Take Two Pairs of Socks on a Run? Too Right..............

I have a dilemma.

Today, I was bought a present. Now, don't get me wrong, I am not in any way ungrateful. Especially when they were bought by the much beloved Mrs B. And I asked her to get them. But, now I have got them, I'm not too sure.

I am talking about a pair of running tights.

Well, I say running tights, but in all honesty, quite what the difference is between them and ordinary tights is beyond me. Apart from the fact that this is the first time I have worn the running variety.

Mrs B got me two sizes to try. Medium and large. One look at the large was all I needed. I'm too scared to go anywhere near the medium.

So, I hold them up in front of me, eying them suspiciously. All I can think is "This ain't gonna be pretty".

"Well, try them on then" says Mrs B encouragingly, with more than a twinkle in her eye.

I take off my standard jogging bottoms and put them on. Now, when I say 'put' them on, I mean wrestle, cajole, fight, squeeze, and generally pour myself into them. After much 'rearranging', I stand in front of her for her opinion.

She collapses on the floor in uncontrollable, hysterical laughter walks slowly around me, taking it all in.

"Look" she says. "They have a little pocket at the back". I feel. Sure enough, right in the middle, and slightly above the 'pant melons', is a little pocket with a zip. I'm not saying these things are snug, but if I put a pound coin in that pocket, you would be able to tell if it was 'heads or tails'.

And that's not all you could tell about me.

You can see EVERY little detail about the lower half of my body, with these damn things on. The varicose veins, the spot on my left bum cheek. Heck, you can even see my pulse! I could have gone to the local automotive supplies shop, bought a can of black paint, and sprayed THAT on the lower half of my body. AND made the whole job look like I was wearing clowns trousers compared to these things.

Honestly, all that's missing as far as I'm concerned, is the Tu Tu, and the cod piece.

And therein lies the problem. I do not have the 'equipment' to wear this type of clothing. It was all fine and dandy for Lindford 'Lunchbox' Christie. In fact, how he managed to run without tripping over his 'cucumber' was nothing short of miraculous.

It's just that I am less 'cucumber'. And more 'pickled gherkin'. And the last, smallest one, that always gets left in the jar too.

And the cold weather is certainly not my friend at the moment either. It's getting too cold for shorts now. The trouble is, it's also too cold to wear the tights.

And another problem. In a race, there is quite a lot of tight clothing around. And some of the female runners look rather good in it. Should I be following one of them, and the 'gerbil wakes up in his cage'  beast roars from it's cage, it'll make national headlines.

And, if Ned Flanders shows up in HIS mega tight all in one ski suit, forget it! 

I am going to have to run around the whole race, saying to myself over and over again "Think unsexy thoughts". "Think unsexy thoughts".

So, you see my dilemma. Do I run in shorts, and get bloody cold, or do I run with the tights, and risk being known as action man, with moving eyes, a big gun, and no penis.

Or, I've just thought of a third option, and also the title for this blog. Take an extra pair of socks. For 'enhancement' purposes.

P.T.F.O.

Cucumbers seem to be getting a raw deal lately......

Last night, I had trouble sleeping. I know we all suffer with a touch of insomnia at some point. The truth is, I thought I had nothing on my mind.

Until today.

Now, some of you have been directed here, by somebody whom I shall refer to as 'My Right Honorable Friend'. If I call him a friend, he gets all silly, and starts giggling like a schoolgirl. And if you saw the way he dresses at the weekends, the laugh REALLY is a bridge too far.

The term 'My Right Honorable Friend', as many of you know, is used in parliament when when one politician is talking about another one in the house of commons. And my guess is that they use the term because it's more polite than phrases like 'That festering turd from the opposition', or 'The scheming, back stabbing, good for nothing, expense robbing freeloader'.

In this case, let's say it replaces the phrase, 'Cynical, festering turd from three doors down'.

Just for arguments sake, of course!

Now, before I move on, for those of you who wandered onto this page by total accident, firstly, bad luck. And secondly, it may help you to read THIS first. It just might help you make sense of the rest of this. I emphasize the word MIGHT.

It will also be a minor miracle if the link works.

Well what are you waiting for, GO. NOW. I'll just stand here, arms crossed, tapping my foot impatiently until you get back.

Well, you took your time didn't you? If I'd have known you'd be this long, I would have painted the ceiling. (Work it out, will ya!)

Now I don't know about you, but when I first read the blog of 'My Right Honorable Friend', It seemed he had gone quite mad. Indeed, I thought he had sat at his laptop, and typed the words 'Bitch, Whine, Whinge', over and over and over again.

It wasn't until I re-read that I realised that he has a genuine ability to write in a witty, interesting way. And, I am not being sarcastic here. 'My Right Honorable Friends' literacy skills border on the genius in my view. And I am sure I am not alone in this view.

Which is just as well. Because one or two of his other talents, have COMPLETELY deserted him.

Now, I have known for some time, that 'My Right Honorable Friend' has had problems with his running. And it would have been the easiest thing in the world to make fun, tease, and generally be a bit of a git about it. But, being the softhearted, kind true friend that I am, I chose not to.

The point I am getting to is that you have heard of 'My Right Honorable Friends' issues from him. I played no part in his public 'de-bagging' at all. He has, however, chosen to blame me.

