Fine Wine

Back to the grind today after a busy weekend. Despite that L sounds positively chirpy, for saying it's a Monday. I’m feeling the after effect of the race and have a bit of a problem with the stairs at work. L rubs it in by sending me a worryingly long list of 10k races. Foolishly I make a note of every one.

I finally get hold of a set of results for the 10k she did last Monday which proves that what she's been telling everyone, that there were only three people behind her, wasn't true. Naturally she's still not happy, which is good in a way but there’s no pleasing some people. There were a massive 800 behind her at Lincoln and she wasn't happy there either. Again this is good. Motivation. That's the word.

We have no dog class tonight, so I take Doggo out with his football. I have lots of time because with the clocks having gone forward the park is now open until almost a reasonable time, so I make him walk at heel, stopping every time he pulls. It's slow progress and it totally infuriates him.

He gets his own back when we are within yards of the park gates by stopping for ages exploring the 'scent' of where another dog has been. First we have the sniffing phase, then the licking phase. I stand there tapping my foot. It must be a good drop of stuff he's found. After what feels like half an hour, I get fed up and pull him away. He stands there looking at me, his lips still moving. It looks like he’s swilling the substance around his mouth as if it was a fine wine. Disgusting. He is fond of a drop of vintage urine, particularly if it's been deposited by a girl dog. I can concur with some of Doggo habits as regards the female of his species but not this one.

I arrive back just as L is getting ready to run to yoga. L has already promised to massage my aching muscles tonight but after a run and the evil yoga it might be me who has to administer the massage. I cook a curry and then collect her from yoga in the car. After eating, it's an early night and a joint massage.

Almost Elite

I'm a bit hyped up by Cholera last night but unable to do anything about it because today is race day.

We drive to Lincoln for the 10k. As we get ready we walk Doggo around with us and he's naturally a pain. They have kindly given everyone a baggage label to put on anything that you would like to be taken to the finish. I'm tempted to put mine on Doggo.

When it comes to start time, I feel it might be of benefit to off load some weight but the queues are just too long so I reluctantly decide to carry it round with me. We go to line up at the start; I try and get in near the front. L moves further back.

They have issued yellow numbers to 300 'elite' runners who theoretically will do the distance in under 40 minutes if they're men or 45 if they're women. These people get a head start, it's only a few metres but it all counts. This I think is grossly unfair, mainly because I put my time down as 41. If I'd known that 40 was the cut off, I would have lied.

The start is delayed due to cars parked on the course, so I did have time to queue after all. My mind wanders, last nights 'Cholera' springs to mind again probably because something is wrong. There are women with chests lining up at front of the race and fast women don't have chests. You can also tell these women are not going to be fast runners because they're all stood there in circles chatting, not exactly focussing on the real job in hand and they all have slogans such as 'no overtaking' on their backs. Next time I'm having one saying 'no talking'.

These people are standing here, in the way of us 'almost' elite runners, because the start is badly positioned, such that the late arrivals, who are almost always the slower runners, have to push through the whole field to get to their start positions near the back. The alternative is for them not to bother and to stay down the front and start with the 'elite' and many have clearly chosen to do so.

When the gun finally goes for the start, they just stand there waiting for the back to come to them and everyone has to weave around them.

I get a good start and I'm soon clocking up four-minute kilometres which is 40 minutes race pace. I dare to dream but the truth is the pace is terrifying. I consider backing off but then spy a seriously 'overdressed' girl with an Ipod, who I had down as one who shouldn't have been at the front. She is actually in beating me, no chest though, should have known. She doesn't stay in front for long. Nor does an Ipod wearing chap in a woolly hat; I quickly make sure he's behind me too.

The fast pace lasts until the water stop at half way, where I'm 20 seconds down on the required pace. The drinks are in bottles so I grab one and have a drink. It makes me feel ill, so I throw the rest away. Surely any hope of a sub-40 has now gone but oddly I'm back on pace at 6km. No idea how that happened.

But by the 7km marker I'm 20 seconds down again, so they must have the markers in the wrong place! It's all gone pear shaped and I'm in so much pain I don't even see the 8km marker. By the time the 9km one totters in to sight, it's clearly all over bar the trip in the ambulance wearing an oxygen mask.

The last 2km appears to be all up hill and then just to put the boot in when you're feeling down, the last 500 metres is over cobbles. Great.

I stagger across the line; both my watch and their clock say 41.14. Terrible. We'll it's a PB actually but you know what I mean.

The PA system is telling everyone to keep moving through the finish but there's a conveniently placed patch of grass just past the finish line which is quickly filling up with bodies. I decide to join them while there's still room. I lay on the grass trying my best to have a civilised death along with the other idiots who have ran too fast, while a flock of St John Ambulance folk circle like a vultures around us.

Eventually the world stops spinning and as I don't fancy receiving mouth to mouth from any of the St Johns crowd I decide to get up and stagger back to the finish to wait for L.

I get there just in time to see an elephant, or was it a hippo, or it might have been a rhino, it was hard to tell, run behind the commentary caravan to die. As he was in sight of the finish line, it's an odd choice but perhaps he didn't fancy his chances with the St Johns either. A few minutes later they are bringing him in bit-by-bit, first the head then some furry feet. I never did get to see who or what was inside the suit.

L comes in a little quicker than her time on Monday but I know she's just not going to be happy. She's almost as bad as me! I leave her to join the massive queue for t-shirts while I stagger back to the car to release Doggo. Due to the finish being in a different place to the start, it's a very long walk back to the car.

The official results actually give me a slightly slower time, which is criminal, but my personal 'chip' time is about ten seconds faster which ain't bad I suppose, although I don't believe it took me ten seconds to cross the line. I finish well inside the top 200 out of 3307. Ok so that's quite good. So where's my yellow number then? However I must do some training before the next one in Derby in three weeks.

As always I offer to take L out post-race and she promises to not go all morose on me, as long as we don't go out for a curry. L says she needs Yorkshire Pudding and gravy, so we go for a late Sunday Lunch instead and several 5.0% Bishops Fingers before returning home on aching legs for a rather painful but necessary warm down.

In the cycling there are no golds today, I suppose nine is enough really. Victoria Pendleton goes all the way to the final of the Keirin but comes up short this time and only gets the silver. Mind you the girl still done good. I had my doubts about her motivation this year because she's been spending a lot of time going 'all the way' for the camera's, by getting her kit off, and posing naked. I'm not sure that is a very professional thing to do.

Would it be unprofessional of me to print that photo? Oh go on then...



Hopefully people will aspire to get astride a Trek bike like hers, rather than just be jealous of the bike.

The papers have gone mad today because she is also on the front-page of the Times, with clothes. The cyclists are also on the front of the sports section.

The BBC have to their credit covered the championships quite extensively and put the cycling on their main channels every day. Their coverage has been decent, so I hesitate to criticise but... do we really have to have so much talking? It's just boring. Also why do they have to record everything rather than screen it live. I tuned in early yesterday to catch their interactive service because the naked one's Sprint Semi was at 12.30 but the service wasn't running. Instead BBC1 went live at 13.00. After one of those annoying recaps, we finally got to the track where the presenter, Jill Douglas, is talking to GB team member Jamie Staff discussing Victoria Pendleton's 'imminent' Sprint Semi-final when you can see behind them on the track is our Victoria doing a lap of honour. Jamie appears to be looking past Jill trying to watch what's happening on the track. So then when they eventually show us the races we already know that VP wins! You can't have everything I suppose.

22 units this week.

How To Work Your Way Through 622 Women And Still Get The Girl Of Your Dreams

As the Piccadilly Circus, that is everyone getting up for their paper rounds, subsides we enjoy our lie-in. Then L heads to Sainsbury's and I run Doggo across the University campus and down the canal to meet up with her. So at last I get a training run in. Yes I know it's a bit late, the race is tomorrow. I take it steady and bizarrely Doggo has to wait for me occasionally.

In the papers, the press seem to be slowly waking up to the fact that something rather special is going on in Manchester. The cycling makes the back page and inside there are two pages including a full-page photo of Rebecca Romero.

More gold medals at the track today, Victoria Pendleton retains her sprint title.



Chris Hoy wins the Keirin and then amazingly Bradley Wiggins and Mark Cavendish come from 5th place late in the madness of the Madison, steal a lap on the field, and win the thing. So that's nine gold medals now.



I'm at Pride Park in the afternoon where Derby will be relegated today if results go against them. We're playing Fulham, so it's the bottom two slugging it out, someone wake me up when it's all over. Funnily enough it turns out to be one of the few good games we've seen this season. Two battling 'Championship' teams going at each other. Derby take the lead but I have the feeling they've left the great escape too late. Err yes. A 2-2 draw ensues, which means with Birmingham winning, the coffin lid can finally be nailed down.

