the gold-digging ant

Manly stuff.

2012-02-06T19:29:00.005Z

It crossed my mind today that I might be getting a little too much in touch with my feminine side. In fact, I fear I'm so closely in touch with it that I'm giving it a hot bath replete with candles, salts and Dido on the tune box. Good gods. If this carries on much longer I'll be more 'camp' dad than 'fat' dad. I'D be much happier, not to say comfortable, with being fat dad. Once you're in your 30s, it's far more acceptable to wear ill-fitting jeans due to back fat rather than be sleek in a snug pair of nut crunchers.

What's brought this on? At my last job, I worked for the Maternity Department of a large teaching hospital. Nothing wrong with that - I enjoyed it immensely. But working with midwives and obstetricians did give me a more graphic insight into what most blokes happily close their minds to as 'women's problems'. But it was my job to understand the safety ranges of post-partum bladder care, for example, and be interested in the various stages of labour. In such an environment, one can't help but ... sympathise a bit ... be a bit more ... sensitive.

And now? I work for a jewellery company, selling produce for women that often accompanies the production of the child, one way or another. And it was in the course of today's work that I was compelled to find out whether British women say 'nail varnish' or 'nail polish'. And now I know; that's they're essentially interchangeable. This is not knowledge that, by rights, I should know. But I do. And I fear for the future .. I really do.

Why? Because I'm living in a country where the men wear scarves bigger than rolls of carpet, where there are whole department shops dedicated to 'men wear' and, most tellingly, there's no rugby.

I dare not call any of the blokes. Imagine if it went wrong: I couldn't take it if Fat Mate was too busy to talk because he was getting his backs waxed, or if Royal Marine Mate was having his nails done, unlikely though it is. But calling them to discuss my feelings would be a big no-no anyway; even thinking about it is questionable. Time to watch 'Master and Commander' and relive the glories of Martin Johnson in his prime on Youtube. I suppose I have carried two heavy object today (a freezer and a dryer) with my brother in law, which was quite manly, and I put up shelves yesterday .... But it's small beer though isn't it? Small beer indeed: so small it's dwarfed by a lager-top.

Ah, the irony is bitter, bitter ....

An unusual magic eye.

2011-11-29T08:25:00.008Z

Munich's Friedensengel stands in the Europaplatz. A statuesque ode to peace. If you approach it from the banks of the river Isar via the main underpass, you will notice a wide and colourful variety of graffiti; some political, some music-related, but all carefully and lovingly painted. If you take the first staircase out of the underpass to the Friedensengel, you will see this brightly coloured bird:

Lovely.

If, after inspecting the column, you decide to resume your stroll along the Isar, you might choose to return to the bank-side via the second of the two staircases which links Europaplatz to the subway. You would then see the above bird's companion, painted onto the wall in a mirror image of its twin:

Once seen, it is very difficult to un-see.

Clever graffiti vandal...

Munich: some nice bits.

2011-11-22T09:04:00.011Z

I might have been a little harsh on Munich in a recent post.* I stand by every. single. word. As psycho as some of my fellow Munchenites are on the street or behind the wheel, however, I've encountered lots of niceness too.

1. Friendliness. You'll never be lonely in a bar, cafe, or any public area: talking to strangers is a way of life here. You'll find yourself included in other peoples' conversations (whether you understand them or not) and strangers comment loudly and inclusively on all sorts of public goings-on. Sit in a beer house and you'll be elbow-to-elbow with all types who are eager to chat and practise their English. Ok, you might sometimes not want to be disturbed, but it's probably better on balance to have it this way around than the other.

2. Pace of life. Munich's not called the 'big village' just because it's pretty small. It's also got a leisurely pace of life. I do realise that, in comparison to London, most places do have a less frenetic beat (I say this as a native of the Big Red, as I call my home town)

but it's a noticeable feature of Munich life.

Good for the blood pressure.

3. Generous with books. Boxes of books placed outside homes

with the invitation to take them for free are quite a common sight.

4. Animal-friendly. Munich people take their dogs everywhere, and most places are very happy to accommodate them. From dog-blankets in cafes, to 'dog parking places' at establishments which prefer the canines to stay outside, few hounds will experience anything other than a happy welcome.

* NB Although Munich is be the capital of Bavaria, it's still widely regarded by other Bavarians as not proper Bavaria - a similar relationship to that between London and the rest of England. But nothing unites a 'proper' Bavarian and a Munich-Bavarian than Germany. I'm essentially living in Germany's version of Scotland ...

Green ink time.

2011-11-21T21:09:00.008Z

NB this post is all a bit 'green ink' so fair warning ...

Hugh Grant's allegations that the 'Mail on Sunday' hacked his phone has at least exposed one terrible truth at the heart of this mucky affair: as if we didn't know already, the MoS employs a range of people who don't take care to use English properly.

Shame.

The MoS said it "utterly refutes" his claim, which it described as "smears".

Refutes? You mean you can prove that the claims are wrong?

No?

Then you mean REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTSREJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS REJECTS aaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

If the national press can't get it right, betraying the legacy of one of their own greatest writers in the process, what hope is there?!?!?!?! FOR THE BLESSED LOVE OF OUR SWEET LORD ABOVE will someone teach these professionals their job ...

Yes I know 'refute' is accepted to mean 'reject' in common usage (the so-called 'second usage') but that's not the point.

Sob.

The gentleman explorer's guide to nowhere.

2011-11-18T22:08:00.004Z

'National Geographic.' It's got a certain old-school charm: propeller aeroplanes, piles of dusty leather luggage. A brandy on the veranda. The look of the film 'The English Patient. But, like that film, it slips too often into sentimentality and irrelevance.

The current issue, Nov 2011, features an interesting-looking article about the body of the Neolithic iceman found in 1991 in the Italian Alps. Great! Then I read an imaginative recreation of the Ice Man's last moments under the heading 'HE DID NOT KNOW THE MEAL HE ATE WOULD BE HIS LAST.'

He did not know his meal was to be his last? Who does, unless you're on death row? Or Jesus?

Then there's an article about the origins of the Staffordshire Hoard - Anglo-Saxon treasure found in 2009. This might or might not be connected to the new NG book on the treasure, but everyone needs to make a living, so .... But why shoe-horn Hadrian's Wall, built by the Romans approximately 500 years before the Hoard was buried, into this article? The Saxons weren't even a gleam in the randy Romans' eyes at this point. Even worse, why quote the Roman historian Tacitus on the 'Germanic character'? The quickest google search gives you 'The complete corpus of Anglo-Saxon poetry' so even the laziest journo should have 5 minutes to find something that is relevant to the people and period of time they are writing about. It's even easy to find early German literature in translation if the hack is feeling adventurous ...

And why recycle lazy, unqualified observations on medieval beliefs in 'magic'? The 'common belief' that 'malicious elves shot darts' at people? Please. Maybe to scare the kiddies, but these people weren't stupid - and were no more gullible than us modern lot. And what about the Staffordshire hoard itself, which includes Christian crosses and a Biblical inscription in Latin. Unless you're a dedicated atheist, it's hard to see this as evidence of 'magic' (NB not defined in the article, either).

NG should have top-notch text to accompany its invariably beautiful photographs. It has a big profile and could carry some serious clout. And it ain't cheap to buy. As it is, too much of the journalism is lazy, sub-standard and, frankly, sloppy. This is a shame since it covers exactly the subjects I'd like to know more about. Some of it is really good, but,too often when I read NG, I think it's a waste of the trees for which it says it is campaigning.

5 things I dislike about Bavaria.

2011-11-15T23:23:00.005Z

NB it’s mostly all good! But nothing’s perfect – not even Munich, as much as it likes to think it is ....

1. Munchenites, as a group. Most Germans I’ve met are friendly, funny, amiable and pleasant. And they’ve pretty much all said the same thing: the schicki-micki people in Munich are a total pain in the arse. They were largely right. As a group, the Munchener is extremely hard to like. I’ve never come across a more moany, grumpy, stuck-up bunch of peacocks. Polite requests to stand aside to let you off the train are met with an eruption of bitter chuntering at your outrageous intrusion into their private rights, freedoms and thoughts. And, like a hippo heading to water, the Munchener will attempt to march right through you if you’re standing between them, and where they want to go. I.e. everyone has right of way, and this is jealously, aggressively asserted.

As for the peacock element: Zoolander would love this place. I’ve never really made my peace with the ‘man scarf’ but Munich’s the place to go if you want a whole shop floor dedicated to them. Plus another department store shop floor dedicated to man accessories. Shocking. But the second thing which really grinds my gears about Bavaria is ...

2. The driving. The autobahns are famous for essentially having no enforced speed limit (although 130 kph is the ‘advised’ autobahn speed). This is great – you can get where you’re going as fast as possible, and no-one gets fined. Everybody’s happy, right? Wrong.

Despite this freedom, a German / Bavarian is rarely more angry than when behind the wheel of their car. You might thing that at 150, 160, 170 kph, you’re not in anyone’s way. But then your rear-view mirror is suddenly full of a red-faced driver snarling from behind the wheel of his white BMW, flashing his lights less than a metre (3 ft) from your backside. Or said nutter might not bother with this and proceed to undertake you whilst gesticulating furiously as he flies by at 200 kph +. Or, weirdly, take a photo on his i-phone while he’s doing it [eyes on the road friend,!!!] Or .... I could go on.

Driving in the city or country is no different. It’s just slower, which allows more time for shouting, gesticulating, snarling and hyper-macho auto-mobile posturing. Men and women – bad as each other. And don’t think you’re safe on foot either. The visceral and voluble hatred between pedestrian and cyclist, cyclist and car driver, and car and pedestrian, is quite something to behold. Narky old London / Essex drivers have got nothing on these guys.

3. Munich’s restaurant service. With a few exceptions, most of the waiters and waitresses I’ve encountered in Munich (NB not the rest of Bavaria) are definitely on the frosty side. Too cool for school? At the age of 50? O.M.G. I can kind of understand this in view of their clientele (see point 1 above), but it’s not nice to be ignored. Nor is it pleasant to be gawped at by a slack-jawed gawker. Nor is it reassuring to see their first evidence of a smile when being presented with the bill. Thanks for leaving! But that’s not universally the case, however; and the food is generally good.

4. Supermarkets: bugger all in them. Come back Morrisons / Tesco / Sainsbury’s and – I always liked you in the first place! Even you, Waitrose. Even, especially, you.

5. IT’S TOO TIDY. Which brings out all my worst tendencies. Simply, this extreme level of tidiness makes me want to mess things up. Or let me put it this way. If Munich was a child and went to school in England, it would be called ‘Briefcase wanker!’ and be given an enormous wedgie. Deserved.

I have so far resisted the temptation of running around the city, hollering out this particular war-cry and attempting, somehow, to wedgie it. But it might be only a matter of time ...

5 things I like about Bavaria.

2011-11-15T09:44:00.008Z

1. Food. It doesn’t matter where you go, a decent plate of tasty food at a reasonable price is not far away. And if you pass through central Munich, there's a whole market dedicated to it. Don’t forget to pack your extra loose jeans...

2. The weather. I like the cold; whenever London throws up yet another sticky, muggy autumn, I feel sorely cheated. Bavaria gets properly cold, seemingly without fail, year in, year out. Minus 15 at Christmas is pretty regular. Today it’s a arse chilling 0^o celcius. Brrrrrrr. Fr-fr-freezi-i-i-ingly pleasant.

3. Munich's public transport system. It's very regular, easy to use and, due to the fact that only 1.3 million people live in Munich, it’s not that crowded. The need to ‘Harry Houdini’ myself into a tiny gap on the train/ tube is now just a holiday treat.

5 4. It's very pretty.

5 5. The people, on a personal basis. Most people I have met are friendly, pleasant to talk to and good fun. They have also been very accepting of the colourful variety of my German language failings, the most spectacular of which was asking for a ‘Scheide’ (‘vagina’) instead of ‘Scheibe’ (slice) of pork. Ye gods, that was embarrassing.

People, people everywhere ....

2011-10-27T12:34:00.004+01:00

When you were born, you were the:4,417,598,804thperson alive on Earth78,986,494,204thperson to have lived since history began

You are 31, male and living in Germany

You were the 4,417,598,804th person

Germany

Your country's population is 82,302,465

Your life expectancy is 77.2 years

What's next? The global population will continue to increase during your lifetime and beyond, reaching 10 billion by 2083. However, the rate of growth is expected to slow. Little of the current growth is happening in developed countries like yours.

Longer lives: Working-age people like you will be supporting increasing numbers of older people during the next decades. By 2050, there will be just 2.2 people of working age supporting every person aged 65 or older in the developed world. In Europe, this will drop to just two.

Battle for resources: It is estimated that your group of the richest countries consumes double the resources used by the rest of the world. The UN estimates that if current population and consumption trends continue, by the 2030s we will need the equivalent of two Earths to support us.

Did you know? The average family size globally has declined by half since 1950 - from five children in to the current 2.5.

192 people

the amount the population has grown while you've been on this site

CRICKEY!!! Nearly 7 billion of us. Find out where you stand in the grand scheme of things on the BBC website here.

Wash at 30 degrees*

2011-09-06T23:01:00.003+01:00

Steve Jobs and Apple gets a fair amount of grief from various quarters, some of deserved, some not.

However.

On Friday, I sent my lovely 5th gen i-pod nano (green!) through the wash at 30 degrees. Mein Gott in Himmel was I annoyed. But, three days later, it works! It works it works it works!!!!!

So that's two 10km races, 1 half marathon, 1 marathon, associated training for all of these, plus a washing machine tumble. Stylish and robust. Very very niiiiiice.

*NB don't wash at all for preference.

Notting Hill Carnival, or, the case of the missing 'The'.

2011-08-29T12:39:00.000+01:00

Every year.

Every year it's "Carnival" this and "Carnival" that .... it's THE carnival! THE!!!! What's wrong with the definite article? Who has it p'd off and why?! It's not like the carnival (see! it works!) has Russian origins is it (e.g. 'open door')? Every year!!! THE carnival! THHHHHHHHHHE!!!!!!!! Gnaaarrrgh it drives me maaad!!!!

I'll get my coat .......

Down the tubes

2011-08-28T21:29:00.003+01:00

Being in-lawed to the Germans can be difficult at times. Especially when you return from Germany to find to find the 'next train' display proudly bearing this message at Heathrow Terminal 5.

Needless to say, both were actually in service, but still ....

GEEK heaven

2011-08-25T00:50:00.006+01:00

Am I a geek? I liked steam-trains and Star Wars as a child, and retain a fondness for both; I like history a bit too much a have several postgrad degrees in it; I can do Greek and Latin, innit; I love Terry Pratchett's books; can quote Patrick O'Brian's historical novels; need I go on?

So I suppose it was inevitable that, at some point, I'd end up reading George R. R. Martin's 'Game of Thrones' series. Once you've read Robert Jordan (last one forthcoming, posthumously) there's only one place left to turn.

I've now read the first four books, including 3a and 3b. Volumes 3a and 3b . This is no normal series of novels. The characters, the story, the brutality and the realism of his fantasy world are all astonishingly powerful. The sheer scale of his imagination, and the depth to which his characters - often even minor ones - are fleshed out, is not something I've encountered before. Part of the realism comes from the fact that anyone, and I mean anyone, can die. Many writers have heard the advice 'slaughter your darlings' as an encouragement to keep their prose snappy; Martin seems to have absorbed this advice much deeply than most story-tellers. If Martin had written Star Wars, Darth Vadar and R2-D2 would be the only ones left standing at the end of 'A New Hope'.

And because the characters are so fully formed, the possibility that they might die - especially 'lead' characters - over the course of the book makes it all the more realistic, and all the more compelling. That said, I can't actually read bits of it because it's too brutal; the rape, the torture and the murder are rather harrowing and often get skimmed.

I've not seen the TV series yet, but I'm looking forward to it. I'm also looking forward to reading book 5, which has recently been published. For such a tight, taut writer, Martin is astonishingly indulgent with the scope of his story: book 5 goes sideways in time to narrate the events which happened to other character who were left out of book 4, but who are vital to the story. In some ways, this series of books remind me of an actual history - there's always more to be uncovered. I also do not know where he is actually going with the story, and if he will ever actually finish it (there was a six year gap between 4 and 5, and he's in his 60s ....) But the characters are so attractive in good and bad ways, that I'm happy to keep reading just to find out what happens next. It's frankly astonishing.

PS: it also has appendices. Honest to god appendices - no mere appendix for him. He even updates them with each new book. As I say - astonishing ..

Choo-choo

2011-08-24T01:05:00.005+01:00

I slept-in this morning. This is all very well, but I should be at work when 08.45 rolls around on a Tuesday, not rubbing my eyes in double-take disbelief at how I've managed to sleep through all three of my alarms. I've not done this on such a large scale since working for Harrods in August 2000. Terrible job, quite good pay - it was a long time until I surpassed £260 per week (tax free - full times student benefits!)

It was pouring with rain when I scuttled out of the front door, so I turned left instead of right and went to rail station B, instead of rail station M, where I normally go. Chance is a wonderful thing sometimes because without all this, I wouldn't have had the good fortune to see the Dorest Express steam train puffing merrily across the river Thames in a very picturesque fashion. I love steam trains* (geek ahoy ...) Since I moved down to southwest London, I've heard that this particular train goes through our area, seen photos of it in the local paper, but it's only now as I prepare to leave this part of town for Munich, by way of Colliers Wood and Enfield, that I've actually seen it!

So in addition to sampling / re-sampling all the local fine eateries and coffee shops, cramming in a good few runs by the Thames and soaking up the wonderfulness of the locality, I can tick another local aim off my list: SEE A STEAM TRAIN LIVE.

Such are the limits of ambition. But it did make me smile ...

*In the sense that I think they look and sound great. I own neither a train notebook nor an anorak; think of it as the equivalent of a person who likes watching, e.g., Deep Space 9 if it comes on the TV, but who dislikes the original ST series, and can in no way be called a Trekkie.

Fuckers in the back yard.

2011-08-09T00:09:00.005+01:00

The riots in London: for me, as for millions of other people, it's really hitting home, live on TV.

Enfield: went to school there, friends live there, know it really well.

Palmers Green / Southgate: High St was closed down at 4 pm yesterday to dissuade a gang of 200 robbing the street - 6 mins walk from where mum, dad and my brother live. Didn't really kick off in the end, but still scary. Know it really well.

