No Longer A Story of ****

This blog post is inspired by the gulf in the experience of life enjoyed (or otherwise) by townies and country folk.

I'm talking about the whole experience.....the speed of living, the demands of expectation, the availability of consumer goods, and the ever present smell of shit. I was reminded of this gulf last week when I arrived in Devon with Mrs Mac, the Brady Bunch and a Staffordshire Bull Terrier. We were there for a holiday and had booked a lovely little cottage that had the quaint absence of a telephone signal, no internet provision and Council telly. Yet it cost us almost the same amount as a fortnight in the Caribbean.

We were met by the owner, one of those guys who's managed to retain a full head of hair into his 50s, and in an arrogant, mocking kind of way, has allowed it to grow just that bit too long, despite being wholly grey in order to give him the option of styles. On the day in question the style was 'salon product wash and condition followed by blow dry.'

Knob.

To be fair he didn't do that whole, 'show you round the cottage and demonstrate how everything works, even the quirky thumbscrew on the bathroom door' thing. It was a quick welcome, the presentation of some plated and cling-filmed sliced cake, that a few years ago was home-made, now has the unmistakable hint of supermarket- mass production since Tesco built a store above the nearby town, then a goodbye.

But before he went what he did labour was the point about the bog. His words are shown in yellow, my thoughts are bracketed.

'Now, this isn't the big city, capiche?... (Your referenced to the 'big city' has obviously been inspired by a recognition of my Cockney accent rather than Mrs Mac's soft Scottish lilt. And your idiotic use of 'capiche,' get this: I'm not Italian and you're not a Mafia Don, so get on with it you carrot-crunching half wit).'

'Here we have a thing called a sceptic tank that collects all the waste flushed down the lavvie... (I don't recall Al Pacino ever using the word 'lavvie;' not in Godfather nor Scarface, so your alluding to La Cosa Nostra is now but a comical memory, but carry on).'

'All the sceptic tank can manage is soft toilet tissue. Nothing more. No cotton buds, no tampons, no face wipes, nothing ....(you didn't mention condoms).'

'If you do fail to adhere to this simple rule you'll block the sceptic tank and the resulting problem affects everyone here. But we can trace the source of the problem.... (Well done, that's a more effective threat than pretending you're speaking to me with cheeks stuffed with cotton wool when in fact you sound like one of the Wurzels).

'As long as we've got that clear I'm sure you'll have a great break here in the country.... (I know I'm in the country, you bumpkin, I can smell the shit. How I wished I'd packed my knife collection and slowly unpacked it as you went through that little spiel).

After Wurzel left my little girl made the following observation:

'Dad, when Marvin the goldfish died you sent him to heaven through the toilet and he was bigger than a cotton bud. How do the goldfish here get to heaven?'

'They get buried, same as us,' I answer....(actually they end up in the same place as everything else semi edible here. They're either fed to the livestock or thrown into a steaming vat of decaying apples to produce scrumpy).

So we spent the following week with a group of children that treated the toilet bowl as if it had the same consumption ability as a size-zero super model. Meanwhile Yours Truly made it his daily mission to produce the longest, fattest, unbroken morning constitution in order to block Wurzel's sceptic tank with nothing more sinister than a healthy turd.

Not an easy task when you're lactose intolerant and most of your morning movements would have Gillian McKeith running for the hills.

But at the end of the week I realised I shouldn't have bothered with the sceptic tank, which incidentally swallowed everything it was offered like Vanessa Feltz at a Krispy Kreme giveaway. Nope, if I wanted to introduce Wurzel to some of London's finest scat, it was the famous Devon Cream Tea that was gonna assist in that.

Just mix one Devon Cream Tea to a lactose intolerant Londoner, add wine and a final night holiday celebration and voila, an innocent early morning fart becomes something quite unpleasant. If you're struggling to understand what occurred here either think Spud in Trainspotting or imagine an early morning exchange between Yours Truly and the cottage owner, Wurzel:

'Well, hello city dweller, how's tricks? What you doing up so early.....shit the bed?'

'Yes.'

Laters.

The Clyde Stride

You all thought I'd become an ex-Blogger, didn't you?
Well I'm back.

Before I go on and get into the meat of this post I should tell you that the prefix 'EX' has played quite a role in my life, so it's not an unfamiliar feeling for me to be considered no more....kaput...zapped....endex.