L does pasta to carbo load us up for tomorrow and then we head off to Broadway for a spot of romantic Cholera. 'Love in the Time Of Cholera' that is. After a fierce moral dilemma about whether it's better to be AF pre-race or not, I take a Nottingham Dreadnaught into the film.

Set in Colombia, the film opens with a man falling to his death after trying to retrieve a parrot from a tree. In the next scene, an old man is laying in bed with a girl over fifty years his junior (nice work if you can get it). The ringing of the church bells, signifying a funeral, alerts him and strangely he casts aside the young girl, impressive chest and all. The first of many chests up for comparison tonight.

The old man is Florentino Ariza and straight after the funeral, he approaches the widow Fermina Daza, ignoring her distress at her husband's death and declares his everlasting love for her. Enraged by the gall of the man, she understandably tells him where to get off. Apparently, he made the same vow many years before and so the film takes us back fifty years in time and tells us his story.

When they were young, Florentino was a mere telegraph boy, who was besotted with Fermina from the first time he saw her. He is persistent, constantly pursuing her, writing her letters and they have a short romance. Her father tries to keep them apart and one day she rejects him totally. Then when she goes down with suspected Cholera a doctor is called. The doctor is Juvenal Urbino, the man who falls out of the tree. He immediately gets one up on Florentino when he cunningly persuades her to get her chest out in the interests of a very thorough examination. Ha, writing letters doesn't get you that far does it! He deduces it isn’t Cholera and so she lives. Her father is so gratified that he asks the doctor what he can do to repay him. I expected Dr Urbino, obviously impressed with what she’d shown him, to demand his Daughter there and then but he is more subtle, with the help of her father he gradually wins her over, and marries her.

Florentino (now played by Javier Bardem and looking like No Country For Old Men meets Bleak House) is distraught but remains obsessed with her. He vows he will stay a virgin until they are together again.



His boss takes him to the whorehouse to take his mind off things but he's not interested. His chastity though, only lasts until he bizarrely gets jumped by a mystery woman on a boat trip. Some you win, some you lose, I guess.

With his vow in tatters perhaps it's time to move on, eh Florentino? They say the best way to get over heartache is to channel your energies into something new and he certainly does that. He drowns his sorrows in the arms and amongst other limbs of many women, which adds a whole new dimension to being ‘on the rebound’.

He proceeds to have his way with anything that moves, if it's female, it doesn't matter if she's available or not. In fact after seducing one particular married woman, he scrawled a declaration of his ownership on her body and when she forgot to wash if off before she cuddled up with her husband that night, her enraged husband killed her. Slight over reaction perhaps but I imagine he was a tad pissed off.

He also keeps notes and records each of his conquests in detail, probably giving marks out of ten for each one. Just think what he could have done had they had Excel in them days. He could have done graphs and all sorts of fancy things.

If all this is meant to help him get over the pain of losing Fermina, it doesn't work. Apparently absence really does seem to make the heart grow fonder in his case, even if other parts of him have long since got over it and moved on to pastures new, and then moved on again... and again... By the time her husband dies and she is up for grabs again, 51 years, 9 months and 4 days have passed and Florentino is in the arms of his 622nd conquest when the funeral bells ring. Although it's a bit unbelievable that an old man can still pull so many much young women but I suppose it happens, just not to most of us.



In the end they do get together and he finally gets to bed the woman he was saving himself for. He assures her that he's 'remained a virgin' for her. He’s a card. Not that she believes him.

The film was a brave attempt to turn what I imagine is a complex book into a film and it's far from perfect but I enjoyed it. Although you didn't really get any emotional attachment with the main characters but perhaps that was the idea.

The biggest let down was by the make up department. The characters had to age by 50 years and it's done badly. Fermina at 70 just looked like a 30 year old who'd had too many vodka's, that is until she unveiled her chest for him, which is by now around her knees. It wasn't there when she showed it Dr Urbino all those years ago. I hate to think how they achieved that effect, perhaps they got a stunt double in. Oddly, only one actress is chosen to play Fermina throughout her life while two actors share the role of Florentino. Perhaps they went over budget.

The film ends with them on a river cruise and the Captain of the ship raising the flag of cholera, so that they won't have to call at any ports.

Suppose it's not a bad gig, working your way through 622 women and still getting the girl of your dreams.

Home for a carbo top up courtesy of a pudding that L has knocked up, served with not only custard but ice cream too. Just don’t tell Daughter about the ice cream but then again she's not running a 10k tomorrow.

Page 91

I'm on the bus, tapering again. I've got so many events coming up I seem to be permanently tapering at the moment, don’t know when I’m going to fit any training in. I've not managed to do any run training for the 10k on Sunday at all.

I pick up the newspaper, naturally not expecting to see a headline about the cycling 'gold rush' adorning the back page and I'm right. Instead the top sporting story is that John Terry may or may not get another chance to be England captain. Yawn, a non-story if ever there was one. There is a couple of lines about Rebecca Romero at the very top, referring you to page 91 of 104, so only 14 pages from the back. Things are looking up. I thumb past two pages of Beckham (remember him?), one of Rooney (the England match was two whole days ago!), several others of football gossip (yawn), a page about Shane Warne's retirement, quite a bit about diving (interesting but Tom Daley's medal was last week), a whole page about the former Wimbledon football club who are in the Johnson's Paint Trophy final..., two pages including a full page photo of Maria Sharapova and then we're there. Half a page and one photo. Cool. Britain's a country where were so proud of our non-achievements but we hide our successes on page 91.

It's very quiet on the bus today and I'm totally out gossiped by L. She says tells me about a glamorous Hispanic looking girl who started at the gym this morning and promptly disappeared under a pile of eager males. Then she told me about being pulled by some an Astrologer on Ilkeston Road. He was a talented chap who's was also a budding chef, looking for a partner to set up a restaurant with, and who also builds computers in his spare time. He wanted her to accompany him to the High School (we know his game). He asked L what her star sign was because there's only four star signs that he's missing among the women he's 'devoured'. Nice turn of phrase! I've always described Ilkeston Road as a cultural experience.

The emails from L get even more bizarre, at one stage she is comparing Doggo's deafness with my Father's. Then when I explain I've been having a strained conversation with that very person she asks me if it was about homework? We're getting our wires crossed here because L is under the heavy artillery fire from Daughter@ourhome.co.uk. Then it stops because she's on her way to escort L to lunch, although L has refused her permission to borrow some of her clothes. Oh Dear. Her wardrobe is L's wardrobe, I fear it could cause a stir when she turns up naked.

Cycling Weekly are in Manchester covering the Worlds via regular updates via their website. They have been moaning about a third day in a row surviving on supermarket sandwiches. Ah that be Asda then.

Results today, Victoria Pendleton qualifies fastest for the women's sprint and eases through to the semi-finals. Cycling Weekly describes her first round victory as so comprehensive it made her Russia opponent look like she was riding a heavy shopping bike with the basket loaded down with groceries. Hang on a sec, I think I've seen her in Risley; she's not that slow as I recall...

In the first ever World Championship team pursuit for women, Great Britain have to go first because they've never raced before, choosing not to take part in the World Cups and practice in secret instead. They promptly set a new world's best time on the way to the final and subsequently the gold medal. Gold number five.



Then Chris Hoy follows up his victory over Theo Bos by going all the way and winning the men's sprint, our first in this event since Reg Harris in 1954. Gold number six.



Free travel on the Red Arrow again tonight for no obvious reason. This is becoming a habit and I'm not even over 65, well not officially.

We are at Nottingham Playhouse tonight to see an adaptation of Malorie Blackman’s best selling novel 'Noughts & Crosses' by the Royal Shakespeare Company.

They say it was inspired by 'Romeo and Juliet' and I can see that, although L isn't convinced. Like 'Romeo and Juliet', it is the tale of two young people kept apart because they are from different backgrounds and like R&J it also ends in death. There's also a heady mix of other stuff in there, a touch of South African apartheid, a touch of Northern Ireland, a touch too of 'To Kill a Mockingbird'.



The story is set in a place where the people with black skin, known as the Crosses, are very much in the ascendancy over the white people, known as the Noughts.

Persephone (Sephy) is the deputy Prime Minister's daughter and a Cross. Her friend Callum is a Nought and is from the other side of the tracks and the other side of the racial divide, consequently their relationship is frowned upon by all sides. Racism and prejudice is destined to keep them apart.

