January

[Sweder]

I took the old track
the hollow shoulder, across the waters
On the tall cliffs
they were getting older, sons and daughters
The jaded underworld was riding high
Waves of steel hurled metal at the sky
and as the nail sunk in the cloud, the rain
was warm and soaked the crowd.
[SIZE="1"]Here Comes The Flood - Peter Gabriel[/SIZE]

Biblical stuff once more on the Sussex hills.
Wind gusts of over ninety miles per hour made venturing outside an act of folly, so of course I wrapped up, harnessed the hounds and struck out like a latter day Captain Oates for a ‘short plod’. Five battered miles and fifty-six hammered minutes later I returned, ashen-faced, plastered in mud and quite appalled at my own lack of common sense.

Once more the real danger out there was in the descents. The climbs were horrendous; I almost came to a standstill battling up Blackcap. You know it’s tough out there when your whippet, no more than a foot off the ground, gets blown sideways as she’s charging uphill. A gorse bush came out of nowhere, celebrating its new found freedom by bounding maniacally across the downs and crashing into my frozen, rain-lashed mush. I’d just fought through a five bar gate and turned into the wind when the flailing ball of spikes caught me unawares. I felt like the Newcastle back four must have done last night – overwhelmed. Perhaps I should have turned back, but like the BBC keep telling us in their insipid self-promoting ads; this is what we do. Besides, I needed to test out my groin injury. I'd not run since Sunday. OK, I could have taken a safer route along the roadside, but the thought of four miles into a headwind a few feet from a moving CO2 farm was too depressing. Happily there was no sign of the tightness I'd suffered on Sunday, and Lord knows this was as stiff a test as I could find.

Back in the warm, a steaming mug of coffee set next to a plate of honey-laden granary toast, I pondered the news that Andy is starting an affair with off road running. This has rekindled my enthusiasm for an RC Blackcap plod, Niguel having mentioned on several occasions that he’d like to join me sometime. As I sipped gratefully on my hot drink, the warmth spreading through my chest like colour seeping into a black-and-white photo, I had cause to ponder a less pleasant aspect of life in Britain today. News radio was dominated this morning by speculation over the loathsome antics of a number of Zed list 'celebrities' taking part in a ‘reality television’ show. I don’t want to mention the name of the show, less the people involved; suffice to say I’d like to see them all loaded up with the hairdressers and estate agents a la Douglas Adams and launched into outer space. What rankled with me this morning was the inability of our media to discern between newsworthy items and salacious self-publicists playing us for all we’re worth.

Here I sit, just returned from a brush with Mother Nature in all her fury, railing against the excesses of mankind in her loudest voice, decrying the thoughtless mistreatment of our planet. A container ship is sinking fast off the Cornwall coast, lifeguards risking life and limb to rescue the crew. Our leaders continue to pour oil on the troubled waters of the Middle East, one man seemingly determined to fan the flames of all-out war, the other meekly trotting out vulgar platitudes, both men raging against the dying of their own political light. The man who would hurl more of his fellow countrymen into the dark heart of despair is the same beady-eyed maniac who refuses to acknowledge the terminal injuries his own nation inflicts on the environment of our homeworld. History may judge these people as righteous fools, but will anyone be left around to read about it?

It's little wonder then that the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists announced yesterday that the Doomsday Clock has ticked 'two minutes closer to midnight'. We are entering an age described as the ‘most perilous since Hiroshima’.

Still, who gives a toss when there's the terrible accounts of almost possible racism and ugly playground bullying to be poured over ad nauseum?
I’m off to find my Babelfish and a good towel.