The Old Dinosaur

They say to be an 'urban' cyclist you need a fancy bike and a death wish. Well today I have considerably less of the former and much more of the latter because I cycle to work today on the old dinosaur, the bike that was previously tethered in part-retirement in our spare room as our turbo trainer. I have to say that riding to work on it was not the most brilliant of experiences. Firstly, I had to return home for a quick mechanical adjustment because the seat was too low so. It still wasn't right though but I didn't really have time to play with it. Not only was the seat still too low, it was also loose and pivoted backwards and forwards at will. As for the gears, they were no better than mine, and mine are full of road salt. I arrive at work with very sore knees which serves me right for not taking the time to set it up properly.

L chirpily emails to find out how it went and to ask whether I've made a decision on Caythorpe yet. Oh I don’t know. I’m in such turmoil. I don’t think I can do it on Dino, the debate now is whether I can do it on L's bike or not. As L points out I wouldn't look particularly intimidating with straight handlebars and trainers. She says the word 'novice' springs to mind. Ahhhhhhhh, she shouldn't say things like that.

A couple of chaps from work went out running after work last night, perhaps I've inspired them. They reckon they were doing 8-minute miles. Now they’ve gone and asked me if I could pace them round at a faster pace. Fame at last. Of course pacers never hit the pace that they’re supposed to... They could regret asking...

One of them wants to do a bit of running before he ‘retires’ from it at 40. He says you're not expected to be fit when you get to 40, you’re just not allowed to be fat. Sounds like he's having a crisis before his mid-life crisis.

I ride Dino home but I skip the swim, I'm not sure my knees could take battling with the psychos as well and by now my arms are starting to ache too. I will go tomorrow; I don't have squash tomorrow.

The fact that I get to eat two meals tonight cheers me up a touch. Daughter is off out and is dining in 'style' at the bowling alley, so I have hers but then L cooks daal for us both later. I need to keep my strength up. In between meals, I have to hobble through dog class. Where, as you can imagine, Doggo's weaves are perfect, but of course they won't be come Saturday.

They Don't 'Do' Numbers Anymore

In the car today, partly because I wasn't yesterday and I need to go to Sainsbury's but also because we have 'another' manic evening planned.

L runs from work to Pilates while I head home. I cook pasta and do the dog before being summoned to collect L. Naturally Doggo comes along for the ride.

L's been telling me she's been looking forward to tonight but she had me worried last week when she mentioned the upcoming Sunshine Underground gig. So she could be in for a disappointment because that's not who we're seeing. Tonight its Leeds oddities ¡Forward, Russia! with their artful industrial rock and interesting line in typography. I really need to get a few more long words in, I think I've been slipping of late and I don't want complaints.

We miss the interestingly named 'Cats and cats and cats' but catch the end of 'Johnny Foreigner' who are an intriguing three-piece, two lads, one girl from Birmingham. They produce one hell of a noise with their fast and loud, scuzzy guitars. They consist of a slightly mental guitarist (male), lots of whaling and screaming, together with his slightly calmer sidekick on bass (female). Between them they enjoy quite a bit of boy-girl vocal interplay, well mainly shouting. It's actually quite a potent mix, a bit like the Subways on valium. Oodles of energy and an interesting aggressive sound, rough at the edges but also rather charming, worth another listen.



Last time we saw ¡Forward, Russia! we were in the sweatbox of the Health & Safety nightmare that is Junktion 7, tonight we have space and room to breathe in a half-full Rescue Rooms. Daughter is with us again but it's her first time at the Rescue Rooms. She gets asked for id at the door to see if she's allowed to order food. I think the girl on the door had had too many shandies, I think she meant drink!

Tickets obviously haven't apparently been selling like hot cakes, it’s clearly going to be an intimate gig, and we don't have any problems getting down the front. Where the road crew are double and triple taping the cable to the main microphone which means that the band must be due and said microphone is in for a bit of ill treatment.

Guitarist and main spokesperson Whiskas introduces the first track, 'Spring is a condition'. Yep you heard right, the band that only did songs by numbers now have tracks with proper titles, you know with words in them. They don’t ‘do’ numbers anymore. This seems to be to allow them to let they're imagination run wild, hence we get titles like 'Don't reinvent what you don't understand', which is second up tonight.

Yes, from a commercial point of view, I can see the point of titles but personally I would have retained the numbers alongside. The band will never sound 'commercial', I mean you're unlikely to ever see a ¡Forward, Russia! CD on the shelves of your local Tesco. If you ask Mr or Mrs Average about the band, you'll probably get a very blank look. This is probably why the turn out tonight is slightly disappointing. The numbers were a good gimmick and bands need gimmicks.

The average person, perhaps, just isn’t ready for Tom Woodhead but all the same, welcome back Tom, we've missed you screaming in our faces. From the moment the first chord is launched, he is off on one, into his usual manic convulsions, as if his feet have been plugged into the mains supply.



The punk-funk of 'Twelve' gets the crowd moving and Tom too of course, spiralling himself up in his microphone cord as he launches into something I assume he thinks is a dance routine.

Next we get a brooding rendition of last years 'Don't be a Doctor' and recent single 'Breaking Standing' which highlights their newer more gentle sound. A record that was of course criminally overlooked.

'A Prospector can Dream' is more like their old tried and tested formula, with its pounding, dense rhythm. Whereas a lot of the new 'Life Processes' album sees them adopting a generally more thoughtful sound.

We get a couple of 'numbers' from 2006's 'Give Me A Wall'. One of my favourite albums of that year. I get a poke in the back as L's favourite 'Nineteen' makes an appearance followed by another old favourite in 'Thirteen' accompanied by the appropriate vocal histrionics from Tom.



Tom is now giving the microphone, the expected ill treatment and swinging it around his head. Thankfully it looks like they've done a good job with that extra tape and there's more room on the stage for them here, at Junktion 7 it appeared as if they were practically stacked on top of each other.

Bassist Rob Canning is his usual anonymous self while Whiskas chitchats with the crowd. He tries to get some football banter going as it appears he's a Forest fan despite the fact that the band hail from Leeds. It falls flat because I think most of the audience are transient students and not locals. He makes his apologies to a chap who he was watching the football with next door because he told him that they expected to be on stage at 9.30, when in fact they took the stage a 9.00. 'Yeah, you bastard' comes the reply. Apology accepted then.

Last time, the perspiration was simply pouring off Katie behind her drum kit, regrettably tonight it isn't. In fact she plays the efficient ice maiden throughout and barely breaks sweat.

Newbie 'Gravity and Heat' with it's quieter, prettier parts leads us into their debut record 'Nine', which still sounds fresh and different. Tom promptly goes off on another yelping hissy fit, gyrating away to the juddering beat.

Whiskas tells us we're a 'nice audience', as long as we haven't got our Daughters locked up in our basements. Topical eh? I'm not sure there are many here who have Daughters and ours is stood beside us.

Towards the end we get the predictable bingo calling routine as people shout for their favourite tracks by number. I'm not even convinced that some of the numbers being called actually exist as tracks.



They finish with two new tracks. One of those new wordy titles 'A shadow is a shadow is a shadow'. The new stuff doesn't quite grab you by the throat and spit at you like the old stuff does but it's still not bad. It's more melodic and with tracks like the nine-minute long 'Spanish Triangles' which they close with tonight, they try and be 'epic' but I'm not sure it totally works. A song they describe as 'needing to get out of our system'. They are joined by Bentley the technician on guitar, although his talent in this department seems limited. I think he's there to add a bit of glamour, I think L fancies him.

They return very swiftly for an encore, as if they were worried the crowd might change their mind. They play a storming 'Fifteen', part two naturally.

¡Forward, Russia! may not ‘do’ numbers anymore but they still do throbbingly good gigs.

Back home, slightly deaf and with 'Fifteen' still throbbing through my head we retire to bed, where it appears that L's knee is much better.

Deluding Myself

Oddly for a Monday I'm on the bus. L needs the car tonight and I need to stay in Derby for the Rams' 25th defeat of the season. I only have a £20 note so I seriously doubt that they'll let me on the bus. Thankfully they do, although I now have a pocket full of loose change.

I struggle to work, carrying a wad of entries forms as thick as a copy of War & Peace, which my agent picked up from the running shop on Saturday. Then she emails me with a tempting offer and Ooooo do I fancy some of that. The Caythorpe Duathlon next Sunday. Although I don't have my bike. L says we have a huge array of bikes. Err yes... the kid's two heavy mountain bikes, L's old shopper bike, my old bike from when I was twelve... hmmm... don’t fancy any of them. It’s either use L's or the veteran beast that is our turbo bike. I plan to audition the turbo bike on Wednesday, so a decision will have to wait until then. Of course, it'll mean another low alcohol Saturday but Duathlons are a bit of a rarity.

I finally get the result for Doggo's one decent run at the show last week. We came 5th in the Agility, out of 143, so not a bad showing. L points out that he did better than I did yesterday. She means 'we' did better. We're a reluctant team.

I run to my parents and get the honour of someone blowing their car horn at me as they go past. I would like to think that the two occupants were female but I'm probably deluding myself.

We head off to the match, which as predicted ends in defeat but it's actually quite an enjoyable one, as massacres go. Derby pull it back to 3-2 with only 12 minutes left but Arsenal, I think, were clearly just toying with us and it finishes 6-2. At least we got slaughtered by a decent side this time.

