There's quite a few numpties out there

I've got issues.

After working two night shifts having had little sleep I know that I can easily lose my sense of humour, so I have to employ a stress management strategy to deal with this (I worked this out myself.....no need for an expensive, faddish counsellor, Dear Reader).

So.......I arrive in Glasgow after having worked two night shifts with little sleep. I knew I was tired 'cos half an hour of the flight from London passed with me unconscious in my chair, mouth agape, dribbling on my Hayemaker T-shirt. No problems so far, however.

Mrs Mac arrives to pick me up, pretty much on time, and we head into Glesga Toon. Still no problems.

We head to the hotel and I'm informed that we're meeting Drama Queen and WHW Race Princess in a Japanese restaurant at 19:00.

Now the problems begin. Being a former state-trained killer I am fastidious about time-keeping and sense a time clash with The Airborne Toxic Event gig at the ABC that we have tickets for.

'The doors open at seven,' say I.

'Aye, but the band won't be on til nine,' replies Mrs Mac, confidently.

Using the modern electronic apparatus named Blackberry I quickly locate the ABC on the net and phone the hotline.

'It says they're on at eight,' I tell the Strathaven based running club Presidentess.

'Aye, they say that but it won't happen. We're going to the restaurant,' she tells me as she skips off to the shower.

'You'll be in the restaurant. This call sign will be at the gig,' I mutter and feel my sense of humour dissolve and anger welling in the pit of my stomach. Time to employ the stress management strategy which involves the rapid imbibing of alcohol.

So, Mrs Mac emerges from the shower and half of her bottle of wine appears to have evaporated. The Subversive Runner has mauve lips and a dopey grin on his face. Problem sorted.

Sure enough The Airborne Toxic Event mount the stage at about nine; our bellies are full of Japanese food care of The Drama Queen; told-you-so looks are aimed at moi; and the band are absolutely magnifique.

Fast forward to the next morning and the flaw in my stress management strategy is evident: a raging head ache and a very delicate tummy. Must have been the loud noise and a dodgy pint, right???

Then I get a text from Allybea informing me of a contributor to my friend WHW Runner's blog who slings all sorts of vindictive mud about and lacks the courage to identify himself.

Damn....the problem's back and if I employ my tried and tested stress management strategy I'm gonna develop a drink problem.

So I boil and rant all day long about 'anonymous' and his poisonous crap.

Thanks mate, you've spoiled my day and you being anonymous prevents me from throwing all this stress management bollocks out the window and engaging in some in-yer-face problem solving.

Only a listen to The Airborne Toxic Event will calm me down.

Glory Holes

A comment was made by Mrs Mac on her blog recently concerning the cupboard under my stairs.

This particular cupboard would be better described as a small room, I guess. Within it is housed my washing machine and loads of other kit.

There are tents, a dinghy, a picnic basket, climbing kit, various items of running related equipment and all manner of other stuff.

To me it's the cupboard under the stairs. But Mrs Mac referred to it as a 'glory hole.'

Now, upon hearing this term I balked slightly but then decided my understanding of it was a reflection upon my sullied mind. It surely had another meaning, of which I was unaware (maybe all Scots refer to the cupboard under the stairs as the glory hole).

But then late last night, whilst engaged in a telephone conversation Mrs Mac used the term again, this time to describe something else.

'Err....Mrs Mac, do you know what a glory hole is?' I asked.

'Of course, my Gran uses the term all the time,' she answered.

'WHHHAAAATTT????' I thought to myself, and then said: 'Before we continue on let me Google 'glory hole' for you and tell you what it says. Then we'll both know if there's a few issues that need ironing out.'

So, I'll give you a brief excerpt of the Wikipedia entry (I'm aware that Wikipedia is contributor driven and therefore not an authoritative source- but after entering details of the late WHW Race Director, Dario Melaragni onto the WHW page and have it decimated for not being referenced, I'd say Wiki is cleaning its act up).

'A glory hole (also spelled gloryhole and glory-hole) is a hole in a wall, or other partition, often between public lavatory stalls or adult video arcade booths for people to engage in sexual activity or observe the person in the next cubicle while one or both parties masturbate.[1] The partition maintains anonymity. Body parts including fingers, tongue, and penis may be used for anonymous ....'

You get the idea, huh?