In a half-hearted attempt at equality, Sephy's exclusive Crosses' school is opened up to three privileged Noughts, one of which is Callum. Sephy is delighted but the rest of the school are not and are very hostile to the three Noughts. None of them last long at the school but Callum lasts the longest until he is expelled, a situation caused by a string of events.

First Callum's sister, traumatised by previous bigotry, commits suicide causing Callum's elder brother, Jude, and his father to join the Liberation Militia, fighting against the Government. They are then implicated in the bombing of a shopping centre and Callum's father is sentenced to hang. He is saved by the secretive aid of a lawyer Sephy's alcohol soaked mother hired, Callum's mother used to work for her and there is guilt here to be eased. He is spared hanging but is killed when he tries to escape jail.

On the verge of being sent away to boarding school, Sephy writes a letter to Callum asking him to come rescue her, so that they can run away together but he doesn't get it in time.

A few years later she returns from boarding school and Callum asks to meet her but it's a trap, Callum is now working for the Liberation Militia and they kidnap her. At first Callum is harsh with her but they end up making love, although it's a kind of cyber-sex, performed verbally. Then Callum lets her escape.

Sephy falls pregnant and Callum is accused of raping her. Sephy denies it but nobody listens and Callum is to be hanged. Sephy's father tells her that if she has an abortion he will spare Callum's life. On a point of principle, Sephy refuses and Callum swings from the gallows to the sound of them exchanging vows of love.



A very fast moving exciting play, with never a dull moment. There's an awful lot of death in it and no happy ending, so it's right up my street. Totally excellent. I could demean the powerful message by some flippant boy-girl observations but I won't.

We find out on the way in that the girl who has been getting critical acclaim for her role as Sephy is ill and will not appear. This makes the excellent performance by her stand-in all the more remarkable.

We are back quite early from the play and as L's been a bit worried that her alcohol consumption is going to be low at this weekend, so we walk Doggo down the local for a few beers to put that right.

A Lot Of Lycra

A small lie-in and coerced again, it must be a green week. Then I take Doggo for a damn good kicking on the park because we're dumping him for the rest of the day. Hopefully this will again have the effect of boosting his enthusiasm for his agility.

We're at the Velodrome in Manchester in time to see our pursuit quartet qualify for the gold medal run off. We also get our representatives into the two other finals today.

After spending the afternoon watching the qualifying we, and everyone else, head to Asda for food. A bit of an oversight for the Velodrome when all its customers are heading elsewhere to eat.

I'm sure you've already read about it courtesy of the wall-to-wall media coverage (ha ha) but there are three medals up for grabs today and we didn't have to listen to any other anthem than the British one as Britain brought home all three gold medals. I'd picked this day to go hoping it would be our best day and so it proves.

The pursuit quartet smash Australia's four-year-old world record to beat Denmark and successfully defend their title.



In the women's individual pursuit Wendy Houvenaghel set a new British record but it only stood for a matter of minutes until Rebecca Romero lowered it. It meant Houvenaghel had to race for bronze where she was beaten by Australian Katie Mactier. Romero though was into the final for a rematch against American defending champion Sarah Hammer who beat her last year. She exacts revenge and takes gold and boy was she pleased about it.



Victoria Pendleton and Shanaze Reade set a new world record in qualifying for the team sprint final. Then in the final, they were slightly behind the Chinese but a storming second lap by Pendleton clinched it.



Despite the medals, possibly the performance of the day was by Chris Hoy. Hoy was tactically out-thought by Dutch former world champion Theo Bos in the first race but then won the two remaining races by the slimmest of margins to go through 2-1. Having disposed of Bos, who was probably the favourite for gold, how far can Hoy go? The conclusion is tomorrow.

I was a bit concerned L might find it all a bit dull but she seemed to enjoy it. She brought a couple of books but didn't get time to read much, so it must have gone ok. The fact that all the cyclists do their warming up in the centre of the track meant there's always something going on. There was always some chap (or thankfully, some girl) keeping the crowd amused by stripping themselves in or out of a lycra suit. L said she was fascinated by the psychology of it all and presumably all those men in lycra. I know what she means; about the psychology, it's the same cycling through Risley on a morning and the mental battles that I have to go through with my fellow cyclists.

Doggo is very pleased to see us when we get home, almost as pleased as he is to see the garlic sausage we've brought.

Off To The Dog's Home?

L goes out early for a walk with Doggo. Warning him that if he pulls, it's off to the dog's home for him and the ultimate humiliation of replacement by a highland terrier. He obviously thinks she's bluffing because he appears to take no notice.

Things can't have gone that badly thought because when L texts from the gym to wish me good morning and check I'm alive. Something strikes me as very odd, there's no 'not' after her 'good morning' greeting.

On the way in on my bike, I notice that they are altering the steps on the pedestrian bridge over the A52. They seem to have covered them in those aluminium tiles covered in grit, you know, the kind they use for cheap roofing. The only difference is these have been painted yellow. I assume this because someone must have tripped over one and is suing them. They look really crap. You would have thought a better idea would be to take the steps out completely and make it into a ramp. That would make sense, what with the disability act and also the fact that about half the people who use that bridge are cyclists who have to dismount. Silly me, just realised what I said, 'sense', ha.

The World Track Cycling Championships start in Manchester today and the papers are going into a media frenzy because Great Britain are defending nine gold medals, which must be a very unique situation in UK sport. Naturally I'm joking about the media frenzy.

I risk going home the Ilkeston route again but keep a very wide eye open for boy racers. No problems tonight. I cycle to the pool and do a short 15-minute session before rushing home to catch the cycling which incredibly it actually on BBC2. Although it's notoriously difficult to get permission to watch my own TV in our house and so it proves.

L wants a DF (dog free) run tonight and I ought to do ‘something’ with Doggo, we don’t want him getting re-homed. So I ought to take him dogging but I'd rather just stay in and watch the cycling. In the end we do go to agility after all and I tape the cycling.

It's a good call because he's brilliant and fast. So the technique is, give him a fortnight off and abandon him completely for a week of that and he'll be raring to go. Not sure he'd let me dump him again though.

In the cycling, Bradley Wiggins defends his crown and wins gold in the 4,000m individual pursuit and the men's team sprint win silver for the second year in a row behind reigning champions France. Tomorrow L and I will be in Manchester to see it all first hand for ourselves.

Falling Apart

They do say that you can't describe skiing as just a way of getting from the top of a mountain to the bottom or though last week that's sometimes just what it was. In the same way you can't describe cycling as just a way of getting from A to B. In fact I've really missed it. So I jump at the chance of cycling into work today, particularly as they'll be no school runners at least Nottingham end, although Derby are back at school today.

The temperature is around zero this morning, so I take a hot drink with me. I try hot chocolate for change; it works well, much better than coffee. The weather is nice, apart from being cold but I still find the ride hard and I do a rubbish time. Possibly because I think I'm falling apart, my shoulder is still sore and I also have a sore ankle but I think that's a by-product of football with Doggo.

A burglary 'hotspot' list has been published in the papers today and Nottingham is named as the riskiest place to live with household theft levels 63% above the national average. Now I don't doubt that a big city like Nottingham has more burglaries than most places but I thought due to better locks etc burglaries were generally in decline. The exception to this is where the owners have been careless, e.g. when they are lackadaisical students and lo and behold this survey has been compiled by the insurance firm Endsleigh. Endsleigh specialise in student insurance and Nottingham of course has a large student population, as funnily enough do most of the other places in their top 10. Smells a bit like an insurance company drumming up business to me.

At least I'm not the only one falling apart, L informs me she's hobbling off to the gym after work to try and loosen up her muscles that are still tight from Monday's 10k.

I take the Ilkeston route home for the first time since October. I figure its light enough now not to get squished by the maniacs who drive that way. How wrong I was? Some boy racer tries to have me off by over taking another car as I'm coming the other way. It was a bit too close for comfort.

In the evening we go over and visit L's Mum, whose birthday it was recently. Even Doggo comes with us but not Son naturally, too busy with his A Level World Of Warcraft revision. L has wine; I have tea. Aren't I good?

Daughter tells us she's been listening to the Cars, which on further investigation actually turns out to be the Corrs. Which is a dreadful mistake to make, far worse than the Brakes/Rakes confusion. Daughter blames L's hearing; L blames Daughter's.

Too Weird For Words

I get up a 6am because Doggo and I are off to an Easter agility show at Scunthorpe. Only we aren’t because when I look on the internet, I find that it's has been called off due to a mix of high winds and snow. Shame. Sounds quite exciting to me. We might have stood a chance in such 'challenging' conditions.



