Trashed elbow

Lord Jim (a lot better than Heart of bloody Darkness)

2012-01-19T04:18:00.004+09:00

"There were eight hundred people in that ship," he said, impaling me to the back of my seat with an awful blank stare. "Eight hundred living people, and they were yelling after the one dead man to come down and be saved. 'Jump, George! Jump! Oh, jump!' I stood by with my hand on the davit. I was very quiet. It had come over pitch dark. You could see neither sky nor sea. I heard the boat alongside go bump, bump, and not another sound down there for a while, but the ship under me was full of talking noises. Suddenly the skipper howled 'Mein Gott! The squall! The squall! Shove off!' With the first hiss of rain, and the first gust of wind, they screamed, 'Jump, George! We'll catch you! Jump!' The ship began a slow plunge; the rain swept over her like a broken sea; my cap flew off my head; my breath was driven back into my throat. I heard as if I had been on the top of a tower another wild screech, 'Geo-o-o-orge! Oh, jump!' She was going down, down, head first under me. . . ."

'He raised his hand deliberately to his face, and made picking motions with his fingers as though he had been bothered with cobwebs, and afterwards he looked into the open palm for quite half a second before he blurted out--

' "I had jumped . . ." He checked himself, averted his gaze. . . . "It seems," he added.'

Lord Jim, Chapter 9

Cleaning up Kensington, one wing mirror at a time

2012-01-17T23:11:00.004+09:00

A series of expensive-sounding bangs outside my front window were what first aroused my interest. Looking outside, one of the 'Clean Up Kensington' trucks was going down the road. This wasn't unusual. What was unusual was that the truck's vacuum hose hadn't been secured: it was swinging freely, swiping the wing mirrors off parked cars as it went.

I was just in time to catch the best bit: the hose banged into the bonnet of a Ford hatchback, leaving a fair-sized ding in the bodywork. It flipped over the roof of the Ford and smashed in the rear windscreen of a Fiat Cinquecento, parked facing in the opposite direction. Bouncing over the Fiat, it then bashed in the headlamp of a Saab.

At this point the driver, perhaps realising that his progress down the street was accompanied by more screams and bangs than usual, pulled over.

I wandered out onto the street to survey the damage. One car owner was raging over his 4x4's missing wing mirror. A lady across the street was stammering about how horrible all the destruction had been. Various council employees from the truck were trudging humourlessly up and down the road making notes of the damage, while a man I took to be the driver was slumped against a garden wall, puffing fretfully on a cigarette, staring at nothing, thinking perhaps about deep cosmic uncertainties. Or what a lot of trouble he was in.

Out of consideration for his feelings, I forebore to take any photos of the mess. I half-suspected the whole thing had happened purely for my amusement. Otherwise, it was a pretty slow day.

You broke it, you bought it

2012-01-17T22:38:00.003+09:00

Brrrrrtt...

Click

DAN: Hi Joe.

JOE: Hi Dan, how's it going?

DAN: Good, except I can't find any bloody coffee in this shop.

JOE: Which shop are you in?

DAN: The pound shop.

JOE: Ah. Of course, all the stuff in there comes from other shops which have gone into liquidation. So when you're shopping there, what you're buying is other people's broken dreams.

If he has a point, I don't see it. And I'm becoming increasingly desperate for coffee

DAN: And?

JOE: And coffee happens to be one broken dream that flies off the shelves pretty quickly.

***

Happily, one broken dream that hadn't flown off the shelf was the DVD of Merlin (1998), with Sam Neill, Miranda Richardson, Helena Bonham Carter, Rutger Hauer et al.

Whenever I see such an impressive cast list, I'm reminded of Island of Fire, a poor Taiwanese film which featured most of the hottest actors of the time, as they owed the producer a favour for getting them out of trouble with the Triads.

After sitting through all three hours of the DVD yestereve, I felt that I'd pretty much got what I'd paid for.

It's bad to have a bad uncle

2012-01-01T04:53:00.002+09:00

Christmas Eve, and Kianna, my wee little pretty thing of a niece, is explaining to me the pile of presents on the table, bought and gift-wrapped by her mum, my sister

KIANNA: The big one's for you an' the small one's for Uncle Joe...

ME: Just like when Mother Nature was giving out the presents when we were born.

A brief pause

KIANNA: Did you get a big one an' Uncle Joe got a small one?

ME: That's what they say, dearie.

Open sesame

2011-11-27T23:56:00.007+09:00

I'm currently living in west London, quite close to Wormwood Scrubs. Everywhere I go in London, I seem to end up next to a prison. A few months ago, it was HMP Holloway. Now it's Wormwood Scrubs.

I went out and ran ten miles round the Scrubs today, which I thought quite a commendable effort as I'd done a cross country race yesterday, prompting an evening of guilt-free drinking.

When I got home, what I was really looking forward to was a long, hot soak in the bath and a big plateful of the potato and lentil curry I'd put in the slow cooker prior to setting off on my run.

My zesty, sanguine mood, however, was interrupted by the realisation that, in the course of running round Wormwood Scrubs, I had at some point trodden in quite a hefty dog shit.

I stepped out the front door and bashed my shoes together over some potted plants until the worst of it had come off (well, it's fertiliser, right?)

It was then I realised that I'd allowed the door to swing shut behind me, locking me out in my running shorts. Apart from Joe being away for the weekend, a quick buzz of every bell on the building informed me that no one else was in either.

Here, I found myself becoming a little dispirited. However, I'm a practical man so I decided I would just have to break in. Here's what I was faced with:

My keys were in the deadlock (upper part of the door). I would need to poke them out and retrieve them from the floor, with the proviso that the letterbox was not big enough to admit an arm.

I collected a few bits and pieces from the front garden to help me in my endeavour, including the hook and chains off a hanging basket, a garden cane and a brick.

Hammering a bit of hanging basket wire flat with the brick (and increasingly conscious of the spectacle I was presenting to anyone with a view of our front door) I had a go at pushing the key out of the lock. No dice. The key, you see, was slightly turned. Further waggling established that the piece of wire was unequal to the task of levering the key straight.

At this point, the middle-aged lady next door (who owns a couple of cats) stuck her head out to ask me what I was doing. I told her the whole story. I even mentioned the dog poo. I also asked her if she had a screwdriver. She did.

With this, things were finally going my way. I waggled the screwdriver in the lock until the key was properly aligned, then deftly poked it out. My new-found accomplice looked askance at this and asked me how I now intended to retrieve the keys from the other side of a locked door. With, I trust, a straight face, I informed her that my plan owed much to the chimpanzees of the forest and their celebrated method of retrieving termites from their anthills (video below). The look she gave me suggested she might have begun to think I was a lunatic and was regretting arming me with a screwdriver. In any case, I gave her it back and she hurried indoors.

Next I used the garden cane through the letterbox to wangle the keys across the doormat to where I had a good view of them. I then tied the chain/hook off the hanging basket to one of my shoelaces and tossed it in. Using the cane with my other hand to guide the hook, I snared the keys and, feeling smugger than I have in many a moon, reeled them in.

Not one to forget my debts, I took the lady next door a bottle of wine and some gourmet fish pate for her cats. I also gave her a piece of paper with a phone number on it and told her that if she ever needed someone killing, she should ring the number and ask to speak to Mr Smith. Ok, I didn't do that. I did, however, swear her to secrecy on everything she saw today: it wouldn't be a good lookout for my future in property security if word got out about me losing my keys and breaking into places.

I myself have likewise resolved never to tell another living soul. Except you, of course.

Cause and effect

2011-10-31T23:38:00.003+09:00

DAD: Is there a reason why there's a comb in the fridge?

ME: Yes.

A long, uncomfortable pause

DAD: Would you mind letting me know said reason?

ME: I don't actually know what the reason is. I am, however, a firm believer in cause and effect.

DAD: Guh...

Marathoneering

2011-09-29T22:18:00.006+09:00

The RunLiverpool Marathon is little more than a week away and my body's just about holding together. Here's a rundown of my laughingly titled preparations (although from some of the stuff I've read by/about the organisers, I have the comfort of knowing I'm not the worst-prepared person for this event).

The watch:

As a little motivational treat, I got myself a new sports watch: the Timex Ironman, named after those nutcase triathlons where people swim the channel, cycle from Calais to Vladivostock, then flap their arms and fly to the moon (or something).

The watch looks chunky and purposeful, just like an Ironman competitor. It also boasts water resistance up to a depth of 100 metres, unlike most Ironman competitors (to the best of my knowledge).

I can't help feeling that, if, at any stage during a triathlon, I find myself to be 100 metres underwater, the state of my watch will be the least of my worries.

Injury:

Without wishing to tempt fate, I've always been pretty lucky with injuries, needing none of the keyhole surgery, bone-pinning or skin grafts which have been the lot of many friends.

Unfortunately, I collected a pretty meaty whack on the ankle playing football in the summer. This resulted in several minutes boo-hoo-hooing on the floor, a huge, swollen cankle and a couple of weeks' hobbling and wobbling.

This, of course, right at the time when I wanted to start training properly. Consequently, I've had to squeeze the training into a shorter period than I would've liked, including, as soon as I was walking properly...

Running camp in the Peak District with Glyn:

His idea, by the way. Summary: take a map.

Not that the camp site was on a slope or anything

Warm-up races:

The Kenilworth Half Marathon went splendidly for about four miles, then I realised I'd gone off a wee bit too fast and spent the remainder of the race watching a procession of other runners go past like a particularly horrible clothes rail.

Streatham Common XC was very hilly and challenging but went really well, until right at the end when I bounded past the guy in front of me, then turned in entirely the wrong direction and ended up finishing about ten yards behind him. I should perhaps have saved my heroic burst until the finishing line was in sight.

The Coventry Half Marathon is this weekend, in the midst of an unseasonable heatwave.

Black September:

For the second year running (ha!) I haven't touched any alcohol since the start of September. My resolve not to hit the bar until the afternoon of October 9th should make me the life and soul of the party at my cousin Alison's wedding (October 8th).

Beauty is truth

2011-09-23T18:14:00.002+09:00

Joe and I were discussing bad science. His particular goat was getting got by the received wisdom that we should all drink two litres of water per day.

"It's different strokes for different folks, isn't it," I mused. "For example, Princess Diana apparently used to cry five litres of water out of her body every single day."

Joe was delighted by this hastily invented fact. I would call it a falsehood, but I can't say for sure that it isn't true.

"Ooh la la la la"

2011-09-05T17:07:00.003+09:00

Et maintenant, je vous présente a rather outstanding highlight of the final day's action at the World Athletics Championships in Daegu, South Korea.

Notes:

1. Marlon Devonish (Team GB's third leg runner) is from Coventry and was part of the winning British quartet at the Athens Olympics...

2. ...Since which time, the British have been pretty wretched at getting the baton round.

3. America, despite their wealth of talent, have a pretty impressive record of cocking up in the relay likewise.

4. Harry AA (GB's fourth leg runner) irritates me. The only thing bigger than his shoulders is his mouth.

5. Jamaica, who managed to get their baton round without bashing into any of their opponents, set a new world record.

Spamlet

2011-08-26T18:47:00.002+09:00

I've been giving a little thought recently to how the habitual three-hour trudge-fest that is Hamlet might be improved for audiences at the RSC. I'll be sure to mail this in to them just as soon as my medication wears off.

ACT V, SCENE II (Hamlet having just accepted the fencing match with Laertes)

HORATIO
You will lose this wager, my lord.

HAMLET
I do not think so: since he went into France, I
have been in continual practise: I shall win at the
odds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all's here
about my heart: but it is no matter.

HORATIO
Nay, good my lord,--

HAMLET
It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of
gain-giving, as would perhaps trouble a woman.

HORATIO
If your mind dislike any thing, obey it: I will
forestall their repair hither, and say you are not
fit.

HAMLET
Not a whit, we defy augury: there's a special
providence in the fall of a sparrow.

A dead sparrow drops on the stage with a note round its neck, saying THE SWORD'S POISONED. After a brief pause, a second one arrives with a note saying AND SO'S THE WINE

***

Critical acclaim for Dan's proposed amendment to Hamlet:

"It would be nice to see some intelligent people getting involved in the theatre, rather than just people who failed all their GCSEs and decided to take up acting."

