There’s good news and bad news on the squash front. The good news is that they seems to be promoting squash through England Squash And Racketball.
The bad news is that the council are ‘consulting’ about selling the centre, as new owners should be able to attract new investment and run the centre at a profit, which begs the question... why can’t the council.
There’s more bad news when we see table tennis being played in the other court. I hope that was only allowed because they’d been a last minute cancellation because courts are like gold dust on a Thursday evening.
It also seems to be a bit of a vicious game, judging by the blood curdling screams coming from that court.
I employ a change of tactics at lunch time, chicken, bacon and mushroom pie rather than usual steak and whatever. Doesn’t work.
(Thursday 26th January)
Thursday, 26 January 2012
Wednesday, 25 January 2012
Interesting Discussions
A rare outing for the bike today and what is almost even rarer is the lack of any punctures. Then I sit at work unable to feel my legs after the combination of yesterday’s long run and today’s bike, so I guess it must have gone alright.
Daughter causes an interesting discussion by referring to something she ate as the Hitler of all foods. Which I assume means it was bad but who knows. You never can sure these days now that bad often means good etc
The 2012 Hull Marathon causes another interesting discussion but one that is perhaps best deferred until after a few pints. It's only worthy of discussion at all because there’s a relay... so L and I could do half each. She’d probably want me to do the Humber Bridge though. It’s negotiable.
It turns out it’s a four leg relay, so we’d get two t-shirts and two medals... each. Unfortunately it also says a runner cannot run more than one leg. I can’t think why this would be, so naturally I’ve emailed them to complain.
It’s Burns Night tonight, on a Wednesday. So we can’t really celebrate it.
(Wednesday 25th January)
Daughter causes an interesting discussion by referring to something she ate as the Hitler of all foods. Which I assume means it was bad but who knows. You never can sure these days now that bad often means good etc
The 2012 Hull Marathon causes another interesting discussion but one that is perhaps best deferred until after a few pints. It's only worthy of discussion at all because there’s a relay... so L and I could do half each. She’d probably want me to do the Humber Bridge though. It’s negotiable.
It turns out it’s a four leg relay, so we’d get two t-shirts and two medals... each. Unfortunately it also says a runner cannot run more than one leg. I can’t think why this would be, so naturally I’ve emailed them to complain.
It’s Burns Night tonight, on a Wednesday. So we can’t really celebrate it.
(Wednesday 25th January)
Tuesday, 24 January 2012
I’d Rather Have Snow
It’s cold, wet and miserable this morning. The worst weather possible, I’d rather have snow.
L swims, 40 lengths. Another box ticked. She plans to run tonight (tick) and paint (tick). I hope she doesn’t forget to tick her reading box as well. Tick.
You may have seen that ex-future (ex-nailed on cert for) England manager Harry Redknapp is up in court this week. Answering questions about a Monaco bank account that is held in the name of his dog, Rosie. Poor old Rosie, having her financial details sprawled all over the papers like that.
I run home from work tonight. All the way. It was tough but I got there in the end. 21.8km, just over half marathon distance. It was actually as quick as stopping after 16km and getting the bus. Just more knackering obviously.
I recover with a salad... Do we have a box for salads? Tick. It was no ordinary salad though. Why do people have salads when they’re on a diet? They’ve obviously never feasted on one of L’s mega salads. Huge.
The Oscar nominations are announced tonight and what an awful bunch, the worst selection I’ve seen for years. Last year’s selection oozed with class but this year... oh dear. Both the films from my torrid weekend, War Horse and The Artist, get nominated. So too does Puss in Boots! Say no more.
(Tuesday 24th January)
L swims, 40 lengths. Another box ticked. She plans to run tonight (tick) and paint (tick). I hope she doesn’t forget to tick her reading box as well. Tick.
You may have seen that ex-future (ex-nailed on cert for) England manager Harry Redknapp is up in court this week. Answering questions about a Monaco bank account that is held in the name of his dog, Rosie. Poor old Rosie, having her financial details sprawled all over the papers like that.
I run home from work tonight. All the way. It was tough but I got there in the end. 21.8km, just over half marathon distance. It was actually as quick as stopping after 16km and getting the bus. Just more knackering obviously.
I recover with a salad... Do we have a box for salads? Tick. It was no ordinary salad though. Why do people have salads when they’re on a diet? They’ve obviously never feasted on one of L’s mega salads. Huge.
The Oscar nominations are announced tonight and what an awful bunch, the worst selection I’ve seen for years. Last year’s selection oozed with class but this year... oh dear. Both the films from my torrid weekend, War Horse and The Artist, get nominated. So too does Puss in Boots! Say no more.
(Tuesday 24th January)
Monday, 23 January 2012
Girls Are Quieter Than Boys?
