Back Home, The Sportaphobes Are Watching 'My Fair Lady'...

Tennis analogies today, as I sneak a quick set against L before heading off in the car to work.

A new study for British Music Rights has discovered that half of the music stored on the MP3 players of British youngsters hasn't been paid for. The average 14-24 year-old has 1,770 tracks on their MP3 player, but only half of those had been legitimately paid for.

They seem to think this is bad news. At school in the 1980's it was well known for LP's to circulate around the whole class for copying. So on that basis; 'half' is major step forward. I can recall some tightwads whom I can never recall shelling out for any music at all.

Talking of music, I haven't seen a lot of Glastonbury but every time I did look at the coverage, they seemed to be rerunning Kings Of Leon's set. Probably because it was totally awesome and means I might have to swallow my pride and do the Arena next time they visit.

We've been seeing a few old red Routemaster buses around Nottingham without really knowing what they were for. Well now, they're getting rid of them because they failed to attract enough passengers. Bellamy Coaches have been running a service between Parliament Street in the city centre and Arnold. A bit of publicity might have helped but I imagine it's going to be hard work muscling in on Nottingham City Transport who are desperately trying to get everyone on pre-paid cards, which is good in a way but kind of forces you use their buses.



(photo from omnibuses)

At dog class in the evening, everyone has half an eye on the tennis, where Andy Murray produces a stunning fight back from two sets down to beat Richard Gasquet. In the third set, Gasquet even served for the match. The epic contest finished at half past nine and in near darkness. Cracking stuff though, even on radio. This is why sport is so cool, anything can happen. The Scot now plays Rafael Nadal in Wednesday's quarterfinals.



Back home, the sportaphobes are watching 'My Fair Lady'... Mind you L and I get to finish our game.

If You'd Handed Us A Shotgun, We Wouldn't Have Missed

I have slight hangover after last nights beer adventures but I survive the lie-in. Then I take the 'victorious' dog on the park and L joins us.

In the afternoon, for the second time in two days, I go for a swim. I have a triathlon coming up in two weeks time which will be my first involving 'the bit where you have to get wet' for almost a year. It's busy in the pool, probably because they've cut an hour off the length of the session. Thankfully, they have put an extra lane in and most of the hordes are in the bit that isn't laned. The changing rooms are hell though, full of 'kid' kids and 'grown up' kids messing around, so for the second time this week it's impossible to get a shower.

Typically, the lane I choose ends up being the one with the floater in it. The chap can obviously swim but he's another of those who likes to float backwards. Long after I get out and sit having a coffee waiting for L, who's in the gym, he's still floating up and down, backwards.

I share the coffee room with a huge Chinese family on a big day out. It doesn't look as if most of them have been anywhere near the water but have instead simply come along for the ride. Eventually a gaggle of girls join them complete with hairdryers, curling tongues and the like, obviously having been camped out in the showers for some time. It was a complete waste of their time and effort doing their hair because now the whole group of twenty-odd of them are stood in the doorway to the centre watching in horror as the torrential rain falls outside. There's not a brolly between them.

Late afternoon and we all (not Son obviously) watch the remake of the Amityville Horror. Daughter rented it, but was spooked by it when she attempted to watch it alone. So, we lend our moral support. I must say I can't really see why she got spooked. Most horror films these days are 15 certificates and hardly ever scary.

The story of course relates to the alleged haunting of the house the Lutz family bought at a knockdown price. It was cheap because Ronald DeFeo, Jr. had murdered his entire family there. Scary happenings occur almost as soon as they move in and the film recounts their 28-day stay at the house until they fled. Most things happen at 3.15am, the time of the murders, this also seems to be the time when Mr Lutz gets it on with Mrs Lutz, so no cut-off times in that household. Some things have been changed; their daughter begins seeing one of the dead family, a girl called Jodie, who was actually a pig in the original but hey, small detail. Also, George Lutz is portrayed as more of a maniac in this one and even axed the family dog to death where in fact, I'm pleased to report, the dog escaped intact with the rest of the family. That apart, a decent enough film.



Then in the evening, we're at Broadway, where there's still no mango juice, to see 'The Edge Of Love'. It's a film about Dylan Thomas, which doesn't tell you much about him at all.

The film opens during the Blitz, where Ikea Knightley, sorry I mean Keira Knightley, has returned to the scene of her death in Atonement and is singing 'down in the tube station at midnight' or something like that. She's Vera Phillips and she's about to make the same mistake again and fall for another solider that goes off to war.

She wanders into a bar where she bumps into her childhood sweetheart and first shag, a Mr Dylan Thomas (Matthew Rhys), who is currently churning out not very poetic government propaganda films. She has high hopes of picking up where they left off until he introduces his wife, the manic Caitlin (Sienna Miller), not that this will make any difference to his interest in our Keira.



From this point on Dylan Thomas becomes pretty much a side issue as the film focuses on the two feisty women but mainly on Vera. Despite their rivalry over Dylan, the women form an uneasy friendship. Caitlin likes her own infidelities, possibly for the money and probably because her husband is supposedly servicing a long line of infatuated women but the film offers no evidence of this. Dylan justifies his actions by saying that a poet cannot remain faithful, as he needs to experience his vices to the full, of which heavy smoking and drinking are clearly two others. There's an awful lot of smoking in the film, probably putting the anti-smoking campaign back years.

Vera meets and marries an annoyingly persistent admirer of hers William Killick (Cillian Murphy), who promptly knocks her up and then buggers off to war, seemingly for at least eighteen months. During which time the others begin living as a threesome in two cottages atop a Welsh cliff top, where they all somehow resist hurling themselves off.



It was absolutely certain that William would return from war assuming Vera and Dylan had been at it like rabbits, I'm sure he decided this before he even left. That is even before you add in the fact that he is now traumatised by war. So are we, after they undercut Vera giving birth with an amputation on the battlefield. Therefore, it's no great surprise when he attacks Dylan with a shotgun. The surprise is that he misses.

It's a pretentious film with little focus, which gives only a slight insight into Dylan Thomas and his poetry. It's impossible to care about any of the characters. The film is supposedly about the friendship of the two women but we never get the impression they actually become friends in the truest sense. L hates Dylan's character; I hate William's character, so we kind of agree.



Acting wise, the men are ok, they even get a native Welsh speaker in to play Dylan, which is unusual casting these days. Keira Knightly is not that bad, she tries hard, bless her and she is easily out-planked by Miller, who is more Wurzles than Welsh, and makes Keira's lapses in and out of her accent look positively impressive.

No 'edge', no 'love' and if it was meant as a tribute to a supposedly 'great' poet, then it was totally uninspiring in that as well but then I always detested 'Under Milk Wood' after studying it at school. As for my class, if you'd handed us a shotgun, we wouldn't have missed.

The Dog Knows Best

Another dog show today. Not a Kennel Club one but another lower level one from the British Agility Association. I won't go into details; it's all so complex but we're here on points collection to try and move up their grades. We are currently 20th in the agility league table and in the last promotion place. We just need to stay there until the end of August. If we slip below 20th but stay about 40th we are not automatically promoted but we are allowed to put in an 'application'. Basically, we're allowed to beg. Surely, a grade 6 is above begging? Perhaps... perhaps not.

Regrettably, in the agility event, the age-old weave problem resurfaces. Doggo skips the last two, seemingly just because he doesn't like me on his right. The good news is that even with 5 faults we still come 18th and 8 valuable points, which keeps us in 20th.

All the other events are 'jumping' events where, in the league, we are languishing in 60's but we achieve some solid results. 4th in Jumping, 5th in the Helter Skelter but we do a really scrappy run in something called 'Tunnel Teasers' which is actually indistinguishable from last weeks 'Up and Unders'. We do a clear round but only just; it's a rubbish run because Doggo doesn't listen to me. I'm not happy; we'll be 10th place at best. I give the errant creature a mini dressing down. He lifts an eyebrow in acknowledgement while sniffing a patch of grass, which is far more interesting than what I'm saying. Perhaps he knows something I don't because half an hour later, I'm apologising to him and shovelling treats down his gob as we are announced the winners. Stunned. Hmmm, for once the dog knows best.

Our three good 'jumping' results move us up to 20th in that league too. So not a bad day's work.

In the evening L and I get the bus over to Derby and pop into the newly reopened Royal Standard where they do a sampling tray of five beers with a pot of cheese on the side for a fiver, which is tempting but instead I go for something dark.