Joseph McKeown, BA Acting

Attack of the vespas

2011-08-13T02:29:00.005+09:00

http://www.vespa-crabro.de/hornets.htm

"These wasps are pretty big," I mused. "And they've got all-yellow faces."

"Like hornets, you mean?" This latter was Dave's voice from downstairs.

"That's pretty much what I was thinking."

While my place is a bit of a dump (each time it rains, for example, I end up with more floor and less ceiling) I think the presence of freakishly large pseudo-wasps in the kitchen may represent a new low.

I flapped at the two invaders with a towel, succeeding only in making them angry. Going to a hastily improvised back-up strategy, I made a smart departure taking care to close the kitchen door behind me.

In the downstairs room, while Dave jumped in the shower, I collected my thoughts and my breath.

Then, bzzzzzzzz.

Once I had my heart rate back to below 270 bpm, I answered my phone, which had been set to vibrate, and told Bailey that he'd just frightened me out of my skin. He laughed. Dave and I headed out to meet him for drinks and, when we returned, there was no sign of the yellow-and-dangerous in the kitchen.

Some research this morning informs me that hornets are more docile than regular wasps. They're also supposed to be woodland creatures, although a glance at my garden explains how they might have got confused.

If the hornets have set up shop in my garden (and, please God, not my roofspace) it may turn out well. They're meant to be quite good for controlling garden pests which in my case includes a burgeoning colony of gutter pigeons and the occasional trespasser.

Obsession for men

2011-08-10T08:28:00.004+09:00

The humble charity shop is never to be overlooked as a source of literature, music or random football shirts. Glyn and I, at a loss for anything better to do with a morning in Coventry, were in Age Concern checking out last decade's duds.

Glyn inspected random football shirt #3, whose provenance I forget.

"I don't know, man, I think it might be a bit big on me."

I had a look at the shirt, had a look at Glyn, and didn't much like the look of either. I am not, however, one to discourage foolhardy purchase of random football shirts.

"Nah, just throw a few pork pies down you and you'll soon fill that thing out."

The woman browsing the shelf next to us stifled a giggle. We stopped frowning at the random football shirt and frowned at her instead.

"You do realise," she said, "that's the exact opposite of the conversation two women would be having."

Nothing but magic.

Dear Dan...

2011-08-06T01:56:00.003+09:00

Dear Dan,

I play for a football team with a really stupid serious name, a stupid serious black kit and all of our players take the game really, really seriously.

Some of the teams we play against have started to accuse us of being too serious, but I think we're not too serious enough. Can you offer any advice?

Seriously Confused,
Real Osaka FC

Dan says:

If you want to make a difference to how the team is perceived, I recommend the following:

1. Start up the blog again, make sure the URL is on the ALT tournament site and be sure always to say diplomatic things about the oppo (we played a great bunch of lads from Kochi, with a vociferous and not-at-all haggard cheerleading squad. We edged a close encounter 55-0).
And disable comments in order to stop anyone from ruining the feelgood vibe.

2. Take along Osaka o-miyage to present to opposing teams prior to group games. Seriously, a few handfuls of dried squid wouldn't cost the earth and make a favourable impression.

3. Change the team name - it worked for Nova!

Here are some suggestions:

Cuddly Osaka
Osaka Pet Rescue
Blackcurrant Osaka (everyone loves blackcurrants)

Alternatively, change the team name to Osaka Jets, get a new pink kit and tell everyone to boot shit out of the opposition and whinge as much as they want.

Disclaimer: The 'Dear Dan' advice column should not be relied upon as a solution to life's woes. Dan's response copied and pasted from Facebook email. Tricky may have phrased his conundrum rather differently.

The wire

2011-07-29T07:53:00.004+09:00

"You can follow them home and go through their bins or take photos of them at Tesco's when they're doing their week's shopping. You can bribe them into saying something stupid then splash it over the front page or you can conspire to abduct their children or you can drive them into a brick wall at a hundred miles an hour.

But you can't tap their phones. That's going too far."

Variety is...

2011-07-04T20:45:00.005+09:00

Announcer: You're entering a realm which is unusual. Maybe it's magic, or contains some kind of monster... The second one. Prepare to enter the Scary Door.

Scene: An elderly man wearing a green visor exits 3-Eyed Jack's Casino.

Announcer: Please send the man 'round back and pick up Clyde Smith. A professional gambler who's about to have an unfortunate accident.

While crossing the street, Clyde is hit by a car.
He wakes up in front of a slot machine. He pulls the lever and it comes up with three Bars.

Clyde: A casino where I'm winning? That car must've killed me; I must be in heaven!

He pulls the lever again, three Bars come up again.

Clyde: A casino where I always win? That's boring. I must really be... In hell!

Enter man.

Sebastian Cabot: No, Mr. Smith, you're not in heaven or hell. You're on an airplane!

Man opens curtain, revealing airplane windows. Clyde looks out the window and sees a gremlin on the wing, tearing out the wiring.

Clyde: There's a gremlin destroying the plane! You've gotta believe me!

Sebastian Cabot: Why should I believe you? You're Hitler!

Man holds up a mirror, revealing that Clyde's reflection is that of Adolf Hitler.

Clyde: No!

Clyde is transformed into Hitler. He turns to the person next to him.

Clyde: Eva Braun, help me!

Eva Braun pulls off her face to reveal that she's actually a giant fly. Clyde screams.
Cut to Bender, watching this on TV

Bender: (Unimpressed) Saw it coming.

From Futurama: I dated a Robot
pillaged primarily from http://theinfosphere.org/The_Scary_Door

***

Once upon a time, 'Old Spice' was also an uncharitable epithet for Geri Halliwell.

The Y of charity

2011-06-26T08:58:00.006+09:00

Interesting point raised by Mr Bailey recently, the point being that of fundraising. We were watching the arse end of the 'Great' Manchester Run on the BBC which was taking place in the Great British Weather, making it a little difficult to distinguish from its successor, the Great Salford Swim. We were hungover. At least, I was.

Why, Bailey asked, do people chuck money at people who are running? So-and-so is running such-and-such for blah-de-blah. They're running because they want to. I don't understand it.

Steady, I said, reminding him that I have earned a few pennies for worthy causes myself via runs of various distances. I observed that a bit of vicarious guilt about orphans in Africa is probably quite a useful motivational tool when you're at the 20-mile mark in a marathon and you're about ready to pack it in.

The Bailster graciously conceded the validity of this, but pointed out the myth of self-sacrifice involved in the fundraising campaign: I'm running the London Marathon for Oxfam, I'm climbing Mount Kilimanjaro for Unicef - yes, these are challenging activities, but the people want to do them. Unicef et al are incidental.

I agreed with these examples although I know that in a lot of cases people are doing these events for smaller charities in which they have a genuine interest. Heaven forbid, should the unspeakable happen to either of my cats, I wouldn't feel like a hypocrite for running from John O'Groats to Land's End in a Feline Alzheimer's Foundation vest.

However, Bailey and I are quite active people and enjoy taking on new challenges. I, for example, am still learning how to eat soup the approved way (to raise money for endangered Jaguars, since you ask). I asked the obvious question: what could the likes of us attempt as a fundraiser that would be a challenge but genuinely self-sacrificing and something we really wouldn't want to do?

Bailey thought about this while the Great British Weather beat indefatigably on the window and random interviewees on the box spouted off about how much money they'd raised by jogging a bit over six miles.

Well, he said, eventually. Anything physical's out of the question, so how about this: we have to put on four stone in four months.

That would be difficult, you definitely wouldn't want to do it and, best of all, nobody would be prepared to give you a penny whereas they wouldn't think twice about it if you were going up Kilimanjaro which you wanted to do anyway.

I thought this a tremendously good idea and my only regret is I wasn't quick enough to come back with the suggestion that occurred to me a day or two later: we both have chemo to raise money for Cancer Research.

Blood on the tracks

2011-05-27T21:00:00.001+09:00

An interesting employment opportunity has had me spending rather a lot more time on trains recently. I spotted a train called ‘The Virgin Invader’ at Euston last night and sniggered duly.

-- Rewind, last Thursday --

As our train zooms through Milton Keynes Central station, there is suddenly a nasty juddering, rattling sort of a sound and we slow swiftly to a halt. I suspect that someone has just put an end to their misery. Furthermore, I suspect mine is just beginning.

An announcement: there has been ‘an incident’ at Milton Keynes and our driver is ‘in no fit state to continue’. We are stuck, some two hundred yards past the station, and we are going nowhere fast.

Most people in the carriage have likewise concluded that the ‘incident’ must have been a suicide. “What a pity,” they lament: “if only he’d waited for the next train.”

The woman across from me is talking into her phone about ‘the selfish bastard’ who’s just brought our journey to its hiatus, all the while shovelling crisps into her face. I haven’t had dinner and wouldn’t mind a crisp. She doesn’t offer me one.

I am tormented by jumpers and Walkers. Later, more fortunate trains thunder past and on into the oblivious night, unhindered by the torsos of the broken hearted.

A mug's game

2011-03-28T17:11:00.004+09:00

A few weeks ago, something entirely unprecedented happened: I took a punt on a horse and it actually won. Proud was Dan as he swaggered into William Hill to collect the Saturday night beer kitty.

On the back of that, I decided to throw a few quid at the Cheltenham festival and see what came of it. Nothing outrageous, just a few pounds a day and cash my winners at the end of the week, see if I break even or even (heaven forbid) turn a profit.

First day, first race: winner; second race: winner. My goodness, I thought, how long's this winning streak going to last?

My answer came in the third race of the day when my chosen jockey dismounted his horse rather prematurely (not to mention spectacularly) and got trod on a few times by the rest of the field.

This setback notwithstanding, my spawny luck just about lasted the week and I made a profit of around £40, enough to pimp my new dive with a Playstation 2 (second hand) and a copy of Grand Theft Auto 3 (likewise).

***

Dan zooming across the Callahan Bridge from Portland to Staunton Island in a stolen sports car, suddenly realises he's made a classic 'Brit abroad' mistake and is in the wrong lane.

Wow, that's dangerous, I thought, somebody could have got hurt...

***

GTA3 is a very addictive game, but I'm more worried about the potential consequences of my Cheltenham success. The Aintree festival is looming and I may find it hard to stay out of the bookies.

Gambling is a very slippery slope and, as far as I can see, there are three stages:

1. You've got a pound change left over from your shopping so you spend it on a scratch card.

2. You take a punt on a horse you like the look of.

3. You're sitting in a piss-stained bamboo hut in the middle of some god-forsaken jungle, holding a gun to your temple with hordes of locals, screaming with bloodlust, wagering large sums of money on you blowing your brains out all over the wall. Your best mate is sitting the other side of the table with his underpants on his head and he can't stop crying.

Just before pulling the trigger, you recall that pound change in the shop and experience a moment's sadness, wondering what life would have been like if you'd bought some Jaffa Cakes instead. Then you remember that the price of Jaffa Cakes has gone up and they now cost £1.09.

You shake your head briefly, and pull.

Ill tidings and the lowest ebb

2011-03-18T06:56:00.003+09:00

I am, for the time being at least, looking after a new property in Islington. It is a bit of a state, to put it mildly. All the carpets are soiled. Somebody has been trying to grow a fern in the sink of the upstairs bathroom. When I went in the kitchen the other day, the light bulb exploded. Didn't just go ping! and stop working - exploded.

I was shipped into this place on very short notice. The urgency of my situation was made apparent when someone attempted to break in through the back window on my second night here. From time to time, I think I hear voices in the house, panic and start legging it up and down the stairs like a startled cat.

Someone I know asked me yesterday if I am a Christian; I replied that I am not. She told me that sometimes she prays for people she knows and that recently my face has been popping into her mind during prayer. She also told me that she isn't crazy. I believe her.

I've spent much of my week in the bookmakers, not so much in the expectation of improving my fortunes as accustoming myself to life at the sphincter end of society's great tract. And tonight I finally reached the lowest ebb of my life thus far when I found myself reading the instructions on the back of a pot of baked beans.

In honesty, I'm actually quite enjoying all this - it's like indoor camping. There are a lot of people in real trouble right now.

***

Via text

HE: Btw, is everyone you know in Japan suitably accounted for mate?

