Proper Blood And Guts Football

This morning I take the dogs on the park, whilst L runs and goes to gym, totally outdoing me but I think I have the worst of the Old Expensive from last night.

Instead, I settle down to watch a proper game of blood and guts football and the FA Cup 2nd Round match between Histon and Leeds. It's hilarious. With Leeds losing 1-0 and struggling to play their football on the swamp of a pitch, I text my friend the Leeds fan to tell him how much I'm enjoying the entertainment. The spoilsport texts back instructing me to turn the TV off, as Leeds go out the cup.

The smile is then wiped off my face as Derby draw non-league Forest Green away from home in the next round. Oh dear, that’s us gone as well then.

Later we wander down to Broadway to see 'Waltz with Bashir' in which Israeli director Ari Folman tells a personal tale about the first Lebanon War in 1982. It's basically a documentary but in animated form.

Folman meets a friend in a bar who recounts a reoccurring nightmare he has where he is chased by 26 ferocious dogs. This, they conclude, is connected to his involvement in the war. Folman himself though, does not remember much about it. So, he meets up with other army colleagues, as well as a psychologist and the journalist Ron Ben-Yishai to try to jog his memory which he seems to have effectively repressed, especially concerning events leading up to the notorious Sabra and Shatila massacre. Through a series of conversations, Folman slowly reveals his past, showing the events he witnessed and was involved in, in the form of flashback.



It's an interesting history lesson, although taken from his point of view, but I found it a bit messy and bitty. It didn't really flow to any set pattern, like his memory I suppose, as we gradually build up to the massacre.



The allies of the Israelis were the Lebanese Christian Phalangists and when the Lebanese President, Bashir Gemayel, is assassinated, they are allowed to go into the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps to hunt for terrorists. Instead, they killed at least 800 Palestinian civilians in revenge, including women and children, whilst the Israelis stood by and watched. The army even fired flares into the night sky to provide lighting for the Phalangist's mission. At the end of the film, real footage of the discovery of the massacre is shown, presenting graphic pictures of the corpses.

I think being animated, and there was no doubt that the animation was magnificent, it was hard to identify with Folman and there was no character building to help you with this. I didn't feel I knew Ari Folman at all, so although I cared about what happened generally, I didn't particularly care about his own involvement.



Why did they use animation? Probably simply because they could be more controversial than they could have been on film.

Still it was a thought-provoking comment on the war, the dreadful massacre and the soldiers, who came across as a confused, scared and ill prepared bunch. In that sense, it got its message across. It was a decent, powerful piece of art but as a film, for me, it didn't really cut it.

Soggy Toast, Ugh

Its bloody freezing and we're at a dog show, our last of the year. It's indoors but that doesn't really seem to make much different to the temperature. The fog doesn't lift all day and the temperature tops off at 1 degree. Actually, it's good to at least get a bit of winter. We just need some of the white stuff now.

Naturally, my battle scars get a few more comments. Possibly because the bluey blackness is now being ringed by a nice tinge of yellow. I am nothing if not colourful.

The show itself has some surprisingly tough courses for such a low key event and possibly we don't give them the respect they deserve and we pick up two eliminations, although we also come away with a 2nd and a 5th.

Back home, apparently the wanderer has returned, looking fairly sprightly for saying he's spent a night on the cheap cider. Wait until he graduates to a night on the Leffe, for which L volunteers to train him up, she is after all, the expert.

She drops me a text to braggingly say that she's having cheese on toast and a hot bath. Not at same time, I hope. Soggy toast, ugh. Sounds idyllic though, to someone who's freezing in a draughty barn with a flask of parsnip soup and two muddy collies for company.

In the evening we head over to Derby, where the big news at the moment, that is to me, most people probably don't give two hoots, is that the infamous Rockhouse is being revived.

The Rockhouse was a stylishly run down hell hole of a place on Babington Lane, situated above the Reliance Electrical store. It opened in 1984 and existed until 1996 when it was renamed The Future Club but under the same management. It constantly had a battle with the authorities over various issues:- alcohol, drugs, noise, a touch of fraud and general debauchery. It finally closed for good in 2001.

Since then, the place has been a nightclub called Supanova and recently another club called First Floor. So it's never been away really, whether they'll bring back the Health & Safety nightmare along with toilets that were open to the elements I doubt but welcome back all the same. The main thing is that they're going to be having bands on again. The venue used to attract a lot of medium sized bands at a time when Derby had a thriving gig scene with the Dial, the Wherehouse and others. Now with the Royal pulling in some good bands too, Derby seems to be on the up again. It officially reopens on Friday 19th December with a gig by the Pigeon Detectives.

In the Flowerpot, I start with a weak 5% beer, move on up to 5.5% and then finally settle on 6.5% Burton Bridge Old Expensive. We're both well tottering by the time we get the bus home. Then we tuck into a late night chilli, that L prepared earlier.

Hollywhatever Pudding

For the second time in 24 hours, I find myself lying in a pool of blood. This is because, overnight, I seem to have bled all over the pillow. No worries, MD soon licks it all up. Gross creature. At least the swelling has gone down; it has now been replaced by a rather tasteful bluey blackness.

I can't let such a little mishap, like last night's, prevent me getting on the bike this morning, after all, it's the first chance I've had all week.

L goes out with the dogs as normal but comes back almost immediately to catch me before I leave with a gloomy warning about the ice. Poor little MD couldn't keep his paws under control on the slippery ground. Hmmm, well MD can't keep his paws under control at the best of times but all the same, I promise to be careful, as always.

I wheel my bike outside and whoops, blimey it is icy but I'm sure the main roads will be fine. Thankfully they are. Although I'm a little worried about some of the side roads, which I usually take shortcuts down but they're fine too.

At work, I get the predictable 'what does the other guy look like', 'hope she was worth it' etc etc, well from those who don't think it's a frying pan mark. It was a squash racquet ok. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Did I expect sympathy? Well no and I got what I expected, none whatsoever.

L promises to experiment on me tonight; something called Hollywog or was it Hollygog pudding. I'm not too sure which but it’s still a rather dubious name. It's also odd that's there's such a treat on offer at all because there's not even a 10k in sight.
It's from a new book about puddings that she's discovered. She is so well read. It's treacle sponge baked in custard. As ever, she's free to experiment on me as such as she likes.

I cycle home and then we tuck into L's feast with pudding. Then we take the boys down the Plough where I'm that fully of Hollywhatever that I can only manage two pints.

We come home early, much to L's surprise. Another surprise is that we’re home before Son. Who's gone out with some mates straight from college. In fact, he doesn't come home at all and crashes at someone else's house. This is almost rebellious but L, the overbearing mother, doesn't look fazed, even though he could be being led badly astray in some den of inequity. Lucky blighter.

The First Cut Is The Deepest

Still not done much training this week, Tuesday apart. I had intended to do an early morning jaunt around the pond with the boys but it was just too nice huddling up to the thermostatically challenged one and the fact that I was pinned down by not one, but two collies on my legs.

In the car again because it's pub day. The traffic was quiet for a change, probably something to do with the M1 being shut again, so perhaps that's where everyone was.

L's distraught because she's started her Christmas shopping today, breaking all her own rules about not starting before the 1st December. You wouldn't catch me doing that, I probably won't even have gotten around to starting a fortnight after that.

I need to do a run or something, so after I get home I take the dogs out for the run, that I didn't do this morning. It has to be a quick one because I'm playing squash at 7pm. It's also raining which doesn't help. I think I probably make it a bit too quick for MD, he's hanging off his lead by his teeth by the end which isn't much help either.

