Signing off

It's Christmas day. The turkey was dry. Cranberry sauce way too sweet. Not sure about you, but for me Christmas day is, more often than not, a disappointment. Not really. We don't celebrate Christmas. No turkey, no tree no cranberry sauce. Actually, just back from my first run since completing my 1,000km. The Heath is still completely covered in snow. Lovely.

Anyway, as promised, before I sign off on this blog, there is only one thing left to do - share with you my predictions for the New Year.

You see, after foreseeing the drop in the price of oil below $70 when all the "experts" said it was heading toward $210 per barrel and, more significantly, anticipating that Carla Bruni (aka Mrs Sarkozy) will take a lover in 2009, my annual forecasts have become a thing of legend. As accurate as those of Macbeth's witches. As thought provoking as Wittgenstein's Tractatus Philosophicus. As exciting as the launch of the latest vintage of Beaujolais. An event which many are waiting for from the moment the days start getting shorter.

So, after the hyperbolic, and by-no-means-truthful introduction, here goes: my predictions for 2011:

Economics & Business:

1) Irving Picard, entrusted to recoup the money Madoff burnt, will recover $5bn from HSBC and $15bn in total
2) Spanish government bonds will rise to 7%
3) BP will sell its US downstream business to protect its US drilling rights
4) Oracle will acquire a major hardware storage business
5) A Chinese website will become the world's 2nd largest social network site and IPO to raise $10bn
6) UK GDP will grow by 3.7%; US GDP will grow by 4.3%

Culture:

1) Social Network to win Best Picture at the Oscars; Leonardo De Caprio will win Best Actor
2) J.K. Rowling will announce a new Harry Potter book
3) Titian's The Madonna and Child with Saints Luke and Catherine of Alexandria will sell for $50m in auction - currently expected to raise $15m-$20m
4) Matthew Weiner will announce that the 5th series of Mad Men is the last, making it the last non-interactive major TV drama series

Sports:

1) The amounts FIFA members received as bribe to vote for Russia and Qatar for 2018 & 2022 respectively will be revealed - >$100,000 each
2) Arsenal will win the Premier League (no laughing please - it's not that they are so good but that the others are equally bad)
3) Real Madrid will win the Champions' Leauge; Jose Murinho will accept his medal with modesty and humility (ha ha ha) and Cristiano Ronaldo will stop looking at himself in the mirror (ho ho ho)
4) Chelsea will fire Carlo Ancelotti and will replace him with Guus Hiddink (not a long-shot by any measure)
5) Roger Federer will regain No. 1 spot (BTW Andy Murray will not win a Grand Slam)

Gossip:

1) Katie Holmes will leave husband Tom Cruise and expose him as gay
2) Gwyneth Paltrow will announce she is pregnant
3) Carla Bruni will admit to having an affair in 2009, thereby vindicating my forecast
4) David Beckham will admit to having a child out of wedlock

News & Politics:

1) The Coalition will last; David Cameron and Nick Clegg will announce they are in love
2) Vince Cable will resign from the government (more likely even than Ancelotti losing his job)
3) Israel & the Palestinians will announce (another) failed peace initiative
4) The US will capture Osama bin Laden or, at least, prove he is dead
5) Obama's approval ratings will top 50%; Sarah Palin will announce she is standing for President in 2012 (the latter admittedly obvious)
6) NATO will strike a deal with the Taliban

I will consider anything less than 20/25 a major failure.

Many thanks to all of you who found time to read this blog. I had a great time writing it. Hope you enjoyed the reading.

Signing off.

1,000km down. 0km to go.

Finally, after exactly 50 weeks, I set out for my final run toward the illusive target I set myself - 1,000km in 2010. Like Rubber Duck in Sam Peckinpah's Convoy I was joined half way through by Pig Pen aka UJ and toward the final stretch by Spider Mike aka MGF N. The convoy finally crossed the Mexican border where MGF T and MBH, standing in for Ali MacGraw, were waiting for us with ice cold fizzy to celebrate.

A great sense of achievement. No anti-climax. Couldn't have timed it better - the finale of the weekend! The X-Factor final has been over-shadowed [delusions of grandeur are part of the game].

And now, with the challenge met, I am almost ready to sign off - this is my penultimate blog-post. I will write another next week with my by-now-traditional forecasts for the coming year.

So, for now, adieu, adios, arrivederci, auf wiedersehen and au revoir.

My friend Carl used to say . . . .

My good friend Carl Philipp Gottlieb von Clausewitz used to say that attack is the best form of defence. He didn't really, although until a few minutes ago I was convinced he did. Shows you how much I know. He said a much more profound thing, that war is merely a political instrument, not a break from political relations. Not going to bore you with that though.

Actually, the concept of pre-emptive strike originated, in all likelihood, in America - it appears already in the writings of George Washington. In 1967 Israel executed it to perfection. Nasser, the Egyptian president, expelled the UN forces from the Sinai and blocked the Straits of Tiran which are, for Israel, a vital supply route. Israel acted decisively, thoroughly defeating its enemies/neighbours in less than a week. I guess that's why they call it the Six-Day-War? A very successful pre-emptive strike resulted in hubris, 43 years of occupation (and counting) and with it the complete loss of the moral high-ground.

It isn't only an American-Israeli thing though, pre-emptive strike. As we've learnt a couple of weeks ago thanks to Wikileaks, the Saudi King thought it wasn't a bad idea either. King Abdullah didn't mince his words:"Cut off the head of the snake" he suggested to the Americans referring to Iran. I guess having someone else do your pre-emptive strikes for you is advantageous - you will not be the one your enemy will retaliate against. Clever.

Clever also is MGF S. Not that I'd like to dwell on it but . . . we invited S&M and the kids for breakfast this morning. 10am we said. Not that I'd like to dwell on it but . . . I went out for a run at 8:30am on a Saturday to ensure I was back and showered by the time they got here. I was. Not that I'd like to dwell on it but . . . they arrived, after much prodding I might add, at 11:40am. Exclamation marks galore.

Now, you'd expect S to be a bit sheepish, slightly apologetic or maybe even remorseful, wouldn't you? November Foxtrot Whiskey. Coming from the Washingtonian school of thought she stormed in, slapped a cake on the table and announced: "I baked you a cake, now don't ask me to apologise any more!" At least, unlike King A, she didn't send someone else to do it for her.

PS 990km down. Only 10km to go.

The misty Heath (5)

She stepped into the room without hesitancy. Without indecision. Without compunction. Tall and elegant on her high heals. Her long hair resting on her slender shoulders. Her cashmere scarf. She looked so different. Last time Smiley saw her she was confused and fragile. Now she was composed and in control. She carefully folded the corner of his blanket and sat at the edge of Smiley's bed, resting her hand gently on his thigh. It has been a long time since a young woman did that. He was a young man then. Her touch awakening in him feelings he thought he would never again experience. "How are you, Uncle Max?" she said. "Do you want another pillow?" Her smile was warm and caring. Her Swiss (not French) accent only adding to her allure. Tatiana.

He was at her mercy. How the tables have turned. She was here for revenge and this time she would be serving it cold. No more a stranger unloading a bullet to the back of the head. She was toying with him. Her kind words disguising the cruelty of her intentions. Just like his did in Bern.