Back to the grind today. Back to work, to the gym for L and dog class for MD. Doggo and I take the day off, exercise wise.
Someone told L that she should get a girl dog because apparently they are quieter than the boys. Clearly MD was having one of his noisier days at the time... one of the many... all of them really. There’s no evidence of girl dogs being quieter of course, certainly not at dog class tonight... but girls never have been quieter. Have they?
(Monday 23rd January)
Someone told L that she should get a girl dog because apparently they are quieter than the boys. Clearly MD was having one of his noisier days at the time... one of the many... all of them really. There’s no evidence of girl dogs being quieter of course, certainly not at dog class tonight... but girls never have been quieter. Have they?
(Monday 23rd January)
Sunday, 22 January 2012
The Sound Of Silence
Back over towards Shropshire today, for the second time within a month for the Blymhill 10k. It’s at a civilised time of 11am but it’s also a cross country, so I opt out. I’ll leave it to the girl who’s chasing the mileage. L bought some Kanadia trail shoes, just like mine, especially. The only difference is that they’re a rather ‘pretty’ pink, mine aren’t. Still, it seems a shame to get them dirty. She should stick to boring colours for her running shoes.
Blymhill is raising funds for their new village hall, which now looks pretty much complete. Registration is in it. Does this mean there won't be a race next year?
They march the runners down to their fate, and the start, somewhere in the middle of a farmer’s field. The boys and I go along to bark encouragement. They did say on the info that the event wasn't suitable for dogs but it turns out to be one of the most dog friendly events there is. There was some great walking down public footpaths both at the start and at the finish.
Apparently some of the km markers were a bit comedic and everyone thought they’d done a PB for the first 5k but the organisers were just having a laugh and spaced the markers further apart for the second half of the run.
After battling through the wind, over a few stiles, through some woodland and probably a bit of mud they are all handed a fluffy blue buff for their troubles. Wind, stiles, woodland, mud... would I have liked it? Probably not. Still, there are nice cakes at the finish for which you didn't have to do the run to partake in.
Tonight, in the age of 3D and CGI, we watch Golden Globe winner 'The Artist' which is a silent film, made in black and white and not even widescreen. Ho hum. I must be feeling rebellious.
Hollywood 1927, George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) is a silent movie star of huge proportions. After another successful premiere, a pretty young fan throws herself at him (1920's style) and he poses for photos with her. The young girl is Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo), who starts to audition for the movies herself and gets a role as an extra. George is even more impressed when he meets her legs. It's lust at first sight (1920's style).
Times are a changing though, movies with words are on the way... 'talkies' they call them. George scoffs at the mere thought but audiences want change he's told. It's time to move on but filled with a sense of his own importance and perhaps a little fear, he doesn't. Meaning his fall from grace is almost as swift as the rise of the new star and the pin-up of the 'talkies'. Some chick called Peppy Miller. Ouch.
George stumbles on, from one crisis to another. His self-funded film, silent of course, flops. The stock market crashes, leaving him destitute. His wife leaves him and he is forced to fire his loyal butler Clifton. Then when he runs out of alcohol in which to drown his sorrows he auctions off everything he owns. When that fails to solve his problems he sets fire to his old film reels and, with them, his apartment. This leads me nicely on to the star of the film, who rushes to his aid, Uggie the dog.
Meanwhile bizarrely, frighteningly, Peppy Miller not content with backwardly slagging George off in public, has started to stalk him. Maybe she's just taking pity on him, but come on she bought ALL his possessions. Obsessive or what. She even takes on his discarded butler. She’s one scary woman, steer clear, but he doesn't and he convalesces from his fire damage at her house where he finds out the extent of her obsessive behaviour/kindness. He puts a gun in his mouth in an attempt to kill himself. For God's sake man, think of the dog, the one that is anxiously pulling at your trouser leg.
This isn’t actually a bad plot when you write it all down but it’s all old school silent, complete with the overblown gestures and storyboards of the day. Oh, apart from a brief dream sequence where we had sound, which teased you into thinking the plot would develop in that direction. It was certainly odd for the film to continue completely silent with Miller now acting in ‘talkies’ but not being able to hear her.
Its hard work, the lack of dialogue just keeps you focused on trying to lip read what everyone is saying. This is perhaps why I’ve never made it through a silent film before and why everyone unanimously thought ‘talkies’ were such a big step forward. The chap next to us clearly agreed, he went to the loo or the bar at least three times.
At the end Valentin is back in the spotlight tap dancing, partnering Peppy Miller. So is the message of the film that unless you adapt to the times you become obsolete... and to make their point they make a silent film about the end of silent films, in black and white and not even widescreen. Ho hum. Now who's obsolete? Confused? I am.
