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These entries first appeared in the abortive TypePad blog. 
Saturday, 6 October 2007Life is good. Life is great. Seven-thirty this morning. I'm in the kitchen, dressed athletically. Eight scoops, nah, let's make it ten, of Sainsbury's Finest Columbian. I've work to do when I get back. What a morning. One of those last desperate throws of the summer dice. We know the game's up, but how nice to go out like this. The sun is high and warm, but balanced on that crisp autumnal edge, I give you, lay-deez 'n' gennelm'n, the very very perfect day for the race. Yep, the human race. I know, I know, you heard that here before. Indulge me, please... On my way out, I visit the small pond. Earlier, through the kitchen window, I thought I'd noticed a mild pondal kerfuffle starring one of those fat, monochrome flying items. I heartily dislike these creatures. I spent almost my entire life bidding them good morning, as programmed, but then a couple of years ago, ralised they are nothing but ugly garden pests. None for joy and two for sorrow, three today and four tomorrow. And where are my seven plumpening goldfish? These sociable, innocent creatures are always visible, but now I see none. Hang on, I see a single, solitary splash of vivid orange on the bottom of the pond. Utterly still. And no sign of the other six. Oh. I wait a couple of minutes, but nothing happens. So I prod the weeds. Nothing still. It's like flicking through the channels and seeing the same test card on every one. Oh god. I've been expecting magpie trouble all my life, and here it is at last. So a sombre start to the run. Things brighten as I plod past the primary school, beneath the outstretched arms of the horse chestnut tree. A gust of wind arrives at the same time as I do, and a small branch drops at my feet, spilling its shiny brown gems. I stoop to conker-collect. How lovely these objects are. Objects? More like pieces of furniture. On I pant, rolling this mahogany beauty round my fingers as I go. There must be some use for the lovely, oily smoothness of the conker, surely? How things have changed since I was a kid. Those branches would have been stripped bare long before now. I asked a teacher recently if kids were still allowed conker fights at school. "Oh yes", she explained. "As long as they wear goggles..." It's my 4th run in 6 days, and the inconvenience feels bloody wonderful. But you have to run to understand that. I started a new job this week, and already I know it's been a great move for me. It's not a good idea to talk work on the web, so I won't go into detail. But let's just say it's like being released from prison. It's like having some intellectual straitjacket cut off, just moments before the wilt would have turned fatal. My creativity and dignity have been locked in a box for more than a year -- and they just busted out. Suddenly, I'm in control of my own life again. It's Andy Dufresne all over again... No one's mentioned their track du jour (TdJ) recently, so let me revive this fine tradition. Indeed, typically, I won't stop at a delicate half glass, but will invert the bottle and let the rich wine flood forth. Sorry for the mess boys, but this is blood gushing from the wound of a wasted year. Perhaps I've never mentioned that I'm something of a Clannad fan. I'd once have been embarrassed to confess it, but no longer. In these liberated days, nothing much matters. They were first up on the iPod shuffle. And pleasantly ethereal it was too. Just right to get me in the mood for elevated pain. Could it be the TdJ so early? Next up is His Bobness, and Simple Twist of Fate. It's the first of three stupendous later-Dylan tunes today. I call them later-Dylan, because I think the real stuff is the 20 year old kid in Greenwich Village, corduroy cap and denims, clinging to Suzie Rotolo in the freezing winter of 1962. That and the next 4 years. It's a terrible thought I have, but I'll say it anyway. That the worst career move Dylan ever made was recovering from his 1966 motorbike accident. Ah, who better to shake me out of the melancholy tree? It's the Clash and I Fought the Law. A great running song. A great song. It got me thinking about why rock music generally makes such an ideal accompaniment to this activity of ours. People will tell you it's obvious -- the driving rhythm. Yeah of course. But wait. That's like saying the reason we like wine is the alcohol in it. Yes but... the glory of wine isn't the alcohol, it's the alcohol plus the richness, the flavour, the mythology, the variety. So rock music gives the runner more than throbbing percussion to move to. It flicks a switch. We put down world ordinaire, and pick up world cru classé. We are elevated. And more than that. The rebellious dimension of rock music chimes nicely with the runner's self-perception. That just for now, we are not of the community, but outriders. Outriders and outsiders. Just a millimetre or two beyond the reach of explanation and rationalisation. Here's Pink Floyd, ex-heroes of mine, and Brain Damage, from Dark Side. It's painful, but I'll be honest. I realised today that this is a nonsense song from a strangely pointless band. As I moved off the main road and headed into the Berkshire countryside, something much more like it appeared in my ears. Johnny Cash, and I Walk the Line. There's something primeval and authentic going on here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=krVACUbciJE , and I felt a sense of relief. Back to the throaty later-Dylan and Tangled Up In Blue. The poetry on this album (Blood On The Tracks) was of its time. Idiot