These vagabond (err, running) shoes
Are longing to stray
Right through the very heart of it (and all 5 boroughs)
New York, New York

Apologies to the great Frank Sinatra there – I’m sure my version isn’t quite as snappy, but it’s a trashy way to start this blog and catch your attention. Shameless but relevant: it’s to inform you all that on November 7th 2010 I’m running the 26.2 miles of the New York City marathon…and to let you know of all the charity sponsorship details.

Re-rewind

I admit that I haven’t updated this blog much recently. It started off detailing my 2008 training and race, then went on to my amazing sabbatical, then various random things, mostly footy. I had intended to put lots of World Cup stuff here, but then all the enthusiasm kinda drained from me when England actually took to the field.

So, what am I doing about it now? Well, I enjoyed writing about the training last time, so I’m going to do it again with my training now. I’ll throw in some footy posts, as well as at least one update about my South Africa experience (which is nearly finished anyway and is quite a story!) but generally it’s for you to know how I’m doing.

Money, money, money

With a quick swerve of tunes, we reach the important bit: I’m running for charity. Two charities, exactly. One is for seriously and terminally ill children, Dreams Come True, and the other is for a local hospice, Garden House.

You can read all about them on my Just Giving pages – what they are, what they do, why I’m running for them. The links are below and you should also see a donate section on this very website.

http://www.justgiving.com/AndyMalesNYC2010DreamsComeTrue

http://www.justgiving.com/AndyMalesNYC2010GardenHouse

Every breath you take

So what do I give you back in return? Updated blog entries on my training struggles. There’s always tales of injury pain, illnesses, getting soaked, dogs trying to savage my ankles and general kill-me-now moments that I’m sure you’ll have a sadistic interest in as I prepare over the next two and a bit months.

You’ll also get to see some embarrassing photos of me. For every £200 I raise, I’ve pledged to put up on my JustGiving sites funny (but clean!) photos I have of me from over the years.

And of course, you’ll get the warm, fuzzy feeling of helping to make a difference to someone who really needs it.

So what are you waiting for? Check out my sites, read my blog, spread the news and join in.

It’s up to you…

Despite the usual hype back home surrounding any World Cup involving England, I didn’t have great expectations on us winning in Japan. Few teams win outside their continent, and Japan was not somewhere I thought we’d be particularly successful. I was more looking to Germany 2006 and beyond, and despite Beckham’s redemption day against the Argies in the group stages, there hadn’t been much to be hopeful about Sven’s army. Sure, we’d just breezed past Denmark 3-0, but now we were playing the mighty Brazil – runners up in ’98 and on a mission to put right their failure. I say “mighty” – they may not have been the all-conquering team of tournaments in years gone by, but for me, Brazil meant the World Cup. We always seemed to fail when we met one of the big teams in the knockout stages, so it was with much dread that I watched the quarter final kick off.

In the pub, I was surrounded by people who’d have to be off to work soon after, each thinking how extra time might go down with their boss. The lucky ones had taken the day off – whatever the result, spreadsheets, meetings and customers all would get second billing in the tide of emotions that were sure to follow. I was nervous about a couple of colleagues who’d joined me, as they’d no doubt be seeing me in a new light after this match, what with the inevitable shouting, possible swearing and even the prospect of tears. A new environment…and in the 23rd minute it looked to be a lucky one…

When it happened, it was like being given a key to a magical wonderland. Sure, you had to get to the door and unlock it, but everything you ever wanted was now possible. Michael Owen – Liverpool’s hero predator and a man who could do no wrong in my eyes – had just hunted down the slightest mistake in the Brazilian defence and slotted in to take the lead for England. We were 1-0 up against Brazil. WE WERE 1-0 UP AGAINST BRAZIL!!!!! I remember shouting, screaming, drink going everywhere. I hugged Matt, despite a split second moment of awkwardness. At that moment, we weren’t colleagues or friends – just joyful England supporters. Suddenly, my mind went into overdrive. We would beat Brazil. We’d go into the semis and nothing would stop us! Sven is a God! We’d put 1990 behind us and go all the way to the final where of course Owen would emulate Hurst, get a hat-trick and win the cup for England! I honestly had a moment of clarity when the unthinkable was unfolding before my very eyes. I was sure that if we just got to half time we’ll do it. Just get to half time. Just get… oh you son of a £$%^”!!!!

If Rivaldo’s equaliser knocked me sideways, what happened in the second half couldn’t have drained me more of life if I’d just fallen into a vampire’s convention at midnight with the buffet having just run out. When Ronaldinho floated a free kick towards Seaman’s goal, I watched the ball’s arc, safe in the knowledge that it was no threat. Big Dave would get it, being only a yard or two off his line. He may be getting on a bit, but he’ll save it. I didn’t expect a shuffle of feet that my grandad would be ashamed of as the ball peaked then dipped towards the top corner, before hitting the net half a second before England’s lumbering number one did. My dreams crashed through the floor.

