Run for your Life
Well, what a difference a week makes. Or does it? I know this much, I am knackered with a Capital-Kicking-Kay. Four days exercise last week, coupled with - so far - Three days this, has left my ravaged frame devoid of any vestige of vigour or vim. Although at this point I feel I should state that any similarity between my definition of 'exercise' and, say, Paula Ratcliffe's, would show that the English language has, at times, an inadequacy we can barely comprehend. If the Inuit need eight million words - or so I'm led to believe - to describe different types of snow, then we need at least two to distinguish my version of becoming breathless and red-faced with Paula's. For yes - my va-va-voom va-va-vanished soon after my initial, arrogant reintroduction to the treadmill. A couple of sessions later I was no better. Far from dreams of my once-svelte chassis returning, all the future appeared to hold was heart failure and shin splints.
A complete change of regime was called for.
"I know" I thought, "I'll pack it in".
But no. I knew I couldn't. Hadn't I already informed Blogworld? "Doh!!!!!!"
So, back to the drawing board. No more jogging. Too much strain involved. It was time to start looking at the other
So, first up I spot a ski-like contraption with two plates for your feet coupled with two poles for your hands to hold. I'd spotted a lean, mean workout machine with immaculate gelled hair, nonchalantly Franz Hammer-ing his way through an entire Richard and Judy (there are personal TVs on every appliance) a few evenings before. He spent most of the time giggling at their every utterance. It was evidently a doddle. I strode purposefully towards it. I assumed the position described in the faded, laminated instructions blue-tacked to the just-too-far-away-if-you-haven't-got-yer-glasses 'control-panel'.
I became, seconds after pressing the button marked 'START', a flailing, screaming rag doll. Fearing for my head, which was thrashing wildly on my whiplashing neck, I frantically attempted to prod the button marked 'STOP FOR FUCK'S SAKE'. In my defence, given the wild perambulations of my napper, the fucking thing kept going in and out of focus. Old eyes - what a waste of space in situations like this. To no avail. I pressed and pressed and punched and banged and, finally, jumped.
All activity had stopped. Apart from the ski-machine, which was still thrutching away like the automaton it was; whirring and sniggering, malevolently in the alcove by the window. The other, sleeker, shinier, handsomer, healthier, full-of-breath dick-for-brains tore their sweat-free faces from MTV to watch the new kid make a pillock of himself. Most sniggered, some guffawed. One, with a physique like Michaelangelo's David, explained how the controls worked and how some devious bastards thought it fun to 'Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun' before they leave.
He was OK. The rest?
Twats.
Anyway, come Thursday I'd switched to the cycle-machine. It was just like riding me bike. I felt comfortable and I'm also constantly cycling (with no freewheeling) rather more than I did when I cycled to and from work each day. Suddenly I feel like I'm achieving something.
On top of that, I can watch Richard and Judy while I'm doing it.
So, by this morning - a week after this reckless decision, and a week that included many drinkypoos and even one barbecue, I've lost 3 pounds. Weight loss AND Richard and Judy - result.
Mind you, I'm off to Prague for four days in a couple of weeks and then I'm having a party for my 50th. Ah well.............
Now, as for trivial news such as The Butler Report..........one word: whitewash. Hmmm. Or is it two words? White wash. Oh, who gives a shit. Blair lied. So did Bush. But, hey! Nobody was to blame! Yee Ha!
You know, at least the likes of Anthony Eden had the decency to stand down. Even Lyndon B Johnson could see the writing on the wall. Why don't politicians take responsibility for their actions anymore? The last honourable resignation I can remember was Lord Carrington's after the invasion of the Falklands. He was Foreign Secretary and felt he should have known what was going on in the south Atlantic even though his advisors (civil servants all) didn't. I didn't - and don't agree with the man's politics - but at least he had the dignity and conscientiousness to fall on his own sword.
So I see City have acquired Danny Mills. Danny Mills. Ben Thatcher. Paul Bosvelt and Joey Barton. We won't be getting into Europe via the Fair Play League then?
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