Lusty Wenches

I'm on the bike today and manage to avoid rain. I totally powered it, well at least I think I did, the battery’s flat in my bike computer so I can't be totally sure.

I'm only at work this morning, as at 5pm, we have a summit meeting at Son's college and then I need to be back in Derby for the match tonight. The weather doesn't look promising but I delay and avoid the worst of the rain again. At home, both the boys are very pleased to see me and L's left some spicy pumpkin soup in the fridge. Hot soup and two dogs to warm my feet up, what more could one want after a wet cycle.

L meanwhile, is off having sex down by the canal... that is power walking with her latest mucky book, Birdsong, which is supposed to be the best WWI book ever written, Son would have studied it had he remained at Bilborough, but it turns out that the book is basically one long prolonged sex scene. She says Sebastian Faulks is just a dirty old man who would be better off employed writing for PlayBoy. Hmmm. I’m not sure sex scenes work on an audio book, might not have been too bad in print but I think she likes it really.

She also has to drop off a bike, which she found in their hedge at work, at the police station. I told her reporting it wouldn't do any good and they'd make her drop it round rather than fetch it themselves. It's probably on eBay by now.

Back home MD is being silly, rolling over on his back with his legs in the air and manages to roll under the wardrobe where he gets himself stuck. Cue lots of panic, frantic wriggling and pathetic whining. I come to his assistance just in time to catch the wardrobe door as it falls towards me; somehow, he's managed to dislodge it. I catch it just before it lands on Doggo. Crisis averted.

I take them both on park but that's not enough to wear the little blighter out. As I'm getting ready to leave for the college, Doggo and I stand in the doorway watching MD whizzing around the garden chasing a flowerpot, or perhaps it's chasing him. Doggo issues a big sigh, looks at me and rolls his eyes or something like that.

So to college, where hopefully the great mystical secrets of A Levels, along with the unanswerable question of how to get a teenage boy motivated for them, will be disclosed.

Afterwards, it would have to be said, things are not a lot clearer. There was a lot of head shaking from Son's tutor, who's obviously seen it all before.

I was right about one thing though. It must be hard for the lads to keep their minds on their studies because out of an English class of twenty students, just three are boys. Wow, that's roughly a 6:1 ratio and that's just English. The rest of the college looks equally well stocked with lusty wenches, who once they spy the boys in the canteen with their copies of Faustus, will all be begging to come round and study with them.

I'm dead jealous, I never had the guts or the forethought to do babe friendly courses like English. I wasted my hormones in Physics, Maths and Computing.

I'm back in Derby for the match, which is probably the best game we've seen in eons. Last year was obviously a complete embarrassment and even Billy Davies's promotion side, successful though it was bored us to tears. A credible 1-1 draw with Birmingham but we really should have won.

Well-behaved Collies

I volunteer to take MD for his morning walk. If I had any doubt about how much the cycling and hedge cutting had made my arms ache, MD casts aside this doubt with a vengeance and at the same time makes things ten times worse.

L's back doing her channel swim and hopefully not being bothered by Swiss men with rockets attached to themselves zooming about overhead.



She also stolen my little towel, which I won with such blood, sweat and tears at last year's Jagermeister 10k. Well ok, I won it in the raffle but I don't mind her helping herself. MD did, and that's why the corner of it's a bit chewed.

The newspapers are predicting power cuts, blackouts and early TV shut down this winter. How very retro, so 1970's. L paints an idyllic picture of this, of us snuggled up with candles lit, a glass of mulled wine warmed on our camping stove and two well-behaved collies warming our feet. This does sound rather good. No Hollyoaks, no Warcraft. All sounding better by the minute. Not quite sure where we'd get two well-behaved collies from and, as for, collies and candles, I shiver to think.

I pop home briefly to deliver two 'healthy' ready meal spaghetti bolognaise's for the kids, which MD promptly drags off the worktop. I retrieve them quickly before he can open the packaging and hope no one notices the teeth marks.

At dog class, they're all pleased to see the little scrote. On the way home, we collect L, who's been out in Derby, but it's basically just another social call for MD.

It's Not All About The Bike

This morning it’s the Stanford Hall Duathlon which used to be known as the Sutton Bonington Duathlon but has now moved down the road a bit. It coincides with a steam fair that's being held there and I'm sure the whole event bemuses the steam enthusiasts.

The run course isn't as good as last years and last years was bad (e.g. dull). This year we get a two laps out and back, not terribly exciting. I do a good first run and I'm 7th after it but I feel I've gone out too hard. It was possibly my fastest 5km ever but I don't know how accurately they've measured the course. All the same, I struggle on the first lap of the bike with leaden legs. It doesn't help that the course seems to be on a permanent slight incline, apart from the few downhill bits that appear to be against the wind. I lose nine places which isn't terribly good. One chap comes up behind me on one of the climbs and shouts 'no drafting' as he goes past me. He must be joking, there's no chance of me being able to stay with him to do any drafting. Unless he's rubbing in the fact that, I'm sure, he drafted me up the hill. I do at least lap the back marker, who's a bit of celebrity for being the 'lantern rouge' and still coming back for more. I notice he's riding what is possibly my dream bike, a Kuota Karma. This just goes to prove, that it's not all about the bike.

The first lap of the second run is also hard work but I feel a lot better on the second lap and get back two places to finish 14th. Not too bad.

After a bit of time recovering at home, I feel lively enough to cut the hedge. Basically if I don't do it now, with my schedule, I'm not sure when I'll get around to doing it. At which point I find out just how much you do actually use your arms when cycling. Needless to say, they now ache rather badly. MD tries to help with the hedge; even threatening him with the hedge cutters doesn't seem to put him off. That pup is fearless.

I cook a curry whilst L and I share an Old Peculiar and a German dark lager. Then we decide on a dog free wander down the Plough. We haven't been there for ages because we won't go there with both dogs because Doggo and the pub dog don't get on, so we daren't add MD into the mix. Doesn't bare thinking about.

As it turns out, as we're supping our Supreme in the luxurious surroundings of the lounge bar (dog owners are restricted to the public bar), we find out that the landlord had changed. The old landlord and his dog have moved on. So, MD might be down for a visit after all.

The Error Of His Ways

Off to Lincoln this morning for our first agility show in a while. After our first run we're still looking for that first clear in grade 6. Doggo did all the hard bits but then refused the tunnel, twice. Hmmm. I dump him back in the car to give him time to ponder on the error of his ways. Instead, I take MD for a walk around the competition rings, where he is thrilled to be able to offer plenty of vocal advice and the benefit of his vast inexperience to all the competitors.

Back to Doggo and on our second course we do it, our first clear in grade 6. Never mind the fact that we cock-up our last run, we come home with a rosette for 11th place. MD, though, seems unimpressed.

I have Radio 5 on for the most of the day but there is no mention of the Cycling's World Road Race Championships, which are taking place at Varese in northern Italy. So I assume that Nicole Cooke hasn't managed to add the World title to the Olympic one she won in August... that is until I get home, read about her momentous victory on the internet and watch the highlights on digital TV. Honestly, she becomes World as well as Olympic champion and practically no one in the media notices.



Another surprise is Derby winning at QPR. Things appear to be on the up.

We stay in tonight as I have my duathlon tomorrow and L tries to recreate last week's energy giving mix of fish and dessert. It's a pretty good effort. Then I have just one beer and a relaxing early night. Which wasn't quite that relaxing, because as far as L's concerned it's now winter which means she's started wearing all sorts of exciting stuff to bed.

Knight In Shining Armour ?

With a duathlon on Sunday, I don't want to bike in but I do risk a run, which is a bit kinder on the legs. I take it easy, just like I did in last Sunday's race.

L's at home again today, amusing MD. Whom she says has been an absolute monster all morning. I don’t believe a word of it, such slander against our perfect pup.

The sandwich van, which returned earlier in the week, has now gone AWOL again. So no lunch again.

As I prepare to leave work, I receive a message 'Come, oh Knight in shining armour, rescue me from these two animals'.

Does she mean from perfect pup and Doggo the hopeless one? Hmmm. I would love to rush home on my white horse, only it's not white, it's red and it's the unreliable Red Arrow.

Tonight we take a trip up to the Leadmill in Sheffield to see the promising new band 'White Lies'. They sound excellent, early Killers with a touch of Editors in there. So I couldn't really pass that one up.

We arrive early to find that the gig is in the Leadmill's cosy backroom, nice and intimate. We catch some of the set by the Post War Years. Hailing from Leamington Spa, they produce a nice mish-mash of pop, rock and electro. Lots of keyboards and the like but with some rocking guitar riffs added in, and a touch of wailing vocals.
They remind me a little of our own Late of the Pier, perhaps with a dose of Cold War Kids mixed in. Their stuff perhaps needs some work but it sounds promising.