I have no recollection of the rest of the match. It took another Google just now to remember Ronaldinho got sent off soon after. I do know, however - as clichéd as it sounds – a part of me died that day. Aside from being a zombie throughout the horror of the working day that started minutes after we trudged out of the pub, I wasn’t the same after. Yeah, I know, footy is in many ways pointless and irrelevant and is certainly not life and death, but the part of me that felt unbounded joy and belief that we could do it went forever that day. Even the most important of goals I’ve witnessed since have never been greeted with such belief as I felt at the moment Owen’s goal went it. Part of me will always hold back. Until the day – if it ever comes – that the final whistle blows in the final to signal the right for England to earn their second star, I’ll always fear the worst.

Let’s start with my very first memory of the best tournament in the world…

1982 – Viva Espana! My first ever World Cup, and I was hooked from the start. I’d only been into football for about a year, and after the successes of Liverpool in the European Cup in 1981 and the league in 1982, I was getting used to winning. 1966 was an earlier generation, and coming from a non-football family I didn’t appreciate at first how much international football meant to the country. I quickly learned, though.

I made two fine World Cup related purchases: Firstly, the Panini Espana 82 World Cup sticker album (which I’vejust dug out tonight) and secondly, the official England World Cup record: This Time (We’ll Get It Right) (B side: England, We’ll Fly The Flag) (my very first record purchase) “We’re on our way, We are Ron’s twenty-two…”

There were plenty of memories of 1982, and I’m sure I’ll blog about others later, but this one is for the first England match I watched: England v France.

You couldn’t get much of a better start than scoring within 26 seconds – Bryan Robson coming in and hooking the ball into the French net. What an introduction to my World Cup adventure!

(Bryan suffered a slight injury as this photo was taken)

I probably didn’t realise at the time, but that was a good French team with Platini, Giresse, Battison et al who were destined to get to the semi finals, and then two years later win Euro ’84. For me at the time, we were just beating some foreign team who I knew were close neighbours to us. I don’t remember their equaliser, and even the YouTube replay I’ve currently got open does nothing to bring back the memory. Who cares, anyway. What I do vividly remember is Robson’s second goal – stealing in with a powerful header to make it 2-1. Funnily enough, I’ve always had the image of his bent arm celebration and the stripy sweatband.

As for the third goal, I’m delighted my memory of Paul Mariner’s celebration didn’t let me down. One of the coolest acknowledgements of a goal you’ll ever likely to see in a World Cup match. Ball comes to him…he shoots…he scores…he raises his arms to the crowd with barely a smile…he slowly walks away, mullet trailing behind. Classic.

Plymouth awaits...

So we beat the French 3-1. Easy. I may as well continue with my memories of England in the tournament, as they are very brief. I don’t recall the Czechoslovakia and Kuwait wins in the first round, and very vaguely the 0-0 v West Germany in the second round group stages, but I do recall the Spain match in which we had to win. It was a tense affair, in which I watched hoping someone would score for us. Surely we’d do it? We couldn’t go out of the World Cup even though we’d not lost? Alas, it ended 0-0, and we went out, leaving me with my first taste of England disappointment.

Strange thing is, until now, I’ve always had a chip on my shoulder about the match, as I remember West Germany and Austria conspiring to knock us out by fixing their match, but after research today, to my surprise this scandal – although real – actually applied to poor old Algeria in the first round group stage. I can’t blame the Germans for our failure this time! Funny how the memory fools you. Still, I do correctly remember two English heroes named Brooking and Keegancoming on to the save the day for us, to no avail. It was their last appearances in an England shirt. Don’t worry Kev – you’ll be back in seventeen years for more disappointment as manager.

That match got me started. 1982 got me hooked. Stay tuned for tears, ecstasy, despair, drugged-up Argentinians, some of the most blatant hacks ever and those damn-awful penalties…

Did you know it’s just five years until we reach the timelines of Back to the Future II? I remember watching it being amazed at all the cool things we were likely to have in the future. At the time, it was over a quarter of a century away, so of course some of it would come true, wouldn’t it? I’d be flying in cars, wearing auto-fitting Nike trainers, having accurate weather predictions and of course travelling around on hoverboards (despite the fact that I’d obviously be in my early forties by then). It wasn’t some space adventure where we were living on the moon (damn you, Space 1999), it was on Earth, in America and released during a decade of ever-increasing progress. So what big thing that graced BTTFII are we now most likely to see? 3-bloody-D