The advantage of our event being off is that we can now go and support L who has booked a 10k race on Wollaton Park today. I'm not sure how to break the news to her because I think the reason she entered it is because we had our own an event and therefore wouldn’t be able to go watch her. Although another reason may be that she says the finishers get an Easter egg and she was planning to keep it all to herself.

Slipping back into bed, I know that I’ll have to behave myself because pre-race frivolity is not allowed when I’m competing and certainly not when she is. To my surprise though this isn’t the case today and it's a pleasure to be coerced.

Before the race starts I take Doggo for a 'session', just to take the edges off his ‘supporting’. It appears that I’m not the only one just supporting; the girl with the unnecessary ponytail stands next to me in the crowd. She doesn’t spit at me or me at her. We're very civilised, although I think this is because she doesn't recognise me. She doesn't have me on her hit list, like I do her. Most of my other adversaries seem to be absent, although I do spot a chap from Mansfield Tri in the race who I’ve had the odd tussle with.

They all get a mug at the end and L's expecting the Easter egg to be inside it but the earlier finishers do not appear to be munching on anything and when she finishes, L confirms there is no egg. How deflating.

Meanwhile Doggo has developed a limp. I'm not sure if this is because he doesn't realise that the agility show is off and he's limping to try and get out of it or whether it's a result of him spending two and a half hours on the park.

When we get him home he's clearly totally creased, so we don't feel guilty about going to the cinema. We were going to see 'Love In The Time Of Cholera' but L hasn't finished the book yet, so we kind of randomly select 'Lars And The Real Girl' instead. Daughter wasn't going to come, then she was, then she wasn't, then she Googles it, finds out it's about a sex doll and suddenly she is.

We have a very nice Irish beer 4.6% in the bar, which is naughty on a Monday then we watch the film.

The film is set in a small snowy, presumably Canadian, town and stars a chap called Lars who is a bit of an introvert. Despite having a job in an office, he lives mainly the life of a recluse in the modified garage of his deceased parents' home where his brother Gus and his pregnant wife, Karin live. They both want Lars to be more sociable and keep trying to get him to come to dinner with them.

Lars though, struggles with social interaction and is troubled by his past, in particular the loss of his parents. Lars doesn't want to be involved with people and is even too frightened to act upon the advances of a female work colleague.

Then suddenly to the surprise of Gus and Karin he announces that he has a girlfriend. She's an orphaned registered nurse come missionary from Brazil or something like that. She's called Bianca and she's confined to a wheelchair. They are delighted until they found out that Bianca is a plastic sex doll, an anatomically correct one at that.

From this point onwards it would have been very easy to travel down the tired old slapstick comedy path but the film doesn't. In fact to our surprise the film is not a comedy at all, there is subtle humour in it but the film doesn't try to be funny. In fact at times it becomes inappropriate to even think of laughing.

Sex with the doll isn't on the cards either, in fact Lars asks his brother if Bianca can sleep in their spare room until they get to know each other better.



Instead of being funny the film becomes thought-provoking and moving. Gus and Karin take Lars to the local psychologist who suggests that they go along with his delusion until Lars himself deals with whatever is causing it. Then the film gets even more surreal as the whole town play along and Lars's new girlfriend gets taken to parties, to church, gets a job, and even gets elected to the school board. Through all this Lars grows in confidence as if this was his way of developing social skills. As his self-belief grows Bianca loses her appeal to him. Through all this, the girl at work, still despite the fact that Lars has been going out with a sex toy in preference to her, is still interested in him. So when Bianca goes on a girl's night, Lars is a little put out and accepts a date with her.

After their night out bowling with some other friends, Lars comes home to discover that Bianca is dying. Bizarrely an ambulance arrives to transport her to hospital. It gets even freakier after she dies because a funeral is held for her.

Bianca dies because her job is done, the local community have helped Lars's heal his psychological problems, and through Bianca he has discovered how to deal with human situations.



It's a highly original film that at times is too weird for words. Despite that, or perhaps because of that, it's excellent with outstanding acting performances all round. It did plod a bit in the middle and Bianca took an age to 'die' but it was still a great film.

If L was reviewing it she would dwell more on the psychological side of it, but I feel it's more of a film about someone failing to develop their social skills. There is even a dig about one of the office workers being unable to afford his own doll because he spent the money on an Xbox. Sure the film is far fetched but a lot of people have imaginary friends and 'friendships' with dolls and teddy bears when they are younger. This film just takes this all to the extremes. Lars just took a little longer growing up but he got there in the end.

The ‘Gentle’ Pace Of Things

Back to normal today with a restful day; a lie-in followed by a reintroduction to the park for Doggo. This being back home business is all a bit too much for him, he seems to be struggling with the ‘gentle’ pace of things and the last thing he needed was to be taunted by the self-exercising whippet. He spends the rest of the day sleeping it off.

L does an excellent Sunday lunch, after which I catch up one of last years films ’This Is England’ on DVD, directed by Nottingham’s Shane Meadows. It was shot partially in St Anns although the film is based in a fictional seaside resort. Again Meadows chooses a cast of relative unknowns and the whole film is similar in feel to his previous 'Room for Romeo Brass'.

Meadows says it is partly autobiographical of him growing up. The story is based in 1983 and backed by news footage of the period. The film tells the tale of 12-year-old Shaun, a boy who is constantly picked on at school. He lives with just his mum because his dad was killed in the Falklands War.

One day he makes friends with an older chap called Woody and his group of skinhead friends, who turn out to be a friendly bunch. They take him under their wing; he shaves his hair, gets a pair of Doc Martins and starts to dress like them. He finds himself accepted for the first time in his life. He gets to go to parties with them and even gets a girlfriend of sorts.

Then the mood changes when a militant racist called Combo is released from prison. In contrast Woody's group were not political or racist even one of them was black. Suddenly Shaun is face to face with violence and racism. It all turns rather nasty.

An excellent film. Quite a complicated tale, bleak but also occasionally funny and British made of course.

The Weather Bites Back

We arrive back from Austria today, after an 'interesting' holiday. Interesting because it started snowing on the Sunday and barely stopped all week. In all the years I've been skiing; I've possibly never had quite so much snow. Especially in 'usually' sunny March.

The first day sets the tone. We knew St. Anton would be full of weekend skiers, so we tried to drive over to Lech where we reckoned it would be quieter but the snow covered roads beat us back. We ended up a Rendl where the conditions were too much for Son and eventually for Daughter who both go hide in the car. Not a promising start. I fear they have been spoilt by too much late season skiing, when the weather is at its best, like err... over Easter. This year the weather has really bitten back. The sun does come out mid afternoon and Daughter briefly emerges, does a bit of skiing and makes a few 'angels' (don't ask) but not Son.

Monday brings more snow and poor visibility, so we buy Son some goggles to help him tough out the conditions. Basically investing more money to try and get value out of the £140 we've already spent on his lift pass. He fares better and lasts until about 2.30. L and I ski all day and wind down in one of the bars with a Jagertee. By Tuesday we're sharing three between us and by Wednesday we're on two each... Thursday could be interesting.

Wednesday was actually the best day and not really a double Jagertee day. The sun was out but then so were the queues. Despite that we manage to ski the full length of the ski area to Stuben and back. The only day it was possible. The antiquated lifts over at Stuben were a shock after the modern system in St Anton, which is much improved since I last visited in 1995. Daughter almost treats me to an extra ride on the last chairlift of the day by discarding a ski, accidentally I think. I feared I would have to ski down and retrieve it but thankfully someone brings it up for us.

Generally a few hours before the end of each day the seemingly grossly unfit Son ends up in the car but not before decking a few other skiers which seems to have become his speciality this year. At which point, L and sometimes Daughter cruise the blues down to St. Anton while I go up and dabble on the black. This usually involves sharing the cable car with a fellow single skier, exchanging a nodded greeting with him as we get on then sharing a brief knowing smile as we both get off and head towards the black run. It’s just so like being a cyclist.

We finally make Lech on Thursday, despite more fresh snow, and ski the full ‘white ring’ circuit. L performs a routine that will surely be the winner of the 'fall of the holiday' award by bouncing off a snow bank. I've had some pretty interesting 'moments' myself on my late runs down the black to St. Anton but they haven't been witnessed so regrettably don't count.

As we take lunch in a posh restaurant above Lech, the only kind there is in Lech, the sun comes out but by the time lunch is over the mountain is once more shrouded by thick cloud. Problem today is we daren’t hit the daily Jagertee's because we have a treacherous drive back home to the apartment.

It was also the plan to avoid the queues by going there on Good Friday but we wake up to find the car buried under yet more overnight snow. Son gets up, takes one look at the weather, and asks ‘We’re not going skiing in that are we?’ In what? Snow? What else would you go skiing in? We leave him at home.



