Going out

I'm now sitting with a very smug look on my face regarding this week's blog title. I've often got a smug look on my face. I have been afforded the title of 'Smuggest Man in Media' in the past. I generally either look smug or impatient, judging by the amount people apologise to me when I'm (inwardly at least) patiently waiting for something.

As you will come to realise, I am generally attempting to train for next year's Flora London Marathon (I'm going to namecheck Flora in the hope of getting some free spread, and as a nod to people who insist on referring to the World Cup as the FIFA World Cup) by watching football on the treadmill. This will have several benefits, notably getting to watch the football that's on Sky Sports (I'm adopting the Mel B on Bo Selecta approach http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=44Pm-lmlorY), not watching aformentioned Sky Sports matches down the pub, and getting a decent amount of running in without having to pound the mean streets of Hackney.

On a normal week I might have watched the England-Croatia game on the treadmill. Had it been a friendly that would almost certainly have been the only motivation to watch it. Depending on who is appointed as successor to Sven, I might extend this to 'competitive' games. Yes, I do mean Sven. It's only now people are starting to realise how utterly pointless it was to appoint from within the England regime. Steve McClaren was there all the way under Sven and basically allowed a failing regime (what we'd give for that kind of failure right now though) to continue seamlessly, minus Nancy, Tord, winning, or any sense of charm and with the added bonus of Terry f*cking Venables.



There is a time and a place for Terry Venables. In 1996, it was in the England set-up. Since then, he would probably be better in an institution of some sort. If you have read Tom Bowers' book, Broken Dreams, you'll know exactly what I mean. Anyone who was able to buy a top football club without any money, and later to drain another to the extent of ruining its chairman both literally and metaphorically no doubt has something to offer someone, but there are a lot of shady railway arches in London for Venables to operate in, rather than sitting in a rally driver's seat at Wembley. He claims he discovered he was out of a job on television, but then he also claims he told McClaren to bring on Owen Hargreaves before the third goal went in. He'll be wandering down a street somewhere with a sackload of payoff whistling 'the self preservation society'.



Anyway after a hectic week of watching football in the pub, not watching football but being in the pub, and not being in the pub but being in the O2 Arena (the artist formerly known as the Millennium Dome) and not watching football but watching Kanye West (and drinking excessively), what have I achieved?

Well, I managed to beat my personal best 10k time 3 times in a week, which is surely something even Paula Radcliffe would be proud of. Granted, she can run much faster than the 45 minutes 30 seconds I can now 'boast' as my best, but it's all relative. I also followed it up by running throughout the Newcastle-Liverpool match, which was entertaining for the guy a couple of treadmills down actually applauding a goal (in quite a packed gym he looked a bit mental) and for Fernando Torres having about eight chances and converting none.

Obviously when running in the mornings before work (dedication, that's what you need. God rest your soul Roy) I'm still trying to keep the football theme. I've been helped by the fact that Sky Sports News is now on Sky Sports 1 of a morning. I could honestly (and on occasions pretty much have) watch Sky Sports News all day long. I went into a decline when it looked like the good people at Sky were looking at removing it from the Freeview roster. How could they?

My only complaint about SSN, as I shall call it from now on as I believe we're all friends here, is their Rafa Benitez-esque rotation policy. Sure enough, more often than not I'll tune in to David Jones and Georgie Thompson (ah lovely Georgie) when I get home from work, but not always.

Similarly, I had come to expect that Dan Lobb and Millie Clode were my running buddies. They seem to have a good relationship, Dan helping Millie with the pronunciation of Spanish football teams (how had she not had to say Albacete before?) and Millie giggling along with his jokes. He's quite funny is Dan, and has that sort of everyman appeal that I would extend to Jones and also SSN's former Blue Peter Golden Boy (and celebrity Norwich fan!) Simon Thomas.

Things get a bit more serious towards the second half of the week on Good Morning Sports Fans though, with first Mike Wedderburn drafted in to replace Dan, and then the jockey's favourite, Alex Hammond, joining him for the business end of things. Granted, you get the impression that these two really know their stuff. Wedderburn is clearly a big cricket fan, while Hammond, the shade of whose hair varies with the seasons, is clearly the go-to-gal on all things horsey.

It was Millie and Mike this morning, and I'll be honest with you, it knocked me out of my stride. I ran fast, but not as far as I wanted. I'm going to have to try and find out who is presenting and tailor my training to it.

Tentative Steps

The thing I find most difficult about writing anything is how to begin.

Granted, letters are pretty much a given (although I'm still not entirely comfortable writing 'dear' before a man's name), and emails are a generally a less formal, more badly spelt version of a letter. Texts end pretty much before they've begun so they don't count, but anything else is a chore.

My most recent bout of incompetence has come as a result of being asked by a friend to compile a profile for him on a dating website. He's not so painfully shy that he can't do it himself (in fact he's pretty gregarious), nor is he illiterate (he's a working journalist). The concept of the site is that each potential date (I nearly used the word singleton then, at which point I would have had to rip out my own tongue. Yes I know I have used it now, but it's written in bile) has at least one official friend. Which is not necessarily something you might say about the average 'lonely heart'.

On receiving the invitation from mysinglefriend.com, I put my mind to trying to describe my witty, interesting and I'm led to believe attractive friend in a way that was witty, interesting and that I am led to believe other people might find attractive. Let me tell you, it is nigh on impossible to do this without sounding like you are: selling a house; selling a second hand car; selling a range of eliptical training machines on a three hour-long infomercial; announcing a spot prize on Wheel of Fortune (the original Nicky Campbell and Carol Smillie version, not the subsequent John Leslie and Bradley Walsh debacles); or a twat.

Such has been my indecision on this that my mate has now decided that he's so repellent that even a good friend can't write a short appraisal of his good qualities. What seemed like a bright idea is actually potentially more demoralising than the old fashioned approach, eh Sarah Beeny? She should stick to meddling in people's property affairs, and always being right, rather than sticking her inconsistently pregnant nose into personal affairs.

I've digressed incredibly. If you don't start well you can just stray off anywhere. It's about time I explained myself. I've started something else recently. I'm training for the Flora London Marathon. My decision seems to have coincided with a fairly dramatic downturn in the weather, which is hindering my ability to train outside, so I've taken what I'd like to think is a novel and creative approach to my craft. I'm doing it on a treadmill. While watching football.

So far I've managed to take in a few pretty decent matches, and it keeps me out of the pub. I'm slightly dependent on the game I watch being at least a bit gripping, but it's working well so far. Liverpool against Arsenal did the trick, while the East Anglian derby, a match that means a lot to me as a Norwich fan, allowed me to reach a new level of self control. It;s difficult to have a paddy when your team goes two down in a match they've dominated if you're commited to a running rhythm. It's an even more exhilarating way of celebrating their equaliser if you can pick up your pace and thrust your arms in the air in a kind of double version of the classic Alan Shearer-in-his-Blackburn-pomp stylee.

By writing this blog as regularly as work/training/socialising/having anything interesting to write about will allow, I'm aiming for a few goals. One is to log how well my training's going, hopefully in a boastful manner. Another is to use it as a platform for some musings on football and television, intrinsicly linked in mine and many others' minds. Finally, and most importantly, I'm scrounging. Part of my winning a place in the Flora London Marathon is that I have committed to raising money for Arthritis Care. I'll try and keep this fairly dignified, so all I'll do is make you aware that there is a website, www.justgiving.com/lambontherun , where you can donate. I'm also open to challenges.