Yeah, I know 3D isn’t actually new. It’s over sixty years old, actually. But after its heyday in the 50s, a brief comeback in the 80s, now it looks to be THE thing for 2010.
Personally, I’m not convinced. Here’s my some of my experiences of 3D to date:

Sometime in the 80s…Wow! Look at this computer magazine! Some of its pages are in 3D! Let’s put on the flimsy, stupid specs and see…Oh. It looks…different. Some parts of the page stand out slightly. Great. Maybe I’ll put these specs away for another twenty years…

Early 90s…You mean to say I just stare at this book with a silly pattern and I’ll see a jet fighter suddenly appear before my eyes. Yeah right. Is this Magic Eye simply a con? You paid how much for this crap?..Squint, you say? Can’t see it…can’t see it…I think I’m about to go blind…Wow! Where the heck did that come from? Cool. Ok, next page…can’t see it…can’t see it…Ok, I’m bored now.

A little later, Trocadero, Picadilly Circus. I care not that I look a complete dork with a huge headset on, waving my arms in the air at nothing. VR is the future, man. Wow! It moves when I move! It’s a little slow, though…actually, what’s happening? How do you play this game? What do you mean I’m dead?

1995, Honey I Shrunk the Audience, Universal Studios, Florida. At least the specs are better. Cool effects – I’m shrunk. The floor’s actually moving! I can feel the dog’s sneeze on my face! Here come the legions of mice running towards us…why are people screaming in front of me? How the heck did they make us feel their tails against our legs?! Wow.

1997, Terminator ride, Universal Studios, Florida. Hey this 3D effect is slick. And there are real actors on stage. What’s that box opening beside me? Oh shit! That’s a real, full-size, mean-looking endoskelton with a gun just inches away from me! I can feel the heat from its fire! And he has 5 other mates! SkyNet really IS taking over the world! We’re doomed! Where’s the door? I won’t be back, Arnie!

2010, Avatar film, cinema. Ok, the glasses have got a little sillier. Everyone looks like they’ve just been to an NHS optician in 1983. Here comes the animation. Oh wow. Are they computer graphics? It’s so smooth. Done brilliantly. Oh, there’s the 3D effects. The film looks…different. Here come some grenades flying at the screen…ok, why did I just duck?!!

Maybe we’re getting a little closer to that shark that comes out of the Jaws 19 advert and scares poor 1985 Marty shitless for a few seconds. But the way forward for 3D has to be more than just visual effects. The experiences of my Universal Studio films led me to believe you need to tackle the other senses as well. The Terminator endoskeletons weren’t in 3D – they were real robotics – but throw in the mini-movie, 3D, actors and suddenly your brain says this is all real. Cheap but fun effects of 3D objects poking at you work well the first few times, but after that they’re just a gimmick.

So what about the future? Apparently some of the World Cup this year is going to be in 3D. Ok…and what will that bring? Will Maradona be leaping towards us celebrating his team’s late equaliser? Will we be ducking as the German penalty hits the back of our net? Or do we get to explore Beckham’s latest hairstyle from all angles?

If a certain company with half of Skynet’s name has their way, I’m sure in a few years everyone will think 2D is about as modern as the 14″ analogue TV your Gran still refuses to give up. Maybe I’ll even ditch the carbon-hungry plasma for one, though maybe only if ITV4 show repeats of Baywatch in 3D.

For now, though, I’ll settle for the development of a mode of transport that doesn’t turn into the most dangerous, unpredictable vehicle just because a few flakes of the white stuff land on our shores.

I think I learned more in 2009 about myself and life than I have in the last few years put together. It challenged my morals, fulfilled some fantasies, forced  me to review the way I live, and made me realise what’s really important and what isn’t. It gave me more confidence, pushed my boundaries, made me do things I never thought I would, and gave me some of the happiest memories of my life. And there was I just hoping for just a bit of fun, sun and excitement!

But I don’t want this entry to be a “best of” for 2009 – that’s all in the past! No, I want to concentrate on this year, 2010. Wow – 2010. As I looked down at the clock in my car on New Year’s Day I realised things were different. The digits displayed almost in binary: 01/01/10. Another decade. Except, we didn’t really think of the 2000′s (or “Noughties” if you prefer) as a decade, did we? Never had the same ring or identity as the 80s or 90s. And what the heck do we call this decade, anyway?

So what wonderful things do I have to look forward to in my life this year?

Well, the World Cup, for a start. Although the likely prospect of more England heartache doesn’t really appeal to me, I’ll at least be making it over there to see a few other group games.

The first baby in my family for 14 years. Go, my little cousin Claire!

Ummm…. wait, there must be something else…

There is nothing else I can think of I’m looking forward to.

…Yet.

And that’s the point.

