Day 5 - lunch (good), work (bad)

In a remarkably non-hungover state I awoke and watched a good film this morning and had:

Porridge (well nice!)
Couple of slices of bread (got to stop that)

Lunch was Beef roast in excellent company, but had to leave early to go into work which was crap.

Tonight is a pizza which is in my freezer and probably as couple of slices of bread, and a film. The film is calorie-free...

Day 4 - tuck and maul

On way to rugby so beginning post as coordination might not be great later.

Couple slices fro breakfast and banana smoothie

Cheese sandwich for lunch

Now - beer...

So - had beer and resisted crisps in the pub...

And the healthiest Subway(ham) for dinner/midnight feast.

Day 3 - smash and grab

So the hottest day for a while brought traffic, tears and trams. Apart from the tears. Due to heavy traffic and diversionisations, I didn't get time to buy lunch so grabbed an air sandwich, very nice it was too.

Yoghurt thing for breakfast

Air sandwich for lunch

Masala wrap thing from Waitrose for evening and fruit drink

Couple of slices of bread at home

In amongst all that I went to a play reading (all about bad business). Rugby on day 4 which I suspect will involve calorific water...

Lent - day 2 of about a million

So actually I didn't feel as tired as I expected although I did trough at around 11 and nearly spilt my pint all over myself...

Food:

Blueberries with yogHurt and muesli, home made

Pesto pasta with a roll and Pepsi which was in the fridge

Vegetable and Goats cheese wrap and a fruit drink
A Frosties cereal bar

A pint of Carling (which means 'low fat' in Swedish)

I'm also drinking more water than usual which is an infinitesimal improvement. One good thing is that I've lost a couple of pounds already which shows how artificially high I must be keeping my weight through eating crap.

Day 3 will involve a slap-up pay-day lunch. Bring on those vegetables!!

And I was "lent"-to-meet-'er

Lent started today and with it a million office chats about who is giving up what.

I would guess that chocolate is the most popular casualty followed closely by originality. However, I would count myself amongst "The Unoriginals" and am also giving up chocolate, but under a much broader umbrella, that of "anything which I know is bad for me".

"Anything which I know is bad for me" includes but is not limited to chocolate, crisps, chips, full fat anything, fun and a sense of perspective. Ultimately it's what most people would consider normal, healthy eating. Coming at it from a different angle, to me it is abnormal. To keep a track on myself, I'm going to list here what I have had and therefore what I consider "good for me". Probably worth putting here that alcohol doesn't count because it's not solid...

Wednesday (day 1 of Lent - say it in a Geordie accent, much more fun)

* Waitrose (get me) yoghurt and fruit compote
* Waitrose (see above) apple and kiwi drink

* Sainsburys (standards are slipping) veg pot
* A bread roll made of bread

* Pesto pasta (is the similar nature of the words deliberate? We should be told) with vegetables and some cheese on top (it's in the fridge so have to use it before it goes off. It didn't taste that good in the pancakes last night...)

Throw in a couple of Diet Cokes, a couple of coffees and some water; you have day 1. Steady without being spectacular and a far better diet than would otherwise have passed my gluttonous lips.

So what of hopes for day 2? Well, leftover "pesto pasta" (see above) for lunch and a homemade yoghurty compote thing for breakfast. Dinner tbc, but it will involve vegetables (which are good for you. Who knew?). I wonder if Jesus blogged about day 2 when he was in the wilderness, although let's be honest the bible is made up anyway so it was clearly the bit where the writers couldn't be bothered. "Oi, Mark, er I mean, Matthew, no, it's, er, John, wait, Luke, oh whatever your name is - let's go down the pub". That's what happened and if you don't believe me then we're both going to hell (which doesn't exist unless you believe in God in which case you're not going there so it's the biggest paradox known to man).

Meet you back here tomorrow.

I'm writing these things

I've just watched The Invention of Lying starring Ricky Gervais. He's not a very versatile actor but that's not really why I'm writing this. The film starts with him being the first and only person to lie, building to the point where he gives 10 commandments to people who then believe in an afterlife. It raises some good questions about religion, God and people believing what they want to believe, but perhaps shies away from dealing with it more than that. For some there is almost a release given that this life is only a stepping stone onto the next whereas for others it is their excuse to do as they will in this existence.

Strangely, the film ultimately turns into a tale of genetics and whether you should marry someone because of genetics or because you love them. I know my kids may inherit my "big-boned" gene although that may be counterpoised with the right 50/50 balance. Who knows.

Anyway, I wouldn't recommend the film and I'm Jonathan Ross (I'm not).

Len - Cryptik Souls Crew

They had a hit with Steal My Sunshine then released this then disappeared then split up (thanks to Wiki for the last part)

Link to download the track here:

http://www.ziddu.com/download/3605863/CryptikSoulsCrew.mp3.html

It's been a while (I'm in the habit of saying it now)

Saturdays - the day for stripping coaxial cables, putting sealant around your bath and going to see a mildly depressing play.

Uncle Vanya, or "Uncle Vanya" if translated literally from Russian, is Chekhov's play written at the turn of the century about the ultimate futility of life. Vanya concludes that he has wasted his life in the country whilst his friend the Doctor wants to plant trees to make people happy in the future. The director clearly took the play's ethos to heart by not having an interval, thus giving the audience an extra 15 minutes to waste in our inexorable path to death, although an interval proffers the chance to buy a pint, probably knocking 15 minutes off of your life anyway. So on second thoughts, I don't think he really thought it through.

Cable schmable.

Sealant schmealant.

It's been a while (I said that last time...)

I've got a career.

Well, I've moved into IT at least and am enjoying it immensely. Whether the poor sods I am supporting share my enthusiasm for me is undocumented, but what could be better than being faced with a sarcastic fat bloke who is just there to belittle you with the end result that you can get back on with your work which you hate anyway?

