Overview

Vampire brides....

Some may say that the 29th February is possibly the most troublesome day of the year. It appears every leap year and means that every forth year we have to work that extra day. Worse still it becomes unlucky for you if you are born on the 29th February, as you are going to have a very long wait for your birthday presents to arrive. Not only that, but you have to work until your two hundred and sixty before you are able to retire  But believe it or not, there is plus side to 29th February, as at least we get an extra day to do our Christmas shopping.

The 29th February is a notorious day, and is one that strikes fear into the heart of every male singleton and bachelor boy around town. By ancient tradition, the 29th February is day that the unattached female of the species is allowed to propose to the male of the species, so not a good day for the likes of me or Cliff Richard, the original bachelor boys.

The 29th is a day to dread, as the singleton has to draw upon his natural instincts and SAS (Singletons attract stalkers) training, as we step into a mine field of potential marriage proposals. So the 29th February is a day that Cliff Richard and I fear for our lives, just in case we hear the rustle of chiffon, and a flutter of a veil, as a vampire bride lurks in a dark alleyway poised to drag her next victim off down the nearest aisle. The chorus of 'For whom the bells toll', is replaced by the 'Wedding march', and it is not long before the vampire bride has got a hold of you, and slipping a ring on your finger, and not forgetting the ball and chain around your ankle.

As the 29th February is declared an open season on the singleton male, Tesco's, one never to miss out on a good thing, are promoting their latest product, 'Marriage in a can', the essential item for the vampire bride. It comes with inflatable vicar, alter, organist and photographer, just add you own congregation and 'hey presto' instant wedding.

So my fellow singletons beware, as you never know when a vampire bride may strike. I had a near escape at work, when a suspect vampire bride crept up on me, aptly disguised as a office temp.  Luckily my heightened senses instantly sprung into action like a coiled spring: "Sorry, I hate to disappoint you" I said, "but I will have to turn your proposal down....". The office temp looked blankly at me, and replied: "I only wanted to give you this fax....!"

My working day is one of wonder. Am I one of a dying bread. Will Cliff Richard and I be last of the singletons, or will a vampire bride sink her fangs in to us all eventually...? There is the wonderment of whether hordes of screaming vampire brides will be waiting for me outside my office, baying for my hand in marriages...? Or will it be like a scene from the 70's when the Osmond's were in town, and the vampire bride's stalked the unfortunate Donny Osmond and held him under siege.

I wonder if I will be like Cliff Richard, and live to be a hundred. Like Cliff, will I be doomed to a life, were hordes of vampire grannies constantly throw their knickers at me....or do I throw myself to the mercy of the vampire brides.....? If I did that, then I would not be the long distance runner with the lonely heart, and the journey would be over. Do I really want the journey to be over...? (29/2/08)

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Renee Zellweger made the earth move for me...

A very strange thing happened during the early hours of this morning as I lay in my bed. There we were, Rene Zellweger and I doing the wild thing. When, for some unknown reason, I strangely found myself being catapulted from my place of slumber. It could have been a case of me losing my balance, while Rene and I performed a death defying position from the pages Kama Sutra...? It could have been the shock of discovering that Rene Zellweger does actually wear big pants, or it could have been my reaction, when at the height of our passion, Rene yelled out my name....."Oh Darcy yes yes yes....!!"

Who the f**k is Darcy...?

It is hard to recall why actually I flew out of bed, as at that hour of the morning I was neither half asleep nor half awake. But, what do recall was a loud rumbling that rocked in the darkness, and it was not the snoring from Rene either. My heart started to pound as I felt the room vibrate, which seemed to emulate from behind my wardrobe, then filling the room before disbursing up into the roof.  I switched on the bedside lamp, and it suddenly went quiet. The only sound I could hear was coming from a bird singing outside, which was strange and bizarre, as this was 1am in the morning.

The last time that I felt that scared by anything that went bump in the night, was when I was a youngster.  I would hide under the duvet every Saturday evening with one eye open, after watching another terrifying episode of Dr Who from behind the sofa. While I lay in bed I would listen out for every creek or bump, and I would begin to shake wondering if the Cybermen or the Yeti were lurking in the darkness, ready to get me. 