Wood Green: used to travel every day through Wood Green to and from university and work; enjoyed the odd trip or two to 'Toys R Us' when I was a kiddie. Went to Quasar there as a teenager. It was always rough, had my first personal taste of serious GBH crime there; wasn't too surprised it all kicked off. Know it really well, unfortunately.

Hackney: several friends live there.

Camden: where I'm from. Born there, lived there whilst at University, had my Stag Party there.. Love the place. Know it really well.

Chalk Farm: was my local tube station when I lived on the estate just off Haverstock Hill; sometimes used to meet my grandad at Chalk Farm Tube on his way home from work . Nan was a cleaner and dinner lady at Haverstock Hill School. Marina's Ice is great - hope it's ok. Used to walk down Haverstock Hill past Chalk Farm to Camden Town past the large Safeways (Morrisons). Saw KT Tunstall at the Roundhouse a couple of years back. Know it really well.

Clapham Junction: go through there every single work day. Know it pretty well. Lavender Hill is currently being reported as being cordoned off.

Croydon: friend lives about 1 mile from the main blaze.

Looting, robberies, criminals and hoodies - all in my own back yard. It makes me so very angry, and so very very sad. But actually, more angry than anything.

Happy Anniversary.

2011-07-31T01:29:00.005+01:00

Speaking of the number '31', today is our first wedding anniversary.

We had an absolute blast at our wedding. Nearly everyone we invited came, the sun did actually shine, the food was good, the beer barrel didn't explode when I tapped it, and it seemed that everybody had a bloody good time. There was a high participation limbo dancing event which my wife instigated with a broom handle. One family sang us a song; two of my wife's ex-colleagues did an highly entertaining Anglo-German talk about her early days as a trainee teacher; the British best men did a wonderful job with the speeches; a group of our closest German friends put on a sketch, set to a variety of songs, about how my wife and I met on the Stansted Express and embarked upon a long-distance relationship. One my my friends even reviewed it on his blog. Friends and family travelled far and wide to be there, and the guy who owns the venue was highly impressed / alarmed by the amount of beer the Brits put away, peacefully. There was cake, shooting, dancing, a white soft-top Citroen 2CV, excellent music, a very late night, and lots and lots of fun.

And one year on (or seven years in total) - it's really, really good, and I'm really thankful for it.

Now I'm 31 ...

2011-07-30T23:46:00.000+01:00

I haven't watched 'Top of the Pops' for many years, but even when it was on weekly, I was only ever a casual follower. As a met'lah, its Brit Pop stylings tended to leave me either coldly contemptuous at their floppy fringe, or warmly righteous that METAL was the one true path, and Guns n Roses had nothing to fear and would rule forever ....

Nevertheless, two episodes from the late '90s / early 2000s stand out in my memory: it was TOTP on which I discovered 'The Strokes' with 'New York City Cops' from their excellent 'Is this it' album.

The other show I particularly remember stands out for other reasons. In the middle of a long summer working for good money doing a job at Harrods which I absolutely hated, I invited a friend over for mid-week steak, chips and 'The Simpsons'. Great stuff. Unbeknownst to us, 'The Simpsons' was followed by a forty five minute special designed to showcase the wonderful and multifaceted talents of one Eileen Regina Edwards, aka Shania Twain and second only in the luuurrve stakes to the mighty Liz Hurley. Impressed Much? Yes, the leopard print is inexplicable, no I'm not Brad Pitt, but yes. Very Impressed nevertheless.

Aside from gawping at Ms Twain, I spent a many of my evenings at that time around Camden Town's various pubs and clubs. Most had at least one '80s evening per week, and my friends and I were at most of them, most weeks. As I sit here, watching a TOTP special devoted to many of the great hits of that tacky but wonderful decade, it strikes me that in some respects, my life hasn't changed much from 2001. Saturday night is still spent in the company of a 1980s soundtrack. It's just that, now I'm 31, these songs are enjoyed from the comfort of my own sofa, at a reasonable volume, whilst I drink a cup of tea and wear my specs as I blog; they do not involve wearing sun-glasses in a place called the Underworld (for very accurate reasons), lots of Jack n' Coke, "dancing"* or a questionable penchant for a 'lucky'** t-shirt with a pie on it.

* Like most blokes, I danced the same way, in the same style, with the same rhythm, regardless of the song, for the whole evening. Things really came into their own when Mr DJ played Madness' "Baggy Trousers" but, apart from that ....

** Definition of lucky: I always got home. This always used to surprise me.

30 Day song challenge, day 3: a song that makes you happy

2011-07-10T23:03:00.006+01:00

What kind of songs make me happy? Not songs by uber-goup Down, much as I like them, nor songs by Sabbath, who relax me rather than cheer me up. So both make me feel good - but positively happy? For that I could turn to some 60s mo-town like this or this but, in all honesty, it would have to by a song by Queen. They wrote some awesomely great songs with the mighty Freddie, pbuh, so for a sure-fire fix of the fun stuff, I'd go for 'Crazy little thing called love'. Fantastic.

10.07.2011: The British 10K

2011-07-10T17:39:00.007+01:00

Back in April, in the first flush of post-marathon success, my race buddy and I decided to kick-on from the months of training and complete the British 10 km. The race wasn't until July; we were used to training hard, we were in good shape and had months to prepare. And 10km? After 42.195 kms ... it'll be a breeze!

By the time May came around, we had started to understand the effects that marathon running has on the bodies of casual runners like us. Stairs were not easy, a 4 km jog was hard ... I had read about this kind of thing but it's still quite a surprise when, 4 weeks after a marathon, you're still feeling the effects - and you are by no means feeling fit.

After months of training, and being able to run pretty far distances reasonably fast, that's a pretty bitter irony!

But slowly, creakily, and very gingerly, I started to get back into the rhythm of 'left foot, right foot, body follows.' The body was following at a very slow place, but it was following. So, I got back in the pool. Apart from a few months in 1993, I've never been much of a swimmer, but I now go 3 - 4 / 5 times per week, usually before work, sometimes after work, and occasionally both. I enjoy it a huge amount. When I started back in November 2010, I had to devour a bunch of bananas after 8 slow lengths of granny-style back stroke; now, my basic swim is 660 m (20 lengths) and I can polish off a 1 km swim without too much effort.

It's just sad that I wasn't this fit for half of my 20s ... but 31 is better than never.

In truth, the running never really got going in preparation for today's 10 km. I went running a total of 14 times between 26th April and today, and on only two occasions did I go past 6 km. One of those times was last Sunday when, to my surprise, I managed to bimble 10 kms along the Thames in just under an hour. Satisfied that I would be able to finish today's race without too much shame, I jogged 5 kms on Wednesday and left my running training there.

So I wasn't harbouring any great hopes of personal bests when I rocked up at Piccadilly Circus to drop off my bag and start stretching ahead of this particular 10 km race. The selection of pastries in the coffee shops of lower Regents Street held much more appeal for me than jogging around central London, however scenic the route promised to be. My knee was sore, my achilles was sore, it was early blah blah blah ..

I was therefore extremely happy and surprised when I reached 10 km in a time of 53.40 mins. Now, I realise this is not fast, but it's an official 10 km PB for me (training best is 51 mins) and, after my lack of training and general pessimism about the day, I would have taken that quite happily before the race.

The race itself is an odd beast. It seems to have lost its major sponsor, ASICS, between my signing up for it in April and today's race, and the name is a bit strange; why 'British' 10km? Because it's in the capital? Perhaps the London marathon people own the rights to the name 'London 10 km' ...

It's quite old-school in its set up: no official timing chips unless you pay separately for one and no setting off in groups according to your expected time (apart from the elite runners). A band from the Blues and Royals provided some stout and sterling marching music beforehand, including the National Anthem (very unusual in my experience).

The race started 10 - 15 mins late: the elite runners were due to go at 09.35, but didn't until about 09.50. No explanation; Network Rail seemed to be in charge. Nor did I see a full set of km markers around the course, and this was a common complaint, so it wasn't just me.

Another problem was the lack of staggering at the start for the competitors. This meant that fast runners, medium ones, slow ones and even 'walkers' all started off together. Piccadilly isn't really that wide, and it didn't cope very well with 25 000 people trying to run past each other. The streets were therefore quite full. It was very stop-start, and the benefits of setting people off by ability soon became apparent when a large number of individual and group runners, even more casual than me, decided to come to an abrupt halts at multiple points within the first kilometre. Annoying for the likes of me, dangerous for them.

Additionally, the route seemed to be about 800m longer than advertised. Most people I spoke to had a similar extra distance on their various watches and phone apps, and that can't all have come from weaving through the crowd.

Nevertheless, the route was indeed scenic. It started close to the Wellington Arch on Piccadilly, and then wound its way out through Pall Mall and Cockspur St to Victoria Embankment. At the 5 km point at Southward Bridge, we negotiated a complicated set of loops in two tunnels and around some back streets, before making our was back along the Embankment to Westminster Bridge. There followed a loop across and back along the bridge, past the Houses of Parliament, then a circuit around Parliament Square, up and back Victoria Street and a finish on Whitehall. Lovely.

As a race event, then, it was a mixed bag. Lovely route, and it's great to start on a 1.5 km downward incline. But the organisation wasn't very good; for an event that advertises itself as the 'British' 10 km, it should be a bit more professional in this regard. Few of the stewards knew where to go after the race, and there was no clear signage to the baggage area. The confusion over the distances left a funny impression, and they really need to stagger the start on some kind of ability-based grounds. Apparently, it's becoming a ballot event next year with a corresponding hike in price from £29 - £50!; I'd want a bit more for my money in this case.

But, curmudgeonly carping aside, I really enjoyed this morning's run around central London; it can't be easy to arrange the various bus diversions, closed streets, security arrangements etc, and the organisers have put together an enjoyable event. With a bit of tweaking, it could be a really great one.

Jesus wept

2011-06-27T23:14:00.003+01:00

'Jesus wept'. An economical sentence, much beloved of mothers and grandmothers I have known, all of the Irish persuasion.

Typically it can be uttered in one of two ways:

1. Muttered while the face of the maternal unit confronts the floor in amused but appalled disbelief; why look at the floor? Because looking at the floor shames them less than looking at the face of their errant son, who has provoked this outburst of dismay. Thus can two small words convey a huge amount of shame, sorrow and regret at the fact of one's disappointing existence.

2. Alternatively, it can be a more forceful outburst, often seen with a thrown-back head and rolling eyes. This genuinely angry variant is hugely intimidating, and can shrivel your a*ehole quicker than the prospect of being nominated as being libidinous Len's hot water bottle on a cold cold night. Even when not directed at you, its fearfulness will convince you of all your original sin - confusingly, but especially, those sins of which you are de iure innocent. You might very well be innocent but, de facto, you're as guilty as hell with its hand caught in the cookie jar, making puddles on the floor.

Perhaps its not those lovely Irish matriarchal vowels that give the phrase 'Jesus wept' its power. I discovered today that 'Jesus wept' is the shortest sentence in the whole King James Bible - 'John' 11:35. How did I discover this? Biblical scholarship? Nothing so interesting - by doing a grammar test, voluntarily.

Because that's how I spend my spare time.

"It's not easy putting a rubber on."

2011-06-07T21:29:00.001+01:00

Cricket.

It's a boring, boring game ....

£116.00

2011-06-01T08:35:00.004+01:00

It's not often that I check my bank account several times per day; even less often that I want to see money going out of it. But I was very happy to see £116 being debited from my bank account. It means:

WE'RE GOING TO THE OLYMPICS.

£116 includes £6 postage etc (emphasising the general rip-off which happens when buying most other types of tickets) which means £110.00 on the actual tickets. This means we're seeing either:

The Canoe slalom final OR the Dressage Final

plus one of either:

100m heats / beach volleyball heats / table tennis heats / swimming heats.

No joy on the £20.12 tickets for the closing ceremony, but neverly mind about that. Very excited to find out on June 24th about what we've got!

PS A guy has just been interviewed on BBC breakfast who has been debited £11 000 for his ticket allocation. ELEVEN THOUSAND POUNDS. And it could apparently have been worse. They've also done a feature on how police in Barnsley are cracking down on swearing. Must be a slow news day ...

Brew's up.

2011-05-05T21:11:00.008+01:00

It struck me this evening that I've been carrying one of these around for the best part of a decade. This is longer than my Tesco clubcard or Sainsbury's clubcard, much longer than the fancy Costa card or the Starbucks thingy which I joined simply for the free air-time. It's long out-lasted my 'Yellow' discounted drink card for chain of pubs I now forget. It influences my choice because the coffee is usually OK (Americano at least), it's easy to use and carry around, and some barristas are generous with the stamping.

I remember when the stamps were green, and you got them with the food as well as drink. This was after I overcame my initial reluctance, or rather downright hostility, to the advent of coffee shops. Coffee, I thought back in 1998 as an ignorant undergrad, was for girls: men drank tea and went to the pub. And if they went to a cafe, it was to eat a large, greasy breakfast.(1) Camden Cafe even had my 'usual' on the tab. According to a friend, this made me working class. 'Stuffed if I care, fancy a pint?' was my probable response.*

I disliked Nero's at the time because it was impossible to get a seat, it was always too hot and the queues were enormous. More to the point, a certain type of person drank coffee at coffee shops - and I wasn't one of them: overly confident, capable of shopping at places like 'Gap' without feeling embarrassed and / or disgusted, adept at 'eating out' (excluding Maccy D's or Burger King) .... I was none of these things: I did not 'go for a coffee'.

Plus, at the root of it all, I didn't drink coffee. Considering the vats of the stuff I now consume, this is a wonder to me: drinking coffee back then actually made me feel tired. And, it cost a lot.

But, by 2001, many of my reasons for disliking the idea of going for a coffee changed when the number of Neros on Tottenham Court Road doubled to two, and they were joined by Starbucks, Costa, Coffee Republic, Pret a Manger and others. You could suddenly get a seat: my fear of ordering to drink in, but having to stand around like a lemon whilst waiting to sit down, became redundant. As a group of friends, we began the long, slow realisation that the 'dank' of pubs which we had long championed .... weeeell, it wasn't all that great.** Plus, it was much easier to get back to translating a dead language after a coffee than after a pint of Dublin's finest. And anyway, coffee shops were where the girls decided they preferred to go. And just as an oasis will attract a thirsty man ...

We still went to the pub of course, but my resentment at paying a similar price for a cup of coffee and a pint of beer diminished as I realised that, actually, it wasn't too bad after all. Over the years, my consumption of the stuff has radically overtaken my consumption of beer. The 18 year old me would cringe. But that's ok, I wouldn't want to be him again anyway.***

*This was probably confirmed by the discovery in our fridge of a large block of lard and full-fat milk, both of which belonged to me. Each of my five flatmates cooked with olive oil and used skimmed milk. No oil had knowingly passed my lips before 1998: I didn't see the point of it, plus you could reuse the lard, which imbued it with extra flavour. See also: pasta (excluding spaghetti bolognese and alphabetti pasta), feta cheese, mozzarella cheese, salad (excluding lettuce and tomato, unavoidable components of the BLT), salad dressing, skimmed milk (apart from in tea), fruit tea, sea salt, any types of bread other than 'white' or 'brown', any vinegar other than the type you put on chips, and all other staples of the Waitrose society in which I now live. I catch myself sometimes and wonder - really, really wonder ...

** This took many more years to diminish to current tiny levels, but it's still there, lurking beneath the thin, cracked veneer of respectability ...

*** Not unless I could expunge the crippling teenage self-doubts and insecurities, but keep the fantastic amount of free time.

(1) And 'cafe' was pronounced 'caff' - i.e. it rhymed with the Americanism 'math' or the Northernism 'Laff.' It was not 'cafe-e' like 'Fererro Roche-e'. This simile probably shows, again, a level of sophistication that Del Boy would be proud of. "Pois de fromage, mon ami, pois de fromage."

30 day song challenge, day 2: your least favourite song

2011-05-03T22:58:00.004+01:00

There are many genres of music I simply cannot stand. Heavy house, hardcore rap, gangsta rap, rave, most modern r n' b, boy-band love ballads, more or less anything in the charts performed by 16 year olds (I name no names, they get enough attention).

However, my nomination is actually not any of the above; there are many other songs which are far far worse. But it's the enforced jollity. It's because it's the go-to choon for any numb-nutted DJ and / or marketing executive who wants to generate the feel-good factor on the cheap. Such good aspects as it has have been ruined, absolutely ruined, by dodgy wedding set-lists and cheapo adverts for that crap 'resteraunt' chain, Harvester. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the song I banned from my own wedding day:

'Celebration' by Kool and the Gang.

If I could pull out my teeth with my toes so that I could stab out my eyes with the roots whilst listening to this, then I probably would.

'Enjoy'.

30 day song challenge 1: your favourite song

2011-05-03T22:53:00.002+01:00

Axel Rose might the man who puts the 'bell' in 'end', Slash might be nothing more than a hat and frizzy hair, the rest of Guns n Roses might as well have been cardboard cut-outs - very rich, skillful and successful cardboard cuts - behind these two, but they did put together my favourite song of all time:

Sweet Child of Mine.

Marathon de Paris, 10.04.11: part 3 - final round-up

2011-04-27T20:51:00.006+01:00

Would I do another marathon? Yes, and I very much hope I will. I watched some of the runners at this year's London marathon and the long-standing ambition to do that particular one was very much there. So I've signed up for next year's race - I find out in October if the ballot has been kind this time around.

In the interim, I'm going to practise running around central London at the ASICS British 10 km in July. I've never got a really good 10km time - my best is 52 mins - so that's something to aim for. And after expending so much effort getting into reasonable shape, I'm in no mood to let myself go to seed just yet. That's not to say that I've done anything over the past two weeks. Oh no. On the Monday after the marathon I was straight to the local cafe, as per my heart-felt promise to myself on various horrible early morning and late night training sessions. "Did you really order two breakfasts?" asked the waitress as I settled up at the till; yes - yes I did. This two week binge has probably reversed what little weight gain I achieved, from 81 to 79 kgs, but I've got a clear conscience. I've earned my pie.

