I'm sorry

Oh dear, I think I’ve done it again, made myself laugh so hard with a joke that no one else was ever going to understand, that I went ahead and wrote it any way.

I couldn’t help it, sometimes I get a little bit of scribed Tourette’s, I think it and immediately have to write it and send it. I’ve sent a lot of embarrassing emails that way. Sometimes my brain screams at me to not press enter, but I just can’t not enter it.

The thing is though, that it just made me laugh so hard, the gag popped into my head and immediately I had to write it.

It was over at KB’s Wanderlust. I am sorry mate – but I’m a victim of an undiagnosed imaginary syndrome (the syndrome probably isn’t imaginary, just my suffering), so it wasn’t really my fault.

No doubt the majority of people reading this will be bloggers and will understand the rest of this post; the rest of you (Jo, Mum & Dad) might as well put the kettle on and go back to Facebook or booking a holiday, because you aren’t going to get this at all.

Commenting and following people’s blogs is a funny old thing. One of the chores that just has to be done in order to spread the word about what you are doing. There is no getting round it, you have to be prepared to read some blogs that have absolutely no relevance to your life and hold no interest for you at all. Some are well written but boring, some are simply awful.

I’m not completely egocentric, so I know that there will be plenty of people who think that about my blog too – this is life.

Having read their blog you then want to leave a comment to show that you have done so, this also can hopefully encourage them to come and read you in return. It’s a simple system.

What I hate though, are people who aren’t prepared to put any effort in, they have a stock comment that they use “Hey nice blog, very interesting I hope you visit mine http://www.cannotbearsed.bloggy.com/”, and you know that they simply haven’t read a word you have written. I did a bit of that too in the early days (come on, be honest), but quickly realised that I had a choice, so I gave it up.

When I check a blog out, I read it, not just the latest post but two or three, so that I can get a feel. This can sometimes be a chore, but sometimes it can be great. One side effect of doing these chores is that occasionally you come across some exceptions, people who you actually do enjoy reading, and who you want to comment on simply to let them know this. If I leave a comment, then it’s because I have seen something interesting, and have something relevant to say. If I cannot come up with something relevant then I won’t leave a comment. If I don’t really see anything relevant or interesting to me then I may leave a comment, but chances are I won’t be going back again. This is fair enough I think, why would anyone read my blog twice if they didn’t like it the first time?

There are a handful of blogs that I genuinely like though, and on these I will go back, time and time again as well as adding them to my reading list for you lot to see (Barbara, I keep forgetting to add yours, but will get round to it eventually). KB’s blog is one of these blogs.

A recent post of hers is a short piece of fiction, where an incapable father struggles to take his son on a trip, letting him down very clearly not for the first time. It’s apparent straight away that you are supposed to side with Timmy and tut the father. Being me, the first thing that came into my head was the reverse, clearly the child was just rude and attention seeking, there had also been a hint of anger from the father towards the mother, so I decided that I could sympathise with him.

I realise that this is not all that funny, but I started to giggle, why is it that sometimes silly things can really make you laugh much harder than its comedic value actually deserves? So I wrote a comment along those lines and was just about to post it when…

I spotted that the person above me had got the boy’s name wrong on their comment. She had said how she really felt she was worried about Tommy. Tommy? Who’s Tommy?

Immediately, without even a blink of an eye, I changed the name of the boy in my post to Jimmy. I couldn’t not – this was hysterical to me, I hit enter knowing full well that no one would get it. I made no effort whatsoever to explain the gag. The fact that no one would get it and that instead they would all think I hadn’t really read the story because not only had I got the kid’s name wrong, but also I’d completely taken the opposing view point to everyone else made me giggle even harder. In my head I assumed that everyone who commented after me would change the name slightly too. Of course they didn’t – they didn’t get the joke. There is a possibility that they got the joke but just didn’t laugh as well I suppose.

I’m not saying the person who called him Tommy hadn’t read the post, in fact I’m sure she had, and is probably a frequent commenter, but her lack of being able to remember a name for twenty seconds made me laugh. It’s like when I email people, and in their reply they call me Glenn, what? I wrote to you and spelled my name for you – four letters! Why did you feel the need to add a 5th?

Any way, I’m sorry KB. Sorry for confusing you by taking the P out of your innocent readers in nonsensical ways with no explanation, and sorry for getting little Johnny’s name wrong.

Bicycles, speed dating and potatoes

Fingers hover heavily over the keyboard as my eyes stare gloomily at the screen.

The heat and slight vibration from the fan in my laptop, makes the tips of my fingers and my wrists twitch. There must be something to write about, something must have happened today?

My boys must have done something whacky this morning, or maybe Jo amusingly put too much milk in her coffee? Nope – nothing.

According to Answers.Com there are more than 575 types of potato. Nope - nothing.

The screen is still blank, my eyes are still blurred and my fingers are still getting hot.

I had this problem earlier when I had to write an introduction about myself for my first contribution on Writers Rising. WR is another blog that guest bloggers like me submit their work on, in order to reach out to a different audience. It’s interesting because you then sit and read the other bloggers work too, reading work that you would never otherwise be exposed to, and I’ve already discovered some interesting blogs to read.

I hate writing about myself. Oh I know what you are doing now, spitting coffee all over your keyboard and pointing to all the places on the blog where I’ve put my name against things, and all the posts that I’ve banged on about things that I’ve been doing. You have gone red in the face pointing to the large photo of me on the Who is Glen page or even jabbed your finger against the screen at my join me on Facebook invite on the contact page.

Your points are valid; I never said I didn’t love myself! There is a massive difference between joking about your life or the things that you have done, in the comfort of your own blog, and trying to seriously introduce yourself to a whole new bunch of people, on their territory. Writing those little “about me” pieces drive me nuts, I hate it. It’s like standing up and introducing yourself at a meeting or on a course. “Hi I’m Glen, I’ve been with the company 12 years and I’m hoping to one day get my first promotion, and have a mop of my own, rather than sharing the team one”.

I just can’t take myself serious enough to do it properly.

I can’t even start to imagine how I would get on at speed dating? I’d have no hope for two reasons.

It would take me two minutes of silent flatulence to eventually say “Hi, I’m Glen, I wondered what type of woman would be desperate enough to try this, and now I’m gutted to discover that you are actually in my league!”

Listening is not my strong point at the best of times, but when I’m desperately trying to think of something witty to say about myself in a small window of time, no chance! The woman would be wasting her time saying anything to be honest, because nothing would be going in. I wonder if this is true of all men, or just me. At these events, at the end I imagine all the women sit there and tick the name of whoever made them laugh, or had a good job, or who had an interesting story, or had taken an interest in them and their life. All the men, meanwhile, would scratch their heads trying to remember if any of the women had actually said anything, before all of them tick number 12, because she had a very low cut top on, big boobs and smelled of lager.

