Like many other marathon runners, the end of April for me was spent staring at my feet or the middle distance trying to answer this question without being completely boring or self-obsessed.  In any case, the answer for me this year was:

“Bloody awful, thanks for asking”

Given that’s been pretty much the same response for the last 3-4 years, after every marathon I’ve run, I decided to try something radical. That’s right, I read a book about how to be a better runner. There’s lots of these books out, and mugs like me buy them all the time, in the mistaken belief that by tweaking our training, taking a different attitude to races, running with a different posture, eating wholegrain goat yoghurt etc that we’ll remain injury free, enjoy our running, and probably show a clean pair of heels to those pesky Kenyans.

Anyway, this particular mug bought a book called “Run Less, Run Faster”. I was particularly attracted by the first part of the title, as I’ve recently fallen out of love with running, and am keen for us to be reunited as soon as possible. What RL, RF says is this: Stop running so much, do three really good intense sessions a week and spend another 2-3 sessions cross training. Quite how such a message justifies 300 pages of dense text and £8:99 of my cash is anyone’s guess, but I guess that’s just the crazy, mixed up world that we all live in these days.

So, for the last couple of weeks, that’s what my training has been, and, dear reader, I do feel my affection for running generally chumming up a bit. Although I think this is partly due to the significant boredom levels associated  with the cross training options. Because once you’ve put yourself through 45 minutes of stationary cycling or rowing machine efforts, then you really know how boring exercise can be.

And so it was with a spring in my step that I started my effort session last Tuesday night, and I fair skipped along to start my:

<1 mile warm up + 4x 800m efforts @ 2:54 off 1min timed recovery + 2 mile cool down>

Now, if you’re a runner, you probably live in justified fear of the 800m effort. It’s just about short enough to be flat out, and just about long enough to leave you coughing blood in the last 200 metres. But, it’s a really good effort session distance for endurance runners, and there’s even a neat little marathon predictor called Yasso 800′s (named after the exceptionally coolly named running coach, Bart Yasso) that says you should do 6 x 800m efforts with  limited recoveries as an indicator of marathon pace a few weeks ahead of your race – your average in minutes and seconds will be the likely time you’re capable of in hours and minutes for the marathon. Neat, huh?

So off I set, and warmed up by running to a nearby cinder track, a hidden gem about a mile from where I live. It’s at the edge of a park which itself borders on to a bit  of Norwich which, well, hasn’t exactly made its way on to any postcards you’d buy from the tourist board. However, there was sun in the sky, a marked lack of rain, and all was right with the world.

First 800. Had the track to myself, being a firm believer in Yasso 800′s, I took the 2:54 target seriously, got round ok, and absolutely on pace.

As I was walking up to start the second effort, I was joined on the running track by two men in shell-suits carrying golf clubs, a very noisy child, and two even noisier dogs. Stepping on to the infield, they started practising their golf shots*. Fortunately, they weren’t very good at golf, so they weren’t hitting the ball that far, but when they did connect, it was difficult to know if they were going to slice or hook, so running in a circle around them was slightly precarious. In addition, the noisy child decided to exercise the dogs, who in turn decided to exercise themselves in my general direction. All of which gave cause for quite a lot of “Oi, f***ing come back here”  from the two men, who would catch up with the dogs eventually and punish them in the way in which only people who shouldn’t have dogs seem to know how. So, second 800m just shaded under 3:00, on account of ducking imaginary “F***in’ Fore” shouts and general distraction.

Third effort was all well until the second bend, when I noticed two more men and possibly the biggest dog I’ve ever seen, up on the bank next to the track. My eyesight’s a bit dodgy these days, and I genuinely thought it was a small horse to start with. Anyway, it, and its minders came down the bank, attached to each other by a chain that you’d normally use to secure a large motorbike. Across the back straight, and onto the infield. The small child stopped screaming. Both of the casual golfers stopped swearing and studied their trainers. And the two previously very lively dogs sauntered over to the back straight, as if to make it clear that their job descriptions did not include the word ‘protection’. Naturally, this modern day reenactment of a spaghetti western slowed me down, as time stood still around me for a moment. As a result – 2:59.