No-one has yet called to say that their machine is working perfectly. I suspect this won't happen.

I don't think I've yet become a geek, though I am typing this underwater using the latest mind-reading software which I wrote yesterday whilst not having a girlfriend. I think that qualifies me. I have started watching the IT Crowd with more interest to see if I recognise any facets. I see myself in Jen, the manager, but that's a different story for perhaps a dinner party where I say, "that IT Crowd bird - phwoooaarr". Guests (as if I invite anyone over) will choke on their cheese and macaroon (not the most successful smoothie ever) and live off my story for years to come.

One IT bonus is that I now have complete control over computers, knowing that one will never again crash on me mid sente

It's been a while

I haven't posted on here for a while and so little has happened it's difficult to know where to stop. In fact, may things have happened, some good, some bad, some a combination of both.

"Good" is that my sketch show group The Good, The Bad & The Funny debuted in Clapham on Saturday to critical acclaim (which in my book means no-one leaves shouting obscenities halfway through). We're playing in Leyton this weekend, so we truly are moving across in the world. Hopefully, we'll get something posted on youtube soon and also set up a website.

Blimey, it feels like I'm really out of practice doing this or maybe I've become reluctant to bare my soul on here. Weird.

More?

It's been a while since I last wrote, in fact since my marathon run which ironically was actually a Marathon.

Since then I've appeared as Fagin in Oliver, hence the funny get up you see above. It was great fun and to get the stage to myself to sing Reviewing the Situation a few times was such a good opportunity. Everyone was very strong from Nancy through to Oliver and Dodger, and all the kids did themselves proud.

Next up is some improv and a friend's newly penned, very funny three-hander.

I've forgotten how to write so I'll not bother any longer.

I'm finished

So yesterday I ran a marathon. Bloody hell! Just looked at my official time which is 5.48:04. I stopped to have a couple of photos taken by friends around the course, so I could have broken the 5.48 barrier I so wanted, I know I could...

I'm one up on supposed world-class athlete Haile Gebrselassie who pulled out at 19 miles with a stitch. He probably hasn't been training properly and has been watching The Apprentice on his sofa when he should have been pounding the streets. When will these amateurs ever learn?

It was an amazing day and I started quite well. I was running a very consistent time all the way to 15 miles then all of a sudden my hamstring felt very bad. I pulled up on the side of the road and as luck would have it the St John's Ambulance had a station about 300 yards up, so they gave me a quick massage and I was on my way again. All going well again until about 18 miles when it went again along with the back of my knee. St John's were about 10 metres ahead of me at this point so another massage later, I was off. This time it wasn't quite so easy to run off and for the next five or six miles I ran about 3/4 of the mile until my thigh began to seize up and then walked to the next mile marker and started again. At around 24 miles I started running and didn't stop (photos aside!) until the finish.

It's great to be able to say that I have run the Marathon, although in truth I feel with more leg work, I can go a lot quicker and run the whole thing in one. I'm a bit worried that may nag at me until I have no option but to do it again. We'll see...

And here's the official spectators guide from Marathon News (part two) - click on thumbnail to get larger image or right click to save to your pc

And here's the official spectators guide from Marathon News (part one) - click on thumbnail to get larger image or right click to save to your pc

For those hardy souls kind enough to come and watch...

I'll be running about 10 minute miles up to around 14/15 miles. After that, your guess is as good as mine. My Asthma vest looks like that modelled above, although I look like neither of those two runners (Nick and Lucy according to the picture name).

Less than seven days makes one weak

In theory, this time next week I will have completed my first Marathon, and whose to say it won't be my last?

Me, principally.

Now, I had managed to get through all my training without any major mishaps, the weather has generally been very kind and I haven't injured myself in any way. Until Friday...

I eschewed the charity curry lunch at work in favour of a five or six mile run just to end the week with a gentle jog and also because I was going for a curry in the evening, so I needed to empty the calorie cauldron a touch so that I could fill it up again later. Incidentally, said curry was very nice, but dreadful service. I've never seen such disdain on a face than when one of our party ordered mineral water!

Anyway, this run. I set off around Putney putting some hills in amongst the flat, running on the Common and on the pavements. I was feeling really good, so I decided to extend through Southfields and give myself the lovely incline on West Hill Road to finish. Sadly, this didn't quite pan out. Just after crossing the A3 towards Southfields, I spotted a couple of dogs playing and before I knew it one of them was running after me! Within seconds it was alongside and the next thing I knew, the sod had bitten me on the ankle. Much growling, teeth-baring and bum-wiggling ensued, but enough about my reaction.

I was clearly on the dog's territory and he was only puppy so he must have been scared, but he had bitten me hard enough to break the skin and I was in no mood to fall ill with DogBiteDisease or whatever you get from a canine nip. I wanted to discover just how rabid this dog was, so I found out to whom the dog belonged and knocked on their front door. The 14/15 year old girl who answered was naturally more concerned about her dog than me and instantly called both of her dogs in, stating that they shouldn't even have been outside. Then, she told me calmly that the Biting Hound of Putney Town should have a muzzle on when he's outside. I could have told her that myself...

So the long and short was that I got myself a Tetanus booster (£1.95, Tesco) and carried on the day getting various different reactions from those who heard my tale, although my secretary simply laughed at me before walking off and getting fatter. I suffered no adverse reaction you'll be thrilled to hear, although I had hoped that the bite would give me some super powers meaning I could run like a greyhound and I was envisaging finishing the Marathon in a record time for an Alsatian. Sadly, it seems that the only dog-like behaviour I have been afflicted with is that I now use the side of the road as a toilet.

Still, if it's good enough for Paula Radcliffe...

Hmmm...

Well, not quite 16 miles...

