Where the heck did July go?! Whilst kids and teachers are celebrating the start of summer holidays, I’ve just committed myself to a schedule of writing. Slack time is over. Cricket matches no more. Internet locked in the cupboard. Come what may, the novel starts Monday 1st August 2011.

Tube strike

This week has been a relaxing week. A great trip to Lord’s for the test match on Monday, a bit of running, reading and knocking in the odd goal on the 5-a-side pitch again. I put a bit of meat on the novel’s plans on Tuesday, but having got a good handle on the story now I thought I’d leave it for a few days, prepare for the actual writing and relax. Plus I wanted to recover from being cooked in the sun and having my leg trapped in a tube train’s door by a driver who didn’t want to hang around and perform a silly, superfluous action as actually letting people out of the carriage.

I also read an interesting section in a writing book this week that said to avoid planning too much and to not talk about it a lot before writing. Why? To keep up your own enthusiasm for the story. It’s a good point – if you were to know everything that happened in the book and could also tell someone all about it, why would you bother to spend months and months putting it all down on paper? In your own mind, it would have been done already; doing it again would feel for the brain like it was writing out in hand something that it’s just printed out on its computer. Best to have a framework and leave the juicy bits for your imagination to feast on in the coming months.

On your marks…

Plan done? Check.

Word count sorted? We’ll start at 1,500 words a day. (I may have to revise if that’s too much)

Schedule sorted? 5 days a week, 30 hours in total. (gulp)

Geeky spreadsheet created? Stats galore to measure my progress. Charts to be done soon.

Yowling cat neutralised? If not, deploy tactic a) Have a heart-to-heart with him and tell him to not yowl between 9:30 and 6 or b) Shut him downstairs or c) buy earplugs.

Confidence high? Yes and no. Yes, I feel I’m equipped and ready to go. No, I have no idea when I start on Monday whether anything will come out.

Right now, I just want to get on with it. I’m tired of talking about ideas, how I’m going to do this, and preaching like I know what’s the best way to do things. I’m still a wannabe. I want to be able to say that I’m actually, physically writing a book, and that I’m on the third chapter and that you can read the first two chapters over this place here. Either that or I realise I’m all mouth, slip away quietly and go join the back of the job queue.

An eye for an Eye

My trip to London on Monday gave me the opportunity for my first-ever field research for my novel. Without really giving anything away, one of the scenes will be at the London Eye, so despite having been there a couple of times before, I thought I’d check it out and take some photos. It was kinda cool, imagining my characters, what they would do, working out if there were any inherent problems in what I was planning. At least the wheel was still there, which was a start. I also checked out the surroundings for inspiration – there’s a lot going on down there that I could use. I would have liked a trip on it again, but I’d had enough of long queues for one day.

First contact

I contacted my first author recently: Hal Higdon, author of Marathon. As you may know by now, my novel involves the concept of fictional characters running a marathon (there’s more fun stuff aside from this that I’ll tell you about soon, don’t worry) and a quick search on the Internet led me to Hal’s book, the only book that I would say has this concept. I wanted to ask him a question on why he went down a particular route with one of the decisions he had to make, and I was delighted he replied later that same day. It also gave me some food for thought on an important aspect of the novel. Luckily, my book ideas are very different from what he seems to have done (I won’t even read his until after I finish).

However, there are many marathon accounts and how-to running books out there, but – like a lot of sport I guess – comparatively few fiction stories. Why read about imaginary goals in the 98th minute, 400m olympic runners with no legs, Grand National leaders collapsing yards from the end when they are reality anyway? That’s why “A Decade of Verrucas” by Joe Average, City Midfielder 1987-1997 will always sell, as sportsmen and women at the top of the game will nearly always have stories to tell. So am I doomed, destined to be a Richard Keys in amongst the real players?

Of course not. This will be a proper novel, which just happens to use sport for part of its idea. And with my own personal experience plus plenty of real-life material to draw from, I’m confident it’ll stand up very strong on its own merit.

Anyway, shut up, Andy. Enough talking. As a famous sports brand would say, Just Do It.