And still, his pulse was slow, his breathing deep. No sweaty palms. No dry mouth. His mind not racing to find an escape. For more than 60 years Smiley has lived under a cloud of uncertainty. Always knowing the unexpected is around the corner. He no longer remembered whether he chose it or whether he merely found himself in it - a life in the shadows, outside the accepted moral framework. A life in which one is never safe, in which scores are never settled. A life of constant tension, sometimes heightened but mostly subdued. A life without calm. And yet now, facing his demise, Smiley felt he was being overcome with serenity.

He did not feel angry. He did not feel defeated. He had no more questions. He was right; it was personal. He did not lose at his own game, to an adversary. He lost because it was personal, because he could never anticipate the workings of the heart. Ask Ann. He could rest, his professional esteem intact.

More than serene; Smiley was grateful. Unknowingly Tatiana has given his departure a purpose. He couldn't have planned it better. His timely death would give her the relief she deserved. No longer used to humiliate her father. No longer carrying the burden of his downfall on her slender shoulders. By extracting her revenge on Smiley she has set them both free.

PS 980km down. Only 20km to go!

The misty Heath (4)

Smiley was at a loss. There was a limit to what he could unveil from his hospital bed; he needed Peter Guillam. Deduction can only take one so far. Catching the assailants will lead to the person who sent them; muscle must be met by muscle and when it comes to muscle there is no one better than Guillam.

He knew he needed Guillam. At the same time, he realised that he hasn't heard from Peter for years. Could it be that Peter did not know? Could he not have heard? Smiley would expect a visit. Peter is not a man of words. But he would have expected him to do something. He would have expected him to track the assassin down and bring back his head on a plate. Could it be? Could Guillam have anything to do with it? At least with Peter, he knew, what you see is what you get. Once he sees him he'd know.

Guillam arrived within an hour of receiving the PC's call. How old he looked. For Smiley Peter was always the youngster. He must be in his 60s by now. Muscle doesn't age well. Smiley was like a father to him. He took him off the streets. He trusted him. Helped him climb up the ranks. Someone from his background could never, should never, have reached his position in the Circus. He would do anything for Smiley. And Smiley knew it. Furthermore, Smiley knew that there was an inherent imbalance in this relationship. A lack of reciprocity. He may have been like a father to Guillam, but Peter was never a son to him. He trusted Peter because he knew he can control him. And, as he was contemplating whether that was still the case, it dawned on Smiley that this imbalance is inherent in all of his relationships. None more so than with Ann.

Guillam was there before, during Smiley's first weeks in hospital. When he was still drifting in and out of consciousness. He didn't leave a message. He never did. He only came back now since Smiley called for him. He swore to himself he would only return with the answer. He would only return when he caught the person behind this. For once, he thought, he could prove to Smiley he was more than just muscle. He failed.

"I got the shooter" Guillam said. "He was a nobody. Not a professional. Not part of the game. Just a man who saw you during your walks in the Heath. He was offered money and a lot of it. A man trying to make a quick pay cheque. He fell to his knees the moment I confronted him. Crying. Begging for mercy. The only thing he had to say was: "she gave me £5,000 and I thought: how hard would it be to shoot a man in his late 80s?" He didn't know her name and didn't see her properly. The only thing he remembered was that she had a French accent. I let him go."

"She?" Said Smiley. "French accent" he muttered.

To be continued . . . .

PS 970km down. 30km to go.

The misty Heath (3)

So who could it be? If only Connie was alive, he could seek her advice. It could only be one of the old guard, and yet they are all either too old or dead. Still, it can only be one of them. Animosity doesn't always diminish with age. If anything, if they wanted revenge they were running out of time. Only one of the two; his closest ally - Toby Esterhase - and his fiercest enemy - Karla.

Smiley always knew that which he would never admit to - Esterhase wasn't an ally. They were on the same side but he would never consider Toby and ally. Being an ally implies equality. Smiley always considered himself superior. Esterhase was the muscle. Smiley was the brain. The former being subservient to the latter. Executing orders. Getting his hands dirty. Worse, and Smiley felt unease having to admit this even to himself, Esterhase was never 'one of us'. Yes, he was risking his life for Britain on a daily basis. Still, he was a foreigner. A Hungarian. One of those countries that lacked any real identity. Lacking spine. It was never overtly mentioned, but Esterhase always felt it. And Smiley knew Esterhase must have resented it. Resented him, Smiley, for at once never fully trusting him yet taking him for granted. This was Toby's one chance to turn the tables. No longer subservient. At the death the Muscle has triumphed over the Brain. Literally and without any subtlety. The Esterhase way.

Or could it be Karla? They're lives interlinked. In a way they grew up together, through the ranks, on opposite sides. They were connected. They only met a few times, but there was a level of intimacy between them that was not according to protocol. Smiley was running through those moments in his mind.

Delhi. In an interrogation cell. Karla captured in a prisoner's uniform. And still, he had all the power. Smiley trying to cajole him into talking. Into giving anything away. Sweating. And Karla just sitting there. Silent. Smoking. Then he did the unimaginable: when Smiley offered him a light, Karla slowly, knowingly, took the lighter and, looking defiantly at Smiley, put it in his pocket.

Bern. In a secluded mental health clinic. Smiley visiting Tatiana - Karla's daughter. Gentle and considerate, Smiley taking the role of a loving uncle. Every show of tenderness mirroring the cruelty of using this fragile young women to lure Karla into defection. His defection being Smiley's biggest triumph.

And it is this triumphant feeling that Smiley was now regretting. He never stopped to think that his triumph was Karla's downfall. It did not bring them together. Did not align them on the same side. Karla did not betray his beliefs. He did not disown his ideology. He defected despite them, putting his obligations as a father ahead of his obligations to his country. Only now did Smiley realise that he never stopped to think how Karla must have felt. How he must still be feeling. And it is this realisation that brought Smiley to discount Karla as a suspect. Karla would have wanted Smiley to feel as torn as he did. A bullet to the back of the head brings an end to doubt and guilt. It brings an end to suffering, not cause them.

To be continued . . . .

PS 960km down. 40km to go.

The misty Heath - continued

The ground was cold. Freezing cold. He was breathing heavily but could not move. Suddenly, he heard the sound of steps and felt the warmth of breath over his face. Then the thick, sticky tongue of a panting dog. A Cocker Spaniel. He was drifting in and out of consciousness. Still, Smiley was alive. The bullet missed the spine and went out out of his left cheek bone.

3 months later and Smiley was sitting in his room in the Royal Free Hospital. An armed PC at the door and Ann by his side. She was always there when it mattered most. His large thick, heavy glasses hanging from the end of his nose. The left lens black, to hide the scar that was all that's left of his eye. His mind was racing trying to explain what happened. The cold war was over. And, even back then, no one would ever order this sort of operation. No one would target the man at the top. Especially not 10 years into his retirement. This could not have been an operation. This was not part of the East vs West battle. This was personal.

Nonetheless, Smiley could not afford to be emotional. Whilst he was raging inside, his animal instincts urging him to track down the assailant and avenge him with his bare hands, he knew his attacker was merely a pawn in a bigger game. Two questions rang constantly through his head: "who?" and "why".

Smiley was running through the list of those who might be behind the attack. It was long. Very long. It's an awkward prism through which to view one's life. One which makes it difficult to feel proud of yourself. What does one have to do to have so many people not only wishing you were dead but actually willing to ensure that you are?

Smiley looked up and noticed the PC standing next to him. He must have been standing there for a while. He had a brown envelope in his hand. It had only one word written on it. One name. Max. Smiley took the envelope with haste, his fingers fumbling to tear it open. Only a handful of people ever new Smiley's alias. In it was a case of a 9mm cartridge. No one could ever mistake its origin - the Pistolet Makarova. The list of suspects has just been cut short. Very short.