On the basis that I ran Reading in just under 10 minute miles, I figured if I ran for 2 hours 40 minutes, I would have 16 miles under my belt. So I set off from work in Putney with a vague plan to run home, but definitely not as the crow flies, more as the drunk crow flies home after a night on the tiles. It was a bit brrrrfuckbugger when I finished work, so I wasn't entirely confident I would even go running, let alone complete a long run.

I knew my friend Holly would be with a few others in Wimbledon Village, so I stopped by and stared through the window of the bar (nb, not pub) to see if I could spot them. I could see the karaoke machine being set up (the purpose of the evening), but no Holly or the others, so I jogged on.

Next landmark to run past was the Polka theatre, where my friend Danielle had her birthday recently. I knew she wouldn't be there as I've seen her elsewhere since that night, but I still glanced across at the theatre as it whizzed by. In truth, nothing much does actually "whizz by" as I'm running, and indeed I have time to commit almost every detail of any building, landscape or paving stone to memory, and then redraw it like that kid did on Blue Peter.

Then onto Morden, getting closer to home, but still determined to put in the miles. It was just beginning to get dark. My friends Jeff and Rich live in Morden, so I thought I would run past their place. Can I point out at this point that I'm not a stalker, it's just running is as boring as can be, so I like to make it as interesting as I can, and I'm probably protesting too much so I'll stop. Anyway, I took a wrong turn and didn't run past their house, instead going beyond it deeper into darkest Mordor.

Then I had a choice - run straight home and not get my miles in, or run through Sutton and count the chavs. I won't tell you explicitly which option I chose, but the answer is 593...

Then through Carshalton until I ended up home, 2 hours 40 minutes of non-stop running later. I had a good stretch-down and a nice hot bath, but will probably regret sitting down to type this when I get up in a minute.

About two and a half weeks to go until the day. Now is a positive moment, so bring it on!

16 mile run home tonight...

I'll let you know how I feel tomorrow.

Halfway there...

So, now I know that I'm now at the stage where I will be able to get 13 and a bit miles round the marathon course and be able to start counting down the miles until the finish.

I ran the Reading half (see how I drop the word "marathon"? I am a proper runner...) this weekend in a time of 2.08:54, which I'm very pleased about as it means consistent sub-10 minute miles. On that basis, I will complete the marathon in 4.17:48... That's how it works, you double your half-marathon time and that gives you your time for full distance.

I'm torn because while I'm quite pleased with myself, knowing that nine months ago I couldn't run for a bus without getting out of breath, the smaller, more sensible part of my brain tells me however that I do actually have to run a lot further in just under four weeks time. I've often ignored this plain-speaking, logical voice in my head, but on this occasion, I'm listening hard. I'm now slightly more confident that I won't die during the race, but still doing all I can to ensure this doesn't happen, especially before I've had the chance to launch my running shoes into the Thames.

Plus points from yesterday:

• Power Gels (they taste bad, but work good)
• still having enough kick for a sprint finish down the home straight
• finishing ahead of the two lads dressed as a camel (just)

Minus points:

• running twice the distance very soon. Gulp...

Five and a half weeks to go

Miles in the Legs...

It sounds like a quaint village in Norfolk, but it's actually the Law. Now we're moving inexorably towards the marathon, that's the advice and very good it is too. Since Sunday I've "put" about 23 "miles" "in" "the" "legs" which should be around 45/50 by the weekend. I had been following a plan which advocated fartleks (see post below), speed training and the like, but it seems that distance might be the key. I hasten to add this is not solely my own idea, but a conclusion reached from speaking to those who have run the distance previously. I now admire these people and listen intently to every word they say.

I ran home yesterday from work, about 8.5 miles, which was actually quite nice as it was light when I left work and grew dark as I ran (no, it didn't then get light again before I reached home!). It's a very different type of run when there is a goal at the end of the miles, in this case my sofa and Father Ted (the tv series, not the local vicar on a soul-saving mission - I'm way beyond that I fear). The run becomes almost enjoyable, so I plan to perhaps run in tomorrow, though I need to get at least 12 miles under my belt, sorry, "in my legs" before the end of the weekend, something which may be difficult as I'm heading to Bristol for the weekend and by all reports it's a bit hilly there!

Then there's the Reading half next weekend and the Kingston Breakfast Run the weekend after to respectively add 13 and 16 miles to the imaginary totaliser I have for the miles in my legs, much like the ones they had/have on Blue Peter where you send in things like milk bottle tops or used carrots which would be placed in a massive see-through plastic container. Once full they would be able to buy a chair for a library or something. At least nowadays they have far more sense and raise money by fleecing children on premium rate phone lines.

Girl power

As the Spice Girls sang, all you need is positivity...

They did follow that line with "Slam it to the left (if you're having a good time), Shake it to the right (if you know that you feel fine), Chicas to the front (huh huh) and go round", so perhaps one shouldn't heed too much of what they say.

The point is since posting about my nightmare run last weekend, I've cycled into and home from work all but one day this week (losing my bike helmet en route on one occasion), have rediscovered healthy eating, and generally feel far better about the prospect of running through London for over five hours. Can I recommend Porridge? I would like to.

I also met up with a friend and her beautiful new baby girl for coffee, who also happens to be a fitness instructor in real life. Talking to her about my training and listening to her take on things (both she and her husband have run the marathon) was very uplifting and I'm very grateful to have people like that around to lift the spirits when they're a bit low. She did also say "Slam it to the left (if you're having a good time), Shake it to the right (if you know that you feel fine), Chicas to the front (huh huh) and go round" so perhaps I shouldn't heed too much of what she says...

Richmond Park is an illegitimate child

Richmond Park is considered beautiful, a natural nature reserve, a piece of the countryside in the midst of our ever-sprawling metropolis, where the Deer run free, mingling with man in beautiful harmony, and the walkers take in the crisp, fresh air as their children cycle lovingly alongside.

