think he has been kidnapped. There seems to be a rumpus next door, and I think Yoda, ET and Zippy are responsible. I think that they are holding Santa hostage, as the responsible adult hasn’t brought them a Nintendo Wii.  

They have him bound and gagged, and won't release him until they get the presents they asked for, a Star Wars light sabre for Yoda, and a Rainbow for Zippy. While ET just wants to phone home on a iphone, and the responsible adult, just wants peace and quiet, and a lie in Christmas morning.

In truth, the real reason why Santa has not visited me this Christmas is simply because, that I am too old for Santa.......

Boxing Day Blues....
By Tradition, Boxing Day is the day that you pack away your Christmas gifts. For some it is a period of recovery following the excess's of the previous day’s celebrations, as those Boxing Day blues kick in. Also by tradition, Boxing Day see's the start of the post Christmas sales, as many go off in search of that elusive bargain. Only to find that the gifts that they purchased before Christmas, are all now half price. Now, how frustrating is that, evoking more of those Boxing Day blues.

My Boxing Day blues much different. They are ones were I don't have to face one of those hangovers where your head resembles a tumble dryer, nor is it one were you have your ears torn off in the rugby scrum that is the Boxing day sales. My Boxing Day blues are personal; they run deeper, as it was a Boxing Day that I lost my father.

They say that time is a great healer, but time, doesn't really iron out all the dents.
So around about noon, each Boxing Day, I have a quiet moment to myself and my Boxing Day blues. He is never forgotten, as he is still with us. I often talk to him, and when I am in search of an answer, or find myself in a difficult situation, I have a quick word upstairs and most of the time, there is light at the end of the tunnel, and I know that he was there to give a solution. My Dad is with me when I run, as there is his voice in the back of my head giving me encouragement: "Come on, come on..", and he would of approved of all the miles that I have put in, as he would of been there coaching me.  

In reality, my Boxing Day blues are not blues at all. I am sad he is not there in person, but in spirit I am sure he is with me. I know he is with me. So a wry smile appears on my face, and with a spiritually pat on the back I am able to continue the day, and my Boxing day blues seem to drift way.....well until Boxing day next year…..(26/12/2007)

A Christmas post-mortem
There is a bitter stiff wind blowing through the trees this morning. It is a wind that can chill you to the bone, though the sun is shining brightly, you can't feel its warmth, just that deep numbing coldness that penetrates all the layers of running kit. Dog walkers, and their baying hounds, are tightly wrapped up in big coats, scarves and hats. 

I have not run for a week, though the rest may have done me some good, all the food and drink that I have consumed may have not. I am not the only one to have missed a few sessions, as Ian has just returned from an ankle injury and Angela, like me, has done nothing.

We are using Christmas as an excuse. A very good excuse, as who would go running Christmas morning...? ‘Keith would'. Ian, explains, how Keith called round for him at 8.30am Christmas morning. "Did you tell him, that I was too early for carol singers...?" Nothing runs on Christmas day, the buses and trains don't run. The only things that do are Rudolph and friends, the elves trying to keep up with Santa’s sleigh, Daly Thompson and of course Keith. In fact, all he really wanted to do was show off his new running kit.

We are all struggling this morning, except Keith, who has missed the session, and was struggling to find an excuse why not to not go and visit his mothering law. We are all wobbling around like Mr Blobby, after too much jelly and ice-cream, plum duff and mince pies. We are relating Christmas disasters, past, present and future. We even discuss who got the brightest coloured socks, and who got the smelly stuff with the greatest pong. Then there are those bizarre gifts that we have received, like a jumper off your Gran, which Colin Firth wore in 'Bridget Jones', and my wind-up torch: "so how does that work then...?" asks Angela.
"You wind it up, by telling it that more light shines from Christopher Biggins arse....” I reply
"No, I think that you have to turn the handle...its like clockwork...” explains Ian.
"Oh, like the way I am running today...?" We all chuckle.   
We all agree that Christmas is a good time of year, Its fun to take time to spend time with friends and family, but glad that it is once a year. What we can't understand is if there are 365 days in a year, and that we know that Christmas falls at the same time every year, why do we always leave it to the last minute to prepare for it and end up getting into a tizzy about it....? (29/12/2007)

The Return of the Hangover Run...
New years resolutions are something we all make, and then, are more or less instantly broken as soon as we have made them. So my resolutions for 2008 are simply to give up smoking, and secondly, to give up binge drinking.  Now that I have become virtually teetotal, there is no requirement for me to get blindly drunk to be able to make a tit of myself. I now have the ability to achieve this while being cold stone sober. Also, I have never ever smoked, so I feel that my new year’s resolutions for this year are a reasonably safe bet and are unbreakable.

Actually, my new year’s resolution is to become better, stronger, faster, and when I understand what that all means, I will let you know.

Twelve months ago I devised the 'Hangover run'. It was to be a leisurely social run around Warley Woods; and I remember clearly turning up at the golf club pavilion to find 15 liked minded folk keen to run. Well keenish. I will admit to being a little surprised at the turnout, as anything I usually touch falls flat on its face, failing miserably, and usually resulting in me left standing there like a 'Billy no mates'. This mini triumph of mine became the birth of my Saturday running group, which had been successful over the past 12 months.

Given the success of last year, why not organise 'Hangover Run 2'....? I arrive still with the anticipation of being a 'Billy no mates', but once more this was short lived, as I am greeted by 10 hearty souls. This time I am more organised, there is a dedicated route to follow, it is a mild morning, and we are suitably hung over. As a result of the last rains of 2008, the ground is soft and muddy. Keith is in fine voice this morning, as he bursts into song, singing a seasonal tune: "....ALL IS QUIET ON NEW YEARS DAY...!" A rendition of the U2 classic, which not only leaves us, but would also leave Bono cringing, and has the squirrels running for cover.