The pub is close to the Council House, so you would think it would be popular with the council workers but the Council have been trying to get the pub demolished because it's in the way of redevelopment plans for the Riverside area. The pub was boarded up in January 2007. Despite being a lovely old pub steeped in history, Cityscape have dismissed the pub as 'not worthy of retention' because it did not fit in with their mission 'to bring an exciting and vibrant mix of apartments, offices and high-class hotels to the banks of the Derwent'. I would hope not.

Derby brewer Trevor Harris also didn't agree and bought the place from Marstons Brewery, subsequently stuffing the City Council's and Cityscape's redevelopment plans. Good man.



We move on to Trevor Harris's former pub, the Brunswick, where there's no Stationmasters Stout but instead Black Sabbath 6.0% and other strong beers. L oddly, and she assures me she's not pregnant, has a craving for Martini Rosso, which turns out to be practically alcohol free.

We share the bus home with a chap who is vomiting his alcopops all over the floor three seats behind us. Charming.

Divine Forces

I defy logic this morning, and despite the pain in my legs, I bike in to work. However, almost as soon as I get the bike out, I feel that some divine force is trying to give me a seriously large hint not to cycle. Firstly, my bike has somehow acquired a flat tyre since I last used it a week ago. So, I had to put a new tube in, which made me late. Not good news when I was hoping for a nice easy ride, now I've got to 'tank' it.

Then when I got onto the road from Ilkeston to Spondon, I found that whilst I've been temporarily off the road, those fun loving people who maintain our highways have loose chipped this stretch. Why? This was one of the best stretches of tarmac in the area, which was why I went that way, now they’ve ruined it. Perhaps this is the councils idea of industrial action. Did you see that 15% (55% on a 27% turnout) of their employees have voted to strike over pay, that's about 1 in 7. So, we're going to have to put up with closed leisure centres and parks, among other things, for a couple of days next month. This should sell a few more gym memberships at the private gyms.

So a traumatic morning but at least I didn't have to get off and walk up the hills as I thought I might if my legs weren't up to it. In fact it turns out to be the best thing I could have done, as it seems to loosen them up a treat. Perhaps I should have taken this approach on Wednesday in between races. As L points out, walking appears to be my predominant post-race problem, not cycling. Cycling, in fact, turns out to be actually easier than walking.

There was nothing particularly interesting about yesterdays Henley by-election but then I happened to notice on the results the 'Miss Great Britain Party'. They fielded two candidates, which means they've not quite got the hang of elections. Fielding two candidates, standing against each other and splitting their own vote, not terribly sensible.



The party's manifesto 'seeks to empower women and make Britain in general and Westminster in particular more glamorous places.' Hmmm.

They didn't win by the way.

After work, I cycle to the pool, determined to get a bit of a 'float' in, to make up for not going on Wednesday. It's not lane swimming night and I can't get a shower because they're both full of kids but once in the pool it's not too bad.

I get a lane all to myself for a bit but then I'm joined by a girl who does a rather interesting backstoke. It's like breaststroke but on her back, so her legs kicks are rather, well bordering on the pornographic. I don't let such distractions put me off.

The swim goes well until my legs collapse after 24 lengths but I manage to limp the final 6 to make up my 30.

In the evening L heads off to the gym and I arrange to meet her afterwards to go to the pub. When I amble up to meet her with Doggo, we take a detour via the new ice cream cone but this takes longer than expected due to a languid dog and the fact that the cornet isn't quite where I though it was. So we run out of time and don't actually get to see it up close.

Thankfully, once at the pub, the Supreme is back on but Doggo still doesn't get on with the pub dog.

By The Skin Of My Teeth

My legs are still very stiff, so still waddling, all the way to the bus stop and then from the bus to work.

The new fifteen year old in the house was really quite chirpy considering she’s about to get hung, drawn and quartered by her English teacher. She was redoing homework at 5.30am on the morning after the night out before.

Somebody else whose had a birthday is one of my earliest heroes, Paddington Bear, who is 50. Michael Bond's first book about the bear being found at Paddington station, with a note attached saying 'Please look after this bear', was published long ago in 1958, when not even I was around. So happy birthday mate, you old git. Still living with Mr & Mrs Brown at 50 though, bit sad that.



I resist the temptation to write my own label 'Please look after this old man'

We really cannot cope with the brutality of it. We're trying to listen to the tennis but it seems the BBC are covering someone getting beaten up instead. All we can hear on the radio is continuous grunts of pain or is that just Sharapova playing tennis. Thankfully she loses, so we won't have to listen to that anymore.

L says I would've been so proud of her. She's walked home at lunch and then cycled back to work. She's supposedly going to be scorching along on her bike straight to the start line from work. Wow, she’ll be so fit. Injured beyond repair but fit. Those pills must be good.

4.30pm and it's raining. I have no coat. More crucially L has no trousers. Oh to be in Nottingham now. She's running late at work but assures me she'll be there at the start although she'll be feeling harassed. I'm not sure if that's a reference to the fact she's running late or that she's expecting to be harassed because she has no trousers.

The rain does briefly stop, long enough to enable me to get home, but then it starts again. Proper Grand Prix weather at last and a touch of déjà vu, it's just like last year. I delay departing the house, hoping the rain will ease. I kill some time kicking the ball for the still smelly one but eventually, the rain gets too heavy for him and instead he sits in the doorway, watching me kick it.

I have my new streamlined shorts on, which Daughter describes as looking like a thong. She's so flattering. They're really not that brief.

Finally, I jog across to the park on my still stiff legs, doing some poncy warm-ups as I go. L is already there; she's cadged a lift to the start.

So here, we go again, race two. 5k on Wollaton Park. 20.07 was last year's time to beat.

We start and run across the grass. Thankfully, this year they've cut it short, so it's easier on the legs. That's two cuts this summer; they must be well over budget on the grass-cutting fund. The process of cutting the grass also has the benefit of flattening the molehills so there aren't as many lethal traps to look out for this year and also the field itself isn't flooded. All the same, I take it easy; I want a nice gentle start today.

I record 4.09 for the first km, which is appalling and redefines gentle. That's my slowest first km, since I started recording them, a few weeks ago. It's time to up the pace and I start overtaking people. Pace wise, I go too far the other way. 3.44. Now I just need to keep a steady 4 minutes per km pace and I'll record less than 20 minutes for the distance, which is my aim. I'm sure on fresh legs I could run 19.30 but not today. Not after a 10k only two days ago.

I'm getting tired now and losing places. I'm 8 seconds off my target pace at 4km, so I need a fast last km, most of which seems to be uphill but I should know this, I'm hardly unfamiliar with Wollaton Park. I dig in, pass a few people and basically cling to life by the fingertips. Just the final downhill bit to go now but I really hate this bit, especially as it's on grass, and I lose a couple of places.

The clock is showing 19.30 as I approach; thankfully, my time is going to be under 20 minutes, then as I get closer it says 19.40, then 19.50. Hang on; slow that bloody clock down. It seems such a long way to the line. Finally, I cross it and I'm sure it was still reading 19 something... but my watch says 20.01. Oh dear but I was a little slow stopping it... Thankfully the official timing gives me 19.59. Job done, by the skin of my teeth.

For once I don't collapse on the ground because the grass is very wet! All the same, it's a struggle to stay upright. I grab a drink and wander up the course, looking for the drugged up one. I pass the time by checking the latest inflation figures. 36C they reckon now, up from an average of 34B.

After the race, we had intended to take Doggo to the pub but it's raining quite heavy now. So, we stay at home with some Meantime ales: - dark lager and Porter. Then we open the 'Innes & Gunn', L recklessly urges an Advocaat as a nightcap. I relent but keep a very close watch on her hand as she pours it.

Lend Me A Tenner Towards My Zimmer Frame

This morning, as I crawl out of bed, L tells me that I look the worst I've ever looked. It's so good of your loved one to let you know these vital facts isn't it? Although, for some reason, she reckons I'll be looking awesome by Friday. That must be a different definition of the word 'awesome' to the one I’m aware of.

We get one of the new trendy buses today, leather seats and Wi-Fi, although still no Mango. Of course, most of the passengers have no use for something like Wi-Fi. Their chosen mode of communication is, as ever, the good old-fashioned mobile phone. Not that a lot of them even need that because they shout so loudly into their phones that I'm sure the person on the other end doesn't need a phone to hear them.

Once off the bus, I put my headphones on, and turn the Courteeners up to full volume, to drown out the duck noises that I assume everyone is making behind my back as I waddle from the bus stop to work. Hmmm, perhaps I'll take it easy on Thursday.

L's walked in too; she reckons the walk has done her good. I’m not sure I can say the same. I would lie on the floor here if I had the office to myself.

