That Rule Of Law Thing I Mentioned

I finished my last blog by saying that Peter Hain should know better. I am delighted to find my view echoed by several legal notables. Philip Green gives every impression of being a rough-edged, chippy gobshite but he stands equal before the law with the rest of us. Peter Hain gives every impression of being a smooth, chippy gobshite who enjoys privileges before the law because he is a peer of the realm. I do not begrudge peers their advantages - they are there for a reason. However when those privileges are exercised in a spirit of arrogance and self-righteousness we, the great unwashed, should shout our heads off. And please don't tell me that if the allegations against Green are later proven (I know where my money's going) that such an outcome will justify Hain's presumption - if you think that, I'm sorry, you've missed the point.

Big Fat Pig looking swell

Cheerier news - after an absence of a few weeks I've been out running this week and, a twinge in the knee aside, I feel quite good for a fifty-eight year old with a body ravaged by four decades of rugby. And today, shamed into it by the Groupie, I went to the gym and swam (drowning stylishly maybe) a dozen lengths. It's a start - I hadn't been in a pool for an age. Next year: a couple of triathlons. Watch this space!

Thinking While Running

What with the damage I did to my calf muscle in the Royal Parks Half back in October, a degree of lassitude and, of course, a nicely elongated personal Christmas season (mine started with the Chateau Roberts seasonal shindig on the first weekend of December and finished yesterday - through all of this the Groupie has been shamingly industrious) Big Fat Pig has been neglecting his running of late. So today's outing was the first for an age. And do you know what? It went well by the standard of these things thank you. BFP does seem still to be carrying some residual fitness from all that autumnal effort, which is pleasing.

To distract myself from the anticipated agony of the run I let my mind wander over a range of compelling subjects (well to me) and the resulting pensees are now set before you.

Yesterday witnessed a great piece of test cricket - 198 balls, 258 runs . The achievement should stand long in the memory. On the same day in Australia, 88000 attended a meaningless Twenty20 game in Melbourne while only a paltry 7000 could be arsed to attend a test match at the Sydney Cricket Ground. A great sport stands at death's door and the combined forces of commerce and television couldn't give a shit. The once vaunted West Indies stand emasculated in the test arena, meanwhile one of their better players chooses to ply his trade as a one-day mercenary and feels himself able to use a post-innings interview to make smutty advances to his interviewer - Chris Gayle Behaves Like A Knob . I have of late been reading extracts from the 1960 Wisden whilst at my toilet (this is a polite way of admitting that I keep a copy of Wisden in the bog - as any gentleman should). This was just before the advent of professional one-day cricket and although it was a world which clearly had to change we now face the simultaneous defenestration of baby and bathwater. I have no answer to all of this but can only observe that it is a monstrous pity.

Yum yum

Great discovery of the Christmas period was the rioja recommended to me by the estimable staff at Majestic for our party - Vina Majestica - bosting as we Masters of Wine are prone to say.

War and Peace on BBC1 last night. Pacy and involving and nostalgically plush. However, not entirely sure that we needed the addition of some incest to the Tolstoy mix. And how are they going to do justice to the whole thing in just six episodes? Judging by last night it will be fun finding out.

No half marathon this year but might dip my toe back in the triathlon waters. Pig in water, pig on a bike, pig on the run.

It has ocupied nine troubling years but just before Christmas my psychiatrist released me from her care. I will never be (probably never have been) entirely well but I have a far greater understanding of what ails me and a hugely increased tolerance of mental illness - my own and other people's. The process has been shambolic at times but overall it has been a great advertisement for the beleaguered NHS.  The service is in disarray and remains unmanageable in any commercial context, however it and the love of my family and friends conspired to save my life. Thank you all. I will do my level best to stay better.

And then the run was over. Three miles. Just thnk what mental elevation I will achieve as I get to longer distances. I bet you can't wait.
 





  

Dave's World Of Sport

So I got up like. And like I wanted to hit some golf balls so I first did some shopping, Easter egg for the wife, tuna for the cats, choc chip muffins for general consumption. But then I was on my way to the Belfry and like I remembered that there's a tournament there this week (Euro Pro tour) so the range will be out of commission. So I turned the car round and headed home. Good job really because when I got here the cats had got another neighbourhood cat cornered in the family room. I organised its evacuation via the garage. Then I had a coffee and like I thought that I really ought to get some exercise. Got into my running gear, donned the magic Oakleys and headed out of the door. I felt really pretty good and had determined to do about four miles. Two minutes and thirty-four seconds, that's how long I lasted before the calf muscle went again. Two minutes and thirty-four sodding seconds. Hobbled home. Cats were behaving themselves this time. But like I still wanted some exercise so I think, you know, I'll go out on the precious push bike. One minute forty-seven seconds, one minute forty-seven sodding seconds I lasted before I realised the calf wasn't up to cycling either. So like I'm home again and still feeling that I want some exercise. The only thing is to go to Fairlawns and have a swim. So that is what I did and there the story gets better because I thrashed my way through thirty lengths and achieved a sense of immense well-being. Now I've had some lunch like and next I'm going to clean-up the cat puke that Piglet (she's one of the cats) has just deposited in the hall. So it goes. Like.  