I get home, a quick change, then off to squash, stopping on the way to drop L's running stuff with her and collect her work stuff, so that she can run home. Naturally, the rain stops for her.

The things people will do to get into my blog and that seems to include me. Squash starts off rather well. I win the first game quite easily, my warm up run obviously helped. Although I lose the next two, I win the fourth, again quite easily, so we go into a decider. That wasn't going quite so well, in fact, I think I was 12-5 down, although it's all a bit hazy now... but anyway there really was no need. No need at all for my opponent to take such a wild swing at the ball whilst I was stood right behind him. Smack. Straight across the eye socket.

It was obviously worse than it felt because he took one look at me lying on the floor in a pool of blood and immediately offered an abandonment or perhaps he was just worried about the council landing us with a cleaning bill because of the mess I was making of their floor.

Turns out, he's landed me with nice deep cut below the eye and most likely a black eye as well. I suppose I should have gone to A&E to get it seen to but faced with the choice of four hours in casualty or a pint of anaesthetic in the local hostelry, I opt for the later. As the concerned landlord points out, I could have a scar for life but faced with that or spending all evening in casualty... I'll take the scar thank you very much and can you please stop worrying about me dripping on your carpets and refill these two glasses please.

It seems my rapidly swelling eye could almost be as good a babe-magnet as a collie pup is. I become a major talking point in the pub, people I don’t know coming up and checking I'm alright.

Medication taken, I head home to L, who hasn't got my distress call and instructions to get the frozen peas ready because I've forgotten that I've got her mobile in with her work stuff in the boot of the car. In the end, I forgo the frozen peas and open a Leffe or two instead. Must keep up my medication.

Real Interaction

I should have ran to work again today, because I'll be struggling to fit much more training in this week, but my legs ache, having nearly done two 10k’s yesterday. I pass L with two very calm dogs on my way to the bus. Not ours surely?

In the news is a pub in Walton-on-the Naze, Essex which has put reindeer on its Xmas menu, at the request of members of its anti-Christmas Humbug Club. They feel that eating reindeer will go some way to spoiling everyone else's Christmas. I like their style.

I also read about a new book called 'The Art Of Conversation' by someone called Catherine Blyth. She says she's tired of our 'virtual' society and wants us to relearn the joy of real interaction with real people. Her dictum is that conversation is second only to sex; a lot less faff and you can do it with anyone you like without getting into too much trouble. There's not much evidence of real interaction on the Red Arrow this morning.

I'm on the bus because I'm out doing a bit of real interaction myself this evening : - a good chat, a few beers and an all you can eat Chinese at the appallingly named Wokmania. Its ok though, better than the other Chinese my mate usually takes me to. It's also quiet busy. Imagine how manic it would have been if it didn't have such a daft name.

Fingers Crossed

It must have been cold last night. I thought I'd woken up next to one of the collie but no, it was just L in a fleece. Shouldn't complain she was keen to share her warmth.

There's a match tonight, so rather than cycling I opt to drive to my parents place near Derby and run to work from there. As I left, I saw Daughter walking some saintly grey collie, we really ought to get one like that...

Looks like L's offloaded Doggo so that she can do a spot of heelwork training with MD. Although she always protests that it doesn't seem to be going into his little head. Which implies that perhaps it isn't going that well.

The run takes just over 40 minutes. Which is a reasonable time for 10k but unfortunately it's not 10k it's only 9.2k. It's also cold and windy, so I go for the fleece and gloves option, which obviously makes me too hot by the time I get to work.

There's a bit in the news about Britain's biggest gigaholic, a chap called Ray Morrissey, who claims to have been to more than 5,000 gigs over 35 years. So it looks like I've got a bit of catching up to do but you're up there to be shot at Ray.



It's manic at work, thanks to Gordon. Customers are ringing up left, right and centre, wondering if their computer systems are going to crash because of the VAT change. Of course they're not... fingers crossed. I don’t think Gordon has considered how many IT systems he's going to mess up.

After work I run the 9.2k back to my parents house, bouncing along, singing 'I'd come a running', Kings Of Leon's 'On Call', which has nothing to do with running but I'm not fussy.

I make it there without being ran over despite the dark country lanes. When we take Doggo out running, he has his running jacket on, which has lights on it. I'll have to ask Santa for one the same. Also I would just get my night vision going, then some car would dazzle me and the footpath would disappear. Anyhow I make it in one piece.

The match is a lesson in how not to defend. Jordan Stewart delivers Preston an early Christmas present but then makes up for it with a stunning goal. The game finishes 2-2.

A quick pint and then home to L, who's being naughty with the alcohol again, so I keep her company with a port. Well it is nearly Christmas, well that's the excuse everyone else seems to be using.

The Estranged Brother

Finally, we have a gig in the diary for 2009. The Shockwaves NME Awards Tour has two of our favourites Glasvegas and White Lies involved this year, along with Friendly Fires. Rumour has it that Son, who appears to have taken a liking to Rock City, could be joining us.

Good old Gordon lowers the rate of VAT to 15%. This is supposed to help the economy but how many badly written computer systems is this going to crash and all at only a few days notice. It could end up costing companies more than they save. We hurriedly start checking all our own 'well written' systems.

We head off to our dog classes and L texts me to say that Doggo's estranged brother has made an appearance at hers. His owner is the dog trainer there. Doggo has never really got on with him but hey that's family for you. I tell Doggo the news and he immediately starts looking around with a worried expression on his face. No mate, he's not here. I tell L to get MD to pass on a head butt from Doggo but MD's already done that. It was the first thing he did. Must be doggie telepathy.

I get home and knock up a childfree curry, which means it can be hot. L recovers from an evening spent training with MD in the only way possible with a naughty glass of wine. I join her in her naughtiness.

What Height The Zips?

We get up far too early but this tends to happen these days with a hyperactive puppy in the house. After years of thought, I've finally bought a running jacket and this morning is the perfect time to test it out. It's raining. So I head out into the elements with L, the hyper one and the reluctant one that doesn't like the rain. I'm not totally convinced by the jacket but it keeps me dry and L thinks I look good in it, which is good enough for me. Although she doesn't specify at what height I should have the zips.

Beyond that, it's a lazy day. As the media aren't covering it in any shape or form I have to check on the British Cycling website to see how we are doing in Melbourne, Australia. Seems that our team of three have won the women's team pursuit. That's despite Elizabeth Armitstead's crash yesterday in the points race qualifier that required eight stitches in her arm.



Daughter heads off out again, it's under 18s clubbing at the Rig underneath Rock City tonight. L and I head off for some romance and the 'Baader Meinhof Komplex'.

A group of West German students are demonstrating against the Shah of Iran, who is visiting the country. They are also protesting against their own government, who they accuse of being a puppet in the hands of imperialist America. Then aided and abetted by the police, supporters of the Shah pick a fight with the students. Together they senselessly beat the demonstrators to a pulp. The police threaten a protester with a gun to his head, it goes off, although possibly by accident but a martyr is born.

On this violent note the film starts and it doesn't get any less horrific from there onwards. Some of the protesters have no time for peaceful objections, they want revolution now. They form the Red Army Faction (RAF), whose aims are to turn things around by stronger means.

Among these are journalist Ulrike Meinhof, known for writing biting critiques against the government, and part-time criminal Andreas Baader, because of their involvement the RAF became known as the Baader-Meinhof group. The film focuses primarily on these two and Baader's girlfriend, Gudrun Ensslin, a unwavering fanatic if ever there was one.