Celine Dion has scooped the accolade of the world's worst cover version. Her rendition of AC/DC's 'You Shook Me All Night Long' has been given the honours by Total Guitar magazine. Editor Stephen Lawson described Dion's cover as 'sacrilege'. The Sugarbabes and Girls Aloud ran her a close second by covering Aerosmith and Run DMC's 'Walk This Way'. Westlife came in third with Extreme's 'More Than Words', followed by Will Young with The Doors' 'Light My Fire' and The Mike Flowers Pops cover of Oasis' 'Wonderwall'.

Mark Ronson is rumoured to be gutted that, despite numerous attempts, he still didn't make the top five. Unfortunately, I imagine he'll keep trying.

The reason for taking the bus today was to rest my legs, so obviously I've missed a bike session but something else is wrong and I can't put my finger on it. Dog class has moved from 9pm to 8pm but when I get home I still seem to have time on my hands. Then I realise what's missing; my swimming! I haven't scheduled a swim. Damn.

I hobble off to dog class, where L is worried that I might embarrass the dog. Fairs fair, he’ll embarrass me with that smell.

Daughter is out when I get back, out celebrating her birthday, cinema and pizza. Entry to those 15 certificate films will be legal from now onwards. When she gets back, she kindly counts out her vast hoard of birthday money in front of us. I wonder if she'll lend me a tenner towards my zimmer frame?

I hope to persuade L to help an old man to bed. She's more than agreeable. The treasure.

Among The Geese

L reckons the romance of last night got to me because I was throwing myself around in my sleep, keeping her and Doggo awake. Either that or I had too much cheese. More than likely I was having a nightmare about tonight’s race. All the same it's some achievement to keep the dog awake.

L walks to work in a strappy top, clearly on the pull. She denies it though, says she was simply training hard and working on her tan at the same time.

Maria Sharapova turns up for Wimbledon and immediately bonds herself to the British public, by seemingly coming straight from the night club. Looking every bit the typical British chick out on the pull, in her shorts and a see-through top. Not that this is much good to us at work, where we are listening on the radio.



Well here we go again, the Nottingham Grand Prix, four running races in nine days. Four times the fun or something like that. L's dreading it and is drugged up on ibuprofen to get her through the pain barrier. She has a physio appointment for the day of the last race by which time she'll probably be crawling, mind you, so will I. My knee still hurts but only when I kneel down or it stiffens up when I sit, but I should be ok.

First up, a 10k at Holme Pierrepont. Last year, when I was a novice in his first race, I got caught up in the middle of the pack and finished in 42.06 which, good though it is, I should be able to beat this time.

On the start line I see a few familiar faces but not too many. Then I bump into a friend of ours, an orienteer, who's doing his first running race and the whole series. Baptism of fire eh? He starts up front with me, hope he doesn't follow me; I wouldn't want my stupidity to rub off on him.

Then we're off.



I see her immediately, the girl with the unnecessary ponytail. I naively think I can keep up with her, despite the fact I've never beaten her, and tuck in behind her. Big mistake. By the 1km marker I realise how out of my league she is, as she disappears off into the distance.

My first km is too fast, as it always is but this time I fail to ease off sufficiently. This isn't my fault, other people are coming past me and you don't give up a position without a fight, do you?

At 3km, I am still faster than my Sinfin pace. Scary. At 7km, I'm still on that pace but I suffer badly thereafter. Some annoying git, passes me just before the line and I crawl home in my second fastest 10k time ever but oh how I've paid the price for that.

After a brief dying spell, I grab a drink and hobble off to get Doggo, who is parked at the other end of the lake with the geese. L has warned me that she may well collapse in a heap amongst the geese. This would mean that she was a bit off course, so I check but there's no one lying there at the moment. L may not have found the Geese but someone's grey collie has and it's having a damn good roll in their droppings. Its owner isn't going to be happy. Hang on a sec; I recognise that dog.

I finally retrieve Doggo and we go back around the lake to meet L. As we stand waiting for her, I'm appalled at the bad hygiene of the runners, or is it me. The smell is appalling. Everyone seems to be surreptitiously sniffing their armpits, checking it's not them. No folks, it's not you, the problem is right here at the end of this lead.

I had promised Doggo a trip to the pub. No chance now. He stays in the car as we go for a pint. Not that the car will be usable with the windows closed for some time. He gets a damn good brushing and a bath when we gets home. He takes his 'punishment' well and the smell is a little less but he's not a popular dog.

The Cornet of the East Midlands

London has Nelson's column, the North East has the Angel of the North but now the East Midlands has something bigger, if we're being size-ist.

Nottingham is now home to Britain's tallest free-standing work of public art, a giant ice cream cornet but without the dob of ice cream in the top. Presumably, that will be added later. It's actually called Aspire, it's 60m tall, made of steel, red and orange in colour and has been commissioned by to mark the University of Nottingham's 60th anniversary.

I rather like it and, as it has caused a huge amount of vitriol to be written on the local websites, seems to be well worth the £800,000 it has cost, all funded by an anonymous benefactor. Anything that can gets peoples backs up is fine by me.



(photo from flickr)

'It represents limitless ambition, the power to change your life through education.' Apparently, not sure about that.

On the way home from dog training I collect L from Derby where's she's been running, not that she's well enough to do so, and on the beer. We head home where she's promised me a romantic evening...

She metaphorically handcuffs me to an armchair. Her motive is to get me to watch her film of the year so far, the DVD of which has just come out today and L has rushed down town to get it. At the same time I rushed to Sainsbury's to get the 'Leffe', the ‘Innes & Gunn’ and the ‘Meantime Porter’ feeling that I might need them but sadly it's an AF Monday.

The film in question is 'Penelope', which has proved very popular with the women of our household. Although this may be more because of the men in it rather than the story itself. Anyhow, I'm about to find out. I will review this in trepidation of upsetting them.

Apparently, a member of the 'well to do' Wilhern family once knocked up his maid but then dumped her causing the distraught girl to top herself. Her irate mother, who by chance is also a witch (probably why he dumped her daughter), places a curse on the family. Subsequently the next baby girl born to the Wilhern's will be born with the face of a pig until one of them finds true love with 'one of her own kind'.

No legitimate girl is born to the Wilhern's for generations but then Penelope appears complete with a pig's snout. Although the curse must have weakened over the years because it's hardly the whole 'face of a pig' deal that was promised. Even so, after attempts at plastic surgery fail, her parents (Catherine O'Hara and an underused Richard E Grant) fake her death, I assume to throw the paparazzi off the scent, and Penelope is (kind of) locked away in the tower, in true fairy tale style. That is until she is older, when in an attempt to break the curse; her family lure potential suitors with a large dowry.

Are you with me so far? Well now suspend belief because once faced with Penelope's horrifically disfigured face, all the potential suitors run screaming from the room and even dive through glass windows to escape... Ahmm.

Hello? What's not to like? Penelope has the body of Christina Ricci, the hair of Christina Ricci and with the exception of the nose, the face of Christina Ricci. It's simply Christina Ricci in a Halloween mask.

One of the suitors, Edward, even says he cannot bear to kiss her. Oh come on. Penelope isn't the least bit terrifying. In fact, she's really cute, in a Christina Ricci sort of way and doesn't research show that 95% of people kiss with their eyes closed anyway. Any 'normal' male would shag first, ask questions later... 'great sex Dear... by the way how did you get that awful nose job'

Right, so that's the obvious plot flaw out the way. Perhaps if they'd set the story in ye olden times and not in modern day, then this hypothesis might have worked.

Edward reports his 'horrific' encounter to the police but when he isn't believed, he decides to rebuild his name by teaming up with the tabloid reporter Lemon to expose Penelope. They hire failed pianist and gambler Max, played by a pre-Atonement James McAvoy and looking less of a wimp than usual, to pose as a prospective suitor and get a photograph of her.



Max though cocks it up and falls for her but then decides he cannot pursue her because he is not of her kind and therefore cannot break the curse.



Fed up, Penelope does what teenagers do, throws a strop and runs away from home, wrapping a scarf around her 'hideous' face. Once out in the 'real' world she befriends Reese Witherspoon and her Vespa. Then when she is finally exposed to the world, she becomes a bit of a celebrity and presumably nets a multi million pound contract with 'Hello' magazine. So, she didn't really need to sell her own picture to the tabloids.



The studio had apparently sat on this film for two years, despite it's all-star cast. Among others, Nigel Havers, Lenny Henry and that guy from 'Shaun Of The Dead' all pop up. This makes you feel they thought there was something not quite right about it.

It's a similar cute fairy-tale to the recent 'Enchanted' and 'Stardust', it's very Walt Disney but actually with more in common with Shrek or Edward Scissorhands. Although without the humour of the former or the charm of the latter.