Through A Glass Lightly

The best sporting (spectating category) week of the year has been and gone and the Roberts wallet has emptied itself all over Cheltenham - bookies the principal beneficiaries but with a passing mention for the kind people of the Cornish Pasty Company who have now replaced in my affections the Foot Long Hotdog Company, of whom no sighting this year. I do hope all is well and that our paths will cross again.

On Tuesday I travelled by National Express coach which was far, far better than I had snobbishly imagined. On the way I enjoyed the excited hubbub of five lads behind me. The efforts of the most knowledgeable to explain each way betting to the uninitiated was worth the price of admission alone. Also memorable was the reaction to certain horse names being read aloud. To Pete The Feat came the raucous imparting of the fact that there was someone known as Pete The Feet 'down the cricket club - he's got two wooden feet and never wears any shoes.' I saw the lads again on the return trip and they seemed to have enjoyed it. On that leg of the trip I was sat next to a loquacious Irishman who made light conversation and asked if I knew where Spearmint Rhino was - I did but couldn't aver to the cost of a dance.

One thing blessedly missing from my coach trips was any sign of homo chavus but you should catch Paddy Power's brilliant internet commercial which tackles this subject with an apt lack of tact.

 

 

I did Wednesday and Thursday in a shared taxi which came to about as much as the train and delivered us to the door of the Albion Social Club (day membership £2, beer cheap as chips, chips cheaper than chips) for an early start to both sessions. Cracking. Thanks to all concerned in making this another memorable week. If only that French outsider hadn't been pipped on the line it would have been a great week but still I had a nice each way pick-up.

 

Now attention turns toward the best sporting (participation category) week of the year - The Dunmore East Golf Classic. As avid readers will know my game is in a state of reckless abandonment and beyond rescue, not that I care greatly. I'm not planning any work on  my game between now and the big day but I do plan to get back into triathlon training so that I can fit into my golf trousers by the end of April. Return of Iron Dave. Watch this space.

It's A Miracle

In the last three days I have been for a run (very short, very windswept, waves crashing over the Benllech sea wall, mega) and I have been out on the dream machine (20k decentish time, no mechanical failure) and , here's the important bit, I haven't injured myself. This, despite my attention grabbing headline, is not a miracle. There is a scientific explanation - and here it is - I've been wearing my new go-faster Ironman sunglasses. Very swish. I don't look at all like a stupid tit with these on. I look hard and cool at the same time. Which is altogether terrific when you consider I bought them in Sainsbury's.

All Of life Is There

Man and beloved Cannondale in
perfect harmony

Well ok not all of life, not even all of my life, but quite a nice slice of it. It's been a busy few days.

On Friday and putting aside the various excuses (all plausible but none compelling) I got out on the bike again. I am very saddle sore today but the virtuousness has not quite dissipated. It is going to be a diet of cycling and swimming from now on - the running just causes me too many bloody injuries. I'll leave the running for my refereeing and the few triathlons I still aim to do. I love the event but the road running just doesn't love me. The latest addition to the catalogue has been a thigh pull which lamed me a couple of weeks ago. Old age, a super-structure too large for the chassis (ie fat) and bad luck are all against me. As the Pet Shop Boys so ably put it, what have I, what have I, what have I done to deserve this?

As it happens, yes I am

It was off to that London again on Friday evening to stay with Daughter Number One, who, by the way, is admirably well-adjusted, self-sufficient and altogether an example to her old man still scrabbling around in search of his destiny. The purpose of my southern travel was my Olympic volunteer training alongsige 9,999 other 'Games Makers' at Wembley Arena. I am prohibited from reporting upon that training in detail (which I know sounds prissy but I take such undertakings seriously)  but suffice it to say that my anticipation of the Games is heightened. I sat between a giant man from Matlock (of roughly my age at a guess) who charmingly admitted that he had now conceded he would never compete at a games and that this was his only chance of involvement, and a nice young lass from Bristol University who sported, I noticed, one of those 'WWJD' (What Would Jesus Do?) bracelets, though not at all ostentatiously. I have decided that, on balance, I find such things admirable. Which you will probably agree is pretty big of me.