Wind, the greatest of his later lyrics. Among which, the words: "Blood on your saddle". For some reason, these four words chill me whenever I hear them. They're not a phrase, they're an ambush. The very same year that Dylan produced this literary glory, Johann Cruyff and Holland, and Stan Bowles and QPR, were shining a poetic light over football history no less piercing, and no less enduring. How honoured we must be to have shared a century with these icons. But wait. Something yet greater this way comes... it's the Beatles, and Ticket to Ride. Oh my. Panting past the deer park, I have to wrap my arms round my own chest, to prevent my innards from bursting with joy. Those harmonies, that gleeful lead guitar, Ringo's revolutionary drum-bashing, the casual middle-eight, McCartney's throbbing bass. All this, in 1965. The year that Shankly's young Liverpool side beat Leeds in the FA Cup Final. A good year to have been a scouser. Which reminds me. Nothing here yet about our final, astounding days in Japan. Hiroshima, Kobe, Nara, then back in Tokyo, the Sumo Championships, the Cavern Club and the brilliant Silver Beats. The final day in Shibuya, giggling alongside the wackiest, trendiest, most intriguing of people. But another time, friends. Another time, another universe. If we do nothing else, let's forgive each other our claustrophobic sins. Beyond these stiff paper walls, something great awaits us all. Just reach out. More than reach out: punch. Just punch. As I've discovered in my new job, it's hard to beat the sensation of unscheduled emancipation. There's no feeling quite like it: the cool breeze of freedom against a clenched fist. You hurt the ones you love the best and cover up the truth with lies. And one day you'll be in the ditch, flies a'buzzin' round your eyes, Blood on your saddle... Idiot wind, blowing through the flowers on your tomb, Blowing through the curtains in your room. Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth... And I'm running again. Four miles of dribbling liberation later, I arrive home. And as I turn into my driveway, there, right in front of me, is the smug magpie. The murderous git. We see each other simultaneously. As it raises its wings in fright, to flap away, my instinct hurls something at it. Believe me people, forget Dylan, Johnny Cash, the Beatles... the greatest sound this morning was the strangled sqwawk I heard as that conker bounced off the head of that magpie. Life is good. Life is great. Comment on this in the Forum.
Sunday, 7 October 2007With M on an awayday in Birmingham, I grasped the opportunity for a rare visit to the cinema. The alternative -- continuing to work on the new pond -- didn't appeal quite so much. Last time I did this, I pleasantly surprised myself with George Clooney, and the brilliant Good Night, and Good Luck, which he wrote, directed, and starred in. Clooney featured again today, in the title role of Michael Clayton. A decent enough thriller with (of course) a smart twist to leave me giggling at the end. It's one of those films where you have to keep concentrating to ensure you keep on top of the plot. Clooney plays a Mister Fixit type with a law firm, detailed to manage one of the firms's leading lawyers who's undergoing a severe mental breakdown while heading up a major lawsuit, defending some kind of agricultural biotechnology company. It's underpinned by the usual little guy v conglomerate theme, and has other stock figures in it, like the woman lawyer glowing with enviable success on the outside, but tormented by a crisis of confidence, and conscience, inside. And baddy henchmen with unexplained access to total technology -- CCTV, GPS, instant phone taps, ability to pass through locked and bolted doors without leaving a trace, while at the same time being medical and martial arts experts. That sort of thing. But a competent movie, and worth catching on DVD or satellite. I wandered outside the cinema at 13:45, faced with a choice of dramas. One option was to spend the afternoon in the pub, watching the Rugby World Cup quarter final, and likely humiliation for England against Australia. The other was to hide from reality by stepping back into the cinema for Atonement. Both were starting at 14:00. No contest really. An England World Cup quarter final is a story I've watched many times before, and I know how the story ends. Atonement is the finest novel I've read in ten years. I've been an Ian McEwan fan since First Love, Last Rites, a collection of short stories, appeared in 1976, but Atonement is his stand-out work for me. It was a harrowing read, but a superb piece of story-telling, written with all the richness and ingenuity I've come to expect from this writer. This is Serious literature with a capital S, but accessible enough to keep the ordinary reader on-board. Similar to The French Lieutenant's Woman, the book is a complex concept, incorporating a parallel instance of itself. It works well in print. How would this be transferred to film? Critics are divided but most seem to agree with me, that it works beautifully. The ravishing Keira Knightley plays Cecelia, James McAvoy the tragic Robbie - her lover. McAvoy in particular turns in a great performance as the servant's son made-good, though not quite good enough to deflect the heavy artillery of aristocratic prejudice. The story revolves around Cecelia's sister, Briony, now a successful writer, whose own life, and the lives of her sister and Robbie are all but destroyed by a lie she tells as a troubled 13 year old. We see Briony at three key stages of her life, and it's her story that is really the story of the film, even