Ans so to the fourth 800m effort. Just as I walked up to the start point, I was joined on the track by an assortment of different sized adults in more shell suits, two toddlers, and a very small quad bike.

“That looks easier than this”, I said, striking up the sort of easy banter that inevitably marks me out as a complete twit, and by which I meant at riding on a quad bike around  a running track would be easier than running.

“Well, we can’t get it f***ing going on the f***ing grass”, came back the equally cheery response, slightly mis-interpreting me.

They started the quad bike up, and it made a noise like a drag racer. The recalcitrant dogs pricked up their ears, and on the back straight suddenly made themselves heard again (the dog/horse creature by this stage had moved on, possibly into some sort of Ripley’s Believe it or Not travelling fair). I had a bit of a head start on the first circuit, as the first pilot was the wrong side of obese, and had a toddler on his lap, all of which pretty much hid the quad bike underneath. As I passed them, the dogs looked a bit puzzled and not sure what to make of things. Frankly, I couldn’t blame them – they’d just pitched up for a little light golf and owner punishment action, a new type of scary animal scares them half to death, then some idiot in a running vest comes sweating past, followed by Mr Creosote and Jr Creosote, making a noise like their worst nightmare and with no visible means of support.

The Creosote family had developed some momentum by about 300m, and were steadily gaining on me as I passed half way. Time for a quick Le Mans style change of driver, and the race was truly on. For the new driver was the skinniest member of the family and anxious to impress with his driving skills, throwing doughnuts on the first corner, and in turn convincing the dogs that this was A Thing They Must Chase. So they did, and at 600 metres, the positions were 1) me 2) quad bike 3) Alsatian cross 4) Bulldog, all travelling at well over 10mph. I’m pleased to say that these were the finishing positions as well, or at least they would have been if the two dogs hadn’t been chased in turn by their owners, so instead of attacking the final bend, had carried straight on down the hill towards the ring road. Selfishly, that didn’t concern me, as I checked my time for the effort – the thrill and fear of the chase had resulted in a pleasing 2:49.

I suspect you will struggle to see such an exciting last lap at London 2012 in the 800m, or, frankly, in any other event, and more’s the pity, in my opinion. I would love to see the introduction of lively dogs and/or mini quadbikes in lanes 7 and 8 for some of the heats, at least.

My training plan takes me back to the track next Tuesday. If there’s enough interest, I will hold a badly organised and frustrating lottery to deliver to you some tickets at vastly inflated prices, although I couldn’t guarantee that you’ll get to see exactly the event you want to see when you want to see it or indeed be able to sit near any members of your own family.

But you’ll be able to say you were there.

*the men, obviously

I got tapped up to join the masons once. Or at least, I think that’s what happened. I was invited out for a evening of beer and snooker by three of my senior work colleagues. I was rubbish at snooker and I’m not very good at being drunk, and I think I may have misread some of the questions I was being asked. So, if  one of my colleagues said ‘Tell me why family and diligent work is important to you’, I may have misheard it as ‘Tell me why democratic socialism is the only way forward for this country’. Anyway, I didn’t get invited back for another cosy chat, although it puzzled me why certain people managed to get on so well in the company, and it was only after several years that another ex-colleague suggested to me that they might have been ‘looking after each other’ in their own special way.

I don’t ever feel I was missing out on that much, although for years the traditions of the Freemasons have interested me, not least for the way I which they’ve  influenced our behaviour and language. If you say someone is a four-square fellow, for example, it means that they’re the sort of person who will pass the initiation ceremony of running to all four corners of the Freemasonry hall before acceptance. I shall make it my business to call more people four-square fellows I future, and I’d respectfully encourage you to do the same.

Anyway, we’re here in France, and in round three of our thrilling ‘Come
Dine With Me’ challenge, in which the junior Emus are tasked with creating a menu and providing an evening’s entertainment in the vain hope that their parents can get to read their books in peace. As far as that hope has been concerned, it’s been an unqualified disaster, as we’ve been roped in to do the heavy lifting, and indeed the vast majority of the light lifting. And so it was that last night’s lentil and peanut surprise (surprisingly good, thanks for asking), bubbled away happily in a very very heavy dish in our calor gas oven, while Felix put the final touches to his entertainment for the night ahead, which was a free form rap about a rabid cat (surprisingly entertaining, thanks for asking).