Somewhere along the way, writing about me like that has wiped my mind, and I can’t think of anything to write about today. I’ve just spent 10 minutes trying to think of something funny to Google for, in order to put some witty comments about it here and I couldn’t even do that. 10 minutes staring at a Google search box and the best I could do was “How many types of potato are there?” Really, that actually is the best I could come up with!

Ah well, these things happen. Hopefully tomorrow, someone will fall over near me, or Daniel will pull something out of the hat again that will make me laugh enough to write about. Daniel can come out with some crackers sometimes. The other day he was laid on the sofa with his Mum behind him having a cuddle. We were talking about who people were most like in the family, such as Jamie being like his Uncle Paul. Daniel asked who he was like and Jo sniffed disgustedly before complaining that he was too much like his father. Daniel waited about 4 seconds and then with perfect comic timing, let out the loudest fart I’ve ever heard him do.

We were in tears and I fell off my seat laughing as Jo pushed Daniel away, shaking her head. I high fived Daniel with pride at the glee he had taken in proving her right.

By the way, apparently there are actually only 7 million bicycles in Beijing. I feel a little let down about that to be honest.

Motivation

I don’t normally post up Internet sourced photos for the whole subject of the day’s post, but today I’m going to.

I received these pictures via email today, in the usual way that these emails float about, so I assume that you may have seen these before. For those that haven’t seen them, please enjoy.

Credit for the pictures goes to whatever website they were sourced from, some of the photos have that written on them, the others – who knows.

Back to normal next time – well you could at least try to sound excited about that!

These pictures made me laugh because they are ridiculously similar to the real motivational pictures that we have on the walls in our office, but which are supposed to be serious. I realise that this is exactly what the photos are supposed to be like of course. I don’t think they were created by someone who became inspired after visiting my own office though, I have an inkling that my company isn’t the only one in the world that tries to motivate its staff with a rubbish photo of a happy customer next to the slogan,”Stop slacking or we will fire you”, or a picture of a triumphant mountain climber with “We are monitoring your internet use – be warned”.

Anyone who works in the kind of office that firmly believes that the best way of motivating its staff, is to spend the money that could have otherwise been added to their salary on motivational posters, please enjoy what the Internet has kindly provided…

I live in a Sit-Com

I woke up to a surreal house this morning. Sometimes you just want to be allowed to go back to sleep for five minutes, just so that you can start again rather than because you are still tired.

Slowly I awoke to the sound of an oddly loud and inconsistent clock ticking. My brain tried in vain to ignore it but eventually it just had to know what was going on. My eye was instructed to open (the left one) and there was the answer.

Jamie had sneaked into our bed and was happily displaying his new found talent. There was a little 5 year old hand placed right above my nose, it was demonstrating my son’s finger clicking prowess. Jamie had discovered at the weekend that he was able to snap his thumb and finger together to make quite a satisfactory click; he hasn’t stopped doing it since.

I wearily congratulated him on his talent and laughed. Jamie laughed, puffing his chest out with pride he gave me a cuddle. Daniel dived in from the other side, did a couple of clicks himself to prove a point, laughed and joined in the cuddle.

Then Jo walked back into the bedroom from the shower, took one look at the three of us and laughed, which made us laugh so Jo walked over and dished out kisses to all of us. By this time I was starting to get a bit freaked, somehow I had found myself on the Cosby Show, mornings just don’t start like this in real life. What should be happening right now is an argument over a piece of Lego followed by two boys desperately trying to blame the other one for starting it, or Jo complaining about being cold.

It got weirder.

Theo, sorry Jamie, suddenly started chanting his own, completely incorrect, version of the alphabet. Everyone giggled and then my wife’s teacher instinct kicked in and the next five minutes were spent singing the alphabet. For some reason my wife knows about four million different tunes to sing the alphabet against. The boys both joined in and pulled by the sheer gravity of the moment, so did I (though I got a bit flummoxed because when you sing the alphabet, you are always drawn to the American ‘ZEE’ at the end because ‘ZED’ doesn’t rhyme with ‘VEE’).

As we moved into the fourth rendition, I got Daniel to pinch me because by now we were no longer on the Cosby Show but instead we were on Sesame Street. It had to be a dream. I mooted this theory to the room and as Jo finished singing the alphabet to the tune of Prodigy’s Firestarter, I quipped “Thanks Big Bird, when is the Count coming on?” (The Count was always my favourite). Daniel and I laughed but to be honest the gag completely died on it’s backside with Jo and Jamie.

The morning carried on like this. The boys got dressed with no fuss after being asked only once. Breakfast was easy, there was not one fight and Jo gave out many more kisses than is standard practice. Everyone kept laughing at my jokes. I asked the boys to clean their teeth and off they ran, I listened but there was no row about who got the toothpaste first. It felt wrong; we were back on the Cosby Show again whereas usually we are more like the Osbournes.

No doubt tomorrow I will wake up back in my own house. Tomorrow’s alarm will be the sounds of happy children trying to kill each other, and the loving tones of a wife that has just discovered her husband’s toenail clippings are still stuck on the towel she had tried to dry herself with.

But today was brought to you by the letter ZED and the number 4.

The Horse and Cow

Walking along with the boys the other day, we passed a couple of fields. In one field is a solitary cow (or bull, I looked underneath but could see no clue, and I suspect that if it’s a cow it would probably be obvious, so for the remainder of this piece I will refer to it as a “him”. Don’t tell the boys because I spent 5 minutes trying to explain why all cows are “her”).

Any way, in the other field is a horse, and this one is definitely a girl.

We walked on and we joked about how, when no one is looking, they must go and chat to each other over the fence. It descended into a farce as we decided that they wouldn’t be able to understand each other, because one says “Moo” and one says “Neigh”. You can imagine the scene as the two boys got somewhat over excited doing their impressions of the conversation.

Later, I walked past the field on my own, only to see them right against the fence having the exact ‘conversation’ that we had joked about. In fact they were going further because I saw the bull lean over and give the horse what looked distinctly like a kiss from where I was stood.

By the time it occurred to me to get my camera out, they had spotted me and were trying to cover up. The horse was saying “this isn’t how it looks!” the bull said “she means nothing to me, I’ve been drinking, she was all over me and practically naked, I was confused and you haven’t exactly been forthcoming since the baby was born have you?”

I assume that’s what they meant anyway, because the horse actually said “Neigh” and the bull said “Moo”. The moment made me laugh though, and I wished the boys could have seen it because the animals seemed really gutted that they had been caught together, it was the love that could never be. It was the animal equivalent of Romeo & Juliet. Excuse my photos by the way, the fact that my phone has a camera at all is amazing, you can’t expect it to be a good one.