Soothes the savage beast

The low point of the weekend was my laughable attempt to find the only West End cinema showing Coriolanus yesterday afternoon. I tramped all over Bond Street, Picadilly and Regent Street in the pissing down rain getting ever angrier with an unaccommodating world - this I believe the psychiatrists call displacement activity, an action contrived to help keep me from the realisation that I'm a wanker who really should write things down. By the time I reached the divine ICCo (it stands for Italian Coffee Company) at 46 Goodge Street (write that down because you should go there) the displacement had ceased to be operative and I was firmly convinced of my wankerdom but £4.50 on a pepperoni (I know - it really is that cheap) later I had calmed down a little and resolved to cut my losses and head out of the Smoke for home.

Trains are good for self esteem because almost invariably one encounters people so much more dreadful than oneself. It is terribly reassuring. Yesterday it was a youngish affluentish couple, married, though not to each other and who plainly felt it droll that they were going to Birmingham to visit Imogen who, poor soul, has ended up being forced to live there. WWJD, I found myself wondering. To which I answered that he would probably travel economy and thereby expose himself to yet worse privations.

I was pondering a bottle of cab sauv as I settled my weary self before the television when I had a moment of inspiration. Might Coriolanus be showing at the Midland Arts Centre? Well what do you know. So I dashed back out and across the city and even had time for a bolted glass of sauvignon blanc before hunkering down in an aisle seat for a satisfying cinematic two hours.

   

Ralph Fiennes gets much right. His  Caius Martius Coriolanus is bloodily magnificent, unforgiving and unforgiven. Vanessa Redgrave's Volumnia is perhaps even better. James Nesbitt does his best Martin McGuiness as Sicinius the tribune. Liberties are taken but hey ho, they always have been. Allowing Menenius an honourable suicide gives the character greater moral heft than the text warrants but it works in its modern context. I can even accept the intertextuality of Coriolanus' elevation/descent (this can depend on your political sympathies) into Colonel Kurtz territiory. See it - an intelligent and provocative addition to the canon. What we now need is a similarly bloody Julius Caesar to stand alongside this and Julie Taymor's raucous Titus in a modern Roman trilogy. Perhaps Tarnatino could be persuaded to have a stab - how marvellous if the bard could provoke him into a finally mature film.

Seeing Redgrave in such magisterial form reminded me that the last time I had seen her was in an irritating interview about Anonymous. No doubt dutifully toeing the party line she gave credence to that film's advocacy of the Earl of Oxford as author of Shakespeare's works. I will let the real David Roberts (professor of the species, head of the School of English at BCU) explain why this is unworthy bollocks,

If you see Anonymous and feel remotely persuaded by it, find a copy of James Shapiro’s Contested Will or Samuel Schoenbaum’s Shakespeare’s Lives. There, you’ll find a commodity that doesn’t concern Emmerich or his backers: the truth.

Quite. That bit of specious crap from Redgrave puts me in mind of something similarly assinine currently making news. Sean Penn. Creditable actor and if we do have to query the sanity of a man who married Madonna we can at least credit him with having divorced her. But now he is on the movie star equivalent of a state visit to South America and Sean thinks that we Brits should give Las Malvinas to poor little Argentina. Has this man no sense of irony, indeed has he never seen his own role in the brilliant Team America? Sean son, a word to the wise - keep your trap shut. And I should stay away from Catterick for a while as well. A nice piece in The Telegraph (not words you hear from me that often) spears this knob rather well,

America’s claim over Malibu is tenuous and rooted in patriarchy. Sean Penn’s house is a mocking reminder of that brute chauvinism, with its high white walls and spacious interiors. Its swimming pool is an insult to the honour of the Mexican people.

The Unquiet American

And while you're at it Sean, how about giving, I dunno, say, Massachusetts back to native Americans. Be a nice gesture.

World Wakes Up But Rust Never Sleeps

Even as I penned my little piece yesterday, it seems somebody was coming to the same conclusion - see Standard & Poor's Downgrade US Debt

But there is a price to be exacted for such smart-arsery. Iron Dave set off on his long training run after writing of his impending triathlon, the South Coast Olympic Tri to be exact, But bad news sports fans, ID will not now be appearing at Seaford next Saturday because 37 minutes and 20 seconds into a very satisfactory outing the bloody calf muscle went again. Iron Dave is rusty and we may have to conclude that there is no cure for this condition. If he were a horse he would be put down.

