Send Off Party and Fitness reality check

It's been a while since I've written an entry as I have been either busy with gigs, busy with fitness, busy with sports coaching or just too tired to type away in my spare time. Arguably typing on a keyboard isn't the most operose of tasks, however, often you develop a mental block to doing such facile activities. For example, I haven't tried to write any new jokes in the last 5 days, even though it is a process that ultimately only involves me walking around my bedroom repeatedly saying funny swear words to myself in a disparate accents.

I, however, feel that the send off party has produced enough material for me to write about that you lovely readers will enjoy digesting with your eyes. It was a suitably smug and pompous affair in the best possible way. To me, extremely classy events such as this can encourage intolerably self important prigs to acts like helmets and generally be an irritant. However, these events also mean a plethera of extremely attractive and well to do females. I don't want to sound like a horny teenager but I have always believed the matra: write about what you know. Let's just say that I was doing the belt-trick for the majority of the evening. The place was full of chaps that I would normally detest but the event had such a convivial atmosphere that it meant that everyone was polite, pleasant and playfull.

I'm not going to bore you with every minute detail of the event but things that stick out in my memory are, my invitee Ian Gamble using a long white cusion as a pugil stick in a Gladiators type fashion; beers costing £6 a pop, which in the worst economic crisis for some time, seems more than reasonable. I'm of course being sarcastic, £6 a beer= !?*SF**%£!!! (which is Welsh for 'rubbish'); and the world's most narcassitic male toilet. It was made purely of mirrors, which I think is important as they were above knee height. I've always wanted to look at my warhammer from 8 different angles. Now I know that it should always be photgraphed on the left hand side as it's my good side.

Now to fitness matters. I completed my second half marathon in Bath the Sunday before the party in a slower time than my Great North run exploits. I did it in 1hr 51, 12 minutes slower than my 1hr 39 in Newcastle. Factors, which may explain my decrease in time despite generally feeling fitter include running abreast of BJ because it was more enjoyable although probably slowed me down, drinking a few pints the night before and having 2 urine stops during the race. So despite my knees aching the next day at work I was pretty happy with my efforts.

I'm writing this blog just over a week after the Bath Half and I feel more fatigued and dejected as it's the aftermarth of the staff versus 1XI football match. I haven't played an 11 aside match for 2 years and I had forgotten just how knackering it is. The heavy limbs and drained body are even weightier and more baron if you were part of the team that lost 4-1. I played so average and was not helped by the fact I was played on the right of midfield next to all the spectators including my under 16B team in the second half. This means every touch, dribble, falling over (yup that happened) and missed header I did was scrutinissed by the tumultous crowd. I got an extremely scaled down version of what it is like to be Emmanuel Eboue playing at the Emirates and it is bloody awful. I will from now on try my best to never tut or sigh a bad touch from a player as it's really mean. Hopefully on Base Camp there will be no crowd right next to me when I'm fielding otherwise I may have to sub myself off.

Also I hate losing so...

...Yours angrily

Fitness and Cricket on course...sort of

I decided to join in on a bleep test at the school where I work, with the 4th form (13-14 yr olds). I've no idea why posh boys' school's don't just call them by the correct national school year names? Even upper 6th and lower 6th are called upper and lower '8th'- it's just plain annoying when you meet people who went to different schools. For example, if someone tells me they did something when they were in year 8, I never know how old they were, in my head I guess that they were...eight: which is confusing and disturbing if they are referring to when they last their V plates.

Anyway, so I did it and was comfortably chugging along determined to beat level 12.2, which I had achieved in July. Around level 11 it was me and one kid left, he looked extremely comfortable but I was confident he would drop off. At level 12 I was not comfortable whilst he looked like he could have been jogging and simultaneously composing a sonnet while being fed grapes. To sum up, he was comfortable. I started to realise I was not going to beat him and dropped out at 12.6, which although was an improvement was gutting because I'd been beaten by a child. Turns out I had in fact chosen to run in the class that contained the national pentathlete champion for that age group. Shit! I guess there shouldn't have been any shame in that but since I hate losing, shame on me. Pentathlete champ or no Pent. Champ- It's not like he's a real athlete because if he was he would have done the Decathlon, which is twice as manly- Daley Thompson can back me up on that.

Played cricket today at indoor nets and was the first time I'd played properly in 10 years. I was not proper rubbish but I was by no means what one might describe as OK. I was RU-OK. Thanks to some pointers from the very talented Kiwi (I think he's from NZ- it's a sophisticated nickname), he actually showed me how I should stand etc when batting and bowling. It's mentally tiring, you actually have to concentrate all the time, which may sound ridiculous but I only just worked this out and have decided cricket players are no as rotund and lazy as I first thought. Just keeping your head in line with the ball is tricky!

We also did nets after another bleep test followed by 5-aside football. It was a good session and gives some insight into how tired we might be at Base Camp, when we have to bat and bowl at ludicrously high altitude.

Right I have to go as I'm pooped. Don't want to lose to another small child any time soon.