Ok... it's not a bad film... it’s a well crafted period piece with some excellent attention to detail... but you still walk out thinking that there was a valid reason why silent movies disappeared. Well I did. However, I am clearly in the minority. There appears to a Best Picture Oscar waiting for ‘The Artist’. Which I think will be a bit of a kick in the teeth for the actors and actresses who have put in great performances this year, that is if they get beaten by two people who do not speak.
Well at least everyones favourite character has already had his recognition. In Cannes last year, Uggie was awarded the 2011 Palm Dog award for Best Canine Performance in a film. Bless.
I need a drink after that. We head to The King William IV in darkest Sneinton and then the Newshouse on Canal Street.
(Sunday 22nd January)
Blymhill is raising funds for their new village hall, which now looks pretty much complete. Registration is in it. Does this mean there won't be a race next year?
They march the runners down to their fate, and the start, somewhere in the middle of a farmer’s field. The boys and I go along to bark encouragement. They did say on the info that the event wasn't suitable for dogs but it turns out to be one of the most dog friendly events there is. There was some great walking down public footpaths both at the start and at the finish.
Apparently some of the km markers were a bit comedic and everyone thought they’d done a PB for the first 5k but the organisers were just having a laugh and spaced the markers further apart for the second half of the run.
After battling through the wind, over a few stiles, through some woodland and probably a bit of mud they are all handed a fluffy blue buff for their troubles. Wind, stiles, woodland, mud... would I have liked it? Probably not. Still, there are nice cakes at the finish for which you didn't have to do the run to partake in.
Tonight, in the age of 3D and CGI, we watch Golden Globe winner 'The Artist' which is a silent film, made in black and white and not even widescreen. Ho hum. I must be feeling rebellious.
Hollywood 1927, George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) is a silent movie star of huge proportions. After another successful premiere, a pretty young fan throws herself at him (1920's style) and he poses for photos with her. The young girl is Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo), who starts to audition for the movies herself and gets a role as an extra. George is even more impressed when he meets her legs. It's lust at first sight (1920's style).
Times are a changing though, movies with words are on the way... 'talkies' they call them. George scoffs at the mere thought but audiences want change he's told. It's time to move on but filled with a sense of his own importance and perhaps a little fear, he doesn't. Meaning his fall from grace is almost as swift as the rise of the new star and the pin-up of the 'talkies'. Some chick called Peppy Miller. Ouch.
George stumbles on, from one crisis to another. His self-funded film, silent of course, flops. The stock market crashes, leaving him destitute. His wife leaves him and he is forced to fire his loyal butler Clifton. Then when he runs out of alcohol in which to drown his sorrows he auctions off everything he owns. When that fails to solve his problems he sets fire to his old film reels and, with them, his apartment. This leads me nicely on to the star of the film, who rushes to his aid, Uggie the dog.
Meanwhile bizarrely, frighteningly, Peppy Miller not content with backwardly slagging George off in public, has started to stalk him. Maybe she's just taking pity on him, but come on she bought ALL his possessions. Obsessive or what. She even takes on his discarded butler. She’s one scary woman, steer clear, but he doesn't and he convalesces from his fire damage at her house where he finds out the extent of her obsessive behaviour/kindness. He puts a gun in his mouth in an attempt to kill himself. For God's sake man, think of the dog, the one that is anxiously pulling at your trouser leg.
This isn’t actually a bad plot when you write it all down but it’s all old school silent, complete with the overblown gestures and storyboards of the day. Oh, apart from a brief dream sequence where we had sound, which teased you into thinking the plot would develop in that direction. It was certainly odd for the film to continue completely silent with Miller now acting in ‘talkies’ but not being able to hear her.
Its hard work, the lack of dialogue just keeps you focused on trying to lip read what everyone is saying. This is perhaps why I’ve never made it through a silent film before and why everyone unanimously thought ‘talkies’ were such a big step forward. The chap next to us clearly agreed, he went to the loo or the bar at least three times.
At the end Valentin is back in the spotlight tap dancing, partnering Peppy Miller. So is the message of the film that unless you adapt to the times you become obsolete... and to make their point they make a silent film about the end of silent films, in black and white and not even widescreen. Ho hum. Now who's obsolete? Confused? I am.
Ok... it's not a bad film... it’s a well crafted period piece with some excellent attention to detail... but you still walk out thinking that there was a valid reason why silent movies disappeared. Well I did. However, I am clearly in the minority. There appears to a Best Picture Oscar waiting for ‘The Artist’. Which I think will be a bit of a kick in the teeth for the actors and actresses who have put in great performances this year, that is if they get beaten by two people who do not speak.
Well at least everyones favourite character has already had his recognition. In Cannes last year, Uggie was awarded the 2011 Palm Dog award for Best Canine Performance in a film. Bless.