Following them on to the stage are the Joy Formidable. Bleach blonde vocalist and guitarist Ritzy (female) and bass player Rhydian (male) are both from Wales. A drummer called Justin from Devon completes their line up. I thought Ritzy was making eyes at her Devonian percussionist but actually it's Rhydian who's her partner. Oops, hope I've not stoked up any sexual tension in the band.

I do like their sound, early 90's though it may be. They remind me a lot of the girl fronted rock bands of that era. There are certainly comparisons to be made to bands such as Echobelly, Breeders, Belly and one of my lesser known faves springs to mind, the Heart Throbs. In fact, there's a lot of Tanya Donnelly about lead singer Ritzy, even though she's Welsh. She's definite the focal point, doing lead vocals and sashaying around giving her guitar a hard time. She's also a girl who seems to like to spend a lot of time on her knees... nothing wrong with that... and she spends a fair proportion of the gig down there, fiddling with her guitar strings and her effect pedals.

Overall, they look quite a prospect. Their debut single ‘Austere’ is just out and they close their set with it. I hope to hear a lot more from them. Excellent. White Lies certainly have something to live up to.



As well as support band threatening to upstage them, White Lies also have a lot of hype to live up to, previously known as 'Fear Of Flying', a band who received lots of acclaim but little success. The band has now seemingly reinvented themselves and are creating a bit of buzz.

The opener 'Farewell To The Fairground' gives grounds to their tag of Killers wannabes. It's rather too heavy on the keyboards and on the drums for that matter. Lead singer and guitarist Harry McVeigh obviously realises this too and appeals to the sound engineer to turn the guitars up, which he duly does and they metamorphose from the Killers into something more beefy, resembling, perhaps, I have to offer these comparisons, the Psychedelic Furs.

Charles Cave is on bass, Jack Brown on drums and they have an unofficial fourth member on keyboards who is rumoured to have been in the now obsolete Mumm-ra. Oh dear, never mind, he's obviously got over it.



Draped in black and trying to look as miserable as possible, the band showcase tracks from their forthcoming debut album, barely pausing to take breath between tracks. L likes the chorus of 'To Lose My Life', 'Let's grow old together, so we can die at the same time'. Romance isn't dead.

April's debut single 'Unfinished Business' is third up and sounds much better than the download blagged off the internet. The crowd are really getting into the gig but after 'From The Stars', which means three of the first four tracks they play have been available on the net, the audience go a bit subdued, as the band play stuff they don't know. White Lies do a nice line in bleakness and at this point, they descend heavily into it for about four tracks. This is wonderful but the crowd do kind of watch in awe rather than join in.



They then finish with the current single 'Death' which reignites the crowd but I can't help but feel that putting this somewhere in the middle would have made it a better set.

The album is apparently finished but isn't due out until January. I don't understand that, if it's ready, release it for Gods sake.

The Lengths People Will Go To Get A Mention

I'm in the car because we're back at the pub today and I'm driving. So rather than do my, now usual, Thursday training run to work I get up at 6am, again, and take a rather too keen Doggo for a run around the pond, not that he’s very conducive to good training. I think he's keen because he it's a bit of P&Q away from MD, we all like a bit of that.

I give Daughter a lift to school again; she’s taken to sitting in the back of the car and reading a book. Most odd, perhaps I need to change my deodorant. I feel well knackered as I drive to work, now I remember why I gave up those early morning runs.

Derby may have been looking forward to a League Cup 3rd round tie against big spending Manchester City, although it may have only turned out to be their reserves but now that is no more, after Brighton knocked them out in their delayed 2nd round match last night. Unfortunately, we always lose to teams like Brighton.

In the evening, I get home and I'm greeted by MD, who can barely get up, he looks that tired. Seems L's been out walking his paws off again, getting her own back. Our perfect pup has again helped himself to a loaf of bread. So, I suppose I should be grateful that she brought him home at all, rather than tying him to a lamppost somewhere.

I get changed and meet L at the vets, where she's walked with Doggo. She offered to take him to the vets for his annual jab on her own but that's no simple task. You have to slide him across the waiting room floor because he won’t walk to the consulting room and then you have to pull him out from among the vets computer cables, so that she can jab him. He's actually slightly better than that this time but only slightly.

We have a quick snack, not that MD has left much bread for us and what there is has teeth marks in it. Then it’s off to the Rescue Rooms.

We've been here before, done that, bought the t-shirt. Well L did, when we saw Glasvegas a few months ago in Derby.

It wasn't that long ago but it still seems ages since we've been to a gig. Well tonight, starts off the traditional autumn gigging season. We have ten sets of tickets lined up a home, well eleven if you count the one that L's going to without me, but that a story for another time. I'm sure it won't stop at ten, as other gigs are sure to be announced. Glasvegas themselves are back in Nottingham in December but we haven't considered that one yet. Suppose it depends how tonight's sold out gig goes. Tickets were £8 only but have been going for £30 on eBay. L and I have tickets numbers 1 and 2, yet again.

First up are Infa Red from Kent, or right down south as they helpfully explain. They are a five piece indie band although the keyboard player needn't have bothered as you can barely hear his tinklings over the guitars. Their Myspace describes their music as 'dynamic, driven anthems'. I'm not sure about that. There's definitely a large dose of early Editors about them. That at least appears to be what the lead guitarist listens to on his Ipod. You can also hear it in the singer's voice.



The lead guitarist cuts a strange figure tonight. We reckon he's left his best jeans scrunched up on his bedroom floor and forgot to give them his mum to put in the wash because the pair he's wearing are well knackered. You can see he's tried to repair the broken fly with a safety pin but he seems to have even botched that up. He's conscious of it because he keeps pulling his shirt down to cover the debacle. It kinds of takes our attention away from his guitar playing which isn't actually too bad. L reckons he's just trying to get a mention in my blog. Well it worked but honestly, the lengths people will go to get a mention.

There seems to have been a lot of water under the bridge since we last saw Glasvegas. They now have an album out, which is number two in the charts, kept off the top by the new Metallica album, as evetone keeps saying, even Infa Red mention it. There's also been a lot of off-putting tabloid hysteria written about them. Which is a shame really because it means that the boozed up lager boys are in tonight, punching the air, putting on fake Scottish accents and throwing their beer around. Particularly annoying for us because we've blagged a spot right in the line of fire, down the front.

They kick off as they did when we saw them in June with 'Flowers And Football Tops' and then proceed to play pretty much the same set as before, in almost the same order. They add just one track, managing now to fit in a whole nine tracks.

The one track they add, 'S.A.D. Light' is excellent tonight and a definite highlight. It is such an insignificant song on the album but like much of their material, it takes on a different life live. From this point on they seem to find their stride. 'Polmont On My Mind' which follows it, also sounds fantastic live. Then comes the always excellent 'Geraldine', again sounding superb. This is proper 'Geraldine', not the polished near-disco version that's included on the album, where I'm sure they've used a drum machine.


(photo - James Arnold)

Personally, I find the album, rather dull and disappointing. For a start half of it, including the four singles, has been around for three years now but mainly because the record simply doesn't catch the band's sound at all. They've taken away all the rawness of those much loved demo tapes and smoothed down all the rough edges. You can even hear and understand James Allen's words without looking them up on the internet, which is unforgiveable.

Thankfully, live they still sound pretty raw. 'Go Square Go', slowed down to practically a ballad on the album, is back to full throttle tonight and the lager boys love it, drunkenly chanting 'Here we f***ing go'.

James Allen is really getting the hang of this rock star lark, with his shades in place for most of the night. Although he lowers them briefly when the crowd ask him to 'show us your eyes', he still says little, letting the songs do all the talking.


(photo - James Arnold)

'Ice Cream Van' leads us into the predicable finale of 'Daddy’s Gone', which is as good as ever. Although he does the unforgivable and hands the mob vocal duty half way through.

When it's over the crowd pick up where he's left off, continuing with 'he's gone, he's gone' but yep they've gone. Still only 45 minutes and still no encore. We know they have other older songs, we know they do a cover of 'Be My Baby', we know they have an new EP being readied for Christmas. They could even have played 'Stabbed', maybe the upbeat 'I'm Gonna Get' version.

Tonight Glasvegas are still excellent, still powerful, still distinctive ... but it feels as if they're simply on autopilot, being told what to play, in what order and no more. There's no spontaneity, no surprises. I suppose it's too much to ask to be blown away twice by the same band but if they want people to keep coming back, they're going to have to offer a bit more.