I can’t say that I’ve ever found myself in a gay pub drinking sambuca with a mate and a random girl from Stoke, but that’s what I found myself doing last night. And that was just part of an eventful day…

Hyde Park is our destination, for the Hard Rock Calling festival featuring The Killers and The Kooks. Five of us have taken the day off and we’re heading down to Kings Cross on the train for a few drinks beforehand. It’s 11:30am, and it doesn’t take long before we start the footy chat before moving on to, inevitably, Michael Jackson. I’m still shocked about last night’s news – one of those “I remember where I was when…” moments, which we duly relay where we were when we first heard. Whatever you may think about him, there’s not been many bigger icons in my lifetime, and his music will live on forever.

We go to O’Neill’s after a short walk from the station; a favourite starting point for us when we go to the capital. A burger and a few beers later, we leave and head up to Euston to catch a bus towards Marble Arch. After disembarking and getting a little disoriented despite sat-nav on my mate’s iPhone, (hint: if in doubt, listen to the female in the party for direction) we eventually arrive within sight of Marble Arch. Way too early, though, to go in to the park, so we have a drink at the nearest decent-looking place. A bit crowded, but ok to grab a drink and go outside. One quick pit stop later, and we’re off to the festival.

Hey, this looks pretty good. Near enough to the stage to see the performers and easily the big screen, close to the toilets and food, and not a million miles away from the beer tent. Cool. We set up camp. A work colleague of my mate turns up and joins us, and soon he is off to get a double round in. Sweet! The dark clouds that promised to wreck the day and turn me into a standing waterfall seem to have passed, and the hot sun hits my neck. The first trip to the loos isn’t too bad – plastic urinals in the open air after a short wait. I glance over at the huge queue for the ladies and smile to myself. I wonder if anyone will ever make anything socially acceptable that can be used by women so that they can pee in public as quickly and as efficiently as men?

Here come The Kooks. To be honest, I only know one or two of their songs. I also only know about three of The Killers’s tunes. Actually, what am I doing here anyway? Just here for the craic, I suppose. Lots of singing and hand-waving commence as I try to get into the music.

The main event – The Killers. When they launch into Human from the start, Si – a big fan – goes virtually mental. It’s one of the three I know, but have always felt it’s pretty lame. Still, it and the band do sound good live. Not sure about the singing behind me, though. As the sky darkens, the lights shine even brighter and the crowd really come alive. We’re all waiting for Mr Brightside, and I daren’t move from here despite my bladder bearing bursting point again. We don’t have to wait long.

 ”I just can’t look…it’s killing me” thousands scream out, including me. This is proper!

“…open up your eagle eyes…” I sing completely out of tune. As the words tumble awkwardly out of my mouth, I realise that I somehow always sing “eagle” instead of “eager”. (Something to with Action Man, methinks.)

The rest of the set involves more songs that I don’t know and copious amounts of in-unision hand-waving from the crowd in front of the stage. A truly impressive sight, but not knowing the tunes has rather dulled the experience for me. I go off to grab some fish and chips. Soon, it’s all over, and there’s nothing left apart from a field of green plastic bottles and groups of fans not wanting to leave.

I’m now walking around the streets looking for a bar with my friend, Mike, and a girl who stood near near us at the festival that took a shine to him. One of our group has gone AWOL, and the couple have said their goodbyes and headed home. Not wanting to go just yet, I decided to stick with Mike in his search for the girl. We soon find her.

“I’m from Stoke! I’ve never been to London before! Let’s go have a drink!”

After wandering around some residential areas, we eventually find the same bar we went to earlier, so we go in.

“Sambuca! Let’s have sambuca!” she says. Mmmmm, not my tipple of choice, but not wanting to appear even more of a gooseberry, I surrender and down the fiery liquid. The place is packed, and we stand, with pints,in the middle, before a strange woman comes up to me and whispers something I don’t quite hear.

“Sorry?” I say, a bit bemused.

“I said – do you like older men?”

The bemusement continues.

“Look around you – it’s a gay pub.”

What? But we were in here earlier? She’s obviously wrong. Isn’t she? For some reason, she’s on a  mission to save me, and she takes my arm and leads me further up the pub. I scan the room.