After all, I've acquired the mantle of ex-husband on two occasions and in turn have associations with two ex-wives; I'm an ex-British soldier, although most who have spent time dressed in olive drab will tell you that the qualification as a state trained killer and master bass-broomsman never really leaves you.

I was even called an 'ex-runner' by BDTP (Big Davie The Polis) AKA Davie Hall while I was in attendance at the Clyde Stride Ultra Marathon last weekend. My role was race assistant and house journalist rather than a Dressed-as-Max-Wall participant, but Mr Hall's scything comment cut so deeply that I am now in training for a return to ultra running in the not so distant future. Well, for 'in training' read: 'skimmed once through a copy of Runner's World before focusing on the more adult material on the top shelf in the paper shop.'

Anyway, while my achievements as an ultra runner might be questionable, my ability to make the published page as a race journalist is going from strength to strength (Ok....so I had my second article published in 12 months but whatever way you play it that's a 100% increase in successful submissions).

The published article can be accessed here:

http://www.run247.com/articles/article-2616-weekend-review%3A-july-21-%26-22.html

However, for the second time in a row some pencil-necked, shiny-arsed editor, safely ensconced in an office, has taken a metaphorical chainsaw to my labour of love and hacked out all the good bits. So just for you, Dear Reader, I provide the full, unedited version, in all its wordy glory, here (the bits the editor decided were unfit for consumption are shown in yellow):

After weeks of persistent rainfall the sunshine that was ordered by Lee Maclean for Saturday 21st July was filled and delivered and the sun indeed shone on Partick for the 2012 Clyde Stride 40 mile ultra marathon. It is rumoured that Ms Maclean actually sold her soul to Beelzebub to ensure the presence of a fiery orb in the sky and she is doomed to spend the rest of eternity stoking the fires of hell. Not too different a future when you're from Glasgow, right enough.

119 individual runners and 22 relay teams lined up to hear the starter’s pistol fired by Brian MacLeod, store manager of Morrison’s supermarket and host of race registration, and at 09:00 141 runners began their journey to New Lanark. The phrase 'starter's pistol' is an exercise in artistic licence. The equipment used for the task of setting the runners off was actually a horn that sounded a bit like Vanessa Feltz letting rip a saved up fart.

From the outset it was clear that Giffnock North’s George Taylor intended to employ a self-proclaimed sprint-and-hang-on strategy as he led the field out of Glasgow toward the first check point at Cambuslang. Hot on his heels was former race winner, Grant Jeans. What George failed to reveal is that his plan was hatched on the start line after hearing one of the marshalls at Cambuslang was suffering toothache. Like all exponents of his profession, George was armed with a pocketful of business cards and a prepared quote for 'pain free dental treatment.'

George Taylor was still in first place going through the 10 mile check point in a time of 1:04 with Malcolm McDonald, Paul Giblin and Donnie Campbell following closely. Unfortunately it was here that Grant Jeans became the first race casualty when he was forced to withdraw with breathing problems. A surprise leader in the women’s race was ultra marathon newbie, Charlotte Black who had travelled from Shetland for her first race beyond 26.2 miles and her first off-road. She was followed closely by the female winner of this year’s West Highland Way Race, Rosie Bell. In the relay race the first team to pass the baton was Rebel Runners 2. Unfortunately for Grant Jeans he was to spend the next few hours trapped in a support car with the author of this article who, throughout the day, made thumb and forefinger 'L' signs on his forehead and said: 'Welcome to my world, Granty boy.'

This year’s sweeper, the indefatigable Stan Bland, saw the rear markers safely through Cambuslang. Among their number was Scottish veteran Ray McCurdy who was well on his way to completing his 104th ultra marathon. Although Stan believed to the contrarary, Ray stuck to his agreement not to play Hide n' Seek during the race. Although witnesses claim to have heard Stan whispering in Ray's shell-like: 'You know there's only enough provisions at checkpoints for the first 75 runners?'

The fine weather continued throughout the day although the course failed to dry out completely, a fact that was made evident by Paul Giblin who arrived at the second checkpoint in Strathclyde Park covered head to toe in mud. Unfortunately the fall that led to his immersion also caused some mild concussion and dictated his reluctant withdrawal at Mauldslie Bridge. It's a strange phenomenon that not a single other runner seemed to suffer a similar fate to the 'Mud Wrestling Weekly' subscriber, Giblin.