And it is from this, that I have to defend myself.

So from the top.......

I like cucumbers. They have a raw deal. Associated with salads, to which nobody will admit to eating, and being green, means they are a hard sell. It's true, most of us buy them, but do we stop and ask ourselves why? And correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't they the only veg, or fruit, or whatever they come under, that you can by half of? You don't see many halves of tomatoes, or apples being offered in the shops.

Anyway, I digress. The reason 'My Right Honorable Friend' thinks cucumbers are evil, is because of what he does with them. And probably, the same reason why you can buy them in halves.

What! You want me to draw you a diagram? Think about it. Anyone who sits so bolt upright for THAT amount of time can't be holding a fart in for that long. And the constant look of surprise on his face is a dead giveaway.

Right, on to the real issue. The running. He IS a better runner than me. Or WAS. He has been doing it for longer, he is fitter, faster, and younger than me. I am happy to admit this because of late, the wheels have well and truly fallen off as far as his running goes. And it adds real depth to the statement that, as it stands right now, he is not as good as me. And I am NOT good. Not even a little bit.

I know, that in the not too distant future, I am am truly going to regret this blog. A lot. So I will enjoy my brief moment whilst I can.

So, in the order that 'My Right Honorable Friend' wrote about them, the reasons for the poor performances.

The slowest ever. His excuse:- 'It was more cross country'. A couple of stones and a bit of mud hardly constitutes cross country. He did however, beat me on this one. I, in turn, set my best 10k time.

The one he ended up in an ambulance in. Reason:- It was a ruse. He realised he was on for a slow one, so he pretended to faint. As he was being loaded into the back of the ambulance, and driven off, he was clearly heard to cry out 'The finish line's the other way, moron'.

Did I show him the finishing medal for that one, by the way?

The one he suffered 'horrendously' in. We know. The whole effing field knew. But, injuries can happen to anyone. Particularly when the are the subject of some good old fashion voodoo.

And the half marathon. My first, I hasten to add. It should have been David and Goliath.

Not 'The Tortoise and the Hare'.

The only good thing to come out of this race for 'My Right Honorable Friend', is the fact that they read his name out as he crossed the finish line!

I can't comment on the race he did well in. Why? BECAUSE I WASN'T THERE! But if you want my opinion, I think he got his 3 year old to run it.

And then, 'My Right Honorable Friend' goes on about the Superman/Kryptonite comment I made. I was trying to make him feel better for goodness sake. Far be it from me to start teasing when we are 12 miles from home, and  in HIS car. He says he'd rather be Batman. I'm thinking more Wonderwoman. Breasts on ANY man that size without surgery is just damn freaky. And strangely, a bit of a turn on.

The small cock thing. Moving on............................................

The whole point he comes to, is that I am his evil nemesis. The epitome of evil. Well, it may suprise you to know, that I have my own opinion.

Impotence comes in many forms. Of course, there's the obvious one. Where the blood doesn't get to the bits it should. And instead of the cries of 'OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH', your just left with 'OH'.

Then there's the one suffered in the public loo. You go in to an empty public convenience. 2 urinals, about 3 inches apart. So you start to go. In walks someone else, stands right next to you, and everything just grinds to a halt. The tank is full, the floodgates are open, but there's a sodding great fish blocking the tubes.

It seems 'My Right Honorable Friend' is suffering from a form of impotence. When he is training, all is well. But when the pressure is on to perform, Mr Floppy refuses to co-operate.

So, what about his ways to be rid of me?

Drive me out of town? Note he didn't say run. Enough said.

Trip me up in our next race? He hasn't really thought this through. He'll either be ahead of me, or behind me. True, if he decides to take another nap during the race, then there is an outside chance I will trip as I try to step over him. I will be on my guard.

Adopt me as a child? He has beautiful kids. I would be waaaaayyyyy out of my league. Besides, he has enough nappies to change.

I didn't forget the kneecapping thing. I saved it until last deliberately. I confess. I have a thing for hammers. Claw hammers to be precise. You see, I swallowed a nail when I was younger. And despite time, gravity, and a WHOLE lotta prunes, it's still in there. I can just get to it with the claw hammer.

The cucumber simply wasn't quite up to the job.

P.T.F.O.

It Seems My Tongue Is Stuck Very Firmly In My Cheek......

Recently, it was kindly pointed out to me by a young lady that I am a typical male. I forget what I was doing at the time. Probably not paying attention. I certainly wasn't checking out the gorgeous blonde across the street. But she told me in a typically female way.

Guys, you know what I mean. The scornful look. The shaking of the head. Then the comment.

"Typical male". Before sighing, and stomping off.

Whenever I am accused of being a typical male, my initial instinct is to get all defensive, and to deny said accusation. ESPECIALLY if it's a group of women. Self preservation instincts kick in. And this time was no exception. I denied my ass off.

I have, however, since had second thoughts.....

I am sitting in the front room, typing this blog with the television on a sports channel. I am not really watching it, because I am doing this. And as we all know, us men can only do one thing at a time. It is an absolute truth.

In fact, I am amazed that I am still alive. I am typing and breathing. At the same time. How is THAT possible!

Anyway, I digress. Television on sports channel, I'm not watching it. The remote control is less than an arms length away from me. If I was not a typical male, I would pass the remote to Mrs B, so she could choose what she wanted to watch.