Meanwhile, around the corner from the field is the farm building that I assume goes with it. In the courtyard is a professionally chalked sign that reads “Electronic surveillance systems operate on these premises”, I’m going to let you decide whether or not you believe them!

I've been found out

I’ve left myself wide open to ridicule today. I’ve blown my cover and had to admit to not really being a Londoner.

Of the millions of people who work in London, only three people and one dog actually live there, but still there are about a billion cockneys. No one really knows how this is true – it just is.

And so, like all my commuting colleagues at work, I refuse to admit that I’m not an actual bona fide Cockney. It’s not too tricky, there’s no big list of rules you have to tick off. You don’t even have to do the old rhyming slang, personally I wouldn’t be able to spot a dog and phone from an apple and stair if you shoved one up my bum with no lube. (yoinks – hope my Mum has stopped reading this!). I know genuine Cockneys with Brummy, Mancunian, Scottish and French accents, this does not matter because they all know the rule.

To put it simply – tourists & commuters need maps, locals don’t.

Stand looking at a tube map for more than thirty seconds and you are a tourist. Buy one of the little maps from the machines on the platform and you are not only a tourist, but probably can’t speak English, so us Cockneys can merrily tut away at you for clogging up the platform (as tutting can clearly not be understood by foreigners). Asking for directions is practically the same as standing on a podium and shouting “I know not where I am, please steal something from me!”

And so you see how it goes, a proper Londoner needs no map. A genuine local knows exactly what tube he needs without the need for checking he is on the right platform; only a brand spanking new commuter would do that. Occasionally you will see a Cockney stood near a tube map apparently texting with his phone held up directly in line with the map. Maybe he will be doing his shoe laces up or reading a free paper in an odd looking fashion – but he will NOT be looking at the map.

What happened to me today then? I’m gutted; I’ve been well and truly caught out.

I set off for a walk at lunchtime to find a little gadget shop that I’ve heard about. Richer Sounds near Liverpool Street Station is one of those little independent shops that are a man’s paradise. Top of the range HI-FI equipment, Televisions, DVD players, and the list goes on. It’s the kind of place that really ought to have frosted windows and a discreet entrance round the back for the gentlemen to use. There is some really sexy stuff in there.

As part of my current training program requires me to get a new TV, I thought I ought to use my lunchtime pro actively and go and check out the options. Knowing what this shop is like, I put on my long Mac with the cut out pockets and set off to find the place.

When I arrived at the store it was to find it completely closed down. There was a map to their new location on the window and it wasn’t too far away. I decided the best option was to let my photographic memory take charge and so I glanced quickly at the map. Reading it carefully would have confused things in my head, and because I’m a local I know the streets anyway. So I glanced quickly at the map and took a mental photo. I must have got right around the corner before I remembered that I do not have photographic memory.

So, with no actual idea about where I was going, I pointed myself in the general direction I perceived the new shop to be in and set off. I twisted through a few back streets heading towards the sun.

Twenty minutes later I had to put my hand in the air and admit two things to myself. I had no idea where the shop was. I had no idea where I was. I looked about and discovered that I was by Spitalfields Market. I’ve often heard of this place but had never been here, and was quite impressed as its pretty cool. Try as I might I couldn’t work out my orientation though. I had no fixed point of reference to head towards. Knowing that Spitalfields was not all that far from where I was supposed to be did not help when I couldn’t actually see the relation between the two points on a map – because there wasn’t one.

Two policemen, a traffic warden, a vicar, two Pearly Kings and a man carrying a large board that had “I’m a walking A-Z stop me and ask directions” on it walked past. I quickly averted my gaze and looked knowledgably at the shop next to me that was clearly my ‘local’ newsagents; I failed to notice the shelf full of London maps. I walked up and down for another twenty minutes before finally realizing that I was lost. I took a deep breath and committed the biggest sin of all.

I telephoned for help.

I phoned my mate at work and got him to talk me back to safety using Google maps. I heard the change of tone as his phone was put on speaker. I could literally hear him waving at all the others to come and listen. The normal office background noise died down as they all quietly walked over and sniggered.

Everyone now knows the truth, I am a commuter, and might as well go the whole hog and call myself a tourist. I may even have to buy a hat with a Union flag on it and a Harrods bear – why not.

I know what you are thinking, why didn’t I just use the GPS app on my phone? Well there are no apps on my phone, I’m not saying it’s old but I have to carry the battery in a separate bag, I’m not saying it’s old but when people text me they have to write their name at the bottom, because my phone doesn’t do it for them (I’m here all week folks!).

So I did the walk of shame back to work and didn’t even get to ask to see the extra hard plasma televisions behind the counter. Gutted!

Sandra Bullock

RESULT!

I’ve just heard – Sandra Bullock’s marriage has hit a bit of a wall.

Fingers crossed then, I’m not 40 yet. There is still time!

I’ve got a year to get ready, that’s just about the right amount of time for the divorce to go through, and for her to get over it all etc.

Meanwhile I need you guys to back me up a bit here. I think I may need you get clicking. I have less than a year to become rich and preferably a film director or producer, and a successful one at that

So phase one is the rich part, I’m not exactly sure how many adverts you are going to have to click on, in order to raise enough cash for me to be able to marry Sandra Bullock, but certainly one or two. I think if I get two DVDs ordered on Amazon a month, and 3 clicks on the Adsense adverts it should be enough – so get working!

After that I just have to direct and produce a handful of $Billion grossing films, I’ll work on that while you lot are working on the getting me rich part.

I just hope this whole break up thing isn’t just a sick and cynical attempt to promote a less than adequate film. Surely not?

UPDATE:

Thanks – this is amazing – I’ve just checked my stats and you have all been really going for it. Every single advert has been clicked on and a whole pile of things have been ordered from Debenhams and Ipanema. This is fantastic; at this rate I’ll raise the money in no time.

Hang on a minute, these have all been ordered and clicked on by one person, and I recognise that IP address!

Damn! It’s my wife.

Training update # 3

Training update #3

Relevant posts:

The original post Training update #1 Training update #2

Nothing specifically funny to report today (sadly) but I thought I’d keep you in the loop as to how our respective training is going for Race For Life.

As mentioned before, Jo is actually running the 5K Race for Life in June after starting from the ‘couldn’t run to the fridge for chocolate’ end of the athletic scale. I promised to run 5K in support of her on a treadmill at the gym; this is so that I can bring the kids to support her on the day.

Jo:

Jo recently celebrated her 1st goal of managing to actually run a complete mile by heading off to the shops. I’m no expert at athletic training, but I was still taken by surprise to learn that a key part of my wife’s training programme concerned the purchase of some new jeans.

It had transpired that her usual tracksuit bottoms were only good enough for sub mile runners. Anything over a mile and you need special fluorescent pink breathable tracksuit bottoms. I didn’t want to stand in the way of her training programme, so I looked after the boys as she went into town looking for the edge that she needed to get over that mile mark.