The battle for first place was now being fought out between Donnie Campbell and Craig Reid with Donnie leading by under a minute going through the 28 mile check point. Charlotte Black maintained her domination of the female field leading Strathaven’s Rosie Bell by 17 minutes and in the team event the limitations of age were disproven as the Carnegie Wrinklies handed over seconds before Rebel Runners 1. It's fair to say the Wrinklies' inability to maintain top spot might be compared to other functions that individuals 'of a certain age' need pharmaceutical assistance in keeping up.

The Race Director and her band of assistants were now set up with beer and tablet to receive the race winner in New Lanark and their anticipation was relieved when Donnie Campbell came storming down the hill to break the tape in a spectacular 5:05:42. In second place was Craig Reid in 5:18:30 who bettered third place finisher, George Taylor by a little over a minute. And in the women’s field Charlotte Black was overwhelmed at success in her first ultra when she claimed top female in 6:06:00. The shortcomings in the Race Director's plan for post race rehydration were proven when she employed her sister-in-law, Arlene at the race end. The ever increasingly inebriated assistant slowly became surrounded by empty beer bottles as she hollered risque sea shanties to the finishing runners. 

Despite Rosie Bell’s outstanding victory in the West Highland Way Race just four weeks previous, the Strathaven hotshot proved that she had the legs and heart to make the podium in 6:13:12 with her Strathaven Striders team-mate, Elaine Calder claiming third place in 6:22:14. The relay finish was a fiercely battled affair and resulted in Motherwell AC eventually claiming top spot in front of Rebel Runners 1 and Strathclyde Park Run 1 who were beaten into second and third places respectively. Motherwell were overjoyed at their victory while Rebel Runners 1 appeared to clutch their second place prize as if their mislaid tickets for the men's 100m Olympic final had been exchanged for back row seats at the synchronised swimming.

Finishers arrived steadily in New Lanark for the next four hours until Stan Bland herded Noanie Heffron, Alan Fitzsimmons and Dave Egan down the hill to cross the line together in 9:22:00.
In total 106 individual runners claimed their finishers’ medals and all 22 relay teams covered the 40 miles to make the sun-drenched Clyde Stride the sixth success in the 2012 Scottish Ultra Marathon Series. The author has used the words 'sun' and 'drenched' to suggest that the default Scottish attire of overcoat, hat and gloves were not required for this event. The reader should not assume this is an indication of a mediterranean holiday type affair. If you really want 'sun-drenched' try the Western States but be warned.....it costs a helluva lot more than fifteen quid, there's no local Buckfast outlet and you don't get a vice-like cuddle from the Race Director at the end.

Laters.

Pre Race Nerves

The following is the written draft of my latest podcast. Yes it's lazy but I'm known to be lazy occassionally.

As I sit here and prepare to witter on it's just over a week to go until the West Highland Way Race. A quick check of the forum or Facebook group shows that the usual queries regarding what shoes to wear, what food to eat and whether Mike Mason really is safely ensconced somewhere in Eastern Europe and not likely to offend runners' sensibilities by being discovered performing like a bear in the woods, have all given way to one subject.

Pre race nerves.

I believe I can probably claim West Highland Way Race veteran status now, this being my seventh year of involvement, and this makes me able to comment with some authority on the subject of pre race nerves.......sigh.....

Seven years.......

That's longer than I served in the British army.....

....longer than it took to study for a degree with the Open University...

...longer than my second marriage......

..... longer than the Jeremy Kyle show's been on the air...although to be fair it feels like it's been around forever and proof positive that I'm not as much of a lowlife as some might suggest. Because despite me being the sole cause of the collapse in house prices in my area, Jezza still hasn't got round to sending me an invitation for the show.

Anyway, I don't think there's any reason for me being subjected to another paternity test anytime soon, so we'll forget about Jezza Kyle and refocus our thoughts on pre race nerves.

Pre race nerves.....I've never really suffered from them. I had a discussion with Lee Maclean about why this might be. I proffered the musing that as a former soldier and current firefighter my life has been touched by all manner of critical incidents and I've been first-hand witness to the vagaries of human existence.....but she pointed out that it's got nothing to do with that and the reason is far simpler. Mainly that I'm an arse....