Even if we'd uncovered the car, the prospect of driving down the steep road from our apartment is frankly too terrifying to contemplate so we take the ski bus. Unfortunately the road is also too treacherous to walk down as I quickly find out. Disappointingly I don't think this is going to count as a contender for 'fall of the holiday' either as I didn't have my skis on. In the end we do put our skis on and ski down the road.

After a day dealing with the almost impossibly deep snow, we come to get the bus back and end up waiting for ages. Then we discover why none of them are turning up, the road to our village has been closed due to avalanche risk. When one does eventually show up, it takes us to a motorway service station supposedly somewhere near our village but we don’t know how near, so we stay on the bus. This is a big mistake as we end up in a neighbouring village two kilometres away. Just as we’re contemplating some cross-country skiing to get us home, we find another bus driver willing to take us home via a back route. Safely back in our own village we struggle up the road and arrive home at around 7pm in the dark. It's unsurprising but also disappointing that Son hasn't been pacing the floor with worry and constantly calling mountain rescue. In fact I'm not sure he'd noticed we'd even gone out. The car is by now under about four foot of snow. We dig one of the doors out so that we can rescue the chocolate bar that's been left in the glove compartment and break open the Jagertee.



By the morning it's thankfully stopped snowing and rather annoyingly, as we leave for home today, the sun has also come out, typical. With the assistance of a tractor we dig the rest of the car out and the tractor also clears the road for us. We slither and slide down the hill and head off for our flight, only for BA to text us to say that it has been cancelled. Great. Eventually we manage to get through to them by phone and they impressively rebook us on an earlier flight. Problem is we really have to tank down the motorway to try and make it in time. We make it, just, only to find that our new flight has been delayed, back to approximately the time of our original flight. We get a BA meal token to compensate which just about makes up for our wine being confiscated because we forgot about the 'no liquids' rule and forgot to put it in out hold luggage.

Back in England we collect Doggo and head home.

All in all a very challenging and satisfying holiday. A week of snow and more snow punctuated by some skiing, plenty of 'romance' with L and not nearly enough Jagertee.

Gone skiing

H-Day

I wake up with a very sore arm from squash last night, which isn't promising with a week of sport ahead of me or for the skiing.

It’s a bit crowded in the bedroom this morning, what with four of us in there. L and me, Doggo, and Daughter who is using our mirror to put her lenses in. She does seems to be getting quicker, although I do get grief for disrupting her concentration by shaving in my own bedroom. L lightens the mood by flashing her chest at me.

Its good news that Daughter is getting the hang of her lenses, we don't want to add an extra edge to the skiing holiday, by having a progressively more knackered Daughter struggling to get her lenses in each morning. She's already got the revelation of what sun cream can do to your lenses to look forward to.

A word about the Sport Relief mile at the weekend or 'Rise to the Challenge' as its being subtitled. I mention it because every one seems to be urging everyone else to do it because it's only a fiver and it is for charity. Well it isn’t actually; people haven't read the small print. What gets me, is that they'll be a lot of people giving their time for free, as its for charity, but also they have six very big names sponsors on board in :- Sainsburys, RBS, Bannatynes Health Clubs, Highland Spring, BT and Nottingham City Council. You would have thought these companies would have met the costs so that all the entry fees could have been donated. So my advice is cut out the middle man, do your own mile around your local park and then send a cheque direct to Sport Relief.

We're off to Austria tomorrow and I check us in for our flights over the internet. Which goes smoothly.

Today of course is H-Day, Haircut Day. I'm on tender hooks as I leave for home, waiting to see how much L has got Son to have taken off.

All that remains is to give Doggo a last park session and then dispatch him to his accommodation for the week, regrettably he isn't joining us.

In Need Of Inspiration

There's no wind today, in fact it's perfect cycling weather. So what am I doing on the bus again? I must give up this silly squash lark.

There's an interesting exchange on the bus this morning. One lad was asking his mate, something that he said had been bothering him for weeks,

'So tell me why did you dump the gorgeous Kate?'

From what I can gather, her rather intriguing crime was to download an 'adult' podcast to his Ipod. When he asked her why she'd done this she said it was because he needed 'inspiration'. Seems he was so offended that he dumped her. There's a long silence then, as I think his mate chewed this over in his mind for a while, probably thinking the same as me, that she sounded like quite a nice girl. Finally he plucked up the courage to ask whether his mate knew if she was 'seeing anyone else'.

'Errr, no I don’t think so'

'So she's available then?'

'Suppose'

'Would you mind if...'

At which point his mate moved seats. Touchy.

Today's bizarre survey discovers that 'short men are the most jealous'. Read into that what you will.

L reports that Doggo was well lively this morning and enjoyed his run with her, followed by a game of football before shagging everything that wasn't moving in the bedroom. That dog gets all the fun.

After getting the bus home I head to squash at Portland this week for a change. Rather bizarrely I twist and injure my arm in the warm up. It doesn't really effect my game though, I play ok but generally it still doesn't go well. I just can’t get enough momentum going to take a game off him.

After which I have a 'Gobble' in the Globe pub, which is a beer and is a bit of a running joke in the pub, Richard Herring would have approved.

L does upside down Lasagne for tea, I'm not explaining, but it's excellent and we have a glass of red wine with it. L is knackered and retires to bed, I join her an hour or two later at which point I get pleasantly assaulted, so she wasn't that knackered after all.

Dangerous Fruit

L is keen for me not to cycle today. It is touch windy I suppose, that storm seems to have finally set in. I take the bus and we get the really mad driver. Driving as fast as possible and blowing his horn at everything that moved or didn't.

Walking to and from the bus stop is hard work, such is that strength of the wind. It would have been one hell of a hard cycle in but judging from the direction it's blowing, it would have been a blast on the way home.

It seems my readership won't be going east. I'm getting reports of 'access denied' in Singapore. I find an article that says that a lot of blogs have infringed Singapore censorships rules, so perhaps the authorities there have blocked the entire blogspot.com domain. Cool, I've never been censored before.

In the news, a man who was claiming £300,000 for injury and 'adverse psychological effects and depression' after slipping over in a Marks and Spencer car park has lost his court case. He was claiming that a grape from M&S that he found on his shoe 'could' have caused the fall.

You just couldn't make it up but luckily the judge threw out the case, saying that in his judgment 'it is one of those accidents that could happen to any one of us.' Blimey, the voice of common sense but hang on a sec, the judge went on to say that he was 'not persuaded' that the substance on his shoe caused the incident. So if he had been 'persuaded' then he may have found M&S liable. Worrying.

The answer is to ban grapes, far too dangerous. Oddly enough I am munching on some right now, I shall try not to slip on them. L tells me she's just had a pear. That was pretty daring, that could have been a major incident. I’ve got some Strawberry’s in the fridge but I don’t know how brave I’m feeling... I daren’t even contemplate a banana.

Another year, another depressing budget, another year of paying more for everything for little benefit in return. Once upon a time taxes were at least partly to encourage us to form good habits but these days it's all about raising ever more money, most of which seems to go to prop up the social security system.

They've even put beer up by 4p a pint and will do so again by 2% above inflation for the next four years. He didn't even bother to pretend it would help prevent irresponsible drinking because it won't and even bragged about how much extra money it would bring in. The big breweries will make that 4p into 10p by the time it hits the pubs. So less people in the pubs, more sales for the Supermarkets and more people crossing the channel for their supplies.

I arrive at the bus stop to get the bus home, two minutes before it’s due but there’s only one person waiting so I assume I’ve missed it. Then one arrives but it’s the next bus ten minutes early, so we have to sit and wait for ten minutes. This is the wild and wacky world of the Red Arrow.

I get home and steal the car, having left my kit in it, so I don’t have to go into the house which will upset Doggo. I arrive at the leisure centre where there is a long queue and almost everyone is being turned away because Boxercise is cancelled, the gym is full, and the swimming pool is closed, due to an incident. So a wasted trip. L texts to say she’s just left work, so I head off up the road to give her a lift.

Later Doggo and I go for a quick blast at class and then catch the end of the match as Derby play Chelsea and... well I’m not going into details but they lose. Let’s look on the bright side; we scored a goal.

Wind? What Wind?

It’s all a bit stressed in the house this morning. The reason is, and I'm sure it's not been officially sanctioned to say this, partly because Daughter now has contact lenses. As anyone who has them knows they can take a bit of getting used to, especially the technique for putting them in, it requires patience. Daughter and patience have, as far as I'm aware, never met.

The other reason for the stress is as usual Doggo. As I depart on my bike, I'm a little concerned that L might return later without one or both of them but my fears turn out to be unfounded.