Here's an interesting dilemma, whose name do I put on my 'Player of the Season' voting form. I have a horrible suspicion that Darren Moore is going to win but if they take into account the goal he gave away today he won't. Shocking. All the same, I reckon he'll get the sympathy vote. He's an excellent professional and it's not really his fault he's past it and was nothing special in the first place. Be a nice farewell present for him. I hope!

Because I'm out, L has arranged a dog friendly run over in Derby which is why she needs the car. So after the match I walk to Chaddesden to try and catch the R5 but miss it. The crowds leaving the football are just too dense to get through. So I walk back into Derby for the Red Arrow, quicker in the long run than waiting for the next slow bus.

Not Sucked In

Today's 'training' run isn't until 11am so thankfully, as it's my birthday and I've moved a year closer to drawing my pension, there's time for a proper lie-in.

We've just got up when my father rings; he's at the race start. Where are we? He's a touch early, which for someone who normally finds being on time quite a challenge is somewhat amazing.

We're at Underwood, which is just the other side of Eastwood. Which is so local it would have been rude not to have entered. In fact it's almost close enough to have ran there. L recommends the run because she says it's very pretty route, which is code for bloody hilly. I know, I've checked. I plotted the profile against my bike route through Ilkeston and they’re very similar e.g. it's so un-flat that I'd hate to bike around it.

Oddly after the unsettling experience of deciding to part with £81 on new 'fast' trainers, I decide not to wear them. It is the convention, as with horses and other wayward beings, to break them in first. Of course you could say that as this is just a 'training' run, it could be good breaking in territory but... well I don't.

Before the start, we have a problem with Doggo, it's a touch warm today, so leaving him in the car in the middle of the housing estate where we've parked does not appeal. So we strap him to a lamppost by my father. Naturally he goes mental as we walk up to the start but he's just overreacting.

The pace from the start is quite quick, possibly because it's downhill but as this is just a 'training' run, everyone else can run as fast as they like. I'm not bothered. I'm not being sucked in.

We have to run back past where Doggo is tethered, which is a tad inconvenient. I try and run on the far side of the road, hoping he won't see me. I'm trying not to look at him but out of the corner of my eye, I'm sure I can see him looking at me, out of the corner of this eye, pretending not to notice, pretending not to be bothered, either than or he's got his eye on what that child next to him is eating.

The watch says 7.13 for 2k, blimey that's a bit rapid but I'm not being sucked in. It's just because it's downhill and what goes down must come back up. Yep here we go, a big long hill.

I'm good at hills though and I metronome my way past about six runners. Ha, that was easy. Still not sucked in though.

Downhills are not so much my thing, I'm fine with them, but my knees and ankles are less keen. This is another reason why I stuck with my excruciatingly 'slow' but very well cushioned trainers. Unfortunately some of the other runners do seem to like the downhills, particularly a long legged bloke who bounds down them seemingly in two or three strides. Hmmm, if this wasn't a 'training' run...

33.16 after 8km, which is err... quicker than last week. Freaky. This is supposed to be a slow course and of course I'm wearing 'slow' trainers.

I yo-yo with the Mr Longlegs for a bit, uphill me in front, downhill him in front. His long stride means he keeps avoiding my attempts to trip him up. Still not sucked in but clearly he needs to be dealt with, so on a long hill near the end, I burn him off. All good training.

I casually jog home well inside the top 20 out of 115 entrants in a time of just over 42 minutes which is a surprisingly good time for a hilly training run in 'slow' trainers; perhaps I should have allowed myself to be sucked in, just a little bit, after all.

A chap who lives locally to us crosses the line and between gasps for air, asks me how I've done. Hmmm, I'm not sure what the etiquette is in these cases. Well obviously I've beaten him but should I let him know I've trounced him or is that bad form and should I ask him what his time was. This is all unknown ground for me. So I give it to him straight. He turns his back on me and starts talking to someone else. Guess I'm off his Christmas card list then.

I rescue the dog from his lamppost and we cheer L in, who does another good time and she'll be pleased to know, what she says is the most important thing, is that they're loads behind her.

Back home, a friend of mine pushes a card through the door and then legs it without knocking. I rush outside to see him, to thank him, but his car doesn't stop as I run down the street after him. He'd make a good bus driver.

In house present delivery suffers a dose of the Terminal 5's, Son's arrives at 4.30pm, Daughter's at 6pm, possibly temporarily lost in the black hole. L's was bang on midnight last night; I like a punctual girl.

In the evening, possibly against her better judgement, L's promised to indulge me, as it's my birthday. So it's beer, curry and an evening in a short skirt. Her, that is, not me. We wanted to try a new Indian Restaurant in Nottingham tonight but apparently they close at 8.00 on a Sunday. How inconsiderate. Don't they realise that it’s my birthday and I’ve been put through the hell of Underwood. Oh well, instead we trek over to Derby to the normally reliable Flowerpot for beer. It’s not quite up to scratch tonight, although this is partly because they sneak a couple of 5%-ers on the bar without telling me.

We return to Nottingham, to our local Indian for the curry part, where it's student night. £8.50 all in but for some reason they don't offer it to us.

30 Units, it was birthday week.

The Cost Of 'Fast' Trainers

A frustrating morning. I head down into town at 8.30 to get my bike checked out. The diagnosis is that the gears are clogged up with road salt, only problem is their workshop is booked up solid for three weeks. All the same they take my bike off me, hoping to fit it in sometime. So I don't know when I'll see my trusty steed again.

Bike-less, so I jog home because a man is coming to quote for a new fence at 10am. He's late, which costs me the chance of returning to bed for a delayed lie-in. Instead Doggo and I cut the lawn, then my coach talks me into going over to a running shop in Derby to get some proper trainers. I part with £81 for 'fast' trainers, so they better be pretty damn fast.

We detour to my parents place, so that I can drop some clothes off there. My latest mad plan is to run there for the match on Monday.

L starts cooking up some carbs for our pre-race meal but my brother drops in, shouldn't complain really, to drop off a birthday card. Surprisingly Doggo doesn't try and savage him, they don't usually get on.

Later we walk down to Broadway. I have an EPA, I'm not being AF pre-race this time; you can have too much of a bad thing and it's only a 'training' run tomorrow.

Tonight's film is Happy-Go-Lucky (with hyphens), the latest film from Mike Leigh.

Poppy Cross (Sally Hawkins) is thirty and a Primary School teacher working in London. Her approach to life is to not take anything too seriously or preferably not seriously at all. Of course there's nothing wrong in being upbeat but she is annoyingly cheerful, far too 'up' for her own good and it actually makes her into an immensely irritating individual, along with her equally exasperating friends and her sisters. However once you get past your initial annoyance at her, the film grabs you as it contrasts Poppy with the other characters in the film and their different approaches to life.

Her younger sister is very downbeat with exams looming and pulls no punches with her comments. Her other sister has settled down, got married, is pregnant, has a house and a pension but is bitterly jealous of Poppy's freedom. Her fellow teachers have equally dull lives. Her headmaster's weekly highlight is a Flamenco class hosted by a teacher with men issues. Another teacher, Tash is swamped by the demands of her large family.

Despite being supposedly happy with her lot, Poppy has no boyfriend, which is presumably because she's simply unliveable with. Less clear is why her saner flatmate Zoë (Alexis Zegerman) is single.



She also doesn't drive; instead she cycles everywhere. The reason for this, I assume, is because she is incapable of taking anything seriously it makes her un-teachable when it comes to driving. This is proven when, after the theft of her bike, she decides to learn.

Her policy in life seems to be to try and make everyone else happy but that is not a challenge she is set to win when faced with Scott, her practically psychopathic driving instructor (Eddie Marsan). Scott is the exact opposite of happy. He's an angry, frustrated, lunatic of a man tortured by his past. He berates her for wearing heels and for not concentrating. She dangerously pushes her luck too far with him. An oddity in the film is that we are told her driving lessons cost £22.50, yet Poppy always pays in notes and never receives any change. I wonder why she's tipping him?



Her urge to do good and make people happy takes her into some dangerous situations such as when she befriends a homeless man but also reaps dividends when she correctly diagnoses a boy at school who has trouble at home and she calls in a social worker. Bizarrely the social worker asks her out. Seemingly not being satisfied dealing with troubled children he also fancies a go at the not-so-grown-up Poppy.

It all makes for very watchable viewing. There's some great scenes, one of Poppy in colourful tights and a g-string getting her back sorted by a physiotherapist, springs to mind.

Regardless of what happens in her life Poppy never stops smiling. Her attitude, irritating though it can be, is probably a lot better than the approach taken by other people in her life and that’s perhaps the point Mike Leigh is trying to make.

An excellent film.

We head home for another excellent dessert from L, this time sticky toffee pudding, which is very authentic and will hopefully help me to a fast 'training' run tomorrow.

A Day For Nutters

Tapering on the bus today.

I read in Cycling Weekly that due to the recent bad weather someone claims to have recorded 105km non-stop on an exercise bike. The chap reports that his knee went at 75km but he carried on. He says it's a good job he stayed in or he'd probably be in some ditch with his legs sticking out a bush. Hmmm. 105km on an exercise bike? Why?

