All Good Family Fun

Up at Chesterfield today for one of the lesser dog events. The dog that doesn't weave gets 4th place in 'Wicked Weaves' event, in which he has to do three sets of twelve weaves. Amazing. We then get 4th in both the jumping and agility events.

They tend to dish out photo frames as prizes here and L says we need something to display a photo of MD. I would have thought the preferred method of displaying a photo of MD would be a dartboard but obviously his little self must be in vogue at the moment and we might therefore be keeping him. Probably because he's with me and not at home.

Finally in the last event, we do the deed, break our run of 4th's, get second place and the promised photo frame. Whether Doggo will like his prize being used for the little one, I'm not sure.

Overall MD has a great day. Whilst we were out for a walk between events, MD attempted to join Doggo in a stream, where he was stood having a drink. MD launched himself off the bank and belly flopped into the water, which was about chest deep on Doggo, and promptly disappeared from view. Just as I was about to wade in and administer Doggie mouth to mouth he emerged like a bouncing bomb, coming towards me and seemingly eager to do it all over again. I restrain him; he's so unlike Doggo, totally fearless. Chalk and cheese.

I am the only one clustered around the radio as Nicole Cooke shows plenty of guts and desire to win Britain's first gold medal of the Olympics on the treacherously wet roads around Beijing.



Terrific stuff from her but road racing is very much a team sport and all credit too to her two teammates, who haven't really been given the credit they deserve. Sharon Laws and particularly Emma Pooley who were prominent near the front for most of the race. They set the pace and took the sting out of some of Cooke's rivals. Cooke meanwhile was able to save her legs until the last climb when she made her move.

Home for a bit of R&R with L and to pop the cork on a celebratory bottle of Rose. The two dogs and I are well knackered but whereas they crash for the night, I manage to drift in and out of consciousness as we watch a dodgy DVD that L has acquired.

She has got hold of a DVD of the Magic Toyshop. Not that it's available on DVD but she's found a site that transfers videos to DVDs. I’m not sure about the legality of doing this but that's their problem, not ours.

The story concerns 15-year-old Melanie and starts interestingly with her preening herself naked in front of a mirror. Later though, when the climbing the apple tree naked scene comes in, it's done fully clothed. These people do take liberties with vital plot elements when they convert books to the screen.

After her parents are killed in a plane crash, Melanie, along with her younger brother and sister, are sent to live with their Uncle Philip (Tom Bell) and his family. This family consists of his mute Irish wife and her brothers, Francie and Finn. He rules authoritarian like over all of them, although once his back is turned; they indulge in forbidden pleasures, such as dancing and drinking.

He is also a toymaker and owns a toyshop. He puts on surreal and often violent plays with his life like puppets that his family have to watch. He soon gets Melanie to take part in these productions alongside the puppets. He asserts his dominance over his wife by making her wear a silver collar whilst she watches the shows. L tells me, that in the book, this isn't the only time he gets her to wear it.

Finn develops a 'thing' about Melanie and in particular her long dark hair. Although he doesn't repeat the cool chat up line from the book:- 'You've got lovely hair Melanie, black as a pint of Guinness; black as an Ethiopian's armpit.' That'll work down your local pub.

Finn likes her hair down and doesn't like it in the braids she seems to prefer but she's probably just doing it to be a tease. They go on to develop a relationship of sorts, helped or possibly hindered by her Uncle who gets Finn to rehearse the part of a swan puppet that will molest Melanie in his next play.

Many strange and surreal events go on, things that I often lose track of and which often hint at things that only reading the book can explain. Thankfully, I have L on hand to explain these to me. Through these happenings, Melanie discovers more about her adopted family including their incestuous secrets and that her aunt isn't mute after all.

It all ends happily with the Uncle being depicted as a dummy and being burned on Guy Fawkes Night.

The story is totally bizarre and all terribly immoral, perverse and wonderfully un-politically correct. Which may be why it's been so hard to get hold of. It was made by the Granada TV network and screened on television before having a limited theatrical release. It is also, from what I can gather from my limited exposure to her books, very typical of Angela Carter, who wrote the original book and wrote the screenplay of the film.