It's all over in around 80 minutes, just as I was getting into it. It would have been nice to have seen more of Penelope discovering the 'real' world. In the end, Penelope cures the curse herself by declaring herself happy as she is. So, Penelope gets her James McAvoy and lives happily ever after but it's difficult to believe the message about being ugly not mattering and it being the person inside that counts when Christina Ricci is gorgeous even with the nose of a pig.

L simply loves the romance of it but I though the romance was sadly lacking because the two leads spent so little time together. There are some good side jokes and good performances from Ricci and McAvoy but it could have been a lot better but in the end was just alright.

A pleasant evening and at least the romance, or was it the alcohol, rubs off on L.

Entropy

L gets up to do Daughter's papers and instructs Doggo and I to keep the bed warm. It goes against the grain to not help but oh well why not. We await her return with the papers, the coffee and her good self.

When L gets up for the second time and I for the first, we go on the park. L runs while I take Doggo with his ball. We meet up and check out the Veterans Day celebrations that are taking part on there. Nothing different really, just another funfair and junk food festival, although there are a few old photos of the area from the War era but not that many.

Later I head off to our recycling centre to offload some of the old computer gear we seem to be accumulating. Our recycling centre is not a pleasant place, manned by quite threatening types. I know from work all about the WEEE directive that says electrical gear must now be disassembled and all the components recycled. So it's somewhat surprising when some tattooed chap with only a couple of teeth says dump it in a skip. Which skip? Any skip? Surely not. Don't they know the rules? Just put it down by the f***** skip he tells me. Charming. Customer service at its best. Give those council workers a pay rise. Not.

While I'm cleaning the computer room out, L is dealing with the house entropy. Yep, I've learnt another new word. The phenomenon of house entropy is that no matter how vigilant you are with cleaning, your home will always be verging on a state of chaos, dust and muddle. Not either of us are particularly vigilant and we love a bit of chaos.

I suppose like everybody I hoped that Spain v Italy would be a good game but doubted it would be. It rather predictably ends 0-0. I hate the poncy Spanish but the Italian are so boring and negative, so even I'm pleased when the Italian's lose on penalties.

L's been trying to train Doggo to 'wave a paw'. It's not, so far, progressing that well. Although I'd be being negative if I didn't acknowledge that a little advancement has been made but this pales into insignificance with the amount of sausage that has been consumed. I reckon Doggo, who can be bright when he wants to be, has worked it all out. He knows that as soon as he performs as requested the sausage supply will be turned off. Therefore, he may well string this out for as long as he can.

Getting The House To Ourselves

I'm somewhere near Melton Mowbray at 8.30am this morning doing some 'Up And Unders' in the rain. This isn't as exciting as it sounds, although perhaps it doesn't sound exciting... We're dogging, as in dog agility and 'Up And Unders' is apparently a course consisting of just jumps and tunnels. This was news to Doggo and I before this morning.

A 15-year-old lad from our club has set the course and is also judging it. It is a stinker, which isn't a criticism because it was absolutely perfect for us and almost everyone is getting the big 'E'. As do we, for taking the wrong tunnel. Bugger. It serves us right. I were expecting an easy course and as there were no precious points up for grabs, we were a bit 'leisurely' getting to the venue and arrived five minutes too late to walk it.

'Not very grade 6 was it?' the lad says to us. Hmmm. What does he know? The sarcastic young upstart. We retreat to lick our wounds in the car and for a strong coffee.

My Dad texts his apologies for not heading over to stand in the rain with us. No apology needed really. There's only us mad folk here. He says they might come over in the afternoon because the forecast says it's going to fine up. Really? It doesn't.

To help me through the day I have custody of the shared ipod. It used to be Son's, well, it still is really, but he's been the typical fickle teenager and dumped it for not being good enough for him. Instead, he's availed himself of a newer model. Good practice for dealing with those troublesome female creatures I suppose.

We've loaded up this ipod with a few talking books and today I 'crack' on with John Le Carre's 'The Mission Song' but wish I hadn't bothered. It's interesting but not an easy read (or listen).

Next up agility wise is 'Time Fault and Out' which is our speciality. Basically, you get 40 seconds to do as many obstacles as possible. We may be slow but we rarely make mistakes, apart from in 'Up And Unders' obviously, and can therefore circulate most courses indefinitely.

While watching I'd seen someone make it as far as the jump after the dog walk second time around which was 28 obstacles, so that was our target. We were just alighting from the dog walk on the second circuit when we ran out of time. Damn. 27 scored but second place, so not bad. Our prize was a 'cute' doggie mug and coaster set. Nauseating and no points available on this event either. L and Daughter will love it though.

Finally, we're down to the events that have points available. A solid but disappointing 13th in the Jumping event is followed by a 4th place in the Agility. Although we didn't know these placings at the time. The jumping was finished by early afternoon but by 6pm the results still weren't out, the agility was still ongoing, so we headed off home and got the results later off the internet.

Back home to L, who's been out watching mush, 'Priceless' at Broadway, before dumping Daughter on the bus to her father's.

The absence of Daughter means we have the house to ourselves, so we decide to have a night in. Well Son is in but that doesn't count. Its a chance to reacquaint ourselves with the living room and the remote control unit. I cook a romantic curry just for the two of us, oh yes and for Son, but again that doesn't really count.

We share five (small) bottles of Leffe triple, a (large) London porter and some pear cider, didn't that used to be called Perry?, between us. A mini binge. Good though. Thrilled to have the remote control, I watch a bit of the football as Russia dismiss Holland.

L is that drunk that she forgets she's supposed to be in a black mood and offers an early night. A good evening all round really.

Never Underestimate A Good Pair Of Ankles

It's been a tiring week and I bike in very slowly. It’s pleasant but I'm feeling well knackered.

L's on the power walk again, bopping along to Winifred Holtby. Or perhaps not, as this turns out to be her latest talking book. It's set in 1932 and it's based around the members of the South Riding County Council. So it doesn't sound that riveting... L says that the council have just appointed a new headmistress, who's young with ginger hair, good ankles and a snip-snap manner. She thinks she can see where it's all going to lead... I wonder what she means by that... but as they say, never underestimate a good pair of ankles.

Our MD leaves at lunchtime, he's off swinging, on company time too. It's all right for some. Corporate golf day.

I cycle home with a colleague, the budding Duathlete. We go my winter route, as this is also his preferred way home. He sets a furious pace, which is impressive as he's on a mountain bike. I'd hate to have to ride such a heavy bike, that's not to mention all the drag from those big tyres. We kind of race and it gets almost dangerous at times. More him than me, honest, he can bump up and down curbs on his bike, I can't. Not that I would wish to. We part in Borrowash. When I get home, his pace making has helped me to a new PB for that route.

At home, L dishes up her speciality, pure unadulterated slag, her words not mine, before we wander up to Beeston for a few beers. The beer range isn't quite to L's liking tonight but I don't find it too bad. I think she's just sulky because she fancies some wine and it's just too damn expensive there. There are far too many beers under 4%. Does anybody prefer to drink such beers these days?

Pork Chops? Piece Of Cake!

I run in today and for the first time I do it plugged into my ipod. The route is traffic free, so there's no risk of not hearing a juggernaut moments before it flattens me, I hope. I kicked things off with The Hours 'Ali In The Jungle' which is a song about overcoming adversity which I thought was appropriate. Particularly considering the size of the blister on my toe.

Another reason for choosing them is that they also have a song about misanthropes, of which there appear to be many on my run route. I greet most of them, with barely a flicker in return. The old lady seems to want me to stop for a chat, I decline, doesn't she know this is being timed. 'Aren't they all a bunch of misanthropes' she says to me or something like that. Although perhaps she was accusing me.

The ipod must have worked because it's a new PB of 28.46.

When I get changed for work, I notice that it's not a pretty sight inside my sock. My blister is well squishy but you didn't wish to know that. There's also an awful lot of blood in there; I write myself a mental note, 'for God's sake cut your toenails'.

Nottingham has failed in its bid to become a city for cycling. It was not named as one of the twelve towns and cities across England to share £100m of Government funding aimed at encouraging cycling. Nottingham's bid, quite simply, didn't come up to scratch. If they were basically promising more of what we have now, then it's no wonder it failed. Nottingham is an awful city to try to get around by bike, positively dangerous. Any money would surely have just been spent on more white paint sub-dividing more pavements, not helpful.

Cottage pie and Church End Stout in the pub at lunchtime, very nice.