IT'S NOT LIKE THAT!! IF IT WERE A VASE, IT WOULD BE OF THE MING VARIETY!! IT'S SODDING HILLY AND I RAN ROUND THE ****ING PIECE OF **** TWICE ON ****ING SUNDAY!! WHY THE **** DID I ****ING DO THAT?!?! I MUST BE ****ING STUPID!!!

Right, calm...

It was my scheduled 14 mile run and if I ever thought I was nowhere near ready for the marathon, I now know for certain. I ran through 11/12 miles okay, but one of the hills on the second lap took it out of me completely. In the end my running partner was walking and I was "running" alongside. It wasn't really helped by the fact it was raining the whole way round and the Park resembled a swimming pool, one which had been over-filled at that. To compound matters, as we approached the car and therefore the end of the run, the little cafe ("all day"?! - don't make me laugh) from which we would buy carrot cake and sugary tea, shut. I would have cried had I not been face down in the mud at the time.

So, to conclude: I need to get "miles in my legs", I need to book more massages, and I need never, ever, ever to enter a marathon again. In truth, there's no real danger of that.

Running schmunning

Running is boring and dull.

The last two weeks have been slow, principally because of an unsually busy diary, resulting in the not especially well balanced equation of No Running + Eating Out & Drinking = Decreased Fitness and Increased Fatness. I've enjoyed it, but always under the guff of a guilty cloud telling me I should be behaving myself. Well, today I heeded those words from the talking, guffy cloud and for the first time basically since it got a bit cold, I cycled into work. I've got shiny new mudguards, nice bright lights and pumped up tyres, so there's no excuse now not to do it every day, or at the very least once a month.

I'm also running at lunchtime today, plus doing 14 miles around Richmond Park and it's environs on Sunday. A full-on resumption of my training schedule with no lead-in is a kill or cure strategy, but one in which cure is the only real result. The run is in just over seven weeks and I'm not planning on dropping dead during the race, so improved health and fitness would seem sensible. Saying that, I have got a runner's injury of sorts, Piriformis Syndrome which is this - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piriformis_muscle#Clinicals
In crude terms, a pain in the arse. I'm having regular physio now though, so a combination of baby oil and someone kneading my backside with their elbow is helping me, or at the very least taking my mind off the problem for an hour or so.

In real life, I've been cast to play Fagin in Oliver around May/June time, clearly chosen because of my rangy figure, readily able to portray someone who struggles to find the money for his next feed...

Double figures!!

That's the same amount of figures as 26 miles, so in theory I've pretty much run the race already. It was 10 miles in actual fact, but very hilly ones at that.

Myself and my weekend training partner (it’s the runner’s equivalent of a divorced dad taking his kids to McDonald's) went out kitted up with wet weather gear, and with a rough idea of the route. I knew from having cycled part of it last year that there would be an unavoidable and long incline to confront at some point. Thinking outside of the box, I cunningly planned the route so that we would run down the incline and even then towards the end of the run. Good plan, you might think…

Sadly, this meant we ran pretty much uphill for six miles just to negate the one hill which wasn’t even as bad as I remembered. The run did go through some paradoxically rural, yet chav areas, opposing stables with rabid unleashed dogs jumping fiercely and masochistically at a seemingly inadequate fence. I lived to tell the tale though and am now “looking forward” to interval training this week.

"Training" update

...and I do use the word advisedly.

This last week, being the fourth week, was intended to be a gentle seven days with just two midweek runs of low-level intensity, designed to give the body a rest in preparation for another hard three weeks, then another week at low-level and so on. Sadly, due to commitments at lunch and after work, the "gentle" training was in fact non-existent and midweek runs totaled a big fat 0.

Unperturbed, my weekend run was to be around the perimeter of Richmond Park (they won't allow me within the park after that incident with the deer), a distance of approximately seven miles, adding on a small loop to bring me up to the schedule's requisite eight miles. I did manage a circuit, but no loop sadly. I reckon, right, I reckon, it was because of the hilly nature of the park, right, and also, right, I reckon it was because of my unusually tight calves and sore shin, right, yeah, that's why.

Regardless of the reasons, it could have been a better run, but the hill training aspect will help in the long term. Next weekend is a nine-miler, one which with proper preparation, will I'm sure erase the memory of this week's less than impressive "training".

Training update no. 2

Another week, another four runs...

All of differing lengths and intensities including the infamous "fartleks", and I can confirm that the only funny aspect of them is the name. It's basically a set period of running, e.g. half an hour and within that you run at a higher level in several short bursts, e.g. 8 lots of 30 seconds with a couple of minutes recovery running in between each. Apparently very good to get your body used to running at a higher level so effectively and theoretically your standard pace becomes easier. That's the idea anyway...

Other than that a good 7 miler on Saturday which I managed to do in less pain and about three or four minutes quicker than the previous weekend. 26 miles looks a long way off at the moment, but I know with training everything should be okay.

This week is a comparative rest week, so only two midweek sessions and then about 8-9 miles at the weekend. A couple of the weekend runs will be substituted for actual races; the Reading half-Marathon on 25th March (http://racepayment.mirrorservers.co.uk/readinghalfmarathon/) and the Kingston Breakfast run (http://www.humanrace.co.uk/breakfast/index.html) which true to its name starts at 8am on April Fools Day. These will, I'm told, break the monotony and serve as good practice for race day, for example learning how to run in a crowd, correctly use the water stations without falling over, and which buses get you nearest the end of the route. I am, of course, joking. I'll be taking a taxi.

It's a Marathon, not a Snickers...

So I've stupidly decided to "run" the London Marathon on 22nd April 2007. I'm pretty sure of my reasons for doing it, yet I still find myself sat in the corners of rooms rocking back and forth, wailing like a lost child.

