Saturday, November 17, 2012
You are so strong. They will not catch you.
In my earpiece, I could hear Bjarne's calm voice, urging me on.
You are destroying the Tour de France.You can talk all you want about the BBs [blood bags] and the Edgar [EPO]; you can call me a cheater and a doper until the cows come home. But the fact remains that in a race where everybody had equal opportunity, I played the game and I played it well. I took a chance and I pushed myself as hard as I could, and when the day was over, I finished first. As I approached the line, I slowed so Bjarne could pull up next to me and we linked hands in victory. The press called it the longest and most courageous breakaway in Tour history.
Tyler, Tyler, Tyler, you are so strong.
They will not catch you.
from The Secret Race
***
I think we could all do with Bjarne Riis in our earpiece every now and then. The incessant doping and squalid back-street blood transfusions I could do without, mind you.
I read The Secret Race in my local Waterstones over the last few evenings. The shop has all the things I don't have at home right now: books, warmth and light. It's an engrossing read - but that was definitely the best bit.
Labels: SELF PRESERVATION, WORDS
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Open sesame
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.
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.
Labels: DIPLOMACY, MOMENTS, RANK STUPIDITY ON MY PART, SELF PRESERVATION
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Good old life
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 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.
Labels: EVIL, IMPENDING DOOM, MOMENTS, SELF PRESERVATION
Saturday, January 01, 2011
MMXIAD
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.
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.
Labels: SELF PRESERVATION
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
My new flat
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Playing it safe
I was giving Millsy a lift home from Monday night footy, and we got into conversation about motorbikes.
Millsy was enthusing about how great it would be to have one; I wasn't feeling it.
My reasoning, as I told him, was pretty simple: when I'm driving my car along at fifty, I don't feel worried that I might fall out of the window at any moment.
Millsy was enthusing about how great it would be to have one; I wasn't feeling it.
My reasoning, as I told him, was pretty simple: when I'm driving my car along at fifty, I don't feel worried that I might fall out of the window at any moment.
Labels: SELF PRESERVATION
