The Fairy

Today was the day, that after four weeks of NO physical activity, I got back to running. And I'm aware of certain critics that have commented upon my lack of running related posts in this blog.

Being a critic is easy (more later) but this particular critic was a lovely flame haired resident of Alexandria who pulls my leg often and is the creator of many a memorable event so she's forgiven.

So this running I did today. It was a tentative step back to activity performed on the treadmill at the gym.

A slack twenty minute hills session at 12.0 KPH. I decided an easy time was in order so I selected level 5 which presents some little baby hills.

It started off all nice but by the 16 minute mark I was blowing out me arse, Guv'nor!!

Hey, ho! Onwards and upwards as they say. And what more have I to say about running? Fuck all, that's what!

But what I do have to say is something about character.

It takes character to complete an ultra race, that is true. Indeed during this year's West Highland Way Race one of my mantras was '*** **** is a character, I HAVE character.'

It takes character too, to step between the ropes of a squared ring in front of six hundred people and do battle.

Let me take you back.

Jack Storey is a lad on the Red Watch at Battersea. He's a bit of an oddity in that he's softly spoken, gentle and very deferential to rank.

I am afraid to say that he has been the target of a little bit of Subversive joshing from time to time and when he was coerced into taking part in our most recent boxing event most thought that 'Jack The Fairy' was gonna get a hiding.

Fast forward to 18th November at The Grand.....the London Fire Brigade boxing championship, organised by yours truly, and Jack The Fairy is the first man in the ring.

He minces about as my man, Richie 'Raging Bull' Costello, stomps to the ring and looks like 82kg of solid, bald-headed muscle.

The first bell rings and Richie slams some heavy punches into The Fairy's head and body. The Fairy ain't liking it and backs off.....but hey, what's this?

The Fairy starts firing back.

He scores with some shots and his superior fitness allows him to get out of trouble.

What we witness next is two novices going at it like men possessed, puching for all they're worth and not giving in.

By the end of the third round both men are completely exhausted but still fighting. Both have been on the floor but have risen to re-engage in combat.

I am fuckin' humbled. Respect.

At the end of the fight both men are brought to the centre of the ring by the referee. Nobody knows the winner except the third man in the ring and the M-C.

The Fairy, Jack gets the win on a split decision and he is The Fairy no more. Just Jack. His face is a mess and his eye almost closed. But he's smiling.

That, Dear Reader, is character.

And what of critics?

Other than my respected friend mentioned above they are often individuals that have created nothing; that have slept soundly while the ones they critique have spent sleepless nights working.

It's easy to be a critic.

Not so easy to be the person that works his or her bollocks off or to be The Fairy that proves everyone wrong.

Get in, Jack.

Time For Nothing....or Everything

Things are pretty wet and wild here in Battersea at the moment. The rain, however, hasn’t prevented the natives from igniting varying materials in and around their homes which has kept us busy.

Talking of being busy, I’d quite like the opportunity to be idle right now. Just for a day. The month of November has been a hectic, roller coaster ride of events, the military associated ones having been detailed in earlier blog posts this month.

But the thing that is mainly occupying my time at present is our next boxing show which occurs this very evening. I’ve promised not to witter on about pugilism here, Dear Reader but you should know that this, coupled with the remembrance events of November, is the reason that the Nanowrimo novel I am writing will not be finished before the beginning of December. I have already conceded defeat to Allybea and do so publicly to John Kynaston, Big Davie The Polis, and Keith ‘Corned Beef’ Hughes.

From the start it became obvious that completing the 50,000 words was gonna be tough. Not because I am unable to vomit words onto the page (the evidence is before you) but because I cannot help but go back over my work, correcting, changing punctuation and checking facts. But what I have, thus far, is a story that I will need to complete telling. It may be November 2010 before it’s finished, though- never one to shoot his bolt too early, this Subversive Runner.

All of this time-occupying business got me thinking; and it was Neal Gibson’s, AKA Pacepusher’s, latest ghost written blog entry that did it.

Neal has gone off to join the Royal Navy- at the ripe old age of thirty-something. Read his account of having his anti-chafing Vaseline removed from him (it’s the navy……it’ll be put to good use elsewhere), being disallowed phone calls and having crap running kit issued to him. Comments to his blog remark how odd such overbearing behaviour should be.

For me it’s not unusual. I remember arriving at Catterick training camp in 1986 aged nineteen. The first thing the corporals did (after telling me that they were my worst nightmare, doubting the validity of my father, and explaining how they might remove my lungs through my nostrils) was to remove all of my civilian clothing. Everything. And my money. And my state-of-the-art cassette playing Walkman. And all of my hair. Not to mention the chicken sandwich I’d brought with me in case I got hungry.