There are some characters on the bus on the way home. First we have to put up with a young art student on her mobile. You could tell she was an art student from how badly she was dressed. I also reckon she used to be quite pretty once, before she decided to put all that metalwork in her face. I was surprised it didn't interfere with her mobile reception.

Thankfully, at least at first, she is drowned out by a real 100% nutter. At first he's entertaining as he starts telling some poor chap about how good the bus service is before seamlessly changing subjects several times to take in the creation of the diesel engine, motorcycle despatch riders, how it was better when cars had their engines in the back, oh and all sorts of inane stuff I've since forgotten. In the end, we were all wishing metalwork girl would talk up a bit louder to drown him out.

No lycra and no aches to be massaged tonight, cheese on toast and a run to Beeston instead. The Grantham Stout and the Adnams Broadside are equally impressive, so to be fair, I have equal amounts of both.

Must be a day for nutters because a bloke in the pub tries to befriend me, and anyone else he can persuade, in his quest to borrow someone's mobile phone. He doesn't seem to have any success and eventually slopes off but not before he's spent a fair amount at the bar, money he could have put into a pay phone... I smell a scam.

Please Smile At The Weirdo

Today is 'Walk to Work Day', the point of which is to encourage people to walk because generally they don't realise its actually quicker than getting the bus/tube because they don't factor in all the hanging around waiting, queuing, stuck in traffic etc etc.

I'm on the bus myself but then again 15 miles is a bit far to walk to work (suppose they all use that excuse) but I do intend to run the last 5 miles. I don't think the woman getting on in Stapleford and then getting off two stops later realises it's 'Walk to Work Day', but then again looking at her, she looks very unfit, perhaps I'm being unfair and she's working her way up to it.

It starts out as a nice morning but as I disembark from the bus and set off on my run, it starts to get darker and darker. It's not looking promising. I run into a work colleague, not quite literally, thankfully, as he's on his bike and he rides part of the way with me. That's all I need another coach.

As usual I smile at everyone I pass, trying to get them to acknowledge me. They do say that the world always looks better from behind a smile, plus it makes people wonder what you've been up to. Naturally I have little success, some people do smile back, and a select few even exchange a 'good morning' with me. Some just look puzzled as they try and work out if I'm someone they know, others just look the other way, thinking 'weirdo'.

I pass a lovely old lady cycling along the footpath; she always wishes me a good morning. Old people always appreciate a smile, plus they are less likely to take offence and thump you one. I always see her, whatever the time, even though sometimes she's going in the other direction. I get the impression she spends all day just going up and down the footpath.

Five minutes from work it starts to drizzle, thankfully it saves the downpour for later. For the rest of the day the weather seems to alternate between violent rainstorms and glorious sunshine. Somehow I manage to get out to the sandwich van during a dry spell. L says they've had hail in Nottingham. Well it's her own fault because she was really pushing her luck, biking to work after putting the washing out, no wonder it’s stormy.

Just to prove the point for 'Walk to Work Day', the Red Arrow gets stuck in traffic on the A52 because some one has impressively rolled their vehicle on to its roof and demolished a large section of the crash barrier. No serious injuries apparently.

So I get home late and rush off to squash, where I get trounced. I blame my tired legs. As football managers always say the result doesn't tell the full story. Every game was very close; I just didn't win any of them. We retire for a beer in the Globe, which is now our usual. It's quite a nice real ale pub that gets its name from the Globe Cinema which was adjacent to the site but closed in 1972.

Squash opponent exercised, I head home and take Doggo out for his turn. We see L and Daughter on the way, who are just returning from an 'Introduction To Medicine' lecture at the Medical School. Dr Daughter here we come.

Back home we hit the red wine, L more so than me. At one point she's just finishing off her glass when she realises that it's not hers but mine, hers is already empty. Must have been a hard day. I take a port to bed to compensate.

S&M Night

Not a good cycle in today, I'm having problems with my gears again. I can't get into any gear other than the really low ones. So it was a really slow ride because on the downhills and the flats my pedalling couldn't keep up with the speed of the bike, so I had to free wheel until it slowed down. Just to rub it in, it starts to rain on me, and I had to stop to put waterproofs on.

Tried to do a self-assessment on the internet, never a good idea, it looks like my rear hanger may have gone. Not that I know what one of those is. So it looks like another trip to the bike shop.

Bet L's jealous that I didn't manage to get any speed up, she says she doesn't do speed. She certainly won't if she gets the trailer she's mentioned today because she can't fit all her assorted sports kit into her backpack.

Daughter is off bowling next week, which isn't a story in itself but she was last seen gathering together the fee for it, £2.50 in 5p, 2p, and 1p pieces into a large carrier bag. So she'll be popular when she delivers that lot.

I limp my bike to the pool where it's very quite in lane two, so I eagerly leap in. Then I realise why everyone's in the other lanes, the only other occupant in my lane, is an old-ish chap in low-slung shorts, who looks like he's going to lose them at any moment. It's not a pretty sight.

Dog class, perfect weaves of course. Except for on our last run, when he gets them but it was close. So I decide to redo them at which point everything falls apart. Quit whilst you're ahead, springs to mind.

S&M tonight. As its St George's Day, we thought we ought to do something traditionally English. So Sausage and Mash it is, with onion gravy. Almost as English as Chicken Tikka Masala, but we didn't fancy that.

Positive Feedback

L employs some pretty underhand tactics to try and get out of our pre-planned run this morning, which at 6am is pretty impressive from a girl who doesn't do mornings, but it isn't going to work. So much for her being my agent. I have to take on my other role as her fitness coach and rise above her diversionary strategy and take her around the pond.

Almost come a cropper going around the pond, nothing to do with tired legs or the uneven ground, it's just that there are dogs everywhere. At times you just don't know where to put your feet.

It seems to do the trick with Doggo. After having his edges knocked off, he's a saint on his paper round and then when I leave work, he vacates the bed at only the second time of asking.

L's quiet on email. I wonder whether she's nodded off, I nearly did on the way here. Which is why I don't like running and then driving to work. In the car again today because it's D-day at Son's college tonight, e.g. parents evening.

My legs seem to be back working again after Sunday and L says her knee is fine apart from stairs, kerbs, and yoga. Which doesn't sound that fine to me. Oh and kneeling, her physio has banned her from kneeling. So no grovelling this week.

Son's parents evening goes much better than expected. Well the first miracle was that we got to go at all, as Son was hoping we'd missed it and was even more put out when he realised that he was supposed to accompany us.

I half expected the lecturers to ask us to take him away and not bring him back, as on the surface it hadn't gone well, and we hadn't been getting much positive feedback from Son. Well actually we hadn't been getting any feedback from Son unless shrugs and tuts count. His lecturers though were generally enthusiastic and very positive about the whole thing. It's just a shame that none of this enthusiasm and positivity rubs off on Son, particularly as it's only 19 days to his first exam.

Get home in enough time to take Doggo on the park, although we have to leg it to get out before they lock the gates, five minutes early of course.

Birthday Treat?

I have problems again this morning with my stroppy pet, that's Doggo not L. I'm last to leave the house and I have to pull a tactical manoeuvre on him. I close the lounge door which naturally causes him to go hide in the bedroom, so I go and stand outside. It took a while, because I’m sure he knew it was a ruse, but eventually curiosity got the better of him and he had to come to see what I was doing, at which point I quickly shut the bedroom door on him and left. He looked furious.

It takes a while but after to getting to work, in the car, my legs slowly start coming back into use. L's had no choice but to recover quicker than me because she's had to cycle to the physio this morning and to top it all she's done the gym as well.

The physio says she's got a misaligned kneecap. It points in the wrong direction. This makes her 10k time yesterday seem even better, can't have been easy with her knees pointing in different directions. She has some exercises to do, which is something to look forward to. I'm sure Doggo is too, he loves joining in.

Someone presents me with today’s paper with the 10k results in. There’s also a video on ‘This Is Derbyshire’ of everyone crossing the bridge at the start and not a bad shot of me.

L's already told me that she needs to have something in her diary for after Derby, so we’re already booked into the Underwood 10k, which is... err... this Sunday. So no rest for the wicked and what's more this is going to be my birthday treat... Joy.

What's worse is she's suggesting triathlons for me as well. I tell her she sounds like my agent. She says she is, my errant father is my photographer, and my personal trainer is currently curled up on our sofa. Well as long as my agent promises to de-stress my personal trainer and I in the pub afterwards, I shall look into it.

I uncover a scandal in Sainsbury's, when I disturb a couple of adulterers down by the breakfast cereals. I had to interrupt their argument to reach for my Weetaflakes. She was apologising for not being round to see him because she hadn't been able to get away from her husband. She also assured him it was all over with Ian. How many has she got on the go? A cereal offender down by the Weetaflakes. Sorry couldn't resist but you just couldn't make it up. Oh go on then, it wasn't by the Weetaflakes but in the next aisle by the cakes but it was close enough. She's clearly having her cake and eating it too.

Dog class in the evening, in which Doggo performs without pace and without weaving, a bit like the weekend. Hmmmm.

It's A Conspiracy

Just got to mention that skiing in Scotland was on the front page of the Times over the weekend. We're almost at the end of April and many resorts in the Alps have already closed for the season. Yet, in Scotland, where allegedly it doesn't snow anymore, Cairngorm Mountain had all its runs open and thousands of skiers were skiing right to the bottom of the mountain. In fact they've had an excellent season; they opened on 1st December and have had excellent conditions all through January, March, and April. It was just February that was duff, which of course is when we were there.