At first, the group content themselves with committing bank robberies for the cause and gain some sympathetic support from normal Germans but soon they turned to killing people.

What follows in the film is a detailed history of the actions of the RAF and their battles with the German establishment, as the film attempts to squeeze 10 years of history into two and a half hours. The sheer magnitude of the events makes this difficult, so the movie travels through history at breakneck pace without taking time to delve into any particular aspect at any length or to attempt to decipher the thoughts of those behind the RAF. Not that many of them seemed to have much idea of what they wanted to achieve anyway.



It may not be hot on detail but the film does at times have you clinging to the edge of your seat as it captures the essence of the tensions that existed at the time. Kidnaps, executions and explosions come fast and furious as plans are hatched and then usually messed up. It's still a fascinating story and I remember many of the events happening at the time.

When they are not killing or blowing things up, the group spend a lot of their time naked or with a cigarette in their mouths. Both seem to be compulsory if you're in the RAF.



Eventually the authorities catch up with them and the ringleaders are dumped in prison. Not happy with the conditions they are in, they go on collective hunger strike and after the death of one of them, Holger Meins, they are all reunited in Stuttgart's Stammheim prison where their trial would eventually take place.

Collectively their mental state starts to crumble and Meinhof falls out with the others as plans to get them released continually fail. She doesn't make it to the end of the trial and hung herself in her cell. Although it was claimed by the RAF that she was murdered by the authorities. After a long and expensive trial, the remaining defendants, primarily Baader, Ensslin and Jan-Carl Raspe were convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment.

Outside of Stammheim, the violence continued, driven by a new generation of fighters in a campaign in support of their jailed comrades, still trying to secure their release. Their motivations remain a mystery, you think perhaps some of the group just joined because they fancied a bit of bloodshed. In a final throw of the dice, the RAF kidnapped Hanns Schleyer, the chairman of the German Employers' Organisation, and a group of Palestinian's hijacked a Lufthansa Flight on behalf of the RAF.



It was all in vain, the German government had no intention of ever releasing them. The terrorists saw the writing on the wall and inside Stammheim, they agreed to a suicide pact. The next morning, they were all found dead in their cells. None of this saved Schleyer, who was later executed in the woods.

After the pace of the film, the end credits seem to come upon you a bit abruptly.

It's an excellent and well acted film that neither approves nor disapproves of it's subject matter. Today, many people are still objecting to much the same things, just less violently, re: the Bush administration, Iraq, Afghanistan, capitalism in general. Horst Herold, the director of the German Police said that he could only cure the symptoms of the RAF disease but not the disease itself. In part admitting that the RAF were not altogether wrong in their thoughts, just badly wrong in their actions.

We complete the depression with an episode of South Riding, which seems positively upbeat by comparison.

Old Haunts

I'm up at 5am for another drive up to Preston. Doggo and I are spending a considerable amount of time up there at the moment. He probably regrets taking us up to Grade 6 because I wouldn't have bothered driving the two hours otherwise. Today, we have three courses and put in three clears but regrettably no rosettes. The top eight places get them; we came 9th, 10th and 11th in our three runs. Most annoyingly, each class was divided in to two parts and each time we were in the wrong part. Everything time there were less clears in the other part, which would have guaranteed us a rosette.

Most of our runs are scheduled early and this combined with the fact that winning nothing means you don't have to hang around for any presentations, means we can head home fairly early for once. John Grisham keeps us company on the drive back.

When we head into town later, we decide to tour round a few of our old haunts. Sadly, one of them, the Newcastle Arms, once a student haunt of mine that was always so busy, it was standing room only, is now closed.

Another, the Hole In The Wall, another former favourite, has been a shadow of it's former self for many years. Mainly since Marston's took over Mansfield Brewery, closed the brewery, scrapped all its beers and dismantled its popular guest beer policy. The Hole's customers went elsewhere in their droves.

Tonight though, although the pub is still very quiet, they have a decent 'guest' on, Ringwood Old Thumper 5.6%. Which is totally excellent. I say 'guest' because Marston's bought the Ringwood Brewery last year but they have at least kept it brewing and retained its beer range.

After each gorgeous pint, we debate continuing our pub tour but it was no good, we were stuck and stayed there for the duration, only decamping to hit the curry house.

An Oddly Familiar Melody

I bus and run this morning. While sat on the bus, trying in vain to find something newsworthy in the Metro, I can faintly hear an oddly familiar melody. Then I realise that the girl in front of me is playing Slade's Merry Xmas Everybody on her ipod. You just don't do you? You listen to it when it's played to you in Woolworths and at the office Christmas party, you even quite enjoy it but no one seriously puts this on their ipod. Do they?

Back to reality, Kings Of Leon on my Ipod and the run into work, which was hard but oddly pleasant. I'm finding it surprisingly difficult to get my fitness back after my brief illness.

Hot on the heels of World Toilet Day, today is World Philosophy Day. So, an opportunity to contemplate one's existence or other important matters. For instance, is this glass of orange juice that I'm drinking, half-full or half-empty? Neither, I finish it and go get another.

You won't read anything about it in the media but the second cycling World Cup race starts today in Melbourne, Australia. Our all-conquering GB team have only taken a team of three to this round - Joanna Rowsell, Lizzie Armitstead and Katie Colclough. Despite the small team, two gold medals are delivered on day one yesterday, Rowsell winning the individual pursuit and Armitstead the scratch race.

It's a peaceful house at home tonight, what with Son in his room and Daughter out partying again. L suggests we shut the dogs out to complete the ambiance. Such decadence. Then we take the animals up the Plough, where hurrah, at long last, Sooty Stout is on.

Preventative Measures

No run or bike today because I have to take the car in to the garage this morning for a wallet busting 40,000 mile cambelt change. A necessary evil because I've had these go on me before. Although it has to be said that the preventative measures are getting almost as expensive as the likely repair bill would be.

L leaves the house before me, so I'm tasked with the job of getting MD in out of the garden. Eventually and reluctantly he comes in, that tree just so needed barking at.

Then when I get home later, someone has redecorated the kitchen floor with table mats, tea towels, a t-shirt, a pair of wellies and a broken cereal bowl. I scoop up the four-legged culprit and chuck him in the boot of the car along with his accomplice, then I drop them both off at the gym for L to frog march them back home before heading to squash.

This week I have the energy to maintain a challenge throughout all our games. Despite this, I still only manage to win one of them. At least the beer in the pub afterwards tastes like beer this week.

Riding A Christmas Tree

The day dawns dry, which is good news for those of us with botched brakes. My dodgy brakes turned out to be the least of my problems, the wind was just so horrible this morning and it was like pedalling in treacle. It felt like it took about two hours to get to work although I turned out to be only slightly slower than usual.

On my virtual road to John O'Groats, I should be in Perth by tonight. Next week I'll start my assault on the Cairngorms. With the weather forecast the way it is, I could even stop off for a virtual ski at Aviemore.

Every day appears to be designated as a day to champion something and today is no exception. I get an email advertising World Toilet Day, which isn't quite as ghastly as it sounds. It is a day to raise awareness of the global lack of such facilities. It's not about your local council trying to close all their public conveniences either (hello Derby City Council) but about the fact that 2.5 billion people have nowhere to go.




Son number two, that's the hard working, clean shaven, early to bed literature student not Son number one, the long haired, up all night playing computer games, failed science student, wants to try contact lens. I wonder who she is?