Mrs Mac's response:

'My God!! I've been using that all the time in company........my Gran!!??!! I'd never have guessed!!!'

Anyway, thankfully we cleared it up and Mrs Mac now knows that my knowledge of deviant sexual practices runs quite deep (knowledge, Dear Reader...NOT experience!) and I know that she doesn't visit public conveniences armed with a hand drill and auger bit.

After posting this, however she may well get to work on my knee caps with a hand drill and auger bit and she'll get the opportunity tonight 'cos I'm flying up to Glesga Toon to see the magnificent Airborne Toxic Event with herself, Mark 'Drama Queen' Hamilton, Dino McInness, Sharon Law and Rachel Stevenson.

An opportunity for a spot of TATE. Check 'em out

Making Haye

I've promised to post nothing about boxing on this blog as it's supposed to be about running and Debbie M-C has informed me that boxing isn't really a sport anyway.

But I need to accept that November is a month of little running type training for a Subversive Runner due to Remembrance Sunday, Armistice Day, the Royal Tank Regiment Reunion and the Royal Tank Regiment march to the cenotaph which takes place the weekend after Remembrance Sunday (this honour was bestowed upon the regiment after having fought in all theatres of the Second World War).

And David Haye is fighting The Beast From The East, Nikolai Valuev tonight, so there's gonna be a wee bit of boxing, I'm afraid.

Attached are some photographs taken from David Haye's training camp in Lambeth. You'll recognise the man himself, David Haye. You may be able to discern the uniforms of the Blue Watch Battersea Fire station personnel too.



What you can't see is the car that was illegally parked outside Haye's makeshift gym that day. The one blocking the entrance and preventing the rapid removal to hospital of any unconscious sparring partners.

The one that David punched a hole in.

The one that the owner, on discovering the damage, decided not to take up with the responsible person!

Talking of cars, we had the dubious honour of extinguishing a fire in a £200,000.00 Lambourghini today. As we dismantled part of the engine bay to investigate the cause of the blaze I removed a 2' x 8" piece of damaged carbon fibre panelling.

I asked the car's owner how much it would cost to buy a replacement part, bearing in mind it was only about the size of a couple of books laid end to end.

Wait for it........................

£900.00!!!!

So I got one of my lads to take a picture of me with a small Lambourghini car part that, on its own, will transport you nowhere yet it will cost you considerably more than my 1.25l Bad Boy! (Apologies for the poor picture. It was taken in an underground car park, in poor light, with a crappy camera, by a half-witted fireman named Von Ryan).

p.s. An amendment to the above..........it is now Sunday morning and the pics above are of the WBA Heavyweight Champion of the world!!!!

Far Away Eyes

Long distance relationships are, without a doubt, very difficult.

Sitting alone at home with nothing to look forward to but long walks alone in the wind and rain.

Climbing off the bus at Tescos and pushing one of those £1.00 operated trolleys about seeking out meals for one.

Looking out of the window and wondering how she is, plotted up on her own, miles away.

Missing the familiar feel of her next to your skin..................

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But she's back!!!!

Back in the subversive bosom where she belongs!!

YIPEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!

Yep, I received my wayward vehicle keys yesterday, posted to me by some burd up north, and I collected the 1.25l Bad Boy from the Long Stay car park at Gatwick.

My motor is back home with me where she should be.

All is now well in the world.

Quick But Not Easy

Right, this post is gonna be quick, Goddamn.

In the race to 50,000 words for the www.nanowrimo.org prize, my sparring partner and former flat-footed Hamish Macbeth wannabe, Davie Hall, is definitely in the lead with over 7,000 words.

Me? I'm at a mere 2,444. I believe Allybea is even fewer and who knows what's with the Aussie barn stormer, Corned Beef Hughes.

So I'll be quick before I write more of my novel-in-a-month.

I'm not a well travelled man, Dear Reader. Of the exotic places I've visited it has been to either kill the inhabitants with high velocity rifle rounds, or rescue them from some natural disaster.

If I had more time I would examine the irony in that statement.

But I don't. So here goes:

1. If you fly with a budget airline don't be surprised to be sat on the tarmac for ages because the fifth member of the flight crew is still in his bed after a heavy night in Crawley. Witness him gingerly climb the steps at the rear of the aircraft and hide from the passengers during the complete flight.