All good family fun.

Same Old Story

Blimey, a Saturday where I don't have to get up at 6am. Bliss. We even manage to get to our local farm shop to stock up supplies.

I had intended to walk the dogs but it's chucking it down. Doggo has never liked the rain but I'm MD wouldn't care less what it's doing outside. I, however, have the casting vote, so we don't bother.

Depressingly it's the first day of the new football season and expectations have never been so low. Therefore, it's no surprise that it's the same old story at Derby, who lose 1-0 to freshly promoted Doncaster.

Spare a thought though, for the real business of the coming season where Luton, Rotherham and Bournemouth will surely share the two relegation places from the Football League between them. Rotherham and Bournemouth have both been deducted 17 points for breaking rules on exiting administration, while Luton will start next season on an unprecedented minus 30 points.

The Hatters were deducted 10 points by the FA for paying agents via a third party and a further 20 points for failing to satisfy the League's insolvency rules. All this gives Luton an extraordinarily difficult task in trying to avoid relegation for the third season in a row.

In the evening we head out to Scruffys, the nice one in the Lace Market, not the pink one on Derby Road. Where we have a meal with some friends. My mate says he doesn't intend driving, because he wants a few beers. I enthusiastically try and talk him into the bus. After all the bus does run from more or less outside his house and will drop him in the centre of Nottingham. All in about 30 minutes and for a couple of quid but naturally to no avail, he talks his partner into driving instead.

Afterwards they come home to visit MD, he's such a popular pup, sometimes.

The Big Picture

L's off work today, so I get some quality time first thing and then it's the turn of the 'bloody' pup, whom she cuddles on the bed. I'm sure I saw her kiss him; she's so inconsistent.

Barack Obama says that it's important to have time during the day when all you're do is think. Without that, he says, 'you lose the big picture'. Too many people, he says, skim the surface of life seldom reflecting on what any of it means... perhaps L is right, when I run, I should look at the view.

I'm on the Red Arrow and I put down my paper, pause my Ipod and 'reflect'. The rest of the passengers are staring fixatedly at their mobile phones, games gadgets, books, newspapers etc oblivious to the 'big picture' outside. Well ok, it's only the A52 but all the same, it has to be better than texting ROFL, GR8, etc to your mates.

I've had an email from the organisers of tonight's 10k, asking if 'all my training is complete and you're up for taking the University course apart with a personal best'. Hmmm, no. It'll more than likely take me apart.

After a fairly uneventful day at work, I get the Red Arrow again and then walk to the University. L joins me later with the dogs. I tie them to a tree, just the dogs not L. Doggo needs to be lashed down because he gets so excited. MD though, seems oblivious to everything that is going on.

Last year I recorded 41:23 and my target this time is to break 41:00, which is a minute outside my PB but it is a hilly course. I start near the front but let the nutters go on ahead and restrict myself to a sensible and steady pace, which rather than being sensible turns out to be totally pedestrian. My first kilometre is a tardy 4:16. Doesn't bode well but at least I'm enjoying it... I think. All the same I best get a move on. My times do improve so perhaps it was just the fact that almost the entire first kilometre was uphill. Plus I've also been taking L and Baracks's advice and admiring the big picture. A little.

The organisers have a cruel trick up their sleeves; they have moved the finish area. Apparently, the main University field is undergoing work to create a large play area. Is that wise, a play area among a student zone? Who thought of that one?

Anyhow, somehow, it now seems further to the finish and it's down a track so you can't see where the line is. Someone out sprints me on the run in, crosses the line and vomits. Serves him right. Was it really worth it?

I find a quiet corner for a lie down before staggering off to find the boys and my girl.

Afterwards we retire to the Stick and Pitcher pub with the two dogs. Where I learn that I haven't won anything, not even in the raffle for spot prizes.

We get home just after Son, who's been out at a BBQ and knocking back the cans of cider, apparently. He doesn't totter upstairs, so it couldn't have been that heavy a night.

Serving Like An 8 Year Old (And Proud Of It)

Would you believe it, another early start. No wonder when asked on the Biobank survey yesterday whether she was a morning or an evening person, L went for the morning option.

