RunningCommentary

Boston this way (Andy)

I was lying in bed this morning, later than usual, listening to the 5 Live sports programme hosted by Gary Richardson. There's something admirable about the way this grinning rotweiller elicits information from the unsuspecting.

Where Have All The Bad Men Gone?

During a rusty recovery run this morning, under cold blue skies and into a chilling south westerly wind that's gathering pace by the day, I had time to consider some cold, hard facts.

Last week we (that is, all right-thinking chaps with an interest in football and ninety-eight percent of the heterosexual female population) mourned the loss from the public spotlight of The Special One. The latest news emanating from the damp dark shadows of White Hart Lane suggests that, yes, anyone will do just so long as they can offload Tony Soprano. I like Martin Jol. He looks like he could wrestle grizzly bears with his gnarled, bare-knuckle boxer's hands, has the mean bulldog jaw and overhanging, furrowed brow of a bullet-toothed killer - or is it Spike from Tom & Jerry? - yet frequently displays wit, charm and intellect under seemingly intollerable pressure and ribald speculation.

Yesterday Radio 5Live's breakfast wags asked listeners to suggest what Chelski would be without Mourinho. They offered examples such as Peaches without cream, Morcombe without Wise but, as usual, it was the ironic, slightly bitter wit of a true football fan that stole the plaudits. Chelsea without Mourinho, he pondered, would be like . . . Spurs.

If Stan Collimore, a man who seems to have discovered kudos amongst football pundits a bit like Archimedes sussing out displacement by slipping in the bath, is right, Jol's departure is a matter of when, not if. It'll be another nail in the coffin of colourful post-match interviews. Old Puce Face only gives them to a favoured few (and those I've seen have been horribly balanced and reflective of late) and Ian Holloway just doesn't get the airtime he richly deserves.

There is one section of the global media rubbing their hands at the talent appearing on the market; Hollywood. To be more precise, the Broccoli family and their ilk. Surely you can picture the scene? The Portugeezer sat in an impossibly high-backed armchair, gloved hands stroking an evil-looking cat. The mighty bulk of the simmering Dutchman looming from the shadows, piano wire stretched between those great ham fists. There'll be no shortage of villains for Daniel Craig to pursue.

I chugged home in a creditable 44:17, the homeward leg aided by a firm shove in the back from the sou'wester, sun strong on my face. Not too many running opportunities on the horizon, so hopefully these miles will stand me in good stead for a bit.

Snakes & Stats

There's something liberating about training without a race in mind. When you don't have to drag yourself out of bed at seven on a Sunday morning it's actually rather a nice thing to do. Perverse? Perhaps, yet there's no denying that running without pressure is a new and enjoyable experience for me.

"Seminal" moment.

I guess you know what I mean by "seminal". One of those rare occasions that are so momentous that you remember where you are and what you were doing when you heard the news... the usual one bandied about is "when you heard that JFK was shot." Well I'm a bit young for that one, but I'll get back to that...

"Seminal" is actually the wrong word and often misused. But I had one of those moments this evening, and two people mentioned it to me as being "seminal" so I guess I'll stick with it, but I know it's wrong, and I don't really want another shellacking from the RC grammar/syntax police, and so... well, anyway. This isn't really flowing very well is it?

Momentous "moments". Yes I had one this evening. Just a little while ago... I guess it's still happening. On a global level, the earliest one I remember is Neil Armstrong setting foot on the moon. Other biggies seem to revolve around death - Elvis Presley dying, John Lennon's assassination and Princess Diana's death. But there was also the outbreak of Gulf War I (I still the have the email  I received at work [yes, we did have email way back then] telling me to switch to "war mode") - which I guess also concerns death, and of course the World Trade Centre attacks, which had a helluva lot to do with death.

On a more local level here we certainly have to include 1974 when a phosphate ship rammed the local bridge and divided the city; while a little earlier there were the 1967 bush fires that killed 64 people, and more recently, the Martin Bryant shooting of 72 people (killing 35 of them) at Port Arthur in 1996... and, well that's about it really, until tonight. Hobart is Australia's second oldest city, and yet still only has a population of 200,000. Perhaps because of that it has managed to retain much of its heritage, and has a lot of character. Much of it is centred in the CBD, which as I type, is ablaze. This is quite something. The very heart of the city is burning, and here I am fiddling with the keyboard. But there you go - that's life in the 21st century.

But to get back to that "moment". It was just all rather weird. I had spent the day helping a mate move house, and we had heard the news that the city was on fire early in the afternoon. I had to drive through the city this evening to get home, which of course was impossible as the roads were blocked, so I thought "bugger it" - I'd park the car and walk over and have a look at what was going on. I know authorities always issue warnings telling people to keep away from such scenes, but I thought (again) "bugger it" - this is my childhood going up in flames, I bloody well want to see what is going on. And so I did.

The odd thing was, that there were in fact very few people milling around - apparently relatively few people thought "bugger it" like I did, and actually kept away. So I was able to get within half a block of the blaze - nearly enough to feel the heat, and certainly close enough to see the "action", and had I been more determined (and not to mention foolish), could easily have got a lot closer. Instead, I jumped on the mobile phone and described the scene to a few people I thought would appreciate it. And whilst doing so, wandered into the closest pub to the fire - little more than half a block away, and enjoyed the very convivial, and it has to be said (given the circumstances), incredibly surreal atmosphere of the relatively small crowd there. It was like nothing was happening unusual at all. Inside, a few dozen people were drinking beer and listening to a Celtic band playing away in the corner, while outside the street was full of fire engines, police, smoke and heat. The only concession the pub seemed to make to the "seminal" moment was that the usual roaring log fire that toasted the punters sitting near the Guinness and  Caffrey's taps had been extinguished.