Note that I'm on my bike yet the whole nation is supposedly gripped by the worst storms in living memory. It's a good job I don't believe the weather forecast. Wind? What wind? Just because it's a bit rough down south they put the whole country on red alert.

The ride goes pretty well now that I have a fully functioning set of wheels again. That is apart from having a bit of a battle with a couple of 'pavement people' who curse me for being in 'their' way. Hello? This IS a cycle path you know. As stupid as that may be, IT IS. Don't blame me; blame the council. Personally I'd rather be on the road anyway.

At this point I shall make my apologies to Angela Carter for posting a cheque to her because she is of course no longer with us and hasn't been for 16 years. She died young at only 51, just when she seemed to be really hitting her stride. ‘Wise Children’ turned out to be her last book.

Perhaps I was a bit quick to mock the weather forecast because at about ten to five a massive storm hits. I hang on for five minutes and luckily the worst of it blows over.

In the evening we're out being cultural again. Last summer, when we were holidaying in Durham, I stumbled across an article about the comedian Richard Herring and his 2007 Edinburgh Fringe show that he called ‘Oh F*ck, I’m 40’. I blogged about it here.

Well he’s currently touring with that routine and tonight he’s in Nottingham at The Approach, so I talk L into going to see him with me. As a comedy venue, The Approach is ideal and we get a good table with an excellent view. Then fortified by two pints, a Legend and an EPA while L has a rather large red wine, we settle down to be entertained.

Self confessed 'kidult', Richard Herring comes on stage and is immediately into his stride, aided by a few props:- a skateboard he can’t ride and a collect of t-shirts which he makes gags about. He explores the consequences of interpreting the slogans on them such as ‘Give Me Head Until I’m Dead’ or ‘Free hot dog. Bring your own buns’, as binding contracts.

This sets him off for about ten minutes on the subject of ‘bumming’, which isn't a common term I believe and I’m not sure quite why he chose it because given his obvious like of naughty words there are many others he could have chosen. He repeats this word many times mainly for the benefit of the blonde girl down the front who he seems to have taken a liking to.

If this is his way of chatting her up it fits in well with the rest of his set as a lot of his material concerns his attempts to, as he stylishly puts it, get ‘up to his plums’ with as many women as possible, ideally ones half his age and preferably as part of, a so far unfulfilled quest for, a threesome.

He does pick on other members of the audience which explains why the seats nearest the stage were the last to be taken. One chap who he ‘discusses’ blow jobs with looks ready to die and you can see the woman next to him inching away from him. I hope they’re not on a first date because it could be their last.

Continuing the sex theme there’s a gag about how talking dirty can go horribly wrong if you get pedantic about it and he describes his first ever fight which apparently happened recently in Liverpool with a university lecturer in front of an audience of (yes you guessed it) 21-year-old girls.



At other times he tries to be topical. A sideways swipe at Chris Langham works but other cracks at paedophilia and gun control get a mixed reaction from the audience. So he returned to the safe ground of the juvenile stuff which at least went down well with the youngsters and most importantly the blonde girl.

His comedy is a mix of good and not so good. The problem is he often delivers some very funny lines but then stays on topic so long, pushing things too far, banging home the same point, that it is no longer funny. The best thing is his observations about being male and 40, some of which are spot on. L obviously realises this too from the sideways glances and the occasional hand on my thigh. It was his interpretation of climbing the hill of life, where ahead is decay and death; behind is the utopia you've regretted rushing through, that got me here in the first place. It's probably not good news for a fast ageing comedian that his philosophical moments are more entertaining than his comedy.

Generally though he sends himself up and his own attempts to still be the age he feels, which is 20, except when walking upstairs. He’s made his name acting as a perpetual teenager on stage so why change now.

Towards the end he returns to the girl down the front and gives her his final sales pitch, impressively maintaining eye contact with her while saying some extremely suggestive things.

The advantage of being 40 and not 20 is the knowledge of life that you've gained along the way. Herring does not let on to having gained much of that until the end when he finishes by telling everyone to make the most of their life on this rock of ours. Take your time climbing that hill.

Angela Carter, The Cheque's In The Post

It's raining and howling a gale when I awake so I wimp out of our planned 6am run around the pond, it would have been hellishly muddy anyway. L and Doggo go out alone to pound the streets.

At work I get the usual sort of Monday emails from L. She says she's not going to bother telling me how she is because its Monday, and Monday morning at that. So I suppose it should be obvious.

The big debate is how we're going to get Son to the barbers before skiing. Those two little words, 'hair' and 'cut', will send shivers down his spine. I'm not at all sure they'll let him on a plane as he looks nothing like the photo on his passport. Aren't you supposed to get a new one done if you drastically change your appearance? Such as developing hair half way down your back.

In the evening at dog class we do a course that's so wonderfully tough that we spend all night practicing a couple of short sections of it rather than the whole thing. The rest of the class will get to do the whole thing next week, whereas I'll be up a mountain somewhere.

As usual on the way home I collect L from yoga, except that I'm so late she's almost walked home by the time I do so.

L retires to bed early while I do some blogging. When I finally turn in it's quite late but she seems quite lively and it's obviously something to do with the fact that she's been reading 'Wise Children' again, of which I get the benefit despite the late hour. Angela Carter, the cheque's in the post.

Where's My Tips?

L and I do both paper rounds this morning as both the kids are in Derby. I am gutted not to get any tips, mars bars etc. Well not from the customers anyway. My fellow delivery person is much more accommodating.

I ring up to check to see whether my skis are ready for collection, more in hope than expectation and I'm pleasantly surprised to find that they are, even if the price has craftily increased since I dropped them off. While we're out we trawl around trying to find some ski gear for Son without success. There's only XXXL stuff left on the shelves. Which is hardly surprising, as you don't see any XXXL people on the slopes, so it makes you wonder why they manufacture it in the first place.

A superb FA Cup weekend continues as I watch Cardiff dump Middlesbrough out. 3-0 to the underdog. After taking Doggo on the park I return home to see an impressive West Bromwich Albion dispatch Bristol Rovers. Oddly, for once, a result true to form.

Oh how must those mid table Premiership teams be ruing putting out the weakened teams in the early rounds which saw them get knocked out by lower division teams. Their excuse was that they'll never win the cup because one of the big four clubs always do. How wrong they were.

In the evening, I cook a chilli and share a bottle of Crianza with L. L gets on with 'Cholera' while I watch a film I've wanted to see for ages. It's the German film ‘Leben der Anderen, Das’ or 'The Lives Of Others.

It's set in East Berlin in November 1984, five years before the fall of the wall. Eastern Germany is controlled by the Stasi, the secret police, who specialise in getting ordinary citizens to inform on their friends, neighbours, work colleagues, and even their own family usually by bribery or blackmail.

Georg Dreyman is a 40-year-old playwright working in state-sponsored theatre who falls under the suspicion of the regime and consequently his apartment is bugged and his movements are monitored. The Stasi agents led by Captain Gerd Wiesler keep a written record of everything he says or does right down to documenting his lovemaking with his actress girlfriend, Christa-Maria with whom he shares an apartment.



The twist is that as Wiesler listens in on the 'lives of the others' he discovers a life of love, freethinking and principal that had previously been alien to him. He even starts to like Dreyman and develops a conscience, realising that he has no right to know Dreyman's most intimate secrets. When Dreyman starts to write articles for the Western media criticising the GDR, Wiesler plays a dangerous game by not reporting it and falsifies his reports to his superiors.



All the same, the system refuses to be beaten and frustrated by Wiesler's lack of success the Stasi attempt to turn Dreyman's girlfriend against him. Christa-Maria is already being unfaithful to him with a Stasi official because she feels she has to, so she's an easy target. They succeed and Christa-Maria betrays him. Wiesler intervenes to save Dreyman but she doesn't know this and wracked with guilt she throws herself under a truck.

At the end, post collapse of the GDR, Dreyman gets to see his Stasi file and begins to understand parts of his own life that he couldn't comprehend before. Its fascinating story and a great film depicting the grey world of the former East, totally enthralling.

The Battle Of Clumber Park

I arrive at Clumber Park. Part of the aim of doing the Duathlon again was to compare my performance with last years. However this is not going to be possible because in the last twenty-four hours some road works have popped up in the middle of the bike course and the whole event, the run, as well as the bike have had to be changed. The bike course is now going to be two laps, ugh, and 25k not 20k. Even the psychos doing the world championship qualifier on the longer distance are only doing three laps.

As I register and warm-up L goes off on her own mini-event, a run around the park with Doggo. When it comes to time to start they still haven't reappeared which probably means they've found a spot on the course to watch from, I just hope she knows the course has changed. Oddly as I line up on the start line I can hear barking in the distance but I can't actually see Doggo. Perhaps it's not him.