We all complete the 3 mile excursion, and I have only lost one. Everyone has broader grins on their faces, as maybe the exposure to fresh air and healthy exercise is the ultimate hangover cure. It could because the run is over, or because I have made the announcement that the teas are on me...? As for my new year’s resolutions, a better me could be achieved by me doing more for others, look at all these happy faces, and it has been a satisfaction seeing Ange, Ian and Keith improve as runners. A Faster me, would see me training harder to become a better athlete, and to be stronger....? Well, it is obvious that I must get a more robust and stronger padlock fitted to my wallet. Me buying a round of teas....? This does nothing for my image as a tight wad..... Bah humbug......!! (1/1/2008)

Snow terrorists....
Life is thwart with danger. If you are an avid watcher of soap opera then you will be aware of this, as doom, stalks the cobbles of Weatherfield, and gloom descends over Walford. While up north, in Emerdale, the villagers are consumed in the smell of slurry that wafts from the Dingles pig pen. In our own households we are also under threat of danger, as we use gas appliances that could blow us back into next week, and we play with electricity, that could fill us with 50 thousand volts and will give you a smouldering frizzy afro. But is this of any concern to us...?. 

Out on the roads, we drive happily around in tin boxes, chatting on mobile phones that could microwave our brains, and we fill ourselves full of alcohol, thinking that any danger in doing this will harm the other person and not ourselves. We walk down the streets plugged into our i-pods, and with mobiles stuck to our ears. A grand piano could plunge from a 14th floor apartment, like a scene from a Laurel and Hardy movie, but would we even flinch....?

Having said all that, there is one thing that we all live in fear of. It is much scarier than any plot that Mr Binliner and his terrorist cells can dream up. It strikes fear into our hearts and could spell the end of mankind as we know it. Snow......!! Yes, snow, that white fluffy stuff that falls from the sky, and looks so cute on Christmas cards is the most feared thing known to man. So it wasn't really surprising that at some stage this winter, the snow terrorists would show their hand.

According to the BBC WM news, in Siberia, a Russian Eskimo called Ivan had left his fridge door open, and that an icy blast was heading down to our shores. We were about to experience the coldest temperatures ever, well since the last time we experienced the coldest temperatures ever, and along with it would come....snow...!! 

That was it, the snow terrorists had struck, and with them they had brought panic. There was the fear of how people were going to get home from work, and how they would be marooned. How their cars would be snowed in forever and they would have to trek home though the frozen wasteland of Birmingham City Centre. Supermarkets were under siege, as their shelves were emptied of bread, milk, baked beans and Walkers crisps in preparation of being snowed in for good. People were beginning to jam the phone lines to travel companies and overload the internet in a desperate exodus to sunnier climes, and escape the snow that would plunge all our lives into chaos.

The wind was bitter; it was harsh and had an icy nip to it. It was a day for woolly hats, scarves and thermal long johns like your Granddad used to wear. But where’s the snow....? Had the snow terrorists got it wrong...? Its non appearance had brought disappointment to Yoda, ET and Zippy, as they looked longingly in anticipation out of the front room window. Their sledges were ready, and they had great plans of building a snowman. They were also plotting how they would pelt the responsible adult with snowballs and use the runner next door as target practice.

Alas, no snow arrived on our doorsteps, though it fell on the Scottish highlands, and possibly the best place for it. As for the snow terrorists, well they have something new to play with as, Brittany Spears had once more gone loopy again, Amy Winewarehouse has threw up over a fan and there is speculation to whether Beckham will ever skipper Enger-land again, or will Mrs Beckham would ever have a solo number one hit following reformation of the Spicy Girls...? Personally, I would put your money on the snow terrorist’s prediction of snow falling on Easter Sunday and me winning this year’s London Marathon, as you will get far better odds for your money. (3/1/08)

Don't mess with me I'm a runner......part 1
There are times when I am on the run, that I somehow metamorphose into Jeremy Clarkson and I now and again apparently scream out...."POWER...!”

Undoubtedly, this transformation takes place when I am having a rant over a car or its lunatic of a driver. Some say, that as I pound the highways and byways, that I have too become infected with road rage.  Or is it that from my lofty position, I get to witness first hand the misdemeanours of those cocooned in their 4x4's and tin boxes.

My eagle eye can spot such things as, mobile phone use while driving which of course this is illegal, and would warrant a harsh slap on the wrists if the authorities bothered to do anything about it. I often think that if I received a percentage of the fine for every mobile phone user I spot while the car is in motion, I would surely be by now I would be a multi-millionaire. In doing so, I would not have to run the marathon to help a good cause, as I would donate all those fines to charity. Now there's a thought Mr Gordon Brown.  But alas it is not that easy.  

My other Clarkson moment is when I become a target, and I become a potential candidate for being a crash test dummy, and the uneasy feeling that this brings in seeing my life flash before my eyes. Previous near miss experiences have included a boy racer in his Volkswagen Golf, and some dizzy blonde putting her make up on, then again occasionally, like today, it becomes a classic encounter.

I am running the leafy lanes of Harborne when I come to a crossroads. I come to a stand still and observe the rules of the Green Cross Code, as taught to me by Tufty the squirrel.  In the distance I hear the throbbing of a Lamborghini Gallardo. The run-a-round of choice for the Harborne set. The gleaming metallic black beast creeps up and pause's at the junction. Just as I see that it is safe, I cross the road, just as the Lambo decides to turn right and I find that I have eighty grand’s worth of pure Italian engineering about to take a bite from my ankles.