Solace has been at hand however. One can take for granted the small beauties on one's doorstep. Today I took my ancient mountain bike for a lengthy spin in Sutton Park and the world became a better place. This afternoon I have rodded the drains, always a most satisfying distraction for the desk-bound alpha male. For connoisseurs of these things, I used the claw attachment because I was trying to locate a blockage between house and inspection chamber. Caustic soda has also been involved in this little project. Fun, fun, fun. Which, in a markedly different way, I am also hoping will be the case tomorrow when I travel to Bath for a Shakespeare mini-marathon - Henry IV Part I in the afternoon and Part II in the evening. Follow these very wise words,

Brush up your Shakespeare
Start quoting him now
Brush up your Shakespeare
And the women you will wow.

That's all folks.

 

Wage Slavery

Last week I received my first payslip since April 1988. Qu'est ce que c'est le PAYE? Is this part of the global social democratic conspiracy? I've been rather more used to paying my tithe in lumpy sums in January and July.

Those twenty years of self-employment (succeeded by the Dave the Student Part II years of self-unemployment) had worn away memories of the good and the bad sides of working for the Man. The good side: you are contracted for set hours and the buck stops - over there; you get a fixed reliable income; membership of the masses; anonymity. The bad side: lack of ownership (all the guff about 'stakeholders' is so much Blairite bollocks); lack of excitement; anonymity; PAYE. Mind you I'm quite glad to be out of the enterprise community (or whatever it might fashionably be termed) in the current conditions: countries that can't/won't pay their debts; America dumbly failing to grasp that for the first time in its history it has a socialist president; banks that won't lend to anyone; America agreeing that it's in order to borrow $17trillion (wtf is a trillion anyway) on the never-never; Vince Cable bearer of the greatest misnomer in politics, 'Business Secretary'. Suddenly wage slavery doesn't seem so unappealing. Oh and for the past couple of days we have had capital markets in free-fall because the chinless wonders of the trading floors have suddenly twigged what the rest of us knew aeons ago, that there is no puissant political will to sort the mess out. But there is always good news if you look hard enough. Danny Baker was the deserving castaway on Desert Island Discs this morning, an accolade richly earned and a nice change from the self-serving bums more usually featured.

Triathlon: Iron Dave's day of destiny looms and ID is not ready. He has not done enough swimming. Or cycling. Or running. He has had two punctures in eight days. A spoke broke on the rear wheel of the dream machine. ID has a week to put all of this right, which cannot, of course, be done. Discretion is the better part of valour but stupidity is the better part of Dave. No more Doctor Faggot.

Drowning But Not Waving

Well sports fans, for those worried that blog inactivity signalled the failure of The Overgraduate to negotiate his first open water swim, the good news is that I am still here. Chastened but not defeated. I survived. I finished. But shit man it was hard work. Nothing prepares you for the sheer bloody panic of setting off in the freezing cold water to cross a lake while all around you is a frenzy of thrashing limbs belonging to people who seem to be far better equipped than you to cope with the ordeal. I had literally gone about twenty metres when I first considered quitting. It was cold, I couldn't see where I was going and I missed the comforting taste of chlorinated water which I associate with successful swimming. I tacked my way round the buoys with liberal resort to backstroke and must have covered a good twenty-five per cent extra distance. Still there were quite a few blokes behind me when I staggered out of the lake. However they had all ridden off into the distance by the time I had inexpertly fought my way out of the wet-suit. Bike ride was very hard with unreasonable hills. Run was bearable. I got a medal but no tee-shirt this time, which I thought was a bit of a chizz. Knackered. Chastened. Much more training required, not least practising looking where I'm bloody going. Story of my life.

Yesterday I Was Angry But Today I Am Merely A Little Sad

Yesterday in the mother of parliaments two young blokes who read PPE at that Oxford spat indignation at each other - so far as I could tell the one with the speech impediment was accusing the posher one of killing cancer patients by taking their benefits off them, and the posh one was suggesting that the dribbly one was a half-wit. Very possibly they were both right but they would be wrong if they felt many members of the public were taking much interest. If we get the politicians we deserve then the British must have done something awfully beastly. It wasn't me gov, honest.

So that made me a bit angry, which melted away to mere sadness. I was also angry that the polity (give or take the couple of people who agree with me - the people who always get to sit alone on the bus) so ardently refuses to see things as I do. This anger too has dimmed to tristesse because it is really too, too tiring being that vexed all the time. So let me share with you a list of things that seem bleeding obvious to The Overgraduate but elude most everyone else.