Standing outside Pride Park on the start line for the Derby 10k, I feel I'm the only one with a hissing sound running through their head, courtesy of part shattered eardrums from last night. I'm probably also the only one humming 'The day, you move, I'm probably gonna explode' as we start, unless L is too.

I've got myself into a good position at the start and it only takes six seconds to cross the start line, the pace is fast and the 1km marker is soon approaching. With a quick glance at my watch, I calculate that I could be there in three and half minutes. Ludicrous. Thankfully it is, I've never been very good at judging distances and it takes me just over four minutes to get there. Bang on 40-minute pace, just like at Lincoln. Ah but it all went wrong there. At Lincoln I managed to keep it going for around 6km but here I don't get the chance because, along with everyone else, I miss the 2, 3, and 4 km markers. Where were they hiding them?



Thankfully the organisers have laid on two official pacers, that's what it says on the plastic plaques on their backs, to help people crack the big 40. The thing is, neither of them look like sub-40 men, and one of them doesn't even look that fit but hey, appearances can be deceptive.

Then again, perhaps not. One of the pacers drops the other soon after the first km and I stay easily with him, which doesn't seem right. I feel that he isn't going fastest enough, so another five minutes down the road I push on, drop him and go it alone. It's a good job because when I do see a marker at 5km I'm 30 seconds down on where I need to be. Some pace making. It's a conspiracy to keep me over 40 minutes isn't it.

I have to say I wasn't terribly keen on the route, although apparently it went round the scenic sights of Derby (not!) but I was generally too busy to notice. L was planning to do some window-shopping, not sure what in, most of the shops we passed had been victims of the 'Derby shopping boom' and were empty.

The city centre bit was also not at all conducive to a quick time, there were too many sharp corners which upset my tempo, not to mention some slippery paved sections. It was also a bit disruptive going up and down the kerbs, but that was just me trying to cut the corners. At least there was nothing as bad as the horrible cobbles in Lincoln.

On the plus side it was fairly flat apart from having to climb back over the bridge on to Pride Park, which was strength sapping. Then after battling your way back to the stadium they cruelly send you on a big 3km loop around David Lloyds, to make up the distance.

There also has to be a big question mark over their km marking. At 8km, I seemed well off pace having taken 4.47 for the last km but by 9km I was easily back on it having done that km in 3.27. Which, without any deliberate change of pace, just doesn't seem feasible.

The race finishes inside the stadium and finally we get there. Rammie is lurking inside and I believe the tradition is to high-five him but that could have had disastrous effects on my time so I duck that particular challenge.

I break the top 120 and as I was aiming for top 150, I'm pleased with that. More importantly I break the 41 minutes barrier, if only by 4 seconds but its still progress. Long way to go to the big 40 though. Although the general opinion seems to be that the course was probably a little over 10k and with all those slow corners, who knows.

Nigel Clough was supposed to be there greeting all the finishers but when I got there he was stood having his photo taken with his arms around the three sweaty babes who'd took the top places in the women's race. Cheers for the support Nige, but I don't blame you mate.

Someone else who seemed none too impressed with him is another girl who is stood just behind the four of them casting imaginary daggers into their backs, I assume she came 4th.

Inside the concourse there were some gentle looking girlies and some evil looking blokes offering free massages, potluck I suppose but I need to get back to see where my girl is.

L comes round the edge of the stadium on 56 minutes meaning her sub-60 is on the cards. I rush back inside to see her finish, she does really well, 59-something or rather 58-something as she abruptly corrects me once she's got her breath back, referring to her chip time as opposed to the finish clock. So she's feeling very smug after getting back under the hour and with room to spare.

Overall it was well-organised race, well marshalled and with an excellent quality Mizuno technical shirt given out at the finish.

There's a good turn out from my family, my ever-present Father was there of course and not particularly in the way for once, but even my Mother made it to this one. To top it all, my Brother turned up to support, it's just a shame I was too quick for him and he missed my finish.

Post run we take Doggo around to my folks place for a bit of a gallop before heading home. I'm expecting a chap round to give me a price for some fencing. He turns out to be quite dubious but he's on time, so that after a bacon sandwich we can share a hot bath and do a proper warm down.

Later we manage the long walk to the Fox and Crown, where both the Brush and Vixens are in very good shape. The Stout is well on the turn though, so we don't revisit that one. We stagger there due to tired legs and then stagger back because of the beer. We have a bit of a cheese thing when we get home.

28 units - bingo, spot on.

Love, Squalor But No Swordfish Bikini

Doggo and I are at a dog show today but looking at the schedule we have our first event at 8.30am but probably not any of our other three events until around 2pm. The temptation to skip the first event totally and thereby free up the entire morning for lounging around in bed with L is huge. In the end I compromise and decide to turn up late for the first event and hope we can still do it, this at least allows for an extra hour or so in bed.

When we get there, we do manage to fit the first event in but because we weren’t there on time we don't get the advantage of walking it. Despite that we do a clear round but the jobsworth of a judge eliminates us because having been so pleased with Doggo, I slip him a treat before we leave the competition ring. This is against the rules but I, like a lot of people, have been getting away with it for years.

I was a touch over optimistic with my prediction of 2pm for our next run; its 3.45pm when we finally get our second run and then we do three in quick succession. There's one key point to mention about our first run this morning, there were no weaves in the course. So our 'clear' round this morning is followed by two weave failures and then finally a clear round in the last event that didn't have any. We probably got a placing in that but by now it's 5.30pm and I don't stick around. I head home, we have another gig tonight. The results will be on the internet sometime in the next millennium.

Perhaps it's all because I forgot to get any sausage for Doggo. As L pointed out last night 'He'll be worse than useless without a sausage inside him'.

It's our third time at Rock City in seven days and we arrive nice and early, and catch most of the support band, Oxford Collapse. They are from New York, just like tonight's headliners but more specifically from Brooklyn, which according to We Are Scientists makes a difference. Oxford Collapse are not a new band, having three full-length albums to their name dating back to 2002. They are pleasant enough without being spectacular. A lively jangling guitar sound, that has been compared to early REM but I'm not convinced by that evaluation. Much to the delight of the crowd they are joined on stage by Keith from the Scientists for a couple of songs.

Just after 8.30, early because it's a Saturday, the Scientists take the stage. Now cut down to a two-piece of singer Keith Murray on guitar and Chris Cain on bass after the departure of drummer Michael Tapper late last year. Their numbers are swelled tonight with the addition of a replacement drummer Adam Aaronson and an additional keyboard player Max Hart who also adds occasional rhythm guitar.

They open the set in the way the new album opens with 'Ghouls, which sounds rough as they don't appear to have the sound right, before explo-oh-oh-oh-oooh-ding into 'Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt' which sends Rock City mental. About half way through that song they do seem to correct the sound, although L begs to differ. She's disappointed that the sound the band seem to prefer to put out live is much rougher than on record. In a way she's right, there is probably a touch too much bass and the vocals a bit too low in the mix. The wall of sound they turn out did often swamp the tunes. They are also very loud.



Having jumped from the new album straight back to the old, they stay with 'With Love And Squalor' and play the first three track off it, in order, before returning to the new stuff to play that song about teenage girls and their contacts lenses. Sorry, couldn't resist that one, private family joke. After 'Impatience' they continue to alternate between their two records, playing pretty much all of both of them. Which did mean there were a few not so good ones in there.

We get 'Cash Cow', 'Can't Lose', 'Callbacks' and new single 'Chick Lit'. That's four 'C' songs in a row, was that deliberate?

Between songs they 'entertain' the crowd with their inane wit. Stuff like asking if anyone is wearing a swimsuit. Keith confesses he is, a two-piece bikini with sharks and swordfishes all over it. It sounds improbable but you get the impression, that with Keith, it's not actually too far fetched.



We also get banter about other bizarre things too, along with some Nottingham references. They got some right, Robin Hood and the Sheriff of Nottingham but what was all the stuff about King Arthur? Very weird, they're at least 150 miles out. American humour eh?

A bit of a bugbear was the 'flawless' transitions between tracks or rather the tactic of running one track into another, which I didn't like. This they probably had to do to make up for the time they wasted chatting or else they wouldn't have got more than half-a-dozen songs in.

That apart they certainly knew how to get the crowd going, take note Roy Stride, and the energy that the band conveyed especially by Keith rubbed off on the crowd. The whole place was buzzing. Keith gets his shirt ripped open when he goes into the crowd, there's no swordfish bikini, the rotten liar!

Down the front is where it's all happening and Daughter has requested being accompanied down there. I'm tempted, although it's that packed near the bottom of the steps that we're perched on, it would be a nightmare to fight a way through.

Michael Pace from Oxford Collapse returned Keith's earlier favour by joining them on stage to perform 'After Hours'. A song that does my head in because it's got a really familiar guitar rift in it that I'm sure they've pinched from somewhere but I can't think where.



In fact the new album seems to have plenty of outside influences but when they play 'Tonight' tonight, it sounds like, well no one but 'We Are Scientists'. Chris confesses that the new album 'Brain Thrust Mastery' isn't actually new at all as it's been out in New Zealand for three years... hmmm.