How about Paris as a race? I would heartily recommend it as an alternative to London if you want to run a marathon and can't get through London's ballot. It's a lovely route, even though at times the surroundings are a bit anonymous, particularly in the parks. The support along the route also varies: at most places is extremely packed, especially along the Seine, but the last couple of miles of the race goes through a park which was pretty quiet. This is a pity, because if you need support at any point, it's then. But that's a pretty minor point.

It is extremely well organised, lots of water, sugar cubes, banana and orange segments, plus handfuls of sultanas are available for the runners at 5 km intervals. There are also hoses showering a fine spray onto the runners at different points and buckets of water to slosh your hands in. You will be very well looked after, and you certainly won't starve.

Apart from the last couple of miles and the odd empty pocket, there are lots of bands and lots of crowd support - it was great hearing 'Allez Allez Allez [your name]' so often (your bib has your name on it for this reason). This being France (part 2), some of the bands were accompanied by what seemed to be 'interpretive dancers' - no other description for them. There were also elderly grotesques, can-can dancing girls (and rather mature ladies ....) plus a range of ordinary and not so ordinary folk. The Bavarian flags I saw got a load cheer from me of 'BAYERN' and lots of high-5s from the Union Jacks. Good fun.

Other runners were also friendly apart from one weirdo who made a 'political' joke about my 'Nike' t-shirt and corporate sponsorship. I guess he didn't realise that the whole thing was sponsored by ASICS. Perhaps he did better in Latin than in Greek at school .... There are lots of fun runners, although not as many as in London. But one thing was very impressive: several quite severely disabled people sat in chariot-like wheel-chairs and were pulled along the course by groups of six or seven other runners. At least one of the groups stopped about a metre before the line to help their charge, a young woman, out of her chair. They then helped to to walk with enormous care, difficulty and delight, across the finish line. Moment of the day.

So all in all, the race gets a huge Yes vote from me. It's fairly flat, extremely well organised and a fantastic route: you finish with the Arc de Triomphe looming ahead of you. Proof that Paris does it with style.

Marathon de Paris, 10.04.11: part 2 - the Race

2011-04-25T20:11:00.006+01:00

Despite the disruptions to my training, I was looking forward to the day. The odd doubt and niggle aside, I was confident that I could finish the race, and I was looking forward to getting it over and done with. All I needed to do was pick up my race pack.

I was more nervous about this than I was about the race itself. The website had been publishing dire warnings for some weeks now: forget to bring your medical certificate proving that you are fit to race, and forget about doing the race; don't try to pick up your race pack on the Saturday - most of the other 40 000 participants will be trying to do the same, etc etc.

In the event, all was fine. From the moment I had my medical certificate in my grubby paw it resided safely with my passport; the only way it was going to leave my grasp was if I lost it during the constant checking and re-checking of my kit on the journey to Paris. I handed it in at the running Expo after queueing up for an hour to get in. Every single minute of my queueing occurred whilst the the Expo was closed, because I got there an hour early in anticipation of an enormous crowd.

I needn't have bothered - I was fourth in the queue and, while there was a substantial trail of people snaking out behind me, we were all processed very quickly. Drop off medical cert, pick up your race number and timing chip, pick up your goodie bag and your wristband and that's it, you're done. Plenty of time to wander around various stalls to see what you can spend your money on. Nothing there was as appetising as breakfast, although I did buy myself a natty t-shirt and my wife a cap against the sun, which was worryingly warm ...

After a day relaxing and eating around Paris, I slept the deep and happy sleep of the man who knows he has a few days off work lined up. So I awoke at 5:45 on race day ready to (i) eat breakfast and (ii) get the show on the road. A breakfast of coffee, ham, jam, toast, bananas and orange juice set me up nicely for the day ahead. I've previously made big mistakes on race breakfasts, but this worked out very well.

Meeting my friend and race pardner on the Champs Elysee proved to be a doddle, as did dropping off my bag and all the other organisational aspects. It was very well done. Even the hanging around didn't seem too onerous - there was plenty of crowd encouragement, including wifely and cousinly support, whilst we stood stretching in our pens.

Suddenly the first competitors set off - the disabled athletes. Then the elite athletes, then the fast ones, and then we were all trottiing up to the line and then it was US OVER THE LINE AND THE MARATHON WAS BEGUN. This was the most exhilarating moment: starting a marathon. You're doing something which you've spent months training for, and years thinking about. It feels completely normal, but you know it's actually not a normal thing to do, and that you're going to be in a fair amount of pain in a couple of hours time.

The first 13 miles went very quickly. Not particularly quickly time-wise - I started slowly before getting into my stride - but mentally it passed very quickly. The adrenaline high of actually doing a marathon was very powerful The Louvre went by, as the Bastille and other assorted landmarks, suburbs and parks. I felt very comfortable - apart from the heat. And after the hills of Richmond Park and surrounding areas, Paris' flatter terrain was not a problem.

Miles 13 - 20 also went quickly. I was constantly 'aware' of the troublesome achilles, but it wasn't a problem. However, by mile 18 I was starting to gradually slow down. The temperature was 25 - 30 degrees, and my lack of conditioning was starting to tell. I managed to get to 20 miles by 3 hours 25, but keeping the pace up was impossible. This was slightly demoralising, but I was nevertheless still enjoying it, especially the views of the Eiffel Tower, and the prospect of having only 6 miles was not too daunting. Plus other competitors were pretty friendly; I ran for a while with a Belgian called Geoffrey - between his broken English and my broken French, we kept our spirits up. I plodded on.

Miles 20 - 26 varied. It wasn't too bad until mile 22, but from there on I was running in a world of very high pain. None of it was localised - it was just that all the nerve endings were instructing my brain that I should cease this activity forthwith, because on every side, and from every direction, the pain was flooding in. My miles per minute diminished accordingly. It's actually quite interesting: at times I could get to 10 minutes per hour pace, but only briefly, and I couldn't keep it going. I reasoned at this point that this was costing me more effort than it was worth, and allowed my pace to drop to 11 mins per mile, then 11 1/2 mins per mile and so on.

Running on cobbles at this point was really, really unpleasant.

Miles 26 - 26.2, the finish: NOT AT ALL NICE. This being France, wine and champagne was being given out at the 26 mile mark. I declined, with some regret. I can't say that the prospect of finishing the race at this point boosted my spirits; I didn't have the energy to want to finish any more than I already did. Plus there was the heat and pain. Every fibre was at this point straining, in a very slow motion manner, to the finish line.

The finish line: this was a strange feeling, akin to letting out a breath you've been holding for far too long. There was no sense of the euphoria which I've heard about, and I can't say that I had any strong sensation of relief - no energy left. There was an element of disappointment with my time, 4 hours 55, and the generalised pain sensation was still pulsing away quite strongly. But it was an emotional moment. After chatting briefly with my lovely wife from across the barriers, I limped over to the recovery section. Happy, tired, sun-burned, contented and completely unable to speak.

Marathon de Paris, 10.04.2011: part 1 - Training

2011-04-25T12:06:00.009+01:00

I've wanted to run the London marathon for as long as I can remember. We went to watch a a friend of the family do it when I was a 5 year old. I remember the great atmosphere, seeing Jimmy 'Fix it for You!' Saville jog past and finding it amazing that a person could run so far, for so long. I was however equally fascinated by the Mars Bar branded foil that our friend was given to wear afterwards. This sparked an equally powerful interest in Mars Bars ... It's fair to say that I was much more successful at pursuing my interests in Mars Bars than in running marathons over the intervening 26 years.

Nevertheless, by autumn 2010 I had completed several 10 km races, plus a half-marathon in October 2010. The half-marathon was enjoyable, but it left a nagging feeling - I wanted a crack at the real deal. So, after failing to get through the ballot for a place in the London marathon at the third attempt, I decided to take a look around. Paris popped into my head as the home of a cousin who might put me up, a city which I like, and a place which is easily accessible. Upon finding that there is no ballot for the Paris marathon, I clicked on register, payed my 59 euros and submitted my application which was accepted immediately. 'Christ alive!' thought I, and went to bed.

Training was postponed: moving flat, lots of snow and Christmas reduced the training time and motivation to get going. Then, when starting to train, I got the flu almost immediately. This was not conducive to getting out of bed, much less anything else, so I stopped for a couple of weeks. By now it was January 9th: only three months left!! Not long to prepare for a 26.2 mile race, but long enough to make a decent effort, I kept telling myself.

This turned out to be true, but only just. If there is any truth to be told about training for a marathon, it is that your training will be disrupted at some point, either through injury, illness or general life interruptions.

My programme was no different. I missed two weeks of running due to a very tight achilles tendon problem (long standing) plus one other week of running to a throat infection - very common amongst people training for the long run. I therefore completed just 10 weeks of actual running training in the build-up to my race. I supplemented this, however, with lots of swimming which really made the difference.

Total miles run: 234.5 = 377.39 km

Total miles swam: 10.25 = 16.5 km

Running an average of 23.45 miles per week was not the plan: I had aimed to average a minmum of 30 miles per week, but it simply wasn't possible this time around.

I swam even less often: 9 weeks out of thetotal 13 possible - so on the weeks I swam, I did just over one mile per week. This might not look like much, but it really helped with maintaining fitness, building leg strength and general rehabilitation from the pains of running.

During the course of my training, then, it became clear that my initial aim to get as close to 4 hours as possible needed to be revised. So, I recalibrated it to 4 hours 30. As late as March 13th this looked possible - in fact, 4 hours 15 looked like a reasonable bet. It was at this point, however, that the dreaded achilles problem struck, despite lots of careful stretching and the extra support trainers for people with flat feet. The most mundane event caused it to go: walking downstairs from the top desk of a bus - the bus took a corner more sharply than usual, my heel hit to floor a bit harder than I intended, and I knew straight away that I wouldn't be running for the rest of that week (it was only Tuesday). MERDE!

With an achilles like a banjo string, I hit the pool regularly and often. Saturday came round: I was due to do my final long-long run: 22 miles. I had previously completed a very hilly 20 miles in 3 1/2 hours, and felt that I could happily keep going ... well, that I could at least keep going. I was looking forward to trying a flatter route and getting a better time per mile. But this was now out of the question. I didn't actually run again until the following Saturday when I made a tentative jog to the pool and back. A round trip of 4 miles. Everything held up and I was back in my trainers, but by now it was only TWO WEEKS to go. SHEISSE!

After missing lots of training so close to the event, I had some doubts over my ability to complete the run. Plus, I was mildly worried about the achilles problem. But I picked up my training programme and completed the 5 mile runs scheduled in for the week fairly happily. On the Saturday before the marathon, I completed the 13 mile run as per my training schedule. It was pure hell. The most painful, unhappy and uncomfortable run I'd done in the whole of my training. Weirdly, I felt much better for it (once the pain had died away) and I was looking to Paris with confidence.

2024

2010-12-05T00:19:00.005Z

Cricket.

My generation grew up with the image of smirking, triumphant Australians lording it over haunted-eyed English players. Disaster followed disaster. It was in the context of another English batting collapse that I first heard the phrase 'snatching defeat from the jaws of victory'; it was from a glum, bearded security guard at Harrods, where I worked for a long, well paid but deeply boring summer.

Cricket: lots of sweat, lots of disaster, little point.

But.

Things have changed, with ups and downs, but at least there have been ups.

The current 'up' has inspired this cry from the heart of this particular England cricket fan, commenting on this article:

MarkinLondon

4 December 2010 11:34AM

Australia's period of total dominance over England lasted around 15 years - four home series and four tours down under.

That's fifteen years of humilation and defeat.

Fifteen years of waking up at 4am to find that Australia were 440-6, or England were 180-7 chasing 400 to win.

Fifteen years of bowling attacks like 'Pringle, Defreitas, Newport & Foster',Ffifteen years of Warne and Mcgrath bowling us out twice,

Ffifteen years of series not lasting to the fourth test - let alone the final one.

Fifteen years of 'mental disintegration'.

I'll start feeling sorry for Australia and appreciating the sentiment in articles like this, around 2024 - and not a moment before.

We've not won yet, but we might be getting there.

And as the Barmy Army says about the current Aussies:

"Are you England in disguise?"

And you know, after the past 15 years, you just know that this chant must cut deep to the quick ....

Philip Pullman and Richard Harries debate Pullman's 'Good man Jesus and the scoundrel Christ'. Friday 22nd Oct 2010

2010-11-07T02:28:00.003Z

I read Philip Pullman’s ‘Northern Lights’ trilogy back in 2003; they stopped me in my tracks in a way that few books have ever done. The sheer story-telling power gripped me, and I did little else for the best part of three weeks while I worked my way to the end.

So I jumped at the chance to hear him discuss his most recent book, “The good man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ”, at St Mary’s Church in Barnes, London, with the Rev Richard Harries (ex archbishop of Oxford). The event was essentially an informal discussion between the two men who had chewed the topic over at least twice before in public, and no doubt several more times in private.

So, once the introductions were made, Pullman kicked off with observations on the general scope of the book, revealing that its origins lay in a question asked by Rowan Williams on the His Dark Materials books: where would Jesus fit into that universe? It emerged that Pullman was enormously fascinated by the historical person of Jesus. Although a confirmed atheist, he confessed that if he could time-travel to see any person, then Jesus would be his choice. Why? Because of his story-telling power and the charisma with which he thought Jesus would have delivered his sermons: the house built on sand, the camel and the eye of the needle – it was refreshing to hear such over familiar stories being given their due consideration, because the simplicity and directness of these parables is enormously difficult to achieve. And they have lasted well.

There then followed some probing questions from Harries concerning the genre of the book, which Pullman sort of described as a historical fiction, but the discussion circled around the relationship of his book to the gospels and Pullman’s admiration for the power of the gospels’ story-telling power. During this, Pullman admitted freely his admiration for the good works which these stories have inspired, despite the atrocities carried out in their name over the millennia, and repeated his problem with Christianity was that he stubbed his toe on the idea of an afterlife; in his view, it is the here and now which matters.

The following questions varied in quality, from one guy who stole my comment on comparing Homer and the Greek gods to the Bible and Christianity (people fervently believed in those ancient gods, despite what Harries tried to say) to another who condemned Pullman for making a mistake by divorcing the gospels from their position in the Bible. Pullman and Harries dealt rather well with this, pointing out gently that the Bible wasn’t formed until well after Jesus had died. There then followed a more literary and interesting question on why Pullman’s Christ is such a scoundrel? Pullman didn’t really give a straight answer on this – in fact, he admitted that he couldn’t. But I think he was trying to say that the complexity of the Christ character was designed to reflect the complexity of the human character, and its associated capacity for good and evil actions at different points in the same life.

I really enjoyed the debate, although at only 40 mins or so (exlucding questions) it was a little short, there were only 5 or so questions and I would have liked the opportunity to talk about the book itself in more detail. Richard Harries stated his case well and with dignity, and did well considering that most people were definitely there to see Pullman. Both answered the questions with good grace. I also enjoyed meeting Pullman, albeit very briefly, at the book signing afterwards.

As a baptised, educated and married Catholic, I cannot get away from the question of faith and religion, i.e. I ask myself regularly just what it is I believe in. I cannot say that I am a committed Catholic, I don’t believe in a heaven or hell afterlife, and I am at best open-minded on the question of whether Jesus was who the Church says he was. Nor can I accept the Church on sexuality, homosexuality or women priests. The idea of the universe is to me just as big an idea as the idea of god. In fact, I think my views are probably closer to atheism than I am prepared to admit. I hesitate to admit this because I cannot believe that the spark of human consciousness has nowhere to go after death, and I struggle to shake the idea that there is / was a creative force which set the world in motion. Perhaps the universe is god, which is another good reason not to waste paper, I suppose ....

And for all the bad that the Catholic Church has done and continues to do, it does a huge amount of good as well, and this needs true and open acknowledgement. It’s just that I can’t accept that the only way to live a moral life is to be an adherent of an acknowledged religion, and I cannot accept any religion which dictates to who you can and cannot sleep with, and when – as if that’s anyone institutional business at all.

Still, Catholicism is ingrained in a part of me; Pullman’s book sent me back to the originals to find out more, which is what he said he wanted. I wonder if the Catholics and Anglicans should start writing some historical fiction on Jesus as well; if they believe in the Bible stories, then they have an impeccable source.

In and out of focus

2010-11-01T23:16:00.003Z

Much of my job involves editing; I quite like it. Much of my job also involves discussing complicated documents with senior professionals with a view to clarifying both documents and processes; I find this very rewarding. Some of my job, however, involves data entry; I hate it. I'm quite fast at it these days, but it's rather difficult to focus when other things are taking my attention:

- the prospect of beginning training for the marathon is looming large and exciting

- Paris as an option for a cheap holiday with some relatives early next year

- we are moving flat in several weeks time and I can't wait

- we are thinking hard of relocating to Germania and all that entails

- if we do move there, the prospect of finding work, and what kind of work it would be, is quite daunting

- how and when I will fit in a German language course to brush up my skills

- whether I will or should publish my PhD as a proper book, and how and when I will do it

- whether I will ever make time for kayaking, karate-ing

- am I really never going to play rugby again?!!?!

- whether I will ever make time and money to do a photography course

- whether I can be bothered to set up a FlickR page for this blog

- that it's going to be a long 30 days til pay day (it's a TUESDAY!!!!)

- that the excellent weekend seems like an age ago

- what else we can do this weekend: bring the Friday evening!

- why Friday evening drinking is absolutely, totally and utterly limited to three pints these days, and that of London Pride, no longer Guinness ....

And such and such.

Data entry: it never stood a chance!!!

Mums and sons

2010-10-31T10:30:00.000Z

“We went on a ‘mums and sons’ trip to Berlin. It’s a bit gay, but what can you do?"

This from a gay friend of mine, describing a holiday with his partner and their respective mothers. Priceless.

Germany, saunas and playing your own game.

2010-10-30T11:27:00.002+01:00

There’s much I love about Germany. The food is usually of a high quality, the people are friendly and I now have a large extended family there. A good Bavarian village’s worth, or possibly two such villages, counting extended cousins, horses and the odd pony or two.

But with the sweet comes the sour. The useless German pillows for one: either tiny ones the shape of an extra long toilet roll, devoid of both softness and pliability, or huge square shaped monstrosities into which your head sinks to a level seemingly below your shoulders. Utterly worthless. You’d be better off resting your head on a guillotine; at least the basket in which your ends up is likely to be firm.