In fact, I did it once. It must have been her birthday. Or I was drunk. Anyway, I gave her the remote. After showing her how to use it, (after all, she's never had such power!) she proceeded to channel hop.

Bloody hell that's SO annoying! Every time she changed channels, she was greeted by my saying "Hey, I was just getting into that!" After several minutes of this, she attempted to insert the remote control inside me handed the remote control back stating that there was nothing on that she fancied watching.

The remote control is my comfort blankey. My favourite cuddly toy. If I fall asleep on the sofa, I even sleep with it in my hand, or lay on it!

And boy, do I go into a strop if I can't find it! I can't explain why. It's just the way it is.

So, what else about me is typically male?

I scratch and re-adjust myself. Frequently. Even when we have company.

Look ladies, us men have some pretty delicate equipment 'down there'. If things are not sitting quite right, or we have an itch, we simply cannot function, or concentrate, until everything is 'shipshape'.

Think of it this way. If you were listening to the radio, and it wasn't quite in tune, would you just put up with it? No. You'd adjust the tuning until it was in tune. Us blokes are doing the same. Just re-positioning the aerial a bit, in order to get a better 'reception'.

I can also parallel park. AND like any great chess player, in less than 6 moves. I don't even have to think about it. (Which says a lot in itself!) I pull up, select reverse gear, reverse into the space, select first, move forward to straighten up. Finished.

None of this forward and reversing until the gearbox falls out, only to realise that the space IS too small after all. Even though ANY man in the vicinity absolutely knows that he could get a bus in the space. A Double Decker one too!

I can also cut bread. And cheese. Perfectly straight and even. To the millimetre. And by eye. None of those wedges that are so steep, your average off road vehicle couldn't get up them. I don't know why I can do it, I just know I can.

And in the interest of keeping my testicles attached to my body fairness, I also have some negative male traits.

I HATE unloading the dishwasher. I will do almost anything to get out of it. The dishwasher gets put on before we go to bed. I know it needs emptying in the morning. So I make damn sure I am not the first person downstairs. I will do ANYTHING so as not have to empty it. Take another shower. Pair my socks. MAKE THE BLOODY BED for goodness sake!

Well, OK, the making the bed thing is a bit of a lie. If things get THAT desperate, then I will be first downstairs. And take the dog out. Or open the post.

Pathetic eh?

I also cannot find ANYTHING. Not a thing. I will open the shoe cupboard, and if the shoes that I want do not jump on to my feet immediately, I shout to Mrs B "Have you seen my shoes darling?"

At which point, Mrs B stops emptying the dishwasher, comes to the cupboard and gets my shoes that were hanging up three inches from my face. She then forcibly rams them into my chest, knocking the wind out of me in the process, says "There they are, (insert word that rhymes with banker here)", before storming off, muttering under her breathe.

I don't listen to Mrs B.

She will tell me that we were doing something at a certain time on a certain day, and I will nod. And say "Yeah, fine. Whatever". She will then ask me if I am listening. And, of course, I say yes. And, of course, the day arrives. And she says "Don't forget, we've got parents evening tonight". And, of course, I say "Well, why didn't you tell me".

And then there follows a 'discussion' involving accusations, and denials, which ends up with me realizing that she DID tell me, but continuing to deny all knowledge anyway. After all, stupidity is a defense, right?

This 'discussion', at least, is now a thing of the past. Mrs B doesn't tell me anymore. She writes it in my diary. Or, as I am a modern man, puts it on my phone. No denying it now. Damn she's good.

So now, I've been forced to take the 'not listening to her' thing to a whole new level. She will tell me about her day. Good or bad. I don't deliberately go out of my way not to listen. It's just that it's always when there is something REALLY interesting on the television. And as stated earlier, 2 conversations at the same time into 1 male simply will not go.

So, I 'fade her out'.

And of course, she realizes this, because I nod when I should have shaken.

"You're not listening to me, are you".

"Yes I am".

"What was I talking about then?"

"You were telling me that you bumped into Jess today, whilst in town". (The bit I WAS listening too).

"And then what?" (The bit I WASN'T listening to).

At this point, I realise I'm not going to win this one, and do the honorable, and typically male thing.

I run away. 

"Erm....did I just hear one of the kids just call me?"

So, in summary, it seems I AM a typical male. And you know what? I take great comfort from, and am very proud of that fact. And the next time a woman accuses me of being a typical male, I will TOTALLY agree with her.

And, I will look her straight in the breasts when I'm saying it!


P.T.F.O.

Beware the warning on sugar free mints!

It began just as I crossed the Dartford bridge.

As I was on my way home after a day working in London. I had just pulled into the outside lane, when I got "that feeling". It's kinda hard to describe it, but it's the one that tells you that you've got one brewing, you're baking a brownie, or in layman's terms, you're gonna need a dump in the near future.

I was about 40 miles from home. On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being the highest, this was a level 1 alert. Just a mild little "stirring" if you like.

"I'll be OK until I get home" I remember thinking.

Oh dear.......

Another mile past, the alert went to level 2. Another mile, level 3.

"Well, I should still be OK until I get home".

Another mile, the alert level jumped to a 6.

"Right then" I thought, "It looks like I'll be stopping at "Clacket Lane Services".