L is having a manic day at work and is going to be late home. So, I offer to cook for the kids and then meet L for a nice de-stressing beer. That is, if L dare put beer down on her dietary analysis sheet that she's doing for Daughter's health and social care project. Comments like 'Blow the dietary monitoring, I'm on pints' doesn't bode well. Tut tut. What would the health and social care monitor say to that? Talking of whom, she's not a happy bunny after being rather late back from what proved to be a mammoth paper round. I tell her a nice pork chop will cheer her up; she doesn't seem convinced.

L was sceptical that I could cope with something complex like pork chops. Piece of cake, I knew it was something to do with that grill thing. I could have got Son to show me, he’s rather good with the grill... and the smoke alarm, but in the end I coped on my own. In fact, I even managed a few spuds, veg and... wait for this... gravy. Mind you knocking up an Indian is still far easier.

I wander down to meet L, carrying a pair of her jeans because she's only taken shorts to work. I nearly didn't though. Shorts is good... if roles were reversed she’d probably have left me in my shorts.

On the way, I take Doggo for a wander on Radford Rec which, although I regularly walk past it, I have never visited before. It's rather nice and would have been even better had they not built a nursery right in the middle of it.

We are looking forward to a few Supremes but it's off, so Legend has to suffice instead. Doggo, I'm sure, is looking forward to seeing off the pub dog again, which he does with relish. He'll end up with another banning order at this rate.

Back home I think I mistake a cuddle from L as a cue for something else. Oops.

Dogs Are Now Banned

It's drizzling this morning, that annoying rain stuff that's not as wet as proper rain but not as dry as no rain, if you get my drift. To bike or not to bike, as usual, that is the question. Will the weather get worse or will it fine up? Oh sod it; just go for it. I do and it's not too bad.

Apparently, Doggo got a good breakfast today, Chinese in fact. Somebody seemed to have tipped most of their Chinese meal across the top of our street, it was mainly mushrooms but he managed to pick out a few bits of chicken.

L's been out yomping with the heart rate monitor on this morning. However, neither of us is sure what this tells us. L's going to look it up on internet and then she can explain it all to me.

This is worrying. L's being receiving emails entitled 'I love Donny and Jimmy's quite cute too' or something like that from her sister, who's been to see the Osmonds live. Personally, I think just saying that they were 'quite good' would have been sufficient but then perhaps I'm just a music snob.

Talking of gigs. Madskull have been in touch with me by email, which is cool, it's always good to get feedback. Apparently, they were thrilled I reviewed them and didn't even mind me referring to them as scallies who had eaten all the pies.

After work, it's still doing that drizzling thing but all the same, I head off to the pool for my swim. I go in lane two, where it's busy and I get some hard stares. I assume this is because they feel I'm swimming too fast for lane two and I should be in lane one. Yes, I could be but I'm avoiding the chap in there because he's really annoying. He'll keep overtaking me but then stop, forcing me to put myself in a position where he will overtake me again. Today I'm not playing. In any case, both these lanes are marked as 'fast', so there, if you can't stand the heat; go swim in the bikini zone.

Talking of which, I've seen the latest in lightweight sports gear down in lane four, the skimpiest bikini I've ever seen. Serious kit indeed.

Eventually Mr Annoying gets out of lane one and I move over, getting it all to myself.

Do you remember the advert 'Take two bottles into the shower'? Well there's a chap in the changing rooms who has not two but... err six bottles: - shampoos, conditioners, talc, lotions, deodorant... oh dear, what a girl. Apologies to girls.

Dog class is good; Doggo is near perfect again. This doesn't however get him an 'opt out' from the new house rule. This is that dogs are now banned from the bedroom until lights out or until they can learn to keep their paws to themselves. He's not happy with it but seems to be taking it like a man so far.

Women eh?

I wake up feeling really energetic for the new day. Therefore, after a lively warm up it's onto the bike.

I feel I'm absolutely bombing along but then I get passed. Not happy about that, it's been a while; I don't see many people now that I go the back way through Ilkeston. I didn't even see him coming.

In time honoured style, he eases off as he pulls level with me, just so that he can give my bike the once over before muttering something, presumably derogatory, under his breath before adding a more audible 'Good Morning' before powering off into the distance. Of course, he could just have been checking to see if my bike was made of cardboard, like the one that design student at Sheffield Hallam University has made.



I speed off in pursuit but I can't keep up with him.

I arrive at work 100% alive but L hasn’t checked. I hope she's not getting blasé about my safety. When I make contact, she is indignant that she has checked so perhaps it's our email rejecting her again, who knows the vagaries of email.

It's I who should be more concerned about L these days, what with her power walking down the canal, where the main hazard is being knocked into the water by an out of control cyclist. She's fine though and sums up her morning as thus 'My tan is coming along nicely and the scales are down so all is well in the world'. Women eh?

I pedal home and run into L heading to Pilates, then I take Doggo on the park. I extend our route so that we manage to catch L as she runs home. Although her run seems to be more of a hobble, so it's not looking good on the injury front. The extra distance means Doggo is well knackered, so we probably won't see much of him tonight.

Unfortunately, this isn't the case. After I've done curry for all of us, we head to bed to take advantage of the 'wellness in the world' but Doggo is a total pain. Therefore, for repeated bad behaviour, he ends up banished to the kitchen, where he sits and sulks by the back door. Eventually we permit him back in and he sheepishly joins us.

Now get this. I have read two books in the last six weeks. Impressive or what?

Firstly, I can highly recommend 'In Search of Robert Millar', by Richard Moore, which is about Britain's greatest ever 'tour' cyclist. He came 4th in the 1984 Tour de France and won the 'King Of The Mountains' competition. He also recorded top 10 finishes in several other years, as well as 2nd places in the big tours of Italy and Spain and countless wins in other races. The book is a fascinating insight into the enigma that is Millar and was written without any help from Millar himself who 'disappeared' several years ago, although a few emails were exchanged with him.



At the other extreme is the, ahem, kind of chick lit, that Daughter lent me. That being Jenny Colgan's 'Do You Remember The First Time', which appealed to me because it’s about a thirty something woman fed up with her career as an accountant and a dull boyfriend who she fears is about to propose and wishes to be sixteen again, so that she can do everything again but differently. This is really brought home when her childhood sweetheart turns up unexpectedly at her best friend's wedding.

Then, suddenly she is sixteen again. Now this would have taken her back to the eighties, hence my interest, but she only goes back six months. This is a bit of a disappointment and really odd but it's still a good read.

She still manages to save her parents' marriage, as well as change her A levels and hence her career path. Also first time around she had shunned the advances of her sweetheart so this time she vowed to relent. Unfortunately, he hadn't gone back in time with her, so instead, she cedes to his younger brother but that still seems to count. When she returns to her real age she is still with him and has fobbed her boring boyfriend off on her best mate. Women eh?

Keep Away From The Nutella

Back to normal this week, a full week at work, no bank holidays and no days offs. So I'm in the car as is usual for a Monday and I finally get to Sainsbury's so that I can restock the fridge at work with stuff for breakfasts and lunches. This means I can cycle or run to my hearts content for the rest of the week.

I stock up with loads of healthy stuff but I don't need to do the unhealthy stuff because I have L's winnings from Sunday, her goodie bag, to work through.

In the evening, nine days after our legendary win, we finally get to dog class to enjoy the adoration. We take a box of chocolates with us, as is the custom when you have a win. Did you know you now get Bournville now in Heroes, things are looking up.

Then what do we find when we get to class, not one, not two, but three other boxes of chocs on show. Obviously a good week for wins. It’s just like the Red Arrow, none for ages then they all come along at once. Naturally, our win was the most impressive.

L is at gym and we collect her on the way home where I hit the posh nosh, fish finger sandwiches.

L has been reading and has now just finished Glasgow spendaholic Alexis Hall’s book 'In The Red - The Diary of a Recovering Shopaholic'. The self-confessed shopping addict racked up credit card debts of more than £30,000 before she realised her outrageous spending had to stop. L says she makes her look like a saint. I think the book offers several bit of advice, so I hope some of it rubs off on L. Although I did read that the author has been known to take solace in a jar of Nutella. Not good advice!

Racing The Misanthropes

This morning I put my retirement plans temporarily on ice, having achieved a sub-40 10k, what else in life is there to achieve? Sub-39? I don't think so.

We head over to West Park Leisure Centre for the Long Eaton 5. The fan club (my father) is already there in place, and telephoning us to find out where us tardy souls are, as we drive along the A52.

Doggo is abandoned in the car park as usual, inside the car that is, and we head to the start. L heads to her usual position amongst the 'pack' while I linger with the miserable misanthropes (I do like that word) near the front. At the back they're probably chatting merrily between themselves, at the front no one even dare make eye contact.