Anyway, my fifty percent failure rate in the race is probably an indicator that a lack of pre race nerves is not such a good thing, and possibly that I really am an arse. To stand on the start line of the race with your main thought being whether your projected timings mean you'll pass through Kinlochleven while the Tailrace Inn is still serving is definitely not normal.

So if you're one of the many that's listening to this while you're sleep is being interrupted by cold fear. Or that the starting gun sound of a backfiring car has you all in a tizz, try to see those nerves as a good thing.

Use those nerves wisely to ensure your last minute preparations are all taken care of. That your support crew is fully briefed and are aware that their role in this could be the make or break for their runner.

Use those nerves to do as the Caledonian based Aussie, Keith 'Corned Beef' Hughes has suggested and make sure you're familiar with the route and imagine yourself passing through the various stages. History demonstrates that even those with a reasonable knowledge of the area have been known to take a wrong turn....I knew it wouldn't be long before Mike Mason got another mention....

Use those nerves wisely and they'll make you sharp on the day.

Of course for the first time in seven years I won't be joining you on the start line of the race so you might argue that this is all very easy for me to say. But I have many friends that will be in Milngavie on the 23rd June dressed like a malnourished Max Wall and I'll mention just two of them now.

The first is Big David Ross from Strathaven. David's a lovely fella but he's the size of a Kodiak bear and the last person you'd like to meet in the role of door person when you're giving it large in a nightclub. Despite his intimidating physicality Big David is more nervous than a gerbil in a gay bar so at the very least if you too are this nervous at least you know you're not alone.

The second is Martin Antoninus Horatio Hooper. Martin's nervousness is jndicated by the fact that he was happy for his lovely wife to post a pre race picture of him on Facebook. The nature of this vocal medium makes it impossible for me to show you this picture so I'll describe it: It shows our Kent based hero limbering up in a position he seems to have acquired from a ballerina; (note well, this is probably the only time you'll ever hear the words Martin Hooper and ballerina in the same sentence); he's dressed in running garb that seems to be inspired by Batman; and he's pouting like a post-operative Leslie Ash at midnight on New Years Eve. So if you feel really nervous and in need of some light relief come and have a gander at Martin just prior to the race and you'll be chuckling all the way to Fort William.

This is Waterman's Piratical Ramblings signing off before the big day and wishing everyone, organisers, marshalls, support crews and especially runners, the very best of luck.

Laters.

Waterman's Piratical Ramblings

Until quite recently I didn't know what a podcast was. If pressed I suppose I might have hazarded a guess at it either being something horticultural or the misspelling of a list of performers from Lara Latex's Anal Adventures #4.

Then I underwent a rapid introduction when I was interviewed over a glass of vino by Lee Maclean for the West Highland Way Race podcast series (an introduction to podcasting, I should add.....I'm still waiting for the call from Lara Latex).

My foray into the world of podcasting was over in a flash, or so I thought. Then I received a request from John Kynaston to undertake a commitment to provide a regular contribution to the podcast series. I think I remember John saying something like:

'I'd like a bit of light relief, Dave. As a foil to the contributions from real runners.'

So after a day of forced marching to the top of Conic Hill with Lee Maclean, and on arrival at the summit believing I might have to carry out CPR as she lay on the grass, panting and clutching her chest, I sat down with a glass of vino (you're seeing the theme here, right? Essential for releasing ones creative talent, doncha know), I wittered on about running with Martin Hooper the Paratrooper in the first edition of a series I've entitled Waterman's Piratical Ramblings (not Piranical, John....that involves recording experiences with flesh eating shoals of tropical fish).

I would like to post the podcast here but either my Neo-Luddism prevents me or it is actually impossible.

So instead I've attached a link. If you've got an hour or so free, have a listen......unless of course you've rented a copy of Lara Latex's Anal Adventures #4.

http://www.westhighlandwayrace.org/podcasts.htm

Blast From the Past

When I was a boy I used to have this recurring dream. Well, a nightmare, I suppose. I would dream that I was floating in space, unable to move, looking down on earth. Somehow I knew that despite no food, water or oxygen I would remain alive forever.

Forever looking down on earth, knowing that my family were living their lives and growing older and I had nothing to look forward to except an eternity of loneliness and immobility.