The great moment arrived, and I was tasked with removing said dish from the oven. This was a more precarious task than you might imagine. Our oven is about 50 years old, and wouldn’t last terribly long under any Health and Safety inspection. Health wise, it has c50 years worth of hurried meals baked into its very being. Safety wise, it is very probably the most dangerous item we own*, threatening to cough out an explosion from its oven, hob or connecting and slightly perished gas tubes at any moment. And so it is always approached with a degree of caution. And that caution is increased when a very heavy dish, full of bubbling nutrition is eased out against the rusting sides of the oven. Mid way through this delicate exercise, the mouse appeared from underneath the cooker. Looking rather disturbingly well fed, and without any discernible fear, he appeared to be eyeing up my right foot. We both froze in a moment of time, and I remembered the story of my Dad on the table. I continued to delicately wrench the dish from the cooker while my dear wife shouted at the mouse to get lost. Without spilling a drop, the meal moved from kitchen to table (not always an easy exercise, as the blog ‘Mrs Emu Gets Custardy’ will testify).

I had conquered my fears and spent the evening feeling around 2 feet taller as a result. Just don’t ask me to own one as a pet.

*The cooker now takes first place in the most dangerous list,from a previous rating of 3rd. Felix’s window has now been replaced with slightly stronger glass, and, after re-enacting the scarier moments of ‘Speed’  at 75mph with a broken throttle cable, the Mini has finally gone to a better place.

I say ‘trying to stem’, because it’s a fairly futile task. As we will later discover, he’s managed to cut through an artery in his hand, and we’re getting a live demonstration of just how powerful a pumping heart is – at a rate of about 100 beats a minute, his hand sprays claret all over the bathroom at an alarming velocity. It’s like stumbling into the set of The Omen, or possible the scene in the police station in ‘Withnail & I’.

Very, very, very fortunately, the love of my life is also an experienced nurse, and pretty rapid at getting up stairs – taking control of the situation she manages to stem the horror movie flow and bark out a series of commands that get the three of us out of the door in record time and pointing in the direction of A&E.

As the alpha male in the family, I immediately take on the role of ambulance driver. It’s only a couple of miles to the hospital, and I feel justified in driving like a, well, like I’m at the wheel of a minicab. Fortunately my wife is good enough to break away from her nursing duties in the back seat to kindly point out the flaws in my driving style, and indeed, the likelihood that we are all going to die if I don’t slow down. I forgot to mention that I’m also slightly hampered in my high speed journey by not being able to see terribly well. I’ve had to wear glasses for driving for about 5 years, and they’ve have been broken for about four. And that morning, despite the last superglue repair, one of the arms had finally come off. Thus I was actually having to balance the glasses on one ear and my nose, an interesting challenge when approaching a roundabout at speed, for example. The whole journey, brief though it was, was conducted with a driver looking like he was in the middle of a minor stroke, while his passengers alternately were crying with pain and shouting out instructions on how to drive. Anyway, we got there.

And during the journey and in the hospital, where incidentally, we enjoyed the kind of fabulous NHS care that frankly, I’m going to miss post ‘reform’*, we managed to piece together what had happened…

We live on a fairly busy street, and #3′s bedroom faces out to the road. So he can sit at the window and watch the world go by. And that afternoon, a girl from his class was walking past. He is at pains to point out that there is no love interest involved here, but I think we’re all impressed that he was banging on his window so enthusiastically to attract her attention that he managed to punch right through it up to his lower arm. Given that his punching ability has been a cause of some mirth in the house for a number of years, perhaps it was the power of passion that took over, a bit like those stories of mothers who lift up the back of trucks to free their trapped children.

Anyway, he’s ok now. He’s milking the inability to write, play the piano, wash up and cut up his food, but no real harm done, and it’s nice in a way that he’s got an excuse not to do these things, as normally he just skives off anyway.