Then there’s the toilets. I hate their toilets. Not because they’re filthy (they aren’t) but because of the ‘Continental shelf’ on which your stools reside, for your considered inspection, before you flush.

Why?

Why do the Germans hate themselves so much? Only a nation with deep-seated self loathing would develop a toilet system in which flushing away your crap is a two step process, during which you’re confronted by your own glistening stench like a naughty puppy: “SEE BOY? LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE? Sniff it! SNIFF IT!!!! Now don’t do it again!!!!”

Another area in which the UK used to have a healthy lead in the highly competitive Anglo-German one-upmanship stakes concerns saunas. We didn't do them: default win.

I’ve written elsewhere of the German sauna: entirely naked men and women making small talk about the view out of the window* whilst you sweat your arse off in a boiling hot room in the pursuit of relaxation and I suppose good skin. I’d assigned this particular win to the UK precisely because we don’t do saunas. Historically, if a British man is in possession of a small hot unpleasant room, and wants to make money out of it, he will install a bar and call it an inn; then, when equal rights were established, women chartered such areas for changing rooms in shops. There is little open appetite for saunas amongst most Brits I know. Things however have changed and I experienced, to my profound horror, a nostalgic feeling for the German sauna last week; not because I missed the sauna per se, but if you’re going to do something, you might as well not make a shit job of it. Unfortunately, the British are now doing saunas and those which I've experienced have taken the above maxim, omitted the ‘not’ and pursued it to its nth degree.

Why else would you put not one but two carpeted rugs on the main floor of a room in which there is a swimming pool and jacuzi? And leave them in sodden pools of water? Why else would you run a lukewarm ‘aromatherapy room’ in which the ‘aroma’ is so pathetic that it might as well come from a day-old cup of peppermint tea, and in which there is no provision to hose down your seat from the previous occupants? And why else would you run a sauna in which people sweat directly onto the wood, leaving you with the pleasant choice of which wet patch to park yourself on?

Why, indeed.

So, I am forced to concede German superiority in this field; and I can no longer claim that it doesn’t matter because we are now playing that game. At least before we could stand on the sidelines and laugh. Now we are playing them at their own game and are losing, badly. British saunas have all the appeal of the dog’s bollocks. This will not do! It’s like England trying to beat New Zealand at rugby by playing like New Zealand: we can’t do it, so why bother? Playing to your strengths is the only way to go. If I must go to the sauna, then I must accept German superiority in this area; I must discard my swimming trunks, sit on my towel and discuss something pointless with probably a man with a pony-tail, and try to ignore the huge arse next to my head and the fact that we’re all boiling hot and naked.

Sitting in a foggy corner trying to read the Daily Telegraph profoundly won’t work.

If England are to beat New Zealand on Saturday, then, they must play to their mongrel, Lewis Moody-like strengths of ferocious aggression and brute concussive force, with a some sharp pace, flair and imagination mixed in. Granted, those last three aren’t normally associated with English rugby, but we should have enough ex-Kiwis in our team now for that to start to rub off. England by 5 ... ish ....

*Including one unbelievably painful conversation about a squirrel climbing up a tree. And back down it again. And up again. And down again. And up ...

Guns n Roses, O2 Arena, 14.10.10

2010-10-27T21:04:00.007+01:00

"Axel Axel Axel, why oh why oh why?"

Not the question you really want to be thinking a third of the way into a Guns n Roses gig, but on current form it's a question that's difficult to avoid. The GnR wangon rocked up at the O2 Arena on Thursday 14.10.10 on the back of a sold-out show there the previous evening. Reports said that they were late on stage and that Axel was getting shirty with the crowd: standard stuff. But other omens were not good. North Greenwich tube advertised that the last central bound tube was due to leave shortly after 00.03, i.e. approximately 15 mins before the band were due to stop playing; anyone wanting to get that train was advised to leave the gig at 23:30. Leave a gig - a GnR gig at that - early?! Not done that before! That's a sure sign of getting on a bit!

In the event, I did leave around that time, right after a pretty cheery 'Sweet Child of Mine'. Excellent choon, and always always leave on a good song. But leave? Early?

The band played very well but Axel has assembled such a strong team of guitarists, keyboardists and other musicians that, musically, he is now the weak link. While on one song he sounds great like it's 1987; the next, he sounds like a middle aged man struggling for breath. Which is exactly what he is. I'm afraid that one purpose of his fine musical troop is to give Old Man Rose a breather; while he buggered off every fourth song for a 'costume change', he band played fine versions of, e.g., the James Bond theme tune. Great stuff in its own way, but not what I paid sixty odd quid for.

When they did play proper Guns n Roses music, it was excellent. 'Welcome to the Jungle', 'Rocket Queen', 'Mr Brownstone', 'It's so easy' 'Live and let Die' and such all set the crowd on fire. But then came the lengthy and numerous musical interludes. And worse, then came the 'Chinese Democracy' music. It's not that it's bad stuff, it's just that it could be any post-2000 metal band with an industrial edge; it's mediocre. By that definition, it's not Guns n Roses - the very epitome of cartoonish outlandishness and great distinctive music. So the momentum of the gig kept on being disrupted; at one moment the crowd was going wild at having Duff McKagan, GnR bassist from the glory days, back on stage. The next, everyone was scratching their heads at the crap visuals and boring music of Chinese Democracy.

Ahh, the visuals. Tearful women being tied up and threatened by long haired men? On more than one song? I know GnR aren't renowned for being in the vanguard of feminism, but that's pretty distasteful. Then there's the F1 cars. That's right: footage of F1 Ferrarris going, you know, really really fast around corners? Symbolising the 'fast and dangerous' music?

All a bit shit really!

So yes, I left early, after about 90 mins of gig, probably only 60 of which involved actual GnR music. When it happened, it was great - I really loved it. But it didn't happen nearly often enough. Barely worth putting your bandanna on for.

Post 23.30 round-up: the gig actually went on until nearly 01.00 which is pretty good! Apparently Axel cheered up the later it got, admitted he had (unusually) nothing to rant about and polished off most of 'Appetite for Destruction' and good chunks of the better bits of the 'Use Your Illusion' monstrosity. But all this was preceded and punctuated by extended jamming .... without a good coffee or ten in sight, I would have snoozed right through it ...

London Parks Half Marathon 10.10.10

2010-10-11T22:46:00.010+01:00

Being gay must be hard work. I was thinking of this whilst my wife and I observed a gay couple walking across Hammersmith Bridge, holding hands. Imagine the grief you get: in any number of countries across the globe, you can be lawfully persecuted for being gay; in this one, you run a much higher risk of attracting assault and interference. Imagine the outrage there'd rightly be if some nutter abused a husband and wife for holding hands; now imagine the probable lower levels of outrage at such an assault against a hubby and hubby. And London's quite gay-friendly.

As I trundled around central London last Sunday whilst partaking in the London Royal Parks Half Marathon, I was moved to similar thoughts about women - the 'weaker' sex. To be honest, I've never really bought the 'weaker sex' argument; I was raised in a strongly matriarchical household: Irish mothers and grannies have a reputation for a reason, and they deserve it. Nevertheless, if you're a woman you get automatically dismissed as weaker; ok, there's something in this at elite sports level, and in terms of pure beef most men probably rule the roost, but beyond that? I've seen enough women glide past me on different running routes to have it made very clear to me that gender ain't always the difference; and I know that it ain't just me stumbling around like a lame-o.*

Still, my own modest levels of talent did me reasonably proud on my first ever half marathon. It was a sore trial in some respects (with the accent on sore) - I've never hit the wall before: I now know how painful it is to really run on empty. And the chafing. Oh, the chafing. But I stumbled over the finish line a little after two hours after I started: this I was happy to accept as a non-disgrace, even though I had trained for a time around the 1 hour 50 - 55 mark. The mental challenge of keeping on going, and the sense of relief and relaxation which enveloped me after crossing the line, made it all worthwhile; plus, there's something about being part of a big event like this which provides an enjoyable sense of fellowship with your like-minded joggers. I hate being on the outside looking in.

Highlights? The course was a biggie. It started in Hyde Park, brought us out to Lambeth Bridge, along the Thames and back to Trafalgar Square; then through Admiralty Arch up the Mall and James' Park and Green Park. We saw lots of Hyde Park as the Serpentine marked the 7 mile point - just 6 to go, then .... It helped by being a beautiful autumnal day. Celeb watch: I ran shoulder to shoulder with the Cheeky Girls for a while, except I didn't realise it was them until ex-Olympian Iwan Thomas shouldered me out the way to do an interview. He was remarkably keen on them, and everyone was amused by how the cameras were kept rolling as the Cheekies minced off. "I doubt it's my arse they're filming!" said one guy next to me, "At least, I hope not!"

The stars of the show, however, proved to be the guys from British Military Fitness who conducted the funniest ever warm-up I've participated in. Despite a few nerves at the start (addressing a 10 000+ crowd - who can blame them?) they quickly got us reaching for the fruit from the trees, wagging our fingers at all the doubters, and doing a version of the funky chicken which they seemed to enjoy more than anyone. And there were people around me in tears of laughter. Hats off!

The feckers of the show? A toss-up between some inconsiderate cyclists who thought it amusing to RIDE AGAINST AND ACROSS THE FLOW OF RUNNERS! Some inconsiderate pedestrians for the same. Plus one remarkably callous runner who sent a young woman flying by weaving onto and then off the pavement on Lambeth Bridge without looking; nasty injury and he didn't even stop, even though he knew he did it.

The event was very well organised, with lots of water, lucozade products, fruit and free sweeties. There was a market afterwards, complete with a hog-roast, but I was happy to slope off home to a nice hot bath and to contemplate the prospect of doing the whole thing x 2: the full marathon in Paris, home of half of my ancestors, next year. As Delboy would say, "Mange tout, mon amis, mange tout!"

Unfortunately, the Royal Parks Race is now going to be ballot based entry from next year. Here's the link. But if you're interested, then I can heartily recommend it as a fun and fulfilling day out.

* Just to prove that I too have my very own prejudices, I happily and cheerfully admit to a deep-seated loathing of and contempt for white-guys dreadlocks, and baggy beany hats - especially those worn on warm sunny days. I absolutely, without exception hate them. Why? Smugness. I think they are the smuggest hat / hair combination known to the universe. Plus, every bugger sporting this combo CONFORMS TO THE TEMPLATE of scraggy stubbly pointy beard teamed either with baggy Earth-tone rags and charity mugger clip-board, or ironic trouser, shirt n jumper option. Why? Is it the Law of the Skank? Do you have to sign a contract? Now, I'm no enemy of the beard myself; I'm often seen wearing stubble (aka 'Lazy Man's Face'); I too wear clothes; some of them are baggy. But, but, for the sake of my blood pressure, I'll leave it there.

Rory Stewart 'The places in between'.

2010-10-03T01:10:00.010+01:00

A few years ago in my mid 20s I did Karate. I loved it. Life, however, got in the way and I’ve not managed to pick it up again for a while. Not that I was particularly good anyway: while others could imitate our sensei’s 15-step moves more or less immediately, and with little imperfection, I’d have to pipe up and say, “Whoah whoah whoah, let’s rewind to the beginning: So the left hand and the left foot go where?!”

It was around this time that, perhaps coincidently, I became very good at press-ups ...

But it wasn’t this which left me with a searing sense of inadequacy. I’ve long been reconciled to my “co-ordination” “skills”. No. It just so happened that not only was sensei’s second-in-command a third Dan in our form of karate (shotokan) but he was also a second Dan in another form of karate, plus a first Dan in Hanbo (karate staff fighting) and in Ju-jitsu. “Ah, but everybody has their talent – his is an athletic one!” You Might Think. Not this guy. He was also 18 months younger than me, a qualified medical doctor, training to be a heart surgeon, good fun and therefore very popular. Not too shabby.

It can be painful when you meet someone who’s good at stuff you’d like to be good at, better than you at stuff you are good at, and generally hyper-successful. Predictably, he punched like a mule in training. Luckily he never kicked me ....

However. From people like these a person can learn. And all of the above comes from hard work; I can only respect that.

So I put aside feelings of smallness to pick up the book of another high flier: Rory Stewart’s “The places in between”, an account of his trek across Afghanistan in January 2002. I was glad I did. It’s a fascinating, well-written account of that trek: part anthropology of the different Afghan peoples, part history of the land; part political commentary on the government, part open diary of the trials and tribulations, highs and lows of his journey.

There were many highs and lows. He started his journey in Herat in western Afghanistan and marched across the central mountains to Kabul. On his trip, he encountered a range of people – all extremely poor, nearly all male – many of whom helped him in even the smallest ways, whether that be a bed in the stable or mosque, or some food or even safe passage (Stewart can speak Farsi, so could communicate OK).

If I ask myself whether I would allow a dirty, stinking stranger, a foreigner, into my home, feed him and shelter him for the night, then I know that my answer is no, I would not. Sad but true. Many of the people Stewart met did however precisely that, regardless of their terrible poverty. At one point in the book I did question how arrogant a person from the West must be to demand shelter and aid from such people, and to complain when it is no generously forthcoming. Stewart realises this himself, however. He does not attempt to justify his actions in light of this, but he has made a long-term contribution to the region by founding a major organisation with a view to helping to develop business and regeneration in Kabul. The book is also dedicated to the people who helped him; the dedication is worth reading for its unsentimental but heartfelt thanks.

Many of the other highlights of the book include observations on Aghanistan’s historic monuments and relics. During the course of his travels, for example, Stewart identified a site which he believed to have been the lost city of Firuzkuh, in the wonderfully named Turquoise Mountains, destroyed in 1216 by Genghis Khan. This being Aghanistan, the triumphs are tempered by the despair; in this case, the despair comes at the record of this invaluable, priceless heritage being dug-up by the art-market and being sold off for mere 5 or 10 single dollars. Stewart records that locals, with access to sites from which Iron Age, Greco-Macedonian, Afghan, Mongolian, Buddhist, Jewish, Christian and Islamic archaeology could be retrieved, would happily take payment from scholarly societies if they wanted to set up proper, carefully researched excavations; so long as the payment comes, locals are happy. The antiques market can move more quickly though, however, and the destruction of this heritage is galling. But then the locals do have to eat ... what is the UN for again?

There are some profoundly entertaining, insightful and revealing moments in this book, and I can thoroughly recommend it. Stewart writes with conviction and feeling, and I was left with the strong impression that he writes with a great deal of honesty too.

Despite, or perhaps because of, having two first names, Stewart has carved out a fantastically successful and interesting life. Sandhurst, Oxford, Foreign Office, two year trek from Turkey to Bangladesh, district governor in Iraq, Harvard, CEO, author and, currently, Conservative MP for Penrith and the Border. It should make me weep with sadness at my own shortcomings, but I am happy to saw that the book cheered me up and added fuel to my aim to make the most of my life, however modest my own ambitions might be in comparison.

You can see a small selection of photos from his trek here.

Tuned in

2010-09-05T02:00:00.007+01:00

It’s six or seven years since I compiled my last mix tape. Why is this important? I suppose it’s not important, but it is personal,* which is partly what this blog is for. Important personal trivia such as this: I am about to synch my i-pod with my new computer, thereby wiping my ‘most listened to 25 tracks’ since I’ve had the ‘pod over the past few months.

This is of trivial importance to me because I used to measure my life by music. I used it to settle my mood, ramp it up, lower it down. My life almost became the backdrop to my soundtrack; music become a drug-like leveller for my nerves, which in my early 20s often jangled uncontrollably unless I got my musical balance Just Right. Thus it became ridiculous and, like any unhealthy addiction / obsession, that which started innocently enough, began to feed parts of my personality that are much better kept under control: e.g. Obsession.

It is now under control: I don’t even always listen to it whilst running any more, although I often do (and always have music with me when I run).

But, as a result of this, music is strong part of my personal history, and it interests me to compare between how things were and now are. I used to love compiling mix tapes. Granted, many of my early ones (on tape) weren't, on reflection, very mixed. One particular classic constituted 45 mins of Pantera on side one, 10 more mins of Pantera on side 2 (different albums = different sound!) plus assorted songs by Cathedral, Paradise Lost, Napalm Death, Pitchshifter and of course Sepultura. But of course, Sepultura. Around 1997/8, I was ready to try something a little more adventurous: I reduced the amount of Pantera by several minutes to accommodate some Metallica, Black Sabbath and The Off-spring, not to mention Fear Factory, Machine Head and Type O Negative. I was a dirty, rotten, whoring sell-out for doing so, but I loved it. Give it to me baby: a-ha, a-ha!!!

Then I went to University. Metal came with me, but it gradually became supplemented by soft rock like Led Zeppelin, Red Hot Chilli Peppers and the Gladiator soundtrack (I AM Maximus Decimus Crowe etc) . Eventually I stopped buying Kerrang! and got a life: I began to acknowledge deeply hidden secrets, e.g. my love of Mo-town, old skool soul and a little bit of London Ska (but by no means House Music). I think it was all the multi-various club nights in Camden Town which did it – for all that Camden is a mettlar’s hang-out, plenty of other musical chimes can be heard. Metal lived on in the form of Black Sabbath and Down, who I still listen to, but by 2004 I happily admitted enjoyment of everything including Abba, Adiemus, Bobby Womack, Black Legend, Outkast and even Sting’s solo stuff. Even that. So, I decided to do a new, uber mix tape, entitled The Devil’s Jukebox. It was excellent, and still is awesome. The full listing is as follows:

U.N.K.L.E: Guns Blazing

Alicia Keys: Piano and I

John Lee Hooker: Boom boom

Led Zeppelin: Custard Pie

The Rolling Stones: Brown Sugar

Guns n Roses: Sweet Child o Mine

Madness: One Step Beyond

Abba: Waterloo

Morcheeba: In the hands of the Gods

The Sugar Hill Gang: Rapper’s Delight

Barry White: You see the trouble with me

Bobby Womack: Across 110^th Street

Iggy Pop: Kill City

The Strokes: New York City Cops

Massive Attack: Unfinished Sympathy

The Cure: Burn

Down: Bury Me in Smoke

Sepultura: Kaiowas

They weren’t necessarily all my favourite songs of my favourite bands; I love Queen, for example, but couldn’t fit one of theirs in; no Beatles, no Black Sabbath, no Moby ... Fallin’ is a much better song than Piano and I, but Piano and I fitted better: I compiled it in such a way as to make it sound like an album – and a very diverse one, at that; I think I succeeded. I also limited myself to one song per band; this was very hard. I circulated a few copies to a few close friends, and even my then girlfriend listened to her copy; since she is now my wife, it can’t have been too scary.