Oddly enough, she found the trousers she was after, and I had to admit I could see how they would help, certainly if I were wearing trousers that shade of pink, I’d be running quite fast too. It also turned out (though I have to say I’ve since studied her training guide, and could find no reference to it) that to get over the mile mark Jo also needed two pairs of jeans, a new top and yet another new bottle that will go into the bathroom. I have no idea what is inside the bottle or for what purpose it is used, nor do I have any idea what is in the other three hundred bottles that are currently open in our bathroom (except for the 1 X shower gel & 1 X ‘2 in 1’ shampoo/ Conditioner that I use).

Clearly my cynicism is misplaced though because the other night Jo came crawling into the house (just after the sounds of a taxi driving away died down) smiling her head off. Jo had completed a mile and a half. The trousers, the jeans, the top and the bottle had worked. My wife is now running a mile and a half!

How good is that?

Brilliant!

Admittedly she was gone for three hours and smelled vaguely of lager, but none the less, Jo has made it to the half way mark, 2.4K. I’m very impressed by this.

On top of all her running, Jo has also been dancing. At the bottom of this post you can see the video of my wife in action! Raising money for the School where she works, Jo and some of her colleagues helped out at a ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ style show.

Well I say they helped, I’ll let you decide if you think she was helping :-)

Glen:

Ah, er yes. I think I may need to do some shopping. I’ve not actually made it back to the gym since the hilarity and embarrassment of Training Report #2. I suspect I may need more than a pair of jeans to get me past the mile mark.

My training schedule suggests I need a new T.V.

Please enjoy this video of my wife and her friends, helping to raise money for their school and the children who go to it.

Survival

The wind whistled mercilessly as the bitter rain pelted into my face. Darkness engulfed the world as I trudged onwards, every step more painful than the last. Only the one remaining ghost of an idea was keeping me going as my legs screamed in relentless agony. My heart pumped, forcing oxygen laden blood around my body. My head pounded in resonance with the drums of my heart, and my teeth chattered to the same tune as the freezing cold November chill forced its way into my lungs and burned like fire.

How had things come to this? Why had my life taken this turn?

I had no idea.

I bellowed in desperation for relief, but no relief would come. We had to keep moving, too much depended upon it, lives would change and lives matter.

Everything that I had learned over the years in the military was being tested to its limits. All that experience, all that knowledge, I needed it all right now. My survival depended on it.

I concentrated my mind back to the promise. It was only a flicker of an idea now, a ghost, but that tiniest glimmer of hope was all I had left and I needed it badly. I needed that dream now more than I’d ever needed anything – without it I would crumble, and I knew it.

One last time I shouted the dream out, it needed to be heard to make it real. If the dream had remained in my head it could have been lost forever so I shouted it out loud.

Jo turned back to me and sighed, “Ok yes, just this last shop and maybe Clarks on the high street, because they might have different shoes to the Clarks in the mall, and then we will stop and have some lunch!”

We had been shoe shopping for three hours.

Three long hours.

Three endless, repetitive, senseless decade long hours.

I’d long since lost count of how many shops we had been in, how many identical rows of shoes we had seen, Imelda Marcos would have given up and gone home an hour ago. How could we have been in so many places and seen so many shoes without one single purchase? This just cannot be natural can it?


I lowered my head; the dream of a quick rest in KFC was back, and it was no longer a ghost. It was real; this was going to happen soon, Jo had promised. Two, three maybe four more shops maximum and we would be able to have lunch. I forced my legs into action and ducked my chin into my coat to battle the cold. I could do this, I really could.

Finally, the perfect shoes were found!

On the way to the KFC, and carrying her prized treasure, which looked exactly the same as the pair of shoes that she had tried on in 6 different shops including the first, Jo casually mentioned that she could do with a hand bag to go with the shoes.

AAAGGGHHHHH!

labels in kid's clothing

Jamie successfully returned yet another wrong jumper to its owner yesterday. It doesn’t matter how much time you spend putting names and labels into every single item that your children own, you know that they will still get mixed up.

I think that the basic weight of clothing in my boy’s wardrobe has been doubled by labels alone, but still we have a constant fight to keep the right clothes inside it.

Jumpers are the hardest thing in the world for a child to look after. I have no idea how many times we have had to go searching through the school’s lost property for jumpers. Sometimes we find them, sometimes we don’t. Sometimes the jumper slowly makes its way back to us if another set of parents realise that their child has suddenly started wearing a new jumper that they couldn’t remember buying, and sometimes the parent rips out the label and puts in a new one, I suspect.

Doing the laundry this weekend, I was thinking to myself that Jamie had got through a lot of jumpers this week, in the corner of my eye I spotted a label reading “Bradley”. Somehow Jamie had managed to come home wearing a jumper but with another one in his bag. In the back of his mind are all the instructions we have given him about finding lost items, so I guess he thought he was onto a winner when he found an extra jumper. Needles to say we have sent the jumper back.

I remember when Daniel came home from school in a right sulk; he was fed up because his shirt was so tight. Daniel went straight into attack, complaining that we had given him the wrong shirt; we must have made him wear Jamie’s top and that wearing it had left him feeling uncomfortable all day. We did a little investigation and soon discovered that he’d had P.E. first thing in the morning, after which he had put someone else’s top on. In fact he had put a girl’s top on. So he had spent the day walking round in a blouse that actually looked nothing like his own, complete with flowery collar, was in deed far too small for him and had the name “Molly” in it. Still Daniel refused to accept that it wasn’t our fault, bless him.

Jo told me a story once of an after P.E. session in one of her classes. There was a right kerfuffle going on with messed up tops and people were getting upset. Children couldn’t find their shirts and another couldn’t find his trousers. In the end Jo managed to swap over the people wearing each other’s shirts, but was still missing a pair of trousers. Eventually young Bertie was found, young Bertie should have been called ‘Little Johnny’ because usually kids like that are called ‘Little Johnny’. He was sat there wearing his own trousers. On top of his own trousers he was also wearing his friend’s trousers. Somehow Bertie had forgotten to stop when getting dressed and had just kept on going.

So this is what parents and teachers are fighting against. Labels, they aren’t compulsory folks, but might just make the difference when it comes to getting the clothes back when they have been lost or worn by my children, and this WILL happen.

The thinking man's Spam

Today I saw a really brilliant SPAM email, and it really got me thinking, as I just sat and laughed at the brilliance of the ruse, how stupid you would have to be to fall for it?

I’ll tell you what you are supposed to be when you read this…

American!

The email was delivered to a newly set up Gmail account that was registered in America. I am just amazed by how this spam has been tailored to its intended market. Even with that in mind – surely it would never work? Perhaps George Bush would fall for it, but no one else?

