A couple of local outings since return from the US of A. So many stories to tell from five wild days . . . that'll have to wait though; work to catch up on and a daughter's birthday to celebrate.
Transatlantic jet-lag banished thanks to a staggering blunder on Tuesday and a fabulous sun-drenched blast this lunchtime. Cooled by a vibrant breeze I swept up Mount Harry watched by wild ponies, dark eyes peeking out from foppish fringes as they gently munched on downland grass. These beasts are magnificent; solid, squat, black-n-tan coats gleeming, looking for all the world born to these hills.
I'm bursting with news from our trip, but the tale's worth telling well so I'll curb my enthusiasm, consult with SP and return soon.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Stumbled onto the downs this morning, sunlight slicing through gently lifting mist to light up puddle-riddled hills. It occurred to me I should have been out at least an hour earlier; more wildlife, more mist, less ambient noise . . . I vowed there and then to hit the hay a little earlier for the next few nights. We'll see how that goes.
Where does fitness go when it leaves us? Does it seep like spilled oil into the earth, lost, like tears in rain*, or does it simply solidify around one's middle to jiggle and giggle as we venture out for a past-due shuffle? Mine's buggered off, leaving me to flog my sweaty corpulence over a course that a few short weeks ago I was comfortably having for breakfast. By the time I'd completed my five mile circuit, leaden legs wobbling home in a 2009 personal worst the great clouds of steam pluming off my sunroof would not have been out of place at Cheltenham. More carthorse than racehorse, that much is certain. If it weren't for the excellent Mr. Cooper and his ecclectic selection of blasts from the past I doubt I'd have made it today.
The wild ponies were there, gathered like a herd of unruly hippies at the top of Mount Harry, some lounging in the morning sun, others stood four-square to watch the puffing, shambling bi-ped and his canine outriders struggle by. At least they had the good grace to hold their braying laughter until we were out of earshot. Tess, the ancient whippet, had cocked an eyebrow as I'd rallied the hounds, slumping back into the warm embrace of her radiator-side bed, intentions all too clear. I know how she feels; sometimes it's all one can do to pull on your runners.
Ego put a timely boot to my wobbling bottom on the return leg, a brace of attractive lycra-clad fillies stopped for a chat on the downslope inducing an injection of pace that I managed to sustain for a good mile or so. I could call it fartlek but that would be disingenuous. By the time I'd passed the stables and hit Landsport Bottom it was all I could do to maintain an ugly plod.
Still, I got out there, something I've failed to do with alarming regularity recently. I fear sloth and the inevitable accumulation of lard that a lack of race focus brings. Less may well be more, but the scale has tipped.
Just at the moment, less is less.
Track du jour: Thirteenth Floor Elevators, Don't Slander Me
* Stolen unashamedly from Blade Runner. So sue me.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Track du jour: Thirteenth Floor Elevators, Don't Slander Me
Great to hear the 13th Floor Elevators mentioned. Have a vague memory of listening to them late at night, back in my student days (no further details available at this time...:o).
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Following a day I'll be happy to forget, when everything that could go wrong at work somehow did, I sought solace in the bosom of duffers badminton last night. Fool! I should've learned to read the portents, studied the Fairtrade tea-leaves and driven home at 20 mph to pull the duvet over my sorrowful head (windows open to avoid asphixiation, that's a given).
But no. I elected to take to the floor with a gaggle of strangely wired senior citizens for some gentle shuttlecock stroking. Following a particularly energetic opening set I notice some discomfort in the arch of my right foot. Several games later it was all I could do to hobble home. Wifey cheerfully informs me I've pulled my plantar muscle (who knew?), an ailment familiar to dancers generally and to my whirling, twirling daughter in particular. It rounded off a day of complete and utter crapness.
This morning said plate is extremely sore. It feels like a surgeon has tried to beat out a decent arch in my laughably flat foot using a ball peen hammer. My planned sortie into the Sussex hills, like my foot, is on ice. I'm preparing to return to the scene of yesterdays multiple officides. Like a detective who's missed the big scene after drowning his sorrows in a low-life neighborhood bar I need to show my stubbly, red-eyed face to see if forensics can reveal how a man can be so entirely incompetent in such a limited space of time, and if the havoc wreaked can in some way be repaired.