2009 was all what it was for me because for most of it I made it happen. Things don’t just lay themselves on a plate. Sure, some things appear out of the blue, but you have to grab them, and the majority you have to search for. It may have ended bad, but once I’ve picked myself up it’s up to me to plot a successful year. You want things to look forward to? Well give yourself something to look forward to!

So, are you tired of all this self-involved crap yet? Tough. It’s my blog and this post today is primarily for me. They can’t all be goat-herding, bungee-plummeting, ball-busting, action-packed accounts, you know!

But I’ll leave the last words for you. I don’t know what I’ll make of this year for me, but I’ve had had enough fun and happiness to last me a while regardless. Shit, I’ve got a great life and should never really complain. I hope 2010 gives you health and laughter…and I sincerely wish you the best of luck in reaching for what you want.

You sure you want to continue?  Ok then, I’ll tell you the subject matter. Ready? How can I say this? It’s to do with “down there” (and I don’t mean Australia this time).

If you’re a bloke, then you may feel very uncomfortable in parts. If you’re a lady, then this might get a bit graphic. If you’re a friend, think about whether you want to know personal stuff like this about me. If family, well, this is more than I usually share. If colleague from work – if I ever have any meetings with you, just don’t think about it ever again.

Why am I blogging about this? Well, for three reasons:

1. This is a personal blog, and this has been quite a significant point of my life. It would be strange not to.

2. It may be quite entertaining in parts. Especially to the sadists amongst you.

3. It may help someone. If a man out there reads this and takes action as a result, it’ll be worth it.

Still here? Are you sure you want to read on? Don’t say I didn’t warn you…

First of all, let me say that I’m ok. I could build up suspense, suggesting something sinister, but as it stands right now it’s far from the worst that could happen. Not that I knew that at the start…

Many years ago – I’m talking last millennium – I thought something different was happening “down there”. I’ll cut to the chase: it was looking like I had one testicle bigger than the other. What did I do when I discovered this? I did what any other self-respecting man would do who took care of his body: I did nothing and worried about every now and again. For years.

Eventually, I decided to do some research on the subject. I was astonished – did you know that nearly all men have one larger than the other? Why the heck didn’t anyone bother to tell this to me? Thanks biology lessons – you made me dissect a frog but failed to give me this vital bit of information that had me worried for ages. So, I stopped worrying about this natural phenomenon.

Skip forward a few more years. It was a little bigger, and now I was experiencing some pain at times. I tested for lumps – I didn’t seem to find any, but it was not quite right. “Rightie” was definitely different to good ol’ “Leftie”. Maybe something was a bit wrong. So what did I do when I had this realisation? Yep, you guessed. I did nothing and worried about it from time to time. I was sure if I left it long enough it would go away…

It didn’t. Eventually I took the plunge and booked in to see the doctor. I can’t tell you how shit scared I was by the day of the appointment. Once I’d made up my mind to go, I opened myself up to all the possibilities it could be. It was this point I realised I was an idiot. Let me spell this out for you, fellers:

IF YOU THINK YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH YOUR BALLS, SEE A DOCTOR STRAIGHT AWAY! DON’T FUCK AROUND!

(John Hartson’s currently in the news – he was diagnosed much later when cancer took over. He’s still going, but in July his survival prospects, although still quite good at about 60:40, would have been 99:1 had he been diagnosed earlier.)

Luckily for me, he thought I just had an epididymal cyst – harmless and no treatment was really needed unless you wanted it. Still, he wanted an ultrasound to check it out. So, a trip to the hospital for someone to look inside my balls…

I’m sitting in the waiting room. In a few minutes, someone’s gonna have me on my back and start rubbing a strange instrument over my nether regions. Suddenly, I have The Dread of Excitement. It is well-known fact that men have almost zero control over whether they get excited. There seems to be a direct route between the brain and your man in the middle, and sometimes where it gets its materials from to cause such exciting signals is a mystery. To you, it could be the most mundane day, but somewhere in your subconscious is a party and you are about to get surprisingly uncomfortable any second now. Even though this is a quite a scary ordeal for me now, what if “he” decides the attention is, actually, quite pleasing? What if the doctor is a fit, young female? Oh crap! Don’t think about it, Andy. Trouble is, this is what I call the Pink Elephant Syndrome. Don’t think of a pink elephant. Try it. Your brain has to think of a pink elephant in order to process that. Which means you thought of one. D’oh. Ok, just think of nothing. Clear your head and think of nothing. Yeah, like that worked for Dan Aykroyd.

Ok here we go. The doc’s an old bloke – bonus. Oh the indignity of it, though. Cold gel swamps my groin as he roughly rolls a small scanner over my two veg. This actually hurts. Chance of excitement: zero. I relax a little. I look at the monitor. I actually get a bit freaked out seeing people’s baby scan photos, so you can imagine I was particularly disturbed looking at moving pictures of the inside of my testes. Imagine watching Patrick Moore showing the transit of Mercury across the sun, and you’ll have an idea.