ME: If by 'suitably accounted for' you mean 'all dead and floating to Canada', then no, I don't think so.

***

Levity aside, the destruction in Japan is awful, beyond me. 人生はこんなにはかない、なんて。

Good old life

2011-02-15T21:21:00.002+09:00

The axe fell on number 244, the strange, spacious flat where I've idled away more than a year. In several sweaty trips, I moved my stuff to another property just around the corner - a total journey of about 25 yards.

The new place already having occupants, I'm in a spare room. No bed, so I had to buy an airbed. Internet reception not so good, so I have to spend a fair amount of time at the local net cafe.

It is also fairly spidery: a human accidentally consumes on average 100 spiders during their lifetime. I've probably managed that in the last week.

***

Went into the net cafe yesterday to plan my Tuesday morning business IT lecture. My Google account wasn't working.

It seems my mail address had been compromised and all of my contacts consequently spammed. I'm convinced this is down to spyware on one of the cafe's machines. Gritting my teeth, I changed all my passwords and got on with my research as best I could.

Sadly, this turned out not to be easy: a collection of loutish foreign students were in there getting drunk and being loud and obnoxious. Giving the research up, I went home and sat in bed practising new songs on my ukulele.

***

In its early stages, insomnia is almost an oasis in which those who have to think or suffer darkly take refuge.
Sidonie Gabrielle Colette

***

At four in the morning, the phone buzz interrupts my fitful dozing. It is the mum - apparently my car has had its windows smashed, presumably by someone who didn't get any valentines.

The silver lining to this particular nebula is that the malefactors have been apprehended by the brave boys in blue and are, I unworthily hope, getting a taste of egyptian democracy in the cells.

I send a quick text of acknowledgment to the mum and settle back onto the airbed, which promptly explodes.

Both bed and I exhale loudly as I am lowered reverentially to the floor. I'm now so downtrodden I can't even manage a curse. I shift my bedclothes onto my exercise mat and make the best of the remaining hours of darkness. It will take more than life to kill me.

The affinity of great minds

2011-01-25T04:36:00.002+09:00

"I've an idea; just struck me, and you're as welcome to it as if it were your own. P'r'aps that rascal Atkinson has ordered those things, and got them when they were sent home. Rather smart of me to think of that, eh?"

"Very smart," I answered, with great emphasis, while his valet grinned behind a coat. "The affinity of great minds is shown in the fact that the same idea struck me."

The McGovan Casebook: The Wrong Umbrella
William Crawford Honeyman, writing as James McGovan

***

The McGovan books, which first appeared in the 1870s, were supposed at the time to be the memoirs of a real-life Edinburgh detective. In the afterword to my edition of the casebook, Mary Anne Allburger argues the case for Honeyman as an influence on the Sherlock Holmes stories of Arthur Conan Doyle, himself a student in Edinburgh at the time:

The final confirmation may be deduced from Holmes's decision to retire to the South Downs and to keep bees, for thus the violin-playing sleuth becomes a "honey-man".

***

The affinity of great minds was no less in evidence over the Christmas period. My delight at finding as suitable a present for my brother as the anime DVD Sherlock Hound was rather tempered by the fact that he had bought the exact same present for me.

***

It was the end of the evening on Christmas Day and the party was petering out. All the alcohol was gone and both Peters in attendance had in fact retired to the front room to follow the Ashes on the radio. It was unquestionably time to hit the road.

"Let's make like a condom," I announced.

"And split?" asked Katelyn.

"You're very close," I said. "The correct answer is: and piss off."

The Yin of six, the Yang of nine

2011-01-12T05:38:00.005+09:00

The first race of this year was an absolute toughie: a very hilly 10k that knocked hell out of my legs, not to mention my brother.

It wasn't all bad though: at least I was given an auspicious race number at registration.

ME: McKeowns, Daniel and Joseph.

SHE: Right, Daniel, number 69; Joseph, number 70.

ME: Back of the net!

Why so delighted with 69? Why, gentle reader, because of its rotational symmetry, of course. In celebration of this happy fact, I proudly wore my race number upside down.

See?

This confused the registration lady somewhat.

SHE: Er, I think your number's on upside down.

ME: It's worse than you think - I've also got my socks on the wrong feet.

When the results were posted on the noticeboard, I found the bemused organisers had crossed out the number next to my finishing position three times before finally mastering the fact that an upside-down 69 isn't 96.

MMXIAD

2011-01-01T22:06:00.002+09:00

It's difficult to make a New Year into a fresh start with the ghost of the previous year's revelry still clanging against the inside of one's temples. Fortunately, I was armed with an encyclopaedic knowledge of hangover cures and the last egg in the house.

A Prairie Oyster is a drink consisting of a raw egg, Worcestershire sauce and hot sauce. The egg is broken into a glass so as not to break the yolk, which causes the drink to bear a similarity to the texture of an actual oyster. The drink is typically served the morning after a night of hard drinking as a hangover cure.
from Wikipedia

The scientific explanation is that the egg yolk is a source of niacin, which is apparently just what you're after when you have a tumultuous hangover.

A more prosaic view of it is that your condition probably isn't fatal if you can hold a raw egg down.

Elton John songs

2010-12-15T06:51:00.005+09:00

have been getting a right pasting recently, thanks in part to an Elton John-themed night on the X Factor.

There's more: I really don't like the Ellie Goulding cover of Your song that's doing well in the charts at the moment, for a number of reasons.

1. The whole way she's marketed: "Ooh, look how wholesome she is!" The video that accompanies the song is especially nauseating, showing her wandering around a coastline in knitwear, looking baffled by lighthouses. Great, she's wrapped up warm. Amazing.

"No, look - she hasn't dyed her roots! How innocent she is!" Yes, that's a lovely natural look.

"She's got kittens!!!"

To be honest, I quite like cats and I tend to wrap up warm when going outside in cold weather. I don't go round sticking it down people's throats though. Perhaps that's the difference between wholesome and fulsome.

2. The backing track sounds like it's been dumbed down for grade one keyboards.

3. The words have been changed, and they make even less sense:

I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind,
that I put down in words,
how wonderful life is
now you're in the world

Does this mean she's got the horn for a newborn child? If so, that's rather a big departure from the 'wholesome' thing.

***

Meanwhile, I'm hard at work on my own version of Candle in the wind, in which Prince Charles's role in Di's death is played up:

And it seems to me you killed your wife
like a royal assassin
you couldn't wait for natural causes
so you did her in

And I'd really like to prove it
but there's no evidence
her head went through a steering wheel
not on a fifty pence

(de-de de-de de-de-de deeeh)

Disclaimer: Look - kittens!!!

Sunday evening with the McKeowns

2010-12-08T03:06:00.004+09:00

Waiting for dinner, there's some programme about the annual lambing on TV. Lots of cute little lambs. Lots of them.

ME: Pah, knock that one on the head and have him in the pot.

DAD: Don't be vile!

ME: You pussy. (Raises voice) Mu-um! Tell Dad to stop being a pussy!

MUM (from the kitchen): That will do, Daniel!

Pause

ME: You got me in trouble with Mum now. You arsehole.

***

We weren't being rancorous, this passes for levity amongst McKeowns. You should see us at Christmas dinner.

Palin in comparison

2010-11-25T21:07:00.002+09:00

Interviewer: How would you handle a situation like the one that just developed in North Korea?

Palin: Well, North Korea, this is stemming from a greater problem, when we're all sitting around asking, 'Oh no, what are we going to do,' and we're not having a lot of faith that the White House is going to come out with a strong enough policy to sanction what it is that North Korea is going to do. So this speaks to a bigger picture that certainly scares me in terms of our national security policy. But obviously, we've got to stand with our North Korean allies – we're bound to by treaty....

Interviewer: South Korean.

Palin: Yes, and we're also bound by prudence to stand with our South Korean allies, yes.

***

A few years ago, I did a quick pop quiz of American workmates: how many of them knew the capital city of Canada? The two most telling responses are recorded below, both of them well spoken, educated and intelligent individuals.

ME: Caitlin, what's the capital of Canada?

Lengthy pause

SHE: Don't blame me. Blame my government.

ME: Adam, what's the capital city of Canada?

HE: Who the fuck cares?

Dad does his wrist

2010-11-24T07:01:00.006+09:00

_{Image from http://www.learntarot.com
Go take a look, you haters}

The dad has, he flatly informs me, his hand in a plaster cast, fallen foul of a hairline fracture or similar. Apparently he did it with his bike, although, as he was walking with his bike rather than riding it at the time, I suspect there may have been some alcohol involved as well.

You'll get bugger all sympathy out of me, I tell him over the phone. This is not strictly true. I do sympathise with him. I'm also stoked that, when I bought his Christmas present yesterday, I ignored the little voice in the back of my head that told me to get him a watch.

The dad has never been in plaster before. Nor had I when I received a similar injury in an incident involving football and a perfidious Frenchman with murder in his heart (see archive of March '06 for misty-eyed rememb'rance) but I regard the fracturing of one's wrist as a beginning out of an ending, much like the death card in a tarot pack.

With one-handed nonchalance, I learned to tie my tie, open up my customary large Starbucks coffee, add a solid eight-second pour of sugar and seal the cup again, beat my flatmate at pool, put together my longest-ever losing streak at left-handed janken, play Happy birthday to you on the guitar and many more things besides.

When I single-handedly split apart my chopsticks on the table with a deft rap, the glowing compliment I got from Wes took my mind completely off the splinters of bamboo stuck in my fingers.

I bestrode the earth like a colossus and feared no man living.

Ahem.

I hope the dad will understand how stoical I'm being about what is, after all, his injury. I'm back home this weekend, so I'll take a marker with me and challenge him to get as many phone numbers as he can before the well of sympathy runs dry.

All eventualities

2010-11-13T01:41:00.002+09:00

I told this to Joe a while back, but I think it's as well to share it with anyone else who might be interested.

In the unlikely event of me being mauled to death by a tiger, I don't want any of this Of course, the last thing Dan would have wanted was for any harm to come to the animal rubbish.

If I meet my end at the claws of some feckless stripy thug, I give my seal of approval to any reprisals. If his pelt decorates my coffin, so much the better.

Outmanoeuvred

2010-11-08T18:24:00.001+09:00

ME: What the hell's that?

HE: I don't know.

ME: What do you mean you don't know?

HE: I mean I do know, but I don't want to tell you.

Solitude - a cautionary tale

2010-10-26T08:29:00.005+09:00

My flatmate is moving on to greener pastures, leaving me to cope with the various ghosts and spectres of the apartment by myself.

As I ready myself for a return to a solitary life, I came across the cautionary tale of a Greenland fur trapper in The Adventurer's Handbook.

***

An old trapper, Gustav, had taken on a young assistant, Olav, for the season. Olav was excellent company, being naturally lively and talkative. Sadly, however, he lacked the robustness of constitution required for surviving a Greenland winter and, after a month or two, he fell ill and died.

Trappers being, by necessity, fairly unsentimental, Gustav buried Olav and carried on with his work. The trappers had been completely isolated and a ship to collect their furs was not expected until the following summer.

After a while, Gustav grew to miss his erstwhile companion's gay banter so, with no other prospect of company, he dug Olav's body up and sat it a table in his cabin.

Naturally, dead Olav wasn't nearly as talkative as live Olav, plus Gustav was overwhelmed with shame. So he buried the body again. Whereupon he felt terribly lonely again. So he dug it up again. And so on.

Suffering from a terrible guilty conscience, Gustav became convinced that his companion's spirit was haunting him, so he dug the body up one last time and shot it through the head, then buried it again.

When the ship arrived to collect the season's haul of furs, the crew found Gustav quite agitated and, hearing that his companion had died, they took Gustav and the sadly abused cadaver back to Denmark, where Gustav was charged with murder on account of the apparent gunshot wound Olav's head.

***

There is, thankfully, a happy ending to this tale: an autopsy bore Gustav out in his claim to have shot the body after death. The murder charge was dropped and Gustav instead found himself in an insane asylum.

What was 'The Event'?

2010-10-23T06:58:00.008+09:00

The Event, known by various other ominous names, occurred towards the end of the 20th century, setting in motion a chain of events that effectively saw the human race return to the stone age.