But I'm not screaming, "I want my mummy!", I'm screaming, "I WANT YOUR MONEY!!". I'm running to raise money for Asthma UK, an illness which afflicts over 5 million people in the UK, although I think they're just suffering from Asthma, not necessarily the UK bit on the end. Anyway, my initial target is £1,500 and if you look carefully above this post, you will see a box indicating how the fund-raising is going. Ifyou haven't donated yet and feel guilty about the 1.1 million children who suffer very badly from Asthma (UK?) and who would really benefit from your money, then please click on it to donate. Any amount, no matter how big or small is gratefully received and will be taken into consideration at the gates to Heaven. *

* nb this may not be necessarily the case and there are no refunds if you get let in there regardless.

I will be updating this on a regular basis to keep my fans informed of how my training is coming on. At the moment, my "long run" at the weekend was just over 7 miles and the one this weekend coming will be of a similar length. To put it in context that's the furthest I've ever run without police sirens to motivate me, so that feels very good. I appreciate that it is going to get a lot harder before it doesn't get easier, but I am ready for that. I sense a fortitude in myself which I have never felt before in my life. I may be getting my backside into gear late on in the day, but as James Brown said, "I'm heading for the turn around", and that feels good (he said that too).

Isn't it funny...

I haven't posted for ages and as such probably have a whole heap of verbal detritus to get rid of.

Nope, doesn't look like I do...

Meanwhile, I finished my stand-up comedy course and my six minutes of fame can be found here - http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=5228645922618645892 I'm going to do the copyright thing of "it's all mine, don't nick any of my stuff, else you're for it", but that's wishful thinking. I've got my first proper gig on 16th June in which I will try out new "edgy" material like observational comedy and thoughts on my childhood. Close to the bone and innovative I know, but that's how I live.

So I've gone from that to being in a musical, The Boyfriend. We start tonight and I play someone's dad which takes a lot of greying-up naturally, although I over-did it on the hair spray and apparently my barnet looked blue when on stage, rather than distinguished silver. Not the effect I was hoping to achieve, but then having a white ear for the first Act thanks to the spray wasn't part of it either.

This is all quite dull, so I'll leave you with this: nothing is duty, merely choice. Hmm...

Look after yourself... and each other.

Si' daaaaaaaaaaahn

I've just completed a stand-up comedy course and I reckon I half succeeded as I wasn't sitting down.

The culmination was a evening of amateur "comics" who have spent three hours on Sunday over the last seven weeks trying to be funny. I pity the audience who had to sit through it all, but that's what friends are for (they weren't all my friends, but you know what I mean). I was quite pleased with my performance and the audience seemed to respond well, laughing when I came on and cheering wildly when I told them I was out of time.

We get a video of our performance which is good and bad; good because it's good and bad because good things like that never look quite as good as the good in one's mind. When I get it and edit out the unfunny bits, I want to host it online somewhere, but I have no idea how to, so please get in touch if you know how to post seven seconds of video.

The consensus was that the best comic was the 15 year old Indian lad who to his credit swore heavily in front his mum, dad and sister. I've sworn heavily in front of them too, but it wasn't so bad as I'm not related to them. We think he did well as he is fearless and hasn't seen so much comedy as to affect his natural style. The fact that he could simply just be funnier than us didn't come into the equation.

Ski Friday

I've never liked skiing. I say never, I've been twice, but the first time was so traumatic I was scarred for life. I say traumatic, it was mildly crap and I'm not that bothered about it, so I don't go.

It was on my year abroad in the Alps and my friends said they would teach me how to ski. For "teach" read "show me how to snow plough for two minutes and then ski off themselves leaving me stranded on the mountain with my now-ripped salopettes". I started off and soon realised there was no way I could stop, but in my only moment of clarity, I knew the only course of action was to fall over. Everyone else was doing it, so I thought why not. I fell, losing a ski in the process. Some kindly fellow skier (I use this term advisedly) brought it back for me, somehow avoiding the temptation to guffaw and metaphorically kick snow in my face.

Then the blizzard came down and the slopes were closed, leaving just me to spend the next two hours walking back down the piste to the ski station. I went skiing once again, but there was no spark. I ended the relationship and used the mountains only for casual lunchtime flings involving a baguette and some frites.

I once saw a dyslexic skier ask a tobogganist for twenty Marlboro Lights.

Going, boeing, scone...

I haven't tried to sell myself on eBay just yet, but I can't imagine it will be long before I take myself off to the Post Office to see how much it will cost to send me second class to Norwich.

eBay really is a wonder in the modern age of disposable income, disposable contact lenses, disposable cameras, in fact disposable just about everything, but the difference is that we now know that our junk has a value and someone out there will pay money for our collection of Beano albums. I suppose it works as a 21st century barter system. My next sale will be my poor car (the clutch needs changing and it will cost too much) which is presently sitting outside my house. I'm going to start it at something silly like a pound and see how it goes.

I can't think of an ending for this post, so this sentence will have to do.

Strain of thought

I wanted to write, but was unsure exactly what would flow forth from my virtual pen. Indeed, I may erase this, but you would be none the wiser. For that very reason, I will leave this in, causing an apparent paradox so great that all paradoxes from now on will paradoxically appear logical, which is a paradox in itself. See what I mean?

There was a cheesy nightclub when I was at University called Paradox which was (and still is owing to a recent stag do visit) crap. It wasn't even crap in a cheesy way, although it was better than the Event which had foam parties, so classy it was. They used to water down the beer in an extremely unsubtle, near apocryphal way, although I always managed to leave mildly unsober before cabbing it back to Uni. I was never a big clubber and still prefer the late bar to a late club. I want to be able to hear when people insult my dress sense, not just be able to see their convulsions and maniacal laughter.

It's all behind me

It's panto season again (oh yes it is...) and my show Aladdin has finally come around. We had the first night yesterday and by all accounts, it went very well. Only five more performances to go, including an audience of rugby boys and their families tonight. I've begun heckling myself in preparation.

