Wednesday 30 June 2010

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.

Thursday 10 June 2010

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.