It was great fun to put together. But, looking at my i-pod over the past few months, not a single one of those songs has featured, even though I have that compilation on my machine. I take music far, far less seriously than I used to – and am healthier and happier for it. Still, it’s nice to compare what washes away and what stays. In the next blog post, I’ll entertain us all with what’s being wiped from the pod. So tune in or tune out, as they say ....

* Terry Pratchett, “Personal’s not the same as important.” It is sometimes, but not always: guilty guilty guilty ....

OK?

2010-08-30T22:37:00.002+01:00

Despite working for my current employer for a year, I was nevertheless required to attend the formal induction last week. So, in lieu of doing work which needs to get done, I spent two days (two, count 'em) listening to a multitude of poor saps witter on about stuff no-one appears to care about. No one cares, that is, apart from Recruitment Services and Legal Services, so the company can't get sued for not telling you BILLY DON'T BE A HERO!!! LEAVE THAT FIRE EXTINGUISHER ALONE!!! Water and electricity don't work in even fire situations, apparently. Predictably, I've met no-one with anything positive to say about the official induction, apart from those who enjoyed it as an opportunity to slack without blame. I can now look in the mirror and number myself in the former group: the induction was largely a bunch of arse, and I had to spend several days after it catching up on the work which I really needed to do. Bitter, angry, bitter, etc etc.

So, I spent a whole hour of my life on the first morning listening to the head of security helpfully pointing out "If you leave your i-pod out on your desk it might get nicked", whilst another gimboid stretched out the basic message "Don't bend your back when picking stuff up" into a whole hour 'komedy' sketch, complete with advice on how to clench your arse muscles when they get numb from sitting. Basic Manual Handling Training.

A. Whole. Hour.

The final nail in the coffin of my will to live was hammered home after lunch on DAY ONE OF TWO when a man with an unwise taste in shirts* said the word 'ok' on average once every 12 seconds. How do I know? Because after his presentation had rambled on for 45 mins, on feck knows what, aided of course by powerpoint, the word 'ok' was drilling a small but very painful and insistent hole into my inner ear; so, I started keeping a tally chart to count each time he said 'ok' in order to stop myself willing myself to die. Between 14:15 and 14:26, he said 'ok' SEVENTY FIVE times. I made a game of it and played 'OK BINGO' to myself. I got a full house. SEVENTY FIVE TIMES. I kept saying to myself 'don't be too caustic, he's just doing his job,' and then he said 'OK' three times in a row and my pen tore through my paper in despair. Deep, black, deep, dark, deep deep deep despair.

This made the woman next to me laugh, though, which took some heat ofF me as she incurred his dirty looks, not I. I was however hallucinating with boredom at this point so he could have been waving a chainsaw in my face and I wouldn't have noticed. In fact, the health and safety officer made a wildly entertaining hour-long spiel which precisely included a chainsaw as a very effective visual aid. Best presentation of the day by any number of miles, and a fundamentally good, entertaining presentation to boot. OK?

*Medium sized shirt on a large size beer belly? Even - even - I can see the lack of wisdom behind that choice, unless you're willing to go the whole hog and wear that shirt as a mad loud and bad Hawaiian party shirt ... but even then ....

PS It was originally a three day course, but due to financial cutbacks, they've cut it to the bone to cram it into two days. I think it's less a financial consideration than a health and safety ones. You sit 30 people in a small warm room and bore them with a pathological intensity for two days, then the presenters on day three are not going to be well received. Death by 30 paper cuts or some such ...

On back rubs and nakedness

2010-08-26T01:21:00.005+01:00

Honeymoon: one of my wife’s reasons for advocating our honeymoon hotel as our place of choice was the availability of massages. The hotel looked good to me and, since I fancied some Alpine air (we were married in the Bavarian Forest, so not far away), it seemed like a winning match. We could enjoy the scenery, then I could slack around whilst my wife gets her back rubbed.

Err, nice.

Me, I've never been interested in wellness activities; I'm perfectly capable of working up a sweat on my own moist self without recourse to a sauna, for example, and the whole thing goes against my grain. Plus, there's the issue of nakedness. Austro-German saunas are "Nude or Nothing". You've got to let it all hang out and, apart from the steam, there's no place to hide. And there's a lot to hide from. Finally, I’ve never felt the need to pay for a message when there’s a floor to lay on. Plus, again, there’s my ingrained British fear of foreign nakedness ...

Nevertheless.

As a sign of things to come*, my new wife booked me in for a massage, regardless of my reservations. "But how bad can it be?" thinks I, contemplating a hot young Austrian called Claudia or Heidi or some such rubbing my back, for legitimate, non-face-slap-inducing purposes.

Imagine my dismay, then, and wife’s corresponding amusement, when my masseuse turned out to be a middle-aged *masseur* called Hannes! A man! I nearly dropped my towel in surprise, but then remembered that he wanted me to drop it, so I clung on tighter. Not a drop of alcohol in sight to ease the pain either. Damn! A sniifter of schnapps would have been just the trick. I quickly totted up my options, and came to the sad conclusion not to reject Herr Hannes’ tender advances – this would have caused me to lose face. Losing face is unacceptable at the best of times, more so when a slightly camp looking man is grinning at me and warming his hands whilst I look on, wearing Not Much, Rather Flimsily. So I ungritted my teeth, loosed my towel somewhat and said something along the lines of "Great! I've been looking forward to this!!"

Mustn't lose face ...

It was not uncomfortable.

But. I was so relaxed at this point in our honeymoon that there were no muscular knots to be found. This swiftly changed, however, when Mr Hannes decided to work down my back to my sciatic region; in other words, this meant I experienced something I've not often felt since my rugby days: another man's hand on my arse. And this time he was trying to be nice, rather than kick it or bite it off; I found this profoundly unsettling. Apparently this is quite normal practice – one’s arse is often the root of one’s muscular trouble. And, as far as I could judge, he seemed to know what he was doing. Still, I've never been so glad of being so hairy, which I regarded as a small but potent form of natural revenge.

*Actually how they are, and have been for some time; Ladies, you know how these things work and are probably nodding knowingly; Gents, let this be a warning to you ....

Back on the trail: week 7

2010-07-19T08:07:00.003+01:00

Last week I ran 28.38 km in 171.28 mins.

A much better week; there was noticeable improvement in my ability to maintain my pace over longer distances - I ran for longer distances and slightly faster. It's still a mental effort to keep the pace up instead of slowing down to a more comfortable rate, however, and that is as big a challenge as the physical one.

Intruder alert.

2010-07-17T20:37:00.008+01:00

Some fucker tried to break into our flat last night!

The first we knew of it was when the door buzzer went; we live on the first floor of a mansion block to which non-key holders need to be buzzed in. I thought it was probably either a drunk or a mistake, but got out of bed to inspect; it's around 23.30. I reach our flat's front door and hear a hive of activity; I look out through the spyhole and see a shaven headed, stubbley bloke, plus at least one other rushing around the landing; they're barking words at each other and I hear radios. "Shit!" thinks I; the stubbley guys then says to someone out of sight, "Can you hear someone behind the door?" and starts banging on it; "Who the hell're you?!!!" I'm pretty pissed off at this point. "Police offers!" they say; I'm bewildered. "Any ID?"; the lack of uniform and slovenly look (to be fair, it's like looking in the mirror ...) makes me suspicious; I wonder if it's some kind of scam to gain entry and sack the place, but two police IDs are thrust assertively to the spyhole. I begin to feel like a medieval gate keeper, "OK I can't really see them - gonna get my glasses" "Sir, a uniform officer is now present if you look through your spyhole." I see the uniform, 'Christ' thinks I, "What's the problem?" "Sir can you let us in? It's kind of urgent" "OK let me get dressed!"

Seconds later I open the door to PC Nick and his plain clothes mates; they rush in and tell me a black guy was seen standing on the porch to the building; clearly ain't me then! Why?! He was trying to get onto your window ledge; are your windows open?" "Let's go!" I say. We rush into the front room; "Is it how you left it?" "Anything disturbed?" "Laptop's on table, windows are shut." "No-one here [we check behind sofa] and no sign of disturbance." "Why us?" "Aaaaah, the internal double glazing panels are up and we've left them 'open'; the external windows are locked closed so it's ok, but it looks from the outside that the actual windows are open." "Christ!"

With that, they apologise for disturbing us, I apologise for being rude to them before I knew that they were police - I meant it; we all apologise again, and grin. Mu fiancee is up and joining in. They reassure us that there are a lot of plain clothes about tonight since there have been a lot of burglaries recently. "Dial 999 and we'll be straight over!" They leave; can't have been here five minutes. We look out the window again; there are bloody loads of them outside, mostly plain clothes. They wave, we wave, and I go about closing all the double glazing.

I then make sure that my hurley is where I think it is (it is) and that my hanbo (japanese fighting stick) is also where I trust it to be (it is too). I swear a bit and, to prove to to my German girl that cliches are cliches because they are true, I make a cup of tea.

And yesterday they've been saying crime's at its lowest level since 1981! Some muggers threaten my brother with a knife in the past six weeks (it was ok, no-one got hurt and nothing was lost) my boss' son got him with a hammer by some feckin' hoody (he's also ok - no damage done apart from a headache) and now this! My arse!!

But still, if it works as a reminder to make sure that the house looks secure, as well as actually being secure, then there's a silver lining. And regardless of all the negative press incurred by the police, my experience of them in this instance was excellent.

So make sure you lock up, people ...

Cheek to cheek.

2010-07-15T23:52:00.004+01:00

Uber Arse Kelvin McKenzie just called George Galloway a 'disgusting piece of humanity' on This Week. That's amazing. McKenzie is an arse of the highest magnitude, just like Galloway; why the hell are they still clogging up the screens? They have nothing worthwhile to say; all they do is ventilate their bluster and score cheap points. Both crap! Less two sides of the same coin than two cheeks of the same arse. Still, it's funny to see a worm like KM make a good point whilst trying to take the moral high ground; careful down there KM - you might get vertigo ...

On the undead.

2010-07-14T23:59:00.006+01:00

This comment was posted on Charlie Brooker's review of the new Twilight flim on the Guardian's website and it made me chuckle:

"I tried to watch Twilight 2 and ended up shitting myself after half an hour in an involuntary dirty protest. I'm not even going to try Twilight 3, I don't have the sphincter strength" jonnyboy71

You too can recommend it here.

I discovered jonnyboy71 on the rugby blogs of The Guardian. For all the other faults of that poxy mag, the sports blogs are often pretty good, and jb71 is a witty fecker who's well worth keeping an eye on.

Back on the trail: week 6

2010-07-11T21:23:00.005+01:00

Last week I ran 22.74 km in 140 mins and 11 seconds.

A mixed bag. One pretty good bout of interval training during which I managed 6.1 km at 5.45 mins per km pace; this was preceded by a steady 45 min run in which I reduced my pace by 15 seconds on the previous week's equivalent - so not bad. The most frustrating run of the week was however Sunday's hour-long jog: a real missed opportunity. I simply failed to eat properly beforehand and ran out of steam after about 20 mins; I plodded on for the full hour but was much much slower than I could and should have been. To put it into perspective, I ran 55 mins this Tuesday (week 7) but ran further, in less time, with much less effort. Damn.

At least it gave me plenty of time to think over my upcoming speeches!

Keep on runnin' ...

It's brand new!

2010-07-08T23:57:00.002+01:00

Ferrari have unveiled a brand new design for their F1 cars: it's bright red ...

Hard Rock Calling! Hyde Park, 27th June.

2010-07-07T23:04:00.007+01:00

This was the second 'Hard Rock Calling!' gig I've been to; it's a bloody awful name isn't it? It tries to equate 'Hard Rock' with 'Hyde Park', and then references in 'London Calling' because that's a London choon, and Hyde Park's, you know, in London. Marketing guys: sleep easy. If you can flog this crap, then you'll never be stuck for work.

Unlike the name, the music was excellent. Once I heard that Paul McCartney was playing, it was an easy decision to whip out the credit card and thank the devil for plastic. And I'm glad I did because his set, nigh on three hours long, was one of the best gigs I've ever seen. I've seen lots of live music, but McCartney was a cut above: a genuine, indisputable legend. A Beatle. How about that on your CV?

He was well good. Despite being 68 years old, he says things like 'Let's rock' or 'Time to rock this place out' with more conviction and believability than any other rock star I've seen; that list includes Ozzy Osborne, in and out of Black Sabbath, whose only coherent spoken word is 'rock' (well, that and 'fuckers'....) He was funny, sparky and, after an absolutely storming version of 'Live and Let Die', completely nonchalant. "Don't know why you're all going nuts, we've just played a song" he says, sprawled lazily across his piano.

The music was of course exceptional. Highlights for me included 'Jet' (by 'Wings' - the band the Beatles could've been) through to 'Dance Around'; he played 'Yesterday' on his own for encore number 2 of 3 or 4, closed the proper set with 'Hey Jude', and rounded encore three off with an absolutely stonking 'Helter Skelter'. They finished with 'Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts' Club' and Sir Paul shooed us all home, singing in the stars.

The last time I reviewed Hard Rock Calling, I heartily recommended that, should 'The Police' reform, you'd be strongly advised to go. Yet again, I'm happy to say that the headline act was worth every single penny. We saw virtually nothing of the rest of the day due to a bike ride and a football match, but if you get the chance to see Paul McCartney the next time he tours, then go; busk for a week, sell the cat, Do What You Have To Do, just go.

I f irst reviewed Hard Rock Calling because I couldn't find a decent write-up; writing that review got me started on properly trying to write this blog. So incidentally, then, happy birthday (spiritually speaking) blog!

Back on the trail: week 5

2010-07-05T13:29:00.005+01:00

Last week I ran 19.56 km in 119.14 mins.

Strange week, last week. I started out on Monday badly: I didn't stretch properly before the run so, with slightly heavy legs after the 21 km Bikeathon on Sunday morning, it was "thighs of concrete, joints of crushed class, arse of lead" time. To my surprise, then, I managed a reasonably respectable 7 km even though the pace per km was not great. The next day I ran 5.86 at a much better pace in 10 fewer minutes; more interval training. The third run saw a longer distance version of the interval training: 12 minutes fast, 4 minutes slow. I was five seconds per km quicker than the previous run, so this is the type of progress I'm looking for.

I've started noticing, however, that the mental effort required to push myself is becoming much greater than the physical effort. This is partly a good sign: I'm starting to get fitter, or at least acclimatised to the running; it's starting to become easier to maintain a respectable speed which, whilst still needing effort to maintain, does not require the effort that it used to.

The next challenge will be to up the effort again so that I'm training at the right intensity. It really ain't easy ...

The quiet man roars.

2010-07-01T23:32:00.005+01:00

I haven't watched Question Time for a while - 'This Week' is more my taste. But I've been lucky tonight: Iain Duncan Smith has fuelled one of the most passionate, knowledgeable and empathetic debates on unemployment, crime and rehabilitation I've witnessed from a politician - this in the presence of Camillia Batmanghelidjh against whom, it might be thought, Iain Duncan Cough might be slightly overshadowed. Not a bit of it. His years spent plugging away on Conservative social policy - some of it working with Batmanghelidjh - found a very public release on this evening's QT: he advocated revamping the prison system in order to reduce the re-offending rate and, consequentially, spoke compassionately about the dire backgrounds and outlook of many of those young men who make an early start on the road to crime. Such people, he said, have no hope because they can barely read, barely write, and have got no chance of filling in a job form. They have no education and find solace in gangs; it reminded me of some of the kids I met at the Lambeth school I worked at last year. I found it very persuasive, and can buy into the aim of either intervention (of what kind???) before that world gets its claws stuck in, or in giving them better prospects before it's too late.

But it's a difficult balancing act. I classify myself as tough on crime; I am extremely low on sympathy for people who commit violent crimes against others, and I believe that prison works to the extent that it keeps the public safe from these people. Throw drugs into the mix, though, and you've got a much more difficult problem to solve.

I'm increasingly of the opinion that drugs should be legalised, taxed and controlled; almost paradoxically, I think that people stuck in the world of drug addiction need serious amounts of help to get them out of that downward spiral. Why legalise it? You can control the price and stop junkies dancing to the dealers' tune; you might then reduce low level petty crime. If you sell it, you can get tax from the sales, and use that to pay for all the things which cigarette and alcohol tax funds. You can include rehabilitation in that, just as you have government funded programmes to get people off of drink and cigarette addiction. Drugs can totally ruin lives.

Having said that, I have no interest in drugs for myself; I do not take them and apart from getting slightly stoned as a dopey youth from other peoples' spliff, I've never had any interest in them. Pills are a turn off, crack is cracked and coke is only of the cola variety for me, never the other. In general I've got nothing against people who use them; in my world view, you should be able to enjoy this type of stuff if that's what you like, and if you're not hurting anyone else. My major problem with drugs is that when you pay a dealer at any level, you're buying into a world of extortion, abuse, people trafficking and general nastyness that stretches from London back to South America and the shocking crimes which drug barons commit there. If drugs are legalised, then you have a lever to control the drugs trade, and a lever is a much better tool for moving something big, heavy and unwieldy like the drugs-crime problem, than a blunt hammer which, under current laws, is what we have now .

I never though IDS, the man who coughed, would lead a debate on all this.

London Bikeathon, 27th June.

2010-06-30T23:51:00.006+01:00

I'm not necessarily the most enthusiastic bicyclist. I don't dislike it, per se, but nor do I feel a great urge to ride my bike particularly often. It was a strange moment, then, when back in May I signed my fiancee and myself up to the London Bikeathon: a bike ride (NB 'ride not race!!!) held in aid of Leukaemia and Lymphona research. It's now in its 14th year, and starts at different parts of town: Ham House in Richmond, the Royal Hospital in Chelsea and at the Thames Barrier; you can do a loop of either 13, 26 or 52 miles. After a second or two of consideration, I plumped for the 13 mile route from Ham House that brought us through Ham to Richmond Park; a few moderate hill climbs brought us to the Roehampton Gate and down past the LTA to the halfway point in Barnes. After a quick pit-stop and a chat with other competitors, we rode on through past Barnes pond and up Mortlake High Street; this brought us past our lovely old flat in Cowley Mansions and up to Mortlake train station; onwards up Sheen Lane through the East Sheen Gate back into Richmond Park. Another moderate hill brought us down a much steeper and faster hill to Petersham Lane and back for some serious Hog Roast at the finish line. Lovely.