They close with an excellent 'Lousy Reputation' and the overrated single 'It's A Hit', which wasn't.

They return to the stage for an encore to a roar from the crowd. 'That's What Counts' is followed by 'Lethal Enforcer', a good track that to me borrows a lot from, of all people, 'Hall and Oates' They conclude with a bang, to the crowds delight, with 'The Great Escape', which pretty much everyone was jumping about to.

A good gig. Storming you might say, if a bit rough at the edges but I like a bit of rough. I head home with sore ears.

Get home and take a huge bowl of strawberry cheesecake to bed which could be seen as a bit perverse particularly if I'd sung some Scientists at the same time,

'My body is your body, I won't tell anybody, if you wanna use my body, go for it...'

But I don't, we have a 10k tomorrow. Sleep.

The Red Arrow Hits Facebook

Doing a bit of a taper today, so on the Red Arrow. I hear a couple of people discussing the Red Arrow's facebook page. Surely not but I get to work, check and yep the Red Arrow does indeed have its own Facebook account.

I'm not sure if that's sad or cool.

Doggo is up to something. He's spending longer outside than usual especially for a dog that prefers to be indoors in the warm. He's even delayed coming to bed in the evenings on occasion, which is most strange. This morning L caught him munching on something, possibly a bone. Now we have a suspicion there's a body buried in the bushes in our garden.

Again I forget L was on her bike, as it's taking a lot of getting used to. Yes, she informs me, she is alive.

She'd clocked up 34 miles for the week by this morning and then she completed the remaining 16 to take it up to 50 by doing a long route home. So she's feeling very smug or she would be if I hadn't pointed out that her bike computer is working in kilometres. So she's now not quite such a smug bunny nor a happy one.

In the evening we run to Beeston for a beer, although I'm not sure if this is wise or not because of the race on Sunday. The advantage is that it gets us there and back quicker and I do have to get up early for a dog show tomorrow.

They have a Stout called Mr Toad, which is rather wonderful, a rarity as it's from the unadventurous Castle Rock. The XXXB was rather top notch too.

I endeavour not to have a few too many like that Russian chap did. He probably thought he'd succeeded in hiding the facts behind his 'wild night out' from his wife, after managing to get the bus home, make himself the traditional midnight snack, and successfully get in to bed to sleep it off. The one thing he'd forgotten to do was to remove the knife from his back. I would like to have seen his wife's face when she rolled over in the middle of the night, put her arm around him, and discovered the handle sticking out of his back.

His 'friend', who has admitted to stabbing him during a disagreement, was quoted as saying "We were drinking and what doesn't happen when you're drunk?"

Quite. He's ok by the way, the knife missed all vital organs, but it was obviously quite a night.

An Under The Table Offer

Feeling very tired but needs must, so I bus and run in from Borrowash again. I forget my Ipod and as my fellow passengers don't provide any entertainment, I have to read the Metro. Which isn’t a good way to start the day.

My time is ok, I suppose, not quick. Feel well knackered and apparently look it as two colleagues helpfully tell me. Perhaps I’ve overdone it this week. L suggests we skip the planned run to the pub tomorrow. We'll see, tomorrow’s another day, as they say.

What's this? L's sending me pictures of girls in tennis skirts. That's nice of her but hang on a sec, I can't use those as windows wallpaper, it's her sister's tennis team. Divisional champions no less. I was going to mention this feat earlier but she referred to my blog as sordid, so I didn't but I've got over that now.

We head to the pub for lunch and we're all set for Steak and Ale pie when we get an 'under the table' offer. Shhh, keep it quiet, I've got some cottage pie but I haven't put it on the specials board yet. That'll do nicely. Goes well with my Titanic Stout.

After work I jog/walk into Derby and get the Red Arrow home. I arrive home in time to spend all of ten minutes with Doggo and do a quick kit change. Then I drive to squash to find that I'm without an opponent. I ring him and catch him just as he's about to leave his house. The conversion goes something like "Well?", "Ah its 7.45 isn't it?", "Err no 6.45", "but you emailed me to say it was 7.45... just rechecking my email now... ah oops... you did say 6.45 didn't you?".

So no squash this week. I go down on my knees and thrown myself at the mercy of the two evil looking women on reception, hoping they won't charge me for a 'no show'. I have after all turned up. Thankfully they rebook us for next week free of charge, and just to make this clear, at SIX-FORTY-FIVE. I tell him to write the time in blood on his wall. He promises to do a 3k treadmill session as penance. 3k, it should be at least double that to count as a punishment.

His loss is Doggo's gain and we get to slot in a ball session on the park. He's thrilled, although we have trouble getting off the park as by the time we leave most exits are locked and a horde of rather aggressive looking female deer are blocking the only exit, funny that it's always the females who are the belligerent ones. They keep stalking Doggo and eventually we end up rolling under the fence to escape.

Home to L, who's cooked something that's very beef risotto-ish but I'm not allowed to call it that because it's got a posh name and I can't remember what it was. It's very nice and we have a couple of glasses of red with it and then take the bottle to bed for an early night.

Oh Please Not Porridge

I get out of bed and chuck £30 at the girl that I leave behind in there. That should be enough to fund her next fix. She'll be off down Rock City like a shot to get her next set of tickets before you can say 'Goo Goo Dolls'.

More bike trouble this morning. That is 'bike trouble' as in 'someone on a bike'. Today it's more serious, mountain bike trouble, a very quick one at that. He takes some dropping.

Once in the safe sanctuary of work, I have my headphones on so, I don’t hear L's 'are you alive' text and get reprimanded for being a 'tad slack' responding, close to 999 time apparently.

Today's scare story is that vitamin pills shorten your life. Hmmm more rubbish research; surely they mean the types of people who are going to take them are going to have shorter lives anyway. The pills are pointless though, like statins they’re often used as an excuse for a bad diet. Also, who would seriously opt for a Vitamin C pill rather than a glass of orange juice?

L wonders what will be off limits next week, as she's into her porridge at the moment, she reckons it could be that. Oh please not porridge. I practically live on the stuff at the moment.

The Hoosiers are at Nottingham's Trent FM Arena tonight. Never heard of the place, where's that then? Turns out they've renamed the Ice Stadium again, why don't they just call it what it is. An Ice Stadium. It's by 'invitation' only and the place is being transformed into a ‘local’ to give it a real intimate feel for the 600 invited guests who will get to watch the band at close quarters, apparently this will make them the envy of millions of fans worldwide. Ha ha ha. What a load of garbage. Who dreams these things up? The Hoosiers have just played a massive UK tour in intimate venues. So why would anyone bother putting something like that on in such an un-intimate place. 600 people in a place that holds 10,000, how intimate! Why didn't they just rent the Rescue Rooms? Of course silly me, it's not called the Trent FM Rescue Rooms, well not yet.

I bike to the pool where again the only space is in lane one. As it happens, when I get in, the two other people get out, so for a few minutes I have it to myself. A girl psycho joins me but we're about the same pace, so that's ok. Then a non-psycho chap (silly shorts) joins us but he keeps out my way too. I do 30 lengths, without stopping, and crawl out of the pool.

Dog class. Our trainer is ill, so they draft in a replacement, who also cries off ill, so somebody else has to step in. It's a right tricky course, which we do well on. It's a shame no one will ever confront us with something so difficult in an event.

Home for salmon and blue cheese, one of my favourite combos. Talking of favourite combos, L's in 'those' shorts tonight.

Return Of The Two-Wheeled Demon

I have trouble this morning with a guy in silly shorts on a road bike. His kit was bizarre because he had cycling shorts on underneath. Clearly an undercover psycho. He kept shortcutting on the pavements. Sometimes this puts me behind him, sometimes ahead. It was infuriating and totally pointless. Then when he dragged his feet uphill, I passed him. After having the 'hammer down' for a while I thought I'd totally lost him, in fact I thought he'd turned off, because I couldn't see him anywhere behind me. So feeling rather smug, I slowed down and even had a drink. Then a few miles down the road he came past me again. To top it all he completely ignored my two good mornings to him. Some people take it all far too seriously.

I'm at work, still licking my wounds, when I get an email from L asking where's her text asking 'if she was still alive' was. Oops, I forgot L was getting the two-wheeled demon out this morning.

She's feeling rather smug herself because she's done 10 miles this morning. Blimey, sounds to me like she got lost but no, she says she's been doing loops of the Park Estate, 'buzzing' the builders who were working there. Although she says she didn't manage to extract any comment from them, even after she passed them for the 4th time. Hmmm, she sounds disappointed to me. Perhaps they were working for Wimpey Homes, aren't they the ones that have banned the wolf whistle, much to the chagrin of most women who seem to enjoy getting such a reaction.

I still can't believe she did laps; she hates doing laps. She reckons she's aiming to do 50 miles this week, out of doors. I'm impressed.

After cycling home, I take Doggo on the park. Where first it hails on us but then just resorts to a good old-fashioned downpour. For some reason the park is surprisingly quiet! Though Doggo does find a chap in a yellow jacket to run after, presumably because he thinks he's me. Hello? I'm here; he isn't even on a bike. He doesn't even give a second glance to two female runners in wet lycra, which I don't understand at all.