After work I cycle to the pool and momentarily get stuck behind and blinded by a chap with that many flashing red lights on the back of his bike, I counted six, that at first I think he's riding a Christmas tree. I'm sure the traffic will see him but I also think he's increasing the chances of someone deliberately running him over.

L's due at the leisure centre too for yoga, though I don't see her. Not sure, what flavour of yoga this is. Hatha, Vinyasa, Supramental, Restorative, Power, Hot or Gentle... I kid you not. I have no real desire to learn yoga but the names are good. In fact, it doesn't sound like yoga at all. Daughter even brought home details of something called 'Sun Salutation', which sounds like a cocktail to me but I think it was yoga. L threatened to have me practicing it wearing my lycra but she hasn't got me drunk enough yet.

I may be doing everything in my lycra cycling trousers soon because I'm having problems with the zips on them, they keep getting stuck. So soon I might not be able to get out of them at all. This may please L. Although she keeps saying she likes to see guys with the zips on their ankles upzipped, girls eh?, I'm not sure what effect this has on her, it might be worth an experiment though and could be a good way of passing the time one evening. In these days of the credit crunch, you have to make your own entertainment.

I get back from my swim, manage to extract myself from my cycling trousers and take the boys training.

How The Other Half Live

As I head out into the cold and wet morning on my bike, the dogs are enjoying liver and potatoes for breakfast. How the other half live, it was probably even warmed for them.

The roads seem to be getting busier with bikes, perhaps the credit crunch is getting more people onto two wheels or perhaps they're all trying to tone up their physique and make themselves irresistible to the opposite sex. I keep trying.

Apparently, 12 per cent of British workers now cycle to work but more men than women are doing it, 15 per cent compared to eight per cent of women. Which won't be news to L. Although I don't think it's the 2:1 ratio that this research implies. In Derby/Nottingham the ratio of male:female cyclists must be something like 15:1. Where are you girls? Get that skimpy lycra on, you know it makes sense.

L's been told to give up caffeine and chocolate because she's been experiencing what her GP called chest wall spasms. I though she'd be distraught at this news but she just seems delighted it's not a side effect of Leffe. Giving that up would have proved more problematic. At least it was nothing to do with her heart, which is fine, a touch cold sometimes but otherwise perfect, just like the rest of her good self.

After a few problems stopping in the wet, I get home and decide it's time to change my brake blocks. This wasn't as easy as it should have been. Just like whenever you get your tyres changed at a garage, you can then never get your wheel nuts off again because they've put them back on at maximum torque. The same seems to apply to bike shops because I can't get the bolts out of my brake shoes to change the pads. In the end I do a bodge job, hope it holds. Pray for a dry day tomorrow.

Meanwhile, the boys and L are hopping impatiently from foot to foot, as I'm delaying their Tuesday night perambulation around the pond. L's replaced MD's harness so he's now got something else to chew through and he attempts to start on it immediately. I tightened it up, now if he gets his teeth inside that, he'll get his gob trapped, which would be well funny.

L's also come home with a huge bottle of doggie shampoo, just in case.... So now, every night can be bath night.

A Violent Indoor Hailstorm

L and I are having similar problems this morning. She can barely sit, which I think is by-product of yesterday's race. Whilst, I have a touch of Jalfrezi belly but you didn't want to know that. L reckons that we're reversing roles because I'm going for the 'hotties' now. I think she's on about curries.

We haven't managed to get MD up to the Lakes yet, where we've spent quite a lot of time over the years with Doggo. His first encounter with great numbers of sheep may not go well, as he's already eradicated two 'sheep' within our household. Firstly, he dealt with our sheep footstool, made out of real sheep's wool. So, that has now been safely re-homed in a cupboard, away from his grasp. Our other sheep, the doorstop, is now destined to join it, although it will need hospital treatment first.

I didn't realise that it was filled with thousands of little plastic balls. That was until I came home tonight to witness what at first I thought was the aftermath of a rather violent indoor hailstorm. There were hundreds of little plastic balls scattered across the kitchen floor. I bet he had such fun.

He'd also managed to roll in something, so we had a double clean up operation before we could head off to our dog classes.

At class, Doggo's conversion into MD continues at pace. Hmmm, perhaps it was him who trashed the sheep? He was growling aggressively at his ball and even getting a little excited as he did his agility. Everyone was stunned, whose dog was that squeaking? Surely not good old calm Doggo?

Last night MD got another chance at not being shut in the kitchen, which he totally failed to take. That's even before taking into account any incidents with innocent sheep, so he's back confined to barracks tonight.

Its Good To Talk

This morning both L and I run the Heanor 10k at Shipley Park. As I've not been 100% this week and have barely trained, I have resigned myself to just jogging round. So, the speedy folks can try what they like but I'm not going to be wound up. I'm not going to take the bait. Any bait.

Therefore, after the race starts, I let all the nutters go on ahead and settle down in the middle of the field where I hope to catch up on some gossip from my fellow runners. L assures me that this is what happens in races when you're not 'eyeballs out' at the front. She tells me how jolly friendly it all is. I'll try anything once.



So far, L appears to be wrong because no one seems to want to talk to me and there's just as many shady tactics going on or perhaps I'm just not further back enough but there are limits. Mid-field is terribly slow, even for a jog, so I have to move it on a bit.

It's not the best of courses; the first stretch is along a really busy road. This means if you move out to overtake someone, you run the risk of being mown down by a passing juggernaut. Not a pleasant prospect. Despite this, one chap is employing the shady tactics I mentioned earlier. He keeps passing me and then slowing down, forcing me out in the traffic to overtake him again. I'm not up for a chat with him, even if he wanted one.

The motorway they've had us running along is then forsaken for a muddy potholed track. One extreme to another. Finally, as we come back into Shipley Park, they move us onto terra firma, a smooth concrete road, only immediately to divert us up a footpath along the riverbank. As you may gather, not my favourite course. Multi terrain I don't do.

I cross the line having done my slowest 10k ever, 42:34 but still not bad and with still over 80% of the field behind me. I was jogging, so what were the rest of them messing around at? The winner did it in 30 mins, the smart a***.

I head back to the car, unleash the collies and return to the finish to cheer on L. I wonder if she's had more luck than I have with this gossip lark.

They must have had a lot of rain because the grass is well wet and muddy. I do a spot of impromptu grass skiing as I'm towed along by my overenthusiastic boys.

Back home L sends me outside with MD, so that she can do some hoovering. Have I mentioned that MD has a rather volatile relationship with the hoover? Problem is; distracting MD was only half the problem. Doggo now seems to have taken up the baton and started attacking the hoover. He's never done that in the seven years of his existence. That puppy is a bad influence on him.

L loves her cranky films, well cranky anything really and tonight I've promised her this Icelandic crime story she fancies called Mýrin (Jar City). It's on at our local (former) porn theatre, The Screen Room.

It is based on a novel by Iceland's most successful crime writer, Arnaldur Indriðason. Not that I've heard of him. I also don't know any Icelandic actors and I'm not sure how many the country has, so we've probably witnessed all of them in one go.

Jar City begins with the discovery of a body in an apartment and separately, a genetic researcher called Örn burying his four-year-old daughter who has died from a rare illness. Experienced detective Erlandur investigates and the trail takes him back 30 years when there were allegations of rape, police corruption, an unsolved disappearance and the death of another young girl from the same rare illness.



Erlandur also has his hands full with his own drug-addicted daughter who is constantly trying to get money off him and has now gotten herself pregnant.



In the end, the mystery is untangled and everything ties together, along the way, we are treated to some dour Icelandic characters and dodgy criminals, some of which are on the police payroll.