According to our best research, The Event happened some time between 1992 and 1994, when, after three excellent albums, The Beautiful South suddenly became absolutely and irredeemably shit.

The Beautiful South, just in case you were in a cave or a coma, were a musical phoenix arisen from the ashes of the Housemartins. They were my first proper favourite band and, for most of the early 90s, my CD of Choke spent more time in the stereo than it did in its box.

1989 Welcome to the Beautiful South

The Beautiful South's first album: massively popular, melodic tunes. Dark lyrics.

Although the album was a huge hit, the cover, with the girl sticking the gun in her mouth, was rather less so, particularly with the censors.

An alternative version was released with the suicidal wench and the smoking bloke replaced by a cuddly teddy bear and an adorable toy rabbit respectively.

Standout tunes:

Song for whoever - first single, satirising the music industry and paint-by-numbers love songs

Woman in the wall - song about a bloke doing his missus in

1990 Choke

Built on the success of the first album and yielded the band's only UK #1 ('A little time').

A truly tremendous album which filled the void in my soul left by not being old enough for self-abuse or alcohol. (Notice how I set those two apart, even after all these years - there's nothing as healthy as denial.)

Standout tracks:

Let love speak up itself - would bring a tear to a glass eye

Should've kept my eyes shut - another song about doing your missus in

1992 0898

Standout tracks:

Old Red Eyes is back - strangely uplifting song about alcoholism

You play glockenspiel, I'll play drums - killer synth riff

0898 was a bit of a departure from the previous two albums, with more of a rock feel and some downright disturbing album artwork. The title refers to the old prefix for premium phone rate numbers.

Of course, everyone has a mobile phone these days so every number's a premium rate number. Even my mother. (Your mother always was.)

1994 Miaow

Utter, utter cack. The group had lost Briana Corrigan as female vocalist, but that still didn't explain how dreary all the tunes were.

The signs were all there with the uninspiring first single release 'Good as gold'. The second single was 'Everybody's talkin'', a cover of someone else's song, which had been middle of the road way back in the day.

In an ironic little echo of the band's golden era, they had to withdraw the album sleeve for this too - because of a copyright infringement against HMV, Tesco's for music.

The South went onto to vomit out a greatest hits collection, a couple more albums and a couple more greatest hits collections, becoming in the process a persuasive argument for the 'die before you get old' school of thinking.

In a parallel universe, opinionated drunks are typing similar stuff about Kurt Cobain.

The monst'rous marathon mail

2010-10-15T17:49:00.000+09:00

Just to update everyone on how the Loch Ness Marathon went, and very big thanks to those of you who donated to Macmillan Cancer Support via our Justgiving page; we've raised over £500, which will:

a. Provide more good days for people living with cancer

b. Land Macmillan another couple of London Marathon places, so some other pair of willing idiots have to pester their friends for something in the region of six grand

Either way, I'm sure you'll agree that's an outstanding result!

Right, how it went - I'm sure you're all dying to hear about how we faced and overcame our biggest challenge since illiteracy so I'll spare you details of our travel (which was a marathon in its own right) and skip to the race.

The course begins at the south end of Loch Ness and follows the main road all the way up into Inverness. The road is closed to traffic for the day, with the welcome exception of ambulances and the occasional hearse.

Not deeming the marathon sufficiently hellish in its own right, the organisers lined us up an hour-long bus trip to the start line. To be more exact, the bus dropped us off ten minutes from the start. Twenty minutes before the start. So long warm-up.

Just in case we were still suffering from any lingering vestiges of optimism, the morning had settled into the kind of steady, persistent drizzle which gives the people of the highlands their cheery disposition and impressive suicide rate.

Then some funny bastard put "500 miles" by the Proclaimers on the PA system and a couple of thousand soggy joggers lurched out onto the road, bound for Inverness.

The first nine miles or so were fairly steep downhill, which probably sounds ideal - it's not. Your legs get pulverised. After this, we emerged onto the side of Loch Ness for the next nine miles, which were flat and scenic.

Unfortunately, with all the damage wrought by the first section and the prospect of many, many more miles to come, you tend to plod along thinking things like: "I've stacked this," and "Marathons are rubbish".

Not being a big city marathon, there aren't the throngs of people cheering that you'd get in somewhere like London, New York or possibly even Leicester. This changed after around 17 miles when we went through a place called Dores.

People lined the streets of the town, cheering runners on and handing out sweets and drinks, not because they like runners, but simply because they're a collection of nasty, twisted perverts.

The reason is, straight after the town, from mile 18 onwards, is THE hill.

So, once a year the people of Dores take a break from watching Songs of Praise on the telly and take to the street to derive sadistic delight from encouraging a bunch of sweaty, exhausted runners to put on a bit of a spurt, knowing full well that they'll get overexcited and waste a bunch of energy. Then, when they're faced with a two-mile incline, they'll have shot their bolt and they will, in all probability, expire in a ditch.

(In fact, I went past a collapsed guy being loaded into an ambulance on this stretch, so the people of Dores can have a good laugh about that one.)

Fortunately, once you've made it up and over the hill, it's then plain sailing to the finish. Although it does take about an hour.

By this stage, the sun had at last come out, as had the people of Inverness. In one last twist of the knife, you go past the finish on the other side of the river before crossing and retracing your steps.

I crossed the line in just under 3h 30 and waddled off to get a coffee. Ed arrived just over an hour later, looking every inch the shot putter in his wicked Macmillan vest.

Both of us were walking like we'd had our first shower in prison. Of course, we were now free to get on the keg for the first time in a month. Sadly, the first pint we had was foul - some pubs just have no sense of occasion.

It was hard, our legs hurt, and our mouths tasted like we'd been eating bees. Nonetheless, we had made it through the marathon - it's a great feeling and I'd recommend anyone to have a crack at doing it*.

Anyway, if you've made it to the bottom of this rambling, please dry your eyes and pull yourself together. Many thanks again for supporting our effort and don't forget to check out the photos on our Facebook page.

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=141406819234385

*Except normal people

Another e-mail to the BBC

2010-10-11T06:29:00.001+09:00

Dear John Inverdale,

I agree wholeheartedly with your idea of a staggered start in the 800m at the end of the heptathlon, but why stop there? In order to clarify the event for spectators, I believe that all the events should be staggered after the first one, so competitors lagging behind have to throw their javelin from further back, do the long jump from further back, etc.

No, just kidding. Anyway, keep the crackpot suggestions coming.

Sincere regards,

Daniel McKeown

***

Sent today, after having been provoked once too often by the Commonwealth Games coverage.

Not big, not clever...

2010-10-04T02:14:00.006+09:00

But she did leave herself logged in on the hostel computer.

So we took a few liberties with her profile picture.

Designing the dater base

2010-09-20T04:36:00.004+09:00

Teaching IT to international students provides me with constant challenges, not the least of which is keeping classroom fatalities to an absolute minimum.

Fortunately, years of teaching experience have equipped me with a giddying array of classroom strategies, the best of which is: keep it relevant to the students' interests.

For example, this week I had to teach Microsoft's Access database: the one part of MS Office that nobody, but nobody is going to use casually in everyday life.

Happily, I'd caught a few of the ladies looking for true love (a willing sap) online in a previous lesson, so I came up with a top exercise: design a database for an internet dating site.

I put some examples up on the board:

Username - text
Telephone number - text
Height (cm) - number

I warned my students against using "number" format for telephone numbers. I also warned them against including "weight" on their list of required fields - as if anyone would ever tell the truth.

I then left them to it for a few minutes before I wondered round and inspected their efforts. It proved a bit of an insight into human nature: several of the ladies had specified salary - number as a required field. Damn gold diggers.

I decided to check on one of the blokes. It wasn't much better.

Virgin - Yes/No

Two weeks until the marathon

2010-09-18T18:44:00.004+09:00

The marathon is now but a fortnight distant and I am into the "taper" stage of my training, during which I run less and eat cheesecake like it's going out of fashion.

In truth, the cheesecake-eating bit is not conventional marathon training, but is a handy crutch for me as Edwin and I have sworn off alcohol until we are safely finished in Loch Ness.

A bottle of whisky which I bought the other day sits unharmed on the kitchen shelf, taunting me. Time for some more cheesecake.

At this stage in proceedings, it's not uncommon for runners to get paranoid about injury and illness: What if I get a cold? What if I tear a hamstring? I managed to do myself a bit of damage the other day while performing routine DIY surgery on my foot with a kitchen knife. Perhaps I should be more cautious.

I forced myself out of bed for a 5k race this morning, which went a lot better than last night's jog (ie. I didn't have to do an emergency stealth poo round the back of King's Cross station). There was also a big gorilla at the finishing line, giving out high-fives to runners.

As I was collecting my bag, the gorilla removed its head to reveal the rather hot face of a university student.

"That's not a gorilla!" I shouted indignantly. "That's just a man in a gorilla suit!"

The race organisers tutted and shook their heads at this intelligence. I'm sure one of them muttered the word "wanker".

Two more weeks.

A normal Japanese man

2010-09-14T06:20:00.003+09:00

I ask her, "Does your husband often talk about women?"

"Of course he doesn't," says Mrs Kodaira. "And I know you're trying to make out he's some kind of sex maniac, raping and killing young women, but he's just a normal Japanese man..."

from Tokyo Year Zero
by David Peace

Not over until it's over

2010-09-13T00:04:00.000+09:00

Trips to the V. E. T.

2010-08-29T15:20:00.003+09:00

Greebo, the elder of our two cats, was not feeling well. Funnily enough, she seems always to be the one in ill health; our other cat, Stimpy, is as healthy as a horse and could probably survive being steamrollered with no more than a mild headache.

The source of Greebo's discomfort was a swelling in the tear duct of her good eye which, apart from being quite sore, must really have been ruining the remainder of her view.

We stuffed the wretched cat in a picnic hamper and took her off to see the vet.

The vet sucked his teeth and told us there was no choice but to have the cat anaesthetised so he could cut open and drain the swelling. Not ideal for a 17-year-old cat.

I was rather hoping she could go under the knife there and then, but he wanted to get home for his tea and anaesthetic also requires the cat to have an empty stomach.

He sent us away, enjoining us to return the next morning with an unfed cat. I then had to spend ages in the waiting room while he printed off the required consent forms.

"I don't know what's taking him so long," said the receptionist with a nervous smile.

"He's probably googling the cat's symptoms," I suggested uncharitably, in the sure knowledge that nobody was going to be putting a knife anywhere near my face.

***

We returned the next morning to drop Greebo off.

"Has she been starved overnight?" asked the receptionist. I gave her a look.

"Why, yes," I said. "And we've mistreated her this morning."

***

Happily, the vet didn't take out any of my glib comments on the cat and she was none the worse for her operation. The lump has been removed from her tear duct and she now has a cool pink scar next to her eye that makes her look like she's been roughhousing with some other cat.

More importantly, she's much happier and once again has perfect ten-ten vision.

The Girl with the Relative Clause: Stieg Larsson outtakes

2010-08-19T21:14:00.004+09:00

...And back to the usual flippancy here on Trashed Elbow.

Every time I go in a bookshop these days, I find myself irritated by the Stieg Larsson novels. I should be clear that I haven't read any of them - my dad read one once and told me it was naff; that was good enough for me.

What irritates me is the off-the-shelf, formulaic titles: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played with Fire, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest.

It did give me pause to wonder: which potential titles did he consider before discarding? Which ones didn't make the final cut?

Here are some of my ideas:

The Girl with the Pencil Moustache

The Girl Who Talked to Strangers

The Girl Who Ran with Scissors

The Girl Who Shared Needles

The Girl with the Adam's Apple

The book ends

2010-08-19T05:29:00.005+09:00

Summer is here and with it unpaid leave. I am reduced from days (count) to time (non-count).

An amount of time (or a number of days) ago, the family gathered in darkest Kent to commit the grandad's ashes. A new tree at Sidcup Golf Club has had its roots invigorated by Maurice Langley Court, 24th September 1918 to 29th January 2010.

Of course, the grandad was such a noted hypochondriac that the tree in question is probably going to spend the rest of eternity worrying about dutch elm disease and irritable knotholes.

I had the honour of chauffeuring the urn, which did give me an inkling of a hideously inappropriate gag in which I threw sherbet round the inside of the car, then hopped out covered in powder at the golf club and dramatically announced that Grandad had been no end of trouble.