I still have that fear, though not of the Cybermen or the Yeti, but of things that generally go bump in the night. It is a fear of the unknown and what is out there unseen in the darkness. It is a fear of fear itself, as the mind plays tricks on you from its dark recess’s. But in fact there is nothing to fear at all, as the culprit to the bumps and bangs is usually the local ginger tom, as he has his way with the Persian from next door.

The alarm clock brings another shock to the system, as if I have not had a traumatic night already. I wake to find that my bed is empty. Were my shenanigans with Rene Zellweger all just one of fantasy, and did I also dream those strange and mysterious rumblings...?

It is not until I dive into my bowl of cornflakes, and turn on the radio, that reports come flooding in of an earthquake registering 5.2 on the Richter scale, which in the early hours shook the foundations of the UK. So I wasn't dreaming after all, it was real thing....even Rene Zellweger...? There are reports of devastation, wobbling chimney pots and a parrot that fell off its perch. While the structure of my house was in tact, my two goldfish are swimming around in their bowl looking confused. Firstly, they think that I have installed a Jacuzzi in their bowl, and now they have got their surfboards at the ready, waiting to ride the ensuing tsunami.

The tree huggers are claiming that the earthquake is all down to global warming. The prophets of doom, claim the earthquake is the end of the world. Me, I claim it is a result, as Bridget Jones and her big pants made the earth move for me last night. (27/2/2008)

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  Marathon log 36

Broken man or just a runner with a wonky leg.....

Normally on a Saturday morning, I am up with the lark and churning out the miles with my running group. This Saturday morning though, I am still up with the lark, my running group are still churning out the miles, but one thing is missing....me. They have gone off and left me sitting on a park bench, as I am reduced to watching them head off into the distance all alone, which in fact was exactly the same scenario this time last Saturday, after my calf muscle went twang..!!

The injury has taken its toll, and the road to recovery has meant me putting my feet up, resting and reading the Sun. The calf has been sore, and still is, though having said that, I am walking a little less like John Wayne, and waddle more like a penguin.  I crawl around at the pace of a turbo charged snail, and hobble along like Robo cop with a blown fuse.  I am like one of those toys from many moons ago, back in the 80's, known as a 'Weebble', who the makers once claimed, that, "Webbles wobble but don't fall down". Unless filled with alcohol, which then becomes an entirely different matter.

This is a pain in many ways more than one. Firstly, my calf hurts, and I can't run, so my marathon training has come to an abrupt stand still. A vital period of training is now on hold, as this is the bread and butter phase, when you are putting in those long runs and big mileage. This is the period before tapering, when your weekly mileage should be sky high, and mine is currently at zero. 

I should be out there happily sweating it out, pushing myself, and making my heart pound. Instead I find myself sitting on a park bench watching the squirrels leaping from branch to branch, and couples on a Saturday morning stroll and their dogs chasing sticks. Even the responsible adult has allowed Yoda, ET and Zippy out to play football. Well that's one activity in which they can't cause mayhem. Well maybe not, as with one well placed shot from Zippy, see's one dog walker bent double, has the ball has struck his nether regions. And I thought that I was in pain...?

It is hard to justify. Even sitting alone in peaceful green surrounds with your own thoughts, you can't console yourself on the possibility of not completing your goal. If you could bottle and sell determination, then right now I would be on my way to my first million. But you can't, and my plans lie in tatters at my feet.  There is no one to take you by the scruff of the neck, give you a good shack and point you in the right direction. These are the pieces of the jigsaw that you have to fit together yourself, and wouldn't you know it, I have the jigsaw puzzle with vital piece is missing.

So were do we go from here...? Home, breakfast and coffee, with the Saturday morning paper. There is the weekly shop to do, and another battle around Sainsbury's with a shopping trolley with a wonky wheel. I guess that is a metaphor for my life at the moment, as I am a runner with a wonky leg. (23/2/2008)

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Valentine with a lonely heart.......

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I am a runner

and I need the loo........

So it is not exactly Shakespeare or Kate Nash, but it was the only line that I could come up with that rhymed.

As you can see, I am not poetic and I lack any finesse of romantic fiction. Some may even say that I don't have a romantic bone in my body and I lack a heart, which could possibly reflect on the fact that I will not be sending out dozens of roses this valentines day. Nor, will I be sending out any cards either, as there is one important thing missing, a sweet heart. So this could be the reason to why I have the lonely heart of a long distance runner. 