The photos are thanks to James Arnold, who I don't personally know, but I reckon he was stood next to me. There are more great photos of the gig on his fickr site here

We retire to the Ropewalk for the traditional post-gig Leffe.

It's a good night for music in Nottingham. White Lies are at the Social tonight. Unfortunately, we can't be in two places at once. We can however be in Sheffield tomorrow to see them at the Leadmill.

The Duck Hunter And The Perennial Sniffer

Well it wasn't 5am but it was about twenty to six I think. Still impressive. I don't know, these early morning people. So L gets two very different dog experiences today courtesy of the contradictory personalities of the duck hunter and the perennial sniffer.

On my bike, I have now entered Devon. I've actually covered most of Dartmoor, passed Oakhampton and I will be on the outskirts of Exeter by the time I reach the pool tonight. L's so jealous of me plotting my route in Autoroute with pretty coloured pins. She doesn't have anything to stick pins into, other than the puppy.

They reckon scientists have trained a computer to create music in the style of bands such as Green Day, Radiohead and Keane by decoding the structure of their songs. Apparently it is so good that listeners were unable to tell which tracks had been produced by the bands and which by the computer. Thank God, they didn't get it started on Scouting For Girls, possibly that was too easy or perhaps they were worried that the computer would shut itself down in protest.

I don't often cycle along Wollaton Vale and today I notice for the first time that is has two cycle paths, one on the road and one on the pavement. That's crazy. If they already have a cycle path on the road, why did they go and paint one on the pavement. This will simply discourage people from using the one on the road. The best thing for cyclists is if all of us are on the road, then drivers get used to seeing bikes around and hence build up their awareness of cyclists. This legalised cycling on the pavement drives me dotty; as I'm sure it does pedestrians.

I cycle to the pool for my swim but I forget my lock and have to go home and fetch it. The extra mileage takes me beyond Exeter and to the bottom of the M5. I now have the difficult decision of whether to cycle up the virtual motorway or take the scenic route.

The pool is quiet, even quieter than this morning when L said it was packed at three to a lane. Three to a lane isn’t packed, unless they're all floaters. She was also complaining this morning about a 'bronzed Adonis in proper trunks' whom she questioned the sexuality of, so he must have got in her way. As a hot-blooded female, isn't L supposed to fancy the Speedos off a bronzed Adonis in proper trunks? Even if he does annoy her.

I get the boys back from dog class around 10pm, so no time to fit South Riding in, not with this new early to bed, early to rise, routine.

Distracting

It's one of those annoying days where the weather can't decide what it wants to do. Today starts out dry but then it starts to rain after I set out on my bike but not much. I couldn’t be bothered to stop and put waterproofs on, so I arrive at work a little damp.

Uganda's ethics and integrity minister has called for miniskirts to be banned because women wearing them distract drivers and cause traffic accidents. Blimey, that’s harsh. You need something to look at whilst you're stuck in congestion. It's very distracting when you're on a bike though.

I get paid today and received Gordon Brown's £60 bribe. Which won't work but at least I can book a few more gigs.

On the park in the evening Doggo is appallingly behaved. He keeps disappearing off, miles in front and is sluggish coming back. In contrast, MD again turns into Saint Pup. Roles are reversed when we walk back along the road and MD becomes a pathetic panting wreck as he tows us along on his lead. Avoiding kerbs hasn't helped, as this broke up his lead pulling. Not that it helped much anyway because he's started sitting even when we aren't near a kerb. Every time we stopped for Doggo to have a sniff, MD sat for a treat. He's very food orientated is that dog.

L is also struggling with the two dogs on the lead. So, she decides to start taking them out separately in the mornings. This will of course mean an even earlier start to her day. 5am anyone? She vows to go to bed nice and early. Sounds great, another early night.

So, after another episode of South Riding, we turn in. I like this new regime already.

Life’s Rich Tapestry

The duck-hunter looks a bit shattered this morning but L assures me he still gave it his best shot on their walk. I have a leisurely morning, as Mondays involve taking the car to work.

L's boss is away this week, so she's packing in the fitness regime. Its yoga this morning and afterwards she complains that her thighs are throbbing like mad. How romantic is that? We have matching thighs, mine are still throbbing after running up that bloody hill yesterday.

I go to Sainsbury's at lunch to get some nice bread to go with the cranky pasta recipe that L's doing for tea. The four-legged bread stealer is rather partial to nice bread, so I get extra.

L has a list for tonight because we need to watch Kings Of Leon on Jools and also start watching South Riding again. She says she also needs me to nag her to do her leg strengthening exercises and needs me for an early night, which sounds promising.

We could combine some of these tasks. 3 and 4 go together, no problem. We could do 1 or 2 whilst we eat or perhaps combine 2 with food and then do 1, 3 and 4 at the same time, with the dogs shut in the kitchen. The possibilities are endless; such is life’s rich tapestry.

None of this helps my blog, which I'm already behind with and such excitement only ensures that there's more to blog about.

L heads off to Sainsbury's to check out the decaf coffee because she's trying to cut down her caffeine. Hope she doesn't get any, without the caffeine she could nod off tonight and obliterate all our options.

Everything has to wait until after dog class and then I'm delayed by a crash on the A52. When I finally get home, I find MD locked in the kitchen. Ah, guess he wasn't being the 'perfect pup' tonight then.

After the weird and cranky pasta dish, we do an episode of South Riding before retiring for that early night but oops, I forget to nag about the leg exercises and Jools will have to wait for another night. He won't mind.

Running Up That Bloody Hill

This is a long one, so bear with me. It's been a busy day.

L suggested it and I took the bait. This is how I come to be here on the start line of the Crossdale 10k and looking down a mini cliff face. It's not really my sort of race, it's not a road race, it's more of a cross-country and my ankles, ravaged by years of football, don't do uneven surfaces. The start is VERY downhill, which means, as it's pretty much an out and back course, that the finish is going to be VERY uphill. They warn us at the start about some large rabbit holes. Great. I can just see myself disappearing down one.

But how hard can it be? Last years times seem to be quite slow, 40 minutes would put me in the top 10. Which is food for thought but basically, it's just a training run for my duathlon season, which starts next week and in any case, I'm full of fish and strawberry tart.

Well here we go. The race is started by the new face of Trent FM's breakfast show, Emma Caldwell and at first, my pace is very quick, well it would be, as we free fall down the cliff face without a parachute. The first couple of kilometres are pot holey but nothing too gargantuan, beyond that the course is quite flat and firm.

I get into a small group with three others and we chivvy each other along. All chaps, in fact I don't remember seeing any women anywhere, which isn't good because L always tells me you have to enjoy the view in these races. The reason for this, I find out later, is that they're all behind me... that's never happened before.

I have to say it goes well and it's almost enjoyable until one of my group decides to go for home, 2km from the end. This seems crazy to me, because I was thinking of easing up at this point, to save myself for the mountain climb to the finish. I have no intention of following him but I just can't give in that easily, so I give it a go. I hope that the two of us can shed the other two hanging on behind me. We lose one of them and at first, I lose the other running up that bloody hill (as Kate Bush would say) but half way up I run out of puff and he comes past me. Never mind, I'm sure I heard someone say 42 at the bottom of the hill, it's not worth fighting for places that low.

I cross the line and L gives me a right telling off for telling her it was just a training run. It seems that I've unintentionally come in 15th. That's rather good. If I'd known, I might have found a bit more, BIG might though. Fish and strawberry tart must be the way to go, for training runs at least.

After some lunch at home, we head off to the cinema for a double bill of films concerning the holocaust at Broadway. I know, cheerful subject matter for 3pm on a Sunday afternoon but £6.50 for two films, not bad eh?

First up is La Vita è Bella (Life Is Beautiful). Made in 1997 in Italian by Roberto Benigni, who also wrote, directed and starred in it. I believe his real life wife played his screen wife too.

Its 1930s Italy and carefree Guido is careering downhill in a car without brakes, through a village where he is mistaken for the King. This is the first of many comical scenes as he falls for a schoolteacher called Dora, who 'fell out of the sky'. He calls her 'Princess' and despite the fact that she is engaged to another guy, Guido actively pursues her, popping up all over the place where she is. Including one scene where he pretends to be a school inspector and ends up giving an impromptu speech on Arian superiority, a hint to what is to come later in the film. Guido is Jewish.

Swayed by his persistence, his humour and the fact her fiancé is a jerk, she gives in and he gets his girl, whisking her away on a green horse. Green because they painted over the anti-Jewish slogans that were daubed on it. Guido and Dora disappear into what appears to be a greenhouse and when they emerge, five years have passed. They are now married and have a child.