And then, all hell broke loose. The alert level went off the scale in about 20 seconds.

My grip increased on the steering wheel. Every single muscle in my body tensed. My left leg was dead straight, pushing my foot into the floor of the car. My accelerator foot was trying to do the same. Only the thought of getting stopped by the police and having to explain my "predicament" kept me from flooring it.

I was gritting my teeth to the point of breaking them. My eyes were bulging. My face was red, and I was sweating. A lot. I was in BIG trouble.

I eyed the hard shoulder, contemplating a roadside "deposit". It would be a last resort. I was unable to find a suitable spot. And anyway, there are cameras everywhere on the M25. And the thought of my bare arse appearing on one of those 'motorway camera' programs puts me off.

Then, I start to get surges.

I'm guessing it's kinda like having contractions. Only worse. Most of the time, I am just agonizing. But every couple of minutes, I get a real feeling akin to someone blowing up a HUGE bouncy castle with in my stomach. And then all the kids have a bloody good bounce.

I then pass the sign. Services 10 miles.

10 MILES! 10 BLOODY MILES! I'M NEVER EVER EVER GONNA MAKE THAT!

I contemplate the outcome.

"Well, I'll need a new suit for starters". "And the car seat is REALLY gonna take some cleaning!" "And what happens immediately after the event?" "Do I just carry on driving?"

All questions you wouldn't normally ask yourself.

I start to count down the miles.

9......8......7......6.....

And the traffic is getting heavier.

People pull out in front of me.

Someone out there REALLY wants me to shit myself!

The surges are now about every mile. It takes ALL of my physical and mental strength to not give in.

And part of me soooooo wants to give in. Let it happen. Just relax.

4......3......2......1......

As I pass the mile to go marker, I start to hope.

The distraction is almost fatal for my underwear.

By now, I am gripping the steering wheel so damn tightly, I'm leaving finger nail marks in it. I have the look of a deranged lunatic. Other motorists look at me, and decide to give a me a wide berth.

300 yard marker......200 yards......100 yards......

SOOOOOOOOO CLOSE!

I veer wildly onto the slip road.

Some dawdling arse in a BMW pulls across late, right in front of me, and slows to about 1 mile an hour.

"GET OUT OF THE EFFING WAY" I scream. He's oblivious. The git!

We round the bend, bumper to bumper.

He slows further, unsure of where to go.

Why do they ALWAYS drive BMW's?

He drives past the coach entrance.

I don't.

I will happily pay the £100 parking fine. Just as long as I get to the toilet in time.

I screech to a halt, prise my fingers off the steering wheel, and turn the engine off.

Another surge.

The strongest one yet.

I re-grip the steering wheel, and brace myself. I'm so close. Soooooo close. But I can't get out of the car!

AAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

At last, it subsides. It's now or never. I get out. And go for it.

I try to run, but stop because I feel I have less 'control'. I physically push my butt cheeks together with my hands to aid retention.


I am walking like a penguin, with a cheek in each hand through the middle of a busy motorway services. I try not to notice the stares and the finger pointing.

If I have a surge now, it's game over for sure. And a more public place for it to happen I can't imagine.

I somehow make it to the gents. I push at the cubicle doors until one opens, rush inside, and lock the door.

I tear at my belt, eventually getting it undone, pull everything down and begin to sit.......

Technically, I dump standing up. Because by the time my butt hits the seat, I have finished. It's all over in under 2 seconds. But it IS all over. I slump on the seat, with my head resting against the cubicle wall. It's a full 10 minutes before I even think about leaving.

Good thinking time.

What the hell caused this? It soon dawns on me. I've over done the sugar free mints.
It warns you on the packet of the consequences of ' excessive consumption'.

What it fails to tell you, is how many is excessive?

P.T.F.O.

Do NOT read on a full stomach..........

Yes, I know it's been a while. Frankly, I would have thought you'd be quite pleased that "That bald Twat" hadn't posted a link to his "Boring load of old twaddle" interesting, humorous, quality pieces of writing for a while. There are 2 reasons for this:-

1) I can NEVER get on the laptop.
2) I've been a bit busy.
3) I couldn't be arsed.

And I know that's 3 reasons. Truth is, I thought of the third one after I wrote the first 2, and it was too important to miss out.

So, what's been going on with me lately?

Funny you should ask......

I had a job interview recently. It was with a competitor of the company I work for, so a lot of "cloak and daggery" was called for. Hushed phone calls and emails. You know the sort of thing.

So, the big day arrives. I wake early, and head of to the bathroom to prepare myself for the big event.

I am amazed at my body's unique ability to turn on me when I REALLY need it. As I look at the mirror, there, staring back at me is the biggest, whitest and shiniest spot you could imagine. It's like I'm sprouting another me! This thing was HUUUGGGGEEEEE! And nestled right at the point where my nose meets my face, just below the eye.

This bugger was not going to be easy to shift. I reluctantly showed it to Mrs B.

Now my wife, bless her has few pleasures in life. Understandable being married to me I guess. But she loves a spot. Especially on MY face. She gets all excited, and a big, beaming smile spreads across her face. I suspect it's because of the pain she can inflict on me. A bit of payback.

"Turn to the light so I can get a look at it then" She says, wrenching my whole head around.