I need a drink after that. We head to The King William IV in darkest Sneinton and then the Newshouse on Canal Street.
(Sunday 22nd January)
Saturday, 21 January 2012
Horse Stew Anyone?
A nice lie in, then a park session with the little balls to save Doggo having a limp for the rest of the weekend followed by a doze in front of the radio as Derby bore draw 0-0 with Burnley.
Then to Broadway for one of L’s choices. N.B. I chose ‘Drive’ and ‘Shame’, L chose ‘Puss In Boots’ and... ‘War Horse’. Say no more.
‘War Horse’ is a children's book by Michael Morpurgo that I wasn’t really aware of until recently. I’m assured it’s a cracking book and that there’s also a rather good stage production of it using life-sized horse puppets. That’s perhaps where it should have stayed.
It appears to be a fanciful tale that perhaps works in those formats, perhaps a cartoon would have worked also but here, where Steven Spielberg tries to tell it as a real story on film, it fails spectacularly.
Yeah it’s got great, well actually overdone, cinematography, loads of dramatic music and an able cast. Sadly they are all asked to play clichéd stereotypes and to work with a script that asks you to suspend belief at the cinema door. Welcome to the equine offspring of a one night stand between ‘Lassie Come Home’ and ‘Saving Private Ryan’.
Now I've never trained a horse, but I've trained dogs and simply whispering in their ears what you want them to do doesn’t work. I'll go out on a limb here and suggest that it doesn't work with horses either but I suppose I could be wrong.
Then the way the bone hard rock strewn field suddenly becomes ploughable to a foot depth after five minutes of rain was hilarious, almost as hilarious as the plough itself splitting a large rock in two. Again I’m no expert but surely it would be basic farming practice to remove as many of the rocks as possible before you attempt to plough the field? Therefore not making it as hard as possible for your horse, even if that horse does happen to be Joey the wonder horse? The story doesn’t get any less ridiculous from there onwards, very little of it made any sense at all.
Sorry I’m skipping the actual plot here. Farmer Narracott (Peter Mullan), a Boer war veteran (he doesn’t talk about it), buys a thoroughbred horse at a Devon cattle market rather than the usual type of nag you’d use to plough a field with and he uses the family’s rent money to do so. Oops. Commonsense bypass. His missus, Emily Watson, with her brow permanently furrowed (unlike their field) isn’t happy. Cue yet more furrowing of brow. No matter, their teenage son Albert (Jeremy Irvine), occasionally called Albie, trains him, hence the whispering. He names our hero Joey.
Well the field gets ploughed and the crops get sown but then they all destroyed by another freak storm, not unlike the one that got the field ploughed in the first place. Joey gets sold to a captain in the British cavalry (Tom Hiddleston) for use in a suicidal WWI military manoeuvre, so that the rent can be paid.
Once the cavalry have all been slaughtered, Joey ends up in the hands of the Germans where he is cared for by two young brothers, one of whom is only 14 but then presumably after having lied about his age to get in the German army, the pair of them inexplicably decide to desert using the horses to escape. They are captured and shot. Good riddance.
Joey and another horse are now in the hands of a sickly young French girl called Emilie. We only know she’s French because she calls her grandfather ‘grand père’ in a terrible French accent. Joey is only briefly in these pseudo-French hands because soon a group of soldiers with equally bad German accents snatch the horses back. A bit of real foreign language dialogue here would have added a much needed touch of reality and clarity to the proceedings because it’s anybody’s guess what language the ensuing German-French conversation takes place in.
Now Joey the wonder horse visits the Somme circa 1918, where he escapes from the retreating Germans and goes for a gallop across no man’s land, running straight through at least two barbed wire fences... er, no, terribly unlikely. Finally entangled in the wire we get the one great scene of the film as a British and German soldier team up to cut him free from the barbed wire.
Back in the hands of the Brits, Joey is about to be shot because he’s too damaged to save when Albert, himself now fighting and subsequently wounded in the war, recognises his beloved Joey. Quickly the armistice is declared, yet Albert and Joey, suddenly in perfect health again, are set to be parted once more because all the horses are to be auctioned off.
Grand père turns up out of the blue and outbids everyone for the horse, wanting Joey in memory of his granddaughter who has since died. Blimey, ten minutes ago she looked as strong as, well, a horse. Still, it’s a relief of sorts because my partner suspected that she'd resurface later as romantic interest for our Albie. Phew.
I don’t feel guilty spoiling the plot and saying that it all turns out ok in the end because you’d know that from the off. It’s all so inevitable. The more interesting back story was whether Albert's father’s Boer war pennant, which accompanied Joey the whole time, would make it home safely. Thankfully it did.