So, into battle with my fellow gladiators. If I thought the run pace at Doncaster last week was fast, it had nothing on this. It's not only the men who blitz away from the start line, there are also too many fast women to shake a stick at. Eventually I come across the source of the frenzied barking, it is Doggo, but when I run past him he doesn't actually see me. Unbeknown to me, L and Doggo are stood at the turnaround point of the run but momentarily distracted I run straight past it and have to do a wide turn. Valuable seconds lost.

A lot of the run is off road which doesn't really suit my dodgy ankles. There are lots of potholes and tree roots which try and trip me up. They fail and I do a blinding 17 minute 5k, four minutes faster than last year but still I seem to be miles behind the crazy people up front.

Into transition, which seems to go better than last year despite my legs shaking that much I can't get my cycle shoes on. Eventually I do and I'm away onto the bike course which is actually better than last year, more interesting and three-quarters of it is traffic free. Better that is apart from the couple of speed bumps on it. All credit to my 'mechanic' who has done a good job preparing my bike. At least I think it's my bike, most things seem to have been replaced, so much so that it doesn't really feel like my bike.

The other drawback is that it's windier than last year. The last stretch is long, straight, and headlong into the wind. I struggle a bit here and loads of folks come past me. Not too many on my course but enough to consider 'shaking a stick' again. At the end of the first lap I've almost had enough of the wind but once onto the second lap, with the wind behind me, I cheer up again. That is until a certain person comes past me who I think I recognise from last year. When she wiggles her arse at me it confirms it. Talk about rubbing it in. Said piece of anatomy looks a bit more toned than last year, she's obviously been putting in extra training to try and beat me this time. My gladiatorial instincts kick in and my trusty steed and I give chase.

Now I know how the great Achilles felt in his personal battles with the Amazonian warrior Penthesilea in that decade long triathlon, that has sometimes been referred to as the Trojan War. He got so hacked off with her that when he finally got the better of her, he viciously dragged her off her bike (or was it a horse) by her ponytail and killed her. At which point he finally realised how beautiful she was and probably regretted killing her because he then... well we won't go into that. Anyhow I digress; my Penthesilea is obviously more streamlined than I am in this wind because I can't keep up with her.

Back into transition and so to the final run, which is a real plod. However looking both in front and behind me, I can see no one, so perhaps at least I can treat this as a gentle jog round. There's certainly no sign of Penthesilea, the longer bike obviously suited her superior streamlining.

Then suddenly out of nowhere some crazy people, who are on the full distance, fly past me as if they're only just starting out but I'll gloss off their obviously inhuman capabilities.

That aside, things go quite well, I pass a chap who is actually in my event and then come across a battle scarred girl, limping, clutching her rear. A chap is helpfully, but some may say unsympathetically, telling her to get a move on from the sidelines. You can't afford any sentiment in sport, so I pass her. It's what Achilles would have done, possibly, or perhaps he got to her first.

I come in three places lower than last year but in a larger field, so I have to be pleased. Especially as my first run was four minutes quicker, my average speed on my bike was slightly better despite the wind and both transitions were marginally quicker. My last run was a little slower but I'll put that down to a lack of competition pushing me on. Penthesilea where were you?

Last year's T-shirt wasn't particularly wonderful but this year's is worse as it's in yellow Brazil colours but as L points out it will be good to bike in, visibility wise. I'm just not going to be seen around town in it. In fact I shall put the old one on to go out tonight.

We get home to find that Portsmouth have knocked Manchester United out of the FA Cup in the first of this weekend's quarter-finals. 1-0 to the underdog.

L spends the afternoon at the cinema with Daughter seeing James McAvoy and others in a film called Penelope. Which really doesn't sound like my sort of thing. Having abandoned Daughter at her father's in Derby, L comes home, runs a hot bath, pops the kettle on and offers to share both. I'm just standing in the hall, digesting that offer and chatting to her, when she inquires what I'm after. As if I'd be after something! She seems to imply that I might have been contemplating throwing her on the bed and ravishing her. Well obviously I wasn't but I don't wish to disappoint, after first stopping the bath water of course. It loosens the legs up a treat and it's what Achilles would have done.

In the evening we meet Son and get the Red Arrow over to Derby. We get a free ride because it is the end of the drivers shift and he's already turned his ticket machine off. Honestly they do waste money. We also somehow end up on an earlier bus than the one we intended which gives us probably too much drinking time.

We arrive in the pub just in time to catch the last five minutes of the second FA Cup quarterfinal. Barnsley are frantically defending a 1-0 lead against Chelsea. They hold on for another fabulous victory. So 2-0 to the underdog.

Among the beers is a decent one from Moles called 'Moleo and Juliet' after a few of these we head off with some friends to the rose petal adorned Anoki for a well-earned curry. Well we feel we've earned ours anyway. It's a decent meal but not one that would cause me to put the restaurant into my top ten curry houses. We order too much and Doggo is thrilled to have an assortment of Naan breads brought home for him.

Dodging The Cooking Oil

I'm up early because I'm taking my parents for our annual day out at Crufts. Our early start doesn't help much because a lorry had tipped all cooking oil over the M1/A50 junction and we end up getting sent the wrong way up the M1. We end up back where we started 80 minutes later. We take a different route this time and finally arrive at the NEC, just in time to see my club being knocked out of the team event.

The day is good but the arena becomes uncomfortably full when the hoards arrive for the Heelwork to Music competition. The traditionalists have been complaining about this because it takes the attention away from the fantastically dull breed judging. What they don't seem to realise is just how amazing dull the Heelwork to Music can be, zzzzzzzz. The Agility and the Flyball is where it's at.

L is off work today and does Gym, yoga and collects my bike for me. She's a star.

The hold up is still there on our way back and the chaos has impacted on many other roads, so it's a nightmare journey home as well.

L carbo loads me up in readiness for tomorrow, I stay AF and we have an early night, although I'm banned from doing anything that might be detrimental to my performance tomorrow. Which is a bit harsh but I cope.

Ahhh Memories

Bit of a nightmare morning. The 7.45 Red Arrow didn't turn up, well not until 8.00, when it turned up with the 8.05 right behind it. So I was late into work this morning.

L had a nightmare morning walk with Doggo, he was particularly crap on the lead this morning. I'm planning a run with him tonight so then it’ll be my turn to be hacked off with him. No squash tonight because we couldn't find a free squash court anywhere. It will get even harder to find one once Victoria is closed.



She says she contemplating swapping him at the rescue home. I would hope she'd fetch him back when she saw his little face staring out at her from their webpage.

Pub today. Acorn Porter. Very very nice and the ubiquitous cottage pie.

Deja vu on the way home as two Red Arrows again arrive arm in arm together at the bus stop. I wonder if they've been following each other around all day.

In the evening L has booked double torture at the Leisure Centre. Abs Blast followed by a Bums n Stuff session. I look forward to soothing her aching muscles after that. I do my planned run with Doggo around the pond and then we run up to meet her. Our run included a new world record for the slowest traverse of the grass verges by a dog. Honestly I could have crawled the length of the verges on my hands and knees quicker than that dog covered the distance tonight. Sniff sniff, lift leg, sniff bloody sniff, etc etc, for what seemed like hours.

Amazingly we get there to meet L on time. When we arrive we are treated to a familiar yell of pain from the football pitches. A yell that I fondly from my football days, the sound of someone going over on their ankle on the astro turf. Ahhh memories.

One of the players asks at the centre if they have an ice pack, cue lots of running around by centre staff locating one. This is followed out into the football pitch by someone else carrying the necessary paperwork that needs filling in...

We meet L, who looks in good shape post-torture and we walk back with her.

The evening consists of a 'summit' meeting with Son who hasn't exactly set the world alight with his first batch of AS results. Luckily the crazy system means he'll get chance to re-sit them.

We spend the rest of the night in with a bottle of red.

In For A Medical

It's -3 this morning, ideal cycling weather. However my bike is in for a much needed medical today so L kindly lends me her bike. I have to keep up the cycling because they say cyclists have fitness levels comparable to non-cyclists who are ten years younger and I'm going to need every year of that on Saturday.

I coax L's bike out of our shed and it reluctantly emerges blinking into the sunlight, it doesn't get out much. Riding her bike is an experience but a nice one. The absence of clip-in pedals confuses me, rather than having to twist my feet out I have to remember how to pull them out, this nearly causes an embarrassing moment or two. On the plus side, her gears remind me how slick mine used to be. I'm also relieved not to get a puncture because I have neither tube nor pump with me.