"OK, but if you are going to do it, just do it". "None of this half hearted poking and prodding which just prolongs the agony".

"Hold still, will you"

"AAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH"

"Stop being such a wimp".

After about 3 hours of prodding, poking, and major digging, it's now bigger, whiter and redder than ever. I've stormed off with tears in my eyes. She is in a strop, having been denied "release". (She should be used to that by now!)

So, I shower, shave, and shampoo myself to within an inch of my life. I put on my new suit, my best shirt and tie, and my highly polished shoes. I admire myself in the mirror.

All I can see, is the damn spot. It is now an angry volcano, ready to erupt at ANY moment.

Resigned to the fact that it will only go when it's ready, I head out.

I arrive at the interview location in good time. I have about 15 minutes to kill. I check the mirror again. Yep. It's still there. As big and bold as ever. I also notice something else. Nasal hair.

How I missed THAT first thing this morning, I'll NEVER know. It's like a trifid is trying to escape my nose. Nothing for it. I have no scissors. I'll have to tug it out. I wind it around my fist 3 or 4 times (I did say it was big) brace myself, and yank.

The explosion of pain that I feel almost makes me pass out. Sweat is now free flowing from my face like you wouldn't believe. I breathe deeply, fighting back the tears. I check the mirror. The hair has gone, but at what price? I can't go to an interview looking like this. I'm a bloody mess!

I check the spot out again. Dare I give it one more go? I consider the possible consequences. If it does go now, it'll take out the windscreen for sure. And the thought of me going into the interview looking like I'd been in an accident at a custard factory decides it for me. It'll have to stay.

I head off to the interview a broken man. They'll never employ me looking like this. My eyes look like I've peeled a thousand onions. A spot on my face so red, it's stopping the traffic. I'm sweating so much, it's gathering in my shoes, making a sloshing sound with each step.

I pause at the door, take a deep breathe, and enter.

90 minutes later, I'm out.

I have just given one of my best interviews ever. I have NO idea how. OK, I wasn't nervous. I had WAY too much on my mind for nerves. And my interview preparation was certainly not something you'll ever read in any manuals.

I start the new job on Monday.

P.T.F.O.

For Sale, Second Hand Blow Up Doll........

I bet you were thinking "Hey up, he's gone a bit quiet since all that bike ride malarkey". "He's probably still riding it". Well, not so. Although it still feels like I am. Said bike ride was dually completed in what was for me, a fairly respectable time.

You probably heard the champagne cork popping and the whooping of joy from where you are. No, we didn't crack open the bubbly when I finished.

It was Mrs B donning a miners lamp, and removing the saddle from "you know where" with the barbecue tongs.

A saint that woman.

So, now all that is behind me (in EVERY sense of the word), what's next for this honed athlete? A bit of a rest? Retirement from all things physical? Surely, it's time to act my age?

Well, not exactly.......

I have decided to enter myself into a 10k run. Or 2.

Honestly, as I am writing this, in my drawing room, with the lights dimmed, and classical music gently caressing my ears, at my antique oak writing desk.......stuck in a lay by, pen and paper leaning against the steering wheel, radio blaring, and the traffic zipping past at mach one, rocking the car, which in turn threatens to rock me to sleep...........

Sorry, where was I? Oh yeah!

As I write this, I am seriously questioning my judgment. What is wrong with me? I have mentioned the term "Mid Life Crisis" before. Is this yet more evidence?

And why the heck am I asking you? You're only reading this because you accidentally hit the wrong link, whilst looking for second hand, fully inflatable rubber lady/man escorts.

Hang on a minute! That gives me an idea to boost my audience.

Anyway, back to the M.L.C. as I shall now refer to it. I've suggested to Mrs B that now summer is here, that it might be a nice idea if we look for sporty little car. Perhaps with a fold down roof.

She looks up from her Mills & Boon, and gives me withering look.

"THAT is not going to happen unless you get a proper job that pays proper wages".

She then shakes her head slowly, tuts and returns to her book.

A little perplexed by this, I reply:-

"Well, it's either that, or I just go and find myself a nice, busty 18 year old blond" I said this with just a hint of "how would you like that" in my voice.

This time, she does not even bother to look up from her book.

"That would be a little tricky without your testicles, darling".

mmmmmmmmmmmmm......she has a point there I guess.

So, in order to once again prepare this old carcass for my next challenge,and to keep myself from under Mrs B's feet, and in a pathetic effort to keep myself feeling a bit younger, I have gone back to the running.

Thinking that I was fairly fit from the cycling, and still running occasionally, I made the mistake of agreeing to a gentle 10k run with a buddy of mine.

A little bit about him.

He is a bit younger than me, and runs 10k races for fun. If he is not running a 10k race, he is training to run a 10k race.

Up hill. Into the wind. Dragging a tractor tyre behind him.

He runs 10k quicker than I can pee.

OK, that last statement what not so impressive, considering I am "at that age", but you understand where I am coming from.

Sometimes, when he is bored, and wants a bit of a laugh at my expense, he runs with me.

So, we set of at a gentle canter.

First mile, no problem.

Second mile, a bit harder, but bearable.

Third mile, "Oh Crap"

By mile four, I am pretty beat.

Going into mile five, I am really suffering, much to his delight. I want to stop for a breather, but don't want to suggest it, for fear of ridicule.

