March 2012

[Sweder]

The good news is I did get out yesterday and, despite not covering the ground I'd hoped to, at least in part normal service was resumed. One reason for not joining the Jog Shop crew at 8am in Brighton lay snoring next to me. Poor Mrs S endured noisy dialogue with Hughie and Ralph via the big white telephone throughout the night. I dutifully stood by, offering encouragement and blasts of Dettox in equal measure. Our daughter, recipient this morning of her Provisional Driving License (cue sharp intake of breath and frantic stashing of car keys), was out on the tiles. A late-night text informed us she was staying 'at Daniel's'. Who the fuck, we pondered, is Daniel? Turns out lazy texting had omitted 'le' from the end of the name. Whilst a slight relief when revealed the morning after it did nothing to assuage the palpable sense of dread that pervaded our already discombobulated slumber.

The six ay em alarm call came and went. I did rise, ghost-like, at around seven-thirty and for a fleeting moment imagined I could still get there. A bit of semi-blind shuffling in the kitchen put that delusion to rest and I settled on a local blast with the hounds, a Round The Horn Ditchling Slingshot Special, ten miles of thrills and hills. On opening the back door I was greeted by four horsemen ready for business. Howling wind drove iced barbs of stinging rain into my face. A heavy, 'Midwich Cuckoo' mist clung grimly to the downs, reducing visibility to the length of an average Paul Scholes pass. A heavy sigh and resigned shrug later I set off, wind mercifully at my back for the opening five miles.



I tuned in to the excellent Sportsweek where the doyen of sports inquisitors Gary Richardson grilled a stream of high-ranking sports executives about impending managerial appointments. Patrick Collins, scribe for the otherwise dire Daily Mail, played his part as Richardson's measured foil. Much of the focus was on the FA's 'king-maker' progress following Fabio's brusque, if barely intelligible farewell. The FA Rep, Alex Horne, did a grand job of insisting there is more than one candidate and that, despite the clamour for a home-grown leader, they were not all necessarily English. You could almost hear Richardson and Collins giggling like school children being told there really is such a thing as Father Christmas. The highlight of this exchange was the interjection by the shy and retiring, aptly-named, still-wearing-his-bloodied-headband former England skipper Terry Butcher.
'We want English!' roared the mighty midfield warrior.
'That's not a strategy, it's a chant' was Collins' gently proferred riposte.

I'm not as sold as some on the Get Redknapp mantra. I remember the last time a real fans' favourite landed the job. Hope and expectation rose like fuel prices as the New Messiah, replete with his trademark Lion's Mane, took to the throne. These days the name 'Kevin Keegan' induces a plethora of tics and twitches. The clamour in the popular press to install the recently-acquitted Redknapp forthwith smacks of piranha calling for wounded cattle to be driven across a foaming river. I have no doubt any number of 'Arry Ate My Amster' stories lie in grubby manila folders on the cluttered desks of snout-nosed hacks. The feeding frenzy will be bloody and sad.

At the risk of poking any number of angry bears I'd like to see the Special One given the task. Admittedly Capello failed in the fundamental task of communication. Mourinho speaks English with a good deal more aplomb than Redknapp, knows many of the more troublesome English players, manages millionaires in his sleep and above all enjoys the steel-eyed success rate of the meanest hired gun in the West. OK so he might not bleed England, he might not even like Chicken Tikka Masala and, most detrimental to my cunning plan, has ruled himself out. And yet, here he is, in London, trawling the high-class Estate Agents, making eyes at the Premier League, luring chairmen with his swarthy good looks and his winner's smile.

As ever, I digress. I ran, slow and steady, feeling my limbs respond to gentle demand. The wind hacked and slashed, first at my back then, as I rounded the Beacon, into my face, stinging my flesh. I cared not. It felt good to be back, slipping and sliding over slithery mud and treacherous flint, feet relishing the soft embrace of doused downland grass. This was Stinger country. It occurred to me that the fabled off-road marathon might even be on right now and I smiled. All Steyning Stingers should be run in a maelstrom. It's the only way.

10.8 miles in around 100 minutes, finishing at race pace (though that hardly mattered). The hot shower was every bit as rude and glorious as I'd hoped.