To be continued . . . .

PS 950km down. 50km to go.

Who cares?

A few days ago the news broke that two twenty-something year olds of limited achievement are engaged to be married. Surprisingly, the news sent waves beyond their immediate families. And I am not talking about Auntie Rose or Uncle Dermot. I am talking worldwide audiences. As you will have guessed by now, I am referring to Will & Kate.

At first I didn't pay it much attention. After a while I realised W&K were dominating the news cycle, and then taking over the national agenda. The first question that came to mind was: "Who cares?" or, to be honest, "Who the f*** cares?". Not me and naturally I assumed none of my friends. Boy did I get that one wrong. You see, every conservation I had this weekend started with the words: "What do you think about the Royal wedding?"

So, let's examine this a bit further. It could be that my friends think I am interested and are playing to the audience. Well, that means they don't know me at all, which is a bit worrying. Maybe they think I have a general interest in current affairs and are therefore discussing it in the same way they would mention Tiananmen Square. Well, whilst this is a complement, it would mean that they think too highly of me which implies that don't know me well enough, and we are back at square one. Another option is that they have run out of things to talk with me about. Well, that could be because (a) they think I am dull - true indeed, but something I hoped would take them longer to realise - or (b) that they themselves are, which would reflect badly on me and is, therefore, an unthinkable. The only possible explanation, having scientifically ruled out all other theorys, is that they are genuinely interested in the topic.

So, the answer to the question: "Who the f*** cares?" is simple: everybody!

The real question, however, is "Why?", and I think I have the answer. It is not that everybody is a Royalist. Most people are not. It is not because people believe in the divine right of the kings; they don't. Nor is it because of an allegiance to the sovereign. The reason is, once again, simple; W&K are interesting because they are red-hot juicy celebrity gossip. What differentiates them from Jordan & Peter is that they are legit, bottom shelf, BBC News, Guardian-front-page celebrity gossip. J&P are much more accomplished and probably more interesting people than W&K. Different to J&P, however, you can read about W&K without feeling embarrassed.

Which brings me to the following conclusion: everyone is interested in celebrity gossip, they are simply too embarrassed admit it. Like artistic nude photo books, W&K find themselves on the same coffee tables of educated, middle class people, which would never see an OK, News of the World or a porn magazines. As is clear from the interest in W&K, however, we would all love to see them there.

PS 940km down. 60km to go.

PS2 Apologies to MGF M. The cake from yesterday's blog-post is not a poor-man's 36-egger, it is made with 48 eggs. My sincere apologies.

The Slava

MGF M is celebrating the Slava (Слава) tomorrow - the Serbian Orthodox tradition of the ritual celebration, veneration, and observance of a family's own patron saint. Sounds very devout, doesn't it? In reality the Slava is a humongous, day-long food & drink fest.

The Slava revolves around a pig. The pig itself revolves - over the grill, which in turn is smoking from the dripping fat and is fuelled by the vapour of alcohol in the air. The alcohol in turn is absolutely necessary in order to dissolve the proteins. As MGF M would say: "Can you believe this cake? Not 12, not 24 but 36 eggs!" And not any alcohol. I've made an effort you see. It has to be a Rakija - a clear fruit-based distillation: Sljivovica - plum, Lozovaca - grape, Viljamovka - pear, or Jabukovaca - apple. And lots of it.

Now, M takes this very seriously. He has a glass of Rakija for every one of his guests. You'd imagine that's a lot. More than 100 guests easily translates to more than 100 shots. And it is A LOT. The thing is, he has a shot with every shot he pours to any of his guests. And that's a number so big I do not have enough space for here. How he ends the evening standing God only knows. I guess his family saint is looking after him.

PS 930km down 70km to go.

To vent or not to vent?

Our house is divided, straight down the middle, on a very important question: "what should one do if someone close to them upsets them?" MBH comes from a long and thick line of psychotherapists. Talking about it, whatever 'it' happens to be is the default answer. I come from a much longer line of "if-it-ain't-nice-don't-say-it" believers. Their God is Freud, ours is . . . well, common sense.

Now, in theory, I get the "it's-good-to-talk" perspective. In theory, not only does it allow the cathartic joys of venting one's anger and frustrations, it actually resolves issues. Now that's all good, assuming the person on the other end is properly equipped: i.e. they can and want to listen as well as take criticism constructively. Unfortunately, more often than not, in my experience, most people are not of this ilk. Once the venting is over you end up, at best, with a torrent of abuse coming your way, at worse, with deadly silence and eternal grudge bearing.

So, what is it? To vent or not to vent? Is that the question? Hell no. That's only where it starts. You see, adhering to the "if-it-ain't . . ." school of thought is not only a life choice, it is, in the eyes of the "it's-good-to-talk" school an admission of guilt - obviously you cannot listen and or take criticism. All of which leaves me in a catch-22, which makes me increasingly angry and frustrated yet, to be absolutely clearly, I do NOT want to talk about it!

PS 920km down. 80km to go.

Schadenfreude

A few years ago I competed for a role at work. I was made for the job and the job was made for me. Really. I was the one who recommended its creation to the board. It was just my thing; a combination of strategy and execution, relationships and hard revenue targets. The works. As you may have guessed, I didn't get it.

Now, there is a strong likelihood that you are thinking I am a delusional idiot for not realising I clearly wasn't the man for the job. And you'd be right too. Otherwise I would have gotten it. Still, it hurt. Especially so since, as much I thought I was "the man" I genuinely thought my competitor - let's call him W - wasn't. It really hurt.

A year passed and W did not do as well as he expected. Spectacularly so; W managed to get himself, and his entire team, sacked. Or should I use the more PC term "made redundant". Within minutes I started getting calls from dozens of people who thought I would be interested to hear about it. They were right. I was. With every call a wonderful feeling spread further through my veins - the wonderful Schadenfreude.

Now you may have noticed Schadenfreude is not an olde English word. Naturally, it is German. The interesting thing is that there is no English translation. You need a minimum of 6 words to do it justice - "satisfaction or pleasure felt at someone else's misfortune".

You see, Schadenfreude is not very English. One should not take pleasure in someone else's misfortune. Not very nice is it? The closest English word is . . . well, there isn't one. The online thesaurus draws a blank. A related word is 'comeuppance' - "deserved reward or just deserts, usually unpleasant". One can justly end up suffering for their actions but, you know, no one should enjoy it.

And yet, I enjoy Schadenfreude immensely. Actually, whenever I can. You see, the thing about Schadenfreude is that it only applies when you have nothing to do with the other person's downfall. Any hint of responsibility and it is no longer Schadenfreude, it is just being mean. Schadenfreude is merely bad. And a little bit of bad I don't mind. Well, clearly I am not English.

PS 910km down. 90km to go.

The-worse-is-behind-me

10 days in and 41 to go. The 51 days from the day we turned the clocks back from BST to GMT to the shortest day of the year. Always the most difficult time of the year for me. I don't mind coming back home at night - I do most days - but I hate leaving home when it is still dark. Hate it.

So, here is the question: how come is it that it is these 51 days rather than the shortest 51 days of the year that I find so difficult? The 20th of December should feel similar to the 22nd - they are equally short days, are they not? Clearly. And, super-extra-clearly, how can the 1st of November be worse than the 22nd of December, which is almost 2 hours shorter? Makes no sense. Indeed. It makes no sense. And still, that's how I feel about it. You see, I am a "the-worse-is-behind-me" sort of guy. I am in most things. For example, running; the first half is always more difficult than the second, even though the body should be more tired having run half the way already.