Results were the same. It appeared to be a cyst. I could have it removed. So I did what any other bloke with a problem like this that could be fixed: I did nothing and hoped for the best. Many years later…

“So you promise you’ll do something about it? It’s about time, you  know.”

“Ok. I promise”

I’m sitting in the same hospital, probably in the same seat, waiting for another scan after making the decision to act on my problem. The docs now tell me it’s a hydrocele - a build up of fluid. I could get it removed by a big needle, but it would come back probably in a month or two. You had me with “needle”. They want another scan as it’s so long since my last one. Should be no problem – I’ve done this before. No Dread of Excti- oh no – the doc’s a cute, young woman! Arrgghhh! I’m lying here with a hot girl spurting gel all over my naughty bits! This could be embarrassing for both of us. Maybe she’ll be a bit insensitive and rough in handling them. Here she goes…She has the touch of an angel! It’s like being gently caressed by the softest sponge plucked from the deepest ocean by someone polishing their most delicate antiques! She is seriously good with that scanner! Some men pay for this kind of action! Ok Andy, think of something else. Nice ceiling tiles. Nice dots within the tiles. Think of car mechanics. I know nothing of car mechanics! Think of work. Imagine the worst possible thing that you could have. Just don’t look down!!!! Eventually, she finishes and I survive, somehow. I clean up the mess, pull up my trousers and walk out the door, with a strange feeling that I should shout out “Call me” as I go…

Thing is, the scans weren’t quite straightforward. They showed a couple of dark spots. I was told they were probably minor, but they’d monitor them in a few months. Nothing could be done about the hydrocele until they were sure it was ok. So, I had to wait until the all clear, which I got earlier this year. And then it came:

“So, it’s up to you. Do you want the surgery to remove the hydrocele?”

Translation: Do you want to put up with regular but mild discomfort, or do you want to authorise someone to put you to sleep, take a knife, rip open your scrotum, drain the fluid, turn part of it inside out, stitch you up, leave you with a scar and kiss goodbye to any fun activities for several weeks?

Was I to break that promise? No, of course not.

“Yes.” Gulp. Fast forward to Tuesday 07:00 this week…

Rightie is not happy. “You’ve got to be kidding me! But we’ve been ok for years! It’ll be agony! A knife, godammit!”

Leftie only has one concern, spelled out carefully to me: “Make.Sure.They.Get.The.Correct.Side”.

I get up and taken to the hospital. I had to let Dad know what was going on a while ago, after a hospital mix up left urgent messages at my parents’ house. I have to say I was glad I did tell him, though, despite the fact I’d rather discuss photography and computers rather than how my balls were today. He’s been great, and I say goodbye to him as I get taken into some strange waiting area. I have little idea what’s gonna happen now. I get given a gown to put on, backwards. The straps are obviously at the back, out of sight, and I wonder how anyone fit and able can successfully tie all the straps, let alone the poor and arthritic. You’d think they could do better than this. I look down at the writing adorned in patterns across it “For use in hospital only”. And there was I going to go clubbing in it. The elderly guy nearly twice my age from behind the next curtain is talking to himself. I try to read my book, but soon the surgeon comes in to see me. His name is Dr. Swallow. [insert your own childish joke here]

“Tell you what, just so we’re sure we know which one to drain, I’ll put a big arrow on the right side”

I give a nervous laugh, then realise he’s not joking. I drop my pants and look down at the surreal sight of a man put two huge arrows on my leg and stomach indicating “IT’S THIS SIDE!” Leftie relaxes. I sit and read more of my book. Should I be really nervous? Well, I decided that I wouldn’t be a wuss for the simple reason there are literally thousands of people right now who are undergoing worse surgery – life or death procedures – than me. I’ve read about kids going through chemo, people not knowing if they’re going to wake up or not, or what the surgeons may find. Yeah, I’m a little scared, but they’re the brave ones so man up and take it, Andy.

Too soon, I’m being led into the theatre. Oh shit. This is really happening. I’m about to be put under. And then it becomes surreal. Everyone is really nice. Relaxed. Joking as they insert this, strap that. We chat about my book, what I do for a living. It’s like a social get together. I get injected with something and told this will put me out. Yeah right. It’s doing nothing. I’m gonna be awake for the whole procedure! Woooahhhhh…hang on…I feel drunk! Cool! I’m still not sleepy, though. I wonder-

What the %^&*! Seemingly seconds later, I’m lying in a bed outside the theatre. A dull ache in my loins tells me I’ve had the op. Wow. That juice really did work. One of the surgeons comes past. “You’re looking a bit drained, Mr Males.” 1…2…3…oh yeah, I get it. Git. I feel groggy, then get offered a drink of water. And coffee. And would I like a sandwich? What is this – table service? Cool. I accept everything. Soon, I feel pain. Arrgghhhh. Rightie is pissed, and is letting me know. I down some pills and get asked if I want any morphine. Ah nurse, you are spoiling me. Morphine me up love.