But people must fall for these things sometimes? I have no idea who, but someone must be falling for it.

I love the way the small print is worded, how you are discouraged from contacting any other government departments, but instead should only contact this one email address or mobile number. I love the way that the Prime Minister of the UK is personally emailing a complete stranger to tell them that he has credited a VISA card with loads of money, and they can have it for no apparent reason whatsoever. I love that David Milliband’s role now includes mailing VISA cards out to people. I love that you only need pay the £120 courier fee in order to benefit.

I chuckled at this for ages, so I ask you to have a look at it now and let me know what you think. Have you received any funnier ones? Have you seen any clever ones? Let me know what brilliantly obvious scams you have been presented with.

I’m adding the email exactly as it was written, complete with typos and errors; after all, it’s a well known fact that Gordon Brown’s lack of depth perception causes him to have very bad grammar.

Enjoy:

Oh … and please don’t contact them like I almost did :-)




OFFICE OF THE PRIME MINISTERTREASURY AND MINISTER FOR CIVIL SERVICE,LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM.
Our ref: ATM/13470/IDR
Your ref:...Date: 12/03/2010

IMMEDIATE PAYMENT NOTIFICATION

I am The Rt Hon Gordon Brown MP,Prime Minister British Government. Thisletter is to officially inform you that (ATM Card Number 048000101775550)has been accredited in your favor. Your Personal Identification Number is477.The VISA Card Value is £100,000.00(One Hundred Thousand Great BritishPounds Sterling).

This office will send to you an Visa/ATM CARD that you will use to withdrawyour funds in any ATM MACHINE CENTER or Visa card outlet close to you witha maximum of £5000 GBP daily.

Further more,You will be required tore-confirm the following information to enable;The Rt Hon David Miliband MPSecretary ofState for Foreign and Commonwealth Office. begin in processing of your VISACARD.
(1)Full names: (2)Address: (3)Country:(4) City :(5)Phone #:
(6)Age:(7)Occupation: (8) Post Codes: (9)Nationality:

Forward Reply To:
Email: atmcard.dept@info.al
Tel: +44 702 407 3761

TAKE NOTICE: That you are warned to stop further communications with anyother person(s) or office(s) different from the staff of the State forForeign andCommonwealth Affairs to avoid hitches in receiving your payment.

Also you will be required to offset the Courier delivery payment of £ 120Great British Pounds for the immediate delivery of your Visa/ATM card andit will get to your Residential Address within 24 Hours

Note that it is never in our policy to collect payments from clients butdue to the September 11th 2001 crisis in America, it has become imperativethat large pay out/funds in and out of United Kingdom be notarized from thesource to properly differentiate them frommoney-laundry/terrorist-sponsoring and drug-related funds.


.

On the run

Oh dear, it’s been a messy week. I’ve had to cancel important meetings with customers and even dismiss myself from an important training course, and I really hate doing that as it looks dreadful.

I have to warn you, from here on in the post gets somewhat … Ucky!

I’ve spent the week on the toilet.

It hasn’t been pleasant.

The timing was awful.

I’d hoped by Thursday that all would be sorted as I’d done my tried and tested stomach bug cure all and eaten nothing for 48 hours, so I manned up and got myself into London. I had an exam to take.

I’ve been doing some ‘at home teaching’, generally on the train in the mornings and I was ready to take the exams. The course I’m doing is in Project Management – Prince2 is the method that I’m learning. I’m not going into detail about it here as it’s a government approved project management method, and is neither interesting to talk about nor funny.

Thursday morning I was booked into taking the first part of the exam, or the Foundation level exam. If I passed that exam I would be on a 2 day refresher workshop followed on the Friday afternoon by the Practitioner exam.

It did not start well.

I arrived at the office feeling just plain wrong. I was nervous about the exam, I was also nervous about the way my guts were feeling, this was making it hard to concentrate. I found the door was on an electric lock, I pushed and slid the doors to no avail, but pressing the buzzer had no effect either. I started to flap, jabbing mercilessly at the buzzer, and looking at the pretty girl who was queued up behind me, giving her the “Can you believe this?” look of someone who clearly cannot be blamed for the current situation.

The girl gave me the “Is your carer somewhere close?” look, leant forward and pulled the door open. PULL? I’d not tried pulling! When I finally found my way to the classroom, she was sat in there as well, oh well; I must have looked like the kid in the classic Far Side cartoon.

The Foundation exam began and I struggled, I just couldn’t concentrate. I felt terrible but was determined. Eventually I managed to finish and quickly got the result back that I’d passed! Thank goodness for that.

However, it took exactly 2 minutes for the glass of fruit juice that I awarded myself to send me sprinting to the toilet. I knew that the sandwich that I had also eaten would not be far behind. I knew it was time to give up. I had to accept the facts; this was not doing anyone any good.

I made my excuses and left, the course would have to be rescheduled. I now had another mountain to climb. I had to get myself across London to Paddington before I’d be able to get to another toilet; the race was on.

I made it, but was starting to hurt. I sat on the train at Paddington, wincing as I desperately waited for us to leave the station. What is that rule all about anyway? Please don’t tell me that in this day and age we still just flush the toilets straight onto the line? The sticker said no flushing until out of the station though, so I felt bound to wait. With hindsight, what I should have done was use the dead time to scope out a good toilet, find one that was nearly clean, had toilet roll, soap, lock and running water. Doing a recce like that would have been a great idea, but instead I just sat near the first toilet I found and clenched.

After an eternity, the train set off and I threw myself into the toilet, noted the deeply unpleasant smell, rammed my foot against the door to act as a replacement lock for the clearly broken one on the door, and sat there! I suspect you can work the rest out.

Later on I found my way to the Doctor. I knew, as I sat and waited, that I was going to find this embarrassing. It’s always the same. When I go and see a doctor about my blood pressure, or a normal cold, or whatever, you can be sure that I will be seen by a man. He will be a normal man who will pat me on the back and suggest that beer and pies will probably cure me. If there is anything even slightly embarrassing to talk about though, I’ll get a woman.

A long time ago, back in 1998, I had a nasty boil turn up in a surprising place. It was a little painful and because of where it was (right on the undercarriage so to speak) I thought I’d better take no chances. So I took myself off to the GP. I walked in and she was HOT. The doctor was this Indian woman of similar age to what I was and was really, really sexy. She set her smouldering eyes right at me and asked what I wanted? I looked at her, whipped off my pants and said “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

From her expression, and the speed at which she put those gloves on, I’d say she had, but hadn’t really enjoyed it. It must of made her day to go into work that day and have me spread eagled on her bench, pointing at something no woman should ever be made to see. She never called.