And you’ll want to know what happened to the girl. Well, she walked off. Completely oblivious to the bloodfest that she’d caused a few feet above her, and the pathetic sight of #3′s arm flopping about in her general direction, out of the broken window. Girls, huh? You can work really hard to get their attention, and then they just wander off. Still, might be the first, doubt it’ll be the last. 

* I’m serious. #3 was seen immediately, triaged really quickly, given pain relief, X-rayed and stitched efficiently by considerate staff who seemed to really care for the health of our child. I would dearly have loved a chat with Andrew Lansley that afternoon.

“What are you going to do on your birthday, Dad?”, says #3

“Well, son 3″, I say, “It’s a big birthday this year, so I’m thinking about running a mile for each year that I’ve been alive. And I’m going to ask lots of my friends if they want to run part of it with me”

“Wow, can I run it too?”

“Yes, but  you’ll have to run your age too, you know”

“Hmmm, 13 miles…not really sure I fancy that”

A pause

“Not going to be very fair on Grandad, is it?”

And it’s about Norwich, a city dear to my heart, that I write today, dear reader. And to get the drift of this, you need to know a bit about the city, or, more importantly, the people in it. So let’s imagine the city as a person (bear with me). When I go to London, it feels like the default face position is a marked furrowing of the brow. When I go to Edinburgh, there’s a bit of creasing around the eyes. When I’m in Newcastle, everyone seems to have turned these creases into laugh lines. And when I’m in Norwich…well, the face is completely relaxed, but there’s something very suspicious about the eyes and the way that they look at you. By suspicious, I mean worried in the bad times about what’s going wrong, and worried in the good times about what might go wrong. Which is kind of the mood of the moment in Norwich – there’s a good feeling about the place, in no small part linked to the football club, but also a deep, and very British, suspicion, that any minute now, we’re all going to be found out and we’ll, well, drop down a couple of divisions. Really, it’s about a sense that we’ve never had it so good, but we shouldn’t be boasting about it just yet, as something could go horribly wrong.

And nowhere is that more evident than at Norwich City every week, when Grant Holt takes to the pitch. Everybody (with the exception of opposition defenders, who claim he falls over a bit too easily) loves Grant Holt. If your not familiar with him, he often gets referred to in the press as an ‘old fashioned centre forward’. Which effectively means that he’s a big bloke who makes trouble up front. There’s probably a bit more to him than that, for all I know he may be a connoisseur of vintage wines, an enthusiastic opera fan or a keen gardener, but around 3pm on a Saturday afternoon, all Norwich really wants from him is to be a big bloke making trouble up front.

Which is largely what they get, but in a manner that reflects the mentality that I was struggling to describe earlier. Let’s take an example, from when Norwich played West Brom in January. Lambert decides to play Holt as a left winger, and at 1-1, with 11 minutes to go, he’s released to run on to a ball down the line. Actually, I’m simplifying that one a bit. The ball’s played past Holt with his back to goal. You know those clips of George Best turning on a sixpence and wrong-footing defences? Well, Grant Holt doesn’t do that. He actually has something of a turning circle, in that in order to face in the other direction he runs forward for a bit, then starts indicating right. After this manoeuvre, he’s finally facing in the right direction, and, like all the best heavy vehicles, starts gathering some momentum. After about 20 yards, you really wouldn’t want to get in his way. He catches up with the ball and clips in an absolutely perfect cross, which Steve Morison heads home like a bullet. And then, really, we get the best bit of all. Because that’s when he turns around to celebrate. Actually, this takes a couple of seconds, as he has to extricate himself out of the advertising hoarding and then negotiate another 180 degree turn, which as we’ve already noted, can take a little while. But when he does, it’s all worth it. Because he’s got a smile on his face that’s about 9 yards wide, as he waits for Morison to make his way over. When you’re Grant Holt and you’ve made that sort of effort, it’s important that the celebrations come to you after all.

And Grant Holt’s huge daft smile says (to me) a really long sentence. It says:

“I really can’t believe it because I just managed to make another goal and it’s in the Premier league and only a couple of years ago I was playing non league football and before that I was fitting tyres and now I’m in this fantastic position that I’m not sure I actually deserve but sod it it seems to be working out all right because we’ve won another game and even though we thought at the start of the season that we might be going straight down for some reason we seem to be knocking them in and we’re having exactly the kind of fun that we all thought we might have when we started off playing football when we were kids, even though our entire squad cost less that the cheapest Chelsea player but who cares because this is all just too good to be true so we’d better bloody celebrate because who knows when the bubble might burst…”.