TFIF.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A minor conflict broke out between sore heel and bloated, wobbly belly under my duvet this morning. The aforementioned appendage unhappy that, having elected not to run this weekend, I spent a good deal of it climbing the remarkably steep, cruelly cobbled hills around Vianden, a resplendent commune in the Oesling. Vianden Castle, perched precariously a-top the central crag, was a rare delight. Dating back to Medieval times the cloud-kissing enclave was the subject of a number of increasingly impressive make-overs until it reached it's epicurean zennith in the sixteen hundreds. Time, ever-more destructive battles and accrued apathy saw the battlements steadily crumble until, in the late 1970's, the good Burgers of the region clubbed together, nipped off to B&Q and got stuck into a nine year restoration gig. By 1987 regal magnificence was reborn to house ancient tapestries colated from France, Germany and Spain depicting impressive scenes from history, mythology and regional fables.
[SIZE="1"]Somebody else's home video shamelessly purloined from YouTube[/SIZE]
Jelly Belly was also attributable to the weekend, stuffed as it was with sweet and savory Luxembourgish delights. Gentle shop-front sleuthing in the shadow of the imposing ramparts revealed, in delicious contrast, the Ancien Cinema Café Club under proprietorship of Polish visionary Maciej Karczewski. I say visionary; I hold no evidence of this other than the establishment itself and the eclectic clip collection to be enjoyed at YouTube. This is, for me, a very cool place to hang out. Delicious thanks in no small part or portion to their signature strudel, served piping hot with lashings of vanilla ice-cream, and a paradoxical carrot cake smothering in thick, dark chocolate. Lost in the embrace of a bottomless armchair I perused the free-to-thumb cinematic treasures. Reams of celluloid bibliography, a century of stunning movie art, folders stuffed with rare black & white celebrity snapshots, genre-specific volumes (a superb Horror special) and gargantuan, barely liftable tomes of reference.
Back in sunny Sussex after much wailing and gnashing of teeth the need to address the beltline won out and I took to the sun-drenched hills, offering a silent promise to take it easy on the grumbling foot. I grabbed a camera. I’d been meaning to snap our recently arrived downland ponies; the foaming mist-cloud wallowing in the valley offered yet more tempting Canon fodder.
On days like this I thank my lucky stars for a soft, yielding track. Despite residual bruising the plantar survived. Had I taken to the pavements there’s no doubt I’d’ve been hobbling home inside of five minutes cursing my bone headedness and desperately seeking an Ibuprofen massage.
With the sun racing heavenward with an unbound joy that can only mean spring has truly sprung the mists dispersed, leaving a somewhat blurry landscape for my lens. I cursed my reticence to rise at first light; once again I’d missed the best of the early morning scene. Happily the ponies posed in obliging manner, accepting my amateur snapping with a good grace that could easily have been aloof disdain. I stumbled home, hounds bounding merrily in the sunshine, a low growl of complaint building in my throbbing heel, Reading Half 2005 shirt heavy with steadily leaking weekend residue.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I bought some in Sweatshop on Saturday, and they really did seem to help. They claim to absorb something mad like 94% of the impact from hard surfaces. Not cheap at about £17.50 for a pair of the "Full strike" insoles but in my limited experience so far, money well spent. Said to last several years too, so perhaps not such bad value.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
An ugly, twisted scrape through dense internal fog, the impossibly loud thrum of a thousand jack-hammers bludgeoning my frontal lobes as I hauled the carcass of St Patrick though indecently cheery sun-drenched hills. Without casting aspersions - I have no wish to upset the big fella - I met up with SP for an impromptu Guinness-and-pool fest in Seaford. The hostelry of choice was about as far removed from the soft embracing inns of Ireland as you could find. The Shore is a stark, modern facility, sporting enough chrome to fit out a 50's Diner. We failed the dress code, neither of us having a hair style - well, only one of us actually having enough hair to style - that replicated having shoved one's head into a vat of engine oil and hung upside down for several hours. Still, we were tolerated.
The pool was a personal triumph. Having suffered terribly at the hands of SP on our journey into the heart of the American Dream last month - there was at least one evening when I failed to win a single rack - my heart sank as I swiftly fell two frames to nil behind. During my evisceration on the tables of Bully's Bar in North Myrtle Beach I had argued, not unreasonably I felt, that I played at my best somewhere between two and six pints into an evening. Of course that was several millennia ago when I was a young man capable of drinking and playing pool whilst rolling cigarettes, holding forth on any number of topics, feeding the jukebox to maintain a steady supply of Stranglers and keeping an arm round my beloved of the hour. These days it's all I can do to tie my shoe laces unaided. Last night I rolled back the years (minus the fags, the music and the girls), the black nectar flowing through my veins to lend deadly aim to my cueing arm. I could no more explain this sudden flood of form than I could reliably describe my journey home, yet frame after frame went my way until I'd amassed an unassailable lead. SP bore the landslide with good grace, laughing wildly as a frame seemingly destined to go his way slipped away on a fluked double-double black.