Worse was to come after we went to Africa. Not too long after getting married we sold a car and decided to really have the holiday of a lifetime. I’ll write about it one day because the Safari was just amazing. However, part of what was included in the trip was some windsurfing lessons. It turned out that I am an appalling windsurfer. I just couldn’t stay on the board, and time and time again I kept on landing on the mast. I would land straddling the mast in quite a painful way, and wasn’t laughing much.

By the time we got home, I was in pain. Things had grown and were the wrong colour for me. It was like walking about with a football between my legs and it was a somewhat bruised and sore football. Eventually I plucked up the courage and went to the GP. This time she was not some hot young woman – oh no.

This time she was a full on Granny, complete with very grey hair and wobbly hands, which at least were warm. At one point she was knelt in front of me “cupping” and looking so closely that I had a moment’s lack of concentration. Luckily, I caught myself in time, looked up to the ceiling and started concentrating – fast!

And so here I am, explaining to a young Russian doctor all about my latest toilet based fun and she is nodding politely and explaining to me how I can maybe collect a sample for her! It’s all a bit much and I shake my head as she explains that she only wants ‘lumps’. The image of just how much trouble I will be in if my wife catches me walking into the toilet with the baking sieve, flashes across my mind.

She didn’t catch me though – so that’s a result.

Harry the cat

I should tell you about next doors cat. I realise that it’s against the Commandments but I can’t help coveting my neighbour’s cat! They don’t have an ox so I think I’m safe from a direct lightning bolt, but none the less I’ve been taking no chances and have sewn a copper strip into my coat and trousers.

Unfortunately, my neighbours don’t have a donkey so I can’t do the gag about coveting my neighbour’s ass; this is a shame, because it’s a good gag.

Harry is a really cute moggy, and a proper cat’s cat. Harry is rock hard and completely fearless. Harry was born around the time (and thus was named after) the man who was living at the house I later bought, stopped living at the house I later bought, so to speak.

Sorry, I just heard thunder and had to go and hide for a moment there. Apparently Harry was a very nice man, so of course it’s sad that he died, but life goes on. Oh dear, I’m digging myself further in again.

Any way, this led to Harry’s name and sometimes you do have to wonder about things, because he loves our garden, and I only have to leave a door open for 5 minutes and he walks in. Cats are naturally nosey and so it’s nothing unusual for them to come and explore your unguarded house, but it’s the way he does it with such confidence that gets me.

Harry will come in, look up into your eyes when he sees that you have seen him, shrug and then carry on. The cheeky git just keeps on walking past you! If you shout at him a little firmer he sort of puts a paw up and nods, “okay, okay” at you; turns around and slowly walks out again. Shouldn’t he be at least a little scared?

Spend too long unloading the car outside and he is in the boot looking at you when you go to close it. Even when you threaten to carry on and close the door he just sort of sits there and smiles, “yeah, of course you are going to shut me in – I’m really scared; now why don’t you run along like a good boy and go look after the kids, I’ll be perfectly okay here”.

I was cleaning the car the other week and had all the doors open as he walked up to me and then jumped in. I calmly threw him out again so he gave me the “what did you do that for?” look, and then walked away. Well I say he walked away, what he actually did was walk around the other side of the car and jump in from that side instead. I threw him out again so I was given a “Look pal, you’re really starting to get on my tits” look, before he walked to the back of the car and jumped in the boot! I gave in and we both just ignored each other instead.

No bird is safe in the garden as Harry is an excellent hunter. My boys were amazed when they saw him playing with a bird, throwing it up and down, letting it crawl a few feet away before retrieving it, and then finally getting bored and eating it. Other cats in the area soon flee when they see him coming.

Harry is quality.

I’ve seen him sitting on our side of the fence, ducked down low whilst my neighbour shouts and calls him, in ever changing tones of voice, hoping to find the one that works. Harry will just sit there looking through the gap at her, staying hidden and undoubtedly laughing. The only thing that Harry can’t resist is his nemesis ‘the keys’, when they come out and start being rattled you can see his bravado crumble. Unable to resist the shiny, glinting metal singing such sweet tunes in his head, Harry will jump up and trot over to his owner and grudgingly walk in the house. Surely he must have learned by now that it’s a trick? He never gets to play with them.

Any way, I really love that cat. The very fact that he makes no effort whatsoever to even pretend that he likes you, and lets you know that the only reason he has come over for some fuss is because he is bored, really works for me. That evil streak of cattish indifference just makes me laugh.

Right, that said I’m off out now to see if I can use God’s name in vain somewhere, I might as well try for the full set of 10. I would have tried adultery but Jo is dead set against that, and I’m far more scared of my wife than I am of… Oh hang on I think that might count as one!

Where did that cloud come from? ...

The Quiet Carriage

Shh, I’m in the quiet carriage typing very, very quietly.

We British are a funny bunch. What is it about a phone call that enrages us so? A whole carriage on the train is specifically set aside for people who can’t stand the thought of having to listen to someone on the phone, or the rhythmic hissing sound of someone’s not so personal MP3 player.

I’ve seen people get absolutely red in the face with fury, popping their heads up, down and around the seats, desperately trying to work out whose phone just beeped a message tone. Once they have tracked down the culprit they suddenly become judge, jury and executioner, as they try and get the silence murdering villain thrown off the train.

It’s an odd place to be I can tell you, right now I’m sat on a packed train, I’ve just sat and counted (not very precisely) 68 seats all full of desperately quiet people. Even where people have boarded the train together and are sat next to each other, they dare not speak. Papers are being carefully read to minimise rustling and it’s just surreal how quiet it is. The only acceptable noise is a TUT or a HUFF if it’s directly in response to a noise maker!

I genuinely am trying to type quietly!

Every now and again someone coughs and at least four heads all pop out of hiding, looking disgusted at the perpetrator. The thing is, I’ve looked about and though I see at least three people sleeping every single night in the normal carriages, not one single person seems to be resting here. Everyone has to stay rigidly awake and alert in case someone near them tries to get away with a text.

Perhaps the real reason that no one dares sleep is the fear of snoring. There are few things more funny than finding that someone sat near you on a train snores. It’s an absolute guarantee that your giggle will spread. I always giggle when people start snoring or if they are dribbling, and I find it hugely satisfying if I become the head of a giggle chain. Knowing that I have freed people up to have a laugh on their otherwise dreary commute, by being the first to laugh, and therefore making it socially acceptable for the rest to follow, is a real treat.

That would not happen in here though, I’d be snorting and shaking, but as I looked around all I would see is sour faces looking back at me, including the snorer, who would already have been woken up and served an eviction notice.

I’ve just witnessed a real oddity. The guard came in and shouted to see tickets. There was a seconds pause, where I thought he was going to be lynched, and then there was a sudden carriage wide rush of noise. It was like a pressure valve being released on a steam engine. In exactly the same way that never happens in a normal carriage, the act of 68 people fumbling for their tickets made such a loud noise that everyone suddenly felt free. As the fumbling was happening, everyone started talking, or coughing or just breathing out.