Dad arrives later when I’m ready to go and I experience another first: a wheelchair ride. Cool. Well, cool in that I’ll be able to get out it soon. Was this what it was like being pushed around as a toddler? I get home and make my way round the house like John Wayne searching for his horse. This isn’t going to be easy.

A little later once we’ve eaten and Dad’s seen I’m ok and gone (I’m surprisingly fine, if a little tender) I take a look at the damage. Oh. My. God. I won’t describe the carnage here, but let’s say there’s blood (“to be expected”) and bruising. Oh and it looks like someone’s had fun with a shaver! And why the heck is my left thigh shaved as well??!! Oh the fun…

So there you have it. If you’ve got to here having gone through all that lot I hope it was worth it. I’m sure it may result in a plethora of jokes at my expense, but hey. But don’t worry – I won’t be showing anyone the scars…

 I’ve had the beard since mid-April, when in Australia I decided I couldn’t be bothered to shave any more. I’d always wanted to see what it was like with one, and having grown up with a dad who I’d never seen his chin, I guess it was inevitable that at some stage I would entertain more than just a few days’ growth. The experiment continued even when I’d got back to work. So how did it all work out with my eight-month shadow?

Firstly, the beard itself. Every bloke is different – a lot of us can’t even grow a beard, or at least if we try we can end up in a patchy mess. Even David Beckham - one of the most stylish men on this planet – couldn’t quite pull off an expert beardy look. Luckily, Dad’s genes must have given me enough to pull off a reasonable beard. Just. A bit patchy in places, but when I just let it all go and didn’t trim it at all, there was a fair degree of coverage. It wasn’t particularly coarse – I don’t have the kind of stubble on which you can strike a match – but it joined up in the right places, aside from the sideburns which I had to grow down a little to avoid a gap that a certain friend of mine is famous for. Colour is another thing. Black is fine, but blond can look feeble and white makes you look like you’re coming to town in December. If you’re ginger, then you either have to be damn bold or damn stupid to grow one. Mine was fairly dark, but unfortunately my advancing years (which – dammit – are about to advance again next week) subjected it to a sprinkling of white here and there. Most shocking was the single ginger hair that sprouted up like a rebellious carrot in a field of potatoes. Err, if carrots and potatoes sprouted up, of course. (note to self: improve similes). However, with some targeted shaver work they were often eradicated, lest they spread to my entire face.

It started off quite bushy – I thought if you were gonna have a beard then you might as well have  a proper one – but unfortunately my skin suffered. Thinking that this change must have meant a second wind of puberty (I assure you I did pass through one already) the skin under the beard kindly gave me the acne that a teenager would be embarrassed about. Yes, the beard hid a lot of it, but under scrutiny, it looked like something found in a Dominoes bin on a Sunday morning. (Probably by someone who, ironically, looked not too dissimilar). Yuck. Flash photos were a nightmare; thank goodness for the wonders of Photoshop.

So, I bought myself a trimmer/clipper for it. Have you ever used on of those? You put the guard on the shave and then work out how to do it. Which way up? Which direction do I do it? As you push down and hear the first cutting buzz, you panic and wonder how much it’ll cut off. That’s the thing with beards: one slip, one mistaken setting  and you face the prospect of looking a fool for a few days or shaving the whole damn thing off. (I slipped once without the guard and created a small line under my chin that looked like a small explorer had been through on their quest to circumnavigate my face.) I did get used it, however, and began trimming. I started off with a number 9 (wow) and by my last shave it had got down to a much tidier, but still beardy 5. Result? Much better skin and less patches.

People’s reactions were interesting. My friends, predictably, took the piss. “Bum”, “Hobo”, “Beardface”, “Beardy” – all hilarious, cunningly-crafted nicknames. “Good luck in the Shipman/Sutcliffe looky likey competition” was another comment, when told of my new status by email. Others were much more receptive – an ex-colleague was over the moon to hear I’d grown one, as a self-confessed pogonophile, although a little disappointed it hadn’t reached Brian Blessed proportions. Other colleagues thought it suited me, whilst some just shook their heads in disbelief. I think Dad was quite proud, and Mum liked it, but then they’ve lived with a beard for a long time.

Funnily enough, when I had a goatee a few years back it received more attention than my beard this time. I’m not sure what I expected, and I didn’t particularly want to stand out, but most of the time when out it never got mentioned. When you look around a typical bar, a number of men sport beards now, so I guess it’s not that unusual. Tired of the jokes, bored of the constant trimming, wanting to try and steal a year of two from my looks, I pick up the shaver.