I get home in time to strip out of my wet clothes, just as L is stripping out of hers, having cycled back from Pilates. Alas I'm out-sizzled by the kids' pork chop's under the grill, which gets her attention before I do. Then as L and Daughter delve into the 'romance' of Jane Eyre on TV, I brush up on the romantic bits of 'Elbow' while cooking us a posh spam curry. L's already upped the ante by quoting 'we kiss like we invented it' to me, she tells me this is her favourite line.

My curry sauce, by the way, turns out to be excellent, even if I do say so myself.

One Day Like This

6am and up. Doggo stunned. Ditto L. It's early morning pond run time. It goes well, with no adverse effects from yesterday's run. Legs a bit stiff but nothing too bad.

L follows this with 30 lengths, she's just showing off naturally, and she teasingly tells me she's forgotten her hairbrush and is therefore sporting a wild look. Sounds great. Crucially she didn't faint in the pool.

Doggo and I had serious words this morning, and he’s had three slaps around the ears. As I was trying to extract him from the bedroom to go to work, he was sat by the radiator guarding L's dressing gown, which he's rather fond of, it's one of his favourite shags. He growled at me when I tried to get him to come away.

As L points out, a slap around the ears guarantees a duff dog session tonight. He's beginning to bear grudges in his old age. Well at least if he’s duff tonight he might be better come Saturday. He had the nerve to go sit by the lounge door once I’d evicted him from the bedroom. There’s no way I was letting him in there, although Son was up so he’d only got 5 minutes to wait for him to open it for him anyway. Bet the old codger’s on the settee right now enjoying his home comforts.

We're back at Monday dog class tonight after a month off due to skiing, bank holidays and a refit to the arena where we train. The downside of which is that they've now moved the equipment store to the far side of their now enlarged car park. So it's a massive hike with the equipment. Tonight we train on a course that was used for a recent Olympia qualifier. Doggo and I go clear at the first attempt, which obviously wouldn't have happened had we ran it for real. In fact he's rather good all night.

Despite the fact that I'm at training, we've also at another gig tonight. We're back at Rock City to see Elbow. They're more L's sort of thing than mine. She says they're very mushy and she's worried that I might nod off at the gig but I've been swotting up on them and I rather like them. If I can stay awake at 'Scouting For Girls' and 'The Hoosiers' then Elbow shouldn't be a problem.

I get back from class, do a quick change and straight out again. Doggo is just starting on his tea and almost chokes on his munchies when I walk back out the house again. He really can't believe that I've had the nerve to do that to him.

L and Daughter are already down at Rock City while I'm aiming to get there for 9.30, which is when the main bands usually take to the stage. So I can tell you nothing of the highly rated 'Two Gallants' who were supporting. I can also tell you nothing of the opening of Elbow's set, playing 'Starlings' armed with trumpets apparently, because they came on at 9pm and I didn't get there until quarter past.

When I get there, after I manage to find someone to take my ticket, the band are playing 'Great Expectations'. I try and find L but it's so packed I can't get through to where she says she is. I wasn't expecting a crowd. I though everyone would be lounging around on blankets and in deckchairs. I was so convinced that it would be sedate and only half full, that I even considered getting the dog a ticket.

I move through the crowd to the front, which is amazingly easy, no moshing tonight. The band launch into 'Mirrorball', beautiful and dazzling but slightly nod-off-able. Elbow are sometimes so laid back they're horizontal and some of their tracks do make you want to reach for the newspaper. At other times they're simply stunning.

After another track, 'Red' I believe, I decide I can possibly make it up the back steps, across the balcony to try and find L and Daughter from above. I have a go and find them; they have a great spot on the stairs. I join them and, because a lot of people find it impossible to stand still for 90 minutes, I'm immediately totally in the way. People are constantly pushing past me, including a chap who smells like he's soaked his jacket in nicotine. At least, thankfully some of the people squeezing past me are female.

From this new position I can take in the scene. Elbow are a five-piece from Bury and are fronted by Guy Garvey, a cheery and slightly rotund chap with an interesting line in witty banter. He could make it in stand-up if his voice goes.

As he communicated with the crowd, better than almost any band I can remember and generally legible, he came across as a thoroughly decent and down to earth sort of chap. At one point he tells us about their roadie 'Mexican Wayne' but he doesn't play the track he's hinting at, 'Mexican Wave', nor does he asks us to wake up their bus driver. Thankfully.

His band, as he keeps telling us, are all friends and colleagues of 18 years. I find it hard to believe that they've been together for 18 years and only produced four albums but Wikipedia says it's true, so it must be. In fact the five guys originally formed a band called 'Mr Soft' at Sixth Form College in 1990 but it wasn't until 1997 that they became Elbow. Even then, their debut album 'Asleep in the Back' was not released until 2001.



Tonight Guy also surrounds himself with attractive women, in the form of a three-piece string section and another girlie who's acting as a runner with pints of water for him. The 'orchestra' are balanced at the back of the stage, as there's not much room with a large set of keyboards and an equally large drum kit. It would be a shame if they outgrew venues like Rock City because they need a bigger stage.

I'm on the steps in time to see the band perform their recent single; 'Grounds for Divorce', which sounds amazing live, a rocking departure from their normal style.

'Mondays is for drinking to the seldom seen kid' he tells us. Well no actually Mondays are usually AF for us but if we'd known we'd have had a beer.

The 'Seldom Seen Kid' is their friend Bryan Glancy, a fellow Manchester songwriter, who died recently and has been immortalised in the title of their new album. Like their previous three, it mixes epic melancholy ballads with more upbeat but equally epic numbers. It's also possibly their best.

'Forget Myself' follows and obviously prompts a huge sing-along, many octaves lower than last nights. Tonight's crowd is more mature, although a good mix of ages, with more men, and slimmer women.



Also from the new album, 'The Stops' comes over well and they play a haunting 'Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver' a song about 'love and the construction industry'. All in all, a set pretty much filled with spellbinding songs. Although regrettably I miss 'Leaders of the Free World' which they threw in early.

Guy reels off details of the latest births accredited to the Potter brothers, Mark on guitar and Craig on keyboards. Some wag enquires whether they have the same mother, it's a rare moment that Guy gets upstaged from the floor. This leads us into 'Newborn', a song about heartbreak and death. Cheery stuff. A powerful track which I was not previously party to.

To end the set Guy orchestrates a mass sing-along to 'One Day Like This'. Judging by the reaction, you would have thought this was a classic from Elbow's past but no, this is a four-week-old cut from the new album and the crowd sing it back to him with glee, although it is due to be released as a single in June. Could this be their 'Run', the big breakthrough that could make them as big as err... 'Snow Patrol'. Perish the thought but they deserve success.

'One day like this a year would see me right'

Yep, not a bad night out.

After the band leave the stage to rapturous applause, the crowd strike up the song again and keep singing until Guy and Craig return to play 'Puncture Repair' while the rest are allegedly on a 'fag break'.

I look behind me and L is still there on the steps and hasn't tottered over into the non-mosh pit. Thankfully no embarrassing stunts from her tonight.

They continue the encore with 'Station Approach', then to finish Guy goes into the crowd and hand picks ten lucky souls to join him on stage to dance and sing along to 'Grace Under Pressure'. Naturally he chooses the best-looking girls together with a few guys to make it not look too obvious. Although he does seem to let some plonker slip through the net.

So L reckons they're mushy, I reckon mournful is a better word, which isn't the same thing at all. Mushy/mournful works though because L is easily romanced later. I would have quoted some Elbow to her, had I been able to remember the words.

'Oh, kiss me like the final meal, yeah, kiss me like we die tonight'

Thank God for the internet.

It Just Ain't Gonna Happen...

A long Sunday morning in bed, perfect, especially if you're a collie. Then we drive over to Derby and I treat L to my Borrowash to Pride Park running route. Which makes a nice change for her but obviously not for me. It's a good long run for Doggo, around 13km I reckon. I can tell from the look on his face that he fears he's been duped and a 'dumping' is on the cards this evening.

Back home we have a late afternoon breakfast/lunch/tea sort of thing, then Doggo gets his anticipated 'dumping'.

We pop into Cast for a couple of Leffe's to steady our nerves for what is to come. Of course it would have been easier to 'just say no' but I didn't and thanks to OMT (that's Open Mind Theory for new readers) here I am at Rock City seeing 'Scouting For Girls' who I recklessly got tickets for before I'd listened to their album.

As I sip my Leffe I ponder how I can objectively review this 'phenomenally' popular band because despite reaching number 1, their album is one of the most painful aural experiences I've had for a long time. They did postpone some shows last week because the singer has lost his voice. I had my fingers crossed for a slow recovery but then again, just like the dentist, it's best to get these things over with.

First up support band 'Clocks' from Epsom. A band who 'specialise in short and bittersweet, powerful and punchy pop-rock nuggets concerning new love and old valve radios, delivered using the tried and tested guitar, bass and drums method but rendered with sufficient vigour to make it all sound fresh, original, brand new.' Their words not mine. In reality they manage the trick of sounding like everybody else and nobody at the same time. They have a new single out tomorrow you know, I'll not be buying it.

During the interval the teenage girls in the audience, of which there are an unhealthy amount, in quantity and size, are screaming already. I'm not sure if this is just a natural reaction to too much WKD (e.g. one bottle) or whether they fancy the roadies who are setting up the kit because that's all that's happening up on stage. Perhaps they just like screaming.