I wasn't expecting much but I quite liked it and it sustained my interest all the way through. An intriguing film, which managed to go back thirty years without any flashbacks. Then just to catch me out, it flashed back a couple of times to the later day murder. It was particularly confusing because two of the lead characters looked a bit similar.

Jar City is an excellent thriller, although a bit like a TV police series, Colombo meets CSI, that sort of thing. The difference was, it was cliché and unnecessary swearing free, which obviously it wouldn't have been had it been made in America, unless of course they just omitted them from the subtitles. Then of course, they had the advantage of the outstanding location. We were treated to some great shots of the bleak terrain, although there wasn't enough snow.



The pièce de résistance was the gruesome scene of Erlandur pulling up at the fast food drive-in, ordering his takeaway meal and then taking his sheep's head home, where he eats it with his penknife, starting with the eyeball of course. Welcome to Iceland.

We recover from the dourness with a few wonderful 5.9% Bateman's Victory's ale before rounding things off in the curry house.

An Ancient Doggie Ritual

As MD looked knackered after his pub night and more or less crashed as soon as we got back, we didn't shut him in the kitchen overnight. Unfortunately, this resulted in us getting a disturbed night as the dogs took turns digging the carpets. This is some ancient doggie ritual, that they probably think makes the ground more comfortable. It clearly doesn't work because as soon as they've dug somewhere, they go sleep somewhere else. It's also, as if they've formed a pact to do it in shifts, so that they could cause the maximum amount of disruption possible. The kitchen beckons for both of them.

None of this makes good for lazing in bed on a Saturday morning either, so pretty soon I'm up on the park, dodging the rain showers with the disruptive pair. As usual, I take the edges off MD by letting him off in one of the quieter sections of the park. Then Doggo and I just stand and watch as MD runs in wide circles chasing birds that he hasn't got a hope in hell of catching. When he finally stops for a breather, I clip him back on the lead and we continue with the rest of our walk.

In the afternoon, Derby have a comprehensive 3-0 victory over Sheffield Wednesday, it was even almost a good performance.

In the evening Daughter is out, so we take advantage, stay in, have a pre-race pasta meal and one of L's wonderful desserts, catch up with Jools and watch a thoroughly depressing episode of South Riding.

Delicate Equilibrium

My illness is fading I think. Even L says I seem more sprightly this morning. She may be right, possibly only a collie sucking the bedclothes between us, prevented us being late for work.

Despite feeling sprightly, I still wimp out and take the bus. With a race on Sunday, I don't wish to risk further upsetting the delicate equilibrium that is my body at the moment. It was almost a costly decision, as I had to step over a bucket full of loose change to get on the bus. Quite dangerous it was. I wonder if Health & Safety at the bus company have been informed. It wouldn't be Children in Need tonight by any chance would it?

Once at work, I have to grin and bear it as my colleague celebrates the first 'five in a row'. That is five consecutive days on the bike. I console myself in that it's only 100 miles in total and my previous four in a row record adds up to nearly 120 miles. In any case, I could do five physically, logistically it's not so easy and now he reckons he's taking the whole of next week off, which somehow dilutes the whole achievement.

Someone spots a group of Mexican bandits wandering up our road, rattling tins and the whole company pretends to not be in. We're not charity adverse really but I have a feeling we're going to get a whole day of this. In the end, we send a salesman down with the company credit card. That gets rid of them.

I hope there are none of these silly outfits in the pub tonight; it doesn’t take much to unhinge a collie.

We walk over to the pub in Beeston and charity collectors aside, there's another reason why we need our dogs to be on their best behaviour. We don't want a situation like the one with Hatty the Lakeland terrier. She was barred from her local in Prestatyn for chewing beer mats. I point this out to MD, as I remove his teeth from one of the pub tables.

She's now been allowed back in but only if she wears a high-visibility vest, so that she can be seen at all times. The landlord didn't have much choice really, as his dog loving regulars threatened to start boycotting the pub.

A Spent Force

I'm sure L would have liked me to stay off work but staying off isn't really my thing and I don't think I have or had anything contagious. Which is shame; there are a few customers I'd like to pass something on to. I'm also feeling a lot better, I even had breakfast. I’ll be up for everything by tonight.

I even make the pub at lunchtime and can proudly report to L that I’ve eaten one of the Flowerpot's huge lunches, which is no mean feat even when you're well. I don't totally enjoy my pint, so I must really be ill but it's all good carbohydrate!

I'm feeling quite dynamic now, so I decide to go ahead with tonight's squash match. I do need to do something activity or else I'll be totally useless come Sunday.

I drive the boys up to L who's having a 'pure vibe cycle' at the gym, so that she can walk/hobble them home. She's hoping she's picked a tougher spin class this time and is hoping to be hobbling, that is if she is able to climb off the bike at all.

She's working her way through all the spin classes, the one she did last week was a bit too easy even for an anti-cyclist like her. Problem is it's almost impossible to find out which are the hard sessions and which are the easy sessions because none of the staff seem to know and the council themselves give the sessions daft names rather than levels or something useful. I suppose if they told you what all these sessions were then people would want to do them, they’d end up making money and that’s not what councils are supposed to do. You’re supposed to randomly pick the wrong session, not like it and then never go again.

I'm tempted to do one myself and when L's vetted them all and found out what the best one is, I might do.

Squash is tough on low energy levels. A close 16-14 defeat in the first game leaves me drained and by the end of the second game, I'm a spent force. I have no strength in my legs or arms. It was a useful cardiovascular workout though.

Then for the second time today I have a pint that I don't really enjoy. Then it's home to the 'early nighters', although MD doesn't appear too ready to settle down tonight, so he gets banished to the kitchen extra early and after some of L's toad in the hole, I'm feeling less of a spent force than I thought I was.

A Night Can Never Be Too Early

It's coldish today, so I go for the hot drink option. I have some sachets of Mocha, so thought I'd try that. It's easier than making hot chocolate with milk. Problem is, as it's only hot water I add, it is far too hot to drink at my usual drinks stop. I'm almost at work before it cools down enough. I think next time it has to be part hot, part cold water.

Burnt lips apart the ride was good, although by the time I arrive at work I'm feeling a bit ropey. I fear I have a touch of this lurgy that's going around, although I felt fine first thing this morning. This isn't good news with Sunday's run looming on the horizon. I admit my ill health to L, who promptly slaps a ban on snogging and tells me to get a healthy lunch. Of course I will, I can already hear the Oggy van in the distance.

I feel worse by lunchtime and consider going home but neither option of the bike home or the walk to the bus, because I don't have many layers with me, appeals. So I stick it out.

I feel better later, I won't elaborate why, so I bike home. This doesn't help and saps all my energy. I skip my swim, preferring to head straight home. Where I dive under the bedclothes to warm up and the dogs, bless them, share their body heat with me.

The rest of the evening is a bit of a dead loss, I skip dog class too and turn in early, which seems to fit in well with the 'early nighters' in the house, L and both the dogs, who all think a night can never be too early to turn in.

Clash Of The Former Titans

L got in first with the night out tonight, she's at Blood Brothers and I volunteered to dog sit as I've seen it several times. How was I to know Derby would get through to the 4th round of the cup and then end up in a clash of the former titans with Leeds. So today, I'm in the car again, so that I can hurtle back home to run the dogs before heading back to Derby for the match.

Today is Remembrance day and a study from our very own Nottingham University reckons that wearing a poppy makes a man appear sexier because women rate altruism highly. Hmmm. The question is will it look silly with my lycra whilst cycling into work.

