Put it away!

I have been in Birmingham this weekend, doing the panto thing again. It rained the entire time we were there, except for a spell on Saturday when I went out for a run and it obligingly stopped.

I am troubled by the apparent lack of moral fibre of the good people of Birmingham:

• The theatre was next door to an adult shop (no particular problem with that) which had a sign advertising the availability of "private booths". Is it me, or is that a bit EEEUUUURRGH?
• The hotel (a pretty smart one) was opposite a lap dancing club. In fact, a couple of lap dancing clubs. Perhaps we were in the seedy end of town? But no!...
• I went out for a drink with a group of people from the Birmingham office on Friday night. One of the lads proudly boasted about being such a regular at lapdancing establishments in the town that he was known by name at them all (and in fact had platinum membership to the club near to the hotel). The others then chimed in and said that the team regularly went out to lapdancing clubs, and sometimes even the girls from the office came along too.

Therefore I must conclude that Birmingham is a city peopled by gyrating ladies and dribbling men. What a strange place.

the humble king of biscuits

The garibaldi. I'm sure i've waxed lyrical about the simple charms of the squashed fly biscuit before. But for the first time in AAAAAAAAAGES I've actually been able to find some.

I haven't seen the 'baldis in the shops for the longest while, but since the recent office move (ah, how the mighty are fallen!) from (oh la la) Whitehall to (oh dear) Elephant & Castle we have discovered a source.

I am wondering if there is some kind of class or relative wealth factor at play here. Are garibaldis actually a barometer of social class? Here is my comprehensive social study:

• The (admittedly tiny) Tescos in Parliament Square: no garibaldis. Luxury chocolate-dipped double chocolate cookies? Help yourself. Jaffa cakes? Indeed. Humble garibaldis? No ma'am, afraid not.
• Tescos in the Elephant & Castle shopping centre: garibaldis a go-go.

Categorical, unrefutable proof that garibaldis are the people's biscuit. Up the workers!

Fish japes

I made nice fishcakes today. I don't like fishcakes from the shops as they are always too salty. But (if I do say so myself), my fishcakes were rather tasty, and relatively salt-free.

The first sort, which looked all neat and tidy, were made with haddock.

The second sort, which were all sloppy and therefore ended up a bit splatty in the frying pan, were made with crab and chilli. Splatty appearance, but rather tasty.

The crab came from a frozen fish wholesalers which is on an industrial estate near my house. The fish place is pretty cool, in both senses. There is a big wall of glass-fronted freezers full of the usuals (prawns, scallops etc) and exotica such as soft shell crabs, razor clams and freaky giant prawns that look like they may have escaped from sellafield.

Then, if you're looking for something a bit bigger, there is a giant walk-in freezer... This is very exciting. It is lined with deep plastic trays, each full of big shiny ice-coated slabs of fish. And some big frozen salmon, that you could use as cricket bats. I picked one up and waved it about by the tail (as you do). Of course, when I went to pay, I realised that behind the counter they have a cctv screen showing what's going on inside the walk-in freezer. Ahem. They don't appear to have barred me for misuse of fishy products yet, though.

Beijing 2008

It was a lovely day today, with a beautiful clear sky and low winter sunshine. Just the day for scampering 5k round Bushy Park, you might be thinking. And you'd be right. I am pleased to report that I knocked a tasty two minutes off my previous time.

I have calculated that, at this rate of improvement, I will have beaten the world record by the end of April. By mid summer, I would hope to be completing the race before I even start.

This should put me in excellent shape to challenge for medal contention at the Beijing olympics. Paula Radcliffe eat your heart out.

The Bushy Park time trial is quite a remarkable thing. It's a free event (free! scores very highly on the Entertainment & EconomyTM scale), and happens every week. You run 5k round the park, and they calculate your time and then publish it (plus the grim red-faced pictures, as previously mentioned) on their website. But the really remarkable things are:

1. Hundreds of people turn up each week. This week it was 280-odd. Last week it was peeing down with rain and there were still around 200 people. Don't forget, this is 9am on a Saturday. Most sane people are just falling out of bed and reaching for the kettle.
2. Everybody who runs it is really FAST. And I mean FAST. The best time for the course is 14 minutes dead. The world record for 5km is only around 13 minutes. There are regularly three or four runners each week coming in at under 17 minutes. My friend Mick (a pretty handy runner) came in at a fairly smart 21 minutes, and was 71st. Seventy-first!!!

Of course, the major disadvantage of the run being full of hundreds of very fast people is that it tends to inspire feelings of inadequacy in us lesser mortals. Particularly because from any given point on the route you can see most of the rest of the field stretched out ahead of you, in all their toned, bouncing, fresh-faced, lycra-clad glory.

I'm not publishing this week's picture. Partly because I'm using a different PC which doesn't allow me to post pictures. But mostly because I look like a huge running bosom on little stick legs. I'm thinking surgery.

Bushy Park

A special feature of the Bushy Park Time Trial: photographers waiting in the bushes to capture you at your red-faced, stumbling best.

I'm particularly proud of this shot. If I hadn't told you, you would have assumed that this was some mad old bag dashing for a bus. See the gloves clasped in one hand, and the eccentric (and definitely non-streamlined) waterproof. All I need is a string bag, a dachshund on a lead and an OAP travel pass to complete the image.

Malt loaf

A few weeks back, my team secretary brought in a couple of slices of malt loaf in her lunchbox. I happened to say what a good idea that was, and how nice malt loaf is with a cup of tea.

Ever since then, she has brought an extra slice each day for me.

Clarification

Three League Boots are simply the ladies' version of Seven League Boots, as any fule kno.

Three League Boots

Over the last few days, I have:

• Eaten fish and chips at the fab chippy on Leather Lane. The waitress is quite scary and has big eyeliner.
• Completed my first ever Bushy Park Time Trial 5k. I wasn't very fast. However, I did beat my personally imposed "shame-o-meter" by being less than twice as slow as the winner.
• Went orienteering with my mum. Who claimed to be wearing Three League Boots.

All of these things, in their different ways, have been very excellent. I am happy.

Who ate all the pies?

How neglectful of updating I have been. I blame the panto. Which was fun - or as Olivia/Kasatnasato would have it, FUN!!!! - but absolutely exhausting. I was one of the very first party poopers to leave the last night bash, and that was at about 3.30am. Zzzzz...

Glenn has also adopted a new theme song (or had it foisted upon him - I can't be sure), to coincide with his dramatic increase in running activity. All together now (to the tune of "Monster" by The Automatics):

>What's that coming over the hill,
> is it a GINSTER?
> is it a GINSTERRRRRRRRRRRRRRR?
> What's that coming over the hill,
> is it a GINSTER?