With my best Italian, I gesture with my hands for effect and blurt out: "Vorsprung derch Technic...!" Yes, I know that's German, but in fact is has the same translation is universal.......'Wanker...!’.
I am presuming that the driver is of Italian descent, as he is the pilot of an Italian super car. My mastery of foreign languages is akin to my lip reading skills, not very good. Reading the drivers lips he appears to apologise profusely, and indicates with two fingers: "That he should'a go to the Spect'a-savers and get'a two'a for the price'a of one'a...!”
It is hard to make out anything that he is saying over the Lambo's in car entertainment system, a system designed by Motorhead’s sound engineer and blasting out ten million watts of power through speakers that once belonged to Deep Purple.   

Though about to throw a tantrum, I must admit that I am in owe of the Lambo. Naught to sixty in two seconds, and a designer leather interior from same Milan fashion house that designed the interior of Victoria Beckhams Gucci handbag. This is what you call a Super car. But there are a number of flaws in the precession engineering...the indicators don't work, and the driver has a brain the size of a peanut which too matches the size of his penis........Happy motoring.....!! (6/1/08)

Trainee psychopath

Here is a question that I am often asked....? "Why don't you drive a car.....?"
The obvious answer would be because I run everywhere, and that I am just a big fluffy scardy cat, though the truth of the matter is very simple.  I would be just another added menace to other road users. It would be like putting Mr Magoo in charge of Louis Hamilton’s formula one racing car, and then there would be the question of co-ordination, which peddle is the brake, and which peddle would be the accelerator...? We are talking about a man with two left feet here.

This also explains the reason for why you will never find me as a contestant on 'Strictly Come Dancing', as I would undoubtedly be a menace on the dance floor too.  In the words of Phil Collins and his backing band Genesis, 'I can't dance.....’ I lack the pazaz of Fred Astaire, and don't cut a dash like Gene Kelly. I even lack the fandango of Lionel Blair, as I am a complete disaster and lack any artistic content, which would guarantee nil points from the judging panel.  However, having said that, I did once have lessons in tap, which resulted in doing myself serious damage - I slipped and fell into the sink....!!

Danger is no a stranger to me, as I often put my life on the line during my Sunday morning training run. The early morning becomes the habitat of the trainee psychopath, as a fleet of driving schools all descend on the leafy lanes of Harborne. Nervously, they can be found kangaroo hopping their way in convoy, jerking along at 10 miles per hour and staling a lot. I often think to myself as I trot past, how lucky, as that could be me, a potential trainee psychopath.

It is like watching Wacky Races without Dick Dastardly and his faithful side kick, Mutely. Cars mount pavements, while the witless trainee psychopath practices his three point turn. They tackle difficult manoeuvres, like braking, indicating left and right, and testing that the windscreen wipers are working properly, even though it is not raining. The dawn chorus has been replaced by the sound of grinding and crunching gears, and in the distance you can hear the smash of glass, as the trainee psychopath attempts to park into a confined space.

It is a sad and depressing sight. It is one of carnage, as there are tears of frustration and anger. You can cut the nervous tension with a knife, and if you listen hard enough, you can even hear the muffled sound of ripping, as the infuriated instructors pull handfuls of hair from their scalps.... "Brake......Brake.....BRAKEEEE....!! Ever wondered why all driving instructors are bald.....now you know.

Another reason why I don't drive is because it is unhealthy. Not being behind the wheel means that I can walk, run, and take part in healthy exercise. The result is that I feel good in myself. I am confident that I have the physic of an Adonis, and I don't need a car as an extension to my manhood. If I don't have a big one already, then driving a car would increase my size 12 carbon footprint to a size 13, as it would make me less ecco friendly.

Also, I am fairly sure that if I were a driver of a automotive vehicle, I would win the Nobel Prize award for being the laziest man on the planet. I would use the car to transport me everywhere, even to the shops to buy a bottle of milk and some eggs. Though somehow, this could be my down fall, as for when I arrived home I would find that someone had parked in my space.  This would get me very angry, so much so that I would stamp my feet up and down and throw my toys out of the pram.  My blood pressure would rise, and my stress levels go though the roof. 

Someone parking in my space would make me bitter and twisted, and it would turn me to drink. I would become a alcoholic with psychopathic tendencies.  But as it is against the law to drink and drive, inevitably I would lose my driving licence. Which brings us back to the opening question: "Why don't you drive a car....?”

You could say, that the real reason why I lace up my Adidas training shoes, and go running, is because that I am a alcoholic with a running problem.   (13/1/2008)

 Is it me, but it appears that Mother Nature has got it wrong again....? Is it me, or has spring sprung early this year, which is a question that I ask as I stagger through the woods. The bushes look greener than they were last week, and echoing in the tree top is what sounds like a hooligan with a football rattle.  This can be only the sound of the West Bromwich Albion supporting woodpecker with a identity crisis, it thinks it is a thostle, as it head bangs against the trunk of a tree, frustrated that someone has forgot to tell him that he should of migrated to warmer climes weeks ago.

Something is not right, and it has nothing to do with Mother Nature, as I am too banging my head against a brick wall, trying to comprehend why I have lost the concept of how to run...?  I feel like a Lego set and one of those Airfix construction kits that I used to build on a Saturday afternoon, when I would wile away my time gluing the wings of a Spitfire to its fuselage. Which once completed, I would then spend hours trying to unstick my fingers and thumbs from the kitchen table, much to my mothers delight. I was a happy child in those days, and I would bounce off the walls with enjoyment. If I did this today, and bounced off the walls, then I would be in rehab. Not for my addiction to construction kits, but for solvent abuse.