Apart from us, every single person in here is a) male and b) older. Not only am I a gooseberry, but I am standing in a gay pub jam-packed with old men, any one whom may try and make up the numbers. I could almost hear the Blue Oyster theme in my head. Whilst I have no problem with other people’s sexual choices, let’s just say I prefer the surroundings to be a little more…female. I break the news to the only mixed-sexed couple in the place and we leave like wedding guests who’ve just realised that the sandwiches they’re eating are in fact for someone’s wake.

Laughing, we tumble out into the street. Another hopeless wander ends in us jumping into a taxi and heading for somewhere a bit more lively. We end up queing outside O’Neill’s, this time in Soho. I’m feeling ok, and we quickly get to the front. My friend and the lively raven-haired girl from Stoke lead the way.

“Sorry, mate. You can’t come in.” the bouncer says, using his arm to block my way to the entrance. I look up from my wallet, brow furrowed. “You’re too drunk. Go and have some food, sober up a little, walk around and then come back in 20 minutes.”

You have got to be kidding! Me, too drunk? Ok, I’m not sober, but I haven’t even stumbled! I’ve not even done one of my classic “ghouls”! I’m so not drunk, that I’m even sensible enough not to argue with him. Resigned, I move away from the queue, Mike and the Stoke girl coming back with me. We search again for somewhere suitable, but Mike then gives me a quick look that says “Why don’t you make like a tree?” Ah. Ok. Yes, it’s probably best. I say goodbye and leave them to it, after he points me in the direction of the nearest tube station.

I’m now sitting on the train with a chocolate muffin and bottle of water. I’d just wanted the water, but the muffins called to me to be rescued from captivity. Who I was I do deny them their freedom? The train pulls away and I tuck into gooey chocciness. I’m tired, and this is the train will go on the different line, stopping at every single little town, village and hut along the way. Time for a snooze, methinks. Don’t wan’t to oversleep, though. Must set my alarm. Comfy seat…want my bed…Zzzzzzz

“This train is for…”

I jump awake. Where are we? I hear the beeps as the doors shut. I look out as somewhere familar starts to scroll by. That. Looks. Like…oh s*%t! That’s my home station! I meant to get out there! If I’d been more awake, I would have probably thought stupid thoughts such as jumping out the window or pulling the stop cord, but instead I resigned myself to getting a taxi back from the next town. Good job I’ve some money left.

The taxi driver is unsympathetic to my plight, and says it’ll cost me £30 to get home. What am I gonna do? I just want to get home and it’s half two already. We set off as I watch the meter. At £30, I’m still not home. The driver kindly asks if I need to go to the cash machine. I can hear the ker-ching in his brain. I decline, but decide to jump out early before the meter reaches crazy money. Finally, after a £39 taxi journey and a short uphill walk I arrive home.

Things may not always work out the way you want them, but you live and learn!

Went to see a sports injury specialist today about my knee. Sod’s Law seemed to strike, though, as I realised that today it was better than it had been in ages, and in fact I could feel hardly any pain at all! That’s good in one way, but how would I be able to tell the specialist where it hurt if it didn’t hurt now?! So I ran up and down the stairs a few times to try to get the pain to come back, and it did a little. I thought about cancelling, but I knew the pain might come back later anyway, so I might as well go.

I’m not sure how much I actually got for my 15 minutes and £35, but it was probably worth it. It’s a common injury, I was told. Do these stretches (new ones – quite painful on the quads!) hourly(!) for a week and then twice-daily after that. Do cross training and cycling for a week before running again. He also hinted that people were mad to regularly do marathons as they will hasten joint damage to knees and hips by 10-15 years! So I left with stretching instructions and renewed hope that I’d be back running soon.

I’d taken the day off as a few of us planned to go down to London for the day. There’s not much better than having a few drinks with old friends in the sunshine, chilling out with no worry for time and reminiscing about times gone by.
We got through a lot with little hurry: Irish breakfast, beers, cocktails, Chinese food, double decker bus ride, St. Catherine’s Dock, Covent Garden, Chinatown, Piccadilly as well as the famous sights of the Tower of London, Anteros (it’s not Eros, did you know that?), St. Paul’s Cathedral, Tower Bridge, that big gherkin building and Nelson’s Column. I won’t mention the bowling at the Trocadero as, well, let’s just say I didn’t win!!