The starter assures us that there's nothing to worry about on the course, no nasty surprises in store. Then almost as soon as they start the race I fall down a pothole large enough to lose a collie down. If that's not a 'nasty surprise', I don't know what is. In fact, the first quarter of a mile is a nightmare, full of the nastiest of nasty surprises, as we run through the park. It's better once we get on the public roads; there we only have to contend with the holes that the council have neglected to fill in. These are mainly the ones left purely to get the backs of cyclists up and I'm well used to dodging them.

I realise early on that my rough target of sub-32 minutes isn't on. Probably due to under training in the last two weeks due to the dodgy knee I picked up after coming off second best in my argument with the floor of the squash court.

I also can't say I enjoyed the route that much either, Long Eaton isn't that scenic and the route was seemingly all uphill but my main beef is that the mile markers are too far apart. Yes, I know they're placed every mile, but I'd rather they'd placed them every kilometre. That always seems to make the race go faster, although obviously it makes for more markers, but it is what I'm used to.

My first mile is an eye watering 5.56, which is good in a 'I'm going to die' sort of way. It's seemingly water off a collie's back to the misanthropes and they just speed up whilst I slow down settling into 6.30 ish pace. This takes me to the finish in a time of 32.15, which I'm pleased-ish with until I realise that I did last years Notts 5 in 32.08. How did that happen?

I fetch Doggo from the car, who's very pleased to see me and he hurtles me back to finish, where we sit on the grass and wait for L. Doggo sits on top of me, just in case I try and run off without him again. Mind you he forgets this strategy when L comes in and he sets off in pursuit of her, desperate to join in, towing me along the grass on my backside in the process. He has never been able to get over his excitement at races.

Just ahead of L was a lithe young lass with legs up to her armpits, who a chap, having already finished the race, was talking in. It wasn't just me who was looking at her legs, honest, everyone else was too. It was probably her first race, runners legs but no muscles. Anyhow, he was really geeing her up, telling her how good she looked, how well she was doing, how proud of her he was etc etc etc. I've tried all this with L but I think she just thought I was taking the mickey.

The chap tells her he's going to get some water ready for her for when she crosses the finish and runs off to get some. L would say he's only buttering her up for one thing. Yep, I can imagine what his post-race plans are.

When L crosses the line, she gets a goodie bag full of chocolate. How can that be fair? Where's mine? Luckily she's sure to hand it all over to me.

Something that is in favour of the event is that Marston's sponsor it and there was free beer afterwards. Hurrah. Almost worth staying out of retirement for.

We head home for lunch and a relaxing afternoon. I wonder how that chap got on with the leggy girl, I wonder if she made him wait until she'd finished 'sleeping with the enemy'. No not all those misanthropes who beat me in practically all the age categories, even the ones I'm not ancient enough to qualify for. L's been reading the book 'Sleeping With The Enemy' which she says is much better than the film.

I would actually have won the over 70's category, that is had I been 30 years older. So I need to stay fit and unretired for a very long time.

In the evening L has invited her parents around for Sunday Dinner. Which I feel is a thinly disguised ruse to keep us out of the curry house post-race but I'm ok with that. As L says, what's wrong with a post-race flat Yorkshire pudding. Hmmm, seemingly, a lot because she bottles out of doing them.

She wears her 'new' top again which I've been corrected about because it isn't new at all but an old one jazzed up or rather down, as I'm told broke fashionistas have to do. I thought it looked familiar but I didn't want to push it, don't want to fall in to a 'wrong time, wrong girl' sort of situation. I look forward to whatever she jazzes down next.

Misanthrope Seeks Misanthrope

The delivery of a new hard drive for the computer briefly interrupts our Saturday morning lie-in, as does the usual chaos of the paper rounds. Once up, I spend most of the day getting the computer up and running with the expected disruption of a park session in the middle, at Doggo's insistence. In between reinstalling all our vital software, I watch a bit of Euro 2008.

Later, L cooks up pasta and another pudding, to prepare us for tomorrow's race. Then we head off Broadway for a papaya juice, because the mango is off and sadly we are AF.

I've offered L some Saturday night romance at the cinema, a low-budget US independent film called 'In Search of a Midnight Kiss', the synopsis of which L says sounds like the story of the lycra clad maiden and the dithering cyclists. I hope it’s not as dull as that.

The film opens with tasteful shots of numerous couples romantically entwined while in the background Frank Sinatra is singing 'As Time Goes By'. Then we cut to Wilson (Scoot McNairy) who quickly lowers the tone. Wilson is new to Los Angeles, recently split from a long-term girlfriend, fed up, and lonely. We see him using Photoshop to paste his flat mate's girlfriend's head onto the photo of a naked female body. He is pleased with the erotic nature of the resulting photo, until his flat mate Jacob (Brian McGuire) walks in and catches him with his pants down. Oh dear, it's so embarrassing when that happens.

Unable to believe what he is seeing, Jacob calls his girlfriend over to ask her if that really is her on the computer screen. By now Wilson is hiding in the bathroom.

It's New Year's Eve and Jacob decides it's best if Wilson gets a life. So he persuades him to post a personal ad on Craig's List.

The ad 'Misanthrope seeks misanthrope' gets a response from the strong-willed but neurotic Vivian (Sara Simmonds), who is holding openly cut-throat interviews to try and find the 'right guy' to be with at the stroke of midnight. Despite having reservations about Wilson, he seems the best option and the two of them 'hang out' around Los Angeles. Two lonesome souls who don't wish to spend New Year's Eve without having someone to kiss at midnight.



Vivian admits she had to look up what a misanthrope was. As did I! A misanthrope does not trust other human beings; they possibly do not even like them. Initially Vivian seems to fit this description to a 'T' but as their relationship develops over the evening, our first impressions of the two of them change. Vivian turns out to be more human than she would have us believe. Deep down perhaps she's a philanthropic person. Wilson too grows before our eyes to be more substantial and interesting than we first thought.

In order to get to know each other better they both agree to make a confession to each other. Wilson, for reasons only he can fathom, confesses to the Photoshop incident. This unsurprisingly doesn't go down well and after that revelation, the date takes some rescuing. Things get worse when Vivian discovers condoms in his pocket. She'd already made it crystal clear they'd be none of that sort of entertainment this evening and certainly not something requiring the five, which were forced upon him by Jacob.

Wilson empties his bank account and wins her round with a meal. We find out that Vivian's dumped her long-term boyfriend, although she doesn't really seem to have told him yet, after finding out he was sleeping with someone else. When she finally answers the phone to her ex, she tells him the news and he threatens to torch all her belongings and do worse to Wilson. So Wilson helps her out in a mission to rescue her belongings from their apartment.



They eventually turn up at Jacob's New Years Eve party where he is about to propose to his girlfriend, Min (Kathleen Luong). Min though, rather than be annoyed by the Photoshop incident, seems flattered by it and comes on to Wilson. God, girls are weird. Shocked by this, Wilson immediately leaves and takes Vivian with him. Even after that incident, Min still accepts Jacob's offer of marriage.

Wilson and Vivian end up where they were always destined to, in bed together, where Vivian's confession comes, that she's pregnant by her ex.



In the morning, she waves goodbye to him from a taxi and is seemingly gone for ever and Wilson is back more or less, where he started but with more of a mess as regards his flatmates. The upside is possibly his own ex, who's given him a call, and perhaps could be up for reconciliation.

A good film with definite shades of 'Before Sunset'. I liked it but it's the sort of film L and I go for. A cheap fun film with lots of rough edges. Just like life should be.

The Metaphorical Rolling Pin

I'm back on the bike today and a very good it is too, despite a bit of a headwind. L’s taken to regularly power walking down the canal to work, that’s down the canal bank obviously, not the canal itself. She says she's enjoying the power walks that much that she says she’s seriously considering giving up running for good. Hmmm. This doesn’t sound promising, as we’re both in the Long Eaton 5 on Sunday. Could just be a touch of nerves perhaps or a touch of injured thigh again.

When it comes to cycling home, I take the long way home through Kegworth for the first time this year. This includes the deadly cycle path past the A50. It's totally traffic free but the path is in a very bad state of repair with concrete blocks, to keep out travellers off, scattered liberally over it.

I forget to tell L my detour plans and I'm a little late back. She is practically tapping a metaphorical rolling pin on the table when we get home; Doggo is impatiently nudging his football. She can’t really have been annoyed because she is easily persuaded to help unknot my aching muscles.

In the evening, we walk to Beeston for the usual few beers, enabling Doggo to check his pmails, as I believe they're called, on the way.