Trade Union leader

Fat clown

• Bob Crow is an ignorant oik.
• A private sector worker would have to make contributions of 37% of his annual wages throughout his career to purchase a pension equivalent to that of a public sector worker. As an economist might put it - this is not sustainable.
• Nationalised industries tend to a condition where they are run for the benefit of their employees and not that of their customers. This state of affairs is arguably justifiable but the people who bring about this condition should be honest enough to admit it and should additionally be horse-whipped when they have the gall to plead that all that concerns them is patient care/education/[please insert platitude of choice].
• Not all doctors and nurses are saints and angels. Many are. Some are lazy, vain, greedy etc. Same goes for all professions, not least my own.
• As long as we choose to measure poverty by reference to a proportion of average earnings, the poor will always be with us.
• Not all the rich are bastards. Some are quite nice. Others are lazy, vain, greedy etc, not least my own profession.
• High rates of marginal tax serve only a punitive purpose. If that's what you want, fine, but be honest about your motives. And accept that it will not cure any economic ills, merely salve some consciences in the salons of Islington. 
• Early retirement, low taxes, generous state pensions. These things can be achieved in unison. I mean bloody hell, Greece did it. Whoops. 
• People are living far longer than they did at the time the welfare state was conceived. Failing to acknowledge this is plain thick.
• Our railway system is a disgrace and an example of what happens when dogma dominates good sense. Surely we can do better.

That's all folks. Oh, no it's not actually. I did a brick (bike/run) yesterday and the calf held up so it is all systems go for triathlon number 2 on Sunday. Which I hope might better dispose me to the world. Briefly.

Finishing Line Photo

Unlike the moon landing, this has not been faked. Cool shades hey?

Big Fat Pig Completes First Triathlon

The Overgraduate without his Gok pants

I did it. Mark the date. Mark the place (Stratford-upon -Avon). All the greats have to start somewhere. I am now officially a triathlete. A very slow, stiff legged triathlete but a triathlete nonetheless. Photographic proof to follow, if someone can help me with the technology. I may even model the race T-shirt for you. I shall, of course, be wearing it casually about town for the next few months. I still wear my London Marathon shirt and that was 1996 for God's sake. I know I don't look old enough.

Because of my novice status and my (utterly accurate and honest) assessment of my swimming time I am out with those doing the relay triathlon (lazy bastards) and those doing the laughably named 'fun triathlon' (wimps) which meant they were only swimming and running half the distance but with the full bike ride thrown in. Indoor swim and we are sent off at 15 second intervals. I overtake a couple and one bloke overtakes me but I catch and repass him on the final length. Out of the pool, hand in my swimming cap (never worn one before - feels weird), down the slippery steel steps and into Transition 1. Have you ever tried to put socks onto damp feet really quickly without falling over? Bloody difficult. Swallow my pride and eventually sit down on the job. Number 955 grabs his mean machine and heads out onto the Warwickshire roads. As I had suspected this turns out to be my best discipline by a mile. I am passed by no one and I overtake a stack of people including quite a few who had gone off on their half swim before I started my full one. Feeling pretty chipper as I cruise back into Transition.

Been there, done that, got the T-shirt

Pride cometh before a fall. I have hardly done any running because of my penchant for injuring my legs and have definitely not done enough bricks (bike + run training - see Overgraduate 26 Feb 2011). The last fortnight spent carbo-loading with Guinness has not helped either. (Note to self - this form of sporting diet is crap). Anyway Pig pulls away smoothly enough and I soon pass a chap I had spoken to at the pool side and who is only doing the wimp version. Clearly an inexcusable lightweight. Legs feeling heavy as expected but wind feels good. I can do this. Do feel a litttle sick which is my own stupid fault for showing off by eating an unneeded energy bar during the bike ride. Then a new sensation - my back goes into spasm, something it hasn't done for years. Stop. Stretch. It eases. Run again. Spasm. Stop. Stretch. Run. You get the picture. Net result a few people pass me but not as many as I overtake, mind you we are not exactly the finest flower of English youth out on the course at this stage. I even muster the energy for some gallantry at the end. A woman suddenly halts to a walk ahead of me. I coast (this is an exaggeration) up to her and encourage her to run with me for the short distance that remains. We chat briefly - I am relieved to find she is only doing the 'Fun' tri and she kindly feigns admiration of my greater effort. At the finish line I let her sprint ahead - that's my story anyway.

I cross the line to the cheers of my fan club - all two of them (Sharon and Helen) and pose for the triumphant photo. Bloody marvellous. Back now fine of course.

Verdict? Bring on the next one - Yorkshire 19 June is the plan, including my open water/wet suit debut. Absolutely miles better than a marathon - at least this time there was no sod in a rhino costume outsprinting me.    