So, I do the one thing I know I am good at.

I complain.

Bitterly.

"It's too hot"

"The sweat is stinging my eyes"

"My legs hurt"

"How much further?"

In response to this, he begins to offer comforting words of encouragement and motivation.

"If we go any slower, we are going to get overtaken by the next ice age".

"For goodness sake, stop effing complaining, you sack of sweaty crap"

"You are pathetic, you are"

I find myself wondering how he has got the breathe to speak, when I haven't even got any to breath!

In the end, as we get to the top of the 3,000 foot climb, he relents.

"OK, let's just walk for a bit and let you get your breathe back". And under his breathe, "Before I punch your sweaty, whinging face in".

We walk for about three seconds, before he says "OK, on we go".

Eventually, we arrive home, where I collapse into a big sobbing heap of sweaty, panting jelly on the floor.

Expecting a "Well done", and a hearty slap on the back, I am slightly disappointed to hear him mutter "Tosser", before stepping over me, and going for a "proper" run.

Anyway, as a big thank you, we are going to have a barbecue in the near future. And, as an act of revenge I am going to cook his food using the saddle removing barbecue tongs I mentioned earlier!

P.T.F.O.

Hens aren't the only cluckers.......

Did I Hear You Right?


Earlier in the week, I met with the person who is organizing the team for the bike ride. He has done this ride a number of times in recent years. He was asking about the training. (He obviously did not read my previous blog). I asked about the saddle soreness, and any suggestions he had. He suggested Vaseline. I have heard this helps, so this was not totally unexpected. We then arranged a time and place to meet before the start.

As I left him, I went over what we had a arranged. Meet at 6.30am. By the toilets. Clapham common. With my butt smeared with Vaseline............Hang on a minute...!

There's No Need To Be Like That!

I decided to do one biggish cycle ride before the "Big One". I set myself a target of forty miles. It's about three quarters distance, and a good test of how I am going to cope next week (or not).

I have one of these tracking thingys on my phone. I won't bore you. Well actually, I will, and probably already have. I mean, why are you even bothering to read this? You really need to get a life if this is what it's come too.

And another thing, why after spending whole minutes writing this, do I then try my best to talk people out of reading it? I did it on my last blog. Right at the start as well. I guess that's why I am not some high flyer in advertising. I am however, in sales..... Oh dear!

Anyway, I digress. So off I set on my ride. I have a route in mind which is about the right distance. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. I feel good.

I sometimes publish my times, and maps of rides & runs on Facebook. A sort of "look at me, aren't I fit" type of statement. If I can get a forty mile bike ride on there, I cannot fail to impress.

So I set off on the ride, get to the furthest point, and go to pause the tracker to have a drink and a bite to eat. It's then that I discover that the tracker has not been tracking at all. It's just become a REALLY expensive stopwatch. I am a little disappointed at this. There goes my chance at a bit of bragging. And decide to let it know how disappointed I am with it. The string of profanity that escapes my mouth at this point, as I stabbed my finger at the touchscreen on my phone was long, loud and frankly, an arrestable offence.

The look on the local vicars face as he walked by was a real picture. And his wife. And the three young children walking with them. As he walked passed, shaking his head and tutting, I distinctly heard one of the children asking what a "trucking piece of ship" meant. Oddly enough, that was the exact moment I decided to continue my ride.

Anyway, despite several more prods at my phone, and a few more choice words thrown at it for good measure. The phone went all "wifey" on me. And refused to respond at all. I could almost hear the bloody thing talking to me in the way Mrs B talks to me when I have displeased her. It even had her voice:-

"There was no need to speak to me like that". "Just because I didn't do what what I was supposed to, that's no reason to have a go at me in public in that way". "If you think I'm going to sleep with you now........"

Now, I'm not suggesting for a second that my wife doesn't do as I ask. Or EVER refuse to sleep with me. (As long as it's ONLY sleep). She looks after me in more ways than I could ever dream of. I really don't deserve to have her. And I am so lucky. I don't know where I would be without her. And I am very sorry for suggesting such a thing. Now can you let go of my testicles please darling!

Bloody hell! Why can't they go numb when you really want them to?

So I get home from the bike ride. Remember the one I was talking about earlier? the forty miler? With tracker issues? Come on, keep up!

I set about the task of trying to establish the exact distance I covered. At first, I try to work it out from previous rides. Then I try to map it on one of the online maps. Not getting anywhere with this, I come up with a bit of an idea. I will ask the different parts of my body.

I start with my legs. These have taken on the look, and feel of Mr Tickles arms from the Mr Men. They are absolutely sure I did at least forty miles. They have also said if I EVER put them through that torture again, they will seek a divorce. (Don't tell them about next week for goodness sake!)

Next, I ask my rear end. It flatly refuses to talk to me. That should probably say "fatly". But it's not a word. Well, it is now I have added it to my dictionary. It's not been the same since this bike riding thing started. I think it is a little upset with me.

Finally, I ask my groin. It has absolutely no idea whatsoever. It lost all feeling after the first couple of miles, and never regained it until about half an hour after I got home.

So, in summary, I think I did forty miles today. I would dearly loved to have shared this with some of you on Facebook. But thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I can't.

Just a second! Are they screwdriver marks on my phone.......?