Ye Olde Tale Of The Lycra Clad Maiden And The Dithering Cyclists

It's raining when I get up but the sky does look fairly bright so I risk jogging to the bus stop in running kit, hoping it will fine up by the time the bus gets to Borrowash.

The R4 turns up three minutes early. It wasn’t a normal R4 bus and it didn't have the GPS tracking. This I assume means that the driver's time keeping isn't being 'monitored' and I think he was taking advantage of the situation which gave him a longer fag break where the bus always pauses in Sandiacre.

Once off the bus, it has fined up, and the run in was good. The old knee's still a bit stiff but not too bad. I should be fit for Sunday. Time wise, I was a minute quicker than last week, which isn't bad as I did detour via the cashpoint. Although it's not even close to a PB.

After work I'm back on the Signalman's Stout at the Brunswick where I meet a friend of mine. I daren't tell L in case she's jealous, she did rather like the Stout on Saturday but tonight she's drawn the short straw of walking 'that silly hound' as she calls him.

My friend, in the two months since I last saw him, still hasn't got around to sorting out the lycra clad damsel at his cycling club. Well things have moved on I suppose. I did wonder last time what was wrong with the rest of the cycling club, why hadn't someone else stepped in while he was dithering? Well the rest of the club now seem to have alerted to the fact that there's a vacancy in her personal life and now she's got not one but three indecisive cyclists circling above her and bickering amongst themselves about it. Unfortunately they all appear to be equally hopeless. They'll give the male gender a bad name. Guys are supposed to be programmed by nature to try practically anything in these situations... you know pretend they've got some impressive job, that their granny has just died for the sympathy vote, naturally lie that they are single when they're not or even pretend to be a super-fit cyclist... scrub that last bit, I've no idea if that works or not. Watch this space for news, or rather don't. Big Brother will be up to series 100 before this particular reality show is concluded.

After a Chinese buffet that is over fried, heavy on the sugar and the fat. I head homeward bound aboard the Red Rocket. L says Doggo is curled up in his corner but will surely spring into life for me. I could do without that but hopefully L might spring into life too.

Bad news on my dying computer, the replacement hard disk, that was an old one anyway and it had been in Son's possession, enough said, appears to be dying too. Daughter's not happy about this, as the printer is out of commission; I think she assumes I've trashed it deliberately.

Later, under interrogation by pillow talk, I tell L all about the lycra clad maiden and the dithering cyclists. L's asks me if this girl has a name. I'm not sure she has, well he hasn’t mentioned it; perhaps he’s not got around to asking her yet, it's only been six months. L reckons the girl will be loving all the attention. Hmmm, L's not met the cyclists; you wouldn't want any of that lot squabbling over you.

A Good Advert For Glasgow?

I finally get to do some training and I ride into work on my bike. Very pleasant it is too, a glorious morning. It's far too nice to be in the car but judging from the amount of traffic on the road not everyone agrees with me.

Its a very busy day at work, lots of stuff to sort out as well as lots of blogging to catch up on.

When I get home, I take Doggo out, although L has already seriously de-edged him on the paper round. I bring him back half an hour later, totally creased.

L's been spending, on another new top that she can't afford. Tut tut. It's very nice though, although she's worried its too low cut. Hmmm, is that possible? and if she was worried about that, then why did she buy it? It looks perfectly fine to me, quite high cut if you ask me.

With L decked out in her new revealing outfit, we head off to tonight's gig. Our resident rock chick joins us, although she seems to be on a downer, as is often the case when the gig isn't of her choosing. Of course she could have turned down the free ticket.

On the way, L takes the opportunity of Daughter's presence to try and get her a passport photo done. We stop at a booth outside Sainsbury's which refuses to work, so L goes off in search of a refund. Then suddenly it does work, so we get the photos for free but then they tell us they're too 'pink' for passports and that they'll get rejected. Oh well, perhaps it's worth a try anyway.

We're at Derby's new venue tonight, The Royal formerly the Royal Hotel although it closed as a hotel in 1950. Both tonight's bands comment on the posh-ness of the surroundings when they come on stage, which is quite late. The support act play at 9.15, the main band at 10.15.

First up are a band called Madskull. The name doesn't sound promising and neither does the lack of a drumkit. Then when a badly dressed group of scallies, looking like Oasis after they've eaten all the pies, walk on stage to the sound of 'My Boy Lollipop' possibly my worst fears are realised or possibly not. Turns out they're actually quite a nice bunch of lads albeit with impenetrable Scots accents who make quite a nice sound. I think they're funny, as in entertaining and comic sort of way. Apart from that second track which is called 'Bouncy' or something like that and is all my musical nightmares rolled into one. They only play four tracks, saying that's all they've got, as they've only been together a matter of weeks but they're not too bad at all.

For a band who only assembled recently, they have a lot of equipment and they take almost as long shifting it as they did playing. Then eventually dry ice and red lighting floods the stage as four be-quiffed figures dressed in black take the stage. Glasvegas certainly look the part, like a 1960's version of the Jesus And Mary Chain with Joe Strummer on lead guitar and singing in Glaswegian. L's analogy was a cross between the Skids and the Cold War Kids with a dash of Rab C Nesbitt thrown in. Which is priceless. As you may have guessed the band are, as the name suggests, from Glasgow or more correctly Dalmarnock. Mind you, it's still a shocker of a name, even if it is how many Scots jokingly refer to Glasgow.

After their impressive entrance, singer James Allan kicks off the evening with 'Flowers And Football Tops', a song big on emotion and seemingly about roadside memorials. Along with his cousin Rab on guitar and Paul Donoghue on bass, the three of them lay down a gorgeous wall of guitar noise. This is partly where the comparisons to fellow Scots Jesus And Mary Chain come from, I also wonder if they've listened to My Bloody Valentine. The guitar sound is backed by the simple drumming of Caroline McKay on a cut-down drum kit, who is slightly hidden in the shadows at the back of the stage.



The place isn't full despite the hype and their recent appearance on 'Jools' so we can get up close and impersonal with them. Together since early 2006 with the much downloaded 'Home Tapes' demos and three limited edition singles behind them, it's taken a while for them to get noticed but finally they have been.

So have they been hyped for a good reason. Well yes. Tonight, their songs resonate off the walls of the impressive Royal without being as loud as I'd expected. Previous singles like 'Its My Own Cheating Heart That Makes Me Cry' are accompanied by fists in the air and football ground style singing from the crowd down the front but don't hold that against them. Each familiar song is sung back with increasing vigour as the night goes on, even the 'woo woo' Ronettes' bits.

There is no written set list; it's seemingly not needed for what appears to be a well-honed set. The well known downloads all take on another dimension live and are interspersed with a few new songs, such as 'Lonesome Swan' and 'Polmont On My Mind' which promise great things from their debut album when it is released in August.

'Geraldine' sounds wonderfully powerful and totally ace live. It is already L's single of the year and it's not even out until 23rd June. In fact she says the band are the best thing I've played her for a while. She's even bought the t-shirt.



There is hardly any letup, as the band rumble through their brief but breathless 45 minute set, more than justifying the frenzy about them.

'Go Square Go' storms the stage and the crowd but then finally we get a break and a slowie; a new song called 'Ice Cream Van' featuring just James Allan's distinctive Glaswegian brogue and Rab on keyboard, although it sounds a bit like the funeral march. L tells me how moving it was the way he wrung his hands as he sung it. She says she was sure he was rummaging for a hankie in his pocket afterwards so he could have a little sob. I'm not convinced, I thought the lyrics were about sectarianism and he was wringing his hands as if he had them around someone’s throat. Funny how we see things differently.

They finish with 'Daddy's Gone', which is greeted with a big cheer. A track that was voted the number 2 single of 2007 by NME readers. Most of the crowd know it and carry on singing when James Allan opts not to.



No sooner has he finished singing a final chorus of 'forget your dad, he's gone' and they're gone themselves. Almost as soon as the band are off the stage, the house lights and the music come on. Game over. Which is a shame. Not even chance to shout for an encore.

Despite the shortness of the set, these guys are clearly a class act with some great songs. Probably too short, it would have been good to hear them play 'The Prettiest Girl On Saltcoats Beach', but I suppose it was only £7. Hopefully longer sets will appear when they tour to promote the album.

So a great gig, despite them not having the cheeriest of songs; their repertoire consists of death, racism, absent fathers, social workers, infidelity... he's clearly had a rough upbringing. What a good advert for Glasgow. I've not really been there; don't think I'll bother.