And that was my "moment". I shall never forget sitting in the front bar of that pub, sipping on a Boags English Ale, while just outside the front window, the city burned, and remains burning, as I type.

I suppose it doesn't really rank alongside John Lennon or the WTC, except that I was there for this one, and so it does.

Life's weird like that.

If I can find a photo, I'll post it a little later.  Here's an early media pic  --->

I feel the need for Pink Floyd ....

And some video for the pyromaniacs out there... Myer Fire Vid

Gimme A Break

David Beckham had one - a highly publicised one, naturally.
Then his best mate Gary Neville got one.
Since then Wayne Rooney joined the gang, and yesterday Liverpool announced that Xabi Alonso and Daniel Agger have aquired one each. I'll wager both Michael Owen and Johnny Wilkinson have had one at some time in recent years.

New cars?
Armour-plated SUVs perhaps?

Nope - busted metatarsals.
Eh? Apparently we've always had these appendages but just recently we've learned how to break them with alarming regularity. Johnny aside - lets face it, Wilko would sprain his thumb in a coin-toss - I suspect the emergance of this new curse is related to the type of boots worn by today's sporting mega-stars. I remember Lord Ferg railing against 'blades' - no, not Sheffield United, but the moulded grips on modern football boots. The Puce One was unhappy about the number of injuries - twisted knees, broken feet - caused by said studs-u-don't-like digging into soft turf. He may have had a point. If so the repercusions are manifest for youngsters as they beg beseiged parents to shell out for the latest footwear.

No danger of that for me this morning as I flew over my happy hunting ground. My ancient Adidas Clima Cools slipped easily over the flint trails as if they knew the way. Another outing in benevolent autumnal climbs. Above, skies laden with a multitude of grey-white cloud laced with an ice-cold wind; underfoot, deliciously springy turf softened by last nights' downpour.

Track du jour was a toss up between Iron Butterfly's In The Garden Of Eden* - known affectionately as 'Ina Gada Da Vida' - and the Doors' Love me Two Times. I'll be greedy and have both if that's OK.

*If you're not familiar with the former it featured in the climax of Michael Mann's excellent Manhunter - the original - and superior - screen adaptation of Thomas Harris's first Lecter novel Red Dragon. There's a clip on YouTube but I'll not add it here; it's rather disturbing.

4.98 miles in 43:44

Farewell To The Special One

So, farewell then Jose Mourinho
Self-styled Special One.
'We were the better team'
That was your catchphrase.

Mr Abramovich has another -
'There's the door, Jose.'

(With apologies to E.J.Thribb, 17½)

Chelski have cast adrift their one redeeming feature; their mercurial manager.
'Mutual consent' is a convenient cliche - Kenyon will claim Mourinho was fired, the man himself that he walked - but whether a trigger was pulled or a dummy spat out it's not good news for followers of football and in particular the popular press. Paradoxically it was the lack of flamboyance on the pitch that brought things to a head, the embarrassing draw with lowly Rosenborg this week the final straw. The sight of John Terry sent forward as an emergency striker for the last twenty minutes will not have warmed Russian cockles. Still, you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs . . .

Mourinho was a wonderful addition to the Premiership. His press conferences were legend, off the cuff remarks a delight. Not since the halcyon days of Cantona's Trawler have we seen such willful mischief blended with mystical malice. I hope Chelski continue to stutter, stumble and fall.

I for one will miss the Special One.

Jose - a musical tribute

Temple Doubt (Andy)

Today is Respect For The Aged Day in Japan, so cut me a bit of slack, please.

This is going to be brief, as I've resolved not to spend too much time in front of a computer on this holiday. I've got 30 minutes before my rendezvous with M, so here goes.

Firle Running Festival - 20K Race

I wrote a lengthy, considered piece about this excellent local race filled with observations and descriptions of the terrain, vistas and conditions.

Sadly, still unfamiliar with the typepad software, in an attempt to preview the piece I inadvertently dispatched it into outer space and I'm too fed up to re-write it.

So here's the short version.

Formula Farce

Another creaky climb to the Cap. Cold wind today, harsh and uninviting. Combined with early morning sun it created near-perfect conditions. These are truly the halcyon days of summer for me; bright mornings, cool breezes, clear skies, soft turf.

I struggled for the first twenty minutes, battling against fatigue as much as the muscular mistral. A longer-than-usual pause at the turn before a helter-skelter charge homeward. During the run I thought about the unseemly shenanigans surrounding the current Formula One debacle. Seems to me the fine, although impossibly large to most, is of less significance than the decision to withdraw the team's points but leave the drivers to contest the championship unmolested. This is perhaps the worst fudge in the history of this Machiavellian group of super-rich 'sportsfolk'. The sport needs competition (sadly lacking in recent years) and the race between Alonso and Hamilton for the crown is almost compelling (almost, that is, to those of us generally indifferent to this rich man's playground), not to mention a huge magnet for press coverage, publicity and, of course, the mighty greenback.

Am I the only person who, on hearing the announcement of the fine - 'One Hundred Million Dollars' - thought immediately of that other super-rich villain, immortalised by Mike Myers?



4.93 (!?) miles, 43:29 minutes (year's best for the course)

Pressure and time

No running for me. Stumbled over a rabbit hole on the 3rd hole at Sandwich last week and was very fortunate to drain a 40 footer for par. My leg swelled up over the next few days - just a bad sprain but I could be out for six weeks.

Putting your feet up from time to time has its compensations, though. Here's a quote from last night's marvellous viewing which seemed appropriate ...

'Andy loved geology. I imagine it appealed to his meticulous nature. An ice age here, a million years of mountain-building there, plates of bedrock grinding against each other over a span of millennia...

Geology is the study of pressure and time. That's all it takes, really. Pressure and time.'