Then, OMG, things get worse when they pretty much all start doing a mass karaoke of Kate Nash's 'Foundations', it's so high pitched it sounds like they're on helium. You have a right to be worried and any sane individual would have left the building at that moment.

Suddenly before anyone can escape, the lights go down and 'Scouting For Girls' come on stage to an Elvis backing track. Naturally you'd expect them to follow this with their single 'Elvis Ain't Dead' but it doesn't happen, in fact they close the set with that. Instead we get 'I Need A Holiday' an album filler track if ever there was one but the crowd go wild for it all the same, singing every word, on helium.

Hailing from Ruislip, SFG are a threesome of Roy Stride on vocals, Roy Stride on piano, and Roy Stride on guitar. Only kidding but it's easy to forget that there are two other members, Greg Churchouse on bass guitar and Peter Ellard on drums. Their contribution to the evening is minimal and I suspect their input is possibly turned down in the mix to keep the spotlight on Roy. This is a shame because I find Churchouse, clad in his 'Mr Bump' t-shirt, much more interesting than Roy and his occasional backing vocals more enjoyable than our Roy's. Also for this tour they have added a fourth member on guitar, a chap who apparently used to be their soundman. This allows Roy to concentrate on, well being Roy.



Musically, he's no doubt a talented pianist but he makes for an immensely irritating front man. He is constantly running around the stage, basking in the adulation he's getting and ramping up the audience, not that they need it, being already full of helium and WKD. Roy tries terribly hard but I'm not for the taking, although the previously converted are already in his pocket. The girls are going mad for him. Which is no mean achievement for a band, who couldn't be more Radio 2 if they had Terry Wogan on drums.

One thing that bugs me, well actually one of many things that bug me, is that during every single track he has to stop the song part way through to say something or involve the audience in something or simply to just be Roy. It all means they never get any momentum going and it's all gets very repetitious.

For example, during 'Mountains Of Navaho', which is one of their rockier numbers, as it's starting to get going he stops and we get a silly moment as Roy tries to get the crowd to wake up their bus driver. He's a chap called Dave who is affectionately, or not, known as Rambo. Well, if you must but do you really have to do it in the middle of a track.

He also has a tendency to repeat his lyrics until they are lodged in your skull, as if they've been put there with a lump hammer. The problem with this is that he has some of the most perversely awful lyrics you'd ever want to meet and if you met them in a dark alley you'd run a mile.

'She's a strawberry milkshake, she's as sweet as a peach but she's ice cold' eh? Let's all sing along... err no.

Stride is 29, although he doesn't look it, but he's still old enough to know better.

When he launches into a cringe worthy rendition of Carly Simon's 'Nobody Does it Better', as a tribute to the 'fans', I'm tempted to hit the bar because I know where this is leading. If I had not been driving I'd have had a very large Jack Daniels.

Unlike the false start with Elvis, this time they do continue the Bond theme but with a taped version of the James Bond theme. During this they disappear off stage, presumably for a lie down, while we listen to it blasting out of the speakers. Finally after one of the longest lead ups in pop history they reappear, to a huge ovation naturally, as if it’s an encore, and perform the biggest non-surprise of the evening by treating us to their song 'James Bond'. A song about wanting to be like Roger Moore, accompanied by a thousand high-pitched voices screaming 'just for a day'. Truly shocking.



To be fair, he makes the most of what he's got, without his exuberance they'd be nothing and admittedly 'Heartbeat' and 'It's Not About You' are half decent pop songs but there's also an awful lot of dross as well.

To his credit he freshens up the set with new songs and b-sides, a song about 'Glastonbury' and one called ‘Fitter in your MySpace Picture’ to show he's kind of hip but most of his influences seem to be older figures, Elvis, Roger Moore and Michaela Strachan...

Ah yes, that 'legendary' number, 'Michaela Strachan You Broke My Heart (When I Was 12)', makes an appearance and obviously goes down a storm.

Roy sings 'When I got home from school, she was there in her wellies, and a yellow Cagoule'. Oh please, pass the bucket.

Some girl wanders up the steps towards us singing the words. Gross.

Perhaps his lyrics would be brilliant if they weren't so tragic. Thing is he doesn't even appear to sing them with any hint of irony; he appears to be deadly serious.

'It ain't gonna happen for me and the Strachan'.

It just ain't gonna happen for me and Mr Stride either. Sorry mate. Enjoy Radio 2. Give my love to Terry.

I'm feeling a bit nauseous but it's L who cracks first and faints. One minute she's behind me, the next some chap's tapping me on the shoulder and pointing to this body on the floor. Bugger and we had such a good spot too. Daughter looks livid when she thinks we've 'done a runner', even more so when she realises we haven't and realises she's lost her spot.

I hope L's not been overcome with passion for Roy, she has conceded that he's 'fancible'. Not got to the bottom of that one yet. It's just my opinion and I'm not a teenage girl, then again nor is L, but I think he's amazingly ordinary.

They return for an encore and finish the night, as expected with 'that' record. 'She’s So Lovely’ is ok, average enough with its 'She’s flirty, turned thirty, ain’t that the day a girl gets really dirty' lyric. He might even be getting perceptive about something there.

Everyone has to start somewhere with their music and you can't get more entry level than this, simple it certainly was. A band that you could take home to meet the parents, that is if you parents aren't here already but don't do it kids because you parents will probably run off with them. All the way to Radio 2.

41 units this week, not good. Two nights out catching up with old friends in the same week isn't a good idea.

Pack Of Cards

I stay over in Bingham and head back home in the morning. I'm running a bit late because I have a busy morning planned, and its 10am before I get home. Doggo needs kicking and we need to stock up on stuff from the local Farm Shop at Clipston-On-The-Wolds but first I need to catch up with L, who is thankfully still in bed.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I'm not even going to try and put Derby County 0 Aston Villa 6 in to print. Oh go on then, oddly we were the better team for the first 25 minutes, then the goalkeeper let in a howler, the pack of cards collapsed and the rest as they say is history. The only thing worth saying was that the home crowd were treating it throughout as if we were the ones winning. The Villa supporters really didn't know what was going on.

My Dad’s been told he probably needs a new hip and knee. Oh dear. These operations don't usually seem to work. Although he gets a different story from each person he sees. Suppose that's the idea behind ‘choice’ in the NHS, so that you can pick and choose which diagnosis you like. They've given him a cortisone injection in his knee first and that seems to have done the trick for now. L reckons that'll be her soon. She can get in the queue; I bet I’m there first. Both my left knee and right thigh are playing up this afternoon.

In the evening we head off into town, aiming to try out a new bar that's been touted as something special. It's called Moog and has been recommended by L's hairdresser, who apparently knows a good place or two. Its website makes it sound interesting. It says they have a ‘serious’ drinks collection. I wonder if that includes dark Leffe or real ale. Probably not.

In fact it's worse than that. The place is just a typical run down pub with a few lagers on the bar and seemingly nothing much in bottles either. The ‘serious’ drinks are probably just the list of cocktails they have. Very disappointing, we don't stay, instead we head to the Dragon for a Broadside. Another recommendation by the hairdresser, but a better one. After that we head to Broadway, where there's only one beer on and that's the rather dull Alcazar ale, so we have a couple of bottles of dark Leffe instead. Followed by a couple of bottled Cobra's when we inevitably end up at a curry house.

Effortlessly Dropped

Still continuing on a little from last night this morning, must be the cheese, but only briefly before getting the bike out and heading off to work.

I catch up with a guy on a racer who I haven't seen before. I give him a cheery 'good morning' as I draw level and he totally ignores me. Hmmm. So I power on, he deserves to be dropped and I effortlessly leave him for dead. Well, effortlessly is the wrong word really, because it was bloody hard work but it had to be done.

Latest research says that people's attitude to the opposite sex can be given away by the look of their face. Researchers say men tend to be drawn to women whom they perceive are open to a short-term fling, while women are drawn to blokes they think look like good long-term bets. This is supposed to be news?

Men tended to think that the more attractive looking women were more likely to be up for a bit of casual. Ha, wishful thinking, I reckon. Whereas women who were after a partner for life avoided the more masculine-looking males because they perceived them as only after one thing. Hmm, I think someone's getting a raw deal here.

Anyhow they're all wrong; it's all in the eyes.

I bike home, struggling slightly with a sore shoulder that's added itself to my current knee and thigh problems but it's still a bloody good time.

L is out with a Doggo when I arrive, so I have to strip my lycra off alone. I get changed and prepare to tuck into some cheese and pate, as I'm off over to Bingham this evening to catch up with some friends from Polytechnic. When L gets backs she does her best to render me of little use to the women of Bingham, first physically and then by encouraging me to have multiple pickled onions with my cheese.

In Bingham our usual pub is stacked to the rafters so we nip into another, the Wheatsheaf, for a pint. It's a typical traditional pub but so unwelcoming, cold, dirty, a loud jukebox and noisy fruit machines. It's almost empty but there's still nowhere to sit because it's badly laid out. They also have only one beer on, Bombardier, which is so cold that it's tasteless. When it warms up and the taste starts to emerge, we realise why it was served cold, because it's off. We retreat back to our usual which has now empted a little. I find a cheeky little number from the Durham Brewery called, Pink Panther 4.9% which keeps me going all night.

Suitably sloshed we head home to my mate's house, his cats, and a selection of Chinese nibbles from his freezer.