Setanta Sports had elected not to cover this epic re-match, choosing instead to slide down to the Emirates for the belated FA Cup 6th round tie between Arsenal and Hull City. The Tigers had enjoyed a famous 2 - 1 victory at the New Library earlier in the season and they started as if they'd been watching re-runs of the win on the journey down. The match turned on a moment of controversy, the on-field officials perhaps the only people in the stadium not to notice William Gallas wondering, criminally offside and lonely as a clown in Hull's six yard box, looking for all the world like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest who's slipped his minder, before the ball rebounded off his mystified head and into the net.
According to reports the post-match tunnel saw scenes of gross unpleasantness, Cesc Fabregas, the Gunners’ club captain and not involved in the match, accused of spitting directly at one of the Hull City officials. Asked for his view on this shameful behavior Arsene Wenger rolled out his stock-in-trade 'I didn't see it' response, adding that 'it did not happen' as if this deadpan statement would erase the bitterness clearly overwhelming the Hull City manager Phil Brown. To his credit Brown just about managed to avoid throttling the banal Man from Setanta as the broadcaster cruelly displayed a looped recording of the winning goal on a giant flat screen barely a foot away from Brown's wasp-chewing visage. Wenger's opinion of the match lent credence to suggestions that he'd borrowed Lord Ferg's rose-tinted spectacles. (Old Granite Chops had laughably claimed in an MUTV interview that the Rowdies had 'been the better side' during their 4-1 shellacking at the hands of the Liverpool Redskins). Hull deserved at least a replay; any scorn poured on Arsenal this morning will come as cold comfort indeed.
I have good news for Mr Wenger and his team of Labrador handlers. UK government ministers have just approved an increase in disability benefits for blind and partially sighted people. There'll be dancing in the halls of the Emirates tonight. I just hope they don't slip on Flabbergasted’s phlegm and hurt themselves.
Back to this morning and the dreadful piper-paying flog, I stumbled on to an ungainly fence-clasping finish, sweating profusely in the warm sunshine, dripping head throbbing in tandem with my battered heel which sadly shows no sign of improvement. I fear more greenbacks must be paid in pursuit of a cure. Meanwhile, no more running for me this week
Track du jour: Won't Get Fooled Again, the wonderful, merciless, 'Orrible 'Oo.
Aposite, and a stonking track to boot.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Only in the the partisan eyes of the underdog-supporter, I suspect. Most seem to forget that both sides profited from a fluke goal, and the match stats seem to present a rather one-sided affair.
Sweder Wrote:I just hope they don't slip on Flabbergasteds phlegm and hurt themselves.
Equally likely to have been one of the sour grapes carpeting the technical area after the game...
Hi Dan, sorry you missed the spit spat over in the Playground - some posts removed due to last minute shame over thread hi-jack and entranched opinion :o
Fabregas would appear to have previous despite his flat denial but it's one of those things that can't and won't be proven. It seems Hull find little sympathy in the pages of RC; that's fine by me. It's something I've never picked up on before but there's an undercurrent of disaffection towards the Tigers.
I don't always root for the underdog. Perhaps it was the obviousness of Gallas's offside and the timing of the goal that lead me to feel a replay would have been about right. Arsenal certainly hammered the visitors once Bentner came on, although the lad's had horrible luck since I signed him for my Fantasy team
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Hi Dan, sorry you missed the spit spat over in the Playground - some posts removed due to last minute shame over thread hi-jack and entranched opinion :o
Yes, I wondered what was going on there...
Sweder Wrote:I don't always root for the underdog.
Well, not a position your team is used to. I'm as guilty as anyone of enjoying seeing a big side done over.
Sweder Wrote:Perhaps it was the obviousness of Gallas's offside and the timing of the goal that leads me to feel a replay would have been about right. Arsenal certainly hammered the visitors once Bentner came on, although the lad's had horrible luck since I signed him for my Fantasy team
Yes, the boot's on the other foot, to use an obvious cliche. Around a year ago in the CL QF, Arsenal came from behind at Anfield, only for the ref to hand the tie to the Reds with a late soft pen in front of the Kop.
Bentner seems a classic case of right place, right time, wrong touch. Either he's a good player on a long run of bad luck, or a bad player managing to look good but not quite deliver.