Like Waiting For Your First Born To Be......Errrr Born!


The car went off for it's MOT today. We did the usual things to prepare the car. Checked the oil, topped up the screen wash, checked the indicators worked, kicked the tyres. All the usual stuff that guarantees an MOT pass. The car was collected, and the waiting began. You know that feeling once a year. A sort of akin to waiting for the birth of one of your children. I keep myself busy, trying to take my mind off it. But every now and then, I remember. And wonder.

And then I get the phone call.

I recognize the number. I stare at it for a few seconds. A jolt of adrenalin surges through my veins. Has it? Hasn't it? How much? Oh god......

He proceeds to break the bad news to me gently. Explaining all the faults, slowly and methodically. It's all I can do to stop myself screaming:-

"Just tell me how "clucking" much!"

Instead, I take a deep breathe, and ask him if he would mind telling me how much it's going to cost.

Off he goes, tap, tap, tap on the calculator for about three months. Why didn't he have the totals all ready. He knew this was going to be painful for me. I'm a "Give it to me straight" kind of guy. Whatever the bad news is, don't sugar coat it. Don't try to make me feel better about it. But oh no. He had to break it down into exactly what was wrong with each part. What had caused the failures. AND go through other issues with said car that need attention.

By now, I'm sweating, breathing faster, and on my second bottle of vodka. Finally he comes back.

"Mr B?"

"Yes, I am here"

"I have added up all the parts, labour, including the service and MOT test".

"Yes and?"

"I have rung around and got the best price for the parts"

"Yes and?"

"I have given you my best labour rates"

"YES AND?"

"It's not going to be cheap I'm afraid"

"JUST "CLUCKING" TELL ME HOW "CLUCKING" MUCH IT'S GONNA "CLUCKING" COST FOR "CLUCKS" SAKE WILL YOU".

He gives me the figure.

"Oh cluck........."

So now, the bike riding is more out of necessity than pleasure.....

P.T.F.O.

It's Time My Bottom and I Had a Little Chat.

A Word of Warning Before You Read On.....

If you have even bothered to get this far, a big thank you. However, before you read on, the powers that be, have ordered me to issue you with a warning. (OK, Mrs B said to do it or spend a week on the sofa). So here goes.

The following "pile" contains references to animal deposits, bottoms and (deep breathe) gentleman parts. There, I've said it. If you think you may be offended, or do not see me in "that way", please do the following immediately:-

A) Close your internet browser.
B) Shut down your computer.
C) Burn said computer.
D) Seek immediate therapy.

The fact that this page has been displayed on your screen, regardless of whether you have read it or not, means there is no hope for your computer. Destroy it now, and maybe, just maybe, you have a chance to save yourself.

OK, I'm in the clear.....

As I am taking part in the London to Brighton Bike Ride later this month, I thought I should at least attempt to prepare this bag of old bones for the said torture. So, I have taken to sweating, cursing and puffing my way round the countryside on my £150.00 "Halfords Job" excuse of a bike. At 42, I am probably in the best physical condition of my life, which says an awful lot about my life up until now.

That aside, the physical excursions of recent weeks have not caused any problems except for in two areas. It seems my "behind" is not happy to have a bike saddle nestled amongst it's inner sanctum. This despite a gel seat, a gel seat cover, and bubble wrap. All is fine during the first few miles, but after that, the pain is excruciating.

I have tried to sit down and have said conversation with my rear end, but it did not go well. It's voice was muffled for some unknown reason. So, I thought I would treat it to a proper pair of cycling shorts. These are the ones with an inner liner, with padding in the "appropriate" areas. Having tried these on said cycle ride this morning, I can now conclude that they did not make the slightest bit of difference. Honestly, if I'd pulled the pin on a grenade, and placed it on my saddle, then got on, started riding, and waited for the "Bang", it would have been more comfortable, if a little messy.

Now this rear end discomfort is not entirely unexpected, but another symptom has also appeared IS a little more unexpected. It seems that the "Nether Regions" of my body lose all feeling just as the rear end decides to feel all the pain of the moment, and the pain the present Mrs B's felt during two childbirths.

I have done some research on this loss of feeling (asked a bloke down the pub), and am reliably informed that it is a recognized symptom. Indeed, some of the best cyclists in the world suffer from it. N.P.S. I believe is the acronym. The "N" stands for numb, and the "S" stands for syndrome. I'll leave you to work out the rest. Needless to say, I don't think women suffer from it.

Now, I don't know about you, but when I lose feeling in parts of my body, I either shake if it's a shakeable bit of my body, such as a hand, or rub it if it isn't. So, there I am cycling along, trying to get the blood flowing back into my "nethers" by rubbing. (I'm not even going to go into why I can't shake).

Two issues here. Firstly, others out for a Sunday morning stroll, failed to see my predicament. This, I don't understand. Rub your hands together to get the blood flowing, no court case. Rub your "private area" to do the same, and cries of "pervert", "sicko", and "grubby old git" are offered. And laws are quoted. What probably didn't help was that as the feeling returned, I was heard groaning "ooh, that's better".

Secondly, continuing to rub AFTER the blood has returned has "other consequences" I had long since forgotten about.

(Bet you're sorry you didn't heed my warning now eh?)

Can I have more vinegar with these flies please?