It is very strange, as all the elements are there. I have the legs of a 1500 metre runner, the lungs of a Montgolfier Brothers hot air balloon, and my arms pump like the pistons of the Flying Scotsman thundering up to Edinburgh. The problem that I have is, they are not all co-ordinating at the same time. I am running too fast and exhausting myself very quickly. Or I can't control my pace, and I get breathless. My chest feels strong, but then the legs don't work.

Now if we were talking about the mechanics of a Bugati Vayron, then it would be a problem with the tuning. You would have to take it to your local garage, were adjustments would have to be made, like, firstly removing the busty blonde dolly bird from the passenger seat, then getting a mechanic with a oily cloth to tinker with the differential. As I am not a expensive Italian sports car, forget the mechanic, and just let blonde dolly bird polish my big end with a oily cloth soaked in baby oil. Which I am sure would have the same desired effect as tinkering with the Vayron's turbo charger.

So, is Mother Nature a proud owner of a brand new Bugatti Vayron, as the seasons seem to fly past in 0 to 60 in 5 seconds. Some may say that the quicker passage of time is down to old age. While those green tree hugging folk, who jump up and down and proclaim that we were wrong to mock Great Uncle Bulgaria and the rest of the Wombling clan, blame global warming. But this is not answering the question to why my running body is not co-ordinating.

There was a egg headed boffin, who appeared on the radio this morning, who proclaimed to have an answer with a theory. It appears that this part of January is the most miserable and the most depressing time of year, a fact that the boffin had based a calculated formula on. He had based his calculation on the elements of the season.  For instance, the weather, which is getting us all down with the constant down fall of rain, and temperatures that would make Frosty the Snowman shiver in his wellie’s. Then there are the elements of SAD, season adjustment disorder, as I still find the dark mornings, and the dark cloak of evening oppressive. It continues to hang low like a heavy weight pressing down on me, and I live in fear of that if I get up too quickly I will bang my head on the sky, which is making me even more depressed.  So it is no wonder that the suicide rate in Sweden is sky high. I can sympathize with how the Swedes feel, as not only do they suffer from SAD, they drive around in Volvos and listen to Abba all day. Even more reason to top yourself.

The boffin also takes into account, debt, as at is this time of year when the bills come flooding in, and as you have spent your hard earned cash on a Nintendo Wii, socks and smelly stuff as Christmas presents, you await your next pay packet to clear your credit card bill.  Then we have all those bugs flying around, coughs, colds and things that make you splutter, like your credit card bill.  Also you have to take into account the stress of watching your favourite football team fight the relegation zone, and the fact, that of the hundred New Years resolutions that you made, you only have one that's left unbroken. It all adds up. Or in short you are suffering from = 1/8 W+(D-d) 3/8 x Tq Mx Na.

All well and good if you are suffering from the January blues, but it still doesn’t explain my plight, and why I am running with the breaks on. It doesn't explain the sudden lack of form or pace, and the reason why I can't run, so what is the answer.......?  To be continued.    (20/1/2008)

It is no good. I am still going nowhere fast, as I am still running with the brakes on. The clock is ticking away, the pressure is on, and time is running out. I am under the thumb and under the cosh, its all so frustrating.  I work hard, but I have nothing to show for my efforts. My mileage is down; my strength is low, though to my advantage, my motivation is high. I want to do this.  The easiest option would be to say, that's it, and walk off into the sunset like John Wayne. But that's not me. The real me is the me who actually relishes the thought of the race against time, and all odds you can throw at me.  It's sadistic, but I like the adrenalin rush of the great escape. In another life I should have been Houdini, but the most exciting stunt I can do is, over sleeping and getting up late for work, rushing into the office all before 8.30am. Maybe it’s the element of danger, as being in this position spurs me on. It makes the adrenalin flow and brings out that gung ho spirit that once made the Empire great. Well until young Luke Skywalker drifted back from the 'Darkside', and kicked the hell out of those pesky imperial storm troopers.

The 'Darkside' could possibly be the reason for my lack of form, as I am being drawn even more closely to it. So does this mean that I am going to change my allegiance to my sport, and no more will I be an athlete...?  Instead will I become a fan of sports were men chase a bag of wind around a green field.  Having said that, it has already begun, as the Six Nations Rugby has kicked off, and my Sunday afternoon was spent watching Scotland kicking chunks of garlic out of the French, and my evening spent watching the Superbowl from America, as the crash test dummies known as the Patriots from New England, kicked chunks of big apple out of the crash test dummies know as the Giants from New York.

In fact, the real reason why I am crashed out in front of the TV on a Sunday afternoon is, because I am shattered. I am tired because I have put in a hard session this morning. Being one not to give up and throw in the towel, I have gone out and tackled the situation from another angle. I have taken a step back and substituted miles with hills, my long slow run with short sharp fartlek. I have even changed my recovery drink from Guinness to Lucozade. I have to reignite the spark, tune up the cardiovascular system and give myself a serious kick up the backside, even if this means an extra sustained effort, digging deep and having to swear at myself profusely.

There are times when you hit a bad patch. There are times when it all doesn't go to plan, and there are times when it is all too easy to throw in the towel. It is so easy to be defeatist and put two fingers up at it. But there is always an answer if you look at, and study the big picture. There are times when life does go tits up, and things don't go to plan, or flow the way they should.  We end up looking at these events in life narrow minded. There are times when you have to concede defeat, but why not in a positive view  just take a step back, re evaluate were you are and push on in a different direction. Eventually with a slight detour you will soon be back on track. Well this is my approach, so does this mean that I can run with the brakes off now, please.....?(3/2/2008)

 Let me take you back to the December of 1964, to a year when I was a wee child of the grand old age of three. It was a age were I had evolved from being a babe in arms who crawled around on all fours, to becoming a toddler that was able to walk, albeit in the fashion of a binge drinker. I was at that age was I was like a clockwork toy. You would wind me up, fill me full of milk and rusks, and then off I would go, scurrying off at speed across the lounge floor. As the years rolled on, nothing has changed as for today you can still wind me up, fill me full of Lucozade and Mars bars, and then off I go running madly over hill and dale.