It was much more different to the running races I've done. When you set off on foot, you can hear the slap of trainers pounding the pavement, hacking, panting and coughing, plus the buzz of snatched conversation and i-pods; the bike ride was much quieter - the ring of a few bells, and a bit of chatter aside, that was it. It was all very enjoyable and I can heartily recommend it. I think that next year, we'll try something more ambitious ...

Seen and Heard.

2010-06-30T00:30:00.005+01:00

- A guy in Hammersmith: komedy t-shirt's aren't to everyone's taste, but I defy anyone not to smile at this: "To err is human; to arrrgh is pirate."

Class.

- On Tooting high-street: a young boy of 6 or so was whining to his mother that he was tired of walking (it was 8.20 am) and that he didn't want to go to school. The mother's reaction, "Stop being such a little bitch!" I confess I didn't really pick up on the rest of the invective that she launched at the poor young chap - too shocked. If he grows up hating women and the world in general, then the reason why will be sadly, terribly obvious.

- In conversation about hospital legal bills and how discounts are negotiated, "Yes well, if there's a problem with a baby, the costs can run into the millions. By contrast, you'll only get a couple of thousand if you lose your leg."

Practical!

- A true 'scheisse' moment at Clapham Junction train station's underpass. A youngish couple laden with large push-chair, two hefty suitcases and at least one active and mobile toddler came down the many stairs from the platform, and started trundling along to their next destination. The mother says loudly, "Stop!!! Pete, where's your computer?" There was no computer bag over his shoulder; his face said it was on the train.

Scheisse ....

Das Football.*

2010-06-29T23:26:00.007+01:00

Sod the football. I want England to do well as much as anyone, but rarely have I seen a bunch of unsympathetic characters as these; I've got nothing against them earning gazillions pounds of cash - I would never be righteous enough to say 'no thanks' if I had that kind of skill, and if anyone benefits financially from the game, then it may as well be the people who play it. That said, every time I see John Terry's face I get this nigh on irresistable urge to call the rat catcher; ironic really since I swear there's more donkey in his gene pool than rat, but it's probably a close run thing. But the fact that they couldn't put whatever differences they had aside in the pursuit of world cup glory speaks volumes about their strength of character, or lack thereof, and I'll be fully behind Germany in their game against Argentina. But even if Argentina win, at least there'll be the consolation of watching that maniac Maradona liven things up; the game is almost a side-show when he's dancing around like the nutter that he truly, truly is.

* I know it's 'der' Football but, in English, German pronouns are always, always 'Das' ... ;)

Bairisch - Deutsch - English Dictionary: 3

2010-06-29T00:28:00.006+01:00

Time to revive those Bavarian lessons!

Despite complaints from certain sections of the NiederBayerisch audience that 'Bavarian can't be written down', I've yet to hear a convincing counter to my observation that, if Egyptian heiroglyphs can be written, then so can Bairish! I've some sympathy with their complaints: it is an oral language rather than a written language, and it can change quite significantly even over 20 km. It's surprisingly easy to recognise the dialect of my future wife's home locality when her countryfolk chatter on the streets of London, and I've had some very quizzical looks when speaking in my Anglo-Bavarian accent (Brost (cheers)! Innit.) from other Germans; the closest English equivalent is probably either deep Cumbrian, Liverpudlian or Geordie, or even a mix of the three ...

Anyway, just some quick examples today, that together make up one of my favourite Bavarian sentences:

i (prnounced 'eee') = ich = I

hob = habe = have

di (dee) = du / dich = you

ographer = angerufen = called / telephone called.

Bairisch: 'i hob di ographer'

Deutsch: ich habe dich angerufen

English: I called you!

My incomprehension and bewilderment when I first heard 'i hob di ographer' was profound. The actual steps from 'angerufen' to 'ographer' are beyond my abilities to explain. But it's all good fun!

Back on the trail: week 4.

2010-06-29T00:11:00.007+01:00

Last week I ran 9.52 km in 54.56 mins.

According to my training, last week was an 'unload' week: a week in which I was meant to do less training, ease the stress on my limbs and generally enjoy doing less. I took this advice to the max, running the least amount of distance in the slowest amount of time since I officially started training at the beginning of June. I made up for this to some extent with a 21 km bike ride on Sunday on the excellent 'London Bikeathon'; Paul McCartney's storming Hard Rock Calling gig also raised the pulse above the usual Sunday arvo slouch, and 8 hours in my non-air-conditioned, too-dusty-for-a-fan, 30 degree office must also have helped today; but I'll have to get back to it this week, if for no other reason than the, ummm, trials of my impending Stag party will no doubt leave me in a crumpled, damaged heap on Sunday. Ahhh. Just like old times ...

Scheisse!

Keegan's curse?

2010-06-23T21:35:00.005+01:00

Kevin "Kevin" Keegan has just assured everyone that England's last 16 World Cup match with Germany is one that we can win.

I remember the last time that Keegan assured the nation that England would do well; it was England's disastrous penalty shoot out against Argentina in World Cup 1998.

"Can Batty score? Yess he can!!!!"

No, he couldn't.

England are fucked! Banjaxed. Done for. By a man who looks like someone's aunt, and is doing his best to revive the 'duck-tail' hair-do.

Fucked.

komedy

2010-06-23T21:19:00.001+01:00

Comedy podcasts: worth a listen?

Back on the trail: week 3.

2010-06-20T22:54:00.006+01:00

This week I have run 20.92 km in 123 mins.

According to my training schedule, week three is meant to be a toughie; after the build up from weeks one and two, it was time to ramp up pace, distance and time. Distance and time I certainly managed; pace, only marginally. I was most successful at the Interval Training (5 mins slow - 5 mins fast, x 4) and was less successful at maintaining a decent pace over the long steady run. Also worrying was a tight right achilles on Friday morning; in view of this, Sunday night's run was only 20 mins instead of the 50 as listed on my chart. All seems well today, so I'll be back to it tomorrow: this week is 'unload' week, so I'll be deliberately running for less time and for less distance. My kind of week.

Happy summer solstice!

Back on the trail: week 2

2010-06-13T21:02:00.007+01:00

This week I have run 15.68 km in 95.30 mins.

33 mins of that was in very hot and hilly Bavaria, so it should pay-off. At the very least, should equalise out the tasty bbq we enjoyed last night in preparation for the snooze-fest, security nightmare of UK-USA. Fantastic, the bbq; legs like concrete today though ...

Back on the trail, again (Week 1).

2010-06-05T21:37:00.007+01:00

This week I have spent 95 minutes running 15.6 km (not all at once).

The race is October - 10.10.10; it's the Royal Parks half marathon. I've always fancied a crack at the real deal, but injuries, time and laziness have got in the way. This is a good chance to start again, and the route is excellent: it starts in Hyde Park and wends its way out to Blackfriars Bridge via St James' Park, the Houses of Parliament and the London Eye; then it's back through Admiralty Arch along Green Park to Wellington Arch. Then a long circuit around Hyde Park past the Royal Albert Hall at the 12.5 mile point, and then a well earned pie!

I've trained a little over the past month, but this was the official week 1; this is a decent start.

NB I am not a three-legged monster; but I am quite hairy ...

Back in the saddle

2010-06-04T22:56:00.001+01:00

It's nearly a year since I've spent any serious time on a bike, so it was perhaps not the wisest decision to go on a biking trip from Hammersmith to Hampton Court - a good few miles ...

Nevertheless, this is how we spent the Bank Holiday Monday: great fun it was too. We kicked off at Hammersmith Bridge and cycled along the south bank of Thames to Richmond, where we enjoyed a quick pit-stop at a favourite cafe under Richmond Bridge for coffee, hot chocolate and the best chocolate brownies this side of town. Refreshed, we continued along the south

bank to Twickenham pier (close to Petersham) where we crossed the river by old-skool ferry; £1 per adult and 50p per bike for a 30 second crossing and a great view of the Petersham Hotel in Richmond. We then stayed on the north side of the river through Teddington and lots, and lots and lots of boats, including the rather excellently named 'Rastamadeus.' It's brilliant part of town, rather beautiful in a shabby - genteel manner.

The next part of the trip was mostly road riding through to Hampton Wick train station, before we entered the grounds of Hampton Court where, after surprising, and being surprised, by some golfers on an unexpectedly exposed public path (FOOOOOORE!!!!) we were yet more surprised, pleasantly, by the view along Long Water up to Hampton Court, topped off by one white deer, then another, and then another! The deer were everywhere, looking lovely / picturesque / tasty.

After tramping through the grounds - wheeling rather riding the bikes with Park Rangers ahoy - we reached the Thames again, and turned right up to the rather lovely Hampton Court. Except after a two hour bike ride (including break ....) we were rather more interested in lunch than antiques and history, so we spent an enjoyable couple of hours sampling the tasty dishes at a cafe; after a quick tour of the outskirts of the palace, we took the boat back up the Thames to Richmond, with a quick change of boat at Kingston. I hadn't realised quite how many boats of every description populate this stretch of theriver, from kayaks and skullers to kiddy craft and pleasure boats like our one. Houses back onto the Thames and have their own jetties; it is excellent. The trip from Hampton Court to Richmond lasted about 90 mins, and was very peaceful. A painful ride up Richmond Hill brought us to Richmond Park, yet more deer, and then a reasonably quick ride home. Well worth the pain on Tuesday.

Ah-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah ...

2010-06-03T23:24:00.000+01:00

Ah-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah ...

Top of the world.

2010-06-03T21:24:00.003+01:00

World cup winner, army officer, author, management consultant - all one person? Yes. Sickening.

But all respect to Josh Lewsey, who recently bid to climb Everest with his old friend and comrade Major Keeth Reesby; sadly, they didn't make it to the top. Lewsey was within 150 m when his oxygen gave out due to a faulty valve. The mother, father and multiple ancestors of all frustration! But he did well to get down to first the High Camp at 8300 m, i.e. out of the Death Zone, and then Advanced Based Camp 7800 m. To put this into context, another British climber Peter Kinloch, died earlier this week on the way down after reaching the summit.

You can read the Reesby - Lewsey blog about it here; it's inspirational stuff. Perhaps the most powerful indication of their will to succeed is their determination to have another crack at the mountain after their initial failure to summit. In view of the sheer physical stress which the attempt caused, i.e. 19 hours on the go, this is pretty amazing. Tip of the hat.

Next big thing?

2010-06-03T21:18:00.002+01:00

Mike Selvey, the Guardian's cricket correspondent, thinks that the new England pace bowler Steve Finn really, really is the new big thing. With the Ashes coming up in the coming year - let's see if he's right!

Welcome to the world!

2010-05-27T23:46:00.006+01:00

I came this, this close to delivering a baby at work today! It was amazing; not surprising since I work in an obstetrics department, but amazing all the same.

Going into work by the back door, I encountered a very heavily pregnant women walking very slowly into the hospital. She and her husband had reassured another member of staff ahead of me that they were ok but, after walking past, I had another look back: she was hands and knees on the floor, resting on a chair! I trotted up and said, rather daftly, "Are you ok?!" The husband, panic-looking but still cheery, "Urrrrgh, I think my wife's in labour!"

"CRICKEY!" thinks I!

"Everything's going to be fine," I says, "let me just get you a wheelchair and a midwife." I scuttle off; she starts to emit an unearthly moan; I scuttle faster.

A long minute later I return with midwife and chair; I am entrusted with their bags, and run upstairs to Delivery Suite; that's right - the Delivery Suite is not on the ground floor. Not Good Planning. Anyway, before long, woman husband and midwife appear out of the lift - woman clearly in established labour. I shake husband's hand, get out of the way, and mere minutes later a little baby girl is born. Their second child. Awwwwwww. Except this baby is not so little: 11 pounds 2 ounzes, or rather 5000 grams: SUMO!

But all's well. Best Morning At Work. Ever.

"It's getting hot in here, so ....

2010-05-21T16:30:00.003+01:00

... avoid solar heat gain by taking passive measures of your own cultural choice."

That rap song by that bloke who encourages people to drop 'em when it's schorchio wouldn't have sounded the same had it come from the NHS helath and safety department, which uses the phrase 'solar heat gain' to describe getting hot when the sun's out.

It advises it staff on what to do when it's hot thusly:

"Implement a number of passive solar heat gain control measures across the estate in areas that have a history of suffering excessive internal summertime temperatures as approved at the March 2007 Capital Projects Group meeting."

Talking about the NHS efficiency drive - they could save hundreds of £s on barrells of ink by just saying "when it gets hot"!

A better man than me.

2010-05-20T23:13:00.002+01:00

I might only be 30, but I reckon my blood pressure probably needs a check; if one more person bimbles along in the middle of the pavement, making it impossible for you to get past ... if one other fool waits at the top of a flight of stairs or an escalator before deciding which direction to go, and thereby blocking the route of everyone else ... if someone else comes to a dead halt in the street while I'm walking behind them, forcing me to take drastic measures to avoid them ....

... I shall try to follow the example of a guy I saw today. A couple were, frankly, bimbling along on a very crowded high street at rush hour time of day. They cam to a dead halt. The guy behind them had been trying to get past and nearly fell over as they stopped. The couple then actually apologised to him, so he said,

"Never mind, you two clearly occupy a much more lovely place than me."

That's the way to do it.

The office.

2010-05-17T21:48:00.003+01:00

One of the secretaries in our department is a rather abrasive character: she's an ex legal secretary, late 50s, and she likes a good moan; not a short moan either - once she spins the web of words you know that the next 5, 10 or even 15 mins are likely to be mostly a write-off. She'll even follow you when you walk off to a 'meeting' or some other such to get it all off her chest before she draws her next waking breath.

Still, she offers material which Ricky Gervais would love; I was off sick for one day, early last week: bad asthma, i.e. a quick recovery. She saw me today after the weekend, and the the following exchange of views ensured,

"Oooh, Gold-digging ant, how are you since last week?"

"Much better thanks, feeling good!"

"Yeh? Well you don't look it! Funny how these things work isn't it?"

And off she trots.

Yoof speak.

2010-05-16T20:40:00.001+01:00

Working in the obstetrics department of a hospital in a pretty poor area of town is undoubtedly an eye opener. Some things are good, some things I wish I didn’t know, and some things my future wife really wishes I didn’t know; for many good reasons, I’m banned from talking about obstetric risk management (i.e. when things go wrong when women give birth) at home. I have also learned some head-in-hand pull-out-hair things about People – in particular, the type of young people often referred to as ‘feckless youth’ by some newspapers, the ’underprivileged underclass’ by other newspapers, and chavs by everybody else.

For example: “Wetting the baby’s head.”

In my world, this means one of two things: celebrating the birth / baptism of a new baby, or a polite way of saying “Let’s have a few drinks and celebrate the start of our new endeavour / achievement / weekend.”

However.

In the underprivileged feckless chav world, it means, “When a woman has unprotected sex with a new partner, whilst being pregnant with her old or other partner’s child.”

It’s enough to make you weep ....

This vote COUNTS

2010-05-11T23:37:00.005+01:00

Constitutional debates = a great opportunity for all meeja types to reel out their favourite 'pseud' word to make them sound clever. This time around, mot du jour seems to be 'psephology', which is Greek for 'talking about rocks ('psephos / psHphos = pebble'; 'ology' = 'talking about' / unvalued A-level qualification). Just like 'traction', 'connect' and 'disconnect' (all probably from 'The Wire'), every Op Ed and news broadcaster worth their salt is shoe-horning 'psephology' into their piece. I love this type of stuff; I've read about UK police forces banning the term 'POLAC' (police car accident), presumably in case it offends Polish fans of American cop show NYPD Blue, where 'Polak' is a term of abuse against Polish immigrants; you still even hear people wittering on about 'semantics' long after Bill Clinton justified smoking-but-not-inhaling-young-female-interns or some such, back in the day.

Anyway.

It's called 'psephology' after the use of pebbles by democratically minded ancient Greeks to cast their vote; 'psephizesthai' = to vote. My favourite such example of Greek voting comes in Herodotus' account of Greek dithering before the battle of Plataea in the Persian Wars of 480 BC (Hdt. 9.55). The grand coalition of commanders wanted to fall back to better fighting ground but one, Amompharetus, refused; the others were tempted to leave him to his fate, but chose instead to try to convince him or stay with him and his company and fight, if they could not. After quarrelling and bickering, Amompharetus picks up a rock 'in two hands' (so it must've been big) and throws it at the feet of his commander, Pausanias. "There," he says, "That's my vote against running away!"

Pausanias did in the end march off and, after first believing that Pausanias hadn't really run away, Amompharetus swallowed his pride and scuttled off after him. Greeks win, Western civilisation flourishes, and opens the way for people to write all types of books, letters and angry articles on the death and decline of Western Civilisation. I sometimes wonder how satisfied they will actually be when the day comes that it does implode; will Disgruntled from Angryville nod to himself in satisfaction on that day? "See, I told them so!"

Hope Not To Be There.

CammerClegg had better do a good job then!

Not so secret ballot.

2010-05-09T20:32:00.000+01:00

I define my political outlook as Independent: I don’t see a lot in the Conservative party that makes me want to seek common cause with them; I come from the type of background which directs me to the Labour party, but I’m repelled by their tired class war antics, and their continued hypocrisy over the school system. I find the Lib Dems ok, but am against joining the Euro and just because Saint “Vince” Cable talks mostly sense, doesn’t mean that the rest of his party does. I had therefore hoped for a hung parliament, since I had definitely had my fill of Labour, and I didn’t want to vote for the Conservatives: my local candidate Zac Goldsmith, appears to lack anything approaching a clue. So, in the event, I voted Lib Dem; it didn’t help because Zac was returned to parliament as the MP for Richmond Park with a 4000 majority.

Hans Fallada "Alone in Berlin".

2010-05-04T22:52:00.004+01:00

Alone in Berlin is about lots of people. The heart of the story concerns Otto and Anna Quangel, an elderly and otherwise unremarkable couple who respond to the death of their son, Ottochen, during the conquest of France by attempting to spread discord amongst the Nazi regime. Their weapon: postcards, left carefully in corridors and on windowsills, on which they painstakingly print exhortations for a free press, not to give money to the regime and similar. In this simple way, they are committing high treason and are therefore risking death at the hands of the Gestapo.