though it's those she comes into contact with, and unwittingly taints, that get most exposure on screen. Can't say much more about the plot without spoiling it. Don't make the same mistake as the girls sitting behind me, who trooped off to the toilet just seconds before the heart-rending denouement. Or maybe that would be preferable. Maybe it's better to live in darkness and hope, than within a beautifully illuminated despair. Atonement is a film whose final moments will turn you upside down and shake your emotions from you. I'd read the book, but had forgotten the pain to be unearthed. I'd forgotten that this is a conceit within a conceit, and that while you are the plaything of a clever author, there is always the potential for reality to become delusion, to become reality again. Which is which? So you reinterpret all that's gone before, and like me, may find yourself standing alone in an empty cinema urging the credits to stop rolling and return to the story for a final, uplifting plot-twist. Or again like me, standing outside a cinema in the blinking, blinding light of mid-afternoon, looking at life's small change jangling around you: squabbling shoppers, courting teenagers, bored traffic wardens, and asking yourself that same question: What is reality and what is delusion? As I loiter, unsure what to do next, a scarlet-faced student stumbles by in an England rugby shirt. "We won mate! England won!" I chuckle. Yeah, of course we did. With a final thankful glance at the cinema, my question is answered. Comment on this in the Forum.
Tuesday, 23 October 2007I wrote this on the forum a couple of weeks ago: After my great week last week, I've had a setback. Went for an excellent Sunday morning lope with the club in some glorious (and previously unknown to me) woods about 4 miles from home. The circuit was around 3 miles, and we were free to run 1, 2 or 3 laps depending on how we felt. I decided on 2 as a step up from last week's raft of 4 x 3.5 milers. Lovely setting. Nice tracks through dense, dappled woodland marking the borders of Berkshire and Oxfordshire. Not hilly but the odd undulation to give it some interest. Around the 5 mile mark, I felt an unexpected sharp pain in my right calf. Too severe to continue running. Limped the mile or so back to the start, and drove home, where I applied the old R-I-C-E treatment on and off for the rest of the day. Monday it was painful, Tuesday and today I can feel it without it being too unpleasant. I've had calf injuries before, and I know they can stretch on for weeks if not treated properly. So much against my instincts and renewed enthusiasm, I'm going to take the week off running and see how I feel towards the end of the weekend. Even when it feels back to normal, I know it can 'go' again, and more seriously, if it's not fully recovered. A nuisance, but I need to do what's right. -------- My prescribed two static weeks have now passed. No further calf twinges, but no running either, as there’s a new complaint to puzzle and weep over. Or rather the return of one: the mystery left knee-ache. Crikey. I have to ask myself whether this is it. Am I irretrievably knackered? For now, I’m resisting the idea. The stately second-gear ambulations of fat middle-aged plodders like me, is supposed to keep us insulated from the strains that blight the recklessly athletic. Or so I thought. I’m not too disheartened. I’ve been hopelessly unhealthy recently, and am taking holistic steps towards recovery. The crumbly knee will solidify as my diet improves and the Rugby World Cup refreshments drain away. A bit annoying though, especially as I’d just about pronounced the calf fully testable. This verdict followed a few hours of tramping round the garden, attending to mandatory autumnal jobs. These seasonal duties are a delight. We claim to hate the long winter months, but there are benefits. It felt good to know I was shaving the corrugated face of the back garden for probably the final time before spring. But it’s the front garden that’s been the richest source of excitement. I’ve been fighting this ugly ruffian for four years now, and 2007 was the year I gave in, and summoned the reinforcements. This space has been a challenge. It began its life as a garden just after the First World War, when the house was built, and was designed to allow the original householders to be self-sufficient in vegetables. We continued the tradition for a year or two before apathy set in, and it became a coarse meadow again. The wild flowers liked it, but I didn’t. I accepted recently that desperate gardens call for desperate makeovers, and it was time to make that phone call. And so it was that three cheerful young levellers arrived one day, like a travelling circus, with caged trailers of wild, growling creatures: a collection of roaring, spluttering, diesel-belching landscaping toys. Sometimes they stood and scratched their heads and argued, and ran muddy fingers through their hair – which may be why they scratched their heads – and chuckled, and drank gallons of coffee, and stuff that looked like red diesel from unlabelled plastic bottles. Then they got the machines fired up again, and continued the destruction and creation, and the manicured flattening. That last week of September. Did the earth move for you? It did for me. Along with four days of sweat and pain (theirs rather than mine) came more than 40 tons of gorgeously friable, stone-free top soil. It’s the stuff that British Sugar washes off the beet. It’s filtered and graded to remove the grit and the stones, and enriched with nutrients and left to settle and develop a personality over