Meanwhile up north, roughly at the same time that I was causing mayhem as an inquisitive toddler down south. A twenty six year old Lancashire lad had just returned from a long run. He recorded the session in his training log: "December 22nd 1964 - Today I confidently ran a few miles...!"

Forty three years on, slightly older and worldlier wise, this son of Lancashire again returned from his long run. Once more he made an entry into his training log:  "December 22nd 2007 - Today I confidently ran a few more miles...!”

Actually, this log for 22nd December 2007 should have contained a little more content, a little more glory and a little more self satisfaction, as the few more miles that he had run that day was a mile stone in his running career.

Let me explain further. That afternoon his run had finished at the Accrington Stanley football ground, the heart of the Lancashire town where he had grew up. It was the grey mill town that spawned his interested in running. In those days, he was inspired by the exploits of Alf Tupper, 'Hard of the track'. Alf was a fictional character, who had an amazing talent for running, especially when he didn’t own a pair of running shoes. He would train in hob nailed boots, and then would win track races bare foot.
Tupper’s diet was one of eating fish and chips out of newspaper and drinking fizzy lemonade.  He was so talented that he could run faster than a whippet wearing a flat cap and smoking a pipe, and every race that he ran he was undefeated, which made Alf Tupper a comic book legend.  As he read more of the exploits of Tupper, the stories would inspire this Lancashire lad to emulate Tupper. But did he ever really think that one day that he too would be a legend like his hero...?

Legend is an apt title for this Lancashire lad. Especially when you excel in events such as the marathon and your name is Ron Hill.  Legendary indeed as virtually every runner in the land, including myself has wore a item of running kit baring the name Ron Hill. I never grew up with Alf Tupper, but it was the name Ron Hill who inspired me the most to run, and Ron became the Alf Tupper of my generation.

In Germany Adi Dassler was playing tug of war with his brother Rudolf over a shoe company. An argument that would spawn the worldwide brands known as Adidas and Puma, over in the United States, Bill Bowman, was gluing shoes together in his garage and discovered the Greek God of running, Nike, hiding amongst the boxes and paint tins.  Meanwhile up north in Lancashire, the creation of one of the most iconic and classic items of running apparel emerged from the grey textile mills. Ron, not only a marathon record holder, Commonwealth champion and a Olympian, also studied hard and earned a PhD in fibre technology. This combination of his knowledge of the textile world, and his own running experience, resulted in the birth of the Ron Hill Trackster.  Ron’s textile knowledge brought further developments in the technology of the clothing that we train in today. Who else would run around in a string vest, other than Alf Tupper, unless there was a beneficial reason to do so.

Everyday, while Ron was working at the mill, he would run to and from work.  In September 1956, he began recording these daily runs in a training log. These initial scribblings were the beginning of a monumental achievement, as from 1964 Ron had run consecutively everyday up until the present. So this is the reason to why his entry into his running log should have been exceptional. Over the 43 years, Ron had clocked up a staggering 150,000 miles, making this is a significant date and inspiring achievement in running history.

With the countless miles that I have run over the years, I may never reach that total mileage. My attempt of running everyday was once thwarted when I had a day off with a verruca, but I did have a sick note off my Mom, which I guess doesn’t really count. Forty three years of daily running not only shows a dedication, but also a commitment. It shows strength of character that rightly deserves the accolades associated with it. No one may ever know how many miles that Alf Tupper ran, nor do they know if he was anywhere close to Hills achievement. Though the one thing we do know is that they have both earned the well deserved title 'Running Legend'.
(22/12/2007)

 Two radical things happened today, first I entered the Great Manchester Run, and secondly, I came over all philosophical. I came to the conclusion that one morning I will wake up and find that I have disappeared up my own backside. I will find that I don't exist anymore and I will be a nothing. The only evidence of my existence remaining will be a small microchip on my pillow.