Mrs Mac is into dream analysis and I suppose she might suggest that the dream tells of a fear of isolation and estrangement from my family. Either that or an early realisation that I was to become a complete space cadet.

A few years later my nightmare was realised in an old instalment of The Twilight Zone involving an astronaut about to embark on a sixty year mission to Mars. He was to be placed in a cryogenic state for thirty years and woken when he reached Mars. Then he was gonna mince about a bit on the red planet and come back, again in a cryogenic state, to awake back at home sixty years later but no older.

Then he meets this burd and falls immediately and madly in love. Both are tortured by the idea that when he gets back she’s gonna be a wombling old coffin dodger in a house coat and blue rinse and he’ll be the same picture of youth and vitality that left sixty years previous.

So off he goes to Mars, frozen in time like the solitary fish finger you find at the back of the freezer. While he’s gone his burd convinces the cryogenic dudes on earth to freeze her too so when he gets back she’ll still have pre-GILF status.

So, sixty years later they wake this burd up. She has a shower and gets herself ready for some hot lovin’ and makes her way to the landing pad and awaits the return of her fella.

The spaceship lands, the door opens and a ladder descends.

You can feel the tension right?

Then down the ladder hobbles this old geezer, all baldy slap-head and wrinkles. He walks up to his burd and explains that after leaving earth he couldn’t live with being so much younger than her so he woke himself up.

And spent sixty fuckin’ years on his own in a tin box.

That edition of The Twilight Zone terrified me and transported me back to my boyhood. Then, fuck me, just the other night I had a nightmare that was equally as terrifying.  

I was locked in a barn with Mrs Mac and our children while outside lurked hundreds of flesh eating zombies trying to get in and devour us.

I don’t know if I’ve told you before, but I’m a former member of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces and so I did a good job of keeping the living dead at bay.

But I had to leave the barn to deal with a pressing matter. I can’t remember what it was but it was important. And I knew that after leaving the barn and dodging and outrunning the zombies, they would get in and kill and eat Mrs Mac and The Brady Bunch and I would return to a barn of emptiness.

Again, an analyst might say that the dream demonstrates a fear of abandonment. But there’s a good side to that dream. You see, if I were the only living person on earth, surrounded by moaning, slow moving zombies, I’d kick some proper arse in a race. I’d even give a recently despatched Jez Bragg a run for his money.

But, of course that dream contained the sort of shuffling retro-zombie you get in older films like The Dawn of The Dead.

Now I live in absolute fear of a dream containing the more modern zombie like the ones in 28 Days Later. You know the ones that move like shit off a shovel. Oh well, at least that dream will be a return to running normality for me.

The Gun Room

Among my metaphorical hat collection I have one with Close Protection Officer written on it (I also have one which says 'runner' but I rarely wear it).

Well, my mobile phone rang a few days ago and the name on the screen said 'Boris.' Excellent, thought I; Boris is the provider of casual close protection work and I envisaged myself donning aforementioned hat and hearing that satisfying 'ker-ching' sound when someone deposits a sum of cash in your bank account/wallet/sweaty mit.

After a brief conversation with Boris, who is an ex-Parachute Regiment soldier and former colleague in the London Fire Brigade, it became apparent that the close protection officer hat was gonna stay on its peg and I was to witness the world of close protection work from the other side of the fence. Boris had asked me to be the Principal for trainee close protection officers, four of whom would comprise my personal escort squad. They were to escort me to Harvey Nicholls, Harrods, lunch in Kensington, and the Victoria and Albert museum.

My brief was as a successful middle-aged businessman; fit; not believing he needed protection but recent events in his personal life suggesting otherwise. From this brief I could relate personally with only one of those traits and it's the one I have the most problem with in my own description- middle-aged (I still fail to understand why I'm never asked to prove my age when buying alcohol).

Anyway, the following afternoon I found myself sitting in the foyer of the Holiday Inn Kensington, reading The Times and sipping a capuccino. I was clad in black trousers, a smart but casual shirt and some fucking expensive shoes that I got for a song from TK Maxx. A fella built like a double-wardrobe came through the revolving door; he had a curly wire leading from his earpiece into his bulging collar and made his way purposefully across the foyer toward me. This was either my bodyguard or I was about to have two low calibre bullets inserted into my cranium in an ironic case of mistaken identity.