Guido opens the bookstore he's always dreamed of and they live a happy life, until the occupation of Italy by the German army. Then the film gets more serious. Guido is sent to a concentration camp along with his son, Giosue. Dora, who isn't Jewish, drives to the train station and demands to be put on the same train.

Once at the camp, the men and women are separated and a child is usually immediately disposed of but Giosué refuses to take a shower, and unknowingly escapes being gassed. His elderly uncle isn't so lucky. Guido manages to hide Giosué, and to help his son survive the horrors of the camp, he tells him that it's all an elaborate game and that the prize for collecting 1000 points is a tank.

Guido's quick mind saves Giosué from the truth when a German officer requires a translator. Despite not speaking a word of German, Guido volunteers and makes up the words to back up his claim that it's all a game, while cleverly adding that Giosué cannot cry, ask for his mother or say he's hungry.



As the end of the war approaches, time runs out for Guido, he hides
Giosué for the last time, telling him that everyone is looking for him. Guido jeopardises his own survival while he attempts to find Dora and he is taken away and shot.

The next morning, the Americans arrive at the now almost deserted camp. Giosué emerges from hiding just as a tank pulls around the corner. He is thrilled to have won the game. Hitching a ride on the tank, he finds, and is reunited with his mother.

Complete silence after the film and everyone obeys the unwritten art house cinema rule and stay for all the credits. Even I felt a bit choked at the end.

An excellent film, that controversially mixes humour with the Holocaust. It won Academy Awards for Best Actor, Best Foreign Film and Best Dramatic Score. Despite that, it's been criticised for not giving a true depiction of a concentration camp. Which is true, it doesn't dwell on the horrors of the camp and the camp security is at times laughably slack, but nor does it totally ignore these issues.

The film is primarily about a man's relationship with his family and in particular, his son. It shows the great lengths and the sacrifices, in the end the ultimate sacrifice, that a desperate father will go to, to protect his son.

After a 40-minute break to debrief and a quick pint of Elsie Mo we move on to the next film.

Whereas 'Life Is Beautiful' exhibited a charm and style far removed from the usual Hollywood big budget style, the next film was a much more typical offering.

'The Boy in Striped Pyjamas' is about another lad who doesn't realise that the Holocaust is going on but unlike Giosué this is down purely to his own innocence. Bruno (Asa Butterfield) is a German boy who is forced to move to a new house when his father (David Thewlis) becomes the commandant of a concentration camp. Bruno hates their new home and misses his friends. He spends a lot of time sulking in his bedroom, where, through his window, he spots a fence behind which he sees people wearing 'striped pyjamas'.



Bruno is forbidden to leave the confines of their new house and garden but eventually, out of pure boredom, he goes exploring and finds the camp. There, amongst more implausibly slack camp security he meets a fellow eight-year-old, a Jewish inmate called Shmuel (Jack Scanlon). He soon becomes Bruno's friend and Bruno starts to visit him regularly.

'Life is Beautiful' had comic elements that meant you had to forgive any inaccuracies but 'The Boy In Striped Pyjamas' appears to be serious throughout but had the implausible premise that Shmuel had also escaped being sent straight to the gas chambers, without hiding. Instead, he had been set to work in the camp but still manages to sit at the camp fence undetected long enough to talk to Bruno everyday. No wonder they never seemed to get any further building the hut they were allegedly working on.



Back home, Bruno and his sister are being schooled by a private tutor. He sets about trying to brainwash the children into the Nazi way of thinking.

Bruno's mother (Vera Farmiga) isn't impressed by this and then when she finds out what they're really burning at the camp, she goes mad at the thought of her husband's part in such barbarity. She plans to take the children back to their old house but before he goes, Bruno, probably taken in by the cheery propaganda film of life in the camp that he had seen, he agrees to go under the camp fence to help Shmuel find his missing father. To do this Shmuel supplies Bruno with a set of striped pyjamas.

They are unable to find Shmuel's father but before Bruno can return home, the inmates are all marched into the shower block. Someone probably found out they hadn't really been building that hut. Both Shmuel and Bruno are trapped in there as they pile in the Zyklon B.

For the second time today, everyone sat quiet right up until the end of the credits but unlike earlier with 'Life Is Beautiful', I felt little emotion at the end.

For me, the film really missed the spot. Perhaps it was because we saw the superior film first and 'Life Is Beautiful' had a more powerful ending. The main problem with the film is that you're supposed to feel sympathy for the Germans and I simply didn't.

The camp commandant deserved to feel some grief and Bruno lost the sympathy vote when he betrayed Shmuel by giving him food when he was summoned to clean glasses in their house and then saying he stole it. This was despite the fact that he must have known the consequences because he'd already seen what had happened to their Jewish servant Pavel when he made the mistake of spilling some wine.

The long Hollywood build up to the ending also took the shock away. Then there's the fact that that everyone had a flawless English accent rather than their native German. The film desperately wanted to be 'Schindler's List' but it wasn't. Despite that the acting was good, some of it excellent. David Thewlis was very convincing as the camp commandant. Just as his wife described him, a monster.

Another debrief, another Elsie, and some food before heading home.

Is Fish Good To Run On?

It's so chaotic in our house this morning, kids and dogs, that we are forced to get up before 11am, which isn't good for an event free Saturday.

I take the unruly dogs on the park and then head off to the match.

Derby v Cardiff may have looked good on paper but it certainly wasn't. Derby, I think, had the only meaningful shot of the whole match and it went in. We then gifted Cardiff a penalty. So 1-1.

The match was so dull, that the highlight was the two sets of supporters bantering about the extent of their promiscuity with sheep. Let me explain. Derby are known as the Rams and also affectionately (by their own fans) and in-affectionately (by others) as a bunch of sheep sh*ggers. Cardiff are obviously from Wales, enough said.

All truly bizarre. Almost as bizarre as the game between Watford and Reading where the linesman mistakenly awarded Reading a goal when the ball had actually gone at least a foot wide of the post.

In the evening, we take my Dad out for a meal to celebrate his 80th birthday. We have a good meal and it keeps my alcohol intake down as I have a race on Sunday, although I still carbo load with a pint and a half. I have shrimps for starters and halibut and scallops for main. I've no idea if all that fish is good to run on. I guess I'll find out soon enough. Tomorrow, we also find out whether the Strawberry Tart, as part of the race preparations, was a good idea as well.

Short Straws

They say that as your age increases, the quality of your dreams diminish. Free falling over cliffs is out, as are plane crashes in the jungle and that Wembley FA Cup final. Instead, you get to dream about missing a bus or taking the dog out at 6am.

Oh, it isn't a dream. I really am up at 6am and taking Doggo around the pond. At least we're running, so it can almost be called training, if Doggo got a move on. L has drawn the short straw and has taken the short straw out.

Then I manage to not miss the bus to work. L checks to see whether I'm curled up on the Red Arrow asleep but I get off at the correct stop and manage to crawl into work. It's been a long time since I did that pond run first thing in the morning.

L's also shattered, so shattered she's resorted to drinking real coffee rather than de-caff. I'm on triple shots of the full monty.

Well it's happened; I've visited the Oggy Oggy pasty van. Not for a pasty though, they also do baguettes and the chicken tikka one was suitably spicy. Shame about the white bread though.

In the afternoon, L heads off to continue her channel swim, although in a ladies only session, which is sure to full of floaters but I suppose that's just like dodging all the debris floating in the channel. She vows to meet me later outside the Screen Room.

The Screen Room is the world's smallest commercial cinema and only seats about 20. It's probably small because it started life as a '70s porn theatre. No such material tonight as we go see 'Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day', which to me sounds like the title of a Beatrix Potter novel.

It's 1939 in London and the Second World War is on the horizon. Guinevere Pettigrew (Frances McDormand) is a middle-aged governess who finds herself forever falling out with her employers, so much so that her agency refuses to help her find work anymore. Destitute, homeless and dressed as Oliver Twist's mother, in the only set of clothes she owns, she steals a client's card from the agency and intercepts an employment assignment at the apartment of a nightclub singer named Delysia Lafosse (Amy Adams).

Delysia needs a social secretary to sort out her chaotic life. What she actually needs is a good slap but that doesn't actually happen. Delysia is determined to become famous on the London stage and by sleeping with Phil, a young West End producer, she hopes to secure a lead role. Problem is she now needs him to leave because the bed he auditioned her in and the flat in which she lives belongs to Nick, a smarmy nightclub owner who she sings for and also dallies with.