Well, that’s what I think he’s thinking anyway. And if he is, then he ought to know that it’s pretty much what the rest of the Fine City think too.

Like me, you may have had a bit of a double take.

I intend to use this picture if I ever need to check whether someone’s middle aged.

My first reaction, for example (and I’m afraid middle aged seems to be very much where I’m at), was that this could cause a problem for my Dad, and my Mother in law, who’ve both just had hip replacements.

Not at the same time, you understand.

They didn’t actually swap hips.

That would be silly.

They needed different hips done, for a start.

Then there’s the height difference.

Anyway, I may be rambling.

The point is that I didn’t think of how that warning might impact someone who, shall we say, might have ‘accessorised’ themselves, largely because I don’t know that many people who have.

Or, at least, I don’t know that I know anyone that has. And that’s how I know that I’m middle aged.

Also, I tend to ramble on a bit.

Anyway, this blog isn’t about embarrassing running shorts or tights, it’s about short running embarrassments. Honest.

A couple of weeks ago, I had he delights of a drive from Norwich to Manchester and back again to take Jr Emu #1 to a university interview. Off I drove, with a song in my heart, trying to dismiss the simple calculation of £9k a year tuition fees plus food and board multiplied by a 3-5 year course multiplied by four children and multiplied by inflation. Just as an aside, here’s a picture that I like to keep in the bathroom to remind all visitors of the responsibilities of voting wisely:

Anyway, got to our destination, and with a couple of hours on my hands while #1 was being lightly grilled by Manchester’s finest, decided to go for a run. Found the university sports centre, got changed, and out the door, before you could say ‘can anybody help me work this ridiculous locker system’.

Possibly not my finest/funnest ever run, as I hadn’t realised that the university is right next to Moss Side – it’s not the most picturesque running environment, but I’d been working on a new technique to keep on my toes, and it certainly helped with that.

Ran for about an hour before I realised I’d made a bit of a schoolboy error; I’d forgotten a towel. So, my clothes were neatly packed away at the sports centre, a hot shower was waiting for me, and I had a 5 hour drive home, so a towel was quite key to my plans. Not to worry, I’d noticed a parade of shops  near the university, and I had some cash in my pocket. There were half a dozen likely shops when I got there, and I went into each one, sweating heavily on the floor, as I tried to discreetly browse, with no success. Finally, next to the sports centre, I got to a Spar shop, and by now I was panicking a bit. Surely they’d have something, if only a tea-towel. Sadly not, so, gentle reader, what did I buy at the shop? A bumper 6-pack of j-cloths, that’s what.

And, crikey, had that sports centre got busy since I left? And weren’t those showers busy? And aren’t j-cloths really small when you try to use them as a towel? And aren’t they surprisingly non-absorbent? And not entirely opaque.

I decided that to explain myself to my fellow sportsmen would mean travelling into the world of weirdness and perversion, so opted to maintain a dignified silence. Well, silence, anyway.

More to come a couple of days ago, when I ran into work, listening to my lovely iPod, which Mrs E bought me a a few months back. It’s tiny, with a touchscreen and when you clip it to your lapel or rucksack, the whole world can see what you’re listening to. Which meant that, given that I’d decided to improve my knowledge by listening to a podcast on the outbreak of World War II, this is what the security guard saw as I marched past him into the office:

And yes, I was wearing tights.

“Dad, You’ll never guess what’s just happened”, he said.

A short worried pause while I considered my options. If you’ve got teenage kids in your house, perhaps ones who’ve just learnt to drive, got a charming and attractive new girlfriend and just discovered  how much fun beer can be, then you’ll know that the number of things that might have ‘just happened’ is quite long and potentially of concern. I played it safe and asked if he’d crashed the car. Thankfully he hadn’t. I was very relieved, as I really like the car.

This is what happened.