'Mr Waterman?' asked Double Wardrobe in a gruff voice.

'Hi,' I replied, wondering if a successful middle-aged businessman would have such an unmistakeable south London accent.

'My name's Timothy and your car is outside.' Somehow I thought Double Wardrobe might have had a name like Bruce, Frank or Karl but Timothy it was.

Once outside I was met by a gleaming black Range Rover. The door was opened for me and I climbed inside next to a man mountain sat behind the driver. These fellas certainly weren't at the back of the queue when God doled out 20 inch collars. In the driving seat sat Boris. Behind the Range Rover was a Mercedes containing four other gorilla-like men. This was the back up vehicle.

I'd had my instructions earlier and we were to proceed to Harvey Nicks where I would peruse the store before moving on to Harrods.

I walked through the door of Harvey Nicks and entered a territory that I'm guessing you're aware I'm not entirely familiar with. But I walked around the store as if I'm used to considering the purchase of £260.00 shirts and socks costing £9.00 a pair. Behind me Timothy was my shadow and lurking in my near vicinity were three other close protection officers ready to eradicate any threat to my person. On any other day in Harvey Nicks I suspect I would be also followed about by individuals in suits but they would be store detectives expecting a pair of £9.00 socks to be shoved into my pocket at any given moment.

After about half an hour of enjoying the curiosity of the shop assistants and hearing whispered exchanges of: 'Who's the guy with the bodyguards? Is he off the telly?' I'm out the door and striding off toward Harrods. En route I decide to look in the window of a jewellers to marvel at the watches that cost more than I earn in six months. This may have been a mistake because the reaction of the instore security officer suggested he believed the gaff was going to be turned over by a team of jewellery thieves.

Onward toward Harrods and once inside I decide to take the stairs up to the fifth floor where the sports department is situated. Timothy and co may well be able to bench press 220lb but the flight up the stairs proves their cardio ain't so great. If an assassin awaited my arrival, luking behind a treadmill on the fifth floor, I suspect he might have had a good minute or so free reign while my bodyguards picked themselves up off the floor.

Let me tell you something about Harrods and its sports department. If you've got the money to spare go there for your sports gear because the female sales staff are all contenders in the world's most beautiful woman with big breasts stakes. If however, like me you've had a pay freeze for three years and regularly shop in the chav kingdom of Asda, don't bother because everything costs significantly more than it does from Wiggle.

Anyway, as I walk about the sports department admiring the subtle lighting, expertly arranged displays and big tits I see the gun room. Now if there are two words that should excite any red blooded male, and 'free blowjob' is out of the running, 'gun room' should be it.

I walk toward the gun room like George Michael approaching a public loo. Behind me Timothy follows. Around us three other suited behemoths lurk. It's fair to say that the poor fella in charge of the gun room probably saw his life flashing before his eyes intermingled with the scene from Terminator where Arnie relieves the gun shop proprietor of 'Uzi 9 millimeter.'

Just before I cross the threshold of  the gun room Boris appears like the Fez-wearing shopkeeper in Mr Benn and announces 'Endex.' Endex is the military term that signifies the end of an exercise. It's a term that is universally met with joy and relief following days or weeks of living in the field and eating composite rations; of shitting into a bag and keeping it with you to remain tactical; of snatching an hour or two of sleep in a stinking doss bag under the stars. Both myself and my security team are more than familiar the term but I suspect the prospect of five fellas masturbating in the gun room of Harrods had more to do with Boris announcing it than any exhaustion or completion of mission.

My time as Pricipal is over and we're all off to an inexpensive cafe for a coffee and debrief. I give my input and praise Timothy and the guys for their good work. They slag me off for not taking the lift to the fifth floor in Harrods and for looking at the psychadelic shirts in Harvey Nicks. The debrief breaks down into a jovial, military-learned slagging session and all is good in the world.

I doubt I'll be going back to either Harrods or Harvey Nicks soon but if I do the fifth floor in Harrods will be getting a visit.

Guns and big tits, what more could a person ask for?

Laters.

ps I did a Google search for 'guns and big tits' for a cheeky picture to accompany this tale. Beware doing the same and note well that it's definitely NOT safe for work!!