In the book Joey actually narrates the story (it probably worked better that way around) and it would have been nice for the horse to have said something like ‘That’s All Folks’ at the end to complete the charade but sadly it didn't.
It is, I think, supposed to be a tear jerker and my partner may have shed a few at some point but then she cries in most things and it’s hard not to cry for the horse for putting up with the corny script. Surprisingly the usually able Richard Curtis worked on it. He does reuse what he can from ‘Black Adder Goes Forth’ but even that doesn’t save the film.
I was originally going to say it’s an ok but not great film but the more I think about it, the more terrible it seems. Frankly it was awful, apart from the horse that is, who to be fair, was great, nay, terrific and acts everyone else off the screen. Give that stallion an Oscar and send the rest of them back to the trenches.
(Saturday 21st January)
Then to Broadway for one of L’s choices. N.B. I chose ‘Drive’ and ‘Shame’, L chose ‘Puss In Boots’ and... ‘War Horse’. Say no more.
‘War Horse’ is a children's book by Michael Morpurgo that I wasn’t really aware of until recently. I’m assured it’s a cracking book and that there’s also a rather good stage production of it using life-sized horse puppets. That’s perhaps where it should have stayed.
It appears to be a fanciful tale that perhaps works in those formats, perhaps a cartoon would have worked also but here, where Steven Spielberg tries to tell it as a real story on film, it fails spectacularly.
Yeah it’s got great, well actually overdone, cinematography, loads of dramatic music and an able cast. Sadly they are all asked to play clichéd stereotypes and to work with a script that asks you to suspend belief at the cinema door. Welcome to the equine offspring of a one night stand between ‘Lassie Come Home’ and ‘Saving Private Ryan’.
Now I've never trained a horse, but I've trained dogs and simply whispering in their ears what you want them to do doesn’t work. I'll go out on a limb here and suggest that it doesn't work with horses either but I suppose I could be wrong.
Then the way the bone hard rock strewn field suddenly becomes ploughable to a foot depth after five minutes of rain was hilarious, almost as hilarious as the plough itself splitting a large rock in two. Again I’m no expert but surely it would be basic farming practice to remove as many of the rocks as possible before you attempt to plough the field? Therefore not making it as hard as possible for your horse, even if that horse does happen to be Joey the wonder horse? The story doesn’t get any less ridiculous from there onwards, very little of it made any sense at all.
Sorry I’m skipping the actual plot here. Farmer Narracott (Peter Mullan), a Boer war veteran (he doesn’t talk about it), buys a thoroughbred horse at a Devon cattle market rather than the usual type of nag you’d use to plough a field with and he uses the family’s rent money to do so. Oops. Commonsense bypass. His missus, Emily Watson, with her brow permanently furrowed (unlike their field) isn’t happy. Cue yet more furrowing of brow. No matter, their teenage son Albert (Jeremy Irvine), occasionally called Albie, trains him, hence the whispering. He names our hero Joey.
Well the field gets ploughed and the crops get sown but then they all destroyed by another freak storm, not unlike the one that got the field ploughed in the first place. Joey gets sold to a captain in the British cavalry (Tom Hiddleston) for use in a suicidal WWI military manoeuvre, so that the rent can be paid.
Once the cavalry have all been slaughtered, Joey ends up in the hands of the Germans where he is cared for by two young brothers, one of whom is only 14 but then presumably after having lied about his age to get in the German army, the pair of them inexplicably decide to desert using the horses to escape. They are captured and shot. Good riddance.
Joey and another horse are now in the hands of a sickly young French girl called Emilie. We only know she’s French because she calls her grandfather ‘grand père’ in a terrible French accent. Joey is only briefly in these pseudo-French hands because soon a group of soldiers with equally bad German accents snatch the horses back. A bit of real foreign language dialogue here would have added a much needed touch of reality and clarity to the proceedings because it’s anybody’s guess what language the ensuing German-French conversation takes place in.
Now Joey the wonder horse visits the Somme circa 1918, where he escapes from the retreating Germans and goes for a gallop across no man’s land, running straight through at least two barbed wire fences... er, no, terribly unlikely. Finally entangled in the wire we get the one great scene of the film as a British and German soldier team up to cut him free from the barbed wire.
Back in the hands of the Brits, Joey is about to be shot because he’s too damaged to save when Albert, himself now fighting and subsequently wounded in the war, recognises his beloved Joey. Quickly the armistice is declared, yet Albert and Joey, suddenly in perfect health again, are set to be parted once more because all the horses are to be auctioned off.
Grand père turns up out of the blue and outbids everyone for the horse, wanting Joey in memory of his granddaughter who has since died. Blimey, ten minutes ago she looked as strong as, well, a horse. Still, it’s a relief of sorts because my partner suspected that she'd resurface later as romantic interest for our Albie. Phew.