Here are a couple of photos of me as the baddie, one looking bemused, the other as a walking curry house...

Photos courtesy of the Wannabe Scriptwriter - http://wannabescriptwriter.blogspot.com/

Zen there were nun

I've posted previously about my Zen calendar and Christmas day brought forth a beauty which I could never hope to understand:

Zen does not confuse spirituality with thinking about God while one is peeling the potatoes. Zen spirituality is just to peel potatoes.

I've got no idea what this means and worst of all, I like my potatoes with the skin on.

Happy Noel

I haven't posted for a while and I know that you, my fans, wait with eager anticipation for my latest utterances. Hopefully, this will appease you over the Christmas period as you get fatter and fall out with people you quite like.

I've been lucky enough to be working over Christmas, which has by and large actually involved work, something I wasn't banking on. Three days of pissing around with lunch breaks longer than the work day itself was my plan, but sadly not.

Anyway, happy new year to you all. I'm off to a fancy dress party in Bristol, the theme being personalities from the news in 2005. Ideas: the woman who had a face transplant (easy: wear a mask); Roy Keane (pram and projectile teddies); the Pope (wear a white sheet and talk in Italian); the French Olympic bid (stripy top, onions, etc., and a big L on the forehead...)

Christmas time...

...Mistletoe and Wine,
Children sing in no particular rhyme,
Your mum's on the fire,
The cat's up the tree,
It's time to get drunk
On the booze that we seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...

I wrote these hilarious lyrics to Sir Cliff's pop anthem at whatever time Mistletoe and Wine was released (I'm informed by the net that it was 1988 - such precocious writings for a six month old child). I seem to remember rehashing Nathan Jones by Bananarama and making it about my increasingly follicly-challenged Latin teacher Brian Jones. "Brian Jones, you are going bald, Brian Jones, you have now gone bald". Why this talent wasn't picked up on defies logic.

I firmly believe that I have a number one song inside me, and I don't mean Lady In Red which is in my heart every day. Sadly, I am not proficient enough in a useful instrument which would aid song-writing like the piano or the guitar. However, I do play the bugle and the drums which, erm... don't help at all. The band in which I played were at the front of the procession which lead Wimbledon FC through the town centre after they had won the FA cup. I still recall the terrible carnage as we stopped and the bus didn't.

Happy Barf-day?

It's my birthday soon and I'm starting my celebrations tomorrow. It's always good to bring friends together principally for an ego boost and a shed load of presents.

Sorry, my fingers went silly there. It should have read it's always good to bring friends together to understand how important they are to us, and that our friends are the fabric of our very existence. We're off to the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain gig, a group I have seen several times before and who I rate very highly. As befits everyone these days, they have a website - http://www.ukuleleorchestra.com/main/home.aspx - with audio clips and all sorts to get an idea of what they're like.

Then comes the ubiquitous curry and the chance to test out how good the new binge drinking laws are. It's daft because we have neither the culture, nor the transport system in the UK to make it realistically viable, much less the fact that there are far too many imbeciles who will drink themselves to death in one night as a result. Naturally, it is the individual's choice, but go to the other extreme of having the pubs shut all day and the amount of drinking becomes theoretically nil. Extend the hours, and people will drink more, and given that a quiet drink appears to be a thing of the past, we are in trouble. The days when pints were de rigeur and a glass of wine was practically the only drink for the lady (and that when the man was ready for his next beer) are gone. It is now a mission to get as drunk as quickly and as cheaply as possible. Antisocial behaviour is now considered commonplace with no real mechanism to control it.

I'm sounding very old.

Another thing, George Best is on his last legs, which is a shame, but he didn't seem to care that he was drinking himself to death. Ultimately his choice, but a stunning display of what drink can do to an otherwise healthy man.

Saying all that and with the whiff of hyprocrisy hanging in the air like Gary Glitter, I intend to enjoy myself to the full tomorrow night until closing time, which will be... erm...

Love me or hate me

Advertisers are very clever, especially in my opinion the ones for Marmite, the yeast-based salt-laden spread. As all Brits know, we are told that we have to love it or hate it - there is no middle ground. Unfortunately, the majority of people take this to heart and are often heard to say, "oh that is sooooo right, I really hate it, but my boyfriend loves it. Isn't that strange?! Right, let's have another Bacardi Breezer. Will that be our 14th or 15th of the afternoon?..."

Essentially, the advertisers have created product loyalty for something which some people don't even use, but who enjoy the subsequent banter it creates. Forget the fact that there are probably as many who are indifferent to the delights of Marmite as there are lovers or haters. There are many other products which can be said to apparently divide opinion in a similar vein, but you don't hear, "I tell you what, isn't it funny how you either love or hate butter/horses/ankle injuries..."

As for me, I love Marmite. You don't, you say? Isn't that weird...

Another friend has decided to expose herself in public. Her blog: http://sazzles.blogspot.com/

A stage I'm going through

As of last night and until Saturday, I am "performing" in an amateur production of Willy Russell's Stags & Hens. At one point during the opening performance last night, I dried, forgetting my next line, but was fortunate enough to be rescued by someone who evidently knows the script better than I do. I jumped on my saviour's gift with aplomb, but it also gave me the chance to do what everyone aspires to in every sphere of life - make it look like it's someone else's fault! If I had come in late with my line, everyone would have known the blame was at my door. Letting someone else do my dirty work allows me to metaphorically walk away whistling, hands in pockets, looking skyward.

We're sold out for every night and only have a handful of tickets left for our matinee which is great. Apparently, Swan Lake (being performed by professionals upstairs in the main theatre) went so horribly wrong that they had to bring the curtain down early, and even then, managed to knock a pillar over in the process. I'm not saying we're any better, it's just that we don't have a curtain to bring down when things look bad...