Using her initiative, Miss Pettigrew bluffs her way through the situation and gets rid of Phil. The film is a screwball comedy of sorts and at first, she thinks Phil is Delysia's Son. The 'comedy' continues with boyfriends coming and going, underwear hanging from the chandelier, clothes hidden under rugs, characters missing each other in the lift and several double entendres but nothing is particularly funny.



Unfortunately, for Miss Pettigrew, Delysia is an ongoing crisis, a bimbo who needs a lesson in life. Delysia, not her real name, is really just a normal girl who craves to be a social climber but who isn't very good at climbing. Amy Adams plays her perfectly, I suppose, basically reprising her role from Enchanted. She really gets on your nerves but I guess she's supposed to.

Her messy love life is completed by her piano player, Michael. A guy who accepts her for who she really is, and he wants to take her to New York on the Queen Mary but Delysia isn't interested. Her career and desire for the high life cloud her sense of reason.



Miss Pettigrew hangs on to Delysia's coat tails for a day, kind of living the high life. Also being called upon to help a fashion editor called Edythe (Shirley Henderson) try and patch things up with her fiancé, an older lingerie designer (Ciaran Hinds).



It's all very undemanding and in the end, Miss Pettigrew manages to help Delysia see sense and set sail with Michael, and in the process, she herself gets off with Ciaran Hinds. Somehow, Ciaran Hinds always seems to get the girl.

We head home and take the dogs out, down to the pub of course.

Socks

I do my usual Thursday run into work and the old ageing limbs hold up well. I again have to skirt around the building works, that I now know are for the new £175M Raynesway Business Park. Didn't anyone tell them that we have all the empty office space that any city could possibly need here on Pride Park and they're still blindly carrying on building.

L's also feeling the onset of the years at the moment; she complains she feels about 90. What a coincidence, we feel the same age.

You have to laugh. Contractors who were painting Blackpool's North Promenade on behalf of the Council took an astounding approach when they came across a discarded sock tied to the railings. Rather than remove it, they painted over it. Therefore, Blackpool now has a shining silver sock on its promenade. At least it will look good as part of the illuminations.



They probably hadn't been trained in sock removal. It's a good job they didn't get Chichester council to do it. These were the council workers who refused to remove rubbish from a bin which had fallen into a four inch deep stream because they were not trained in the use of Wellington boots, so a safety harnesses was required.

No sandwich van again. I end up having to walk miles to get a sandwich. At this rate, I'll be buying off the Oggy Oggy pasty van.

We're at Portland for squash this week and I'm hoping to take advantage of the fact that my opponent has been on the rice cakes only diet for the last fortnight. Being at Portland hopefully also means that we'll manage to get out of the court without the trouble we had last week. A new paint job at Clifton made the court door jam and it took us sometime to escape.

Then again, Portland might have it in for us. It's our first time there since we almost fainted in the too hot conditions and I've since put in a formal complaint. So if they see my name on the booking, they'll probably turn the heating up extra high and nail the changing room door shut. I suppose this might help my opponents attempts to lose weight. His partner would be so impressed if he went home having lost three stone.

As it happens, they seem to have the temperature sorted. I lead 2-0 until he injures himself, which annoyingly seems to improve his game and it finishes 2-2.

Lands End to John O'Groats

L is swimming the English Channel, albeit in the pool at John Carroll and she does another chunk of 40 lengths this morning. Only 1356 to go. 1356! Ouch, that’s a lot. As she says, she's still close enough to the beach at Dover to hear the dogs barking.

This got me thinking. I ought to have a target too. So, I've decided that I'm cycling from Lands End to John O'Groats. Which is 1315km according to Autoroute, which I shall be sticking virtual pins into to, charting my progress. So starting from yesterday, I'm now 68km into it; I should be in Bodmin by tonight.

Somehow, I miss the lunchtime sandwich van; either that or it doesn't come. This isn't good refuelling when you have to cycle home. Luckily, I have plenty of fruit (good) and energy bars (not so good).

After work, I cycle to the pool although it all feels a bit flat without a target like L's. I couldn't possibly do the Channel. It would take me forever.

There's a very odd sight in lane one, a girl in those ridiculous shorts that, I'm ashamed to say, (usually) only men wear. She has as much trouble keeping them on as the chaps do but she has a swimsuit on underneath. Odder and odder.

L raised the interesting idea of swimming iPods. So, you could swim the channel and either listen to inspiring music or read a book at the same time. Now that would make it bearable but I don't think anyone does them. Surely, it's just a matter of time before someone does.

I take MD with us to dog class to try and socialise him but he makes this incredibly difficult when he insists on barking at everyone and everything. So he has to be kept at a distance. Then when it's time for Doggo to do his stuff and I put MD back in the car, the misbehaving little sod, leaps out of the boot of the car (for the first time) and legs it into the training arena. Words were exchanged.

They'll Get Me Next Time

It's an excellent bike in, apart from those dreaded 4x4’s, it’s very noticeable that the schools are back. One tries to overtake me, gets along side, changes their mind and squeezes me against the curb, forgetting that their wing mirror is about the same height as a cyclists head. I manage to avoid it and the motorist lifts their hand in acknowledgement. Whether this is by way of an apology or an indication that they'll get me next time, I'm not sure.

L tells me that the chap on reception at her physio was blown off his bike by a speeding articulated lorry at the Derby Tri last weekend. That’s not good. He probably has one of those super light carbon bikes that I want. One gust of wind and they take off.

As I cycle home and cross the bridge from Pride Park, the path is almost blocked by a quartet of teenagers hanging out there. Well more correctly, it's blocked by a lad with a skateboard in one hand and what looks like a huge double bass in the other. It's an almost surreal combination. He's looking well miffed and very jealous of his friend, who is getting very familiar with the girl he is with. He has his own girl beside him but I can see his dilemma. If only he had a third hand then he could follow his friends lead. Obviously, he can't let go of the double bass because if anything happened to that his mother would kill him but surely, his girlfriend rates higher than his skateboard. She can't be happy being the third most important thing in his life.

I get home and take the dogs out. After which I cook while I listen to today's big European match, England v Wales from Swansea, where Derby are the visitors. It ends 1-1.

I don't think I'm that late going to be bed but by the time I do, I have to scrape MD up from the corner where he's crashed, upside down, and pop him into his bed. Then I kick Doggo off our bed before finally snuggling up with a sleeping L. Who deceptively isn't as tired as she looks.

The Andrex Puppy

L's at the physio this morning so I get the honour of taking the boys for a walk. It's quite pleasant, although both are a pain in the arm, literally. I'm pleased to say that MD has perfected the 'sit at the kerb' routine, mainly because he knows he gets a treat for it, and he has a lovely sit, far less crap than Doggo’s was at that age. The down side is that, I’m getting through a hell of a lot of treats at the moment. So much so that I now have to ration the number of kerbs we cross.

I'm fifteen minutes late leaving for work because Son has lost his door key and I have to wait for him to return from his paper round before I can leave. This was good for Daughter because it meant she could scrounge a lift and not arrive at school at a ridiculously early time. In the end we lob a key at Son as we drive past him.

I nip to Sainsbury's over lunch. Am I the only person who gets hacked off with people's trolley parking? Yes, ok, so I almost certainly am but honestly. The trolley parking bays must hold at least twenty shopping trolleys and yet people manage to fill them with less than half a dozen badly parked ones. I always do a spot of re-parking but no one thanks me.

I come home to find L just putting the Hoover away. It appears that MD has been re-enacting the Andrex puppy advert, badly. He doesn't realise that he's not supposed to destroy the toilet roll nor sprinkle confetti all over the house.

I take Doggo to dog class, yet we spend most of the time training MD and he isn't even there. I get some very good advice on basic agility training to get MD started on.

An Entertaining Pleasure

We drag ourselves away from our lie-in and go to cheer on those silly souls, all madder than L and I, who are doing this year Robin Hood Half and Full Marathons. L's ran the half several times and I'm sure I could run a half marathon, no problem, as long as I ran it at a sensible pace. It's this part I'm not capable of doing.

We get back to find Son staking out the living room. I assume he's making a point because, after the A Levels debacle, we've switched his internet games off. Of course the point is, that we have freed up some time for him, he just has to make good use of it.

I have the entertaining pleasure of cutting the grass. Entertaining because it drives MD totally ape. Unlike last time I put up with his fanatical barking and constant attacking of the lawn mower. I decide to persist until one of the neighbours complain or I run over him with the mower. Oddly none of them do and tempting though it is, I don't.

In the evening, we have L's younger brother and his partner round for tea. I cook my speciality lasagne, with lots of cheese. A few naughty glasses of wine go down.