... Are Brilliant Mark VII

Chapter seven in an occasional series on cultural icons and other stuff wot i like. Today we have: Modern Family. If you haven't caught this yet, please do so. Funny, warm, even edgy, all at the same time. This restores one's faith in the good old U.S of A. This is highly skillful mass market quality television comedy that we don't really do any more. Whatever did happen to the Likely Lads?

We are also today liking a newish beat combo called Goldheart Assembly, heard playing on Radio 4 and from whose website you can download their rather lovely new single for free - Goldheart Assembly

On an unrelated subject, please wish me luck because tomorrow the Overgraduate aims to become a triathlete. I have been carbo-loading for a full two weeks so if you see a fat middle aged bloke trailing around Stratford tomorrow hours after everyone else has finished, you will know who it is. If however he is lying on the floor please pick him up and point him in the direction of the nearest chip shop so that he can refuel.

What Damage? Sienna Miller - The Naked Truth

So it turns out that the Geriatric Wankers Weekly really was hacking loads of phones after all. Comme on dit en francais, 'Quelle bloody surprise.' This does give us the chance to post a gratuitous snap of Sienna Miller under the guise of newsworthiness. Which will probably cause a mysterious increase in the number of hits the blog receives today, particularly as I contrive to incorporate the word 'naked' into my text. I regard anything that brings The Overgraduate to a wider audience as justifiable. It is for the greater good.

Because La Miller is at the heart of something that is mystifying me. The GWW has apparently offered to pay her a hundred grand in damages for the breach of her privacy. Now the GWW was surely breaking the criminal law in what it did and nobody will shed a tear if the whole excrement scented shower of them get put away - and that includes Andy Coulson who it would appear is either an egregious liar or an unbelievably lax/incompetent editor, neither of which is going to be an ornament on his CV you would think. But, and this is the bit I'm struggling to understand, how did Sienna suffer a cool hundred thousand's worth of damage as a result of what they did. Or indeed any of the other great and good who are queueing up to have a dip into Rupert's money. We note, by the way, that the lovely Max Clifford (who does at least choose to be well advised) has accepted the coin already proffered to him by GWW's retained shisters - definitely a good move since it is difficult to imagine anything that might have been published which in any way lowered him in the public estimation and thereby caused him damage. But lo, what is this I see - it is a judge talking some sense. Have a read and dig it out of the BBC report because this aspect of the tawdry spectacle will not get much attention. Being clever and a judge are not mutually exclusive - something else you won't find generally conceded. See Unspeakable/Uneatable



Big Dick  Ben

 And another thing. The Overgraduate's favourite politician, St Vince of Twickenham, has been at it again, swinging his political dick around. It has to be granted that once again he seems inviolable (PM Bottles It Again) yet more proof that those in our government with balls don't have brains and those with brains don't have balls. A larger number have neither. Bloody hell it makes you proud to be British.

Irresistible Cheap Shot

To far more important matters. My training and continuing injury woes. The triathlon is imminent and the all-important penultimate week of preparation is already scheduled to be spent on the piss in Ireland. Not good. Now public spending cuts and school holidays have malignly conspired to stop me swimming. The City of Birmingham has now confined the largesse of free swimming to the hours  of 1.00 to 4.00. This is manageable for the mature student but the City has also thrown open the pool to its yoof for the next couple of weeks so lane swimming is out in favour of dive bombing, heavy petting and other manifestations of pubescent natation. End result: can't run, can't swim; confined to the lovely new bike. Plus I've got final assignments to complete before I swan off to Ireland to rescue their economy. Bad planning. I blame the boy Cameron.    

Nature Is Trying To Tell Me Something ... And I'm Not Going To Listen

Hamstring is better. It's official. I've been out running on it  a fair bit recently. Trouble is I was well into my fourth mile the other day, feeling not a little chuffed with myself, when the sodding, bleeding, buggering calf muscle went again. That's it, the self same injury I was whinging about last summer and which transported me to the acupuncturist. Give up Dave, give up - that seems to be Mother Nature's message to the Roberts' body. But we will not give in so easily. If running is going to cause these breakdowns I have a simple solution - I will train for my triathlon by swimming and cycling only and trust that my legs will stand up to the strain of the actual day. I am not old. I am not old. I am stupid but I AM NOT OLD.



