Memories of August

Tired, we return

To the smell of the wet bay tree

To the dancing daddy long legs

A line of us (6 long)

By the old door

At various stages of welly removal

There were times

When the grass was long

And the days were long

And the sun dropped so slowly it felt like it was never going to leave

We ran through a meadow

And saw three hot air balloons

But now all there is rain and rainy packed lunches

And I never saw that roe deer

That the rest of them saw

I was desperate for the loo

So I missed it

The war on booze

At breakfast I had a hangover, followed by cake. By noon I had drawn up a non-aggression pact and presented it to my own liver. He refused to sign, pouring scorn and bile over the olive branch.  The stomach muscled in and cut a deal for himself, promising to look into the ‘loose stool situation' in exchange for more cake.  I argued this would only fan the flames and besides, “don't the intestines have a say in this?” He muttered “bureaucracy” under his breath, which was good enough for me – I immediately began consuming Battenberg in alarming quantities.

By the spring we had annexed the liver and remilitarised weak areas of the spleen. By late June, and after bloody fighting in The Battle of Little Sphincter, the empire had encompassed the whole body. Every limb, every orifice. Every fibre, Every follicle. All of it within my control. I had to celebrate. I reached for dram of whiskey…

Power Children's Plastic Urban Cricket Set's solid gold running tips # 2

Distractions. There's nothing more boring than running so you often have to find ways of occupying your thoughts, especially in the early stages before the really digging in begins. I used to go through the plot lines from ER or write jokes such as this one:

Did you hear about the untimely death of the upholsterer?

He had unfurnished business.

Whilst in considerable pain, the thoughts that go through your head can be surprisingly banal. Like remembering that you have to go to bank. This is a good thing. The more your brain thinks about boring things, the better your body can concentrate on running.

Thoughts aside, the finely toned backside of a runner of the opposite sex can do wonders for your focus. Objectifying attractive people can slash minutes off your PB. Just ask Seb Coe. No wait, don't. He'll be too busy with 2012 and all that.

Music is a popular distraction technique but it can get you run over. I'm of the opinion that all this headphone wearing in the public sphere is damaging to society, but that's another thing all together.

So yeah: Rumination and arse. They're my running tips for today.

Power Children's Plastic Urban Cricket Set's solid gold running tips # 1

Disclaimer: The following tips might not make you a better runner and might actually make you a horrible person.

Embrace extremes. I gravitate towards extremes. It's all about addiction. I can binge almost constantly on food and alcohol for a period of up to 6 months with only a handful of runs in all that time, with most of them being mad dashes to the offy before it closes. The amount I can consume in one day is startling and frankly disgusting. And yet I'm strangely proud of my huge appetite. I can eat until I feel really quite ill and then eat some more. This is where extreme lifestyles create transferrable skills for running. To have the determination to carry on through the pain - if ever there was a maxim to define the mental qualities of the long distance runner this would be it. It is a mental toughness that they share with the likes of hot dog eating champions.

When I first got into running I would eat a bowl of muesli for breakfast, an apple for dinner and a carrot for tea and then go running in the evening. It's going from one extreme to another. This is why you get all these cases of unbelievably obese individuals losing over half their body weight using unbelievably restricting diets - It's just addiction transfer. These people clearly have addictive personalities and for many years lard was their vice. But eating little and exercising a lot can become just as addictive. The way I see it everyone's addicted to something you just have to choose the best one for you.

One word of warning: My dad went on the stupid insane extreme route in his youth, eating salad and running 3 hours everyday. And now he can't walk very well. This is what probably isn't said enough - running destroys your legs. So EMBRACE EXTREMES (in moderation).

Fiction - Big Things

The main medium I use for discovery of new music is the radio, mostly because I'm a lazy, passive consumer - It's hypodermic needle model stuff, I just sit there listening to the radio nodding in agreement.

This is one doing the rounds on 6Music at the moment. It has a great groove and it just rolls by. It's an unassuming groove, and has the understated air of a laid back demo take. Like a good funk record, it's a track where the constituent parts make a much greater whole (!? Rewrite: 'Like all music ever,..'). Each individual instrument is as clear as a bell and the overall effect is bright and not at all muddied. I like to be able to aurally pick apart a track like that. Like the work of Dungen (another radio discovery), the vocals are the worst bit. I would happily listen to it without them.

Also it sounds like exactly the kind of music I imagine myself making. Particularly the guitar line that comes in with the drums at approx 1.29. If this sounds like an odd thing to say then I guess it is.

Lost all his amethysts

The above URL (taken from a nonsense lyric from 'The legs of fifty spiders', a nonsense song penned by PCPUCS himself) has taken on a brilliant new meaning, one that I wish I had intended all along.

Apparently, the Ancient Greeks and Romans thought amethysts would protect them from drunkenness and wore them to prevent intoxication. According to Wikipedia, (and I hope I'm not being duped here) the word amethyst comes from the Ancient Greek 'amethystos', basically translated as 'not intoxicated'.

So the above title is saying my protection from inebriation is at zero. I have no chance, I'm done for. It would've been a little cooler if it was more like 'Threw away all his amethysts' - a more impassioned 'throw caution to the wind' kind of thing. But then I guess I probably lost the amethysts the last time I got drunk.