My extinction may well be a scary thought, science fiction, stuff of Star Trek and what makes Jules Vern a good read. But the scariest thought of all is that this reality could just be waiting around the corner.
Why...?
We all live in a world of the computer, were everything is at our finger tips. We communicate by computer, the responsible adult works with a computer all day, while Yoda, ET and Zippy all play games endlessly on a computer. But could we exist without a computer in our lives. Will computers take over all our basic skill sets, or is it that we just can't be bothered to use those skills that we learnt at an early age, as there is potentially another technology to do it for us....?
You can't escape the computer. Even when I am out running, I run with a computer strapped to my wrist which acts as my virtual running partner. It tells me how far I have run, how fast we are running, and it also tells me if I have burnt off that beef burger that I had for lunch. It can also check my heart rate, and secondly, it can check to see if I have a heart at all.  But it has its limitations; it lacks the social graces of a running partner. It doesn’t tell dirty jokes or fart.....but I guess give it time. 
So were do we draw the line between basic skills and artificial intelligence...? If we are in danger of losing the ability to use basic skills, are we going to quickly tumble into a world of self helplessness...? We can shop online, so that we don't have to queue up at the checkouts and waste our valuable time. It could be a case that we can't be bothered to go out and shop, instead we sit in our goldfish bowls, surf the internet, and let the shopping come to us. In doing so, are we not losing the ability to go out, get exercise and explore our environments..?
We live in a world of e-mail and text. It is a world were we tap away constantly at our keyboards, and when finished, we click the mouse, and whoosh and off zooms the message into cyberspace. How long before the common or garden postman suddenly becomes extinct.....? Do you even remember the last time that you sat down and wrote a letter with a pen and paper..? Folded it neatly, stuck it in an envelope and then licked a stamp...?
In our work place, how often do we leave our desks during a working day...? We are riveted to our chairs and swivel around and around like a potters wheel, as all the information and documentation we require is available at the touch of a button.  The internet opens up many doors to knowledge and entertainment. We all own mobile communication devises that are super glued to our ears, which allows us to instantly link up to anyone, anywhere at anytime. If we are not on the phone, then a text will do, thus potentially rendering the art of face to face social chit chat redundant.
As technology evolves, eventually, mankind will grind to a halt. There will be nothing left for us to do, and our lives will be that of a goldfish. We will adopt a similar attention span as we swim around and around in our goldfish bowls, shopping online and looking out on a cyber world. Our needs dwindle, and eventually our goldfish bowls will get gradually smaller and smaller, then we will end up vanishing up our own backsides.
But is this new world technology all for the better, or are the old ways always the best ways. Another question... Is all modern technology really all what it is cracked up to be...?
In theory, or in the writings of Mr Jules Vern, we should be living in a utopia, as we now have the technology and know how to live in a harmonious world. But not, there are cracks appearing in the infrastructure. There are those gremlins that sneak into our electrical devices, with the soul intention of making our lives frustrating.  So what do we do when our mobile phones fail and our computers crash...? We become helpless and paralyzed.  We panic, and have to ring a man called Bobby in a call centre in India, who doesn’t have the faintest idea what you are talking about, as his computer has crashed too.  Game over.....!!
I discover this realisation as I tried to enter the 'Great Manchester Run'. Normally when you enter an event, you would either turn up on the day, pay your entry fee and off you would run. Or, you would fill out a entry form, enclose a stamped addressed envelope and post your entry. But this is all stuff from a science museum. Today you enter races online, and this were the cracks appear.
It maybe me, or maybe those gremlins have infected the website. But the simple task of pressing a few buttons is about to become a nightmare, as I begin the entry process. I go to the page that says it contains the entry form, but not, as I first have to register to the site. After filling out a lengthy form that has no relevance at all, and ask questions like what breakfast cereal I eat...? What my favourite Kyle Minogue single I thought had a catchy tune...? And then, I had to think of 8 digit password, which it rejects 10 times because the computer didn't think it was secure enough.  I then had to await a confirmation email with my login code so that I could proceed to the next stage.
When that eventually arrived fifteen minutes later, I had lost the will to live. Not only that, I had to reboot the computer as Outlook has frozen, frustration began to kick in, as now, I had to go through the whole process again so that I could finally enter the event.  In the time it has taken so far to register and enter, I could of run the race, collected my medal, showered and eaten the Mars bar that was at the bottom of the goodie bag.
The moral of this tale is..... Always remember that your Granny was right, the old ways are usually the best ways. Carry this thought through life, and you won't end up spending your days swimming around like a Goldfish and disappearing up you own backside. (10/1/08)

This may not really matter at all, but a strange news story appeared in the Sun this weekend. The headline read: FREDDIE MERCURY WAS GAY........ Which worryingly enough made me think: "was I the only one to have noticed this....?"

Further more, if this was so, then why and when was I fitted with a homosexual detector, and why hasn't everyone else got one installed too....? Luckily, on further reading the article, the story revelled that it was Brian May, the Queen guitarist who didn't know that Freddie was gay.....!! In fact he claimed that he thought his fellow band member was just flamboyant. Now is that not one of the same...?
You can only wonder to what planet May lived on. We all know of his interest and knowledge of the sky at night, and how he is good friends with Patrick Moore, who is also an astronomer, just in case May was unaware. He is also a doctor of the Milky Way, the galaxy and other far off chocolate bars in the astral plane. But on what planet was he living on in the seventies, and those heady days of sex, sequins and glam rock'n'roll, or was it that he had just inhaled too much hair spray during the glam rock years....?
So Brian, how did you not know, the signs were all there, apart from the fact that Freddie tragically died through aids. There was the way he minced around stage, and his love for the theatrical, which made Queen the band the success they were. He loved musicals and opera, as what else would inspire someone to write Bohemian Rhapsody. Then there was that moustache. If he wasn't the front man for Queen, then he wouldn't look out of place dressed as a dustman in the line up of Village People. Freddie’s liking for men over women may have been a further clue, though May described those days and Freddie’s behaviour as being metrosexual...whatever that maybe...? We will never know, but was this activity the inspiration for Roger Taylor’s classic, 'I'm in love with car'....?
Like the rest of the population of the world, I am a huge fan of Queen.  Freddie Mercury was undoubtedly, and still will be the best front man I have ever seen. I was there in July 1986 when he took control of the old Wembley stadium with one hand, and toyed with millions around the Globe with the other, as he strutted the stage at Live Aid like he owned it. This was Freddie Mercury's world and this was the way he was.  Maybe if Freddie wasn't that way inclined, would Queen have not been the hit of the day, or would the band have been a multi million selling rock band. If not would they be still be playing venues such as the Robin Hood 2 in Bilston.... So in the words of Freddie Mercury himself: "does it really matter at all...?"
Possibly not, as do we really notice the things we don't want to see....?  For an instance, when was the last time that you noticed someone with a disability or even a disabled child in a wheelchair...? They are out there, in fact it has been reported that there are over 70 thousand disabled kids in the UK, and of these 70 thousand, there are 70 thousand disabled kids that possibly don't have the correct chairs or mobility equipment that is suitable for their development, independence and needs.
It is possibly not that we don't notice, more like we don't understand and are totally unaware. So maybe Brian May was unaware in his interview and you have to forgive his ignorance to the life style of his fellow band member. I have that awareness of a disabled child through my involvement with a charity, one that does good work in providing customized mobility equipment for disabled kidz enabling them their independence, confidence and a better quality of life. The more we know, the more aware we become, and then we can make a difference, and then yes, it then really does matter......10/2/2008

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I am a runner
and I need the loo........