2. Witness too the same airline get in a complete muddle over having two passengers with an identical name, one who's checked in online and another at the desk. Sit on the tarmac for another thirty minutes.

3. Prove yourself an ideal budget airline passenger by arriving at the airport without your keys which are in your girlfriend's fruit bowl. This includes your only car key. Arrive at your destination and, from the train, wave goodbye to your car which sits in the long stay car park.

Thank you, Stelios.

An English Runner in Scotland or Run With The Wind

A pain free (and cavity search free) journey from Gatwick to Glasgow put me in the Land of Jock on Saturday morning.

A Halloween party on Saturday night was not the best prep for a 10k race on Sunday but what the heck. After suffering a chest infection, which I fear is still with me, I reckoned I'd be somewhere around 45 minutes for the race anyhow.

But if I told you that the prospect of a downhill race didn't suggest beating my personal best of 42 minutes for that distance I'd be lying. Indeed my text to the faltering West Highland Way Race Princess, Geraldine 'Pah! It's all down hill, Dino. Piece of piss' portrayed an easy, gravity assisted event that would see us all home in magnificent times.

Of course I've never run the race before.

At the start it was indeed, all down hill and I thought I was running well. I broke my watch recently so had no way of assessing my pace without bothering those overtaking me (!). Then, after about three or four kilometres we reached a dog leg where the route turned a sharp left and a battering wind hit me in the face. The route appeared to follow an odd topographical feature that snaked off into the distance. I believe it's called an incline.

At this point I should have sped up knowing that those I'd promised a down hill race were close behind me with the scent of my blood in their nostrils. But it wasn't gonna happen.

At the 8km point I heard the sound of foot steps approaching and Colin Smith, a resident of Glassford and occasional runner with a 50 minute 10k time levelled with me. I asked him how we were doing for time and he said we'd done 38 minutes. At this point I realised:

1. Colin was gonna smash his pb
2. My own pb was very safe and the 45 minutes I'd reckoned was ambitious to say the least

I finished the race in 46:32 pretty disappointed with my time. But Ian Beattie scored his annual sub 40 minute time in 39:56 (Top man); Sharon Law was close to me across the finishing line (behind but in front in chip time); and Geraldine finished her first 10k in 1:07 (top girl), she was accompanied by Stan 'The Man' Bland. Luckily for me she was too exhausted to exact her revenge for the 'down hill...piece of piss' comment.

Tim Downie, sans barbe, was out on the course to encourage his Troon Tortoises mates and the WHW family present.

So apart from the London Fire Brigade Cross Country Race on 9th December that's all my racing done for 2009.

At present I'm plotted up in Mrs Mac's gaff alone. She's at work and I should be writing my novel. I feel like the main protagonist as he sits alone in Jenny Agutter's gaff in An American Werewolf in London.

My fellow novelist, Allybea said she ain't seen it 'cos she don't do horror. Check this out.....it's a black comedy come romance, I'd say.

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Words.....Thousands of 'Em

There can be no running related post right now. Neither a gym related post from the Horton branch of David Lloyd.

Not even a boxing club post.

Nope, no physical exercise has taken place due to this bastard chest infection. So I'm gonna ramble on about novel writing for the http://www.nanowrimo.org/ month of frantic scribbling.

I've fleshed out my characters and have a plot established. I'm ready to go. I wasn't too sure about the amount of writing involved and wondered if I could manage 50,000 words. So today I (electronically) counted the number of subversive blogged words from last month- 9,000, or thereabouts.

So my ham-fisted wittering, conducted on average, every other day, provides me with 9,000 words for a month. I guess the writing stage of this blog takes forty minutes at most (Mrs Mac claims hours but that's for the technical bits like adding photographs).

So if I were to blog once a day for forty minutes I'd have 18,000 words.

If I were aiming for 50,000 blogged words I'd have to triple my daily output- two hours of writing per day.

Piece of piss.

But my blogging might suffer......

I can hear a huge sigh of relief from various readers.

Anyway, one of the themes of this blog has been work related stories. This is because among the hair-raising, tragic, and boring moments which often can't be blogged, there are nuggets of gold.

But one thing I've never done is use this blog to send fire safety messages.

Until now.

It's nearly that time of year when we celebrate Mr Guy Fawkes' plan to obliterate Parliament with a great big IED.

Kids.....don't play with fireworks......