She's up at 5.30 and out with the dogs. Then at 7am she's off to Cardio tennis and today she persuades me to join her. We spend an hour hitting tennis balls and trying to remain in the 'zone', as defined by the heart rate monitor we are supplied with. I drop below my zone as soon as I stop exercising, which is apparently a good sign and means I'm fit!

The session was actually very good and excellent for practising your shots, which is what I need after last weeks tennis match when I struggled to keep the ball in court.

The chap explained that there were 'no rules' to the tennis part, so you're allowed to do stuff like letting the ball bounce twice etc. None of the lads in the group believed he actually meant this and we all continued hammering the balls back across the net after one bounce and as hard as we could, as if Roger Federer was across the other side of the net.

The girl in the group, L, took him at his word and then she complains she's rubbish at tennis! I’m sure her racquet skills would rapidly improve if she concentrated as much on the tennis part of the session as she does on the cardio part.

Afterwards I'm totally knackered. I think he deliberately tried to make it hard for me and made me run more than the others. I still make work on time, because there's no traffic. When I get there, I'm absolutely starving, so it must have been a good workout.

While I'm in the pub at lunch time, refuelling with Steak and Kidney pie,
neither of us have cottage pie which I think is a first, and sipping Pooh Beer from Church End, L is back at the leisure centre doing Bodyball.

She intends to carry the session on at home, where she now has her own gym ball, if the puppy and his teeth will permit it. I can just see it now, the ball deflating, with MD still attached to it.

In the evening it's proper tennis and my practice session doesn't help one bit. This morning they gave me a decent lightweight racquet. Now I'm back using L's racquet, which is a bit like trying to hit the ball across the net with a breeze block. At 5-1 down, I'm considering jacking it all in.

Things improve though and as I get the hang of things; my opponent starts to fall apart. I record a famous 5-7 6-1 6-3 victory. Although he accused me of using underhand tactics and serving like an 8 year old. Just because my serving is a bit rusty and I've opted for accurate but gentle serves that don't carry nicely to the back of the court for him. Well he'll just have to stand closer.

That's nothing to what I had to put up with. Balls smashed in frustration in all directions, often at head height, even racquets flying over the net towards me. He's not a gallant loser.

Back home the pup is walking the lonely streets, having been banished for digging in Daughter's vegetable patch. Oh dear. He's not popular, again.

Features And Benefits

This morning an evil 4.15am alarm call rocks the household. Well actually, no one appears to actually notice as I crawl out of bed and get ready for my 6.20am flight to Belfast. Doggo lifts an eyebrow, L momentarily stirs but then rolls over and goes back to sleep. At least MD wags his tail at me when I venture into the kitchen where he sleeps.

The flight goes well, not so the car hire. The car hire people have mistakenly booked our car for collection from Belfast city centre and not George Best City Airport, which is where we are. Strangely the hire people do no wish to sort this out for us and just tell us to 'get a taxi', which seems a good way of persuading our company to take their not insignificant business elsewhere.

Once at the meeting, my travelling companion, a salesman launches into his usual sales pitch, explaining all the 'features and benefits' of our software. Rumour has it that this is the same criteria on which he judges his women. I have to nudge him to cut it short, we have after all already clinched the sale. Old habits die hard, especially with salesmen.

It's already been a long day and by lunchtime, we are taking turns nodding off. He dozes while I'm talking and then I when he's talking. We just hope no one notices but I only nod off about four times, which isn't bad considering.

Back home L's doing her Biobank today, where her figures come out oddly similar to mine but there's no chance of her deposing me from the top of the league because women come with an extra 10% of essential fat built in. How cruel is that?

The meeting goes well and at 6pm I get the flight back but from a different airport, Belfast International, just to make things confusing. L texts to say that she's taking the bloody pup on the park. Ah, seems he's as popular as ever.

When I get home, after the long hard and tiring day I've had, there are only really two ways to unwind. Sex or alcohol. As it's an AF Wednesday, the former will have to suffice. Thankfully, L doesn't object.