So it is not exactly Shakespeare or Kate Nash, but it was the only line that I could come up with that rhymed.
As you can see, I am not poetic and I lack any finesse of romantic fiction. Some may even say that I don't have a romantic bone in my body and I lack a heart, which could possibly reflect on the fact that I will not be sending out dozens of roses this valentines day. Nor, will I be sending out any cards either, as there is one important thing missing, a sweet heart. So this could be the reason to why I have the lonely heart of a long distance runner. 
The only thing that the postman has delivered today is the weighty package that is my credit card statement, and my heavy debt. I have not even received a romantic email, as the only mails with any romantic connotation are of the junk verity, which offer me little pink pills that will boost my virility, enabling me to go the extra distance like a marathon runner. I have junk mail offering me Viagra, which will help me stand proud like the Eifel Tower, and to save any embarrassment at all, there is an offer to extend my manhood. Something else for me to trip over. 
But were do you find love...? You can Google it and find romance on the interweb. You can join a dating site and chat away to a twenty year old nymphet that catches your eye, who in reality, just happens to be a 23 stone spot welder from Clydeside called Tina. So where are those pink frilly days of Mills and Boon, and the bodice ripping novels of Barbara Cartland...? Where are the dashing hero and the helpless damsel in distress…? Where is the romance and why doesn't the boy get the girl anymore....?
Even cupid his arrows of love are hard to find. Maybe he has fallen victim to the health and safety man, who has told him that he needs a licence for carrying a fire arm. Maybe he now holds a ASBO for firing arrows discriminately at courting couples, while flying around in possession of a lethal weapon....?  In cupid’s absence, it seems that my fairy godmother has stepped in to take his place. 
My fairy godmother is a fat old bird, with a wand and a violin case, who grants me, wishes that I can't refuse. She vets my dates, and my world has become one where leggy blondes with big boobs and intentions of having their wicked way have become extinct. They have been replaced by mousey haired checkout girls in sensible shoes and glass's. Whose idea of a goodtime in bed is a good book and a mug of horlicks, which is like replacing your Porsche 911 with a Model T ford with a flat tyre.  So it’s no wonder that I have the lonely heart of the long distance runner.
Where is the romance and passion…? Where is love at first sight.....Where is the loo....as I am bursting.....!! Always the romantic me.... 14/2/2008

Now here's the question, did it go ping....! Or did it go twang....? Well I am not actually sure, as felt like a tiny balloon had just burst inside the centre of my calf, quiet near the top, just under the knee joint. What also had burst were any hopes of a long run tomorrow, and possibly the marathon. So possibly this is ping, pop or twang could have serious repercussions.

It came out of the blue, no warning, no tell tale sign. It just went ping...! Like an elastic band had snapped. Or did it go crack...! Like someone had pulled a Christmas cracker...? I know that I have pulled something in my calf, even though it doesn’t cause me any great pain. So there is no need for me to put in an Oscar winning performance and roll around on the floor in agony, like a multi million pound premiership footballer. In fact when it happened, I just came to a halt with a hop or two. Grimaced and said: "Oh Bugger...!!" politely like Hugh Grant in 'Two weddings...' And James May after pranging a Ferrari Testa Rosa.

My left calf was solid, sore to the touch. There was a pain there, not severe, but a pain that was of more inconvenience rather than trauma. My lower leg had locked, and I could not move anywhere as I had lost the ability of free movement. However, I could hop about on one leg like Long John Silver, minus the parrot and crutch, or I could shuffle sideways like a crab, which proved to be highly amusing which ever direction I chose to shuffle.

It was the last rep of a hill session, when it went twang...! Despite it being a crisp frosty morning, one were the sun was beaming, I had warmed up well. The roofs were white over with frost, and the woods once again had that Christmas card look about it. The group fartlek session had started well, as we had set off at a easy pace. I was feeling good, and I felt like Bambi, as I had a sudden urge for, roast venison with new potatoes, mange tout, and wild mushrooms. Not forgetting sticky toffee pudding for afters. Well that will teach me to have breakfast before my Saturday morning run.

The hill sessions began well, but on that final eighth rep, as I accelerated, then out of the blue it went pop...! Touch wood, I do have a good record when it comes to injury, and when I do break down, I do it in style. My shopping list of action hero type injuries include, cutting my eye open, a gashed my chin, a fractured rib. I have knocked a few teeth out, and grazed my knees, elbows and ego. I have knocked my self out, knocked myself dizzy, and I have even had a verruca on my big toe. So my tip is, if you are going to injure yourself make it worth while and do it in style. However, out of all my injuries, I have only been hospitalized once, and that was when I spectacularly cut my eye open, and had to have it stitched.

The nurse sat me down in Sandwell A+E, and produced the biggest needle that you had ever seen. For someone who hates needles, this was a huge needle. She told me, "that I will feel a prick..." I hate to say this love, but I ready have, as bashed my head in front of my running buddies an hour earlier. So in comparison, today's injury was like Rambo getting a splinter. It could have been that the fibres of the muscle in my well turned ankle, were as tight as the strings on Jimmy Pages Les Paul, and after one riff too many, the string had snapped.