Walting on the Way

Among the military fraternity there are individuals commonly known as 'Walts.' The term is a shortening of the name 'Walter Mitty,' the fantasising fictional character created by James Thurber, and refers to people, usually men, who create a military past for themselves involving deeds of derring-do. The basis for these individual histories can often be found in the scripts of our favourite war films or in one of Andy McNab's literary efforts. I know of one particularly sad fella that tells of red hot round casings falling down his collar from the chopper above that was firing on the approaching Taliban......yeah, pal we've seen Black Hawk Down too....I don't recall the bit in the film involving a bedding storeman and if there were one I don't suppose it would loosen the knicker elastic down the pub so effectively.

The term 'Walter Mitty' (and by association I guess, the British, monosyllabic shortening 'Walt') has now entered the American Heritage Dictionary and is described as: 'an ordinary, often ineffectual person who indulges in fantastic daydreams of personal triumphs...'

I now shamefully have to tell you that this past weekend I indulged in a bit of 'Walting' of my own. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't bigging up my own army career and winning a Military Cross for doing battle with a well-armed and determined enemy (although there was that time we had a bit of a dust up with the neighbouring regiment down the NAAFI); nope, I was a participant in the Hoka Highland Fling, a 53 mile trail race along the southern-most section of the West Highland Way.

The key word here is 'participant.' You see, I had flirted with the idea of my participant status involving standing on the start line alongside some of the great and good of the ultra running community. But in a rare attack of common sense I decided my lack of training might better prepare me for a support role (a bedding storeman, if you will).

An invitation for a sweeper runner was made public and Yours Truly leaped on the opportunity like a tramp on a biscuit. If you're not familiar with this particular role it involves setting off behind the back marker in a race and moving at a speed that will ideally result in crossing the finish line at the cut-off with the back marker just ahead. Often it involves cajoling and bullying said back marker into making some attempt to make forward progress. Depending upon the individual concerned, this cajoling and bullying might take a variety of routes. For instance, if that person is a lazy lard-bucket and general oxygen thief, or a particularly unattractive woman, it might be done thus:

'Come on Fatso, move yourself, there's a pub near the finish line with a pint on the bar with my name on it. If you actually get to the end without me doing the world a favour and leaving you here in a shallow grave I'll buy you a calorie-free slimline tonic.'

If, however, that person is tall, heavily muscled and liable to kick your arse at any given moment, or a very attractive woman, it's more likely to be:

'Well done, you're doing fantastically well, we're nearly there and there's a pub where I'll buy you beer for the rest of the evening and send you a friend request on Facebook.'

Anyway, the beauty of the invitation to sweep the Highland Fling is that I was to take over from another sweeper at Beinglas Farm. For those of you with limited familiarity of that particular part of a far away land where men wear skirts and women have a hierarchical system based on the number of their remaining teeth, Beinglas Farm is only thirteen miles from the end. Result.

Another result was that I was to be joined in my role by a fella called David Ross. Now David is tall, heavily muscled and liable to kick my arse at any given moment. You won't be surprised to learn that our friendship began with me buying him beer and sending a friend request on Facebook. David is running the 95 mile West Highland Way Race in June and this was to be a dabble on the route for him.

Anyway, after seeing my fellow blogger, runner and Irish pal, Richard Cronin, through at Beinglas Farm, David and I prepared to undertake our roles as sweeper runners. This involved David performing his own version of Man v Food in the pub where he chowed down on enough burger and chips to sustain a Third-World nation through a particularly long famine.

Then we were off.

When I say we were off it kinda paints a picture of two well-honed athletes leaving at the sound of a starter pistol. Think more two fellas who probably shouldn't be allowed to own running shoes shambling along following another fella (the back marker) who definitely shouldn't be allowed to own running shoes.

And this is where the Walting came in.

The poor fella, feet in bits, exhausted having travelled forty-odd miles, honestly believed that David and I had swept from the start and were so supremely athletic that it appeared we had just started.

Who was I to shatter this illusion?

If he had stopped wittering on about all the races he'd done in the past (maybe he was the Walt,) two things might have happened:

1. He might have been able to put that energy into moving forward more quickly, thereby not keeping David and I out into the hours of darkness.

2. I might have got a word in and told him a story about being in Afghanistan and red hot shell casings falling down my collar......

Laters.