It's interesting to note that people who usually acknowledge me don't, I assume this is because I'm now on straight handlebars rather than drops and vice versa, people who ignored me before now say hi. How odd.

A chap blasts past me on his MTB at the lights cutting it fine before they change to red. He's obviously not been following the court case of the motorist who's been sentenced to four years in prison for hitting and killing a cyclist while she was texting on her mobile phone. A just sentence indeed but the cyclist didn't help himself, because he had gone through the lights on red when she struck him. He died of head injuries, presumably made worse because he had not been wearing a helmet, just as the chap passing me on his MTB wasn't.

Time wise, it's interesting to note I take almost exactly the same time to get to work as I normally do.

L does the honours with my bike and drops if off to be serviced, for which I'll be eternally grateful. So now both of us are being eternally grateful, which is very promising. The diagnosis is serious but not terminal, my chain is so shagged that its tension is off the tensionometer, I'm not sure whether to feel proud about that or not. Other parts surprisingly pass the MOT.

On the way back from dropping it off, L pops into a shop and buys herself a new vest. Which is apparently my fault. All the same I look forward to testing it out.

Yesterday L was moaning that someone had put a stash of biscuits in the coffee room at work. She avoided them yesterday but today she emails to say her computer has made her have four of them. Hmmm, bit rich blaming the computer for her indulgence. She says her PC is running that slow today it would be quicker and healthier to cycle her messages over to me, that is, if I hadn't got her bike.

As usual I go for my regular Wednesday swim and it's all happening at the Leisure Centre. When I arrive there's an argument going on between the management and a group of footballers, who for the second time have had their booking cancelled without either being given a reason or being notified. They'd even paid up front in cash. They got a refund and were offered their next booking for free. Unfortunately there are no free evening slots, they are offered 4pm but they point out they'll be at work then. Good job they're planning on closing some more leisure centres in Nottingham isn't it.



Save Victoria Leisure Centre here

It’s a lot quieter in the pool this week, thankfully. There's an odd sight in the next lane, there's a girl all wired up with headphones. I don't know if this is a waterproof mp3 player or whether she's got one of those devices that beeps in your ear to synchronise your stroke. L's got one of those, although not sure if she's used it. I could do with one to remind me when to take a breath, it might stop me inhaling so much water.

Unfortunately my legs don't feel up to many lengths, I think it's because of using L's bike and the saddle not being quite the right height for me. I get cramp, so I cut it short.

There's more excitement when I leave. A male swimmer is standing in the foyer area in just his trunks, dripping wet, remonstrating with a girl (fully clothed), and apologising profusely for standing her up (unintentionally). She doesn't look at all fazed or embarrassing by the scene he is creating (or the puddle) and gives as good as she gets. It attracts quite a crowd. I think he wins her round but she leaves him in no doubt that he's got work to do if he's hoping to get something out of her tonight.

L goes out for a long run and then on to Guides. Doggo and I go training again.

I’m the only one in the house not reading a smutty book at the moment; I'm feeling a bit left out. Son is studying Angela Carter's 'Wise Children' for his A Level. L does like to keep up with her children’s literary adventures, so she's started reading it too. It’s about two 75-year-old twin sisters reminiscing about their sex filled lives. L would also like to read Daughter's new book but she's up to her neck in Cholera at the moment. Daughter's now reading 'Fanny Hill' or 'Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure' as it's known but it'll have to go some to be better than Son's book with its constant sex scenes, on the train, in the bushes while the house burns, etc etc... It's enough to make you want an early night.

We Could Have Gone To See SLF

The weather has suddenly dipped cold again. L goes out for a slither around the papers with the dog while I manage to limp to the bus stop. The thigh I strained, either in Sunday's race or in the deep sand while training on Monday night probably isn't up to biking. Not with something else very silly coming up this the weekend.

As is usual at this time of the year, e.g. a few weeks before we go skiing, L is spotting all the skiing disasters in the news. Such as today's selection, 'Snowboarder falls 80ft to death' and 'Man dies as hurricane hits Alps'. That'll be my mate Emma then.

L leaves work a little early and goes home to sharpen her heels in readiness for tonight's gig. It sounds like she's expecting a crowd and she has said she intends to be on the front row.

Of course, we could have gone to see SLF, who are playing at Rock City tonight but instead we're at the Bodega Social Club for the third time in less than a month. The ink stains on my hand from the 'Bodega' stamp are getting more stubborn to remove with each visit. We're here to see the 'gorgeous' or is that 'delicious' Delays. L adores them and her adjective to describe them varies depending on her mood. So I'm being the dutiful partner, sacrificing a mosh to the ageing punks and instead spoiling her, a kind of anniversary treat, and she has promised to be eternally grateful.

We arrive just as the support come on stage. They are called Scarlet Soho and like the Delays come from deepest Hampshire and their influences exist somewhere in the dark spaces between the Associates, Visage and Tubeway Army. Consisting of two men and a girl, their pumping 80's beat is good at first but grates very quickly. They diversify little, occasionally bordering on Communards style disco, occasionally on glam. At one point we think they're about to launch into 'Ballroom Blitz' but they don't. It's almost all synths but the drummer is very good, although I can't see him on stage. For ages I'm convinced that they don't know how to turn him off because they don't pause between songs at all, until right near the end. They occasionally pick up guitars and bass but can't seem to summon up more than the most rudimentary of chords.

The Delays take ages getting set up, or rather one of their road crew takes ages, he does a longer stint on stage than the support band do, continually tuning and re-tuning all the gear. I'm tempted to shout out some requests for him.

The venue is filling up; it could even be a sell out, although it's a surprise to see the Delays at such a small venue. Their records have always brought critical response for their Cocteau's meets early 90's shoegazing sound (you remember Slowdive, don't you?), if not loads of sales. I had the luck to see them three years ago supporting the Manic Street Preachers, so I'm one up on L there, when I thought they sounded a bit like early Lush, during their ethereal period.

I can't see the old chap who was down the front at the Von Bondies last week, bet he's at SLF, the swine. There are two girls behind us giving me earache, talk talk talk. I know what one of them has had for tea, what she's doing over Easter and I don't know how she's going to get her essay on Latin American History done on time.

Where as Scarlet Soho knew only one chord, Greg Gilbert of the Delays clearly knows a few more, quite a lot more. The four piece from Southampton start the night with the 'woo woo' sound of 'Long Time Coming', then treat us to a set of favourites, that even I know, together with a few tasters from their forthcoming third album which is to be called 'Everything's The Rush'. The first of which 'Touchdown' seems a bit miserable (Slowdive again!) but the new stuff they play later is better.



Only three tracks in and Greg seems to have forgot the set list because he tells us 'this ones about chavs' and then apologies for giving misinformation before bursting into a bouncy 'Hideaway' which clearly isn't. In fact he tells us that of all the next few tracks are about chavs, I think he's having a go at his brother Aaron on keyboards because it's not until Aaron takes off his very chav jacket that they finally play said song, which turns out to be 'This Town's Religion'. A gutsy track I wasn't familiar with off the 'You See Colours' album, which sparkles tonight. I will have to listen to that again.



Greg is very comfortable with the crowd, chatting almost constantly. The rest of the band seem content to stay in the background. They treat us to their new single 'Hooray' which sounds poppy, dare I say it's got a touch of the Hoosiers about it. It's ok but not as good as 'Love Made Visible', their last single, which sounds impressive tonight.

A new song called 'Pieces' is a complex 'piece' that will need a few listens. Greg tells us it's been around for a while but they couldn't decide on the right arrangement.

People are pushing forwards a touch and it's getting quite cosy down the front. I think the girl behind me is rubbing her chest up my back. She can pack that in, I'm not helping her with her essay, in any case I know nothing about Latin American History.

He dedicates 'Nearer Than Heaven' to anyone who bought 'Faded Seaside Glamour' and invites them to sing along, which is just so wrong because nobody in the audience can get their voices anywhere near high enough to do it justice. Greg himself though isn't so falsetto tonight with the exception of this track and the closing track 'Valentine', which goes down a storm. A whole set of falsetto would have been too much. The band sound decidedly rockier tonight. I'm suitably impressed.



I'm wrong about nobody in the crowd being able to hit the high notes, a chap shouts for an encore by doing a very good impression of the 'woo woo' high bits in Valentine. The roadie chap is back on stage fiddling with things, we now know his name is Robbie. I think Robbie is desperate to be in a band.

They return to play a storming 'Panic Attacks' which is much better than on record and then close the night with a rapturous 'You And Me'. After reminding us 'We Are Delays' for the umpteenth time, they're gone.

We could have gone to see SLF but we didn't. It was a good call and L did take me home to express her gratitude.