#1 was revising upstairs in the house when he heard a knock on the door. He went downstairs to answer, and opened the door to a middle aged bloke in glasses, who he’d never seen before.

MABIG: “Hello, is Kevin there?”

#1: “No, he’s at work”

MABIG: “Err, ok, will he be back later?”

#1: “Well, probably about 7″

MABIG “Ok…by the way, are those your drums in the front room”

#1 “Err…yes”

MABIG “So you’re a drummer then”

#1 “Err…yes”

MABIG “I’m a drummer too. I’m the drummer in Blur”

To which #1 said what any self-respecting 18 year old would say in those circs:

#1: “Yeah, right”

There followed a period of some scrutiny, where #1 established the credentials of his mystery guest and, through a series of well placed and detailed questions, established  that it was in fact Dave Rowntree at the door, and that, yes, he was calling to speak to #1′s Dad.

Probably the best exchange was:

#1: “I’ve just finished reading ‘A Bit Of A Blur’

MABIG: “Oh, well that’s Alex’s book. I’m not in that very much”

I think the best bands are always the ones where the bass player ignores the drummer, don’t you ?

Anyway, it transpires that Dave Rowntree is aiming to be the Labour candidate for Norwich South, and was canvassing a few party votes, which is a bit less exciting that my hope that he was trying to muscle in on the recent 4D Jones revival.

The mood in the house became slightly more tense after Mr R’s departure, having wished #1 good luck for that night’s gig and no doubt having enjoyed a hearty exchange on how best to configure your floor tom for a knock dead paradiddle**. For at that point, #1 went upstairs, and was met by #2, a boy who has never voluntarily answered phone, door or any of the first two questions put to him, but who is an absolute obsessive on all things musical, with particular interest in the indie and Brit-Pop scene of the early 90′s.

#2: “Who was that at the door?”

#1: “Oh, that was the drummer from Blur, wanting to speak to Dad”

It’s only so often that #1 is going to score such an emphatic goal, and I like to think he celebrated accordingly, possibly by running around the house with his shirt over his head.

So***, I mentioned #1′s gig, and at 1030pm that night I was despatched to the venue to pick up not him, or any member of the band, but his cymbals and snare drum, so that he could go off clubbing. Can’t really see my own Dad ever having gone for that as a worthwhile task, but I guess me and the Missus just want to curry favour with the future Dave Rowntrees of this world. Anyway, I picked up the gear, and drove home. Worth mentioning at this point that it was very dark, and very wet, so it was with some surprise that, after parking the car in the drive, I heard a knock on the passenger door window. I’d taken off my glasses at this point, thereby rendering myself almost blind, but I could just about make out the face of a woman in her twenties, staring at me through the window.

And so**** I had the second worried pause of the day. I’m really not a very good driver, so for all I know, I might have run over her foot as I was parking. Or, given that these days, with my advancing years, I can actually forget a face as soon as I’m introduced to it, it may well have been someone I knew.

Got out of the car, and as I walked round, noticed a large bloke sheltering under the tree outside our house. Walked round to the passenger door.

Mystery Woman: “Hello, could you possibly help me?”

To be fair, what she actually said was “Helloo, codd yoo poshhibly help moie”. She was, as the vernacular has it, completely off her tits.

Me: “Err, yes, what’s the problem?”

MW: “I wash wundering if yoo woold be sho kindharharharted to shpare shome change”

Me “I’m really sorry, I don’t have a penny on me.” Which was true.

As often is the case, the dialogue went back to and fro, as I justified to her and myself that I couldn’t/wouldn’t help, and she made absolutely no attempt to justify what she was doing in my front garden trying to tap me up for loose change. We eventually both concluded that no loose change was available.

At which point she smiled at me, quite sweetly, and said:

“Do you want anything elsh then?”

Time for the day’s third worried pause.

There is, let’s face it, only one service that’s offered late at night in this way while a large minder (who I noticed was now taking a keen interest in the discussion) looks on benevolently. I’d not heard of a door to door service before, but maybe I need to get with the times.

Anyway, as the NotW might have said a few years back, I made my excuses and left. Well, actually, asked her to leave, given that it was that way about. And went into the house to Mrs E, to explain that we appear to have become the target of a travelling red light service.