Here are a couple of photos from the play courtesy of the Wannabe Scriptwriter (http://wannabescriptwriter.blogspot.com/)

THE GIRLS, AGOG

THE BOYS AND A VERY DRUNK STAG

"AND DON'T COME BACK, YOU POOFTER!"

I spent Sunday on my own and ended up with blisters on my right hand. The boring cause was a shoe rack which literally (more of "literally" in a moment) involves inserting 47 screws into high quality pine effect timber. My hand finally gave up the ghost when the pain more than outweighed my need for bedroom tidiness, to which end I have now borrowed an electric screwdriver to finish off the job. Or at the very least, attach a drill bit and finish of the designer of my shoe rack.

Now - "literally"...

lit·er·al·ly adv.
In a literal manner; Really; actually: e.g. “There are people in the world who literally do not know how to boil water” (Craig Claiborne).

As the dictionary definition suggests, nay commands, the word describes something which is real and which is based wholly in fact. However, this isn't how some folk would choose to use the word. "I went to the theatre and was literally blown away". No you weren't. "That film was so scary, I was literally petrified". Erm, no... "You should have seen the weather; it was literally raining cats and dogs". Again, non...

This incorrect and extremely shoddy use of the word makes me literally tear my hair out.

Back when I was younger, which was before now, I did one of those degree things where you move out of home, spend lots of money on booze, and then hopefully get a grade based on your ability to miss lectures. My chosen subject (or did it choose me?) was French. It was essentially the subject I was least poor at; Economics left my brain in the red, German sounded all Greek to me, and the sciences dumped me in a chemically, biologically and physically bereft state.

As part of my course, I was lucky enough to spend my third year abroad and Grenoble chose me. For those of you whose Geography knowledge stretches to "ox-bow lake" (i.e. me), Grenoble is in the Alps towards the Italian border and is subsequently surrounded by mountains, prompting Stendhal to say that "there is a mountain at the end of every street". It's an incredibly beautiful place and one which I've wanted to go back to, but had never managed to until the weekend just gone (two paragraphs of drivel to get to the point...)

Details are sparse, but myself and four other ex-Grenoblois took ourselves there and visited all our old haunts, sang all the old tunes, and spent most of Saturday in bed hungover. One girl, in extreme dedication to the cause, decided to fall in love on her year abroad and ended up marrying a French lad. She now lives there with said French beau and similarly French cat, Clawed.

Anyway, here's a picture in which everyone is sober...

Alternative film synopses

A little while ago, I was using my weekday time efficiently by coming up with soundalike film titles and their subsequent plotlines. Here are some of my efforts...

A war hero tires of using the stairs - Schindler's Lift
Kevin Costner resolves his intimacy issues - The Touchables
The love life of a field of wheat - The Rye Who Loved Me
Use of Israelis in the German motor industry - Beetlejews
Magic, but only between April and June - Matrix
Japanese leader becomes obese - The Vast Emperor
Biopic of Jesus's little known London Underground journey to the cross - The Last Ten Stations of Christ
Sequel to the Sixth Sense set in Alaska - Icy Dead People

Back scratching

A fellow blogger has posted a link on his site and with no risk of sounding over enthusiastic, I feel obliged to reciprocate. http://www.petty.me.uk/?reindex=y

An ode

Dorsal

Fin

Am I though?

"Try as much as possible to be wholly alive, with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell and when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough."

So says William Saroyan who according to the omniscient internet, was an American author whose stories celebrated optimism in the middle of trials and difficulties of the Depression-era. He said other stuff too - http://www.williamsaroyan.org/quotes.html

I had planned on commenting on what he said, but I can't be bothered to make the effort. I can't help thinking that William would have been proud of me...

I'm going to the opera!! I've never been before and now I have a ticket for my birthday in November. I'm far from a cultural abyss, but so far opera and I have never climbed into bed together and nuzzled. We've passed in the street and perhaps exchanged glances, yet always knowing we could never be together.

It's Madam Butterfly since you ask and the gist is, "the love story of a Japanese orphan, Butterfly, who marries a care free American". Presumably, other stuff happens too, but I look forward to being surprised. Apparently, half the score is "advert music", so I should recognize at least some of it while puffing away on my nice cigar or wondering at the whiteness of my whites.

The gigs I normally go to are along the lines of the Divine Comedy or Ben Folds. I like standing at concerts, but not being the tallest, often find myself tucked away behind Lofty and his mate Loftier. There should be a five minute period before every concert when people arrange themselves in height order, so that the vertically challenged can see for once. Failing that, force the tall ignorant gig-goer to stand behind an even taller freak and see how they like it. For double punishment, make them carry out this penance at a David Gray concert. No, hang on, that's just too cruel...

Venn?

I have decided, based on no real fact, that there is a direct correlation between how much I weigh, how much I spend, and how I feel about myself.

• If I eat less, I am spending less money on snacking and that makes me feel good.
• If I feel good about myself, I am inclined to eat less and therefore spend less.
• If I spend less, it means I'm snacking less and that makes me feel good.

Understand?! Possibly a bucket of tripe, but it's worth giving a go.

To that end, I've started keeping a diary of all I am spending, but it doesn't make pretty reading. Unfortunately, I've had to fork out for things like football and drama subs this week. On Monday, I spent about £80 with nothing tangible to show for it at the end of the day. That's madness. To make ends meet, I may have to sell one of my livers (copyright Homer Simpson).

Here ends undoubtedly my most boring post to date. If I've pressed the wrong button and published this instead of deleting it, you have my sympathies and apologies.

Theatre of the mind

So, the theatre last night then to see my group's production of a Chorus Line, and excellent it was too. I don't know much about dancing having been primarily built for comfort, not the other, but I thought they kept in time brilliantly and did all the other dancey stuff that dancers do very well. What a critique...