The waterfall of noise was amazing, it bore no relation to the simple act of finding our tickets. It was so much more than that, it was relief! People knew they had a ten second noise break, and they were going to use it. The pent up aggression at the mere thought of someone listening to a song that they almost, but not quite, can name (one of the most frustrating feelings in the world) or of only being able to listen to half a conversation, was momentarily released, and reset back to zero.

I’ve often reported in the past on my feelings about listening to idiots on the phone who shout away, full of their own importance, but I can’t say that I hate it to the point of being stressed by it.

As suddenly as it had started the noise was over. The passengers all mutually agreed that enough time had passed to find all relevant documentation. The silence returned as did the pressure.

I have to say that as odd as I am finding this artificially created mobile library, I am also quite liking it. Mainly because it was the only carriage on the whole train that had an available seat to be fair, but also because it is quite nice. I don’t like the stilted feeling of forced silence that is clearly not coming naturally to people, but the actual silence that this produces is quite welcome.

My only real trouble is that for the last five minutes I’ve really needed to fart, but because I can’t 100% guarantee that it will be quiet, I just daren’t!

Update: Sorry, the post had technically finished on the fart joke, but two things have just happened that have made me quietly stifle a laugh.

Firstly, the man in front of me who has spent the whole journey looking round at every single noise, including at me when I tapped a little too enthusiastically on the keys and at the man to our side who received a text (he gave him a fully audible huff) has just received a call. His look of utter embarrassment as he jumped up and literally ran out of the carriage was brilliant. I would have LOL’ed if I hadn’t been in the quiet carriage.

Then, after the latest announcement to say how much more we are going to be delayed (20 minutes so far and increasing) a lady behind us committed a sin worse than coveting her neighbours Ox, she called home! She actually dialled out to say that she was going to be late. The call almost lasted a full minute before disgusted of Oxfordshire leaned over and pointed out her transgression.

Now, at this point she whispered the rest of her call, cut it short and hung up. If she had left it at that then there would be nothing to report – but she didn’t. She actually tried to defend herself – loudly! After the call she tried to talk her way out of it, when all she had to do was ignore it. “I’m sorry but I didn’t realise, do you feel better for having a go?” she tried to ask, I mean come on, there is no way on this planet she did not know where she was, it was such a lazy and obvious lie. Disgusted wouldn’t let it go, and was joined by two other protestors, pointing to all the massive pink signs, but she was adamant that she hadn’t known, “Well you will know for next time won't you!” Disgusted snorted and the matter was resolved.

Oh dear, another five minutes delay – I’m just not sure I can hold it.

Pictures from the lovely Google.

Facebook status problems

Jo came to me at the weekend in a state of flux. Her discomfort had been caused by a bad case of Over-Statting. This is my newly made up term for the unfortunate effect of typing a response to someone’s Facebook status, only to have someone else comment in between checking the status and pressing enter to add your comment.

The outcome of falling prey to Over-Statting can be embarrassing. Sometimes it just makes your comment less pertinent as the topic has moved on, and sometimes it means that you appear to be copying someone if they have written the same thing. Sometimes it can make you look like you have just insulted the Under-Statter, or sometimes it’s just embarrassing.

For Example.

Intended comments…

Perhaps Jane & Jo have an in joke about aching legs being a sign of a strenuous game of Doctors and Nurses the night before, so the comment chain was intended to look like this…

Jane is: suffering from aching legs.
Jo - we-hey lucky girl!


Actual results

Jane is: suffering from aching legs.
Ella – yes me too, broke my ankle in 3 places last night.
Jo - we-hey lucky girl!

Or

Jane is: suffering from aching legs.
Jill – me too, it was a tough work out. Couldn’t believe that while we were out running someone stole my car though.
Jo - we-hey lucky girl!

Do you see how these things become an issue? In fact at the weekend Jo had been double Over-Statted, because when she tried to retype a response to point out that she wasn’t trying to insult the person that it looked like she had just insulted, somebody else typed a response and the whole process started again.

This brings me on to the second new Facebook term that I’ve invented today, Stat-Jacking. This is the art of commenting on your friend’s status and hijacking it, completely changing the subject to suit your own needs.

Jane is: having a quiet day with the family, after so long in hospital – I’ve really missed this…
John – it’s great that you are well again, have a nice time.
Jill – fantastic, you deserve it girl x
Jo – Thinking of going to the pub, any one interested?
Janet – yep good idea Jo, I’m in.
Claire – which pub?
Jo – Prince…
Claire – Ok I’m in
Brenda – see you there Jo
Jane – what time?


Stat-Jacking is Jo’s newest craze.

Disclaimer – as with Flurkers before, I have made no effort whatsoever to research the possibility that these terms may already be in use or to see if there is a proper term to describe these acts. I can, therefore, not be held responsible for any inconvenience that my lack of attention to detail has caused.

My Birthday

It’s my Birthday on Friday; I’m really starting to feel old now.

I suppose I’m going to have to start growing up. This year I’m going to have to face the facts, and become an adult.

I’m going to have to admit to myself that I am no longer mid thirties. I now only have one year left until I become old enough to be my father – or something.

I will be 39 this time; somehow for me this signals the end of an era. I’m odd like that; it doesn’t seem to be the obvious birthdays that affect me, the idea of being 39 terrifies me more than being 40.

When I turned 30 I didn’t bat an eyelid, in fact I quite enjoyed that change and relished the new me, after all, my wife was pregnant with my first child, I had a lot to be excited about!

When I was 35 though, I really felt it. Suddenly I was no longer early thirties. Now I was mid thirties. What is more, that first child had been joined by a second and in the last five years I’d aged ten. I found my 35th birthday very depressing.

Now I’m going to be 39, and what have I done since being 35? Nothing. Career wise I’ve not moved up at all, just sort of turned up and sat at a desk. All I’ve done at home is trundle along being a husband or a dad. Suddenly I only have a year left of my thirties, but there are still so many things that I’d intended to do before hitting 40.

So I’m going to make a declaration.

I now accept that I will not be getting the chance to marry Sandra Bullock.

I now accept that I will not skydive out of the back of a Hercules aircraft.

I now accept that I will never look good in a convertible sports car.

I now accept that my days of wearing designer blue jeans are over.

I now accept that my days of wearing Supermarket brand cords are a here.

I now accept that I will never manage to get involved with one of those mass naked photo shoots that are popular at the moment.

I now accept that the above fact is a relief for the rest of the participants.

I now accept that my hair will never miraculously grow back.

I now accept that it’s unlikely that I will be a millionaire by the time I’m 40 after all.