I was given green and black combat clothes to wear and denied sleep. I was continually told how worthless I was and marched to the gaol often.

Of course there was method in all of this apparent madness: Anything that might provide comfort, be it Vaseline, a cassette tape of The Clash, or a chicken sandwich, was taken away. We were reduced to our base selves, broken down and then rebuilt as tools of the British Army; as killers, I guess. But at the end of it we were proud of what we’d become, we were faster, fitter, stronger, and had forged a brotherhood- a new family where law was dictated by The Queen’s Regulations and Orders for the British Army. Likewise law will be dictated for Pacepusher by the QR&Os for the Royal Navy.

And all of this was new to me. All of this starting a new life and being flown off around the world. I wanted to meet interesting and stimulating people of an ancient culture... and kill them.

You see I’d come from a place where it was fine to do nothing. To go about your daily business and achieve not a great deal.

So I guess what I’m getting at is that being rushed off your feet running races, seeing The Airborne Toxic Event, attending remembrance services, organising and promoting charity boxing events, attempting but failing to complete a novel in a month ….or whatever your bag might be….. is a good thing.

It’s better than doing nothing, right?

Laters.

Filthiness in Whitehall

I've been accused of being filthy.

Not in the soap-dodging sense, Dear Reader, but in that I often use an Anglo Saxonism or two (see Ian Beattie's blog and the 22nd comment from someone called Susan on 'I went a Run Today'). This is, of course, true. I would argue, however, that there are times and occasions where it is helpful, nay, necessary, to swear.

Anyway, the Filthy One will regale you now with the events of the weekend.

This was, of course, the weekend after Remembrance Sunday. It is the date of the Royal Tank Regiment reunion and our own march to the Cenotaph where the fallen from our regiment are remembered. We are one of only three organisations permitted to parade at the Cenotaph outside the 11th day of the 11th month; the others being the Devon and Dorset Regiment and the Jewish Ex-Serviceman's Association. This honour was conferred upon the Royal Tank Regiment for fighting in all theatres of the Second World War.

The parade is preceded by an evening of debauchery and filthy language in the London Scottish TA hall and at the Barley Mow public house.

Indeed, debauchery and filthy language were abound and someone called Susan (of the 'filth' comment) would have been struck deaf and blind had she been present, I'm sure.

It was late on in the evening when my phone rang.

'Hello,' I shouted above the noise of filth and debauchery.

'Hi babe, it's me. What ya doing?' asked Mrs Mac.

'I'm drinking Guinness and being filthy,' I slurred loudly. 'Where are you?'

'Maida Vale,' came the reply.

Now it took a while to compute. It took a while for the message to filter through the filth, alcohol and confusion. Mrs Mac lives in Scotland. I'd spoken to her earlier in the day and she was at home. Maida Vale is in London.

'Maida Vale is in London,' said I.

'Yes I know. I've driven down to see you on parade,' said she.

Big lump in my throat.

And so the next morning, in suit and regimental tie and beret, I'm marching along Whitehall surrounded by auld comrades-in-arms, two squadrons of serving soldiers of the Royal Tank Regiment and the Pipes and Drums of the Royal Tank Regiment (before amalgamation the 4th Royal Tank Regiment were made up solely of Scots). Watched by Mrs Mac.

It is a reflection upon the current situation in Afghanistan that alongside us marched two children, a young boy and girl, whose father had paid the ultimate price.

And that after the parade was done and we wheeled around the Cenotaph toward Whitehall Place where the commemorative statue to the Royal Tank Regiment stands, a young soldier, in full uniform, who had been allowed to fall out mid-parade, sat on the ground crying.

With no apology to Susan, I say this: It's a fuckin' shame.

Anyway, here's some pics:

Waltzing in November

Hot-Diggety-Dang I've sussed it out!

It's taken me twenty years but I'm there. There is NO running, not least Subversive Running for this Subversive Runner during this month of November.

After Remembrance Sunday and Armistice Day it is the Royal Tank Regiment Reunion tomorrow and our own march to the Cenotaph on Sunday. None of this allows any running.

Ex-wife/partner (no.3), when she was wife/partner (no.3) used to harangue me for my insistence at attending such events that prevent running.

She continues to do so. Mrs Mac, however, understands the significance.

There are drinks that need to be bought. Drinks for men I met in the past who became my brothers. Drinks that will remain on the bar undrunk. They will remain undrunk because the recipients are no longer alive. They gave their todays that we would have our tomorrows. I WILL remember them.

I'll be out of comms til Monday due to being heavily involved in auld comrades; muckers; beer; and lamp-swinging.

Til then I give you the angel that is Sinead with the war tune second only to 'And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda.'

Fear Naught.

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!!!!