Same goes with the Great Recession. By no means are things getting easier. The longer it lasts the more will all of us be eating into our reserves. Many of us to breaking point. At the same time I think the likelihood of failure of one of the large economies is much smaller. The big bank-collapses are hopefully behind us. By God, even Ford Motor Company made a profit last quarter.

So, I can end this post with an optimistic note. Whilst it is still 41 days before the days start getting longer, we are more likely to afford candles for Hanuka and turkey for Christmas.

PS 905km down. 95km to go.

Many happy returns

50 years. Half a century! MBB is reaching a major milestone today.

Started with a decade of extremes: Warhol & Woodstock v the assassination of Martin Luther King, The assassination of JFK and the moon landing he initiated. Some Like It Hot and Marilyn's suicide. Israel went from existential peril to the euphoria following the 6-day war.

Then the 70s, and the end of the Vietnam war but also Watergate. Glam rock v Abba. The Godfather and Metzitzim v The Fiddler on the Roof. And Israel, coming from near annihilation in the Yom Kipur war to peace with Egypt and glorious wins in the Eurovision (twice) and the European Basketball Champions Cup (twice). To quote Tal Brody: "we are on the map and we are staying on the map!"

The 80s. Dynasty and big shoulder pads. Perestroika and the fall of the Berlin Wall v Tiananmen Square. Columbia, the first space shuttle took off and the Challenger never came back. Lennon was murdered. Punk. Not related. AIDS. Wall Street with Gordon "greed is good" Gekko. And in Israel, another war. This time a very long one.

Then the 90s. Clinton and Monica. The first Gulf war. Yugoslavia fell apart - war raged in central Europe for the first time in 50 years. The Rwanda massacre. Dolly the sheep and the PC. Seinfeld. Nirvana and the Spice Girls. Forrest Gump beating Pulp Fiction for best picture. The Oslo Accord - Arafat and Rabin shaking hands for peace. Rabin soon paid with his life.

A new millennium. 9/11. The World Trade Center collapsing live on TV. Al Qaeda. Iraq & Afghanistan. The decade of the mobile phone and the Internet. Google. iPhone. The decade in which Global Warming came to the fore. Tsunami, Katrina. The Human Genome and the LHC. The Euro. The great recession. China and the rest of the BRICS. Harry Potter. The Sopranos. The decade when TV made the movies irrelevant. A black man with a Muslim middle name - highly intelligent, uniquely articulate and extremely good looking but still, a black man, was voted American President!

50 years. And I am so happy for him.

And yet, really sad for not being there to celebrate with him. 4,000km is quite a distance. And I feel it even more today. Enjoy your day MBB. Hope to celebrate it with you when we meet next. Many, many happy returns.

PS 900km down. Only 100km to go.

What a night

It was a dark and misty night. The clouds were heavy, sinking lower into the valley. The moonlight was struggling to break through. It was quiet. Too quiet. A bat's squeak echoed off the rocks: "eiiiiiiiiiih".

Suddenly, the sound of small feet screeching the ground with their sharp claws broke the silence. Not one. Not two. Thousands of them. Rats. Huge, dirty, foul-smelling rats. Thousands of them. Running out of the sewages. Clambering over anything that stood in their way. Even each other. Scrambling and sinking their teeth into any and every bit of flesh they could find. Even each other.

Within minutes they were gone, leaving nothing but destruction behind them. Blood staining the roads. Then the rain came down. Hard. Washing the streets. Then it stopped. Silence reigned once more.

It is Halloween night, but no kids are allowed out. No trick & treating tonight.

PS 890km down. 110km to go.

Feeling the pain

For the first time in a long time took my iPod for the run today. New albums on it too. The two hip hop artists that even a white middle-aged, middle-class Londoner can relate to - Eminem and Jay-Z. Nothing too hard core - never was and by God, no chance of me ever being hard core - but rather the albums with the songs that took them across genres to the mainstream charts.

The first, from Eminem, is about the days before he got his break.
The second, from Jay-Z, is about being at the top.

Eminem talks about going on stage so nervous there's vomit on his sweater and he forgets all the words. He is so nervous because this is his one and only chance to get out of the trailer park.
Raw. Genuine raw feelings. I felt his pain in every line and every note.

Jay-Z is unusually modest:
"I'm the new Sinatra, and... since I made it here
I can make it anywhere, yea, they love me everywhere"
"Catch me at the X with OG at a Yankee game
Shit, I made the Yankee hat more famous then a Yankee can"

Yes, he is a master of his trade.
And, yes, he does show the funny side of fame: "sittin' courtside, Knicks & Nets give me high five, Nigga I be Spike'd out, I could trip a referee".

Maybe I am particularly emotional today - not that I have any idea why I would be - but for me emotion easily trumps humour today. Today I am an Eminem man (middle-aged, middle-class . . . . man).

PS 880km down. 120km to go.

Lose yourself - Eminem

Look, if you had one shot, or one opportunity
To seize everything you ever wanted-One moment
Would you capture it or just let it slip?

His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy
There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti
He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready to drop bombs,
but he keeps on forgettin what he wrote down,
the whole crowd goes so loud
He opens his mouth, but the words won't come out
He's choking now, everybody's joking now
The clock's run out, time's up over, bloah!
Snap back to reality, Oh there goes gravity
Oh, there goes Rabbit, he choked
He's so mad, but he won't give up that
Easy, no
He won't have it , he knows his whole back's to these ropes
It don't matter, he's dope
He knows that, but he's broke
He's so stagnant that he knows
When he goes back to his mobile home, that's when it's
Back to the lab again yo
This this whole rhapsody
He better go capture this moment and hope it don't pass him

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment
You own it, you better never let it go
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo

The soul's escaping, through this hole that it's gaping
This world is mine for the taking
Make me king, as we move toward a, new world order
A normal life is boring, but superstardom's close to post mortem
It only grows harder, only grows hotter
He blows us all over these hoes is all on him
Coast to coast shows, he's know as the globetrotter
Lonely roads, God only knows
He's grown farther from home, he's no father
He goes home and barely knows his own daughter
But hold your nose 'cause here goes the cold water
His hoes don't want him no more, he's cold product
They moved on to the next schmoe who flows
He nose dove and sold nada
So the soap opera is told and unfolds
I suppose it's old partner but the beat goes on
Da da dum da dum da da

No more games, I'ma change what you call rage
Tear this motherfucking roof off like 2 dogs caged
I was playing in the beginning, the mood all changed
I been chewed up and spit out and booed off stage
But I kept rhyming and stepwritin the next cypher
Best believe somebody's paying the pied piper
All the pain inside amplified by the fact
That I can't get by with my 9 to 5
And I can't provide the right type of life for my family
Cause man, these goddam food stamps don't buy diapers
And it's no movie, there's no Mekhi Phifer, this is my life
And these times are so hard and it's getting even harder
Trying to feed and water my seed, plus
Teeter totter caught up between being a father and a prima donna
Baby mama drama's screaming on and
Too much for me to wanna
Stay in one spot, another day of monotony
Has gotten me to the point, I'm like a snail
I've got to formulate a plot or I end up in jail or shot
Success is my only motherfucking option, failure's not
Mom, I love you, but this trailer's got to go
I cannot grow old in Salem's lot
So here I go is my shot.
Feet fail me not cause maybe the only opportunity that I got

You can do anything you set your mind to, man

Empire state of mind - Jay-Z

Yea I'm out that Brooklyn, now I'm down in TriBeCa
right next to Deniro, but I'll be hood forever
I'm the new Sinatra, and... since I made it here
I can make it anywhere, yea, they love me everywhere
I used to cop in Harlem, all of my Dominicano's
right there up on Broadway, pull me back to that McDonald's
Took it to my stashbox, 560 State St.
catch me in the kitchen like a Simmons with them Pastry's
Cruisin' down 8th St., off white Lexus
drivin' so slow, but BK is from Texas
Me, I'm out that Bed-Stuy, home of that boy Biggie
now I live on Billboard and I brought my boys with me
Say what's up to Ty-Ty, still sippin' mai tai's
sittin' courtside, Knicks & Nets give me high five
Nigga I be Spike'd out, I could trip a referee
Tell by my attitude that I'm most definitely from....