Still, when I next hook up with Mr Rowntree it should give us some subject matter for election pledges. “No mobile hookers in NR2!”. The T-shirts are already at the printers.

*Have you noticed the habit of people starting sentences with the word “So”? Do you find it annoying? I know I do…

** Drummer talk, I should think

*** See above

****Almost as bad

Anyhow, having been away from the singing in front of people game for a few years, I thought it might be an idea to share some thoughts with our adoring* fans between numbers**. So, I did a bit of digging around to find some appalling lyrics that have been foisted on the general public over the last few years. This is my resulting top ten:

Lucky that my breasts
Are small and humble
So you don’t confuse
Them with mountains
Shakira – Whenever, Wherever
 
I’m as serious as cancer, 
When I say Rhythm is a Dancer.
Snap – Rhythm Is A Dancer
 
Before he leaves the camp he stops,
He scans the world outside,
And where there used to be some shops,
Is where the snipers sometimes hide.
Human League – The Lebanon

I don’t want to see a ghost
It’s the sight that I fear most
I’d rather have a piece of toast
Watch the evening news
Des’ree – Life
 
And when their eloquence escapes me
Their logic ties me up and rapes me
De do do do, de da da da
The Police – De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da
 
“I am,” I said
To no one there,
And no one heard at all,
Not even the chair.
Neil Diamond – I am I said.
 
More sacrifices than an Aztec priest
Standing here straining at that leash
All fall down
Can’t complain, mustn’t grumble
Help yourself to another piece of apple crumble
ABC – That Was Then
 
You walked into the party like you were walking onto a yacht
Your hat strategically dipped below one eye
Your scarf it was apricot
You had one eye on the mirror as you watched yourself gavotte
You’re So Vain – Carly Simon

I drive my Mini Cooper,
And I’m feeling super-dooper.
American Life – Madonna
 
You’re the crop to my rotation,
You’re the sum of my equation.
Brand New Day, Sting

Note that Sting gets two mentions here. No less than he deserves.

Unfortunately, I didn’t really get to use the list at the gig, as my advancing years, a stage being lit by three 60 watt red bulbs and my decision to use a 10 point font to save paper, rather worked against me being able to read what I’d printed. Anyway, I reflected afterwards, that these were really obvious choices. In fact, if you google ‘crap lyrics’, chances are that these’ll be amongst the ones that everyone else has targetted. The real hidden gems are in the heart of some otherwise fabulous songs, where the writer has quite obviously, erm, dropped the ball in the third verse. Here are a few examples where I can’t help feeling that the song really needed to be finished before last orders in the nearby pub:

1. Speaking of which…
“I wish you’d listen to me
No I don’t want a cup of tea”
Jimmy Pursey wasn’t probably the most eloquent of lyricists, but he did rather plumb the depths with this one – other than trite lines like this, ‘Hurry Up Harry’ is just the best bit of energetic post punk nonsense you can imagine, before it all went Oi-wrong…

2. Mike Scott loses the plot
“Laura was my girl, when I first was in a group
I can still see her to this day, stirring chicken soup”
‘Bang on the Ear’ is one of the most infectious and all round fun songs you can imagine, putting the Waterboys into a whole new category of bands, years ahead of young folk wannabes like Mumford & Sons. And it’s all about neat couplets, so he was bound to make a few short cuts…but ‘stirring chicken soup’? Gawd help us.

3. Whisper who dares…our heroes are villains…
Since 1970, the Beatles have established a kind of gentle deity, whereby all that they’ve ever produced is considered masterful. There are exceptions to this way of thinking, for example, my friend N, who still considers them to be something of an average pub-rock group. But he’d probably admit to being in the minority. Anyway, they did write some astonishingly lousy words…
“I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping
While my guitar gently weeps”
The thing that intrigues me about this is that George Harrison wrote it in 1968, when the Fab Four were at their absolute peak, so he must have known that every phrase would be picked over for inner meaning…and, umm, this one really, really doesn’t.