Bert from Sesame Street
Working Class Hero

 I received a letter the other day from this bloke I've never met but who nonetheless feels comfortable enough to address me 'Dear David.' Cheeky young whipper-snapper. Anyway it seems this bloke desperately wants to know what my priorities are and is going to do something about them 'For you, your family and your friends.' I am touched that he should be so concerned. So here is the list of what I want Ed Milliband (for it is he who has so importuned me)

• I would like people not to take it for granted that they may use my christian name unbidden. I do actually prefer to be addressed by it but I also like the politeness implicit in asking first.
• I would very much like to live in a country that believes social mobility can be a matter of upward aspiration rather than something achieved by resenting and choking high achievement so as to elevate the status of the politburo.
• I would like to be a citizen of a country that is not compelled to underwrite the bailing-out of basket-case economies such as Portugal.
• I would like to live in a country that held some gold reserves and not one that sold at the bottom of the market.
• I would like to be governed by politicians who strive beyond a fixation with class. Your snide remarks in your Budget response about the Chancellor's skiing holiday were monumentally pathetic. Lifelong politicos like you Ed make comically poor class warriors. Didn't they learn you nothing at Oxford. Ooh sorry there's that chip on my shoulder showing.
• I would like to be left alone to live my life in accordance with my conscience and not one dictated to me by anyone else, least of all you Ed (or is it Edward in fact?)

So Mr Milliband I will not be taking up your invitation to 'keep talking' but you are free to read The Overgraduate any time you like. When you bump into Vince Cable, David Cameron or any of the rest of the shameful crew of the good ship Britain please pass on Mr Roberts' regards and ask them ever so politely to make sure they leave space in the lifeboats for the rest of us. Oh and can you please sort out my calf injury as part of Health Service reforms. If you do that you can have my single transferable vote as many times as I'm allowed to give it.

The First Brick - The Whole Wall

My training bible is Triathlon Training for Dummies but it let me down the other day. I was in university early for a supervision on the Vile Bodies project (see the other blog for the full pain of my artistic vacillations, which is my term for not actually writing anything) and was planning a nice swim on the way back but as I drove past Wyndley the packed car park reminded me it was half term and that the middle classes had obviously all decided to take junior swimming that very day. So home I came and made a fateful decision - it was time for my first brick. Brick? Described thus by my bible,

A brick is a bike/run workout in which you go for a run immediately after a bike ride. These back to back workouts teach your legs to go from one sport to the next, making your transition on event day easier and preparing you for that heavy-legged feeling you'll have when you start running after a bike ride.

Overgraduate attempts his first brick
 as spectators piss themselves laughing

Heavy-legged? You're not bloody kidding. Felt like I was dragging my arse along the floor. Managed fifteen minutes only (in fairness I had done a good pace for an hour on the bike, but even so) before collapsing into a heap. I need to do some more of these as a matter of urgency. I have been avoiding running because of my persistent heel injury and the niggling muscle strains I have picked up while refereeing, but have now decided to grin and bear it because it is not sufficient to rely on the refereeing mileage.

Notwithstanding the sheer sodding pain I felt pretty virtuous as I settled down that evening to drink red wine and watch Bright Young Things (ok but not life changing, more on the other blog), smug and secure in the knowledge that I would not be refereeing this weekend because my game had been called off. Then the phone rang and Mick Cowley reminded me of a drunken promise I had made to ref a match under the lights at AOE last night. Got to be honest, I'd clean forgotten. Anyway there is a happy ending because I got through that match unscathed and had a jolly good time. All of which served to remind me that rugby union is the world's best game and that Sunnybank Avenue is the best place to be involved in it. This second point was in no way contradicted by watching the joyless drivel of Super 15 rugby on Sky this morning, though the first is challenged by such inanity. In all the games I referee the collapsing scrum is hardly a problem notwithstanding the variable sizes and abilities of those involved. Professional rugby needs to get its house in order and quickly in this regard before some southern hemisphere half-wits take it upon themselves to legislate away one of union's distinctive and magnificent features. I refuse to believe that professional athletes cannot be conditioned to bloody well stay on their feet. Sort it out or our game dies a little. You are custodians of a grand tradition so stop being so self-indulgent.

Training Again

The Beast is back, sort of. I got out on the bike yesterday for ninety odd minutes and tackled a few hills without total collapse. Pleasingly I seem to have improved immeasurably in the vital skill of eating and drinking whilst on the move. What made this discovery doubly rewarding was that the food in question was a cheapo muesli bar from the multi-pack I acquired at my absolute favourite retail emporium, the 99p Store at Mere Green, an enterprise risen from the ashes of the Woolworth unit. Twelve bars for 99p ie 8p a throw. The packaging announces that they are manufactured 'in the EU' so child labour can probably be discounted (or does that assumption make me naive or, worse, credulous?) but you have to wonder how anyone makes a profit. Anyway get down there while stocks last for your sports nutritional needs. Check out the toiletries as well. My various kit bags are now furnished with knock-down (knock-off?) deodorants. I smell lovely and have funds left for other vices. Should I take up smoking? Or is pornography more suited to a post-structuralist? I bet Roland Barthes smoked. The French all do.