After work I head home, do a lap of the pond with the dogs, grab a sandwich, and then head back to Derby for the game. It's not a particularly big crowd, mainly because the price of £20 a ticket hasn't gone down well. It's a bit steep for a game against a third division side but apparently, according to the three Leeds supporting friends I've got tickets for, it's a third Division side that will whup our asses. Which presumably means they're bringing their own referee just like the Forest did.

Twenty minutes into the game, its all one-way traffic, we're 2-0 up and I'm wondering how many more we're going to score. Then Leeds take over and dominate possession for the rest of the game. Somehow, they only get one goal back and we run out rather fortunate 2-1 winners. Quarter finals now. Blimey.

After a swift one in the pub afterwards, I reconvene with L at home and we take a whisky to bed to compare events. MD has been a rather long time out in the garden and when he returns, he brings a rather disgusting pong with him. His ears were already crispy from where he'd rolled in something earlier and now he's been out topping it up, so we end up administering a late night doggo bath, which he absolutely loves.

Soggy Bedclothes

It was a horrendous drive in this morning and took me an hour. Things started off badly when I discovered some temporary lights just a mile down the road that I didn't know about, and then who knows what had caused the A52 tailbacks. Two wheels for the rest of the week then. Oh hang on, can't tomorrow, there's a match nor Thursday I'm on pub duty. Damn.

L's out with the dogs as usual but she having to avoid the University pond where the ducks are because not only is MD seeing them off but now Doggo is too. MD really is becoming a bad influence on Doggo. He used to walk calmly past the ducks but now he joins in with the barking and growling. All sounds quite embarrassing. He'll be jumping up and biting his lead soon.

L promises me a slag food night tonight when we both get back from our respective dog training adventures. I love it when she talks dirty to me.

After training and a bit of slag, I try and do some emails and some blogging on the computer, all the time with MD sitting impatiently under the computer table. I have to continually keep lifting him off the power cables with my foot. He keeps trying to electrocute himself by nibbling on them.

Eventually I give up and we head to bed, MD doing his usual trick of sucking the bedclothes. At least it keeps him occupied but we do get soggy bedclothes. I eventually unstuck his lips and take him to his own bed, then return to warm my cold feet on L which gets a better response than the normal short shrift that I get.

The Adorable Puppy

Apparently, I'm being far too complimentary about MD and people are getting the wrong impression about our adorable puppy or the 'hell rat' as Daughter lovingly calls him, that is when she's in a good mood. I'm told I've not been giving the full story because I don't mention incidents like how he disrupts our lie-ins. He is rather adept at hurling himself onto the bed with his freshly muddied paws, spilling coffee, destroying the newspaper and attempting to disrupt any passion that we would like to inject into our lie in. As I've said, he really is adorable.

So, the best thing to do is to get up and take the blighter on the park but of course he's bitten though his harness and first I have to do a repair job, which holds only until he attempts to see off a dog four times his size. Boys will be boys.

In the afternoon, whilst 'hell rat' snoozes, L and I go to the new gym at the Tennis Centre. I'm rubbish; I find I have no energy, which is a shame because they now have a treadmill with levers to control your speed rather than buttons, much easier. Someone up there must be listening to me after all. Although I would still like a treadmill with better software, even this new one is hopeless on that front.

Tonight we're off to see a comedian that Daughter has nagged us into. As it's at the intimate Playhouse and as I like to practice 'open mind theory', I agree to give it ago.

I need to make it clear that I don't like comedians. Never really have, I just don't find people trying to be funny, funny and as I've gotten older even less so. Especially if they're American but that's another story. Thankfully, Jason Manford isn't American, he's from Manchester and a tall, City supporting, football manager playing, tee-total, Mick Hucknall hating, relatively nice sort of 'fat Michael Owen' (his words). He's also a team captain on Channel 4's '8 Out Of 10 Cats', which means absolutely nothing to me.

The thing is though; he's actually quite good, amusing even. Obviously, I don't resort to the great loud snorts of laughter that get some people singled out by Manford for special attention but I do have a quiet chuckle to myself. In fact, one chap's awful laugh is the only thing that seems to unsettle Manford all night.

Manford is on a huge 60 date tour and tonight the Playhouse is almost full to its capacity of 600 people. As Manford quips, it probably would have been full had it not been for the Biblical weather. What's impresses me most is Manford's ability to adlib about such matters, like the stage, which is setup for Macbeth. Not material he could have readily used elsewhere. This perhaps also shows he's done his preparation. He's unnecessarily dismissive of Macbeth, and occasionally falls back on touches of laddism like that to bolster his set but he doesn't really need to. I bet he likes Macbeth really. Some of his material is predictable but mostly it's quite fresh and laddism aside his set is largely clean.

He also makes light of the fact that he extended his current tour on the back of getting a regular slot on 'Tonight With Jonathan Ross'. That is before that show was taken off the air following the shenanigans of Ross and Russell Brand.



He's very good value for money, after his allotted two halves of 45 minutes (of course), he then encores for 40 minutes with an impressive Q&A session, adlibbing again.

He's miles better than the last comedian I saw, which was Richard Herring. So well chosen by Daughter. I suppose I should give him '8 out of 10' but due to extra time, I'm tempted to make it a 9 and as I said, I don't like comedians.

Empty Handed

I spend the day today at a dog show near Grantham. It's not a totally serious event, a sort of a 'friendly' in football terms. In fact, they give you two attempts at each course with your best time counting but this isn't a great help now that we're in grade 6. On the agility course we're second after the first run as a lot of dogs get faulted. We do a storming second run, knocking nearly three seconds off our previous time and... drop to sixth. Great. Everyone who cocked it up first time, got it right second time. Grade 6 dogs will almost always go clear if you give them two goes at everything. That said sixth isn't bad but the prizes only went down to fourth. A similar thing happens in the jumping where we finish 8th. For once, we come home empty handed.

L and Daughter are out seeing a couple of films, so it's quite late when we get down to the pub. We walk down to the Johnson Arms beer festival, which isn't terribly exciting but the Everards Old Original is ok. We leave the dogs at home, which saves us the embarrassment of having to prise MD's teeth out of the pub furniture.

The best news is the pub now offers an email alert service to tell you when certain beers are on. I sign up naturally, we'll see if it works.

Wellies

After three bikes, today the run and the rain even stopped briefly for me, which can't be bad.

L's out with the boys on their usual constitutional. Once back home, MD starts his usual routine of trying to stop her leaving for work by biting her feet. She's threatening to start wearing wellies around the house. She thinks she has problems... an Arizona jogger had a similar problem with a fox attacking her feet, before he progressed to her knee and then when she tried to push it off, it clamped its jaws around her arm and wouldn't let go. She eventually got to her car, managed to free herself and trapped the fox in the boot. Perhaps she should have worn wellies too.

Nottingham yesterday unveiled a bronze statue of Brian Clough and around 4,000 turned up to see the unveiling. Someone has already put a red and white scarf around his neck. I wonder how the drunks will decorate it on a Saturday night.



In the evening we try and take the dogs down the local but Doggo is having none of it, too many fireworks still being ignited around our neighbourhood. So it's just L and I, oh and the fearless one, MD isn't at all fazed by the bangs.