Sweder Wrote:It seems Hull find little sympathy in the pages of RC; that's fine by me. It's something I've never picked up on before but there's an undercurrent of disaffection towards the Tigers.
I've seen plenty of trouble in 40 years of trips to Shepherds Bush, but Hull, Cardiff, Stoke, Portsmouth stand out for their nasty fans.
We played Hull first game of the season in 2005, 4 weeks after the London tube bombings. In what was still an emotional time for Londoners, let's just say that their followers weren't over-sympathetic.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
marathondan Wrote:Yes, I wondered what was going on there...
EG and I got into a bit of a chest-puffing exercise
We might have resembled those bizarre red-breasted birds that swell their chests to unfeasible dimensions in the name of courtship. EG had the good sense to delete an over-zealous post and I er, followed suit by deleting three of mine :o:o:o
marathondan Wrote:Yes, the boot's on the other foot, to use an obvious cliche. Around a year ago in the CL QF, Arsenal came from behind at Anfield, only for the ref to hand the tie to the Reds with a late soft pen in front of the Kop.
I'd like to put on record my original declaration (made to EG on Twitter after the shoot-out in Rome) that I'd like to see Arsenal win Big Cup. I think Wenger is a terrific cultivator, the Capability Brown of the Premiership; he deserves the highest club accolade on his cv. The Rowdies will be lucky to hang on to the Premiership after their spanking last Saturday, and I don't see them breaking Everton down in the FA Cup either. There again I said pre-season they'd win nothing this time round, a classic Hansenism if ever there was one If they fall apart I have this terrible image forming on the edge of reason; Michael Ballack holding the premierhsip trophy, sneering at the Sky cameras like Jon Voight in Ananconda. It's a cold, hard fear, and it keeps me up nights.
marathondan Wrote:Bentner seems a classic case of right place, right time, wrong touch. Either he's a good player on a long run of bad luck, or a bad player managing to look good but not quite deliver.
I thought initially there was something of the Gudjohnsen about him, though it's clear he's not blessed with the Icelander's lethal ability to finish. The Dane was doomed from the moment I sacked Agbonlahor and draughted him in to Jock's Jokers, or, as they've become known in recent weeks in the Gone West league, the Damned United. They should rename him Hamlet; they could even resurrect the cigar ads
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:EG and I got into a bit of a chest-puffing exercise
We might have resembled those bizarre red-breasted birds that swell their chests to unfeasible dimensions...
...whereas you tend to focus on slightly lower down the abdomen. :RFLMAO:
Sweder Wrote:I'd like to put on record my original declaration (made to EG on Twitter after the shoot-out in Rome) that I'd like to see Arsenal win Big Cup. I think Wenger is a terrific cultivator, the Capability Brown of the Premiership; he deserves the highest club accolade on his cv. The Rowdies will be lucky to hang on to the Premiership after their spanking last Saturday, and I don't see them breaking Everton down in the FA Cup either.even resurrect the cigar ads
Then you are a true gentleman, and put me to shame. I can't see one short, sharp lesson undoing United; it's still a truism that it's unwise to bet against them. Although maybe the CL will be a bridge too far this year.
Anyway, Sweder, how about the important end of the football pyramid? Have you been to Lewes this season? I understand they had an insane amount of upheaval at the end of last season's triumph. Is that the reason for their performance this season?
Meanwhile, one point from six in the last week means it's now unlikely that Maidenhead will get a chance to replace them in the Conference.
Indeed, a gracious step backwards, well done. I wish I could do that sometimes.
I think the Liverpool defeat, far from being a precursor to a collapse, will be just the jolt that ManU need. They perhaps had started to believe the hype, and allowed a little complacency to creep in. That result will get them back on track. The Prem title is a nailed-on cert for me, though I don't see how it's possible for anyone to declare confidence in the cups. Depends on the draw in the CL, and who knows what might happen in one-off games against Everton and (Arsenal or Chelsea) in the FA Cup? There are 7 games to be won to take both those trophies, and every one of those games will be hard. The probability is that it won't happen, though it's still eminently possible.
My only gripe about the 5-trophy thing is this World Club champion nonsense. Hang on, wasn't that just a TV exhibition match against some South American side that no one had heard of? (Can't even recall the country they came from.) Surely the idea of that casual Sunday morning kickabout in Japan or wherever was to sell replica shirts and TV subscriptions in Asia? Now suddenly we're supposed to regard it as the pinnacle of some exhausting global cup competition. Bah!