It’s like my face has travelled back in time. The wrinkles are still there (laughter lines, I call them) and the eyes are screaming Vegas! at me, but the chin is back. Hello stranger – don’t I recognise you from somewhere?

What the heck? I’m routed to the spot. Where’s my fitness gone? Even with the wrist strength of anorexic octogenarian, I always used to have speed over a badminton court in my favour. Tonight, I might as well tie my shoelaces together for the amount of movement I’m getting. Midway through the first game and my heart is beating faster than an Animal drum solo.

If there’s one thing I’ve realised since running the marathon, it’s that being unfit is much worse when you know just how fit you can be. With niggling injuries since June, my running since then has been sporadic at best. Just when I think I may be getting back into it, something else happens to interrupt it.

Two weeks ago I ran five miles outside, after a successful couple of stints on the treadmill. I was tired, I dragged myself through the last two miles, but having the knowledge that I’ve previously run a shed load of miles on empty means I can keep going if I get it right mentally. My “Don’t you dare quit unless injured” rule also works. So aside from aching shins (having been hunched over in my tired last section) I was ready to go. And then the day before a planned run I got sick. Very sick. Sicker than the sickest dog sick. For the squeamish amongst you, please move on after the next bit, as here’s a brief account:

Mmmm…bottled  water. Hang on – looks like it’s been opened before I bought it. Let’s take a sip…yuck! Throw the rest away and eat your salad. At least I only drank a little bit. Can’t be that bad, can it? It’s only water….

Ahhh. home. Tummy feels a bit tight though. Strange. I feel I might be…uh ohhh…

There goes the salad. At least that’s over with. Although, maybe not…here I go aga…

Somebody kill me. Kill me now. Every $%^&ing ten minutes! Oh my god. This has been going on for five hours now and I’ve seen every single bit of that salad now. Enough already. No, please no..let me die here next to the bowl, no more…

Everyone else who had the salad was fine, so just my luck to pick that water and put an end to my weekend before it’d begun. Great. It also left me weak for a few days after; I didn’t have the energy to put my shoes on, let alone run in them.

Feeling better, the following Saturday arrives and I go for a 4-miler with my mate, who starts off at a pace quicker than my normal start. By the end of it, I’m totally knackered, praying for the end. Muscles feel fine, but I’ve seen asthmatic darts players with better cardio fitness than me.

It doesn’t help that I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been (not by much and far from overweight, but still…) and have an ear problem where I get a bit dizzy during exercise. But I’m determined to get back into it and get fitter than ever before.

My body will say yes. Whether I’ll actually play a decent shot back on the badminton court is another story…

That last test was a bit of a roller coaster. Like a horror film baddie, Australia simply refused to give up the fight against impossible odds until the final blow was cast. Ponting was bloodied and bruised, his men, heads bowed in defeat to the poms. Somehow, we managed to sneak the series 2-1 and regain the Ashes we so heroically won back in 2005. The memory of the 06/07 series wiped from our minds way before this year started, the England fans revelled in seeing the cockiest of all nations once again beaten by the one team they hate to lose against.

But fair play to the Aussies. They’re naturally cocky because quite simply they are usually good at pretty much whatever they do. They may not be blessed with great footballing talent, but their cricket and rugby teams have dominated their sports for long periods, whilst England flatter to hold the limelight for anything longer than a blink in time. An inexperienced team came to England and outplayed us in the majority of innings, but just lost out on the few that mattered. Ponting took a lot of stick personally, but aside from a few questionable selection decisions, led from the front and was superb with his bat. Despite being clearly gutted, he spoke graciously after the match, knowing full well he was going to return home to face the music in his cricket-mad homeland.

As for England, it was job done, mission accomplished. We had our luck on the way (particularly batting first on the dust bowl that was the Oval) but we battled well when the press had their knives out. Strauss in particular was excellent – solid decisions, on the whole, and although not as potent with the bat as his counter-part, did well when it was needed. Swanny and Broad shone throughout, proving there’s a bright future both in bowling and the lower-order batting. Freddie may not have been the departing hero he and everyone so wished for, but his five-for at Lord’s and his amazing run-out of Ponting were undoubtedly key moments. And who can forget Monty and Anderson’s last stand at Cardiff that would have made Custer proud?

But enough of the report. How was it for me? Well, it was never going to be as good as 2005, when we hadn’t won for so long. Cardiff was pure relief and joy at seeing the unlikely lads survive the circling Aussie sharks to snatch a draw. Yeah, the “legal” time-wasting was a bit embarrassing, but it was fun to see the agitated Aussies whine.