Dogs: They Don't Nip And They Don't Pull.

I cycle to work today, it's a bit damp but it's my only chance to get on the bike this week.

There's been quite a bit of fuss about that pedestrian that was killed by a cyclist, which obviously wasn't good, but figures have been released for accidents involving cyclists for the last year, which puts it in perspective. Last year 136 cyclists were killed by motor vehicles and 2,428 were seriously injured. The number of motorists and pedestrians killed by cyclists in the same period, just the one.

MD has been back on the park again this morning, with L. This time though he had to be carried back home. Too much park I think.

It's rains heavy on my way home and I have to strip off all my wet cycling gear when I get home and without the aid of my attractive assistant, who is at Pilates. MD enthusiastically steps in as her replacement. I have to chase him to get my socks back. L did say he'd been worn out chasing the vacuum cleaner but I can see no evidence of that. There's nothing for it, but to take him on the park again.

Oddly the moment MD gets home from a walk, any walk, he greets Doggo, appearing absolutely thrilled to see him. It appears he can barely bare to be parted from him, even when he hasn't been. Doggo has been there all the time on his walk with him. In return, Doggo usually growls and snaps at him but I think secretly, Doggo likes all the adoration. He just finds it a bit overpowering at times. I know the feeling mate.

Poor old MD, or Scrote as he's sometimes affectionately known. He's getting a bit of a reputation, particularly for nipping with his teeth. I think that's a rather unjustified criticism of the little treasure, he's only nipped me a couple of times since he's arrived.

L reckons, saying that MD doesn't nip is like saying that Doggo doesn't pull on his lead. Which incidentally, she says, he doesn't. Well not when he's out with her. She claims he's turned into a real treasure on the lead. Hmmm, it's a shame he doesn’t do this treasure business with me. Although it wasn't long ago, that she was walking with cheese in her pocket to get him to walk by her side. This apparently worked, briefly, until the cheese ran out. Not stupid these collies. Well, not all the time.

While The Cat Is Away The Mice Will Play

L's boss is away; and as the saying goes, while the cat is away the mice will play. So, she says she intends to roll into work around 10am and therefore doesn’t have to rush off to walk the dogs at 6am. Which is good and to my benefit.

I'm in the car and, as it's the school holidays, there's little or not traffic, so I can be laid back too. Just like the kids are in the mornings... one of which nearly lost their paper round today. When I popped in to the newsagent for a paper, one of the other lads, having already done his round, was eyeing up the two remaining undelivered piles of papers. By a process of elimination, I assume these were Son and Daughter's rounds.

Book wise, L has now finished the sleazy Magic Toyshop and has moved on to the equally bizarre and seedy Orlando by Virginia Wolfe.

We are on summer break from dog class, so in the evening I take both the dogs on the park with the football. I attach them together with the dual dog lead extension that L has just purchased. Doggo as usual tows me there and MD has little choice than to get carried along with him, dragged by the neck, a lot of the time with all his paws off the ground. He doesn't seem bothered.

Once at the park, he trots around with us chasing after Doggo and his ball. Occasionally chasing birds, not seeming to realise that he won't catch one but then again, I reckon one day he might, he seems so determined. I also have to restrain him from plunging into the lake.

On the way back Doggo is tired out, so MD is more than happy to set the pace. Every time Doggo tries to stop to lift his leg, he can't, because MD is still ploughing on homewards and pulls him off balance. Its one of our faster return journeys.

L has told me to walk MD's legs off so that we can get some peace that evening. However, I seem to have tired out the wrong dog. Doggo is shattered but MD, seemingly powered by Duracell's, is still going strong.

All Four Paws On Terra Firma

It's nice to wake up under canvas for once. Camping was something we used to do on at least a monthly basis but as the kids got older these things get more complicated. It's also nice to have a lay-in, that if you discount the twin distractions of dogs and Daughter.

When we've packed up the tents, we give Mini Doggo another first, his first beach with real live sea. Doggo has always loved the sea, I think MD will be a chip off the old block on that score but unlike Doggo, I reckon he'll be swimming before too long. Seven years on, Doggo still daren't take all four paws off terra firma. He's the only dog whose had to be rescued, several times, for going out of his depth.