The Alpha Dog

In the morning, I head home to L. It’s a good job I don’t have a hangover, apparently MD has had a lie in and is as high as a kite.

As you may have gathered MD has well and truly settled in now and has his paws firmly under the table. He is fast becoming the Alpha dog. We keep reminding Doggo that he's supposed to be the Alpha dog but he doesn't listen. He just sits back and lets MD get on with things. He occasionally tries to knock him down a peg or two with a growl and a bat round the ears with his paw, but MD just thinks he wants to play.

After catching up with L, we visit our local farm shop, then I take the boys out on the park, finally it's off to the football where Derby are the evening game on Sky. The cameras are presumably just there to witness Derby going a full year without a victory.

Actually, the team put in another good performance and I think that finally their luck might just be on the turn. First, we take the lead when Paul Green's diving header is deflected into the net by a Sheffield defender but then the bad luck is back, as we concede the obligatory and almost immediate equaliser.

This is followed by the referee awarding us a penalty, only to change his mind after talking to his linesman and giving a corner. Typical. I'd never seen that before but 24 hours later, it happened again to Everton.

Then perhaps some more good fortune, Rob Hulse controls the ball, perhaps with a little help from his hand, before thumping home a volley against his former club. It's usually a former striker who comes back to haunt us, not the other way around. So finally a win and Sky go home disappointed.

L joins me in Derby and we partake of a 'rack' at the Royal Standard. Five thirds of different beers and a generous pot of mature cheddar for a fiver. Very nice.

Back in Nottingham, Son is out on an 18th birthday bash. He and his friends are all heading towards this same milestone. I remember those days. A heady time of parties and drinking, I could tell some stories... But everyone needn't be so concerned about the hell raising, binge drinking, youth of today. The boys do cinema and a meal and are home by 8.30.

Not so, L and I. We have a few more ales in Derby and then head back to Nottingham for a decadent late night curry.

Self-harm

Finally get the bike out, for the one and only time this week. It's actually quite a pleasant morning for a ride, for once.

It must be a slow news day because today we treated to the nugget that sharing a bed with someone could temporarily reduce your brainpower. Particularly, they say, if you are a man but both sexes had a more disturbed night's sleep when they shared their bed. Err... well obviously... They went to the trouble of giving them tests to do in the morning and the men fared worse, with their results suggesting they had more disturbed sleep. Hmmm, or probably their minds were simply elsewhere.

Did you know that 43 per cent of all statistics are made up on the spot... along with silly surveys I assume?

We've been looking to get MD into a training class, just standard obedience, not agility yet. L has volunteered to take him, which sounds a bit rash of her. It could be stressful for all concerned and could threaten the AF status of Mondays, which is when the classes are.

Time heals all wounds as they say. She originally started taking Doggo when he was a pup but after awhile I took over. I recall taking chews and toys to keep Doggo occupied, so that he wouldn't eat the furniture or the other dog owners and he didn’t start obedience training until he was 8 months old. MD is only 5 months old...

I'm out with the lads from university this evening. Although its perhaps not a good idea to leave L. She says she's so stressed that she's on the 'sod it' diet tonight. I think she might self-harm herself with a tub of Ben & Jerry's.

A chap we haven't seen for around five years shows up for our night out. It's amazing how much someone can age in only five years; I hope that doesn't happen to me.

After several pints, I doss down at a friend's house. I get a text from home, L says someone is howling and keeping the household awake. I wish Daughter wouldn't keep doing that.

What The Dizzle In The Drizzle

Finally, some serious exercise this week as I run into work. The weather started out fine but then it drizzled a bit but not much. I got to try my new 'runner specific' headphones out and they were very good, didn’t fall out once.

I was running quite nicely along the river path when I had to start swerving around diggers and other heavy plant machinery. What the dizzle? (as Daughter would say), or more precisely, what the dizzle in the drizzle. I know they've been digging here for a while and I thought they were putting some new footpaths in but now they seem to be excavating the whole area. It looks suspiciously like a new housing estate or worse, an industrial estate. That's really going to destroy the area. They did say that as soon as the Alvaston bypass went in, it would be the thin end of the wedge.

Just what is a dizzle? The Urban Dictionary on the internet helpfully defines 'dizzle' as 'anything really'. Pass me a dizzle.

I had a bag of crisps with my lunch today, which is a rarity, I don't often but there wasn't much on the sandwich van today. Walkers' crisps now tell you that 'the carbon footprint of this product is 75g per pack'. So that’s 75g of carbon but only 34.5g of crisps for your money, hmmm, doesn't seem a very good dizzle, I mean deal, to me.

In the evening, I have to remember to take a squash racquet to our match and not a tennis racquet, as we've switched sports again. Winter is almost upon us.

I suppose we could have done what L's sister's opponents apparently did this week in their tennis match. They turned up in long trousers, long sleeved shirts, gloves and hats. This wasn't to keep warm though, this was to keep out the sun, as this was Singapore. Not very intimating though. Surely, the whole point of sport is so that you can go for the skimpy lycra look, much more professional looking, but then perhaps I’m just looking at it from the spectators point of view.

I get home to the wonderful smell something cooking under the grill. I have a quick check to make sure it's not MD. It's fish but it isn't piranha, its mackerel. Our piranha would have been too hairy. Apparently, mackerel is full of wonderful oils that will be kind to my heart.

Dubious Pleasures

I’m not in work today as I'm marshalling at the finish of today's Tour Of Britain stage in Stoke. As I'm not due there until midday, this means I get the dubious pleasure of taking the pup out. Actually destroying the little blighter on the park is something to look forward to. An hour and a half walk seems to do the trick.

It's also quite comical. I have MD on the extendable lead and we get some really cartoon moments when he legs it after birds etc and quickly comes to the end of the line. His neck stops but his legs keep running and we get the most spectacular back flip.

I head off to Stoke, which is still as grim as last time I went there. I get to marshal at the 'deviation' point, which is where the team cars have to split off from the rest of the race before the finish. I'm mainly directing traffic and stopping the public throwing themselves in front of a speeding cyclist but it's a good spot to watch the racing from.

There's quite a bit of hanging around but then we see a helicopter approaching overhead. I assume that's the race is now approaching and that is the TV coverage hovering above us. Of course it could be someone about to do a Price William and put their chopper in their floozy's garden but this is Stoke, so I doubt it.

As the riders rush past everyone gives a loud cheer to the British boys and a bit of a boo to the Rock Racing team, who's riders include the dubious threesome of Tyler Hamilton, Oscar Sevilla and Santiago Botero. All linked to recent drug controversies. Why the organisers let these three compete I'm not sure, most races have refused to accept them.

I head back home to the boys and today's gift from MD, is a pile of vomit. Nice. After a spot of clearing up, I watch the highlights of yesterdays cycling, there's nothing like doing things back to front.

Then I go for my usual swim, where I think I see a chap sporting one of those black Speedo LZR suits but when I get closer I realise that he's just amazingly hirsute. Yuk.

I take MD to dog class, as well as Doggo. MD attempts to try and see all the other dogs off but I think he's a bit miffed because none of the other dogs pay much attention to him.

Breakout Of Sanity

I'm out in Derby tonight, so cycling isn't feasible but I had intended to run into work instead. Unfortunately, I forgot to leave anything to wear at work. So unless I go out in my shorts, I can't do it. Therefore, I have to get the bus but then again it's chucking it down again, so it wouldn't have been pleasant.

After a pleasant evening of beer and curry, we end up arguing about the price of the meal, they over charged us, which makes me late for the bus and I miss the Red Arrow home. I have to wait for the next one.

Thankfully (or perhaps not), by the time I get home no ones strangled the pet piranha, the lovable MD.

There's a breakout of sanity in the music scene as Elbow, those popular journeymen of the British scene, win the Mercury Prize for their LP The Seldom Seen Kid. It's certainly not the best album of the year but compared with most of the other nominees it was different class. It was their second nomination, following on from their first album in 2001, which didn't win.

Banished To The Garden

Son has his first full day at his new college today and somehow L manages to get him to take his phone with him. He even actually uses it, consequently she feels honoured to be kept informed. She says she likes being a virtual overbearing mother. I'm not convinced; perhaps he’s given his phone to someone else?

Unfortunately, all this good will and communication evaporates when Son gets home to discover we've cut the supply lines for internet gaming, so that he is free to concentrate on his studies.

Talking about evaporating good will. The puppy has rolled in something disgusting and has subsequently been banished to the garden by Daughter. I get the honour of bathing him, which characteristically, he loves. The bath helps but he still pongs. L takes him to the library; presumably, he waits outside, whilst I take Doggo to training. They all ask where MD is, it sounds kind of cool to say he's gone to the library.