I don’t feel guilty spoiling the plot and saying that it all turns out ok in the end because you’d know that from the off. It’s all so inevitable. The more interesting back story was whether Albert's father’s Boer war pennant, which accompanied Joey the whole time, would make it home safely. Thankfully it did.
In the book Joey actually narrates the story (it probably worked better that way around) and it would have been nice for the horse to have said something like ‘That’s All Folks’ at the end to complete the charade but sadly it didn't.
It is, I think, supposed to be a tear jerker and my partner may have shed a few at some point but then she cries in most things and it’s hard not to cry for the horse for putting up with the corny script. Surprisingly the usually able Richard Curtis worked on it. He does reuse what he can from ‘Black Adder Goes Forth’ but even that doesn’t save the film.
I was originally going to say it’s an ok but not great film but the more I think about it, the more terrible it seems. Frankly it was awful, apart from the horse that is, who to be fair, was great, nay, terrific and acts everyone else off the screen. Give that stallion an Oscar and send the rest of them back to the trenches.
(Saturday 21st January)
Friday, 20 January 2012
The Wrong Socks
L bemoans her 2.3 mile run this morning. Well it’s better than not doing a 2.3 mile run and it’s another tick on the spreadsheet. All hail the spreadsheet. I intend to do mine after work, although I think it might be a short run due to the foul weather.
In the end I run another ten miles, the second time this week, because amazingly it stays dry. Although I did the whole thing with the wrong socks on, having packed my ‘short distance’ socks rather than my ‘long distance’ ones. The blisters will be hell. Still, it’s another ten miles for the spreadsheet. Tick.
Then it’s ‘Dragon Tattoo’ night as we watch episode two of the TV series and hence complete book one. So far it's much better than both films. The rest will be interesting. Books two and three had so much cut out of them, they made little sense at all.
(Friday 20th January)
In the end I run another ten miles, the second time this week, because amazingly it stays dry. Although I did the whole thing with the wrong socks on, having packed my ‘short distance’ socks rather than my ‘long distance’ ones. The blisters will be hell. Still, it’s another ten miles for the spreadsheet. Tick.
Then it’s ‘Dragon Tattoo’ night as we watch episode two of the TV series and hence complete book one. So far it's much better than both films. The rest will be interesting. Books two and three had so much cut out of them, they made little sense at all.
(Friday 20th January)
Thursday, 19 January 2012
A Very Small Tea Cup
I leave the house this morning noticing that the spare key is still in the front door and L’s keys are on the worktop. L meanwhile is out with dogs. I leave the front door unlocked correctly calculating that someone has forgotten their keys.
The traffic is horrendous again as I drive to work.
The dog club call an emergency meeting about what to me is a very small storm in a very small tea cup but some people like to decant these things into a bigger cup and stir furiously in the hope of getting a good crisis going. I refuse to attend. I have an appointment with a couple of spreadsheets and a curry tonight.
The spreadsheet appointment is with my mate to get a few ticks in his ‘squash games’ column. I suggest we ought to do what those guys in Thame did... 200 games. I bet their spreadsheet is looking healthy.
We manage four and I don’t win any of them.
After one in the Globe with him, I meet L, who has walked up with the dogs, at the now refurbished White Hart. The Thursday curry has gone down from £5.00 to £4.49 and they’ve added a free pint and poppadoms but taken away the naan bread. The free pint is Greene King IPA but they agree to pour me something more decent for an extra 50p, taking it back up to a fiver plus a £1 extra for the naan.
It wasn’t as good as it was before but it was ok and much better than the Wetherspoons one we had at Christmas.
Tonight’s ‘emergency’ meeting was cancelled. Must have ran out of cups.
(Thursday 19th January)
The traffic is horrendous again as I drive to work.
The dog club call an emergency meeting about what to me is a very small storm in a very small tea cup but some people like to decant these things into a bigger cup and stir furiously in the hope of getting a good crisis going. I refuse to attend. I have an appointment with a couple of spreadsheets and a curry tonight.
The spreadsheet appointment is with my mate to get a few ticks in his ‘squash games’ column. I suggest we ought to do what those guys in Thame did... 200 games. I bet their spreadsheet is looking healthy.
We manage four and I don’t win any of them.
After one in the Globe with him, I meet L, who has walked up with the dogs, at the now refurbished White Hart. The Thursday curry has gone down from £5.00 to £4.49 and they’ve added a free pint and poppadoms but taken away the naan bread. The free pint is Greene King IPA but they agree to pour me something more decent for an extra 50p, taking it back up to a fiver plus a £1 extra for the naan.
It wasn’t as good as it was before but it was ok and much better than the Wetherspoons one we had at Christmas.