The only thing that the postman has delivered today is the weighty package that is my credit card statement, and my heavy debt. I have not even received a romantic email, as the only mails with any romantic connotation are of the junk verity, which offer me little pink pills that will boost my virility, enabling me to go the extra distance like a marathon runner. I have junk mail offering me Viagra, which will help me stand proud like the Eifel Tower, and to save any embarrassment at all, there is an offer to extend my manhood. Something else for me to trip over. 

But were do you find love...? You can Google it and find romance on the interweb. You can join a dating site and chat away to a twenty year old nymphet that catches your eye, who in reality, just happens to be a 23 stone spot welder from Clydeside called Tina. So where are those pink frilly days of Mills and Boon, and the bodice ripping novels of Barbara Cartland...? Where are the dashing hero and the helpless damsel in distress…? Where is the romance and why doesn't the boy get the girl anymore....?

Even cupid his arrows of love are hard to find. Maybe he has fallen victim to the health and safety man, who has told him that he needs a licence for carrying a fire arm. Maybe he now holds a ASBO for firing arrows discriminately at courting couples, while flying around in possession of a lethal weapon....?  In cupid’s absence, it seems that my fairy godmother has stepped in to take his place. 

My fairy godmother is a fat old bird, with a wand and a violin case, who grants me, wishes that I can't refuse. She vets my dates, and my world has become one where leggy blondes with big boobs and intentions of having their wicked way have become extinct. They have been replaced by mousey haired checkout girls in sensible shoes and glass's. Whose idea of a goodtime in bed is a good book and a mug of horlicks, which is like replacing your Porsche 911 with a Model T ford with a flat tyre.  So it’s no wonder that I have the lonely heart of the long distance runner.

Where is the romance and passion…? Where is love at first sight.....Where is the loo....as I am bursting.....!! Always the romantic me.... 14/2/2008

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Ping...! - pop...! Or twang...!

Now here's the question, did it go ping....! Or did it go twang....? Well I am not actually sure, as felt like a tiny balloon had just burst inside the centre of my calf, quiet near the top, just under the knee joint. What also had burst were any hopes of a long run tomorrow, and possibly the marathon. So possibly this is ping, pop or twang could have serious repercussions.

It came out of the blue, no warning, no tell tale sign. It just went ping...! Like an elastic band had snapped. Or did it go crack...! Like someone had pulled a Christmas cracker...? I know that I have pulled something in my calf, even though it doesn’t cause me any great pain. So there is no need for me to put in an Oscar winning performance and roll around on the floor in agony, like a multi million pound premiership footballer. In fact when it happened, I just came to a halt with a hop or two. Grimaced and said: "Oh Bugger...!!" politely like Hugh Grant in 'Two weddings...' And James May after pranging a Ferrari Testa Rosa.

My left calf was solid, sore to the touch. There was a pain there, not severe, but a pain that was of more inconvenience rather than trauma. My lower leg had locked, and I could not move anywhere as I had lost the ability of free movement. However, I could hop about on one leg like Long John Silver, minus the parrot and crutch, or I could shuffle sideways like a crab, which proved to be highly amusing which ever direction I chose to shuffle.    

It was the last rep of a hill session, when it went twang...! Despite it being a crisp frosty morning, one were the sun was beaming, I had warmed up well. The roofs were white over with frost, and the woods once again had that Christmas card look about it. The group fartlek session had started well, as we had set off at a easy pace. I was feeling good, and I felt like Bambi, as I had a sudden urge for, roast venison with new potatoes, mange tout, and wild mushrooms. Not forgetting sticky toffee pudding for afters. Well that will teach me to have breakfast before my Saturday morning run.

The hill sessions began well, but on that final eighth rep, as I accelerated, then out of the blue it went pop...! Touch wood, I do have a good record when it comes to injury, and when I do break down, I do it in style. My shopping list of action hero type injuries include, cutting my eye open, a gashed my chin, a fractured rib. I have knocked a few teeth out, and grazed my knees, elbows and ego. I have knocked my self out, knocked myself dizzy, and I have even had a verruca on my big toe.  So my tip is, if you are going to injure yourself make it worth while and do it in style. However, out of all my injuries, I have only been hospitalized once, and that was when I spectacularly cut my eye open, and had to have it stitched.