It’s a shame, because now I can’t really hear songs like these without thinking of the little flaws. I go from enthusiastic nod to sad and doleful shake of the head in one line. As lots of musos like to say – “third verse, same as the first”. Sounds like a good idea sometimes…

*ahem
**ahem, again

I do like a bit of change in life, as it tends to keep you on your toes, and this parenting lark, which in the last few weeks has been like viewing the whole world through parted fingers, is a fine example. Just ask me about #1′s 18th birthday party next time we bump into one another and I’ll tell you tale that would curdle the freshest milk. Still, probably not best to dwell on this too much. It’s not really what you might call broadcastable material.

Anyway, the other reason I’ve not been filling up my bit of the internet with the usual drivel is that, for the last few weeks, I’ve had very little to get cross about. As regular readers* will know, this blog is largely the charting of my steep decline into being a grumpy old man, except without the payment. And, rather delightfully, I’ve found myself in a rather splendid place. I realise this is all a bit insular, what with the global financial crisis, continuing genocide and starvation across the world, and the ecology of the planet being irreversibly damaged by some sensationally stupid actions, but sadly, those things don’t occupy my thoughts as much as they should, and the prospect of a late train, a bad pint or some twit in a nylon shirt trying to provide his own special ‘retail experience’ have far too high a profile. And, by and large, those little irritations have been, well, just that in the last couple of weeks. So much so, in fact, that I decided to not get teed off with the world about the little things and to have a little bet with myself around little ripple effects of positivity.

This all started with the saga around a car that I really shouldn’t have bought, which was desperately unreliable, and which caused something of a rift in the homestead, what with our son and his chums being left stranded at odd hours of the day and night on the hard shoulder of the A11. Anyway, after quite a lot of faffing around, a certain amount of subterfuge, and, frankly, lying through my teeth to my wife, someone I didn’t know did me a massive favour, fixed the car, and wouldn’t accept any payment. I’ve kind of scampered through that bit of the story, but let’s just say for now that, should you ever need an MOT and you happen to be in Norwich, go to DR Laws on Bessemer Road. There you will meet the sort of person who won’t rip you off, have a firm understanding of what customer service is about, and, for all I know, be a potential godfather to your offspring.

Anyway, after this experience I started to think about random acts of kindness, and how seldom seemed to happen these days. Needing to code my life, as we all seem to need to these days, I decided to actively search out the opportunity to perform these acts, and set myself the target of one a day. And, you’ll be unsurprised to hear, spectacularly failed. For the first four weeks I looked for old ladies to help across the road, people with heavy bags of shopping, and children looking lost or frightened. Be warned, gentle reader, because if you start looking too hard for those sort of people, you do get a few odd looks. And comments. There is such a thing as trying too hard, after all. And, other than a chance meeting with a cat and a car on a run home last week, where I managed to diffuse a potentially ugly standoff between the two parties, I’d managed a null score across a whole month.

Last Thursday, however, my luck seemed to turn. I jumped into a cab in London, to find that the cab was turning away a couple of other punters. “Sorry” I said. “But I can give you a lift if you want to go to Liverpool Street.” Which, funnily enough, they did, and after a bit of looking at each other in a sort of ‘should we trust this person who may well be some sort of sociopath’ style, in they jumped.

On the train, my lucky roll continued – the screaming schoolgirls sat next to me were smiled upon gently despite the fact I could barely hear myself think. Off they hopped at Colchester, and all was quiet, until, with the train doors locked, their little heads bobbed up and down at the window, and the slightly muted screaming was heard again. I looked down and noticed that they’d left a set of headphones on the floor. With what I like to think was a cat-like grace, I grabbed the headphones, legged it to the end of the carriage, opened the window, and handed them their headphones. “Thank you soooooo much”, they shrieked. Returning to the carriage, an elderly woman looked up at me. “That was a very nice thing to do” she said, and I reflected that, despite this being the sixth 2-hour train trip I’d taken in four days, it was the first time that anyone had spoken to me.

Cycling home later that evening, I saw a bike locked up with a front light switched on. So I stopped, and switched it off.

So there we are. Three in one Thursday. Which means, with my one a day target, I have to start again tomorrow. So, if you’re reading this, are an elderly lady standing by the road in the NR2 area, then watch out! You’ll be across that road before you know it…

* Hello to both of you