March 2010

[Sweder]

Well well well. Set out for a gentle jog and before I knew it the sun popped out, the wind dropped and I was all the way to Ditchling for a 16 k round-trip. Foot ached all the way but the pain never got much above four on the threshold scale (one being negligible, ten being forced to watch Lloyd-Webber & Norton in their Saturday night love-tryst).

Tired of the same old self-congratulatory 'comedy' presenters on Five Live (Jenny Éclair aside - I find her tolerable in several ways) I flipped to Planet Rock where The Kid took us to Another Dimension. Highlight of the blend of new, classic and prog rock was Zeppelins' Friends. This coincided with me picking up the pace (reaching somewhere around half marathon speed, four minutes forty-five per kilometre or there abouts). The cadence of the song matched my ungainly stride as our fourteen-legged pack traversed water-filled pot-holes and sticky mud-trails strewn with large pieces of downland flint. The sweat pouring off my forehead was as much from concentration as it was from the warming sun and increasing exertion. One false step - to land my full weight astride a lump of rock - would have had me screaming like a stuck Chav in custody on a Saturday night and most likely crippled for life.

I managed to 'lose a nipple' - runners will know what I mean; that tell-tale streak of watery red down the front of your white running vest reminding you that you forgot to Vass Up before the off - and am not looking forward to the cruel sting of the shower. Now it’s time for a quick stretch and Ibuprofen (other anti-inflammatories are available but they’re rubbish) before another round of furniture recycling following the triumphant completion of my daughter’s bedroom. Time will tell if I’ve been fortunate or dumb with the foot. As someone probably once said 'we have one life: live it.'

One small aside. If you missed the Sport Relief pastiche featuring Smithy (James Corden) as Coach of the Year you missed a treat. You also missed the iconic Mr Beckham sending himself up mercilessly. Beckham has transcended football in a way that few if any do. He’s gone from pariah to national treasure despite some horrendous decisions, not least (in some eyes) marrying a pouty stick insect. The reason I switched off the ‘satirical’ program on 5Live was that they were ridiculing the Poet Laureate’s tribute to Beckham’s recent injury, missing the good-natured humour of Duffy's piece. I enjoyed the poem for what it appears to be; a tongue-in-cheek homage to one of our national obsessions and a bit of fun.

Achilles Carol Ann Duffy

Myth's river – where his mother
dipped him, fished him, a
slippery golden boy flowed on,
his name on its lips.

Without him, it was prophesied,
they would not take Troy.

Women hid him, concealed him
in girls' sarongs; days of
sweetmeats, spices, silver songs ...

But when Odysseus came, with an
athlete's build, a sword and a shield,
he followed him to the battlefield,
the crowd's roar,
And it was sport, not war,
his charmed foot on the ball ...

But then his heel, his heel, his heel ...