New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made of
There's nothin' you can't do
Now you're in New York
These streets will make you feel brand new
Big lights will inspire you
Let's hear it for New York, New York,
New York

Catch me at the X with OG at a Yankee game
Shit, I made the Yankee hat more famous then a Yankee can
You should know I bleed blue, but I ain't a Crip though
but I got a gang of niggas walkin' with my clique though
Welcome to the melting pot, corners where we sellin' rock
Afrika Bambataa shit, home of the hip-hop
Yellow cab, gypsy cab, dollar cab, holla back
for foreigners it ain't for, they act like they forgot how to act
8 million stories, out there in it naked
City, it's a pity, half of y'all won't make it
Me, I got a plug, Special Ed "I Got It Made"
If Jeezy's payin' LeBron, I'm payin' Dwyane Wade
Three dice cee-lo, three Card Monty
Labor Day Parade, rest in peace Bob Marley
Statue of Liberty, long live the World Trade
Long live the King yo, I'm from the Empire State that's

Lights is blinding, girls need blinders
so they can step out of bounds quick, the sidelines is
lined with casualties, who sip to life casually
then gradually become worse, don't bite the apple eve
Caught up in the in-crowd, now you're in style
Anna Wintour gets cold, in Vogue with your skin out
City of sin, it's a pity on the wind
Good girls gone bad, the city's filled with them
Mami took a bus trip, now she got her bust out
Everybody ride her, just like a bus route
Hail Mary to the city, you're a virgin
And Jesus can't save you, life starts when the church end
Came here for school, graduated to the high life
Ball players, rap stars, addicted to the limelight
MDMA got you feelin' like a champion
The city never sleeps, better slip you an Ambien

One hand in the air for the big city
Street lights, big dreams, all lookin' pretty
No place in the world that could compare
Put your lighters in the air
Everybody say "yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah"

Perfection

It rarely happens but, sometimes, every few years, you stumble upon perfection. Sometimes it is the weather. An early June evening, and you are sitting in the garden and the sun comes from behind the clouds and showers you with warmth. Other times it is a passage you read in a book that takes you back to a time and place which are described exactly as you remember them. Often times, it is food. A taste, scent and texture that complete each other and create an experience you did not expect. It is never the complex creation of a 3-Michelin-star-rated chef. Perfection in food is, for me, invariably simple.

And it happened. Today. I was starving. Back from a run and after 10 hours since I last ate. Anything at all would have been lovely. And yet, it was so much more: a sandwich.

1/2 baguette ancien from Le Pain Quotidien - slightly darker and chewier than the normal baguette. One half with very little olive-oil-based mayo, salame cinghale (wild boar), fresh mozzarella, wild rocket and lots of fresh ground pepper. The other half with Spanish olive oil, Jambon de Bayonne - sweeter and softer than prosciutto di San Danielle but not as nutty as Pata Negra, and the same mozzarella, rocket and pepper.

Not worthwhile talking about it. Can't do it justice if I wanted to. Do try it at home though.

PS 870km down. 130km to go.

Stand up for the little guys

Now here's a football trivia question for y'all: "who scored the fastest ever goal in an FA Cup final in the old Wembley stadium?" The 42 second man - Roberto di Matteo. Back then, in 1997, Chelsea who he played for were the little guys. Finishing 6th in the league was a major achievement.

Roberto hung his football boots a few years ago and last year was appointed Manager of West Bromwich Albion, newly demoted to the Championship. And, within a year, Roberto took them back the to Premier League. As most of you will know, life is not easy in the Premier League. Especially so for newly promoted teams who come with small budgets and even less experience to compete with the big boys. Most of them get relegated straight away.

Not the Albion. 9 games into the season and they are . . . . 4th! Just so you don't think it is a mistake, as if I were writing a cheque: fourth. That's a Champions League spot. Now, you are probably thinking, well, they must have had an easy run of games. Well, you be the judge of that. They opened the season away to Chelsea the double holders, where they lost 6:0. Then away to Liverpool, back when they were considered Champions League certainty. Home to Tottenham, Champions League qualifiers. Away to Arsenal where they won and away to Manchester United where they drew. Not the easiest run I'd say. Actually, I cannot think of a more difficult draw. And if you thought they are playing negative football, you got that wrong too - they are scoring more than 2 a game.

So, at the risk of sounding patronising, as WBA sit above Arsenal in the table, stand up for the little guys from the Hawthorns who are bringing the romance back to the Premier League.

PS 860km down. 140km to go.

The long game

As you may have noticed, I have a keen interest in US politics. National politics that is. Couldn't give a f*** about local stuff. Only the big ones: President and the houses. Anyhow, you may also know that my key source of information is Andrew Sullivan from the Sunday Times. He is the guy who foresaw Obama's rise and explained it in one simple sentence: Obama is a long term strategist, his opponents are short term tacticians.

He was proven right with Hilary in the primaries and McCain in the Presidential elections. Both of them went for the short term ratings boost. Obama set out a clear strategic path of reasoned moderation. And on his path he stayed whether what he said stroked potential voters' egos or not. At first, it was considered bad politics. Gradually, however, it started paying dividends. Obama did not have to explain himself at every step of the way, because voters got to know what he stood for. In contrast, Hilary and McCain, seeking popularity, ended up supporting contradicting policies. And, if there is one thing American voters like more than populism in a potential President it is the ability to make decisions and stick by them - a backbone. Sullivan was absolutely right, and McCain's and Hilary's campaigns imploded.

Last Sunday Sullivan continued with his theme - why drop a winning formula. The closing paragraph was 'cut-and-paste' from previous articles: "Obama thinks strategically; his opponents keep thinking tactically." The title was a bit more eye catching: "Obama's right where he wants to be - losing big."

In essence, Sullivan's argument is: if the Republicans win the House and the Senate they will have control of legislation. As a consequence, rather than just poo-pooing anything Obama does; they will have to make decisions. And once they do, Obama will call their bluffs on taxes and Medicare and will win the next Presidential election.

Does this argument stick? Think of Napoleon. As he invaded Russia, Napoleon kept on winning the battles. The Russians were losing big. However, as a consequence Napoleon found himself being drawn deeper and deeper into Russia, thereby cutting his supply routes and facing the Russian winter which eventually lost him the war. Moving from a French (Corsican for those of you who really care) to an Italian General - Ancelotti. He was rather happy losing to Newcastle at home in the Carling Cup, assuming that will allow his team to concentrate and hence win the Champions League. We'll see in May.