There is nothing to be worried about. The injury like Pages guitar will be repaired and once more we will be back in tune, and putting in classic performances again. One thing, I can chuckle to myself, and a wry smile appears on my face as I hobble down the road. A packet of frozen peas, a hot bath and rest will get me back on the road to recovery. So whether it went ping...! Pop....! Or twang....! The only pain is being sidelined and not able to run for the foreseeable future. I will have to take a step back and start all over again, but at least the song remains the same. 17/2/08

Normally on a Saturday morning, I am up with the lark and churning out the miles with my running group. This Saturday morning though, I am still up with the lark, my running group are still churning out the miles, but one thing is missing....me. They have gone off and left me sitting on a park bench, as I am reduced to watching them head off into the distance all alone, which in fact was exactly the same scenario this time last Saturday, after my calf muscle went twang..!!

The injury has taken its toll, and the road to recovery has meant me putting my feet up, resting and reading the Sun. The calf has been sore, and still is, though having said that, I am walking a little less like John Wayne, and waddle more like a penguin.  I crawl around at the pace of a turbo charged snail, and hobble along like Robo cop with a blown fuse.  I am like one of those toys from many moons ago, back in the 80's, known as a 'Weebble', who the makers once claimed, that, "Webbles wobble but don’t fall down". Unless filled with alcohol, which then becomes an entirely different matter.

This is a pain in many ways more than one. Firstly, my calf hurts, and I can't run, so my marathon training has come to an abrupt stand still. A vital period of training is now on hold, as this is the bread and butter phase, when you are putting in those long runs and big mileage. This is the period before tapering, when your weekly mileage should be sky high, and mine is currently at zero. 

I should be out there happily sweating it out, pushing myself, and making my heart pound. Instead I find myself sitting on a park bench watching the squirrels leaping from branch to branch, and couples on a Saturday morning stroll and their dogs chasing sticks. Even the responsible adult has allowed Yoda, ET and Zippy out to play football. Well that's one activity in which they can't cause mayhem. Well maybe not, as with one well placed shot from Zippy, see's one dog walker bent double, has the ball has struck his nether regions. And I thought that I was in pain...?

It is hard to justify. Even sitting alone in peaceful green surrounds with your own thoughts, you can't console yourself on the possibility of not completing your goal. If you could bottle and sell determination, then right now I would be on my way to my first million. But you can't, and my plans lie in tatters at my feet.  There is no one to take you by the scruff of the neck, give you a good shack and point you in the right direction. These are the pieces of the jigsaw that you have to fit together yourself, and wouldn't you know it, I have the jigsaw puzzle with vital piece is missing.

So were do we go from here...? Home, breakfast and coffee, with the Saturday morning paper. There is the weekly shop to do, and another battle around Sainsbury’s with a shopping trolley with a wonky wheel. I guess that is a metaphor for my life at the moment, as I am a runner with a wonky leg. (23/2/2008)

A very strange thing happened during the early hours of this morning as I lay in my bed. There we were, Rene Zellweger and I doing the wild thing. When, for some unknown reason, I strangely found myself being catapulted from my place of slumber. It could have been a case of me losing my balance, while Rene and I performed a death defying position from the pages Kama Sutra...? It could have been the shock of discovering that Rene Zellweger does actually wear big pants, or it could have been my reaction, when at the height of our passion, Rene yelled out my name....."Oh Darcy yes yes yes....!!"
Who the f**k is Darcy...?

It is hard to recall why actually I flew out of bed, as at that hour of the morning I was neither half asleep nor half awake. But, what do recall was a loud rumbling that rocked in the darkness, and it was not the snoring from Rene either. My heart started to pound as I felt the room vibrate, which seemed to emulate from behind my wardrobe, then filling the room before disbursing up into the roof.  I switched on the bedside lamp, and it suddenly went quiet. The only sound I could hear was coming from a bird singing outside, which was strange and bizarre, as this was 1am in the morning.

The last time that I felt that scared by anything that went bump in the night, was when I was a youngster.  I would hide under the duvet every Saturday evening with one eye open, after watching another terrifying episode of Dr Who from behind the sofa. While I lay in bed I would listen out for every creek or bump, and I would begin to shake wondering if the Cybermen or the Yeti were lurking in the darkness, ready to get me. 

I still have that fear, though not of the Cybermen or the Yeti, but of things that generally go bump in the night. It is a fear of the unknown and what is out there unseen in the darkness. It is a fear of fear itself, as the mind plays tricks on you from its dark recess’s. But in fact there is nothing to fear at all, as the culprit to the bumps and bangs is usually the local ginger tom, as he has his way with the Persian from next door.

The alarm clock brings another shock to the system, as if I have not had a traumatic night already. I wake to find that my bed is empty. Were my shenanigans with Rene Zellweger all just one of fantasy, and did I also dream those strange and mysterious rumblings...?

It is not until I dive into my bowl of cornflakes, and turn on the radio, that reports come flooding in of an earthquake registering 5.2 on the Richter scale, which in the early hours shook the foundations of the UK. So I wasn't dreaming after all, it was real thing....even Rene Zellweger...? There are reports of devastation, wobbling chimney pots and a parrot that fell off its perch. While the structure of my house was in tact, my two goldfish are swimming around in their bowl looking confused. Firstly, they think that I have installed a Jacuzzi in their bowl, and now they have got their surfboards at the ready, waiting to ride the ensuing tsunami.

The tree huggers are claiming that the earthquake is all down to global warming. The prophets of doom, claim the earthquake is the end of the world. Me, I claim it is a result, as Bridget Jones and her big pants made the earth move for me last night. (27/2/2008)