The things one thinks.

Seeing the dates of my grandfather's life etched on the plaque by the tree was a more solemn moment: birth and death like a pair of bookends. It's when you see something like that written down that you realise it's for good. The old boys from the golf club broke into a chorus of "For he's a jolly good fellow". It was one of those moments I think I'll always remember.

The mum handled it all bravely, announcing at the end that she'll never some back to South London. Devoted son though I am, that did give me one or two creative ideas about where her ashes might go after the hang gliding accident on her 127th birthday.

Best she specifies someone else be in charge of that.

***

There were geese, thanks to the presence of a small lake at the club. I sidled over to this gaggle and bade them a quick 'boo'. They didn't bat an eyelid.

I suppose I just have an enquiring mind.

Unlikely cover

2010-08-17T22:32:00.001+09:00

Ben Folds covers Bitches Ain't Shit

The monster marathon looms

2010-08-14T21:42:00.003+09:00

I'm running a marathon on the 3rd of October. It's not something I intended to go on about too much on this blog but I seem to be spending a lot of time plodding around North London in my trusty Asics Gel Guano that would otherwise be spent blogging so I suppose it's as well to let it pay its way a bit.

Edwin and I dared each other into signing up for the Loch Ness Marathon back in March; we were still high on testosterone and ibuprofen from him running the England Kilomathon and me running the Silverstone Half. It's a much smaller affair than something like the London Marathon: the competitors are given a lift out of Inverness to the southern end of Loch Ness and run back into town along a lovely, scenic (hilly) route.

I've never run a marathon before but it's always been on my list of stuff to do: write a novel, spend a night in a cell, run a marathon. From October 4th, I can finally devote my attention to that novel.

Most of this week has been spent sorting out transport and accommodation for our adventure. Actually, the accommodation hasn't been sorted yet – I was meant to do it yesterday but I refused to do anything on Friday 13th. Despite only going out once all day, I managed to convince myself I'd lost my phone. I hadn't.

Not unnaturally, I'm wondering how long it's going to take me to run the 26-odd miles into Inverness. I've focussed my training more on speed than endurance – as I pointed out to Ed, I don't mind collapsing and dying after 20 miles, so long as it hasn't taken me six hours to get there.

The Runners' World site has rather a handy race time predicty thingy: you enter one of your recent race times with your target distance and it pulls an estimated time out of its bottom, based on some clever algorithm which involves a lot of brackets and italics.

I have my doubts about the accuracy of this system, so I designed my own clever algorithm for pulling a projected race time out of thin air. Ready? Here it is:

target time = recent time X (target distance km / recent distance km) + (target distance – recent distance as minutes)

For example working out a 10k time from a 5k time, you double the time (multiply by 10k over 5k) and add 5 minutes (10k minus 5k). Simple? Simple.

Like the Runners' World race time predicty thingy, my system is a little suspect when it comes to predicting times for a distance shorter than sample data. Using a recent 5k time, the algorithm declared that I should be able to take about a minute off the world record for the 1500m. It also told me that I'd struggle to complete the 100m within 24 hours.

If anyone wants to offer me a six-figure research grant, I'm sure I could hone it a bit.

***

This is what I've got to look forward to.

I love the bit where the bloke in the schoolgirl uniform comes into view and the commentator starts going on about charity runners: why does it necessarily follow that just because someone's running in drag they're therefore raising money for a good cause?

He could just be a filthy, degraded pervert who happens to enjoy endurance running.

Putting it nicely

2010-08-02T22:25:00.005+09:00

The news was running a bit about access to the sex offenders' register. (Access as in who can read it, not how to get on it.)

It was the usual business: parents worrying about shady blokes living on their street, Sarah's Law and so on.

A spokesperson was saying his bit about the potential consequences of the register being available to laypeople.

"If sex offenders are known to people other than the police or registered carers..."

He paused here. I leaned forward, interested in how he was going to euphemise the next bit.

"...They may have their houses burned down."

So much for euphemism.

Inauspices

2010-07-29T18:28:00.002+09:00

I have been struggling a bit with superstition recently. For one thing, I've been training myself to step on three.

In case anyone doesn't know, the cardinal rule of pedestrianism in England is "Don't tread on three", where there are three manhole covers laid out in a row. Should you tread on all three of them, great misfortune will surely befall.

Although, perhaps erroneously, I don't consider myself a superstitious person, I noticed I was being rather scrupulous in my observance of the unwritten rule. To put an end to this, I'm deliberately treading on three this week. It's worth noting that whatever misfortune befalls is unlikely to be as dire as the consequences of my continually veering to avoid manhole covers on crowded London streets.

***

In other omens, I took my lucky turtle out of my wallet the other day to find that his head had snapped off.

The lucky turtle was given to me by a Japanese student; I was told to keep him in my wallet and he would bring me money. His grisly decapitation may go some way toward explaining my current poverty.

Holmes truths

2010-07-27T22:26:00.003+09:00

The Beeb have foisted a new incarnation of Sherlock Holmes upon us: the imaginatively titled Sherlock (Sundays, 9pm-ish).

To commemorate this momentous occasion, I'd like to share a few of my favourite bits of Holmes-style wisdom. Not bits of outstanding deductive brilliance, sadly, but merely examples of him being snide and gittish to his long-suffering sidekick, Dr Watson.

***

I was about to make some remark to him when I raised my eyes to the lighted window and again experienced almost as great a surprise as before. I clutched Holmes's arm and pointed upwards.

"The shadow has moved!" I cried.

It was, indeed, no longer the profile, but the back, which was turned towards us.

Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of his temper or his impatience with a less active intelligence than his own.

"Of course it has moved," said he. "Am I such a farcical bungler, Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy and expect that some of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it?"

The Adventure of the Empty House

***

"The cipher message begins with a large 534, does it not? We may take it as a working hypothesis that 534 is the particular page to which the cipher refers. So our book has already become a LARGE book, which is surely something gained. What other indications have we as to the nature of this large book? The next sign is C2. What do you make of that, Watson?"

"Chapter the second, no doubt."

"Hardly that, Watson. You will, I am sure, agree with me that if the page be given, the number of the chapter is immaterial. Also that if page 534 finds us only in the second chapter, the length of the first one must have been really intolerable."

"Column!" I cried.

"Brilliant, Watson. You are scintillating this morning."

The Valley of Fear

Practice what you teach

2010-07-16T00:10:00.002+09:00

"Guys, if you're going to stand about swearing can you please bugger off outside?"

***

Best thing is, the students weren't even swearing - they were just struggling a bit with pronouncing the word 'sheet'.

Path of flowers and beasts

2010-07-12T20:24:00.007+09:00

The World Cup is finally over, so I can stop moonlighting on the World Cup Blogcast and get back to writing here. Hurrah!

In other sports news, the world of sumo has gone to hell in a hand basket (note: this may not be news to those of you who don't rely on Trashed Elbow as your sole source of sumo information).

The sport has been hit with scandals revolving around gambling and Yakuza, leading to the suspension of a couple of high-profile wrestlers and an enormous knee-jerk reaction from Japanese broadcasters NHK, who have decided not to air the current tournament.

The gambling scandal included ozeki Kotomitsuki getting sacked for betting on baseball. This is illegal in Japan and unlicensed betting generally involves some contact (direct or otherwise) with gangsters. It is also believed Kotomitsuki was being blackmailed for money. Osaka's Goeido is another who has been suspended.

(I suspect pro baseball players probably place illegal bets on the sumo all the time without getting rumbled.)

Meanwhile, there has been much furore about Yakuza getting ringside seats at sumo tournaments, apparently hoping to appear on TV and thereby give solace to their comrades in prison.

Were I banged up inside, I'm sure I'd be delighted to see TV coverage of my workmates cavorting around at the sumo instead of hatching plans to bust me out. In any case, sumo is off the air, which surely amounts to punishment for all the regular fans?

Needless to say, the suspension of all the Japanese talent does little to raise hopes of a home-grown grand champion any time soon.

Notes

Hanamichi: (lit. path of flowers) the wrestlers' path to the dohyou (raised ring) in sumo

Kemonomichi: (lit. path of beasts) the underworld

Not a mornings person

2010-07-01T00:56:00.005+09:00

I awoke to the gentle sound of rain on the window and had an idea: With Glyn staying over and Sam Green at home for once, why not run out for a morning game of football?

Of course, we were all terribly hungover and I'm not a mornings person these days.

As we struggled into our respective kits, Glyn was enthusiastically describing a local council initiative for midnight football matches in Northern Ireland.

"It's about getting youngsters off street corners," he explained.

"Have they done anything about getting your mum off street corners?" I asked. He let this pass.

Sam Green, meanwhile, was worried about our lack of goalie gloves:

"I've got some wicket keeper gloves upstairs but they've got webbed fingers," he said.

I couldn't help myself.

"So's your mum."

Sam also let this pass; we were all terribly hungover and I'm not a mornings person these days.

***

Disclaimer: my mother is a saint.

McKeown juggling school

2010-06-15T18:38:00.001+09:00

Joe and I obviously have far too much time on our hands.

Chilli prospects

2010-06-10T00:25:00.002+09:00

So the last shall be first, and the first last: for many be called, but few chosen.
Matthew 20:16

***

This year's chilli-growing is not going well.

The first promising hopefuls to graduate from seed to seedling were murdered by the wanton negligence of my mother, who didn't feel like watering them in my absence.

One of the plants did survive this torrent of cruelty so I gave it to a friend as a birthday present, enjoining her to take good care of it.

The second batch were getting by quite comfortably in the garden at Gray's Inn Rd, until one morning I found they'd been ravaged by a snail, which I found sleeping off his banquet next to the mauled plants.

Presuming the snail had never tasted chilli leaves before, it was my privilege to introduce him to another couple of new experiences:

1. Flight at 50mph
2. Death

So I'm now down to my last throw of the dice: I've put the late developing seedlings out in the garden, hoping they will survive the caprices of the weather and the machinations of snail.

The Coventry Half Marathon

2010-06-01T03:49:00.004+09:00

On Sunday May 23rd, after five months of training, one drunken press release, four copies of Runner’s World and no early nights whatsoever, I jumped out of bed ready to complete the final leg of my Human Rights Half-marathon Hat-trick.

Perhaps ‘jumped’ isn’t exactly right; for one thing, my bedroom in the mum’s house is so small that if I genuinely jumped out of bed, I’d probably go clean through the window. I was feeling fairly chipper though and probably a bit better prepared than my running buddy Edwin, who had come all the way to Coventry the previous evening, only to discover that he’d left his race number and timing chip in Nottingham, the consequent two-hour round trip to recover said number and chip putting a bit of a dent in his plans for an early night. (Fair play to his wife for going with him and sharing the driving duties instead of making him go alone which I would definitely have done.)

I met Ed outside the pub at the bottom of my road after breakfast and we set off to the race start together.

We had both run the Cov half seven months previously: last year it was held in October. This year, for some reason, they decided to shift it to the end of May. Predictably enough, it was fiercely hot, so I wasn’t planning to try for a new PB. I was planning to have a celebratory barbecue afterwards though.

Despite the sweltering heat, the race had attracted the usual assortment of people in fancy dress – there was a bunch of banana costumes, Peter Pan, Superman and a giant hamster, among others. There is a brilliant passage in The Looniness of the Long Distance Runner by Russell Taylor in which he describes an affliction called Get the Womble, which affects inexperienced runners.

Roughly paraphrased, it goes something like this:

- Early in the race, you get overtaken by a runner in a Womble costume
- Humiliated, you forget your pacing strategy and set off after the Womble
- You wear yourself out and have to retire from the race
- You never find out that the Womble was a former county athletics champion whose mates bet them they couldn’t break three hours for the marathon dressed in a silly costume

Thankfully, I read this before Batman and Robin left me standing at the Sheffield half. I actually caught Batman around about the ten mile mark, but I didn’t see Robin again, meaning either I missed him in the excitement, he dropped out or – worst of all – he finished inside one hour forty.

There were well over 2,000 entrants for the Cov half, although there weren’t anything like that amount of finishers. I did hear reports of people walking away before the race, discouraged by the heat. Ed and I met up with Breen, another lad off our football team just before the start and off we set together.