And yet, I am not convinced. The Senate is not the Carling Cup. Obama is not losing big to lure his opponents into a false sense of confidence. Even if they win both houses the Republicans will not think they can wing the Presidential elections. I cannot imagine Obama saying to himself: "we are losing anyhow, so let's go all the way". It is bad politics (and I am not going to pretend Obama does not do bad politics, he even admitted as much recently) - no one will vote for a loser. If you are going down, you got to go down fighting. And if you don't, it is much worse than bad politics, it's un-American. And that is the one thing Obama will never knowingly allow himself to be considered.

So, I am afraid I am not with you on this one Sullivan - and I am sure you care. Maybe next time.

PS 855km down. 145km to go.

The olden days 2

The sun was setting fast. The mountains casting ever longer shadows. The deep, dry valley too dark for comfort. As the sun came down the temperature was dropping quickly. From 32c to 14c in a few hours. With the nearest human settlement 30 miles away and the next watering hole 5 miles down the steep, rocky valley we decided to stop for the night. Not too far from the Qumran caves. A place so dry the Dead Sea scrolls survived there intact for almost 2,000 years.

No cloud within a 100 miles. It is a wonderful starry night. The moon almost full. After a quick bite MGF T and I slide into our sleeping bags. Not a worry on our minds.

At 14, I guess we were too young to worry. What is there to worry about? The scarcity of water? The possibility of losing our way back to civilisation? Scorpions? Snakes? Leopards? Or maybe it is that we are in the middle of occupied territory in which we are representatives of the opressor? Naah. Nothing at all.

PS 745km down. 155km to go

The olden days

My BBFBDGF's (Best Beloved First Born Daughter's Good Friend) S Is over for a sleepover tonight. MBH was doing her stuff so I took the kids out for dinner. All 4 of them. We went to our local Japanese restaurant. The little ones wanted Sushi, Prawn Tempura and some Udon noodles. All 4 of them. Even MLO (My Little One) who is not yet 2 years old. How comfortable they all feel with food originating from an island 10,000km away that isolated itself from the rest of the world for much of human history.

Got me thinking about how different my life was growing up in a small, isolated, country on the eastern shores of the Mediterranean. Only 2,500km away lies the big boot of Italy. And still, I first tasted mozzarella when I was 20. My sophisticated palette couldn't tell it apart from polystyrene.

Not sure how I feel about it. Ambivalent I guess. It was great for me, but would I wish it for my kids [under the hypothetical and false assumption that the way I grew up is still out there]? On the one hand, in many respects things were simpler back then. Isolation breeds simplicity. On the other, isolation also brings misguided certainties and, with them, future disillusionment.

It is clearly a sign of my old age that I am often thinking about the olden days [for my kids that is anything last century, and just to remind us all, by that I am not referring to the 19th century]. I feel like I am going to come back to them olden days in future posts. Hopefully with something more substantial to say.

PS 735km down. 165km to go.

The Factor

Last weekend MBH and I pretended we are still young and vivacious. We got the sitter over and went to sample the new, extra-cool, tapas bar in Exmouth market. Think Barrafina just without the pretensions of Soho. Pretending to be young and vivacious we called MGF S&M (don't let the initials fool you) and suggested they joined us.

Now, if it were me, I'd jump at the opportunity. Did I mention I was pretending I am young and vivacious? Naturally I thought S&M would do the same. The only hurdle I thought they might face is the availability of their baby-sitter. Not much of a hurdle in their case as she - the sitter - is not much older than S&M's kids, lives next door and is a social pariah. Imagine my surprise when they turned us down. Slam, bam, in-your-face turn-down. I wasn't surprised. I was shocked.

You see, S said: "we are watching the X-Factor with the kids, there is no way we'd miss it!" "You prefer the X-Factor to going out with us?" I said. "Will it make a difference if I pull my trousers up like Simon Cowell?" I really, really, didn't get it.

Until yesterday. Watched the X-F with the kids and it was, I have to admit, as much as I hate to, great. Genuinely.

And still S&M, if ever you call inviting us to join you for a night out I promise, assuming the sitter is available, we will not let you down. Even is Simon Cowell is on TV.

PS 830km down. 170km to go.

So sad

Only last year I saw him standing tall, commanding his land. The North Sea winds have carved thin lines in his tanned, sage face. A smile of approval spread on his lips when we chopped fire-wood for winter. A quiet man. A year on, illness spreading through his body, he is bed-bound. Struggling to stay alert.

Was so sad to hear about MGF's dad.

And still, when running today, and I feel horrible about it, all I could think about was my dad. Almost of the same age. We only meet once a year. What if he suffered the same misfortune?

PS 820km down. 180km to go.

The big day

As you know, I am raising money for the NSPCC. Thought it would be a good idea to get my emp0loyer to pitch in. You know, big American firms have a Social Responsibility (SR) agenda. The larger your profit margin, the rational goes, the more you need to contribute back. The emphasis in the last sentence is on the word 'need'. Not 'want', 'should' or 'ought'. Need. The idea is that if you are making outrageous profits, sooner or later, society will turn against you. If, however, you are contributing a lot to society, that will subdue the rage and contribute to long term revenues. Or, in financial terms: NPV(Charity)>0.

So, I went to my employer's SR lead to find out what I needed to do to get them to loosen up their purse strings. The answer was that I had to organise a team event with other employees. Well, I did. Today I participated in the reinstated O2O 10k race, sponsoring the NSPCC. More than 300 people participated - I was number 311 you see. Amongst them 4 of my colleagues: G, B, R and MGF V who brought the team together. So, I would like to thank you all for making it to Reading at 8am on a rainy Sunday morning and joining me on the muddy bank of the Thames. I hope the donation from our employer will make it all worth it.

PS 810km down. 190km to go.

Getting over yourself

I love my-dad's-good-friend (MDGF) A. They have been friends since nursery, i.e. for almost 3/4 of a century. A's most endearing attribute is shyness. In particular when, as he often does, he shares his experiences.

We met a while back and I noticed something was different. Couldn't put my finger on it so I asked. "Oh", A said smiling, "I got rid of my comb-over". Not something people usually talk about. Few things are more embarrassing than a comb-over. "You see", A continued, "I realised I was a slave to those 5 hairs I streched across my head to pretend I am still young. When travelling, they had their own toiletries bag; I had two special combs and 3 types of gel just for them! Giving up on them liberated me. I am a free man now."

At the time, I had a good laugh. It was only recently, however, that I actually understood what MDGF actually meant.

You see, I have this small, almost imperceptible birth mark on my face. You wouldn't notice it. The thing is, it has a slight growth. Now, for those of you who've seen me in the last couple of years, you will have noticed that I wear a manly 3-day shave. More honestly though, it is what most people will consider teenage-stubble. Unfortunately, however, the birth-mark is inconveniently situated outside the stubble-zone. No one else notices it, but for me it is a big issue. I have to shave it. In fact, it is the only reason I own a razor. Two razors in fact. One for home and one for travel.

Anyhow, last week I followed A's example, got over my vanity and decided that there are worse things than a few misplaced hairs. And like A, I was liberated. No longer having to wonder if the "growth" needs attending to or carrying a razor on my travels. It's only a shame I don't have A's story-telling talents nor his gift for self-deprecation.

PS 800km down. 200km to go.