There Is No Why

Third day in a row on the bike and my legs are very tired, so it's not a good day to race someone but I'm afraid I just couldn’t resist. I start a tussle with a fellow cyclist that I don't really have the legs to see through. He's far too quick for me, or at least that's what I think at first, so I let him go... but then it's a bit like when you're offered seconds of dessert and you say oh no I shouldn't but then... oh go on then. So, sod it, I chase him down, he is on straight handlebars after all. Then just as I'm moving in for the kill, he turns off. So why did I bother? There is no why.

L's on her bike today for the first time in eons and she's having trouble with cyclists too. It doesn't take much to put her off cycling and this came on top of a traumatic walk with the dogs; it appears that the effects of my energy bar haven't quite left MD's system yet.

It seems to be a day for bike trouble. On the way home, a chap who clearly hadn't seen me, despite me riding straight at his face with my not unsubstantial front light illuminating up his face, still pulls out in front of me.

Then there's a woman who's too busy texting to keep control of her car and keeps veering towards the curb. I know she's texting because I saw her doing it at the lights and again as she was queuing for the roundabout. She evidently hasn't seen me either or for that matter, any of the other road users. I give her a wide berth.

I get home still alive and find that the chicken legs that L left out for MD, I mean the kids' tea, are still there. I'd half expected him to have climbed up onto the worktops and helped himself. Of course, he would have talked Doggo into eating one as well. I can just seeing him, nudging him... go on, you know you want to and then later the 'he made me do it' look on Doggo's face when we reprimand them both.

The boys get a 'spin' around the pond and L joins us again, even though she's not keen on the pond in the dark. She's always frightened she's going to fall. She's the lucky one, she's not the one strapped to a riotous puppy. She's only accompanying us because she's worried I might be outdoing her... but check this out. Today she's cycled to the gym, done gym, cycled to work, cycled back to the gym to do a spin class, then done yoga class, cycled back to work, cycled home and has now a run with me and the dogs.

After all that we still make good time for tonight's gig, although because it's another of those early gigs and as there are two support bands, we don't get there anywhere near early enough to catch Amazing Baby, who are the first of the three New York bands on tonight. They are over promoting their catchily titled 'Infinite F***ing Cross EP', available on free download you know.

We do get to see some of Violens, who have shades of headliners Mgmt about them but with a muddier sound or perhaps that's just coming from a bad mix. I feel there's something decent and quite poppy in there fighting to get out, I'm just not sure what. Further investigation probably required.



We nearly caught Mgmt at the Bodega Social back in February but after they were on Jools that gig though sold out instantly but they're soon back in Nottingham and now selling out the much bigger Rock City.

Opening with 'Weekend Wars', they proceeded to chalk off tracks from their excellent album 'Oracular Spectacular' at a considerable rate of knots. All of which convert impressively from CD to the live setting, sounding 'Spectacular' indeed. In fact, it's one of the best opening sequences to a gig I've seen this year.

Mgmt are primarily Ben Goldwasser, who twiddles knobs and plays all things electronic, along with Andrew VanWyngarden the front man, vocalist and lead guitarist. For this tour, the band has been extended to a five piece with the addition of a drummer, a bass player and a second guitarist. The extra guitar really works for me; I love the effect of all that guitar noise, blended over the top of a slightly psychedelic keyboard sound and some awesome drumming. They are also fascinating to watch as musicians, working well as a unit and showing not inconsiderable talent.

One thing they are not very good at is conversing with the crowd, there is little or no banter all night and what there is comes from guitarist, James Richardson.

After the 5th album track 'Pieces Of What', L and I look at each, both thinking the same thing, that they're soon going to run out of material. Then as 'Time To Pretend' sends everyone mental, I wonder how they're going to top that. Perhaps now would be a good time to get off the stage, despite the fact they've only put half an hour on the clock. It's all been impressive so far and every track has gone down well with the enthusiastic crowd.



I'm not totally sure what happens next, whether they play one track, two or maybe even four. Whether this is a collection of b-sides, new songs or songs they made when they were called Management and produced an album called 'Climbing To New Lows' in 2005, I don't know. I, like most of the crowd, only have the recent album. It could have a b-side called 'Metanoia', which also enjoyed a limited release in its own right. Metanoia means to change, and apparently the song is made up of 'bites' of different rock genres and as it also clocks in at nearly 14 minutes, that could be the answer. Who knows? I'm certainly not sure. One thing it does do it disperse the considerable momentum they had built up to 'Time To Pretend' and it was such a shame that they then lost it.

The band then revert to the disco thump of the song about eels... 'Electric Feel' before 'The Handshake' closes the set to vociferous applause.



The band are shouted back to play the two missing tracks from the album. They close with an almost instrument free rendition of 'Kids', it's all programmed keyboard work, which gets Rock City bouncing like I haven't seen since... well last week and Feeder's Buck Rogers but I must say this out bounces it.

In summary, it was half of one of the best gigs of the year. If Mgmt can produce a second album anywhere near as good as their first the resulting gigs are going to be something else.

L reckons she's earned a Leffe, so we hit the H&H. I'm told to remind her that she's swimming in the morning, so we stop at two.

Puppy Power

The weather is irritatingly similar to yesterday, e.g. not very good and I arrive at work annoyingly damp rather than soaked.

I check my virtual cycling map, and blimey, I’m at Gretna, two-thirds of the way to John O'Groats. I'll have to start thinking of my next challenge soon.

Did you see that Welsh road sign? In Wales they have signs in both English and Welsh and when they sent the text for a new sign off for translation, they got a reply by email (in Welsh) that said 'I am not in the office at the moment. Please send any work to be translated'. Therefore, that's what went up on the sign. You think they'd employ someone who speaks Welsh.



I cycle home, via the pool, which is very quiet; everybody must be out at fireworks displays.

When I get home, I have a 'Powerbar' energy bar to tide me over for dog class. I shall eat properly later. I have one bite and place it on top of my bookcase. Seconds later, when I turn back around, it's gone. I look down at the angelic puppy that is sat beautifully and obediently next to the bookcase... licking its lips. Oh damn (to put it politely), how am I going to explain this one to the rest of the puppy-frazzled family?

He's chucked out in the garden as a punishment, not that he sees that as such. I can hear him running around and barking manically. Something I'm sure he'll now have the energy to do for even longer than usual.

Despite the fact its Bonfire night, dog training tonight is on my popular vote. Although I don't think Doggo was one of those who voted for it. He is fine at first until a rather large explosion goes off right overhead. His concentration wanes a bit after that, he doesn't actually put a paw wrong, it's just that he practically crawls around the course.

Naturally, MD who comes along for the ride isn't fazed at all and, powered by 'Powerbar' seems incredibly energetic.

When We Were Young, Impetuous And Dog Free

The ride in this morning was fine at first but then that annoying drizzle started, you know, the kind that doesn’t feel as though it’s making you wet but it sneaks up on you over time and before you know it you're drenched.

L thanks me for photo of the half-naked man in lycra but it's not the man, or the lycra, it's the wound that gets her pulse racing. I shall have to try and get myself some comparable wounds for her to marvel at.

I've given up on the sandwich vans and instead purchased enough stuff from Sainsbury's yesterday to make my own lunch, which surprisingly doesn't work out much cheaper. Perhaps I should stop buying proper meat and buy the same stuff they put in those pre-packed sandwiches and cheap white bread.

Possible brownie points to Sainsbury's who say they intend to challenge the EU ban on selling 'ugly' fruit and vegetables, that is produce that doesn't meet their rules on size and shape such as 'forked' carrots, ones that have more than one root. 20% of what's produced in this country goes to waste. Of course, Sainsbury's are only really thinking about their bank balance but for once they do have a point.