About a mile in, we got overtaken by a guy whom Ed dubbed ‘the Roadrunner’, who was taking tiny steps but at a higher turnover rate than an Olympic sprinter. Part of the reason for his unorthodox gait might have been his footwear – he was rocking a pair of those weird rubber sock-shoes with individual toes; as an article in Runner’s World put it, the £100 pound pair of shoes which simulates not wearing a pair of shoes at all. He hyper-shuffled his way off into the distance. We weren’t foolhardy enough to give chase.

We spread out over the course of the first four miles; Breen had the foresight to bring an mp3 player with him, I was content just to listen to the pitter-patter (or repeated thudding) of my own two feet and engage in occasional chat with fellow runners. I’ve no idea how Ed gets through miles of solitary running, although I’ve always suspected he ‘spots’ himself (“Looking good! Yeah! Ugh! Feel the burn!”)

On top of the heat, Coventry is a really hilly course and the miles weren’t exactly flying past. Truth be told, I threw up a tiny bit in my mouth while we were running up Torrington Avenue, although I could merely have been experiencing a nauseating flashback to fruitless Monday trips to Jobcentre Plus.

Although I’m not bad at ignoring Wombles, superheroes and similar, I do tend to get a bit pin-eyed if I see other charity runners ahead of me. Perhaps we could call this syndrome ‘Get Macmillan’. Anyway, at the start of the race I’d noticed a gang of people running for a children’s charity in lurid fluorescent vests almost identical to my own. Coming through Warwick Uni and entering the really back-breaking part of the course, I saw one of these vests up ahead. I’m not stupid enough to start sprinting when there’s still five miles to run, but I did put in a bit of an effort to reel this guy in. Imagine my horror when I caught up to find he had Somewhere-or-other Striders on his back – just a club runner with a particularly horrible vest. Worse still, he was looking smooth and relaxed and I’d just wasted a bunch of energy catching up with him and felt knackered.

The course headed up Gibbet Hill onto Kenilworth Rd, downhill again, then uphill again. Strider, who’d been dogging my heels for about a mile, suddenly lost interest and started walking. I didn’t know whether to feel glad I’d outlasted him or apprehensive about what effect the conditions might have on me over the last four miles.

At the outset of the race, I’d set myself a provisional finishing target of 1:45 – outside my PB, but definitely good enough in the conditions. Problem was, I’d been outside that time from the start and hadn’t felt confident about making up the difference. This all changed as we went up Beanfield Avenue, for two reasons:

1.At this point in last year’s run I’d felt absolutely dead, this time I still felt able to run
2.I overtook Superman

Into the Memorial Park we went and – glory of glories – I overtook the Roadrunner! He was still pottering along with that quick-stepping gait which makes a race walker look like a triple jumper. Past him I went and moments later he was hauled down by a famished-looking Coyote on Acme rocket skates.

Ignoring the ferocious snarls and distressed ‘meep-meep’ noises behind me, I plodded on, leaving the park and entering the final mile. One runner had given up and taken refuge from the blazing sun in someone’s garden hedge. When asked, he said he was fine but he was definitely staying put.

Half a mile to go. A couple of kids washing their dad’s car with a hose and drenching grateful runners as they go past. Across the ring road and back into the city centre. Quarter of a mile to go and, with a bit of a push, I could still go inside 1:45. 300m, 200m... Crowds of people on both sides of the road, I’m running hard, shouting at myself like a weirdo... Past one final runner, ruining his race finish photo and over the line about fifteen seconds inside my target. Pump fist, blunder over to side of road, collapse heavily against barrier in the shade, no more running.

After collecting my bag, I went down to the first aid / physio tent. Happily, I was assured that genuine injury was not a prerequisite for a leg rub and all comers were welcome. It seems I was the first person to investigate this: there were no other runners in the tent and I ended up with one masseuse for each leg.

I came out of the tent and – conveniently enough – Ed was standing right outside. He’d had a tough time and had suffered the indignity of being overtaken by the banana bunch. He reported that one of the bananas had collapsed of heat exhaustion in the Memorial Park. I asked if anyone had trod on him and slipped over.

Off we went for a well-earned pint and to prepare for the barbecue, our running complete.

Of course, we are running our first marathon at Loch Ness in October so it’s not time to bin the running shoes just yet.

Making unwarranted accusations of racism against my flatmate

2010-05-19T20:13:00.003+09:00

"Why is it always about colour with you, Sam Green?"

***

As usual, you probably needed to be there.

Merrie In-ger-lund

2010-05-11T03:57:00.002+09:00

We were at a St George's Day-themed beer festival, the term 'beer' rather giving the lie to the fact that there was no beer available and the term 'festival' rather giving the lie to the fact that there was no beer available.

St George was there though: a nice enough gent in knight of yore costume, with ubiquitous cross motif and a dragon mascot in tow.

Over he came, to entertain the kids - my nieces to be exact. Both of them shrank away from him however. St George looked rather glum.

"Sorry mate," the sister told him. "It's because the last guy dressed like you fire bombed our neighbours' house."

***

Ok, but that's definitely what she should have said.

Quote of the day

2010-05-04T22:34:00.004+09:00

"If you expose your opponent's weaknesses enough, eventually those weaknesses will be exposed."

- Big Sam Allardyce

---

Arsene Wenger may be even more angry about losing to Blackburn after Sam Allardyce's masterly exposition on the finer tactical points of the game. It's like being outwitted by a meringue.

General election 2010

2010-05-03T18:51:00.004+09:00

My thoughts on the forthcoming election.

1. I might have considered voting Lib Dem, but I can't stand Nick Clegg. He's a jumped-up little bastard who reminds me horribly of Tony Blair. He wouldn't take us into any wars, but he might take us into the Euro. Yes, we missed that boat but it did turn out to be the Titanic.

2. The Tories have finally stopped smearing Gordon Brown in their election posters, reasoning that no matter what they do to him, it wouldn't be as bad as what he does to himself (Gordon Brown calls Labour supporter a 'bigoted woman'). Unfortunately, their new tactic is putting David Cameron on their posters, giving "Let's..." suggestions, much in the manner of the twat in the pub.

I'm waiting for the moment when he shows his true colours with

Let's bring back the death penalty

or

Let's dynamite the Channel Tunnel

3. Gordon Brown has about as much talent for politics as I have for breathing underwater.

Bigotgate / Downfall

2010-05-01T22:24:00.000+09:00

Joe's birthday treat

2010-04-27T18:08:00.001+09:00

I took Joe out for lunch at the Hungry Horse in Northampton

HE: I think I'll have the mixed grill.

ME: You fat fuck.

Pause

ME: Would you like a starter?

The Sheffield Half Marathon

2010-04-27T17:23:00.007+09:00

For part two of my half marathon hat-trick (justgiving page), I ran the Sheffield half on Sunday morning.

To get myself in the mood, I treated myself to a trip to the London Marathon Expo, despite TfL's insistence on buggering about with the transport system.

Taking a time predictor test at the London Marathon Expo. It didn't predict anything good.

With the streets of our nation's capital choked with people flocking to see the marathon, it's a good thing I did have something on this weekend, otherwise I would probably have been a bit fed up not to be taking part. I was running a half on my own for the first time. Kate was running the 3km fun run, but I still felt a bit lonely with no one to talk to.

Kate and I, gearing ourselves up

I entertained myself through the early stages by playing pub cricket, although Sheffield's pubs yielded a meagre eight runs for the loss of 15 wickets.

It was hot and hilly and the organisers, with debatable wisdom, saved the energy drink stop for just before the 10-mile mark, which was rather too late.

Amnesty pulls clear of Cancer Research UK. Take that, Race for Life!

The Female 35+ section yielded the most drama of the day as the leader came into the final straight in the stadium and collapsed flat on her face. While she was wobbling and crawling around, another runner came sailing through to win the category. Medical staff were on hand but weren't allowed to touch her as this would have meant disqualification.

Eventually, she staggered across the line like a crippled beggar and was loaded into an ambulance.

Just over 10 minutes later, I cam wobbling into the stadium myself to finish in a new PB of 1:41:04. Kate told me about the F35 face-planter and also that she'd been talking about me to Radio Sheffield, upon which point the Radio Sheffield lady rocked up to hear some more. Hurray, I'm famous!

Kate, for her part, had completed the fun run, then gone off and bought herself a full English breakfast with MY money. I do tip my hat to her for finding a place that laid on breakfast for £3 though.

The commemorative gong was a nice shade of blue that matches my eyes

The prizes for finishing the fun run look like they fell out of a third-world christmas stocking

Building bridges

2010-04-26T17:15:00.000+09:00

An internal Foreign Office memo about September's papal visit to Britain, born of a Friday afternoon brainstorming session involving a group of junior civil servants, resulted yesterday in the demotion of a young official and a formal government apology to the Vatican.

The memorandum, apparently written by staff planning events for the four-day visit by Pope Benedict XVI, suggested he might like to start a helpline for abused children, sack "dodgy" bishops, open an abortion ward, launch his own brand of condoms, preside at a civil partnership, perform forward rolls with children, apologise for the Spanish armada and sing a song with the Queen.

Pope receives apology from UK Foreign Office for 'condom' memo
The Grauniad, 26th April, 2010

Camp Intrepid, Peak District, April 2010

2010-04-20T18:14:00.001+09:00

Prize to anyone who can decipher the dad's riposte.

No one loves snow like the Elkhound loves snow

2010-04-20T18:13:00.002+09:00

More information on the Norwegian Elkhound

Hardcore weekends for hardcore people, Vol. I

2010-04-20T17:46:00.004+09:00

One day, I'm going to suggest something stupid to Edwin and he's going to say "No, Dan - that's just stupid."

It hasn't happened yet. The last stupid thing I suggested to him was entering this year's Loch Ness Marathon. Ten minutes later, we'd both dropped forty notes and had our race numbers. I just can't wait.

This weekend's stupidity wasn't quite on the same scale, but it was still pretty daft: enter two 10k races. This worked out pretty well as the Saturday one was in Nottingham (handy for Ed) and the Sunday was in Coventry (handy for both of us).

Saturday saw us lining up in glorious sunshine in Cotgrave Country Park for the Paws 10k (raising money for mutts). We overheard one veteran of a previous race discussing the hill with a friend. This seemed rather inauspicious; as I remarked to Edwin, definite article prefixes seldom betoken glad tidings: the clap, the taxman, etc.

Off we went, to slowly fry on a series of slopes. Just before 6km, I rounded a hedge to be confronted with the hill, up which runners in front were struggling or, in several cases, walking. I made it over, although the bench at the top did provide me with a nasty moment of temptation.

I finished a minute or two ahead of Ed, who had, to his credit, also conquered the hill at a run and was a little caustic about some of the quitters:

"I came past these two guys who were just walking up it, chatting about all the running they do! One of them was like 'Oh, yes - I did the kilomathon recently,' and I was like 'Well get a fucking move on then!'"

I fell out of bed feeling pretty stiff on Sunday morning to do the same around the leafy lanes of Coventry in the Northbrook 10k - which, I might add, also had a the hill. Both Ed and I were unsurprisingly a little slower round the course this time.

My running complete, I sped on to my next mission: taking the dad camping / hiking in the Peak District. By this stage, I was a little tired.

Giving me a bad name

2010-04-14T17:21:00.002+09:00

...although I suspect he may feel that I'm giving him a bad name. Hm.

With thanks to fearless correspondent Russ Greaves for unearthing this little gem on tampabay.com (reprinted from the St Petersburg Times).

Man accused of exposing himself to teens in Weeki Wachee

WEEKI WACHEE — A Homosassa man who authorities say exposed himself to two teenagers in a neighborhood north of Weeki Wachee on Sunday evening has been charged with lewd and lascivious acts on a minor.

Daniel P. McKeown, 25, was standing in the road near the 11000 block of Mirage Avenue when he unzipped his jeans, exposed his genitals to the two teenagers and made the same vulgar comment several times, according to an arrest report from the Hernando County Sheriff's Office. Several adults witnessed McKeown's actions, the report said.

McKeown fled from deputies and ran into a vacant home before he was caught, so he was also charged with trespassing. McKeown told deputies he'd drank five beers and did not remember exposing himself, according to the report.