The Quangels act alone in their endeavours, but they are not alone in their distaste at the regime, or in their attempts to resist it in small but significant ways. Yet, Hans Fallada presents a community divided into cells; however enterprising, divided people are much easier to control than a united front. The disparate groups and individuals enjoy only limited success against a thuggish regime, whose officers have the right to pry into every aspect of ‘private’ life. Since there was no private life, everything had to be accounted for; everything from lovers’ tiffs on the streets, to father-son relationships, is proof of something. The Quangels, however, stay in the shadows; their apparently mundane lives afford them a rare level of privacy: she is a housewife, he is a rough manual worker; they depend on no-one but each other; hardly anyone is interested in them. They are not glamorous, and they attract little attention, but they are powerfully devoted to each other and to their plans, so they continue their resistance undetected. But even they are not wholly isolated; family concerns intrude, welcome or not, as do beloved figures from the past. The Gestapo are adept at squeezing information and twisting words; although the Quangels keep getting away with their resistance, the Gestapo keep getting nearer.

Not all the characters are as upstanding as the Quangels and, in such a paranoid city, the lowlifes from every section of the social scale are seen to prosper. But for all the bleakness and claustrophobia of Fallada’s Nazi Berlin, this book has a strong streak of hope running through it. Some of this hope is conveyed by the Quangels, whose defiance of the regime far beyond the end of their campaign speaks eloquently of the substance of the human spirit. Other characters also give cause for hope; the ex-postie Eva Kluge finds solace away from Berlin and offers it to another, who others might have found beyond redemption. Neighbours help out. Even within the Gestapo itself there are flashes of human decency to be found, made all the stronger for the thugs, jobsworths and petty crooks who wield power. The drip-drip-drip of the Quangels’ resistance might not be spectacular, but in its own way it is profoundly effective. The few people that their postcards get through to are disturbed to anger, action and even hatred by their simple insistent programme, which asks of everyone, not least the reader, "What would you do? Where would you draw the line? What would you regard as a sacrifice? What can your conscience live with?"

This is a gripping read: 5 / 5.

Stuff of LEGEND

2010-04-22T22:57:00.003+01:00

It waits. Caged behind wire and glass, its highly strung body emits a distant but fearful whine. The five heads atop five necks atop a curved and vicious body inspire fear, awe and desire in equal measure: it makes mere grown men look fools, skilled practitioners sound daft. To play this imposing, untameable creature is the preserve of the god-like; to play it is to sin; yet to sin with this is divine. Its kin are common, but this branch of the species is rarely if ever seen, let alone heard. This one lurks in a side street off London’s Charing Cross Road, one of the few places on earth where the hint of the possibility exists that an encounter might be made. It was not there the week before; it may not be there now. So ladies and gentlemen, behold:

THE BEAST

Running Man.

2010-03-21T22:42:00.002Z

I've never really got the comedy of Eddie Izzard: I don't dislike it as such, but it doesn't tickle the funny bone. However. For running 43 marathons in 51 days around the UK: Eddie Izzard, you total legend.

Urrrrrrrrrrgh!!!!!

2010-03-17T19:38:00.002Z

Guy on the tube today, sitting next to me who kept putting his oyster card in his mouth! In his mouth!!! His oyster card! How filthy is that? Filthy enough for even to me go Uuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!! Don't he know where people scratch?! Poor fool ...

When I grow up ...

2010-03-15T23:02:00.006Z

... I want to be a gentleman explorer. Think of it: battered tea chests, sailing ships, the opportunity to develop a respectable interest in phrenology; wearing exactly the same thick broad-cloth coats in both the snow and the desert. Carrying on regardless. Marvellous.

Off my chest.

2010-03-05T13:58:00.002Z

I. Fucking. Hate. Baggy. Beaney. Hats.

That's all!

Intruder alert!

2010-03-05T13:50:00.002Z

For the second time in about three weeks my tube journey was interrupted by a renegade loon on the track; like the last time, it was on the southbound Piccadilly Line to Hammersmith but, unlike last time, the driver showed exactly how to handle the situation,

"Hello everyone, we'll be stopping for a few minutes because I've received a report that someone has decided to run onto the track at Acton Town. I'm sorry for the delay but we have to ensure the safety of everyone, even the idiots."

The driver was actually very funny, providing amusing updates and gently took the piss out of a situation that, again, wasn't that serious after all. Well done and kudos to him for getting it right, and here's hoping that this guy spreads much less panic should he ever have the misfortune to be confronted by a mystery object on the line again ....

Stiff upper lip!

2010-02-17T23:37:00.000Z

The last thing you really want to hear on the tube is your driver coming up with this:

"I'm eerrrr sorry foor the delay everybody, but, umm, I've ahhh received a message that ahhhh there appears to be an object on the track ahead of us in the tunnel. We'll be proceding very ahhh slowly from now on."

Truly, this is "What the Deuce?!?!?" time; judging by the driver's quavery voice, brown trousers time for him. Fair enough - if there is a real problem on the track, then he's likely to be the first one to know about it.

But.

At the risk of sounding like Colonel the Crusty Mustard, my over-riding reaction was irritation at the driver for wittering on about a possible and unconfirmed problem, in such an incoherent and panic-stricken manner. The above is just the gist of what he said; he repeated the message several times in a range of rambling ways and, after having a protracted amount of time to consider my options, I think I would have preferred not to have known about the 'object' on the line if it had, indeed, turned out to be something sinister. I can't count the number of times I've been stuck on the tube, in a tunnel, with no announcements to say what's going on; as annoying as that is, it is immeasurably preferable to listening to someone spreading his panic over the mic. Obviously, as I write this now, the 'object' was no threat at all, and for all the worry that the driver's messages spread, we might as well have been enjoying blissful ignorance / grinding teeth in habitual frustration / another option than being confronted with this.

God, I'll be writing in green pen to the Daily Telegraph next: "Sir, I am dismayed .... wrack and ruin ... moral fibre - lack thereof .... going to the dogs .... Prince Philip is right .... Messerschmidt up your arse .... Small wonder .... Yours etc ...."

God help me when I turn 40 ....

TalkArse

2010-02-01T15:00:00.005Z

Talktalk good for soul! Why? Company philosophy:

"Pain in arse? Then walk with limp, scum!!!"

Fortitude, patience, and time to think - Talktalk gives you a break from hectic modern life! Why? Because you've got no internet and no phone!*

Talktalk customer services: a quick connection, fair and knowledgeable staff, and a competent service - all sponsored by GoFuckU! Consulting: quick to tell you where to go, even-handedly telling everyone where to go, and all staff can tell you exactly where to piss of to!

Nice.

*NB this post is made possible by Starbucks free wifi. Damn Starbucks and all their good stuff! Coffee and muffin aren't as nice as Nero, mind ...

TalkTalk

2010-01-29T18:53:00.002Z

TalkTalk: shiney, happy new advert proclaiming how much money they'll save you. Talktalk: quick reliable service.

My arse!

Jan 6th 2010: contract agreed.

Jan 13th: installation planned: installation no show. Arse.

Jan 15th: phone the buggers again. Installation on 20th confirmed. Afternoon installation, as per letter, confirmed.

Jan 20th: engineers arrive in the morning: no one at the flat. No note left.

Jan 20th: angry phone call to TalkTalk. Incompetent answers: repeats numbly that screen says morning, despite all the above.

Jan 21st: competent calls with rubbish offer to connect phone on Feb 1st. Feb 1st!!! When does internet arrive? FEBRUARY 22ND!!!!!!

Talktalk = ARSE!!!!!

How the media works:

2009-12-21T23:04:00.004Z

Seen at Munich (Minger!) airport last week: two different magazines, two identical (almost) photos, two very different messages:

On the left, "Now they want to get married."
On the right, "When love turns to hate."

Now the cynical and world weary amongst you might say, "What's the difference?" but I don't think that's the message which the fresh, innocent world of celebrety mags wanted to get across ....

Everybody needs good neighbours....

2009-11-21T10:58:00.005Z

... and we are lucky enough to have either friendly or benign neighbours in our block of flats. Over the past year, however, we've had plants torn up from the garden, a bike nicked, two sets of recycling bins stolen ... nothing major in itself (apart from the bike) but enough to make us wonder. I doubt it's the local yoof, since the kids round here are mostly OK. And, having spoken to most other people in our block, there seems to be a common denominator in all this: our immediate neighbour. She works from home, running a weight-loss programme; she's not particularly noisey, or anti-social and, face-to-face, she's normally very to overly friendly. But she is also rude enough often enough to make each encounter a fresh experience. She has a history of leaving out anonymous 'instruction' notes, and has also told some whopping fibs over small and big stuff over the past year; she has a very possessive attitude towards our shared garden, and hates anyone apart from her and her cats using it. She was in the habit of turning on the lawn sprinkler every day during the summer about 10 minutes after we got in from work. Every single time. Now this type of thing does make me wonder: is it me? Am I paranoid? But then - every day?

Things have taken a more impressive turn for the krayzee this week: the theft and return of a full - and I mean full - recycling bin, which was brimming with old tea bags, coffee filters, apple cores and the like. Time-line: bin left out for collection Monday morning, missed by council collection (not unusual); I telephone council and leave bin out front for collection on Tuesday / Wednesday; Tuesday evening, c. 9.30 pm, I hear front door go, some fiddling around out front, and door goes again. I ignore and then later look out the front to check the bikes: no bin! "Damn!" I thinks, "The drunks have got is and the crap's all over the street!" I go outside: nothing, anywhere. Who the hell walks off with a very large, very full bin of crap? I lock door and go to bed.

Fastforward to Thursday evening. Home c. 7 pm. No bin, obviously. I make dinner and, half hour later, I hear neighbour's door go, then the front door go, and then fiddling around out front: I jump up, pull back curtain, and rub my eyes: the bin is returned! I go outside and check: it is our bin, back next to the front gate where I left it on Monday morning; it is still full. What the hell?! I've had enough of this: I knock on door of immediate neighbour, having heard her door go immediately before and after the return of the bin: I think about what I'm going to say, and decide that saying, "Oi! You nicked my recycling bin full of crap on Monday morning, and have now just returned it! Why the hell did you do it? What the hell have you put in it? And where the hell is my bike?!" is just too looney toons to utter. She opens door, looking angry: her weight loss clients are here; she's in a meeting; can I go away for half hour; I insist on standing my ground, and ask, politely, if she saw anything funny out the front, as we've had problems with our bins. She becomes quite hostile to the interruption, and says very rudely says she has no idea, shuts door; I hear laughter erupt from her flat, scratch my head and think, "Well I'm not surprised - anyone coming to my door asking if I know anything about their missing bin ... I'd find it a bit odd as well." I retire for evening, thinking I'm crazy, but then remember that someone took and returned our bin full of crap. I mean - something's up!

Half hour later, her meeting over, she knocks. I answer, she apologises profusely, I repeat story: someone stole our full bin, then returned it; since she was out the front quite often this evening, does she know anything? Did she see anything? No she did not, obviously; sympathises with me, and commiserates; she ends a generally disturbing conversation with, "There's nothing so strange as people!" I agree. Lock door, double check door is locked, find my hurley, check again that the door is locked, make tea and consider.

I'm glad we're moving in January!

Posh Nosh.

2009-11-16T23:25:00.003Z

Saw a guy go into a small grocery shop this morning and buy what was either a tin of baked-beans (non-Heinz) or a tin of 'all in one breakfast'. Nothing unusual in that - it was about 8am and hunger does strike.

However.

This guy had full chef whites on. And had went back, presumably to work, in Carluccio's in Earlsfield.

Mmmmmmm ..... scam-a-licious ....

Bairisch - Deutsch - English Dictionary.

2009-10-10T16:49:00.006+01:00

So we've had 'Minga' and the reason why the Vickys of this world should never, ever introduce themselves as 'Vicks', unless they want to say, "Hi, I'm Wank."

Today is my second favourite Bavarianism: the '-al' dimunuitive. German already as a quite cute way of signifying something small: add '-chen' to the end, eg. 'Schwesterchen' (little sister) 'Sternchen' (little star). Those from Niederbayern, however, tend to use the suffix '-al'. Thus, you can play down your greed by referring to your brace of frankfurters as just a couple of little sausages, 'Nur a boor Wusstal'*, or abbreviate the name 'Christine' to that of a Gangsta champagne (Cristal). You can even refer favourably to your increasing waistline with the word, 'Wampal', with means, in a rather Native-American way, 'little big belly' / 'little wobbly belly.'

It also works with standard words that exist only in the diminuitive form: German for roast chicken is, 'Haenchen; in Bavarian, this becomes 'Gickal.' The reason for this is beyond me ...

* 'Nur a boor Wusstal' is Bavarian for 'Nur ein paar Wusstchen'. In Bavarian 'a / an = ein', 'boor' = paar'. So, ''Nur a boor Wusstal' = 'Nur ein paar Wusstchen' = 'Just a couple of sausages.'

Facilitate this!

2009-10-07T23:11:00.006+01:00

I can't keep a straight face when I hear someone either described as, or worse introduce themself as, a facilitator. It reminds me of this guy here:

So when I read about England rugby legend, Martin Johnson, being described as a 'facilitator' by his old buddy and fellow world cup winner, Neil Back ... well, the images don't quite add up:

Come as you are.

2009-10-06T14:57:00.006+01:00

This one is relevant to all of Germany. If you know anyone called Vicky, and you like them, then warn them never to introduce themselves as 'Vicks' or 'Vixen'. This causes the same hilarity amongst our German cousins as the unfortunately named town 'Wank' (check out Das Wank-haus ) does amongst English speaking peoples, since that is exactly what 'Vicks' and 'Vixen' means ...

First dance = last dance.

2009-10-06T14:28:00.007+01:00

It's tricky trying to find a good song for your first dance at the wedding which isn't (a) too long (b) too difficult to dance to and (c) been used already by one of you good friends. Plus, choosing non-controversial songs for the evening's entertainment is not easy. "Play some Elbow" you might say, "They've got some great songs!" Indeed they have. But then the DJ puts great Elbow song 'Grounds for divorce' on the decks, and with it comes the pain ...

Here's a few great songs which might break your new bond the very same day:

Queen "Someone to love". Great song, but your first dance isn't really the place for gentle irony. Plus, with lyrics like ...

"Got no feel, I got no rhythm I just keep losing my beat I'm ok, I'm alright. Ain't gonna face no defeat I just gotta get out of this prison cell, Someday I'm gonna be free, Lord"

... you might be back dancing on your own before long.

Grounds for Divorce: 3/5 - could go either way as your first dance; it might spark warm knowing smiles, but you've only yourself to blame if you trip over her dress, rip it, and spark an unholy row just as Freddie (pbuh) observes "ain't got no rhythm." You might as well play Another one bites the dust' in that case.

Others to follow ...

Bairisch - Deutsch - English Dictionary.

2009-10-06T14:03:00.010+01:00

Most Brits I know find learning German a struggle. I am typical in that. So imagine my dismay when, having mastered German to a passable degree, I arrived in Bavaria to understand the grand sum of nothing. When I say Bavaria, I mean Niederbayern, 'Lower Bavaria'. As every proud Niederbayern or 'bayerin will tell you, along with the rest of Germany, the dialect of Lower Bavaria is 'different.' It is spoken extremely quickly (think 'West Coast of Ireland' quick), and is extremely abbreviated; it has radically different substitutes for even standard verbs and nouns, and sometimes the sentence structure is different. Sometimes. It did my head in for quite some time, and I can claim, after five years of trying, to really understand no more than 60%, on a good day. This must change.

I have a useful 'Bairisch - Deutsch' dictionary, but this is good for only Oberbayern, or Upper Bavaria. Niederbayern is different. There's more forest there, for a start, and we've all seen 'Deliverance' ... So in the interests of my understanding more about the country that I'm marrying into, we start today with my favourite example. Corrections will inevitably be provided in the comments box, so best not take my word for anything until you've read them ...

Minga: is my favourite Bavarianism. I got quite a shock the first time it was suggested to me that we visit 'Minga'! But no - it's not the skanky girl or boy you definitely didn't fancy as a teenager, but capital of culture and all round nice place, Munich.

Minga = Muenchen = Munich.

Bairisch = Bayerisch = Bavarian, just in case you were wondering ...

Right Now This Very Second!!!

2009-10-06T13:54:00.004+01:00

I love it when people say 'literally." 999 999 times out of every literal million, they use it to describe the most mundane activity. It's never,

"I've literally - literally - just now sprouted wings AND cured cancer, all in the same afternoon! And now! I've just literally got a call from Kate Moss, and am literally flying, now, - speaking to you in literal mid-air - off to an orgy with her and her three fittest mates! After which we'll discuss Shakespear's lost plays, which I've literally just re-written, after being in communication with him via the psychic realm."

It's never something like this.

In contrast, this is a more recent, typical example (minor exaggeration), "I've lichrally just now got of the tube, and am having a fag! I'm lichrally sucking on it now! I shit you not, I am!"

One day; one day ...

Fashion Man.

2009-09-12T23:38:00.007+01:00

Picture this. Shortish bloke; indeterminate mid-late 20s age; slightly balding; chubby; black-grey 3/4 length trousers; yellow trainers; black socks. Ok, so now add a 1990s 'Sega-Megadrive' key lanyard dangling from the pocket, alongside a large chain which runs from the pocket down to the knee, and then up back of the trousers to the belt. Above, you'll find a - a band T-shirt? You'd think, but you'd be wrong. You'll actually find a game T-shirt, advertising the mid-90s video game 'Streetfighter', or similar. Above this, you will find a dog-tag; not any old dog-tag however. An 'OBI-WAN KENOBI' dog-tag, with 'alien' writing underneath (though it could be English, I just don't wear my glasses on the train; there's not enough room.) This guy stands on the 07.45 train to Waterloo every morning amongst all the city suits, reading 'Gamer' magazine or some such, unashamed. That's unashamed people.

Respect. You might think that he deserves a wedgie but, still, respect.

Fuzzy Bear.