Tonight’s ‘emergency’ meeting was cancelled. Must have ran out of cups.
(Thursday 19th January)
Wednesday, 18 January 2012
Subtle Pressure Fails
The ructions from the great Loughborough Half Marathon rejection rumble on. I try and exert a bit of gentle pressure on the organisers by email. I imagine there’s a pretty high chance of a place coming up but can we afford to risk it by waiting and end up, horror of horrors, with a weekend off. The obvious way of ensuring a place is probably by entering something else on the same day, then for sure we'll be offered a place in Loughborough.
When the subtle pressure doesn’t work... stuff 'em... I ask to have our names taken off the waiting list and we enter Stafford instead.
It’s further to go but L assures me it was a good t-shirt last year. How does she know that? I don’t remember running it... but then there’s a lot things I don’t remember these days. She’s says she’s seen loads of people wearing them, that’s ok then.
It’s also not far from Leek and that was a hilly b****rd. It does say ‘incorporating two steady climbs’ on the info. I will so look forward to it.
I run from work and run a bit further than last week but I’m not sure how far as my GPS packs up. I’m guessing around 16k, 10 miles. I’m almost at Bramcote when it dawns on me that if I go much further it will become rather pointless getting the bus for only another couple of miles. So I stop there and then, at least making it worth getting the Mango card out. I’m also not sure I’ve got another three miles in me.
I get home and then, as instructed, shove L out of the door for hers.
(Wednesday 18th January)
When the subtle pressure doesn’t work... stuff 'em... I ask to have our names taken off the waiting list and we enter Stafford instead.
It’s further to go but L assures me it was a good t-shirt last year. How does she know that? I don’t remember running it... but then there’s a lot things I don’t remember these days. She’s says she’s seen loads of people wearing them, that’s ok then.
It’s also not far from Leek and that was a hilly b****rd. It does say ‘incorporating two steady climbs’ on the info. I will so look forward to it.
I run from work and run a bit further than last week but I’m not sure how far as my GPS packs up. I’m guessing around 16k, 10 miles. I’m almost at Bramcote when it dawns on me that if I go much further it will become rather pointless getting the bus for only another couple of miles. So I stop there and then, at least making it worth getting the Mango card out. I’m also not sure I’ve got another three miles in me.
I get home and then, as instructed, shove L out of the door for hers.
(Wednesday 18th January)
Tuesday, 17 January 2012
Ye Old Frog & Parrot
I get the bus. It’s sort of too cold to cycle... and I’m sort of too bruised to run... and we’re due in Sheffield tonight. Excuses excuses.
We’d entered a new local race, well a resurrected one from years gone by. The Loughborough Half. The bad news is, we’re not in because it’s full. We’ve been placed on a waiting list and encouraged to bid for a free place that been placed on ebay. Hmmm.
I think sending a postal entry was our downfall, we need to stick to online entries for these big races. Not that we thought this was a 'big' race. In fact I suspect it’s a very small one but as they still haven’t divulged the race limit we don’t actually know.
In the evening we head up to the M1. L is taking Daughter swimming at the hugely impressive 50m Olympic sized pool there at Ponds Forge.
I’m not tempted. I recall how bloody far it was from land to land last time I swam there, which was the only time actually and anyway I’ve got the dogs to look after. We couldn’t really leave them at home after being at work all day. Maybe next time.
So we pub crawl Sheffield, the dogs and I, with the electronic version of the Good Beer Guide in one hand and the furry twosome in the other. All without actually going in any pubs. I’m just casing the joint because L and I fancy a night out in Sheffield some time.
We’re already got our eye on the 'Sheffield Tap' by the station but the boys and I head more into the centre and find some interesting venues. ‘Henrys’ isn’t very promisingly named but looks ok. The ‘Devonshire Cat’ looks even better and the ‘Old House’ better still. Sort of a bit like our 'Ropewalk' here in Nottingham. The ‘Old House’ is on trendy Division Street which is where you’ll also find 'Bungalows and Bears', which L’s been in and, although not in the Beer Guide, probably needs to be tried. Also on Division Street is the once legendary Frog & Parrot...
Time to reminisce...
The Frog & Parrot has its own brewhouse, although this is currently mothballed. The place used to be run by a chap called Roger and was a Whitbread house that had free reign to brew their own beers. Which they did with abandon and sold nothing else, which was quite a thing in the 1980’s and 90’s, thus gaining the place quite a cult status.
Its main notoriety however came from brewing 'Roger and Out', which was at the time the world's strongest beer and was served only in thirds of a pint. You got a certificate for each third, on which the writing got more blurred on each one.
Then having drunk a full pint and acquired all three certificates you were eligible for a t-shirt, at extra cost, and an ambulance home. It was 16.9% ABV when it was certified by the Guinness Book of Records but I believe they toned it down over the years to around 11%.