As I look at the 99p Stores logo it occurs to me how dangerous inflation is. As we tolerate inflation so my favoured shop will be able to stock fewer and fewer items or will have to change its name - to Woolworth perhaps. There is a serious point in this. We poor buggers who remember the 70s and their early 80s hangover can tell you just how pernicious is uncontrolled inflation. There is a misguided notion in our current politics that a bit of inflation is no bad thing. I heard it neatly described the other day as a mechanism that transfers the burden of lifting recession from reckless borrowers (and that description definitely includes feckless governments) onto savers.

Enough special pleading. It's not just the cycling that's back in focus. Swimming as well. Fortified by my new economical stroke (courtesy of Sue's Swimming School - seriously that's what they're called) I set a new distance PB at lunchtime today and did so at a better than average pace. Still slow but not drowning. That should be my motto although I am also tempted by 'Per ardua ad Vauxhall Astra' which nicely sums up the struggle to achieve mediocrity. I'll get there some day.

.... Are Brilliant Mark IV

The Aubrey/Maturin novels of Patrick O'Brian. I have Dad to thank for putting me on to these. I would generally say that historical novels or naval stories are not my sort of thing but these are just plain good writing. Alan Judd is right,

the most significant extended story since Anthony Powell's 'A Dance to the Music of Time'

I've recently completed number 12 of 20 so lots more fun to look forward to.

The Ryder Cup. I was ambivalent about the latest renewal (partly irked by Montgomeries's omission of Casey - still think this was misguided) but I was of course wrong. You couldn't have scripted the finale and expected to be believed.

Film Noir in general but particularly Touch of Evil. Orson Welles - consummate show-off but with the talent to make it work without annoying. Quentin Tarantino please note. Another reason to admire Welles - he was for a time married to Rita Hayworth. They don't make 'em like that any more.

The Heineken Cup. Proper rugby, bloody by tooth and claw. Looking forward to the final in Cardiff next May already, tickets are bought and hotels booked. Boys on tour. At around that same time I will be aiming to do my first triathlon which should make for an interesting hole in my training. Which goes well still. Lost another pound last week so continuing in the right direction. Cycling on the menu for tomorrow.

Returning to Thursday's theme (see The Wrong Marine, 14 October) today's martial stylee cliche - revenge is a dish best served cold. The Beast will be suitably cool by tomorrow.

Acupuncture III ... And Training ... And Drinking

There are two great ways of enjoying sport. Best of all you play and then socialise with your teammates and opponents. As an alternative you can watch someone else perform in the company of friends and then socialise (by which I have to be honest I mean drink) anyway. This is generally not as good as playing - thrills are best had non-vicariously. But occasionally you hit upon a truly uplifting dose of spectating as I did last weekend. England - 10 New Zealand - 13, final of the Women's Rugby World Cup. The Black Ferns were enviably controlled and efficient, deserved winners despite three yellow cards justly imposed on them. England were ferociously brave and endearing to the large crowd at the Stoop. We wandered onto the pitch at the end and spoke to the England coach. Gary was disappointed but proud of how the team had played. Too bloody right he was. The whole tournament has been a breath of fresh air and got me looking forward to the new season.

Which brings me to acupuncture. I submitted to some more yesterday and I am going to chance my dodgy calf muscles this weekend having had to cry off last week. My selection of vibrant shirts, two watches, two whistles and yellow and red cards (unused last year) are packed and ready. The Big Fat Ref is back. Actually not quite so fat any more. The training regime has continued on the bike and in the gym and the wobble has diminished. My first remedial swimming lesson beckons on Saturday as a warm-up for the afternoon refereeing. God I wish I were twenty, no make that twenty-five years younger. If I'd known then what I know now I might have been a player not to mention a better husband, father and lawyer. Oh well, shit happens as the personal injury lawyers never say.

Where was I? Oh yes good company. The Overgraduate  thanks  JS, TW, BM and GL who made it such a memorable weekend in that London. Thanks as well to the staff and the beer selection at The Prince of Wales Feathers which is now officially my local when I am in London. It serves beer with breakfast which strikes me as rather civilised for those of us who can handle such things, what one might term morally distressed gentlefolk.   

Acupuncture

The dedicated reader will be concerned about my calf muscles particularly as we stand at the dawn of a new rugby season and I am required to referee on Satrurday. All orthodox cures having failed I will in twenty minutes be acupunctured for the first time in my life. Report to follow.