Cellar

I find the mess in the cellar pleasing.

It looks like the day after a party. But the party is 20 years long and no one's sobering up any time soon. Instead of being half-empty cans and pools of sick the items down here include old bathroom tiles, cricket equipment and brass instruments from the long-defunct local church marching band down the road.

There's a perambulator chassis and crates of VHS tapes.

There's receptacles of differing kinds - beer bottles, plant pots, frying pans.

There's mouldy tents and fossils found at Scalby Mills.

The debris piles up as items fall out of day-to-day use upstairs and they come down here to die. It's not a party for inanimate object youths. It's a hospice for inanimate object pensioners. What the hell am I saying, it's a fucking cellar.

Anyroad, here's the photies:

Drums, Drawers, Amp, Keyboard.

Mess.

Pots and Wellies.

Trolley, Tyre, Bedframe, Tent.

Receptacles.

Lamp plus Two.

Drums, Tiles, Umbrella, Amp, Keyboard 1.

Drums, Tiles, Umbrella, Amp, Keyboard 2.

Drums, Tiles, Umbrella, Amp, Keyboard 3.

Stepladder, Beach Wind Shield, Orange jacket left by workman 15 years ago.

Light.

Scars

Today I was thinking about scars. When does a scar become a scar? When does it graduate from being a regular blemish to a lifelong scar? I'm not a dermatologist or anything so don't expect a particularly informed answer. 

I've had this mark on the back of my left hand for 84 days since accidentally stabbing myself with a pen during a card signing confrontation with my brother. I don't know whether to add it to my list of scars.

A few years ago I got one on my right arm when I burnt myself reaching into an oven to get a chip. It was touch and go whether it was going to stick and it was there for a good few months but it has since faded. 

My best scar is between my middle and annular fingers on my left hand. Apparently I got a nail stuck in there when I was a little but I don't remember it. I've had that one 20 years so that one's definitely on the list.

I'd say it takes 6 months for a scar to become official. Perhaps keep it on a probationary period until a year passes then you can mock up a certificate and put it in your logbook and everything.

embroiled in a blog embargo

My computer full on broke. After nearly 3 years of loyal service(barring a period during Winter 07 where it was on loan at Featherstone Rovers)we have parted company.
THE BLUE SCREEN OF DEATH. The appearance of this screen every time the machine starts up has led me to believe that the beautiful dream is over. The only real solace being the above title. Though having said that the more i look at it and say it, the more it sounds like trying to take a dump on a humid canal boat. Maybe it's because blog sounds a bit like 'bog'. And also 'log' as well come to think of it, though thats a bit of tasteless image. Though the whole idea of having a shit on a sweaty ship is an entirely tasteless image. But you don't really taste images anyway, you look at them. Look, observe, analyse. You could lick photos i guess, that could be a thing. Maybe taste a bit chemically. I wouldn't know, i've never done it. I never been on a plane either, but then again going on a plane is an all together more rational human experience. Talking of human experience I went to the bank today to consolidate my accounts and after an hour and twenty minutes i left with three extraneous new ones. How about them England eh? Cricket etc. blah blah blah. I'm going to label this post with scooters, holidays AND autumn. And there ain't nothing you can do about it.

Yeah my laptop died so I may never make another meaningful post ever again.

Ham-fisted Andersen

1. A poorly cobbled together fairy tale or 2. A clumsily written piece that does not meet the initial vision of the author. e.g "I'm not proud of this work. It's a bit of a Ham-fisted Andersen"

This post could be described as a Ham-fisted Andersen.

The Catholic Church

Now there is a lot I could say about the Catholic Church. I’ve been in and around it my whole life. It’s done some good things and it’s done some bad things.
It’s generally considered Jesus was an alright chap and had some sound ideas. Respect your parents, don’t steal or kill, pay your taxes and don’t trust fig trees – we could do well to heed his advice.
But then this whole omnipresent God bit comes into play and that throws me right off. I can’t put a face to the name for a start. At least with Jesus I know where I am. He’s the bearded fella in the dress and sandals. Catholics are a big fan of God, and sometimes I struggle to see why. In a rare and recent Church visit the following passage was sung:

The Lord says”You are my friends,
If you do what I command you”

Now that doesn’t sound like a solid basis for a friendship to me. It sounds like emotional blackmail. I’m guessing God doesn’t have that many close mates, as an ultimatum doesn’t seem like a great way of forming a lasting bond with someone. He comes off sounding like the desperate friend-less psychotic school bully, maintaining solidarity with constant threat and take, take, take. If I was the bullied little catholic I would start re-evaluating the friendship:

“Hang on; I’m down a year’s supply of Skips and an inch-thick pile of football stickers. And what’s he given me? A black eye and the promise of everlasting life in heaven!”

I know that this ‘do what I command you’ statement is probably a poor paraphrase of a much nicer sentiment, but the fact that there were hundreds of people happily singing this refrain many times in a big holy church was mind-boggling to me. If this is what your church really believes I’d get out of there fast. And stop being friends with big nasty God and reclaim your football stickers.

“Oh he’s got Skips dust all over my Ole Gunnar Solskjaer…”