'Roger and Out' was more a gimmick than a beer (see Brewdog for a modern equivalent) and was pretty much undrinkable. Some of their other beers were excellent though. Reckless at 4.5% was the beer of choice but 'Roger's Conqueror' was also worth a go at 6.7%. I also vaguely recall one called 'Roger's Rocket Fuel' as well. The house beer was called ‘Old Croak’ but that was too weak for me.
(from the 1994 Camra Good Beer Guide)
The staff in the pub were often dressed up like the serving wenches from that bar in Black Adder (the women anyway) and he had a real parrot called Toni, which allegedly used to fly around the pub and drink from people’s glasses but it was always confined to barracks in its cage when I was there. The parrot apparently got so stressed by it all, it pecked most of its feathers out, had to be retired and was replaced by a plastic one. I’ve no idea what happened to the frog...
Sadly all this is mere history now and if I mention the two words ‘Greene King’ you’ll probably nod your head in sad recognition of the reason why. The Frog & Parrot now appears to be just another run of the mill Greene King pub and is now outshone by the more promising establishments on the street, so we’ll probably, sadly, give it a wide berth when we come up.
Still it should be a full and fun night, as long as we avoid the students...
(Tuesday 17th January)
We’d entered a new local race, well a resurrected one from years gone by. The Loughborough Half. The bad news is, we’re not in because it’s full. We’ve been placed on a waiting list and encouraged to bid for a free place that been placed on ebay. Hmmm.
I think sending a postal entry was our downfall, we need to stick to online entries for these big races. Not that we thought this was a 'big' race. In fact I suspect it’s a very small one but as they still haven’t divulged the race limit we don’t actually know.
In the evening we head up to the M1. L is taking Daughter swimming at the hugely impressive 50m Olympic sized pool there at Ponds Forge.
I’m not tempted. I recall how bloody far it was from land to land last time I swam there, which was the only time actually and anyway I’ve got the dogs to look after. We couldn’t really leave them at home after being at work all day. Maybe next time.
So we pub crawl Sheffield, the dogs and I, with the electronic version of the Good Beer Guide in one hand and the furry twosome in the other. All without actually going in any pubs. I’m just casing the joint because L and I fancy a night out in Sheffield some time.
We’re already got our eye on the 'Sheffield Tap' by the station but the boys and I head more into the centre and find some interesting venues. ‘Henrys’ isn’t very promisingly named but looks ok. The ‘Devonshire Cat’ looks even better and the ‘Old House’ better still. Sort of a bit like our 'Ropewalk' here in Nottingham. The ‘Old House’ is on trendy Division Street which is where you’ll also find 'Bungalows and Bears', which L’s been in and, although not in the Beer Guide, probably needs to be tried. Also on Division Street is the once legendary Frog & Parrot...
Time to reminisce...
The Frog & Parrot has its own brewhouse, although this is currently mothballed. The place used to be run by a chap called Roger and was a Whitbread house that had free reign to brew their own beers. Which they did with abandon and sold nothing else, which was quite a thing in the 1980’s and 90’s, thus gaining the place quite a cult status.
Its main notoriety however came from brewing 'Roger and Out', which was at the time the world's strongest beer and was served only in thirds of a pint. You got a certificate for each third, on which the writing got more blurred on each one.
Then having drunk a full pint and acquired all three certificates you were eligible for a t-shirt, at extra cost, and an ambulance home. It was 16.9% ABV when it was certified by the Guinness Book of Records but I believe they toned it down over the years to around 11%.
'Roger and Out' was more a gimmick than a beer (see Brewdog for a modern equivalent) and was pretty much undrinkable. Some of their other beers were excellent though. Reckless at 4.5% was the beer of choice but 'Roger's Conqueror' was also worth a go at 6.7%. I also vaguely recall one called 'Roger's Rocket Fuel' as well. The house beer was called ‘Old Croak’ but that was too weak for me.
The staff in the pub were often dressed up like the serving wenches from that bar in Black Adder (the women anyway) and he had a real parrot called Toni, which allegedly used to fly around the pub and drink from people’s glasses but it was always confined to barracks in its cage when I was there. The parrot apparently got so stressed by it all, it pecked most of its feathers out, had to be retired and was replaced by a plastic one. I’ve no idea what happened to the frog...
Sadly all this is mere history now and if I mention the two words ‘Greene King’ you’ll probably nod your head in sad recognition of the reason why. The Frog & Parrot now appears to be just another run of the mill Greene King pub and is now outshone by the more promising establishments on the street, so we’ll probably, sadly, give it a wide berth when we come up.
Still it should be a full and fun night, as long as we avoid the students...
(Tuesday 17th January)
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