The nurse sat me down in Sandwell A+E, and produced the biggest needle that you had ever seen. For someone who hates needles, this was a huge needle. She told me, "that I will feel a prick..." I hate to say this love, but I ready have, as bashed my head in front of my running buddies an hour earlier. So in comparison, today's injury was like Rambo getting a splinter. It could have been that the fibres of the muscle in my well turned ankle, were as tight as the strings on Jimmy Pages Les Paul, and after one riff too many, the string had snapped. 

There is nothing to be worried about. The injury like Pages guitar will be repaired and once more we will be back in tune, and putting in classic performances again. One thing, I can chuckle to myself, and a wry smile appears on my face as I hobble down the road. A packet of frozen peas, a hot bath and rest will get me back on the road to recovery. So whether it went ping...! Pop....! Or twang....! The only pain is being sidelined and not able to run for the foreseeable future.  I will have to take a step back and start all over again, but at least the song remains the same. 17/2/08

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Does it really matter at all...?

This may not really matter at all, but a strange news story appeared in the Sun this weekend. The headline read: FREDDIE MERCURY WAS GAY........ Which worryingly enough made me think: "was I the only one to have noticed this....?"

Further more, if this was so, then why and when was I fitted with a homosexual detector, and why hasn't everyone else got one installed too....? Luckily, on further reading the article, the story revelled that it was Brian May, the Queen guitarist who didn't know that Freddie was gay.....!! In fact he claimed that he thought his fellow band member was just flamboyant. Now is that not one of the same...?

You can only wonder to what planet May lived on. We all know of his interest and knowledge of the sky at night, and how he is good friends with Patrick Moore, who is also an astronomer, just in case May was unaware. He is also a doctor of the Milky Way, the galaxy and other far off chocolate bars in the astral plane. But on what planet was he living on in the seventies, and those heady days of sex, sequins and glam rock'n'roll, or was it that he had just inhaled too much hair spray during the glam rock years....?

So Brian, how did you not know, the signs were all there, apart from the fact that Freddie tragically died through aids. There was the way he minced around stage, and his love for the theatrical, which made Queen the band the success they were. He loved musicals and opera, as what else would inspire someone to write Bohemian Rhapsody. Then there was that moustache. If he wasn't the front man for Queen, then he wouldn't look out of place dressed as a dustman in the line up of Village People. Freddie’s liking for men over women may have been a further clue, though May described those days and Freddie’s behaviour as being metrosexual...whatever that maybe...? We will never know, but was this activity the inspiration for Roger Taylor’s classic, 'I'm in love with car'....?

Like the rest of the population of the world, I am a huge fan of Queen.  Freddie Mercury was undoubtedly, and still will be the best front man I have ever seen. I was there in July 1986 when he took control of the old Wembley stadium with one hand, and toyed with millions around the Globe with the other, as he strutted the stage at Live Aid like he owned it. This was Freddie Mercury's world and this was the way he was.  Maybe if Freddie wasn't that way inclined, would Queen have not been the hit of the day, or would the band have been a multi million selling rock band. If not would they be still be playing venues such as the Robin Hood 2 in Bilston.... So in the words of Freddie Mercury himself: "does it really matter at all...?"

Possibly not, as do we really notice the things we don't want to see....?  For an instance, when was the last time that you noticed someone with a disability or even a disabled child in a wheelchair...? They are out there, in fact it has been reported that there are over 70 thousand disabled kids in the UK, and of these 70 thousand, there are 70 thousand disabled kids that possibly don't have the correct chairs or mobility equipment that is suitable for their development, independence and needs.

It is possibly not that we don't notice, more like we don't understand and are totally unaware. So maybe Brian May was unaware in his interview and you have to forgive his ignorance to the life style of his fellow band member. I have that awareness of a disabled child through my involvement with a charity, one that does good work in providing customized mobility equipment for disabled kidz enabling them their independence, confidence and a better quality of life. The more we know, the more aware we become, and then we can make a difference, and then yes, it then really does matter......

10/2/2008

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