I was in an important meeting at a customer site when the Lord’s test was on, wondering how I could sneak a look on the ol’ iPhone for the update without anyone watching. The clocked ticked on as I sweated through my presentation and the knowledge we might be blowing it. Finally, I had my chance – wahoo! A 115-run victory!! Get in.

Edgbaston then made me realise the hated side of cricket – the rain. Do you know of any other sport where the weather is so critical to the result? Can you imagine a 3-3 thriller at Anfield suddenly being declared a draw after 70 minutes because it’s been a bit drizzly for a while? Play in wellies, I say.

Headingley? It was like being in a time-warp, back to the bad old days of collapses of earthquake proportion (which, let’s face it, seem to be as frequent as a Tokyo tremor). Pathetic. Every batsman looked as nervous as an Upton Park steward seeing the recent cup draw, as the Aussies ripped us apart and made us look like schoolboys. One win and we’d have the Ashes, but now it seemed to be Panic City as we analysed who would fall and who would come in to replaced the lame.

I was very nervous for the last test. Semi-confident after our first innings, I was thrilled when my mate Chief mailed me at work as Australia suddenly began their transmogrification into their own inept rivals from the last test.  Up came the BBC Sports website (in the background, of course) and I shared in his delight as the wicket icon kept appearing in the automatic updates. Aussie+crumble is not two words you often find associated. I was on the phone to him on Sunday when the ball clipped its short way to Cook’s hands for the final wicket at the Oval. “Yes!!! We done it!” I didn’t quite know at the time who was bowling or who got bowled but I didn’t care; I was ecstatic. If only I was back down under…

I’ll leave it to Swann to sum it all up :”Well, it’s a rubbish game really, isn’t it?”

Maybe, at times, but it can also be magnificent entertainment. We got that little urn back… and that’s all that matters right now.

Anyone who saw his Olympic performances knows that the boy can run. Fast. There was absolutely no way he was going to lose this one. At the start line he exuded confidence – and this was true confidence, not the usual sprinter bravado/macho bullshit often displayed in the past by lesser sprinters. He truly believed. I predicted 9.62 seconds – and even then I was worried I might have been a bit optimistic when posting such a claim on Facebook, half an hour before the race. His previous record was 9.69, and the most I’ve seen shaved off the record is 0.05 of a second. So what does he do? Get off the blocks, stretch his lead and blow everyone else away in 9.58. That’s 0.11 seconds off. As I said whilst watching it, f*** me!

I’ve followed sprinting from before the Carl Lewis days, when 9.93 (set by Calvin Smith in 1983) was the elusive benchmark. I’ve seen the records tumble over the years by some great sprinters, but Bolt is in a different class. Asafa Powell took the record once or twice but always bottled it on the big stage. Tyson Gay must be feeling like the guy who’s just scored a hat-trick in the World Cup final, only to end up on the losing side. 9.71 for a silver medal? Choker. To see a guy run a 9.5 I thought would be beyond my wildest dreams. And the most amazing thing? He’ll get even faster.

On to football.

I’m gutted. There’s nothing worse than waiting months for the new season and starting off with a defeat. Oh, except for playing badly with it. Which Liverpool did. Away at Spurs was never going to be easy, and I wasn’t confident after last year’s losses to them there, coupled with such a dodgy pre-season. It didn’t help that early on Carragher and Skrtel decided to take each other out with a clash of heads. Torres then decided to play like he was a Spanish waiter, rather than the forward that struck fear into the Premier League for the past two seasons. Oh, I don’t want to talk about it. We were lame.

For the record, I’ll go on here and say that as painful as it is to say, Utd will win the league. Owen and Rooney will get the main goals and they will open up now Ronaldo’s gone. Chelsea will run them close, but with yet another new manager, this may not be their season. Arsenal’s season will depend entirely on keeping their top players fit. City will be sporadic, and may push before fading. Liverpool may well struggle for goals, and I cannot see how our squad can compete with Utd and Chelsea. The players must still be disappointed after such a fantastic season (87 points and only 2 defeats would usually win the league) and wonder what else they have to do. It’s only been one game, but it looks like it might take a while to get firing again. Oh well. You never know what the next 37 matches are going to hold…

I at least had a bit of good news that lifted the depression of the footy – I got another story accepted! I don’t get paid and it’s online not print, but it’s a popular market that I really wanted to break into, an ezine called AlienSkin Magazine. What’s more, it was a Micro Fiction submission – a whole story that had to be exactly – no more, no less than – 150 words. Sounds easy? Well, you don’t have to write much, but to do a complete story and make it match an exact word count is actually difficult…and then it has to be good.

Anyway, it’s called No Consequences and is a dark sci-fi  piece that’ll be online October/November. Chuffed. One more for the CV…