A Reason To Celebrate

5.15am alarm. Needless to say L doesn't react. Even Doggo doesn't raise an eyebrow, even he doesn't do this time of morning. I crawl out of bed and into the shower; I'm faced with a long trawl down to Maidstone this morning for work. Thankfully I'm not driving.

Three and a quarter hours is pretty good for the drive down and the meeting goes well as well. It's quite an amusing meeting too. There's a chap, I remember from last time, who most women would see as a rather obnoxious type because he's very quick with the crude comments and is all over the women. He's better behaved this time, no x-rated language, perhaps this is because the woman who he was stalking last time has now left. No connection of course. He's now working on another one. Watch out for those situations vacant ads.

Another 'good' three and a quarter hour trip home. Somehow my work colleague and I end up talking alcohol units. I work his out for him and I reckon he's around the 50 unit mark most weeks. He's shocked and appears to be thinking twice about the bottle of wine he was going to open tonight. I'm thrilled that he's practically doubling my units on a weekly basis; I think this could be a reason to celebrate and I consider having a glass of wine myself. After all I did make it under the magic 28 last week.

At home, L does curry and then we head off to bed, the three of us. The four-legged one is on seriously borrowed time. Doggo, in his advanced years, he's nearly seven, has started getting over intimate with the duvet. He never used to do this before. Jumpers and blankets, yes, but not duvets. It's incredibly inconvenient and off putting when you're trying to be intimate yourself.

Something To Hang Daughter From

I have a day off work today because I'm expecting a man from E.On to come and change the electric meter. Naturally I don't actually believe he'll turn up but I get up nice and early just in case. So it's quite a surprise when he's outside the front door at 8am, his earliest possible appointment time. He's done the deed and gone by 8.30, so I could have gone into work but naturally if I hadn't booked the day off he would have kept me waiting all day. They're very cunning these people.

I take advantage of the power being off to try and figure out why two of our electrical sockets in the kitchen are dead. I get no closer to solving the problem instead some how I end up frying the power supply unit on my PC. At least I assume it was my fault and not just a strange coincidence that I was messing with the power at the time. Oddly I'd switched both kids' computers off at the wall but not ours.

So rather than spend the day doing a few jobs as I had planned I end up at Maplin buying a new PSU. Although I do get to B&Q as well, getting some Cotswold Stone (oh go on then... gravel) to go along the edges of the new fence, as well as something to hang Daughter from. Oops, sorry I meant something to hang Daughter's hanging basket from. Freudian slip.

Having replaced the PSU there's still no joy with the computer, it seems it's taken the hard disk down with it. So I start the long laborious process of setting up another hard disk from scratch. This lack of a computer is going to somewhat disrupt my blogging, so apologies for the delays between posts.

The whole day is made even more difficult by an impossibly clingy dog who is thrilled to have me at home. Regrettably I find it hard to reciprocate his joy. L always tells me he sleeps all day when she's at home. What's he got against me?

In the evening we visit Doggo's brother again, that's twice in three days; sometimes it goes like that with family. Unfortunately we're missing out on the adulation that we’d get at our normal class but as I say, sometimes it goes like that with family. It also gets us out of buying the celebratory chocolates, as is tradition, until next week that is.

This time we're visiting him at his training class, where his owner is the trainer. We had intending to run the three miles there but it's too hot to run Doggo so we take the car instead. Which is frustrating really because I've been resting my knee for a week now and I could really have done with trying it out.

It's what they call fun night, personally I'd call it purgatory, and it reminds me of why I quit going to the classes. That and the fact that the classes are a social call for gossipy women. Half an hour in we get down to the 'fun' part. We try and get Doggo on a skateboard, without success. Then we try to get him to do figure of eights, without success. Then we try to get him to wave a paw, yep you guessed it, without success. Soon the socialising is over and we head home.

Back home L looks like she's keen for an early night, I am too but sadly not of that sort. I'm so knackered, being at home and not doing any training is far harder than being at work and training.

A Normal Person's Sunday

The chap is supposed to be coming back today to finish the fence, so we can't really go out anywhere. We expect him to turn up early so we don't even get to lounge around in bed until lunchtime like on a normal Sunday. Well that's not actually a normal Sunday, a normal Sunday consists of getting up at the crack of dawn for a race or a dog show but on an event free weekend we do like to linger a bit in bed.

The chap takes his time turning up and then, just as we'd about given up on him, he turns up at 4pm. He finishes the fence and completes what has been an excellent job.

So with all this hanging around, basically marooned at home, we have a rather relaxing Sunday doing nothing in particular. As I say, this is perhaps what normal people do on a Sunday. I'm not sure I could cope with this more than once or twice a year.

When he's gone we go for a walk to check out the remains of the old Nottingham canal on Lambourne Drive that we have only just found about. I've only lived here for 14 years. The Nottingham canal was built in 1789 to connect the River Trent with Nottingham, the pits of Wollaton, and the Erewash Canal. Fourteen locks were built between what is now Crown Island and Trowell Road. The remains of two of these locks and the canal basin can still be seen at Lambourne Drive.



The area has recently been cleaned up by the Nottingham Breathing Places' SWAT team.

OMG, We Are Grade 6

I'm up fairly early this morning for the short-ish drive to the dog show at Osmaston. As we walk our first course of the day most of the other competitors are going around with their heads in their hands cursing the judge for setting what is a tight, tricky and slow course. It looks fine to me, in fact I can barely hide my joy. The judge apparently is well known for such delights and I'm tempted to kiss him because the course will suit us down to the ground. By rights, the course should be testing because the same course is being used for grades 4 through to the experts of grade 7.

I head back to Doggo, who is waiting impatiently in the car, and tell him the good news about the excellent course that the judge has set. I tell him, that if we can go clear we might get among the trophies today because a lot of dogs won't get around it all. Particularly as there are several important 'qualifiers' on elsewhere and so the field isn't quite as high class as it might have been. I think he looks excited as he heads over to pee up the nearest hedge.

An hour or so later, we are on the start line and a tad nervous. One of my trainers is watching, as are several other people from my club, just to add to the pressure. About three quarters of the field have already run and there are only six clear rounds in our grade, proving how tricky it is. So a clear round almost certainly guarantees a top ten rosette but perhaps we can do better than that. The best time so far is around 37 seconds, which doesn't sound particularly fast.

I play safe at the start, making doubly sure he gets his contact at the end of the dog walk but it means I'm not quite in the right position for the next bit. This costs us a bit of time and nearly gets us eliminated as Doggo heads towards the tunnel, which is not the next obstacle. I manage to pull him away from it and we 'storm', as much as Doggo can, around the rest of the course. We cope with the 'wall' and the diagonal weave entry. A clear round, even Doggo looks pleased-ish. The time is under 37 seconds and OMG, we go into the lead. Blimey. Didn't expect it to go quite that well. Must have been the Methi Naan last night.

None of the later competitors beat our time though there is a risk that another dog from my club could beat us. Luckily her owner doesn't want to win, for reasons too complicated to explain, but basically winning would take them into Grade 6 and therefore make them ineligible for a Grade 5 specific event that they are hoping to compete and do well in, in August. So she doesn't run it too fast and in any case they make a mistake that costs them time.

So amazingly victory is ours. Shocked or what. Our only top ten this season in Grade 5 has been a 7th place so to win one is just incredible.

This also moves us up to Grade 6 which will be a real challenge. The downside is that the chances of us getting any trophies in Grade 6 are slim as my trainer demonstrated when on the same course, she won the Grade 6 class with a time of 31 seconds. Five seconds faster than us.

After that, nothing else really matters. We put in good solid performances in our other two events, clocking clear rounds in both but on fast courses we are out of the rosettes on both.

We have all our runs done by lunchtime and we are rather anti-social by not staying for our presentation. We just take the trophy and run because we had promised to go see Doggo's brother do his own dog event at 3pm in Bramcote. We didn't expect to win anything. So we make out apologies and leave.

Little did we expect to add a rosette at the Bramcote show, where we are badgered into entering the 'fastest sit' competition. You have to be careful how you say that. Basically dogs and owners had to walk round in a circle to music and then when the music stopped they had to sit. The dogs that is, not the owners. The last one to sit was eliminated. Skilful agility this is not. All the same, we picked up a rosette for 5th but we were defeated by Doggo's brother partnered by L who came in 3rd. Grrrr.

Today in Austria and Switzerland, Euro 2008 kicks off, of course without England. I watch some of the opening game.

In the evening we rather unfairly head off out to celebrate Doggo's win without him but he does look knackered or so we tell him. We head into town, eating at Broadway before heading out to the Moot Hall and then back via the Dragon to the Ropewalk.