We adjourn to a pub for lunch but again fail to obtain any draught Batemans, despite being within spitting distance of their home turf.

We head home and watch the first part of one of L's talking books but on DVD. This being 'South Riding' which appears to be set in the coastal area around Hull, which is oddly close to where we've been this weekend. The plot seems to be to show how local government affects the lives of people in the county. Sounds dull but L assures me it isn't. The first episode is a bit devoid of colour. Whether that's the 1970's production (it was made in 1974) or perhaps it's meant to reflect the grey 1930's period in which it is set, I'm not sure. L tells me it livens up. I'll let you know.

Pulsating Mablethorpe

I'm up early and so are the dogs, L and even Daughter, as we all head off to Scunthorpe for a dog show, where we also intend to stay overnight. We're left Son at home with some nutritional ready meals (if such a thing exists) for company. Anything to keep him off the pizzas.

Having dropped the girls in town for some serious wallet emptying, the boys (dogs) and I do the rounds at the show because everyone wants to meet Mini Doggo. He loves it, his first dog show and so many dogs to check out. He insists on barking at the biggest ones.

Socialising aside, it's a serious day because it's our first day in Grade 6 and although it's great fun getting four seriously testing courses, we don't exactly cover ourselves in glory. Two eliminations and two lots of five faults. The faults being Doggo's fault for missing his first weave (twice). The eliminations largely my fault for giving him too much slack with which he duly hung himself, and me.

There's bad news for the expandable trousers brigade because the burger van has been replaced by the local Lions club who provide a much healthier menu. Amazingly, for a dog show, I get a brown roll with salad in it and it was also only a £1.

When the girls return, laden down with mainly books and shoes, we head off towards the coast to try to find somewhere to pitch camp. We end up near the 'pulsating' seaside town of Mablethorpe. It's not a bad campsite to be fair, ideal for sipping wine with a couple of collies at your feet; that is if you pin the youngest one down long enough. We also find a decent pub with some local Lincolnshire Tom Woods ale, although the more famous local ale of Batemans seems oddly difficult to get hold of. We take fish and chips back to the tents.

Camping, of course, is another first for Mini Doggo. L's a bit worried about sharing a tent with him or more precisely, as she puts it, being nipped by the 'scrote' at half-hourly intervals throughout the night. Her fears are unfounded, he's that knackered, he's just zonked out all night.

There's Nothing Wrong With A Bit Of Frolicking

Now we already know that the majority of white vans aren't equipped with indicators. A case proven this morning when a particularly large white van careered across two lanes to park up at the side of the road without having to resort to the use of those little yellow flashy things. The manoeuvre caused quite a few motorists to do a double take and slam their brakes on. It also came as a bit of a shock to the cyclist the van nearly wiped out (me!); luckily, he's quite an alert cyclist.

Overall, it was quite a traumatic morning. I had problems 'unclipping' my right foot to walk across the A52 bridge. When I finally got my foot out, the entire cleat fell off; one of the two screws seems to be missing. Somehow, whilst this struggle was going on I managed to dunk my other foot in a pile of dog mess. As I say, a traumatic morning.

A Norfolk farmer has been struggling to come up with a method effective enough to scare the birds away from his crops. Then he hit on an idea, so terrifying it was sure to work. He called in Amy Winehouse. Well obviously not the real one because she's too busy in rehab, but he based a scarecrow on her and it worked a treat. He says that 'the pigeons are terrified; they're sitting up on the telephone wires too scared to come into the field'.



What's really scary is that this isn't the only Amy Winehouse scarecrow around at the moment...



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Despite a typically British summer gale, it's not a bad cycle home, wind assisted. Over lunch, I managed to do some repairs to my cleats, so at least I had two feet available for the ride home.

In the evening, we amble across the park to the pub with the two dogs, giving Mini Doggo his first park experience. L describes it as more of a frolic than a walk. Of course, there's nothing wrong with a bit of frolicking. After a few rather nice Elsie Mo's, we frolic our way back home.