A balancing act

Was in SF last week and my colleague P forgot his suitcase, including a brand new iPad, passport and wallet in a taxi. In short everything but the suit he was wearing. Now SF is nowhere as big as London but, nonetheless, slightly bigger than Cobham. Some would say even slightly more . . . urban, with the respective crime rate and economic disparity. All P could remember was that the cab was yellow. As you will know, not the most unlikely colour for an American taxi. And still, 4 hours later, P had the suitcase and all delivered to his hotel room by the driver.

Now, you could say it was sheer luck. Most people did. I considered it an affirmation of my belief that, in essence, people are good.

The problem is that, whilst I firmly believe in the goodness of man, it is difficult to establish a balance between giving people the benefit of the doubt and doubting them enough to avoid falling prey to those who do not live up to these standards. It is even more difficult as a father, trying to give his kids the confidence to face the world whilst protecting them from its evils. Unfortunately, I cannot say I am getting it right. A real worry.

PS 795km down. 205km to go.

Making a living

Bought a book recently called: "Jilted generation: how Britain bankrupted its youth". The main argument the book is making is that the Baby Boomers road a wave of credit-fuelled economic growth which future generations will be paying for throughout their lifetime. Not a new argument but well argued nonetheless.

A variant of this argument that has surfaced with the recession says that the current generation of 25-45 year olds (my generation) is the first in modern history to expect a lower standard of living than the previous one. The most important word for me in the previous sentence is "expect". Without expectation there can be no disappointment. The reason that my generation is disappointed is that we expected better. The point that struck me a while back is that previous generations did not experience the same disappointed not only because they were enjoying years of economic growth but also because they didn't expect it. To a large degree it took them by surprise.

Nothing demonstrates this better to me than the difference between the questions my dad and grand-dad asked about my work. My dad would ask me about career prospects and even if I was enjoying my job. My grand-dad would ask: "are you making a living"? You see, my grand-dad never expected prosperity. Never expected to enjoy his job or reach some form of professional fulfilment. Putting bread on the table was work's reward. In my grand-dad's time, as was true for when my parents grew up, having bread on the table was not to be taken for granted. The thing is, for most people, throughout human history, having bread on the table was an achievement in its own right.

Until the 1850s virtually no one was guaranteed even basic food. Between the 1850s and 1918 it was expected by ~10% of humanity. Between 1929-1936, with 25% unemployment in the US, even many Americans did not know where their next meal would come from. And even today, in 2010, as Paul Collier shows in his book The Bottom Billion, about 1/6 of humanity do not have continuous access to fresh water and basic food.

So yes, 25 year olds in Britain today may well feel jilted. And yes, there is an enormous risk that with unemployment of 18-25 year olds at almost 20%, an entire generation may find itself outside the workforce for many years to come. At the same time, those of us, like me, who are fortunate enough to make a living, should consider ourselves fortunate (at least 3 or 4 days of every week).

PS 785km down. 215km to go.

The upgrade

I have never, ever, been upgraded. Never went to check in in an airport and heard the words we are all longing for: "Great news Sir, you've been upgraded". On the contrary. More than once (actually once, but 'more than once' sounds better) I went to the check-in and asked for an upgrade only to be turned down whilst the person behind me in the queue was offered one. Not sure how you'd take it. I took it personally. Very personally. I must smell. Badly.

As you'd expect, I wasn't really looking forward to 11.5 hours on the way to SF and 11 hours on the way back, in coach. It wouldn't matter if the plane was half empty, I knew I would not get an upgrade. Not to mention that I was going, with another 50,000 people to Oracle's annual conference. All seats, on all flights, on all airlines have been booked for months.

So, imagine my surprise when I got an upgrade. Both ways. To Upper Class. Sorry, but this genuinely deserves exclamation marks!!!!! Thank you Mr Branson and many many thanks MGF D for the air-miles. Genuinely. Could be worse.

PS 775km down. 225km to go.

The nob on the hill

Sitting on a bean bag under ground, flooded by neon lights. My back to the wall of a very wide corridor. A very low ceiling. Loud music is playing in the background. Big, American, block-buster music. The kind which pumps the rhythm into big alien-robot Hollywood battle-scenes. More specifically it is the sound track of Iron-Man 2.

Outside, the sun is shining. The air is fresh and clear. And quiet. At least as quiet as it gets in a major American city. San Francisco, in all its glory is out there, and I am deep in the bowels of non-descript conference centre. Only a couple of meetings to go before I can get out and enjoy myself a bit.

Ran along the Embracadero this morning. Planned my route on Google maps to make sure I don't short change you all by running less than 10km. Google maps, however, is flat. Did not notice the way back takes me up Nob Hill. Funny name for a hill, until you have to run it. Did not find it amusing at all. A rather accurate description I thought. It is fine when you are Steve McQueen in a Mustang. Less so when you are a middle-aged runner with bad knees. Still, for all of you thinking to ask for your donations back, I did not fail you.

PS 770km down. 230km to go.

What a ride

I am too old for this. But it's fun. Giving it my all. Going absolutely as fast as I possibly can. Only two wheels under me. Wind flowing through my hair. No helmet. Every slight change of balance, every shift, can result in a swivel. Going at this speed a swivel is not as benign as it sounds. Glad the road is clear. No cars or pedestrians. Still, going this fast in a residential area is a bit of a risk.

Then, suddenly, an elderly woman steps down from the pavement. Her Scottie dog on a leash. To my surprise, she let's go of the leash and the dog is there, right in front of me. If I carry on as I am, I'd be going straight at it. I reach for the brake. I miss it. My foot hits the road and I lose my balance. Up in the air and, not so elegantly, I hit the road. Hard. Hands first, shoulder and chin second. Good thing I wore my thickest pair of jeans. Knees are in one piece.

I get up. Soar. Pick my daughter's scooter and return, head down, embarrassed, to my kids who are waiting all but 20 meters up the road.

PS 760km down. 240km to go.

9 years on

It's the 11th of September, better known as 9/11. It is a normal day here in London. 9 years after the supposedly defining event of the 21st century, what lasting impact does it really have?

Thousands of lives have been lost. More than 3,000 on the day. Many thousands more since. Both coalition forces and Afghan and Iraqi lives. Relationships between Muslims and non-Muslims are damaged. Probably haven't been worse since the days of Salah-al-Din. The most notable reminder for all of us, however, is when we are asked to take our shoes off in airport security.

So what is the long-term, historical, impact of 9/11? The more I think about it the more I feel it would be very different than initially anticipated. The big fraction lines are economic rather than religious. Al Qaeda is still a concern but is not really an existential threat. Economic battles rather than military wars are likely to dominate the foreseeable future.

In that sense, the biggest impact of 9/11 has been in teaching us what we cannot do, rather than what we should be doing; with "the military mission in Iraq coming to an end", the West has realised it can no longer afford to invade and control a country of 25m people such as Iraq or Afghanistan.

It is not just the diminish force of the NeoCon ideology and with it the idea of regime change. 162 years after the revolutions of 1848, it looks like the world is falling back on Realpolitik, or let's call it Neo-RealPol. The US can no longer afford spending hundreds of billions on wars, regardless of their likely outcome. Moreover, no American President will now be able to convince the American people that a positive outcome to such a war is likely. No other nation can or will initiate such a move.

My fear is that the world has squandered its wealth and its peoples' resolve on the wrong targets. RealPolitik's ideological win, even if temporary, may come at a bad time.

Now, I am no NeoCon. I can't be - I am a moral relativist. I do not believe in absolute moral dicta. Therefore, I also believe in genuinely equal rights. If the US or Britain have the right to develop and deploy nuclear weapons, so does Iraq.