A Day At The Wrong Office

We're in Sheffield this morning for the Great Yorkshire 10k Run. It was expensive but I'm hoping that the increased competition, 6,000 entries, will inspire me and carry me to great things.

I could have done Lichfield for half the price, which would perhaps have been a prettier race but pretty would have been wasted on me, I wouldn’t have noticed. Sheffield is a rather dull out and back, which sounds ideal. L questions my sense of adventure. I like to leave that at the start line. Dull does it for me in 10k’s. On a nice straight, out and back, you can see what you’re chasing.

We take one dog, just MD because Doggo is a bit of a handful at races. Hopefully, he'll learn from his rejection but I doubt it.

I have an orange number, which is the best you can get if you're not an Olympic athlete, aka the elite. So in theory this should get me a good start but unfortunately there seems to be rather a lot of us oranges and they're all doing the bloody disco dancing warm-up thing. All this dancing makes it difficult to get to the front and although I do push past loads, I'm still nowhere near the start line. I don't even hear the race start, possibility because Mr Warm-up is still doing his stuff, for the later starters, in my ear hole.

It's horribly congested and it takes around 2km to get some space to get running properly and I'm with all the wrong people, running at the wrong pace. I'm already well off schedule, so I just settle down and 'enjoy' it, cruising past loads of folks but not really running fast enough. I can't find a decent tail to chase, to speed me on.

Something else confuses me. Who is this very popular 'Alan Shire' chap, who everyone keeps shouting for, he seems to be continually shadowing me, despite the fact I'm overtaking loads of people. I'm really not into people chasing MY tail.

I keep looking over my shoulder trying to eyeball him and psyche him out but I can't put a face to the name. Then as I pass yet another person with the same dark blue strip it dawns on me, there isn't one 'Alan' there's loads of them. They're all shouting 'Come On Hallamshire', ah, Hallamshire Running Club, the locals.

They advertised the course as flat and fast and it is, well flat but it isn't fast, no for me anyway. Even the flat runs out at 9km. The last kilometre is steeply uphill and a complete killer. The clock is over 42 minutes when I cross the line. A bad day at the office or rather perhaps just a day at the wrong office.

I was obviously slacking because I have enough energy to take the boys on the park later and then in the evening I stay awake through a film at Broadway. Although with hindsight perhaps, sleep might have been advisable.

'Angel' is based on a book by Elizabeth Taylor (no, not that one). The ironically named Angel Deverell (Ramola Garai) lives with her mother above their grocery store. Angel though, doesn't live in reality and isn't remotely angelic. She refuses to accept the world as it is and instead creates her own, through her vivid imagination, where she is a renowned writer who lives in the nearby Paradise House, where she dreamed of living when she was younger.

Nobody thinks she has the ability to be a writer but amazingly, despite little or no life experiences to draw on, a publisher (Sam Neill) takes a wild punt on one of her romantic novels. Even then, he has his reservations and questions among other things, a glaring mistake in her book where she writes that champagne is opened with a corkscrew, but when she throws a tantrum and refuses to change it, he publishes anyway. Fortunately, after this, we are not treated to many more nuggets of her writing.

His wife (Charlotte Rampling) clearly thinks he's mad and can't stand the rude and childish Angel. She suspects it's just because he has the hots for her.

You can't help but agree with his wife about Angel, from the moment the wretched woman appears on screen, she is simply too vile to inspire any sympathy.

Amazingly, the book is a success and one by one all her dreams come true. Angel gets to live like one of the made-up heroines in her books and buys Paradise House but continues to live a life of complete fantasy. She isolates herself from everything else in the world, including the First World War, when it breaks out.



I think the film tries to hammer home the fantasy point because some of the scenes when they are travelling are so badly done, using superimposed backgrounds, that you think you've fallen into a parody of something from the 1950's. Surely, this must have been deliberate.

She meets the Howe-Nevisons. Nora (Lucy Russell), is her obsessive number one fan who begs her to let her be her personal assistant, and her brother Esme (Michael Fassbender), an untalented painter, with whom Angel falls in love with.



At first, he appears to be almost as unlikable as she is and I think they deserve each but then, because Angel is so selfish and so possessive of him, I start to feel sorry for him. She is so annoying that I can't imagine anyone putting up with her.

He goes off to war, the war that Angel pretends doesn't exist, probably just to escape her and comes back wounded. Trapped with Angel and the wheelchair she 'lovingly' provided for him, he hangs himself.

The war is also her undoing, she starts to incorporate her anti-war feelings into her novels and her readership deserts her, at a time when the country are pulling together in the war effort. You almost want to cheer when she herself falls ill and dies.

Oddly having aged badly, the make-up was a bit dodgy (shades of 'Love In The Time Of Cholera'), on her deathbed she seems to rewind back to her late twenties.



I wouldn't say it was a bad film because I found it quite enjoyable. The problem with it was that you never felt anything for the main character and not much for any of the others either. Throughout you just wanted someone to give her a really hard slap.

With Added Teeth Marks

Another Saturday with not much on, which is very strange, I must get some more events scheduled. All the same we have a nice lie in. The postman manages to get some of our post through the correct door but doesn't deliver any of the CDs or the new headphones I've ordered off the internet. Then I see a certain puppy running around the garden with a parcel in its mouth. Rather than knock, the postman seems to have just lobbed a parcel over the back gate. No wonder things get broken. When I catch the blessed creature, the parcel turns out to contain my new headphones. Special ones for running, with added teeth marks, I look forward to trying them.

I get my own back on the puppy and poor old Doggo by dragging them both round the park for an extra long walk in the rain. Extra long because the rain has driven all the sane people away and the park is therefore quiet, ideal for manic puppies. Despite this, he still manages to upset a few folks.

We bump into a couple with a black lab just as yet another downpour starts. 'Isn't it wonderful' she says. It just goes to show that L and I aren't the only odd ones around, fellow rain worshippers.

A lazy morning is followed by a lazy afternoon. I discover that Son has the full set of Feeder videos, so I spend the afternoon reminiscing over all the old ones.

Whilst Setanta's half a dozen subscribers are enduring the Andorra v England match, the rest of us enjoy a weekend off from football or alternatively concentrate on the 'car crash' entertainment at the bottom of League 2. Where the penalised trio of Rotherham (17-point penalty), Bournemouth (also 17) and Luton (30) are scrapping to avoid the two relegation places.

Rotherham and Luton have both made encouraging starts and they have all received an unexpected bonus with Barnet throwing their hat into the ring by losing their first five matches.

Bottom Of League 2

Pl W D L Pt
21 Barnet 5 0 0 5 0
22 Rotherham 5 3 1 1 -7
---------------------------------
23 Bournemouth 5 0 3 2 -14
24 Luton 5 2 1 2 -23

A lazy afternoon is followed by a lazy evening, we don't even go out, as I rest up for my race tomorrow.

Coming Home To A Strangled Puppy...

It's lobbing it down yet again, so it wouldn't have been very pleasant on the bike but I'm on the bus anyway, as a planned rest day. As I hurry off to catch it, I meet two very wet dogs in the street. Ugh! I have to stop and say hello, as they're my own.

In today's paper, hot on the heels of the Olympics encouraging schools to up their game as regards competitive sports we get the headline 'team sports will make your children fat'. Yeah right.

They reckon competitive sports at school put children off exercise and suggest lifestyle activities, such as walking, aerobics and even in-line skating as alternatives. What makes them think these activities aren't competitive? They certainly would be if I were doing them.

As for competitive sports putting children off exercise, well I'm sure they're right as regards some kids but equally making games uncompetitive puts kids off too. Most kids, especially boys, are naturally competitive. It is the schools that knock it out of them. Perhaps they should find room for both types of activity. Simple eh?

Son is being induced into his new college today and L suggests to him that he ought to get fit and walk with her into town otherwise she'll be putting him on a diet and he agreed. So, a Mother and Son bonding session ensued. Although she certainly picked a rotten day to persuade him to walk to college. It's the sort of trauma that would send a lot of people to Cookie n Shakes to recover.

As it happens, he may not escape the diet anyway because L's threatened to get us all new images by putting us on the Slimming World diet.

She's also gone home early, which I think she's regretting because I've had emails warning me to expect a strangled dog by the time I get home. I don't think MD will let her do any hoovering, among other things.

I ask her to shove the pup on the next Red Arrow, I’ll meet him at the other end and walk him back but I think she assumes I'm joking.