Back home, I take the boys out for a run and offer the chance to L, to brighten it up for us. She declines, the curse of 'Billy no mates' strikes again. She wants a road run and does our old 'Derby Road' route. Which makes me a bit jealous and all nostalgic, it would be just like old times, we used to do that run when we were young, impetuous and dog free, followed by a leisurely shared bath and later a few pints down the pub. Unfortunately, that route isn't dog friendly and that's the whole point of my run tonight, also I don’t think the squirt is up to running that far yet.

So we hurtle (I'm attached to the aforementioned squirt) around our usual route where we surprise a young couple lurking in the dark around the back of the pond. Although I think it freaks us out more than it does them. They won't do it again after the telling off MD gave them. Afterwards, we jog up to meet L and MD welcomes her with the traditional muddy front paws into the stomach greeting.

Derby win their delayed cup game 4-1, ok so it was only Brighton but it's a real novelty to win through three rounds of any cup competition. Bring on the Leeds.

We have an early night, which means we can send MD to bed in the kitchen, get some peace and pretend we're young, impetuous and dog free again.

Misdirected Activities

As I drive to work this morning, I pass Son who is walking a very confused looking Doggo back from his paper round. That's Son's paper round, not Doggo's. Although I may have mistaken the confusion of being with Son for relief at not being with MD.

You can never be too careful. The woman who was spotted tied up and naked near a Hampshire railway station and the man in camouflage who was seen with her, have turned up at a local police station to admit that their actions were nothing sinister. As the police wonderfully put it, just a 'misdirected leisure activity'. Which will probably appear on YouTube at some point.

This follows a few weeks after a naked man who was pulled out of the chimney of a Tesco's supermarket in Wigan. Although he was arrested on suspicion of a 'misdirected burglary activity'.

L seems to have taken a novel approach to sticking to her diet, she admits to not being able to afford lunch for the rest of the week after purchasing the new Girls Aloud album. Personally, I think I’d rather have lunch but each to their own.

MD's training is off tonight due to the proximity of Bonfire Night and the potential proliferation of misdirected pyrotechnic activity in our area. Doggo's training however is on, although we could do with a Roman candle or two to light up the arena because when we get there the lights don't seem to be working. It appears, and none of us knew this, that the lights are on a meter and it needed £2 putting in it. As if this training lark isn't already expensive enough.

Hallucinations At Pride Park

Derby v Forest today at the really unhelpful kick-off time of 1.15pm, thanks for that Sky. So not much chance for a laze in bed and instead I'm off out around the park in the drizzle with the dogs.

Mostly the match was a complete let down, as local derby's often are, and ended in a pretty dull 1-1 draw despite referee Stuart Attwell's attempts to spice up the encounter by unnecessarily booking eight players and sending off Forest midfielder Lewis McGugan.

The referee though was saving his best until last. In the last few minutes, Attwell, his mind obviously addled (no pun intended) by chatting up Rebecca Addlington pre-game, came into his own.



Already notorious for awarding Reading’s ’goal that never was’, Attwell started hallucinating in the closing minutes and seeing 'infringements that never were'.

With the game already into injury time, Derby midfielder Miles Addison rose to head in the 'winner' and the place erupted... until Attwell informed the players that he had decided to tear up the 'advantage' rule and instead award a penalty to Derby for an alleged handball.

I suppose it was Derby's fault that they then missed the penalty, saved by ex-Derby player and local boy, Lee Camp, who is currently on loan at Forest from Queens Park Rangers but never mind, two corners later, Addison again set the net billowing with another unstoppable header. Again, the stadium erupted. Again, everybody thought Derby had won it. Again, Attwell had other ideas and disallowed it for an alleged push.

Oh well, just a normal day down at Pride Park.

Back at home, we have Jamie Oliver for tea or rather several of his recipes, most of which are good but Jamie please note, it was your fault that the Yorkshire puddings didn't work out. So L says anyway.

Then I catch up on the rest of the weekends cycling, total domination for our riders in Manchester. Jason Kenny sums it up really...



he doesn't even have to be on his bike to win.



(that's for you dear, a half naked man in lycra)

Nowhere To Sling My Hammock

A lazy day of sorts. Plenty of time to recover from yesterday, loaf in bed and eventually, walk the dogs. There's not even a match. The East Midlands derby game, Derby v Nottingham Forest is tomorrow.

In the evening, we have another gig and I definitely was talked in to this one. Noah and The Whale at the Rescue Rooms would not have been on my must do list but I'm always up for a quirky Saturday night, so what the hell. L assures me it will be more of an ‘armchair gig’ than Elbow was. It's definitely hammock music and we'll probably all have to wear cardigans. Not that I have one, I wonder if they provide them. I certainly wasn't expecting a crowd, despite their recent success and expected us to be tickets 1 and 2 again but, no, it's a sell out and there's nowhere to sling my hammock.

We arrive just in time to catch the end of a band called 'Flat Earth' and then its very quickly time for the main support act 'Sleeping States' and here we go again. Here's another support band trying desperately to feature in my blog. Ok mate, you're in. Anyone who tries to repair their guitar with a fork deserves a mention. From what I can gather 'Sleeping States' is a chap called Markland Starkie who has an interesting line in instruments and effects boxes together with additional musicians, tonight he joined by another guitarist whose name I forget and a drummer called Rose. Interesting. L seems rather struck on them.



So, to Noah and Co, who first show us a strange short film with a Beach Boys accompaniment. Thankfully, they don't take the stage in those awful blue and yellow outfits and only one of them is wearing anything that could be loosely called a cardigan.

I think I counted seven of them on the small stage, a brass section of two, a chap who plays a mean violin, a bass player, a drummer and a lass on keyboards. Then there's lead singer Charlie Fink, who predictably has a touch of Seth Lakeman about him but this is a more ballsy Lakeman.

They start off at a good pace and throw in 'Two Atoms In A Molecule' and 'Shape Of My Heart' early, which got the crowd, a mix of oldies and youngsters nodding along to their pop-folk. I look around but don't see any cardies and thankfully there's no one in Noel Edmonds type jumpers, meaning that L's venture capitalists aren't in.

Noah play a selection of tracks from their debut album 'Peaceful The World Lays Me Down' and it has to be said that they sound better live than on record. They also throw in an older track, that I have on mp3, the excellent pre-album 'Beating'.



Things started to drag a bit in the middle of their set when they played some of their slower numbers, together with a new song that Charlie Fink professes to be so top secret that he's not named it yet.

Things picked up again with 'Rocks and Daggers' and then came that hit. I look around and see that I'm the only one singing the words to 'Brim Full Of Asha' as they play 'Five Years Time'. Surely I'm not the only person who thinks the two tracks are interchangeable with added Laura Marling obviously. Not that Ms Marling actually plays with the band any more, although by sheer coincidence, she will be on the very same stage this coming Tuesday.



One more track and then they briefly hop off stage but come almost straight back on, as they're only about two minutes away from the 10pm curfew. They don't play '2 Bodies 1 Heart', the scheduled encore, which could have been used to liven up the middle of the set, instead they treated us with a cover of 'Girlfriend in a Coma', which was totally excellent.

A nice, pleasant gig but I was well ready for a beer afterwards.

We head out into the rain and dive into the Hand & Heart which is packed, so we move up the road to the Ropewalk, which has no beer. I think L is getting a bit peeved at me as we cross the road to the Borlase which has a good drop of Titantic but it's not a comfortable pub so we end up back at the Ropewalk on the Leffe's. Three each, which wasn't our fault because we had to wait until the rain stopped.