long years, like decent wine in a cool, dark cellar. This is the vintage Champagne of top soil. If our gardens were the rugby-playing nations of the world, you poor people would be peering through your kitchen windows at mere Australia and New Zealand, while I gaze over pure, wholesome, unblemished England. (I wrote that bit before the final…) One misty morning early, two gargantuan truckloads of this beautiful sandy loam were shipped down from Lincolnshire, and ended up at the end of the driveway, causing much indignant honking throughout the village, and very probably all the way down to Swindon, where (it should be said) they are more accustomed to traffic outrages. Not all of us were displeased. After centuries of munching through gritty gruel, our worms suddenly find themselves dining at Gordon Ramsay’s — day after incredulous day. I can’t wait for spring, when we’ll have a velvetty bowling green, embracing the new 30-foot wildlife pond. Perhaps when I’m setting off for those long February-March Sunday runs, I’ll be inspired by seeing the first signs of spring spreading across the front garden. Which takes us back to running. I hope. If there's no trace of knee or calk discomfort the day after tomorrow, when I get back from Nottingham, I will try a gentle plod around the block to see if the pain monster is gone, or just sleeping. On the day that I finally despatched my signed acceptance of my Boston offer to the tireless Adele at JDRF, I have to be full of positive thoughts. A no-show in Boston is unthinkable. Even if it’s my last marathon, or especially if it’s my last marathon, I need to get there, and I need to carry the RC pennant with pride. Even if it’s the Andy version of pride, which I fear doesn’t always match up with the efforts of some of the other guys around here. Changing the subject, I recently had a conversation with an Indian friend about Varanasi, the holy city on the Ganges, where good Hindus go to die. To visit this place is one of those experiences that one can truly describe as awesome. You don’t have to be religious or overly spiritual to be deeply affected by the sights and the smells of this place. To wander down to the banks of the Ganga in mid-evening, as the darkness thickens and incense swirls and fills your lungs, and to see the grieving families along the ghats, praying and wailing around the burning corpses of their loved ones, before the ashes are pushed into the holy river, and allowed to float away towards eternity, is a memory too mournful and too profound ever to leave you. If the Indians have Varanasi, the English have Bournemouth. This occurred to me last week, when I found myself in that fine seaside town, attending a conference. The highlight was a talk by David Magliano, the Director of the London 2012 Olympic Bid Team, who gave us a gripping insight into the mechanics of winning the business. The strategists had worked out that the fate of the London bid rested with about 40 IOC delegates who were likely to be faithful to Madrid until (as the London team predicted) the Madrid bid was eliminated. In Singapore, where the final presentations were to be delivered, these floating voters were targetted by a team of ‘spotters’ who hung around the hotel lobby on the morning before the big day. Before they were able to disappear for a day’s sightseeing, they were invited up to the 40th floor to meet Tony Blair – and of course vanity prevented them from resisting the invitation. Each flattered delegate was beaten to the 40th floor by a quick phone call to the waiting team to let them know who was ascending. This gave them just enough time to brief Blair on the person about to step out of the lift. Blair greeted them all personally by name, and using the knowledge he’d just that moment acquired, was able to exhibit an astonishing knowledge of the delegate’s specialisms, hobbies and concerns. In the meantime, the delegate’s spouse and children were led off to make small talk with David Beckham and Sven Goran Eriksson. Blair managed to meet an impressive 35 delegates in this way. The attention to detail was staggering. The British presentation consisted of 7 speakers. In the preceding week, each of those seven were given 20 hours of professional tuition and mentoring in how best to deliver their 3-minute, carefully scripted speeches. Blair had to leave Singapore to chair the G8 summit, but had made a recorded speech to be shown in the hall. He was asked to wear the same shirt and tie he’d worn to meet most of the delegates so that it would appear that he’d just that minute left the city. Probably most interesting was the effort made to appeal to the sentiments of the voting delegates, most of whom were ex-Olympians. The other four presentations centred on business, politics and good facilities, while London concentrated almost exclusively on tweaking the emotions, and the memories, of the delegates, by stressing how they were determined to allow today’s kids to fulfil their dreams as athletes. Tip of the day: If you can find it, dig out the promotional video shown during the London presentation. They'll be weeping in the aisles. Clever stuff, neatly summed up to us by Magliano when he solemnly opined: "Frankly, there were no depths to which we would not sink". But it paid off. There are plenty of useful lessons there about the value of rigorous organisation, creative planning, and downright ruthlessness. None of which, of course, I will remember as I try to haul myself back on track for my own personal 5-hour Olympics –- Boston 2008. Comment on this in the Forum.
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