Strange Looks From The Sedentaries

There's a bit of drizzle in the air but I risk it, get the bus over to Borrowash, and run along the river to work again. I'm doing this extra training in what I'm sure will be a vain attempt at getting under 41 minutes and preferably under 40 (in my dreams) at the Derby 10k next weekend.

I'm already getting annoyed with the R4, all the customers were the very same people again as on Tuesday. Which is very boring and they're all on their own, so there's no gossip. I might have to start picking up the Metro at this rate. It's just not as stimulating as the Red Arrow. To top it all, the bus was the wrong colour this morning, it was red when it was supposed to be blue and I almost missed it.

The run itself was very pleasant again, almost as good as cycling or perhaps better but I'm really not sure. Two minutes quicker than yesterday and I ought to take a bit off that because I had to stop to adjust my bag and didn't stop my watch. All the same definitely faster which is a good job because I've re-measured the route and its still 7km, well 7.1km if I'm being precise.

L was going to run herself this morning, with Doggo, but changed her mind, everyone's going 'dog free' at the moment, I wonder if he's got the hint yet. L's been having a bit of a knee problem but now she's found out that you can self-refer yourself to the NHS for physiotherapy without going through your GP. She's got an appointment already. I reckon this is because they’re allowing the physios to cherry pick what customers they want. So if your weight has caused your long-term knee problem then you go to the back of the queue but if you’ve a sporty type who just wants to pop in for a quickie, then come on down. My sort of philosophy.

Her appointment is the day after the Derby 10k, so it's pretty good timing too. I wonder if they'll have room for me; I've a feeling I might need it.

After work I jog into town to get the Red Arrow, where I get some strange looks from the sedentaries because I'm in my running kit. I arrive in time for the earlier bus but still two turn up at once. Honestly, if Red Arrow's were female they'd be in the little girl's room powdering their noses together. The first one is packed but naturally they keep the second one locked. I sit next to this power-dressing woman who's reading a book on Rudolf Nureyev. I realise I don't smell particularly pleasant, but in my defence, I have ran a fair distance today. Luckily she's layered the perfume on that thick she doesn't notice and hopefully she's masking the rest of the bus from me as well.

I get off the bus at Queens and walk down to meet L and Doggo who are on the park.

Squash goes ok. The heat isn't so bad this week and we have a close match. Despite that, all the big points seem to go the wrong way and I come away on the wrong side of a 4-1 score line.

The pub has Beartown Bear Ass 4.0% which is dark, very nice. My opponent, who is on the juice, is very annoyed that I've got a dark beer. They're also selling off the beer from last weekend's beer festival at £1.50 a pint, which I'd avoided, thinking they might be 'on the turn' if they've had them on sale for a week. There are two beers left; one from Kinver at 5.2% and another one from somewhere else at 7.0% and both are very dark. My opponent cracks and has to have a Kinver. Not wishing to leave him to drink alone so do I. It's very nice.

L says she's not cooking tonight and has instead got pate and cheese from the deli. Which sounds great, the pate and cheese, and also the fact that it sounds like she's after something. She's on the red wine when I get home and she doesn't look particularly lively but I'm wrong about that. I save the cheese and pate for half time.

If It Kills Me...

Back on the bike today. It's cold but sunny. Very pleasant and fast. The roads are extremely quiet; it's the 'Easter' school holidays in Derby, and enjoyment wise it was probably better than yesterdays run. I'm tempted to run tomorrow as well, if I could just figure out a way of getting my running kit home. There's only so much I can stuff in my backpack and I've already got my swimming kit with me. I can assemble another set of kit but then I’d have even more stuff to get home and both my pairs of running trousers are already at work. Life's so complicated, how does everyone else cope? L says they all skip work and claim benefits instead.

L 'helpfully' suggests that I cut out the social life and then do what most psychos would do. Which is cycle to work and then run home, and then the next day they would run to work then cycle home, thus necessitating only one kit. That sounds even more exhausting, so it’s a bloody good job that I’m not a psycho.

Derby County ring me at work to remind me that season ticket renewals need to be done by Saturday. I tell them that April is far too early to be asking people to renew and I'm not sure whether I'm going to. Then when I've sent them away with a flea in their ear, I renew on line. Hypocrite.

On the way home I pull up at the lights and an old chap undertakes me, using the pavement to bypass the lights. Honestly, it's no wonder us cyclists get a bad name when the 'old hands' are doing that. By the time the lights change he's long gone.

I bike to the pool and do something that feels like 30 lengths but I'm hopeless at counting, so I'm not sure. I end up in lane 1, where it's quietest but thankfully the pace is fairly sedate. On the way home I spot L walking home. We both reach the crossroads at the same time, just as the lights conveniently change to red and I have to stop. Which means I can reach over and grab her for a quick snog, all before the lights change to green again.

Wednesdays are pretty mad and phase three is dog class. Doggo, annoyingly, is pretty well near paw-perfect. I just know he's rubbing it in for being rubbish at the event over the weekend. Although perhaps the fact that 'my new dog' isn't there has something to do with it.

I've been on a promise from L for tonight but the poor girl looks totally knackered. Not that I'm any better, as I said Wednesdays are pretty mad. All the same I intend to run to work again tomorrow. I think I've got enough kit at hand. I'll crack 41 minutes for the 10k, if it kills me, which it probably will.

The Campaign Starts Here

Ok, the campaign to get that 'yellow' elite number starts here. In running kit I jog to the bus stop and wait for the Rainbow 4. Those clever new electronic signs that work on GPS tracking tell me the bus is due in 4 mins, 5 mins, 4 mins, 6 mins, 3 mins... all very confusing. Then suddenly it's here. I get the bus to Borrowash, get off and run the rest of the way to work.

It's actually a nice morning for a run along the river. Yep, very pleasant, traffic free, a dry footpath, sunny weather. I hate to say this but it was probably better than cycling. It took me around 34 minutes which for approximately 7km is appalling. I was expecting 28-29 mins. I will have to re-measure it.

A two-trip ticket cost me £4.30, so running 7km saved me 70p compared with the Red Arrow. So it's a good job I'm not doing this for financial gain. Yes, I bought a two-trip ticket, so I'll have to do it again.

L asks whether I missed running with Doggo. Doggo who?

Daughter's school has an 'Enterprise Day' today, which means they have no lessons. According to the internet 'Enterprise day' is a day with 'a more vocational twist than usual with tasks and projects beings undertaken to replicate real jobs as an introduction to the business world'. I think she said she'd spent the day building a lighthouse but I might have misheard. We’d have called that a ‘doss’ day in my day.

Complicated business this training, especially with a social life. I'm meeting an old school friend after work, so as well as having bike kit, running kit and work clothes stashed at work, I've had to leave some jeans and stuff there as well. Only problem is that I've forgotten to leave a coat and come 4.30 it's literally bucketing it down. I'm concerned but the two people who have cycled in today are looking seriously worried. Unlike me, they've haven't got any wet weather bike gear. Luckily for all concerned it abruptly stops at about 4.50.

L's not so lucky. She's been out in the rain with Dingbat, which is her latest affectionate pet name for Doggo but they're still speaking, so she says. At least someone's still speaking to him.

On the way to meet my friend I attempt to post a letter which is harder than you would think when you've in an area where you've no idea where the post boxes are. So I head towards the main post office checking every street on the way. Nothing. Wonder if there's such a thing as website called www.findapostbox.com.

Then someone shouts, what at first I think is abuse, at me from a passing car. It turns out to be another chap from school who's joining us tonight. After a couple of beers we adjourn for a curry, which is actually rather excellent.

My friend, who is rather 'old school' and acting his age rather than denying it like me, says he's being pursued by a woman who's ten years his junior. Sounds like heaven. She's from his cycling club, where's he's heading later tonight. The sly old sod, beer and curry with me and then off to where he's got a woman waiting with the engine running. He's not happy though, he says she pushy and keeps emailing and texting him. She sounds keen then. Unfortunately he's just not into to these new fangled communication methods, he still doesn’t think they'll catch on. He is, after all, the only person who still rings me on the telephone to arrange a night out. All the same, he can't be turning her down just because she's likes to use email, so I assume she must be a bit of a goat but he says not. He describes her as fit, attractive and of course she's a cyclist too, probably got some carbon kit at home. So what's he playing at. He does concede that she has mentioned 'wanting children'. Hmmm, dangerous territory if there's a ticking biological clock involved and a bit premature if they've only been out a few times. He walks with me to my bus, delaying going to his cycling club meeting where he reckons she'll be plotting her next move.

A few times turns out to be nine. Nine times and I get the impression he hasn't even considered checking out her lycra. The poor girl, she must be climbing the walls in frustration. It also makes you wonder what's wrong with the rest of the cycling club. There's a damsel in the distress amongst their ranks and no one's riding to her rescue.

I get an unexpected diagnosis of what could possible be wrong as soon as I walk in the door at home. I think I interrupted L and Daughter in the middle of 'Embarrassing Illnesses'. They brief me on male cyclists and their problems with infertility, which seems apt after my night out. Mind you it was never a problem for 'Il Pirata', Marco Pantani, the great Italian cyclist. He once famously said that he had 'the sexual appetite of a wolf', mind you he was dead by the time he was 34, so perhaps it was all down to the drugs he took.