Now the warmer weather is here, it's great that I can get more saddle time, what with the impending "Butt Slaughter" only 2 weeks away. Also arriving with the warmer weather, is the explosion of flying insects.

Now, these two things do not mix. Whilst cycling, I breathe a bit faster than normal. Oh alright, I gasp, pant and wheeze like a goldfish out of water. So, my mouth may be open for longer, and wider than normal. What I don't remember doing, is sending out invites to every insect along my route, inviting them to a party inside my mouth!

In they fly, at the rate a blue whale swallows plankton. Some of them buggers are not small either. Three or four of them in your mouth at once, and there's barely room for the air to get in. Now that's bad enough, but when you consider what these sods feed off, it brings a whole new meaning to tastes like Sh*t.

Which brings me rather nicely on to my next point. Horses. I have no problem with these adorable animals. I do, however have issues with what they leave behind. I have, just this morning, cycled along a route shared by amongst others, the horse riding fraternity, and their trusty steeds.

Now I'm not suggesting horse riders clean up after their animals. I can see that carrying bin liners and shovels would be impractical. But surely, they can at least get them to go at the side of the path rather than slap bang in the middle of it. It may bring an element of excitement "Dodging the Doings", but when other users of the path cannot move aside, I am forced to ride through it. And the bike has no mudguards.

So, if you are out and about in the near future, and you happen upon a cyclist pedaling for all he's worth, spitting flies and sweat flying in all directions, covered in horse sh*t, shouting "ooh my goolies" and rubbing his "gentleman area" like a zoo chimpanzee, the chances are, its probably me.

On that pretty picture, I think I will end.....


P.T.F.O.

The Demented Ramblings of A Bald Git.

If you're reading this it means I am 1-0 up on modern technology and have managed to get it up first time. (Truly a world first for me). If you are not however, then at least I am safe in the knowledge that I am the only person reading this boring drivel.

So, about me. I am early forties, male and more than a little bewildered. The rest you already know having read the title of this page. Yes, I am married, very happily of course, (NOT edited in as an afterthought) to a woman who understands me too well for my own good. So, who is the lucky woman? She would probably tell you the one/ones that got away when they realized what a boring old fart I really am. We weren't childhood sweethearts. We've been together nearly 22 years, married for 13 (taking "Try before you buy" to a whole new level).
We have 2 wonderful children. And I DO mean the word wonderful. It's just my meaning of the word may differ slightly to yours. They get on very well indeed. That is, until they are in the same room. Then Armageddon ensues because one of them used the last of the milk or the other one wants to watch something else on the telly. Or one is breathing to loud or the other is brushing their hair. Real vital, compete for attention stuff. Of course, we are model parents and explain to them how we love them both, and there is no need to compete for our love. Or tell them if they don't "Shut the heck up", they will end up being adopted.
We live in the South of England having moved here about 15 years ago. All these time-frames are approximate, due to the fact I did not consult said wife before writing this. We all know that when it comes to these kinds of facts and figures, women can quote to fifteen decimal places. It's all I can do to remember to wear trousers when I go outside. Or which car is mine in the car park.
Deciding we needed more to occupy our lives, we are also owners of a cat and a dog. They get on fine except that the dog is addicted to the cats bum, and every time he goes for a sniff, gets 5 very sharp ones across the nose. He is supposed to be one of the more intelligent breeds of dog, but fear that when God said "Brains", our dog thought he said "Trains", and he missed his. We now agree that the pets were a step too far and we are overwhelmed by all the feeding, cleaning, tidying, walking, clearing up, grooming and health care responsibilities. The pets, however, are no trouble at all.


What, I hear you ask, does he do in order to feed, clothe, keep in Xbox games, craft and fashion magazines, beauty products, flea collars, dog chews and generally maintain in the manner to which they have not so much become accustomed too, more a case of feel obliged to be grateful for even though they know they could do better? I won't tell you directly, other than to say it involves:-

A) A lot of driving, being very organized, on time, professional, earning a great deal of respect and using my expert selling skills and techniques to meet and exceed my sales targets, and going home satisfied in the knowledge that I have done a full days work and truly earned my salary

Or

B) A lot of driving, being stuck in traffic, swearing, being sworn at, grabbing customers by the lower leg, and not letting go until they buy something from me, missing my sales targets by miles and going home wondering why I still do this "poxy" job, knowing I should have done better and feeling like a fraud.


Why start blogging? Simple answer. I have little to say, but a lot of words to say it with. I'm not saying I'm boring. In fact, I find myself managing to stay awake through most of my conversations with myself these days. It's just that I've always had a little dream of writing something that others might read, maybe admire, but in all likelihood, probably just pity. That and the fact that they now use anti graffiti paint in most public conveniences these days, meaning I have to find another outlet for my "thoughts".

I intend to post as and when I can be bothered. Be warned though, I have had intentions before. A few of them good, but very rarely follow any of them through for very long. So don't hold your breathe. It will be on a wide range of topics, including the news, music, personal experiences, other peoples misfortunes, or nothing in particular.

I will leave it there for now. I eagerly await your feedback. Or, I couldn't give 2 hoots what you think. You know it's drivel, I know it's drivel. But at the end of the day, so is 78.43% of what's on the Internet. (Figure quoted from how much battery life is left on my i Phone).

P.T.F.O.