Asking Multiple Miggs

It was brought to my attention that everyone else's mind isn't as decadent as my own and some of what's posted here is a complete mystery to most right-minded individuals.

The example that was used to prove this was the title of my blog post dated 14 September entitled 'Seagulling. Quite literally.' Mrs Mac admitted to being confused by my reference to sea gulls when the post concerned a visit to see the gannets that live upon Bass Rock.

Dear Reader......if you understood the reference please either bugger off elsewhere and read about split times, nutrition, the latest vibram soles and all that other shite, or indulge me.

If you didn't understand it either stand by to have your mind soiled or bugger off elsewhere and read about split times, nutrition, the latest vibram soles and all that other shite.

You'll remember in the Seagulling blog post my telling of the young lady that was in our boat with her boyfriend, right? You'll also remember me explaining how a deposit of bird shit descended from the sky and landed on the woman's face, right?

Hold that thought.

Now let me take you back to the last time you saw the film Silence of the Lambs.

Remember the bit where Clarice Starling enters the subterranean cells that house Hannibal Lecter and a collection of other criminally insane loon-balls? Remember the bit where Multiple Miggs flings a deposit of ejaculate through the bars of his cell and it lands on the unsuspecting Starling's face?

That's Seagulling.

Anyway, I'm now going to mention another poisonous, filthy word: Running. Or a lack of it.

As I've mentioned elsewhere, I've been suffering a medical condition that has rendered every running session over ten miles a complete disaster for the best part of nine months.

But enough of my erectile disfunction (I'll get that in before Richard Cronin does). This was about the problem I've had with my sciatic nerve.

I attended a referral at the Medwyn back pain clinic this week where I had an appointment with an orthopaedic specialist. The Medwyn back pain clinic is housed within one of those big, modern NHS establishments that do pretty much everything except hospitalise people. And the specialist was a middle aged fit burd with headmistress spectacles and a sharp skirt suit. In an under-the-counter video she would have been the archetypal MILF and the referral would have been about two minutes of chit chat before descending into a choreographed gymnastics session.

But what really happened was a lot of poking, squeezing, bending over and hitting with one of those little hammers.............and yes I do realise that I may have just described a choreographed gymnastics session in one of those under the counter videos.

So what of the Specialist MILF's opinion regarding my running future?

It went like this:

'Your ultra running days are over, just accept it.'

I left the medical centre feeling pretty glum. I drove from there to Battersea Fire Station to start my shift and considered my options:

1. A return to boxing where running is limited to five or six miles of road work. The pros are that I'll maintain a good level of fitness and get to dance with the Devil again. The cons are that I'll get beaten up every week by younger, quicker hard bastards.

2. A return to gym based weight lifting where running might be limited to a warm up on a treadmill. The pros are that I'll build a stronger body and lose the malnourished, POW-escapee look of the ultra runner. The cons are that I'll have to buy a baseball cap, a shit-load of fake tan and walk about like I'm carrying two rolled up lengths of invisible carpet.

3. Forget any idea of fitness training at all and join the legions of fat couch potatoes that watch Jezza Kyle all day. The pros are that I'll save a fortune in gym fees and I might get offered a spot on Jezza's show. The cons are that I'll end up stinking of body odour and get bed sores.

4. Dismiss the Specialist MILF's advice as her simply ticking a 'problem solved' box by the most expeditious route and carry on regardless. The pros are that it might work and I'll return to running when the problem solves itself. The cons are that it might not and I'll maintain a malnourished, POW-escapee look while never actually achieving anything but a DNF.

Decisions, decisions.

I wonder what Multiple Miggs would do?

The Murdo

The River Ayr Way Race came. And it went.

During the months running up to the race I had hummed and hawed about submitting an entry then with only minutes to go before closing I fired off an application despite knowing I wasn't fit. The River Ayr Way has a special place in my heart and I wanted to be part of it despite knowing that pinning a number on was quite pointless.

The truth is that an ongoing medical issue is preventing any training so to be honest, I'm about as bothered with racing as David Cameron is with the homeless.

Despite being unfit, and that being my excuse for going out for a ten mile trot before sacking it, I find it hard to find any real motivation for running. I stand on the start line of races with runners who appear close to hyperventilation and wonder what the fuck all the panic is about. Then I trundle off and whatever happens happens.

On Saturday, at the River Ayr Way Race, I got to the pub in Failford and drank Guinness. I got there by car after running to the second checkpoint and deciding that staying with Mrs Mac, Wee Hannah and Mason (dog) was far more preferable that continuing on. It seems that the fire in my belly may well have been extinguished.

Richard Cronin reckons that I've achieved such an elevated, Zen-like condition that I no longer have to run. In reality I simply don't give a fuck and stand more stead by interacting with people socially than by beating them in a race.