McKeown, of 4385 S Marcan Trail, remained in the Hernando County Jail on a bond of $15,500.

My thought for the day

2010-04-05T01:12:00.001+09:00

"You can't damage a community as much by bombing it as you can by building a Tesco's."

You say meow, I say miaow

2010-03-29T03:50:00.002+09:00

Lethal drug meow meow will be banned by MPs in record time after an emergency meeting tomorrow.

A tough new law is likely to be brought in within days - one of the fastest ever passed and the last before the General Election. Gordon Brown last night said it was a tragedy young people had been sucked into using the drug.

He said: "They have been misled into believing they were taking a drug which did not have lethal qualities." The £2-a-hit white powder, sold as plant food and called mephedrone, has been blamed for a string of deaths.

The Advisory Council On The Misuse Of Drugs will recommend to Home Secretary Alan Johnson that the drug gets the same status as speed and cannabis - meaning dealers face up to 14 years in prison. The law is expected to be passed on April 8.

Last week a Sunday Mirror investigation found Chinese factories send kilograms of the white powder here using couriers like DHL.

Meow meow banned
The Mirror

Attack of the killer tomatoes

2010-03-28T04:09:00.003+09:00

Sainsbury's Basics tomatoes often come in warped cans, making them a bit of a pain in the neck to open. I had one particularly recalcitrant example of such a can today, which remained jammed shut even after I'd finally made it all the way round the rim with the can opener.

I was successful in levering it open, but the vibrant twang of the lid springing free was somewhat muffled by the fleshy squelch of it embedding itself in the middle finger and palm of my left hand (putting the cut in subcutaneous, as it were).

I asked Sam to buy me some plasters from the shop next door and drain the pasta, while I bled copiously into the sink.

Sadly, the plasters proved about as effective as a puncture repair kit aboard the Titanic, so I ate my pasta in tomato sauce (with traces of Dan) then wandered off to A&E on Euston Road.

"Tomatoes do come in boxes these days you know," said the nurse as she strove to glue my finger back together.

Next week: Dan slices his own head off while trying to assemble a sandwich from pre-sliced ingredients.

She had it coming...

2010-03-24T20:04:00.002+09:00

The best bit of photo editing I've done in a while. Of course, Matt Sherry would never shank a sweet northern rose like Nikki. Never.

Cartoon cricket

2010-03-19T23:13:00.000+09:00

IPL cricket has made it onto the idiot box, courtesy of ITV4.

Joe won't hear a good word about the Twenty20 format. Sam and I were chatting over its demerits versus test cricket while we were watching people hitting the ball out of the ground and scantily-clad cheerleaders.

ME: It's a bit like the difference between playing chess and playing snap.

HE: It's more like the difference between playing chess and just throwing chess pieces as far as you can.

Happy St Pat's!

2010-03-18T22:31:00.003+09:00

I had an article to write and I find that Paddy's Night reaches a level of crassness that puts Christmas in the shade.

I did, however, commemorate the occasion in my own fashion.

Behold, the jelly tricolore.

The Adidas Silverstone Half Marathon

2010-03-16T17:48:00.007+09:00

Grounds and I did the Silverstone Half Marathon on Sunday, on a sunny, blustery day at England's premier motor racing circuit.

Arrival

Warming up

Before the race. We didn't get to pick the colour of our vests - Amnesty just chose a couple at random and sent them to us.

There were around 7,000 entrants, so the start was a bit cramped. Better still, I was already fairly aching for a pee, having been conscientiously drinking water all morning.

I wasn't alone either - for the first 800 yards or so of the race, there was a constant stream of blokes running off the track and relieving themselves against the wall. Grounds and I joined them with very little hesitation.

Grounds had brought his iPod with him, so he stuck that on and started singing along to it in a strange, high-pitched falsetto. I remember Heart of Glass earning us a few looks.

Possibly because of his outlandish behaviour, Grounds was moving through traffic a fair bit more easily than I was. He trotted off into the distance while I got hemmed in by sweaty bodies. As there were a couple of hairpin bends, I was treated to the sight of him bounding indefatigably along in the opposite direction on more than one occasion.

I figured there was no point wasting energy trying to bully my way through the crowd too early so I just settled in and plodded along.

I eventually caught up with Grounds at the eight-mile mark, then gave him a taste of his own medicine by running off on him! Haha! Grounds was getting a bit leggy as he actually needed a poo.

The last couple of miles were fairly hellish as the wind was blowing and there was an uphill stretch to the finish. I hung on for a finishing time of 1:42:58 - around a minute outside my target time, but quite cheering in the blustery conditions.

Grounds, meanwhile, had stopped for a poo but still made it round in an impressive 1:47:17.

Grounds then went for another poo while I tried to find the car. Fortunately I had an ace up my sleeve.

Parking officer standing in a huge car park, packed with cars. Up comes Dan.

ME: Hi there mate, I'm looking for a red Rover 400 series. You seen it?

HE: Er...

***

Silverstone Half Marathon overall:

* Very impressed with the facilities and organisation. Timing clocks on each mile marker a definite plus. Lots of water and Lucozade available on the course.

* A lot of people commented that their pedometers recorded 13.3 miles - I think that may be caused by being pushed wide through the many corners by traffic.

* The scenery was fairly awful. Unless you're a motorsports fan (I'm not) in which case, the scenery was iconic.

* My new running shoes gave me blisters. I also had a bit of jelly bean stuck between my teeth for the last two miles.

***

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Define yourself

2010-03-10T05:48:00.004+09:00

Right, I've bought new running shoes, I've got a couple of issues of Runner's World to leaf through for inspiration. I've even gone jogging a few times and called it 'training'.

Now the last thing I need before the Silverstone Half Marathon on Sunday is a mantra. (Well, the last thing I need is a torn hamstring, I suppose. I wasn't speaking figuratively though.)

The mantra should be something I can repeat to myself for 13-and-a-bit miles to urge myself on and regulate my breathing at the same time.

When Deena Kastor won the Chicago Marathon in 2005, she repeated her coach's pre-race advice define yourself throughout.

My mantra is a bit snappier. It rhymes with Buck's Fizz.

Stepping out in style

2010-03-05T00:16:00.004+09:00

With just over a week to go until the Silverstone Half Marathon and after the dismal conditions at the South London 10k, I decided it was time to invest in some new footwear.

There are a number of factors to consider when purchasing a pair of running shoes: price, comfort, look and the sheer ballache of finding them in a size 12.

After visiting two stores I had seen one semi-suitable pair.

Store #3 looked a shade more promising: I had a couple of contenders below the £30 mark. One pair seemed comfy, but looked absolutely ghastly with a sort of tin-foil and guano motif.

This angle doesn't show the mock tortoiseshell effect on the heel

I popped them back on the shelves and went for something a bit plainer.

Sadly, the plain pair proved to be as comfy as a set of rat traps. Shuddering, I got the ghastly pair back off the shelf. They fit like gloves, so I parted with my cash.

I'm wearing them right now. They feel lovely but I think I can say without exaggeration that I've put my feet in better-looking dog turds.

The South London 10k

2010-03-01T02:48:00.003+09:00

Sunday league was cancelled again, although I had to admit Sunday league had a point this week. It had rained since Wednesday and was still bucketing down this morning.

Unwilling to let slip another chance to bomb about through muddy puddles (and mindful of forthcoming half marathon appointments), I went online yesterday and put myself in for the South London 10k: 10km round a circuit beginning and ending on Wimbledon common.

So, up I got at 7:00 and set off for Wimbledon, downing a huge bag of jelly babies for breakfast. When I burped five minutes later, my breath had a disconcerting petroleum twang.

The race organisers decided to skip the customary mass warm up, reasoning that more people would freeze to death than would warm their muscles correctly. Instead, they called competitors to the front in order of (self) predicted finishing time.

"First of all, could sub-40 minute runners make their way to the starting line," announced the MC. Nobody came forward. My spirits lifted somewhat.

The start turned out to be a total mad dash as half the field appeared determined to give the lie to the lack of sub-40 runners. I settled into an easy, loping pace and was therefore a bit disappointed to find myself feeling absolutely bloody knackered before I'd seen the 2km sign. A boyfriend / girlfriend team went past me as if I was standing still, chatting amiably, he with long, rangy stride, she with a jaunty bouncing ponytail which mirrored her running gait. I gnashed my teeth and thought machine guns.

From 2km onwards, there was a long, steep decline. This presumably meant there would be a corresponding incline at some point in the course as we were running a circuit. My jelly babies nestled stoically in the pit of my stomach.

Sure enough, the uphill came. An oriental-looking guy, sensibly clad in a bin liner, scooted airily past me.

The course levelled out as we went through halfway. I invented a motivational technique for the rest of my race: one point for anyone I overtook, one point off for anyone who came past me.

By now, some of the early Radcliffes were tiring. I reeled in a guy in a Man Utd shirt, who'd set off like a rat out of a trap. I hauled in a gaggle of students. I even picked off the oriental bin liner. Better still, nobody was overtaking me.

By my count, I was on fifteen points when I went past the 9km sign. I picked up my pace. Then, a minute and a half later, I passed another 9km sign. I refused to let this dampen my spirits.

The boyfriend / girlfriend combo had come back into sight. I gained ground on them when someone nearly ran them over. The lad then chivalrously sped off on his better half, hoping to catch the guy in front. I sped up, hoping to overtake his jilted partner.

I was a few yards down on ponytail as we switched from road to grass for the final stretch. At the beginning of the run-in was a huge, extremely deep puddle. Ponytail faltered, visibly baffled. I summoned up the energy for a big jump, called a cheery (not to mention insincere) apology over my shoulder and zoomed off to the finish, well pleased with my sixteen points.

The goody bag for the race consisted of a rubber ball and some sort of heat pack, which would need to be heated up. What there wasn't was a t-shirt, which was a bit of a shame. I had been operating on the presumption that there would be commemorative t-shirts and had hence neglected to pack a spare. The trip home was a little uncomfortable.

Two weeks now until the Silverstone half.

***

Disclaimer: I have never beaten up a girl with a kendo stick, unlike Super Steve.

Thought for the day

2010-02-24T00:13:00.001+09:00

Just don't be yourself and you'll be okay
-VMM

Time on my hands...

2010-02-23T02:54:00.003+09:00

...And it's time to categorise the music on my laptop.

I'm wondering about the philosophical implications of changing the genre of every single piece of music I possess to 'alternative'.

Encore quatre ans, cherie

2010-02-19T20:35:00.006+09:00

In the 2003 Rugby World Cup semi final between Australia and New Zealand, Australia's scrum half, George Gregan, was picked up on broadcast cheerily calling "Four more years, boys!" to the opposition as the clock ticked down on another disappointing New Zealand exit.

I only wish Gregan had been next to the starting gate at the Olympic Women's Downhill in Vancouver, as Marion Rolland of France made it fully six yards before wobbling on one ski, veering off to the right and crashing to the floor.

Attempts to post youtube footage of this have generally been obstructed by the "dog in manger" attitude of the IOC, who aren't going to be using it on any of their highlights reel, methinks.

I hope she's entered in one or two of the other skiing events and she makes a better fist of it next time.

The human rights half marathon hat-trick

2010-02-18T20:39:00.005+09:00

Following all the fun of doing the Coventry half marathon last October, I've lined up a bit of a mission for the spring: THREE half marathons, in aid of Amnesty International.

The first is going to be at the Silverstone race circuit on March 14th. This I will be running with a mate, Nick Grounds from my journalism course.

Amnesty have very kindly provided us with a pair of ghastly pink running vests which will make us look like a pair of Brighton beach lifeguards during pride week.

The second leg is on April 25th in Sheffield. Rather dauntingly, the event's web site provides a gradient map of the course, making me think miles 4-8 are going to be a bit of a slog.

The final leg is in Coventry on May 23rd, when I fully expect glorious sunshine and extremely thirsty work.

So there it is. Here's my sponsorship page, in case anyone feels like throwing a few pennies at my plodding coverage of 40-odd miles.

Given how torrid the second half of the Coventry event in October was, I'm going to try to do a little more training than "don't get pissed the night before."

Thus far, I have completed my first training objective: purchase a copy of Runner's World.

The author of my own misfortune

2010-02-09T00:29:00.004+09:00

OSRIC How is't, Laertes?

