Archive for October 2010
I became a runner about six weeks ago. My little sister threw down the gauntlet and in an act of misplaced bravado I picked it up and slapped her in the face with it. Now I’m racing in the Barcelona marathon in March.
To train I’m running home from work most nights along the Grand Union canal. I might have to plot another route though. As the nights get longer the towpath is beginning to resemble a location from Crimewatch. I’m definitely going to get raped down there. There’s even a grubby tent pitched among the undergrowth on the canalside. A badger lives in a sett. A fox lives in an earth. A rapist lives in a tent by the canal.
Currently my right leg hurts. It’s like Joe Pesci put it in a vice and is screaming at it to find out where the loot is. I feel bad that I dragged my legs into this sorry escapade, but I don’t think I can do this without them. To make it easier for them, I went to a special trainer shop where the helpful staff put you on a treadmill and film you at it. They make most of their profits from submissions to You’ve Been Framed.
The video was enlightening. The shoe operative discovered that I am overpronating onto my right foot which is putting my knee and hip out of alignment. I discovered that my slender ankles and enormous feet together make a bizarre-looking combination when committed to film.
I now have new trainers to help me run properly. It’s always a good start when attempting to run a marathon.
P.S. I know it’s a cliche to write a blog about this sort of thing. But the Ashes is a month away and I refuse to talk about Wayne Rooney. So sorry.
There was a golden time when the BBC would repeat a contracted version of Match of the Day early on a Sunday morning, an edition trimmed of the flabby unpalatable bits where old footballers sit on a sofa and indulge in a guff-filled symposium of the day’s football. I’m not entirely sure why this editorial choice was made. Possibly the entire morning’s schedule was squeezed by the irritatingly bloated musings of David Frost on his magazine show, he was a man who used to take ten minutes just to say hello. Or perhaps Match of the Day in its swollen format contravened some aged tradition that frowned upon the ingestion of industrial-strength punditry on the Sabbath. Or maybe it was deemed that nobody should have to tolerate Mark Lawrenson before the sun had kissed the yardarm.
Match of the Day has received an cruel and unusual quantity of criticism recently. It’s as if football fans have grown tired of continually reprehending those who play it and have turned on those who talk about it. Given this degradation of the public affection for the show, it may be time for the producers to revisit the abridged format not only on a Sunday, but also the night before. They could donate the cash they save on salaries to Pudsey or something.
Colin Montgomerie is a riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a sturdy Gore-tex windcheater. For the large part of his career he has been perceived as just a big angry pair of tits who is a bit good at golf. The butt of a thousand ribald jokes on They Think It’s All Over. The Pringle-clad personification of a harrumph. A man who has systematically ticked off the major section of the golfing fraternity including future members of his European team, vice-captains and fans.
But now everybody loves Colin. Even before the Europeans won. Maybe we appreciated his serious-minded approach. Perhaps it’s the likeness to a haughty cartoon owl with dentures. Or the confounding array of pensive facial expressions. If they ever make a Montgomerie biopic, which they surely will now, then the Creature Comforts artists should be called for. Plasticene is the only substance known to man that could do justice to the extraordinary malleability of the Monty visage. Here’s to you and your face Colin.