2009-09-12T23:30:00.007+01:00

Saw a guy on the tube this week with hairy ears. I don't mean hairy as in a bit of downy fluff; nor do I mean the 'cotton-buds-in-ear-hole' version which I've seen several times - not nice, but not uncommon. No - this guy's actual outer-ear and ear-lobes were fully covered with the type of hair you usually associate with sideburns. Longish, ginger hair, thickish layer upon layer. It was as if the hair which used to be on his bald head had started growing down instead of up, and had sprouted out all over his ears. It was ... fascinating ...

-?-?-?-?-?-

2009-08-16T22:49:00.003+01:00

HowFastCanHeGo?

He's just done 9.58.

He reckons 9.4.

.....

Trott-ing towards disaster?

2009-08-16T19:34:00.006+01:00

I don't know much about cricket. I like watching it - or rather listening to it - and rugby is much more my game. I do know, however, that I've never heard of an international team picking a test novice in any sport for the deciding match of a competition series, and that team winning; I've heard of guys coming off the bench or helping out in the build-up to the decider, but to start the game? Never heard of it; never seen it. I therefore believe that Australia will retain the Ashes this year after England picked test novice Jonathan Trott to start the series decider starting at the Oval next week. He's not young at least, being a seasoned 27, but still ... to win the Ashes with a first cap? I live to be surprised, but I can't see it.

Update 22nd Aug 2009: Trott's just scored a century, England look like winning the Ashes - being so wrong has never been so sweet!!!

Public health warning.

2009-08-16T16:07:00.008+01:00

I devised a new game last weekend: in a final slam-down contest between wasps and mosquitos, who would I like best to lose? I've never liked wasps, the 'hoodies' of the insect world: in your face, aggressive, emitting an unpleasant buzzing sound; traditionally, I would have preferred for them to lose. After yet another mossie bit me on the wrist last Saturday, however, I would slap my unfriendly neighbourhood wasp on the back, give him my coke-a-cola and tell him to take those damn bitchin' mosquitos down!

This particular mossie had managed to bite me on the skin above a vein on my wrist, which led to a short and successful stay in one of Germania's fine hospitals. I, wholly ignorant of the implications of the read streak working its way up to and into my armpit, had dismissed it as nothing new; I am covered in bites at this time of the year. Those wiser than me, however, got me to the local A & E in quick time, where I was diagnosed with blood poisoning, put on an IV drip and pumped full of antibiotics.

I'm sure the readers of the Gold-Digging Ant are clever enough to be wise to the significance of such bites. But since I've heard of several cases of this leading to much more prolonged stays in hospital than mine, as well one or two more final incidents, I emphasise that a red streak leading away from a bite on the limb to the torso, or a bite on the torso exhibiting a similar red streak, is not to be dismissed as nothing, but as clear signal to getchaself to the hospital nice and quick! 24 - 72 hours in the local Krankenhaus is much better than ignoring it and trying to swim it off (not me - another unfortunate) and finding onself in Intensive Care or the local Human Freezer.

Go Wasps!!!

Tales from the underworld.

2009-07-25T15:33:00.006+01:00

Every form of life inhabits the tube. Two have left a more lasting impression on me than most this week.

1. The Nose Picker. Not nice to watch at the best of times; even less nice at these Swine Flu of times. This guy stood out not just for the unselfconciousness of his very public digging, but for the implement he was using: his thumb. He'd managed to thrust his most human appendage right up to the first joint, and was vigorously exploring his nostril with it. It was amazing, watching him work it around as his nostril bumped and wiggled like a carpet laying on an angry snake. Luckily, I got off before he attempted full excavation and extraction. It might have broken the carriage's axel.

2. The Grunter. This was a big-little-big guy. Not morbidly obese, but someone who appeared to have once been of average build, and who'd become substantially wider over the years. Jeans were straining at the thigh, as shirt buttons protested across his belly. This was not the thing: the thing was that every time he did something, anything at all, he grunted with effort. "Urrngggh." He shifted from side to side, and expelled a belly-deep, "Urrngggh." He turned the page of the newspaper, the effort of which caused a further, "Urrngggh." Praise be, he grunted substantially when he opened his bag and pulled out a Mars Bar. The process of unwrapping and munching on said chocolate produced a veritable orchestra of "Urrngggggghhhh"s. Like whale-song, it wasn't particularly loud, being more of an under-the-breath kind of explusion, but it was very noticeable. It was .... fascinating.

"Every time I reach for a new book ...

2009-07-24T21:11:00.036+01:00

... I pick up a new one instead."

An occasionally updated post, in order that I don't forget which ones; recommendations are welcome.

Peter Ackroyd Dickens

Peter Ackroyd London: the Biography

Peter Ackroyd The Thames

Roy Adkins Trafalgar: The Biography of a Battle
Rating: 4.5/5. A top quality historical account of the battle of Trafalgar. Adkins places the battle in its political and military context, whilst giving all those who participated their due - whether honourable Spanish admirals, valiant surgeons, female powder-fetchers or the English captain who dressed down his greedy admiral at Portsmouth for missing the battle. He is even-handed in his praise and criticisms of both sides, and explains complicated naval manoeuvres in a clear and understandable manner. Adkins has a good eye for an anecdote, but he also acknowledges the human cost of the battle, not just in terms of the dead, but also in terms of the injured and the poverty into which many of its survivors descended. Pride of place goes of couse to Nelson himself, whose special 'Nelson touch' receives a fascinating consideration, as does his other more personal relationships. A fantastic read and history of this legendary event.

Catharine Arnold Necropolis: London and Its Dead

Mike Catt Landing on My Feet: My Story

Peter Collett The Book of Tells

~~Tom English~~ ~~The Grudge~~

~~Hans Fallada Alone in Berlin~~

Ranulph Fiennes Captain Scott

Orland Figes Natasha's Dance: A Cultural History of Russia

Malcom Gaskill Witchfinders: a 17th century English Tragedy

The Great Trees of London

Will Greenwood Will: The Autobiography of Will Greenwood

Austin Healey Me and My Mouth: The Austin Healey Story

~~Philip Hoare Leviathan, or, the Whale~~:
Rating: 1/5. Nice idea, rubbish execution: pretentious and confusing prose, badly edited, terrible quality photos. How it was even published, let alone winning the Samual Johnson prize, I really do not know!

Richard Holmes The Age of Wonder. How the Romantic Generation Discovered the Beauty and Terror of Science.

Robert Jordan The Gathering Storm

Rosalind Kerven English fairy tales and legends

Manjit Kumar Quantum

Jason Leonard Full Time

Patrick O'Brian Joseph Banks: a Life

Patrick O'Brian Men-of-War: Life in Nelson's Navy

Terry Pratchett The Discworld phenomenon
Rating: There are loads of books in this devilishly fantastic series, thankfully. So far I've read ~~iiii~~ ii of them in order. They're all good but favourites so far are The Colour of Magic, Sourcery, Guard! Guards!.

Steve Roud London Lore: The Legends and Traditions of the World's Most Vibrant City

Steve Roud The Penguin Guide to the Superstitions of Britain and Ireland

~~C.J. Sansom Revelation~~
Rating: 4/5. Another top quality historical thriller from Sansom, whose Shardlake series maintains top form with this fast-paced yet sensitve installment.

Rory Stewart The Places in Between

Tanky Challenor: SAS and the Met by Harold Challenor MM and Alfred Draper

Claire Tomalin Samuel Pepys: The Unequaled Self
Rating: 5/5

~~Harry Thompson This Thing of Darkness~~
Rating: 4/5

Love you long-time.

2009-06-03T08:57:00.005+01:00

'See you dahling, love you long time!' is possibly the new fashionable way of saying ta-ta to your mates! Our garden backs onto an alley, which offers excellent eavesdropping opportunities; last Saturday was the best yet as we heard extremely butch sounding bloke, with surprisingly highly camp vocabulary and intonation, greet female friend with, "Daaaaaarhling! Mwah Mwah!" Their conversation babbled on for quite some time until, as they crunched off in opposite directions, Camp McButch issues the following envoi, "See you Dahling love you long time!"

Let's just recap: "See you Dahling love you long time!"

I wonder if they've seen the Vietnam War movie 'Full Metal Jacket'; if not, they may be unaware that in this film, 'love you long time' was the 'war cry' of the army of prostitutes who sought to part American GIs from their cash, often preceded by 'Me so horny' and followed by a menu of what was on offer. Or maybe they were aware of it; the woman didn't sound at all put out by Butch McCamp's suggestion. Maybe it's fashion. 'Maybe you should try it?' suggested my Frauline. Maybe I did. And maybe I bade farewell to an ex-housemate of mine on Sunday afternoon with those very words, to her complete and utter disbelief, shock and horror. Meh-heh-heh-heh-heh...

I can however conclude: it's almost certainly not fashionable, it's definitely not become polite, and I think that the two alley cats simply had a private vocabularly all of their own:

Horny.

Fame at last!

2009-06-02T09:35:00.005+01:00

Top blogger Diamond Geezer recently listed your friendly gold-digging ant as one of the 163 blogs who've included him on their 'blogroll.' Hurrah! Technically, I've done nothing to earn this honour apart from (a) having a blog (b) putting a link to him on it and (c) posting one single item in May. Still, it's nice to be acknowledged! Regardless of all this, I can heartily recommend DG's blog (which is why he's on the blog-roll); it's full of opinion, comment, local history, reviews and photos. He publishes daily and is always worth a read - check it out!

"Every time I learn something new ...

2009-06-01T20:23:00.013+01:00

... something old falls out of my brain." Homer J. Simpson.

The words of a 2-D, chubby yellow genius. Sometimes I wish they were true. For while I struggle to retain a range of important information, a vast fund of useless knowledge is sloshing around in my head. No space, then, for words to foreign languages, transport timetables, stuff for work ... all stuff I'd like to remember; or rather, stuff I need to remember, which is very different. Here are a couple of examples of both:

1. I can remember all the words to Pantera's "Walk", released on their 1992 "Vulgar Display of Power" record. I first heard it in 1993, when it tatooed itself onto my brain. I was tapping out the rhythm so often (durgh, durgh-dURRRgh durgh, durgh-dURRRgh durgh) with fingers, hands, feet, voice, that my poor parents probably thought I was developing a nervous twitch, tourettes or some such. Not only can I remember the lyrics, I can 'hear' the whole song in my head, if I ever want to. In fact, I could probably remember most of the lyrics and music to the songs from that record, plus "Cowboys from Hell" and "Far Beyond Driven." Proof that mnemomics works. Sometimes. Pantera: my favourite band from 1993 - 1998, listened to regularly until 2001. Now: almost never. What on earth made me so angry? Ah yes: puberty.

Useless rating: five guitars out of five - totally useless.

2. The seven ancient wonders of the world: easy! There's the Pyramid at Giza, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Colossus at Rhodes, the Lighthouse of Alexandria, the Mausoleum at Halikarnassos and, err, umm .... how long have I been studying ancient history?! I always, always forget the Statue of Zeus at Olympia and the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus.

'Would like to remember' rating: alpha plus. It annoys me endlessly that I keep forgetting them. Professional pride if nothing else!

3. I managed to remember the train times from our local train station just a couple of days after moving into our new flat. Seven months later, can I remember the train times from Waterloo or Clapham Junction back home? Can I hell!

'Doh!!' rating: 3/4 of a donut. It's annoying but they run every fifteen minutes so all's not lost. All the same ... seven months?!?!?!

4. A fund of rugby union knowledge, including 100 cap plus legends, one-cap wonders and no-hopers from 1991 onwards, is sloshing around my frontal lobes (or wherever such info is stored). I first got into rugby as an 11 year at the Big School; I've loved it ever since. But do I really need to remember that Richard West played one single time for England, in the 1995 World Cup against Samoa? Or that his selection was a complete surprise? Does it aid me in any way to recall that Peter Wright was wrongly picked ahead of Jeff Probyn for the 1993 Lions tour to New Zealand? Or that an Aussie Ref robbed the Lions of a win against New Zealand with the worst penalty decision I have EVER seen in sport, in the very last minute of the first test? Given that the Lions won the second and lost the third, he probably robbed them of a series win! And the chance for Ian McGeechan to complete the treble with series wins over Australia and South Africa sandwiching that Lions tour. It still pisses me rrrrrright off. Grrrr!!!!!

Score: like England's display against South Africa in the 2007 world cup pool game, it's totally pointless! But what would life be like without such esoteric knowledge? More efficient, probably; more dull, quite possibly ....

The Silver Surfer.

2009-05-05T12:54:00.005+01:00

Imagine the scene:

You are waiting in a queue at the supermarket. There is only one assistant available, but there is only one person ahead of you, who is being served. You think you'll be quick, but your hopes of a quick gettaway are dashed; the person in front is an elderly lady.

Damn.

Typically, she completes her transaction in a considered manner, leisurely, deliberately, i.e. she really, really takes her time, and is very slow about it. The ability of old ladies to allow huge queues to develop behind them, without displaying any signs of self-conciousness, awareness or discomfort is amazing. Frustrating, but amazing. I'm always in a rush to pay and get out of the way when I get to the till ... how do they do it?! Anyway, while I inwardly groan and start listing things to pass the time, she finally completes her payment, picks up her bag, slowly and carefully surveys the scene to check if she's left anything, and slowly walks away from the till and out the door. At last! I can pay for my three items. Should be out in a minute. I gaze out of the window over the assistant's shoulder as my card is processed, and I see the old lady approaching a BMW convertible. She carefully loads her bag in the boot. "Nice of her kids to give her a lift," I think.

I am wrong. The tortoise is, in fact, about to become the hare.

The elderly lady, aka the 'Queue-Macher', walks slowly around to the driver's door, slowly and carefully gets in, fires up the engine, revs it, and then roars off at high speed! Another lesson learned!

The cats are out of the bag.

2009-04-21T21:45:00.007+01:00

The 2009 Lions squad is out! Not too many surprises - the main points of contention being the absence of Wales' Ryan Jones (nailed-on this time last year) and England's Delon Armitage and Tom Croft. As predicted, Steve Thompson didn't make the cut, but Shaw, Worsley, Keith Earls and Halfpenny were all picked. I was surprised to see them take five lock forwards - and that both Shaw and Hines went; I would have preferred to see Croft go instead of Hines, since he can double-up at blinside flanker and at lock (at a push), but Lions squads are always tightly contested. Undoubtedly, this squad is picked to be the nastiest bunch of bruisers around: consider a forward pack of Sheridan, Flannery, Vickery, Shaw, Hines, Quinlan, Heaslip and Worsley! Anyone would have their work cut-out trying to intimidate that lot, and I wouldn't be surprised to see a couple of forward packs selected along those lines for the mid-week games. And having the likes of squad capitane O'Connell, David Wallace, plus maybe Gethin Jenkins, Lee Mears, Ewan Murray and Martin Williams come in for the test matches isn't exactly going to soften our pack up. Niiiice.

Of all the world rugby teams, physical intimidation is part of South Africa's play; it reached a real head in the victorious 1974 Lions tour, when the Irish capitain and lock forward, (like current captain Paul O'Connell) instituted the infamous 99 call. After a tough tour of the provincial clubs, the Lions decided to get their retaliation in first during the Test against South Africa; the reasoning was that if the whole team piled in, they were less likely to get sent off. It worked, as you can see here; watch out for legendary Welsh full-back J. P. R. Williams(no 15) piling in with fist cocked ... Despite the less than neutral referring (the ref was South African) the Lions won three of the four tests, drawing the last one. Things were slightly less violent in the 1997 tour, but passing the physicality test is always key to beating the Boks, and I think the Lions have got the forward pack to do it. 2 - 1 to the Lions!

A few late lions?

2009-04-20T23:42:00.004+01:00

The Lions squad 2009 is announced tomorrow! I can't wait! Here's a few less-fancied names who might slip under the rader ...

Front Row: Steve Thompson. Test match animal. Probably the least likely of my picks to get a call up, but he's got pace, can throw the ball in well, and could contribute to a monster mobile front-row with likely tourists such as Ewan Murray, Sherdan, Gethin Jones and Phil Vickery.

Second Row: Simon Shaw. Nathan Hines of Scotland is often touted as the likely 'enforcer', but I'd take Shaw. Big, powerful, nasty player. Great to have on your team. A nightmare to play against. Knows what it takes to beat the Boks - a survivor from the 2003 world cup AND 1997 Lions tour to South Africa! It'd be a great return if he makes it. Possibly the last of that bunch still playing. Has what it takes to take the power game to the Bokkie, as well as the skill to disrupt their line-out. On that note, see also Nick Kennedy, who stands a reasonable chance.

Back row: Jason White and and Joe Worsely. Both nominal 6s, both teak tough tacklers. White's not in the greatest form but Worsley had a good 6 Nations and can cover more than one back row position. White will probably lose out to Tom Croft, but in addition to his skill at close quarters he offers leadership and comes across as a good tourist, important for the unity of the squad.

Scrum-Half: I reckon it'll be Philipps, Peel and Ellis. Blair would be good; Care would liven things up...

Fly-Half: Much of a muchness really. I think they'll just take the two fly halves of Jones and O'Gara and let them shoot it out. The 1997 tour to SA relied on just Townsend and Grayson, which worked fine, plus it's a reasonably short flight for the replacements, should they need to call any up. Hook's out of form, Cipriani's not pulling up trees, Flood is ok but is suffering from injury and doesn't offer much that O'Gara / Jones already have better, Wilkinson's out .... the Cardiff's Nicky Robinson has hit form at the right time; Jonathon Davies is touting him as a true outside bet, and he's not a bad judge ... Hodgson? He impressed in the mid-week team in 2005, and can run a game! Much and unfairly maligned; I doubt he'll make it, but he's probably closer to the reckoning that you think.

Centres: Keith Earls is the bolter du jour, and might well make it ... otherwise I'd say BOD, Roberts, Shanklin and Flutey.

Wings: Halfpenny's got to be in with a serious shout - will he displace world player Williams? Poor Shane might be for the chop if Geech thinks he's on a downward spiral of form, but I think he'll take both. If so that's probably nighty-night for Cueto, unfortunately, but they'd probably want some 'strike' runners. Thom Evans, Ugo Monye could make up the quartet. Sackey's out - bad time to lose form and get injured, poor feller.

F/B: As you were with Byrne still in pole. Kearney might be sweating, but I reckon Armitage will go. What about Lewsey then? Will he go as a Full back or is the ever crafty Geechie gonna take him as a centre? We'll soon see ...