Slacking off

I've been very lax in recent weeks. I would blame Christmas, but it's too easy. It would also require taking the retail definition of Christmas, ie all of December, which is a stretch at the best of times.

I am a little bit justified, however, in that Christmas officially kicks off when you see the first 'Holidays are coming' Coca Cola ad (check out this family's dedication http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qqHz8LQBv5Q). This year it was around the first of December. Ooh, it gets earlier every year.

My point is that the blogging has slipped, and the running also took a bit of a backseat to the festivities. There's just so much to distract. The long lunches, the work Christmas do, the seasonal drinks with friends. Then when work finally finished there was the long drive north and the shuffling around to various events with my family, the 'in-laws' (the inverted commas are to symbolise that they are not my in-laws but it is a much more succint way of saying 'my girlfriend's family', although some of them have taken to referring to themselves as such, and I have gone along with it), and friends.

Every stage of the festive period involved food and drink and, knowing that I had already vowed to pack in the booze come January, I was torn between cutting down gradually and going out in a blaze of glory. I wouldn't say I had a blaze of glory, but I held my own.

When I did try to get to the gym, I was scuppered by the increasingly skewed idea of holiday activities. In my day (approaching the age of 28 I now feel qualified to speak like this. I really do not look at the world at the moment and think 'this is my day' in the same way as I did in, say 1996. Ah, 1996. Now there was a year...) all the shops were closed on Boxing Day but you could, for example, go to the cinema. Now, it would appear, all the shops are open (YOU GOT A PANTLOAD OF PRESENTS YESTERDAY. SURELY YOU AREN"T BORED OF THEM YET!), yet the likes of David Lloyd gyms do not feel the need to open their doors and allow those of us whose parents still haven't bloody well got Sky Sports yet (another good namecheck. Maybe I can secure something for them too) to get some exercise and watch some live football.

I forget exactly what the game was. I think it might have been West Ham v Reading, but I don't think I missed much. When there are a number of games going on simultaneously to a live game I'd almost rather be in the company of Jeff Stelling and co to see the whole picture. Unless Martin Keown is involved.

While I'm loathe to lay into someone again after the Venables debacle, I think it's necessary to have a word about Keown. For a kick off, he has been responsible for a bastardisation of history. The famous Arsenal back four was, in large part, Lee Dixon, Nigel Winterburn, Tony Adams and Steve Bould. Andy Linighan deputised on occasion (inculding the 1993 FA Cup Final replay when he scored a last gasp goal that put Norwich into Europe. oh, and won Arsenal the Cup) and so did David O'Leary at the end of his career.

Martin Keown, meanwhile, was racking up seven years of experience between Aston Villa dn Everton. He came back after Arsenal stopped winning things and managed to stick around until Arsene Wenger managed to sort them out, yet has somehow managed to ease Bould in particular out of the picture and write himself into Arsenal's most successful side.

As if this wasn't enough, he was also responsible for one of the most pathetic footballing scenes in history (that's actual history as opposed to Sky's Premier League/ship history that only goes back to 1992) when he and his mates attacked Ruud van Nistelrooy after he missed a penalty(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PWXq_-LdxHk - it's all on You Tube!). The look on Keown's face is ridiculous. The bewilderment on van Nistelrooy's face very telling.

Anyway the latest embarrassing situation Keown found himself in on television was during the Blackburn v Arsenal Carling Cup match. Martin, in whom some TV exec mistook intelligence for being plain old boring, was charged with watching the match and relaying the scenes to the watching public. Which is where the problem comes in. To put it bluntly, Keown is unable to talk about something that is happening at the same time as he is watching it. This is not a unique deficiency among ex-professionals on our beloved Soccer Saturday, but most manage to disguise the fact with some sort of gurning, shouting, stuttering or repeating 'Unbelievable!'.

I'm still not sure exactly what happened or who was sent off, but there was some kind of scuffle involving lots of Blackburn players having a go at an Arsenal player for something or other and someone was sent off. I only know this because Ian Payne put the viewers out of their misery. He spent a good couple of minutes trying to elicit Keown into actually describing what was happening, then gave up and moved on to something else. I'm not even sure they bothered going back to Keown when there was a goal.

Keown seems to have been banished to Football Focus now, alongside the terminally incorrect Mark Lawrenson. 'Lawro', as everyone calls him in pally BBC land (that's pally as in like pals, not as in Pally Gary Pallister who crops up occasionally), has made such an art out of not knowing anything that he has taken to presenting pretty basic knowledge in the form of a wild guess. John Motson is better than the role he has been reduced to, that of Lawrenson's straight man, if you'll pardon the double entendre.

I've got to end with an apology. In my last blog I wrote about Sky Sports News tipster Alex Hammond. I'd completely failed to notice that she has, for some time, been Alex Quinn. I think this subconsciously answers my question to myself about whether or not I fancy her. If Georgie Thompson, Vicky Gomersall (who apparently collapsed and was brought round by Sven Goran Eriksson recently, and has a glint in her eye whenever there's mention of him) or, god forbid, Millie Clode got married, I'd notice. I'd probably write a blog about it.

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.