Later, we walk the excitable pup to Beeston. The beer range is good and so is the weather, on the way there. It chucks it down on us on the way back and we have to have an advocaat to recover. Which was a bad idea but very nice all the same.

An Inside Job

I run in and survive it, in a damn good time too. I also stay dry, although I’m sure it’ll rain on me later though.

I hesitate to say it but MD seems to be getting a bit less hyper, for a start he seems to have stopped yapping at everything that moves. Not that this is much consolation to the ducks on his morning walk, who have to run the daily gauntlet of the double dog experience. L says, his paws hardly touched the floor when he saw them but he's getting calmer, honestly.

Despite the fact he's been out with Doggo, MD still always greets him when they walk in the door. He rushes in ahead of him and positions himself to greet him as he walks in. It's so bizarre. Hero worship. Although L now has a different theory on this; that he's just making sure he gets to the biscuit tin first.

Today's another big day in Son's re-invention, following on from his change of learning establishment and conversion to a literary buff. It’s the haircut.

Although there were fears he may have bottled it when he sat in the chair and said 'just a trim please'. I can just picture L behind him making throat-cutting signals to the hairdresser; needless to say, it all came off. L reckons, he looks fabulous... like an adult. All he needs now is the girl with a skirt up to her armpits, to drape on his arm.

Back at home, MY dog; it's always MY dog at these moments. Has managed to get a bag of porridge off the worktop and open it. Doggo doesn’t like porridge, so it must have been the other one. Just don’t tell him it’s better with milk because he likes a spot of milk and, the way he's going, it won't be long until he learns to open the fridge door. Although, I'm sure, several times I think he’s attempted to hide in the fridge, so perhaps he's planning an inside job.

I get the Red Arrow home. There's a queue of people waiting to get on because some folks are arguing with the bus driver about why the bus goes to Victoria Bus Station and not Broadmarsh. Because it does! For goodness sake does it matter, its five minutes walk. In the end, they get on, threatening to charge the bus company for their taxi fare. A taxi! Unbelievable.

Tennis is rained off, although as soon as we decide that, the sun comes out. No matter, I take the boys for a paddle around the park instead. Where MD nearly has a chap off his bike. It wasn't really MD's fault because the chap had a dog on a lead with him. Crazy.

L and I have a romantic night in, cheese and pate, with a spot of red wine. Very nice.

The Weather Is Lying In Wait For Me

My kit is still saturated from last nights soaking; luckily, I have spares of most things. Although this means the winter gloves come out, which despite what L says about it being winter already, it clearly isn't, and I'll get too hot. There's no alternative to the wet cycling shoes though, my 'waterproof' overshoes don't work terribly well in floodwater. I wear an extra pair of socks to soak up the excess moisture.

Daughter is off to Alton Towers today. She's done her paper round and on her way by 7.40. If only it were that easy on a school day.

I avoid the rain on the way to work and it even stops for me as I cycle to the pool after work. A somewhat excellent ride is spoilt when Pete Murphy from Bauhaus overtakes me, by jumping the lights, on his BMX. I was too shocked to give chase. If it wasn't he, it was certainly a striking resemblance, although it was the Bela Lugosi t-shirt that gave it away. You may not know what I'm talking about but obviously the Bauhaus legacy lives on, if the youth of today are taking the look that seriously.

It's very quiet in the pool, so much so there are some nice outfits all the way up as far as lane two. Tankinis I believe they're called but I'm too focussed on my swimming to notice.

Unfortunately the weather is lying in wait for me as I leave the pool, its torrential. My luck has well and truly ran out, that is until a wonderfully soggy L arrives at the Leisure Centre just as I leave.

I get home to find that the dogs have survived a day alone, amazingly MD hasn't trashed anything and Doggo hasn't savaged MD's ears off in frustration at the brute.

I return later to the pool, in the car this time, to rescue my soggy girl. I skip dog training, it's just too wet but really, I can't be bothered.

Mr Messy Pulls It Off

It's perfect cycling weather this morning, not too hot, not too cold, a little wind but not too much and no rain. Yet.

Son has his delayed college interview today and I have all my fingers and toes crossed for him. Will he get the courses he wants or will he end up doing BTEC Painting and Decorating?

L tells him to look smart to impress the interviewer... he turns up in jeans, a Mr Messy t-shirt and with his laces undone. Although L informs me, because she's there with him, that there are girls there with skirts up to their armpits. Damn, I knew I should have gone with him. As I said, dress to impress the interviewer.

Despite the outfit, it appears to go well and Mr Messy pulls it off. So he's back at college, on a more literature based course this time. L gives him a bit of a lecture, pointing out what a lucky young man he is and that he needs to learn from his mistakes. Moreover, if he doesn't and messes it up again, she'll kill him.

He has to read the Wasp Factory for Monday. Which is a great book, we never got to write about such fun things when I did English. He's also got to do Faustus but he best ask L about that one.

There are loads of black clouds as I leave work but no rain yet, I just wish it would decide whether it was going to rain or not, so that I can get my kit right. A couple of miles in to my ride home, it does start to rain. Boy, does it rain. I pull in to shelter and get my waterproofs on. The roads are quickly awash. The worst conditions I've ever been out in apart from one torrential storm last winter, oh and that time in the blizzard.

I get home and the car's gone. L's been a wimp and not walked to Pilates. Tut tut. Neither of the dogs seem very keen to go on the park, although MD does leg it outside to savage my bike despite the downpour. Doggo just watches in bemusement from the sanctuary of the doorway.

Eventually the rain eases and we hit the park. Although I don't fancy kicking the ball through the wet grass, so we have a stick session instead. This keeps MD's attention and therefore he doesn't leg it after the other dogs. Perhaps this is the way to go.

L has been reading Virginia Woolf's Orlando and tells me she didn't enjoy the book very much. Not matter, she still says that she'll be putting me through the film, which apparently looks better. The film adaptation is by Sally Potter, a brave lass, because I think she's tried to film the unfilmable.

It's all a bit Shakespearean to me with a touch of Ian McEwan. Although as L points out Ian McEwan's usually have a plot. If Virginia Woolf had one when she started out, she soon lost it. From the moment Jimmy Somerville appears as a falsetto angel, you know this is going to be hard work.

Orlando is a young noble man during Queen Elizabeth I's reign. Tilda Swinton plays Orlando, a woman playing a man. Quentin Crisp plays Queen Elizabeth I, hmmm, but he's more convincing as a woman than Tilda Swinton is as a man. This, as I know that during the film Orlando becomes a woman, rather gives the plot away in the first few seconds.



Orlando is offered a house and land by the Queen, if he can stay forever young. The film follows Orlando as he moves through several centuries of British history, experiencing life along the way, and during this time, impossible as it may seem, he doesn't age a day.

He falls in love with a skater during the winter of the Great Frost, the skater is Sasha, a Russian Princess. A young woman who also dresses as a man and as unconvincingly as Orlando does. She toys with his feelings and one night, when they plan to run away together, she fails to turn up. The cow.

Throughout his amble through the centuries, Orlando bumps into people briefly before moving on. Many historical figures appear but aren't properly introduced. So, if you didn't know the story you'd miss them, such as when Nick Greene and other poets, show up. Luckily, I have L to fill in the gaps for me. All the monarchs of the passing years are briefly mentioned.

At some point Orland falls into a coma and when he awakes, he's become a woman. Yes really. Orlando doesn't look unduly bothered or even surprised. Suppose we'd all like to try it but I'd like an assurance that there was a way back. There was a previous scene where Orlando also appeared to have a long sleep and I had thought he'd already gender hopped because with Swinton in the lead, it's hard to tell.



This transformation causes him to lose his grand house. Firstly, because he is legally dead but also because he's now female and this amounts to much the same thing. Women were not allowed to own property.

Orlando continues to be unlucky in love and things get no better when he/she falls off his/her horse and is rescued by Billy Zane. They promptly jump into bed but ultimately, he/she is dumped again.



A quick rush through the twentieth century and then we are in the present day, where Orlando is handing his/her memoirs to a publisher. The film closes with Orlando and his/her child back at the house she acquired centuries ago.

They say it's not the getting there but the journey. Hmmm, I'm not convinced. A truly strange film, to say the least. Rambling and largely plotless. It's allegedly a film about self-discovery but Orlando's character seems to learn little throughout the years. You feel he/she's somewhat wasted his/her time. I suppose Orlando learns that each gender has its faults, no matter what century it is, but despite amassing several centuries of experience, he has little to show for it.

In 1941, Woolf committed suicide by filling her pockets with stones and wading into the River Ouse near where she lived. She probably couldn't find her real self either.