LAERTES Why, as a woodcock to mine own springe, Osric;
I am justly kill'd with mine own treachery.

(Hamlet, Act V, Scene II)

I came along to the coffee shop yesterday to find a few more comments on my Facebook status than usual.

My status read: All my sexual fantasies revolve around violence

It's not the fact that Glyn changed my status when I left his laptop logged in to my Facebook account that cuts, so much as the fact that he changed it to the exact thing I'd told him half an hour previously that I would love to change someone's status to if the opportunity arose.

I don't even feel like avenging myself; I'm just going to sit here and sulk.

44

2010-02-09T00:18:00.002+09:00

It was the Superbowl last night and, despite comparative ignorance of American football, I wasn't about to let the opportunity for a sesh go by.

Simple premise: invite people round, split into Colts and Saints, and drink according to game events.

First down: team defending drinks
Turnover: team losing possession drinks
Points scored: team defending drinks
Losing yards on a play: team in possession drinks (extra for a QB sack)

There was also pizza and wings.

Matt and I were on the Saints team, Glyn and Pete were the Colts.

The game began well with Saints winning the toss, but this was about the last time Glyn and Pete had to drink in the first quarter as the Saints kicked away possession on their first two drives and the Colts scored on both of theirs.

Worse was to follow when we got absolutely schooled at the half time beer pong.

Thankfully, the Saints came good in the end, although I was possibly a bit too well oiled to savour the victory as much as I might have.

A villain's death

2010-01-21T06:26:00.001+09:00

If I get a worse score for the exam than you, I'm going to tie one end of a rope to the toilet door, the other end round my neck, stand in the toilet and pull the chain.

Easily confused

2010-01-21T06:15:00.004+09:00

GLYN: I once thought I'd broke my neck when I was snowboarding. Honestly, I've never been so scared in my life.

DAN: But that's a good sign, isn't it? If you'd broke your neck, you wouldn't have been able to feel fear.

Brief pause. Gulls cry in the distance, waves lap against the shore

DAN: Ah, no - legs. You wouldn't have been able to feel your legs.

The agony and the ecstasy

2010-01-19T23:31:00.003+09:00

We had the joy of seeing Coventry City on the idiot box last week in their FA Cup replay against Portsmouth.

Sam and I dashed into Coral beforehand to lay a couple of wagers on the outcome.

In a fairly dire game, Coventry led from the first half, before scoring a dreadful own goal in the 89th minute.

As I had laid a fiver on Coventry to lead at half time and be level at full time, I wasn't exactly taking the kitchenware to my wrists when this happened.

Sam, also a Cov fan, was a little less chipper - none of his bets had come home.

Neither of us were particularly pleased with Cov's defending during extra time, particularly when they conceded in the 119th minute, to consign dreams of cup glory to the cupboard for another year.

I did have a £70 win to sugar the pill, though - call it heartbreak insurance.

Obituary: either the luckiest or the unluckiest man of all time

2010-01-17T23:00:00.001+09:00

Tsutomu Yamaguchi, the only person officially recognised as a survivor of both the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bombings at the end of the second world war, has died aged 93.

Yamaguchi was in Hiroshima on a business trip for his shipbuilding company on 6 August 1945, when a US B-29 dropped the first atomic bomb on the city. He suffered serious burns to his upper body and spent the night in Hiroshima.

He then returned to his hometown of Nagasaki, about 190 miles southwest, which suffered a second US atomic bomb attack three days later. On August 15, 1945, Japan surrendered, ending the war.

Japanese survivor of two atomic bombs dies
The Guardian, Wednesday 6th January

Adventures in democracy, part one

2010-01-14T22:27:00.002+09:00

I had an epiphany on the train today: rather than just voting in this year's general election and bewailing the paucity of choice, why not go the whole hog and run for Coventry South?

Of course, there are practicalities to be considered if I am to make my dream reality, so I need to come up with a brand, then work on getting funding for my campaign.

So, here's my first idea for my fledgling movement:

The Tyrant Party - Leading from the front

Pledges: to disenfranchise the entire electorate (most of whom won't notice), then get on with the serious business of leading the country without cynically pandering to the voters by not locking them up and shooting their dog.

Policy Areas

Europe: Pursuing the vision of a united Europe, under the iron heel of my jackboot

Education: Largely vocational, involving coal mines and steel mills

Iraq: Ballache - sack it off

I'll also be bringing closure to the MPs' expenses scandal by disbanding the House of Commons and packing members off to a retirement camp in Siberia.

This year, vote for a stark, unflinching dose of tyranny - vote tyrant!

***

Of course, as I am, by definition, a one-person party, it will be very difficult indeed for me to win the overall Commons majority needed to form a government and bring my sweeping changes into effect.

Weekend entertainment on the cheap

2010-01-12T02:42:00.003+09:00

Glyn had a good idea - Ready, steady, cook! night. All participants to bring three ingredients, totalling no more than a fiver in value.

Then he and I (his intended co-chef having bailed) cooked a variety of weird and wonderful dishes from whatever showed up with the various partygoers.

My ingredients were rice, mushrooms and spam. The first two went into fried rice, unsurprisingly. The spam was reincarnated as spam bhaji, which must be an all-time first. Didn't taste half bad either.

The drinking games were a bit more fraught: some genius came up with the rule "Dan has to lose an item of clothing every time a red card is drawn."

Fortunately, said genius didn't proscribe the putting on of clothes between cards, so I was able to preserve what little modesty I had by nicking other people's scarves and hats.

On Sunday, I trekked round London on the Sherlock Holmes audiowalk, which was a great laugh.

I made it twenty yards from my front door before I encountered my first miscreant. A young boy blindsided me with a snowball as I was walking past Coram's Fields.

My urge to giggle outweighed my urge for retribution.

Call my bluff

2009-12-31T19:43:00.003+09:00

I don't cook for the family that often. When I do, the last thing I like to have is other family members in the kitchen. More specifically, Joe and the dad, who are an insufferable pair of know-it-alls and guaranteed, if allowed to do so, to start bending my ear about what I should be doing.

Yesterday, Joe and the dad came round for casserole. The mum picked both of them up from their respective accommodation and brought them back to 112. Then all three of them immediately gravitated to the kitchen while I was in the latter stages of preparing the feast.

I gnashed my teeth.

"There's quite a lot of people in here, all of a sudden," I said.

The mum took this as her cue and made herself scarce. The other two remained, hovering.

"Yes, you two can bugger off as well," I said, perhaps a little more succinctly.

Out they went. The dad was gone for fully 30 seconds before he came back in on some pretext.

"I will gut you like a fish," I told him, brandishing a wooden spoon to add emphasis to my threat.

"You've never gutted a fish in your life," he scoffed.

"Well then," I said. "You may presume that I shall make a very messy job of it."

Black Wednesday

2009-12-31T00:42:00.002+09:00

I awoke to find the heating had gone off. This is not unusual: my pillow rests against the trip switch in the back bedroom and I do tend to flick it on and off with my nocturnal headbanging. Call it poor roomscaping if you will.

I went to turn it back on. Nothing happened.

The mum announced we had a power cut and she was off to Cirencester. If you think this a bit extreme, I should point out that she had a prior engagement.

She suggested I might like to go to Wetherspoon's for breakfast. I said, rather pointedly, that I'd sooner empty the salt cellar over my walking boots and try to bite through them.

She departed soon after.

A phonecall came from the brother while I was buggering around under the stairs, checking the fusebox. He was ill and wished me to go shopping for him.

I got in the car and started the engine. The windows fogged up.

I wound down my window. It made a wicked clunk! noise and dropped away at a 45 degree angle.

I tried to wind it back up. It made a tortured sound that suggested the glass might shatter and lacerate everything north of my shoulders.

I left the car at the garage and went shopping on foot.

A new window motor, it turns out, will cost £200 and take two weeks to deliver.

It is Black Wednesday and nothing is as it should be. If I have a worse Wednesday this week, I shall be very surprised.

"Put the kettle on, Errol"

2009-12-28T22:52:00.001+09:00

Joe showed me this the other night - I ended up laughing so hard that I had to pause it to recover.

Whiskey critique

2009-12-27T19:54:00.003+09:00

McNulty: Jameson's. please.

Bartender: Bushmill's alright?

McNulty: Bushmill's? That's Protestant whiskey.

-The Wire

Fun for all the family

2009-12-27T05:16:00.003+09:00

The stakes were high; the game was Articulate.

JOE: Erm... planning ahead...

ME: Arranging?

JOE: No. Like, with a murder.

ME: Premeditating?

JOE: Good job. Right. (Grabs next card). Oh bollocks... what you do just before unloading your junk.

(Dissolves into laughter. Other players are unfamiliar with this particular term for ejaculation, which I myself invented. I make several obscenely biological suggestions. No dice. Our time runs out)

JOE (wiping away tears): Unlucky, Dan - the answer was 'withdrawing'.

Ho dear

2009-12-25T04:30:00.000+09:00

Xmas decs!

2009-12-25T03:58:00.004+09:00

What did Adam say the day before Christmas?

It's Christmas, Eve!

More of Dan in the media

2009-12-23T20:19:00.001+09:00

Finally, the news that humanity has been waiting for: a nutritionist has mixed a yuletide cocktail that could ward off hangover symptoms. "Consuming alcohol results in the production of 'free radicals', which are highly reactive configurations of molecules," says cocktail creator and superfood specialist Gurpareet Bains. "People who drink a lot of alcohol often suffer a hangover because of massive free radical-induced cellular damage."

The hangover-destroying Xmas cocktail

Moonlighting

2009-12-16T20:46:00.004+09:00

Unfortunately, with portfolio deadlines coming up, I've had to devote some time for writing on other sites.

So, here's an article on the crash weight-loss diet I went on for the sake of, er, writing an article about it.

Enjoy!

The elements mixed in me

2009-12-06T07:12:00.002+09:00

The mum and I are walking up the road. A bloke coming the other way is talking intently into his phone.

As he passes us, he announces: "Listen, you lay a finger on your mother again and I'll come down there and kick the shit out of you."

My mother bursts into raucous laughter at this. I wish myself invisible.

***

"Indeed, ancient flower," says the dad, apropos of nothing.

Startled, I glance over at where he is sitting, newspaper in hand, pen at the ready. Realisation dawns.

"How many letters?" I ask.

He looks at me, perplexed.

"I'm doing the sudoku."

Way to go, Bruce

2009-11-28T22:30:00.002+09:00

It turns out that Australia has a huge feral camel population, possibly numbering up to a million.

According to the article I read in yesterday's Grauniad, the camels were imported and used to explore less hospitable parts of the country.

After they had served their turn, they were turned loose in the desert, their callous handlers figuring they'd die.

In the desert.

I find myself wondering if the Aussies imported sharks as pets, realised they weren't any good and hit upon the solution of drowning them.

Covering

2009-11-28T22:23:00.003+09:00

Have you done something to my Facebook status? she demands.

I give her the ice grill. I am, it is true, sitting at the computer she has just vacated. It is also true that she left herself logged in to Facebook. However, I do have some standards.

Do you remember the other day, I reply with some asperity, and I said dicking around with people's passworded computer stuff was no better than rifling their wallet and taking their credit cards?

Yes, she replies, and I remember you then saying you'd do it in a hot second.

My argument is evidently flawed.

Her status, incidentally, reads: Nikki Culley is a buffoon.

Weeknight drinking games

2009-11-25T18:13:00.001+09:00

I managed to keep myself relatively straight by dint of:

Having hearty seconds of dinner
Being the sole arbitrator of the games

Shorthand class could be a bit fraught this morning as I sit there sweating out booze and Matt Sherry bemoans his hangover at the top of his voice.

In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king

2009-11-20T22:33:00.003+09:00

Despite a very mediocre performance on my mock exams, my peers' confidence in my knowledge remained undented and people were collaring me all week for study tips.

It's not hard to see why when you consider my ingenious VEG ROAST method of memorising sexual offences:

Voyeurism
Exposure
Grooming

Rape
Other sexual offences, involving a child
Assault by penetration
Sexual assault
Trafficking

People were saying in the pub after the media law exam how useful it had been. The only person who bought me a drink, though, was Ben Baker, and that was only because he'd knocked mine on the floor.