Anyway, the few lines above are really just hors d'oeuvres for another video blog post. If you wondered how one might mix alcohol, olive oil and fiery chilli sauce to achieve a creation that has been Christened with the same nomenclature as a particular Edinburgh based ultra runner.....have a gander.


The Murdo from Subversiverun on Vimeo.

Seagulling. Quite Literally.

This has been something of an extended stay in the Land of Jock. I arrived some time ago, the precise date and time are lost on me at the moment, but it's been long enough to become accustomed to off licences that fail to serve after 22:00 and legions of school children that prowl the town at lunchtime eating various items of battered and deep fried foodstuffs. Not just the usual chips, fish, sausage and chicken nuggets; but also black pudding, pies, pizza and chocolate. I shit you not.

A plan had been set for a trip to Mull and an engagement with Sea Eagles. However, wet and stormy weather on Scotland's west coast sent me and Mrs Mac scuttling for the balmier climes of the east coast where we set up camp in Belhaven. A few days walking on long, clean, sandy beaches, eating lobster and chips, and sharing a tent with a Staffordshire Bull Terrier were topped off with a boat trip out to Bass Rock, a volcanic plug of phonolitic trachyte rock a mile or so out from North Berwick. There are no Sea Eagles resident on Bass Rock but there are some 200,000 gannets occupying just about every and any survivable surface on the rock. They squawk, shriek, strut about and shit on the ground. The only other place I've witnessed so many birds behaving in such a manner is Croydon on a Saturday night.

 I guess that an open fishing boat, bobbing about in the North Sea with 200,000 gannets flying about, might be an unintended target for a spot of guano. And indeed during said trip, some airborne bird shit did indeed head southward into the open boat. Directly onto the face of an attractive, blonde woman that was enjoying a wee seaborne sojourn with her boyfriend. As I witnessed the white, sticky substance hit the woman around her mouth I had an odd flashback to a video I once watched. One that was purchased from underneath the counter of the local video shop. The female reaction to the facially accommodated bodily function failed to concur with what I'd seen on the TV screen, however.

Anyway, on to matters running. The River Ayr Way Race is almost upon us and I've done fuck all training. I have secured an entry to the race but have serious doubts as to my ability to run for 41 miles without the wheels seriously falling off. At this time I'm in two minds as to whether starting the race is a good idea. At the very least a tale of pain and early withdrawal would provide an antidote to all the crowing, 'I'm so great' blog tales that are bound to appear afterward, but that really shouldn't be a reason for taking part.

What I've discovered is that if I do run the race, and subsequently decide to withdraw, it's unlikely that I'll be able to make myself understood anyway and will have to run to the finish. I initially realised the perceived alien nature of my accent when attempting to purchase soup for Mrs Mac's lunch. The woman serving me responded to my request for 'a serving of yer finest loop-the-loop and a bread roll, love' with a cocked head and a confused smile. I eventually exited the cafe with a polystyrene cup of soup and two slices of bread. But today a trip to KFC, coupled with an Asian purveyor and a Cockney customer, resulted in twice the amount of fizzy drink ordered and a complete lack of the requested corn on the cob ('two bits a cawn, mate' obviously translated as 'please furnish me with enough Pepsi Cola to sail a fuckin' battleship.').

Mrs Mac has noticed an odd occurrence where, rather than taming my Cockney accent in the face of confusion, I actually broaden it as I attempt to make myself understood. This isn't something I do intentionally, although I do hear a South London accent bouncing off the walls and wonder if Ray Winstone is in the house. I should point out that this isn't my first time in a faraway land where men wear skirts and women have a hierarchical system based on the number of their remaining teeth, and I appear to have got along OK thus far. So maybe the Jocks are becoming more Scottish or I'm becoming more Cockney, I'm not too sure, bless ya cotton socks, me old china. But if you happen to be in the vicinity of the River Ayr Way on Saturday and you meet a Cockney fella that says:

'I'm cream crackered, do me a favour and call me a sherbet,' it doesn't mean I want you to feed me dry, savoury biscuits and children's powdered sweets.

Laters.

No Cocktail Shaker Required.

More lazy blogging.

Mrs Mac says I witter on too much.

I'm about to leave the Metropolis for a far away land where men wear skirts and women have a hierarchical system based on the number of their remaining teeth (you haven't heard that for a while so humour me); this will include a short trip to the Hebridean island of Mull where we will be looking at White Tailed Eagles.

Twitch, twitch.

Also there are plans afoot to run the River Ayr Way Race, an event that, since it's inception, I've run every year. Last year Tim Downie's arse got a whupping. This year it may well be my arse that's in tatters. And my feet. And lungs. And legs. Every training run over 12 miles since May has been a disaster.

Oh, well.

No doubt it will be a motivator for a written blog entry.

Laters.



Floradora. No Cocktail Shaker Required. from Subversiverun on Vimeo.