I would also love to see Arsenal win the CL. I used to hate Arsenal. Crikey, I even remember the days when they were genuine rivals to QPR. I spent many a Saturday afternoon at Highbury in the 70s, 80s and early 90s, seeing them pitched against the Hoops, bored to tears. But the Wenger regime has made me a fan. Despite his much-mentioned Specsavers problem, I love the statesmanlike, cerebral approach he brings to the game, and the astonishingly beautiful patterns woven by his teams. I suspect these things, as much as a lump of phlegm -- real or illusory -- is what got up Phil Brown's nose. As it were.
But best not reopen that one again. Arsenal, ManU, Liverpool -- I'd be happy to see any of them lift the Big Cup. Just not Chelsea, please.
Please.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Nice quote from Sam Wallace in today's Indescribablyboring
'At the begining of his brilliant teenage career it was just great expectations that followed Fabregas around. Now it is great expectorations.'
The broadsheets seem equally divided on the matter, some taking the opportunity to put the boot in, others turning their ire onto Phil Brown's wall-eyed, foaming post-match tirade. It should be noted that EG was spot on - the Times published photographic evidence of a genial handshake after Hulls 2-1 win at the Emirates. It seems Mr Brown may have gone to town on the 'entire ethos of the Arsenal set up' without just cause.
Incidentally I drew attention to the YouTube clip of Fabregas allegedly spitting at a black-shirted player during his early Arsenal days. Turns out the recipient of the Spaniards wrath was one Michael Ballack, then with Bayern Munich. I'd like to apologise to Mr Fabregas for any inference that such behaviour might in any way be reprehensible.
In other 'news' Lord Ferg, in an interview with everone's favourite nefarious spin doctor Alistair Campbell (writing for the New Statesman) named Arsene Wenger as one of the best managers in the modern game. He also dropped gracious puce-tinged nods towards Messrs Moyes and O'Neil. Strangely no mention of Rafa in there
MD, the Lewes story is too long and sad even for a verbose key-hammerer such as I to relate. Suffice to say at the end of last season the board took a view. 'High wages and Blue Square Premier survival or ground improvements and the drop?' The latter won the day, the victorious team and management sacked - within a week of the Championship victory - and a new youth team employed under the proven guidance of one Kevin Keehan, former team manager of Horsham YMCA. I kid you not.
Cue Tom Petty: And I'm Free . . . Free Fallin' . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I've just watched open mouthed as the West Indies cricket team, by seeking to win the first One Day International against England on a technicality, shot themselves in their collective feet.
With the option to stay out in the middle and win the match the Windies batsmen looked desparately to the umpires as dusk crept up on the ground. The scoreboard ticked over, as did the preposterously complex Duckworth Lewis total. Duckworth/ Lewis (D/L) is the system devised for calculating a comparable score should a one-day match be truncated by weather. I don't pretend to understand how it all works but it's based on wickets lost versus runs scored after each over bowled. So, after 46 overs with seven wickets down the Windies needed to have exceeded a given 'par' score if/ when the match ended, in this case due to bad light. I know how dreadfully tedious this all is for non-believers but please; bear with me. It's not enough for the light to be bad; the umpires, on deciding the light is of poor quality, then offer the batting side the option to leave the field. This can be until the light improves (when the umpires can bring the teams back on to the field), but with nights' dark cloak descending on the stadium this was never an option here. If behind the rate the batsmen would elect to stay out until either they'd exceeded the needed D/L score or, preferably, won the match outright.
With lengthening shadows softly merging across the pitch the umpires took another light meter reading. Finding the the result suitably low they offered the Windies the option to leave the field. The batsmen looked to their coaching team in the stands who, as one, clutching their D/L calculation sheets, confidently beckoned the players to come in. But as the batsmen walked towards the pavilion the England players, far from trudging off with heads hung low, grinned wolfishly at one another as they too made for the pavilion, slapping one another on the back and waving at their own dressing room. For they knew what the match referee would confirm after ten minutes of farcical paper rustling, bemused chin stroking and multiple teapot poses; the Windies management under the tutelage of John Dyson, their Australian coach, had got it horribly wrong; England had in fact won, under the D/L method, by a single run.
The whys and wherefores will no doubt emerge as the media hook their talons into the bloody carcass of this righteous farce. For me it's a sad inditement of a team trying to win on a technicality when they had an option to stay on the field and win the game through good old-fashioned sweaty determination and sporting endeavour. Live by the calculator, die by the calculator. I'd take the option of dying with my boots on every time.
Or, more appropriately, with my bat in my hand.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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