I have a Zen calendar on my desk at work which proffers a different gem of wisdom per day. My favourite remains, "to do great work, a man must be very idle as well as very industrious". Well said. A lot of the sayings are about Buddhism and "the way", which I neither understand nor subscribe to, both states inextricably linked. I was once impolitely shown "the way" with an upright middle finger when I asked a Buddhist hot dog vendor to make me one with everything.

Durchfall

Having not written anything for a couple of weeks, I clearly have a diarrhoetic urge to purge my system of my surplus thoughts. Incidentally, the German for diarrhoea is "durchfall", literally "through fall". Nice...

I've just been cast as a baddie in Aladdin to go up just after Christmas. It's basically an opportunity to make small children cry without the usual need to talk to them, hold them or anything else which makes them burst into tears and go running to their parents. Don't kids say the funniest things?

No, they don't. They say incorrect things which as adults, we are meant to find funny, but I don't think encouraging ignorance is a laughing matter. Unless you want to be a doctor. Laughter is apparently the best medicine, but try telling that to my cousin. He got knocked over by a car and despite laughing at him for a good hour afterwards, he still had a broken leg and collarbone. I feel sure he appreciated the irony.

Wannabe Scriptwriter

One of my top 75 friends also has an excellent new blog, all about her best efforts to become the next big thing in scriptwriting. It's here -
http://wannabescriptwriter.blogspot.com/ - so go there, once you've read my work again obviously...

A novel idea

As threatened yesterday, here is my (incomplete) shot at literary stardom. By the look of it, I must have been reading Sebastian Faulks and that ilk at the time. It was only two and a bit pages of scrawl which doesn't translate to much on the written page. I'll stop babbling now as there's enough nonsense written below.

Hello. Introductions before instructions, as my mum used to say. My name is Frank Johnson and I'm from a cosy part of Yorkshire called... well if I told you, you would never have heard of it, so we'll leave that one for now. My story is not a strange one, but it's worth listening to, believe me. I doubt you will have met many people like me, especially in a place like this.

I was born to Jean and Bill; Jean my mum, Bill my dad. That's my little joke. There was a lot of laughter in our house - and love. When I arrived home from school, my mum would be waiting with a hug and a bevy of kisses that grew more embarrassing as time went on. Sad really. I miss them. My dad, well I suppose he loved me in his own way. Whenever we knocked on the door of his shed to tell him that dinner was ready or that the man from the council was here (that happened quite a lot), he would always smile the sweetest of smiles which would light every corner of that dingy shed, before it receded, as did he, to a place within him that no man or woman, not even my mum, had ever seen. That beautiful smile would illuminate every ounce of the man before darkness once more flooded the void.

We played on the street, we being myself and Grace, my younger sister. Her name is actually Matilda on account of my dad registering the birth, and unwisely going against my mum's wishes; Grace was her choice. Matilda thus reverted to a middle name and dad retired to his shed. He occasionally called her Matilda. I think that was his way of rebelling. He never was much of a fighter, dad. Please don't misunderstand me, he fought tooth and nail to get the most for his family, but when it came to confrontations with the one person who had his measure, he knew when to stand off. Most of the time at any rate.

I remember an incident with Grace when she went away to Brownie camp. A blazing hot day it was as we walked to the train station. I was a reluctant passenger on that journey and an even more reluctant and impromptu porter. "One week in Devon" read the note from Brown Owl. "Seven months in very changeable weather" was the interpretation. A trunk almost the size of me and enough bags to make even our local bag lady, Maggie, choke on her collection of polythene and paper. Apparently, her husband left her and she simply opted out of life. She has a bath every couple of weeks at a neighbour’s house, the time lapse presumably to clear the smell. She does reek, but always has a kind word, in amongst the mainly incomprehensible expletives that is. If I ever decipher “ooo kin fu in bur”, I may well be offended. In fact, I think I’ve just worked it out and I may need a lie down.

As I walked, carrying the trunk on my formative young bones, my dad, carrying the rest of the bags, foolishly suggested that perhaps Grace should help to carry her own luggage, walking as she was with her packed lunch, an amalgam of corned beef sandwiches and tinned milk, since you ask. Mum met this with a firm, yet polite, “no”. Dad knew better than to take it any further. If only… “She’s got to learn to stand up for herself, Jean, or else she’ll end up like your mother.” No sooner had the words left his mouth, than the air changed and birds scurried off their branches to the relative safety of the family nest. “Pardon,” mum enquired. “Nothing,” stuttered dad. “My mother?” continued mum. “My mother? MY MOTHER?” And that was that. No great denouement, yet I swear that not one word passed between them from then until Grace stepped back off the train a week later. “Do you think that Grace should carry her own bags, Bill?” “No, Jean.”

Sadly, I wasn’t afforded the luxury of choice and I carried Grace’s luggage back home, my hunchback now bearing witness to the fact. I learned very quickly to limit my waving-off duties to the confines of my “sick” bed, illnesses which miraculously cleared on Grace’s departure, only to return and disappear with similar haste about a week later. What I wouldn’t give for an affected illness now. And my family…

Here goes...

So, a blog. How to start my first ever appearance on the internet, certainly my first written contribution and certainly the first time fully clothed. Plenty of paragraphs. That should fill the space.

I've created this because I want to leave my indelible mark on the world around me, and the council seem intent on painting over my best graffiti, so here I am. The words I have to share are not original, but their positioning may well be. My thoughts are recycled, but carry the resonance of truth. If I can convey to you, the bored housewife, exactly what makes me tick and how I view the world, I will have conveyed to you exactly what makes me tick and how I view the world.

This isn't as easy as I expected. As with every other being aspiring to drag themselves out of their self-made hole, I have of course written a novel, since we are told that there is a book in every one of us. Not true. Within us, there are three pages of nonsense, and therein, enough plot holes already to make even JK Rowling blush.

I think I get it now. My next entry will logically be my three or so pages of novelistic drivel, typed up for your supreme lack of pleasure. Can someone remind to do that please? Ta.