I now accept that I will never be a Formula 1 driver.

I now accept that my wife’s parents were probably right about me, and John, the Doctor, is single and living back in the area again.

I now accept that I will never look good in a nightclub.

However…

I do not accept that this whole writing project is a waste of time!

I’m 10 months into it and have truly learned so much its crazy, I really can see a difference in my writing, I’ve learned a lot and I know full well that I can learn more. I love writing and really want to keep doing it. Have I earned a massive following? No. Have I earned anything? No.

But guess what, there are some people who read what I write, and not just family. There are some other writers who read it as well, and keep coming back. Writers who don’t need to do this because their own blogs are far more successful and better written than mine. Writers who know full well that a comment on my blog won’t earn them any extra readers, but who comment any way. How good is that? There are some people reading this who aren’t even writers, but who just come and read from time to time.

Perhaps there aren’t many, but there are some – and that just amazes me.

I may never write that book, or be anything like the success that I am in my dreams but I will keep writing, I’m sure of this. And so I am making this declaration.

BEFORE I AM 40 –

I will write something that is published elsewhere. I will get enough courage and self belief together to ignore the countless rejections that will no doubt come before somebody, somewhere, lets me in.

I may or may not get paid for it, but I will write for someone else.

It may be a local paper or magazine, it may be an online publication or even as a guest writer on someone else’s blog (but not one where inclusion is automatic, I write on Helium already but as I recall they were happy to include my posts as long as I was happy to pay £5).

If I am wrong on this, and I never manage to get over the hurdle of self doubt that stops me sending off articles, then … then …

BEFORE I AM 50 ….

Training - report #2

It’s time for an update on our 5K training for ‘Race for Life’. Well I say our training, it’s actually Jo who is training for RFL, and I’m just trying to support her.

Related posts: Original post Training report #1

Glen:-

I finally managed to get myself to the gym today. It’s been quite a few months since I last succeeded in this, so simply finding the place was arduous enough. I had to navigate my way to the gym near Liverpool Street Station, via the most prolonged and illogical route possible, because the direct route takes me past Starbucks, 3 pubs, 2 chocolate emporiums and within nasal range of a McDonalds. June is approaching fast so I couldn’t risk getting sidetracked again (this is the third time I’ve set off for the gym but I failed to arrive the first two times).

I found myself in the changing rooms feeling all inadequate again; quietly trying to get past two beefed up fellers in order to access the lockers. There is something about a gym changing room that always leaves me feeling over exposed and hideously fat. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck as I felt everyone in the room staring at me and mocking my ‘moobs’. I don’t know why I get so self conscious, because the reality is that the men in the changing rooms never even notice I’m there. The gay ones aren’t actually all that interested in someone like me, funnily enough, as there is generally more exciting eye candy walking about. The straight ones never notice me because the only people they notice getting changed are themselves in the mirror (especially after a workout) or if somebody else with a similar or better physique walks in. The challenge to their superiority will be noted, and they will quickly alter their posture to try and psyche them out.

Whilst all this is happening, I surreptitiously whip off my pants behind a towel, and throw on a pair of shorts that have been sat in my gym bag for nearly 6 months, waiting for this big day. Then I put on my trusty England top (backwards the first time, as it turned out) and crept out into the noise and bustle of the gym.

I slyly attempt to stretch without letting anyone see that I’m stretching, come on – we have all laughed at the comedy fat man trying to look serious stretching at the gym.

Then I got onto the Cross Trainer and stood for an age trying to remember how my cranky old 256Mb, cheap as chips MP3 player worked. I was trying to find the Fleetwood Mac tracks I’d added earlier, feeling that The Chain would see me through this ordeal. Eventually, I gave up and just set it playing a bit of Ska instead. The next two minutes were spent trying to get the damn cross trainer working. What program do I want? How heavy am I ? No – in Kilo’s not Imperial you fat bafoon! How long do I want?

It took longer to set up the session than I actually spent bouncing around on it. I’d decided to only use it as a warm up, and so 5 minutes gentle and unsynchronised bouncing later I was done (how are you supposed to work the arms in time anyway?). One of the fitness team came over with a worried look to ask me if I was epileptic and in trouble, but I waved him away and pointed to the imaginary shrapnel wound in my leg.

The moment came that I could put off no longer, I looked at the treadmill, and it looked at me. “You play fair by me and we will get on just fine” I said, “but if you give me any gip you will find yourself in deep trouble my friend”.

I don’t think the pep talk worked though, because I noticed my lace was undone and when I bent down to do it up, with one foot on the conveyor belt, I suddenly discovered that they move on their own. My foot shot forward and the gym was treated to a loud falsetto shriek, as I discovered I can do the splits.

I set the machine off, remember I’m in great shape for a Sumo Umpa-Lumpa, so when I set it to 9.6 KM’s an hour, I virtually had to sprint to keep up. It was only after the git of a treadmill had got up to full speed, that I remembered about the dead man’s cut off cord and, knowing all too well how much I often need it, made a grab for it. Sadly, I was already too far back on the machine, and spent the next 40 seconds desperately trying to reach out and grab it, putting extra spurts of speed on to catch the front of the treadmill up.

Once I was safely Crocodile clipped to the cut off button, I relaxed. Well I’m using relaxed in its loosest possible definition here, I just mean that I was able to try and concentrate on The Selector for a bit.

Had I actually concentrated on The Selector, instead of craning my neck to watch the video screen in the corner that was showing quite a lot of Lady GaGa, I probably wouldn’t have tried to run on the side panel, and therefore fall over the front bar of the machine, strangling myself with the super glued cut off cord in the process.

Actually, I managed to steady myself with only a slight bang against the front bar and with only half of the people in the room noticing, so no damage done.

Eventually, some 10 leg aching minutes after setting off, I arrived at the cool down. I’d done it – a whole mile! I was so pleased with myself that I let out a loud “YES!” I regretted that immediately as I realised I was completely knackered, and couldn’t maintain the cool down speed.

As I sat, back in the changing room, trying to get my pulse back down to something that was vaguely human, I noticed a bloke strutting about completely naked, checking himself out in the mirror. In order to save him some effort and to allow myself a bit of space to concentrate on dying, I whispered into his ear that he needn’t worry, I’d already done a thorough survey and his was indeed the biggest WMI (Weapon of Mass Insemination) in the changing room. He quickly got himself dressed as far away from me as possible, whilst I went back to emptying a brand new can of deodorant over myself, which proved to be a waste of time.

I am determined to go back there at least once more this month.

Jo:-

I have no amusing details of Jo’s training this time. I’m very proud of how well my wife is doing. Jo is sticking to her training programme very well, and is running regularly. I do still keep hearing a car pull up just before she comes in though. Hopefully she is having an affair with a taxi driver; otherwise this training will be costing us a fortune!