No, I am a big believer in Realpolitik in its interpretation as pragmatic policy making. The reasons not to invade Iraq were, and I did mention both in 2002, (1) Iraq was not likely to deploy WMDs against the West - if it would, it would have done against Israel in GWI, and (2) no one could anticipate what would happen after the planned toppling of Sadam. The invasion of Afghanistan was even more ill-conceived: (1) the Al-Qaeda presence was of minimal military impact beyond the boundaries of Afghanistan itself, and (2) Afghanistan has defeated two of the World's most powerful empires - the Soviet and the British - and no-one could explain why and how the US-led coalition would ensure a different end. Neither wars was the outcome of pragmatic cold geo-political analysis. They were driven by emotion and a sence of absolute morality.

The problem is that we are getting closer and closer to the point in which real existential threats are likely to arise. Ones that under normal circumstances require action based on cold, logical analysis of likely outcomes. The destabilisation of Pakistan following the Afghanistan war and the recent floods is more than likely. The countey's 170m people may desolve into factions. The Taliban is likely to take control of large parts of the country. Most worringly, no one knows in whose hands Pakistan's nuclear arsenal might fall. This represents a much greater danger to the West than either Iraq or Afghanistan ever did. And still, because of the NeoCons, no one is ever likely to do anything meaningful to address these threats.

I guess the NeoCons are having the last laugh in their ideological battle with Realpolitik. The same actions that discredited the NeoCon ideology have rendered Realpolitik impotent.

PS 750km down. 250km to go.

I am who I am

You may not know it by the look of me, but I am fat.

Now let's be realistic, no one would mistake me for a young Swedish boy, but 740km into my NSPCC challenge I've lost weight and am relatively fit. And still, I am . . . fat. Always was. It's not the famously heavy Tikochinsky bones - no Tikochinsky has ever broken a bone in their lives [my little niece Y did, but she has her mother's genes, so it doesn't count]. Not even my disproportionally large head - a physiotherapist once attributed my neck pain to me having a heavy skull [and yes, I was offended].

You see, I started life fat and grew up fat. When other kids would climb up trees I'd struggle sitting cross legged in their shadow. When we were playing It, I was homie. By the time I started shedding some weight, and let's be realistic, no one ever mistook me for Twiggy, my self-image has already fully formed. I am fat.

Nonetheless, in the last couple of years things were on the up. Yes, I am getting older, but so does everyone else. At my ripe old age any hint of youth is a gift. Hair - at best, it's turned grey, at worse, it's gone. Skin - at best it's wrinkled, at worse it's covered with liver spots. And, yes, the wretched abdomen - at best, its saggy, at worse it protrudes to the point when one struggles to tie their own shoe laces. So, as I still have most of my hair, merely wrinkled skin and a healthily saggy stomach, I was under the impression I was doing OK. In fact I my self-image was starting to change. I was started seeing myself slightly differently. No longer the fat kid.

Big mistake. If I were a proper blogger I'd go for capitals and exclamation marks at this point. OK, here you go: BIG mistake!!!!!!

Delusion. That's what it was. Verging-on-the-certified delusion. Hubris of Sophoclean scale.

Was running up Highgate Hill today feeling rather good about myself. Not too bad I thought. I was going at what I thought was a rather reasonable pace. More than reasonable, respectable.

And then, out of nowhere, he arrived. A short, stout, flabby man. More or less my age. No disrespect, but he looked like he just had a couple of pints and 3 packs of salt & vinegar crisps. I could vaguely see the crumbs on his shirt. I could definitely smell the beer. And still, he was moving at pace. Lightening pace! He didn't overtake me. He buzzed past me. I could literally feel it. With every step he was sapping a bit more of my self esteem. Within seconds he was gone. Not more than a spot disappearing on the horizon. And with him my newly formed self image.

So. I am who I am. The same fat kid.

PS 740km down. 260km to go.

He can do it!

Watched 'Up in the Air' tonight. The George Clooney film. You know. The one that was marketed with the one liner his female co-star says: "Think of me as you with a vagina". You could see Clooney move uneasily in his seat when she said it.

For those of you who haven't seen it, all you need to know is that it doesn't really end up as you'd expect a big studio film to end. That was, for me, the first surprise. The second was Clooney. As you will have noticed, he is a film star. Being a film star is very different from being a good actor. An actor is acting as if they were someone else. A film star, and it doesn't matter who they play, always play themselves. A great actor would want you to forget it is them behind the character. A film star would stop being one if they did.

Schwarzenegger is always Schwarzeneger whether he is Conan the Barbarian or Danny DeVito's twin. Robert De Niro used to be a great actor. Taxi Driver, Ranging Bull, Godfather II. In the last 20 years he is nothing more than a film star. Stopping by for a few days to pick up a pay check and lend his name to the marketing machine.

Now I know that Clooney has the pretentions of intellectual depth. He even takes sides in politics. And still, when it comes to movies he is as single dimensional as any big film star. Danny Ocean. Out of Sight. Intolerable Cruelty. All the same character - Clooney. And don't you mention Ulysses Everett McGill, his role in O Brother. Slapstick is the film star's cheapest trick. It is designed to get some respite from the critics, whilst all it asks of the film star is to goof around a bit. God forbid he'll have to act.

That's why Up in the Air took me by surprise. For 2/3 of the movie Clooney was doing a great impression of himself. So good I wasn't sure his mum could tell the two apart. And then, things started changing. Subtly. Suddenly the script started pulling the rug under Clooney's character's feet and, to my surprise, Clooney allowed himself to fall. Not extravagantly, heroically or even amusingly. Simply an awkward, uncomfortable and only slightly embarrassingly fall. And it is this subtlety that made it so depressing. Maybe even more so when it happens to the world's biggest movie star. Or should I just say, accomplished actor.

PS 730km down. 270km to go.

The Global village

We live in a Global village. I am sitting here in north London, at the comfort of my home and I can see an oil pipe gushing into the Gulf of Mexico in real time [I hear they capped it but I don't believe them, they just changed the video feed]. Moreover, I can actually be there in less than 24 hours if I choose to and I wouldn't even need to mortgage my house to afford it. And, most importantly, I am not unique. More than a billion people can view the pipe on the Internet and about 1/2 a billion can afford the trip to Miami. So, as I said, we live in a Global village. But do we? Really?

MGF M&D were over for lunch today. D works for a major news network. One of the big American ones. He works in the London office which is now known as the International office and as of tomorrow the office is going from 24/7 to 9-5. You see, the network's viewers are mostly American. It appears that they are leaving in droves, which means advertising revenues are down and the network cannot afford such luxuries as reporting about things happening outside the US.

Now you may be thinking [not that you ever will but, to be honest, I may be thinking]: "Off course. These Americans are narrow-minded arrogant bastards who cannot see beyond the end of their noses!" And I would say, you [or in this case I] are absolutely right. I would however suggest that the same is true for most of us.

Now, you may call me a snob [not that you ever will] but I consider myself in the top 50% of broad-minded people. And still, the only reason I know the name of the Governor of California - one of the world's 20 biggest economies - is that he was the Terminator. The Japanese Prime Minister? I have no idea. I Googled it and it names Naoto Kan, but I am not sure if there were elections since that Guardian article. How much do I know about the US in the last decade? Bush, 9/11, Iraq, Katrina, Obama, the Great Recession. That's about it. No wonder that the only thing most Americans know about the UK in recent history is that Princess Di died in a car crash.

So, even though, in theory, we live in a Global village, although we can all find information just about anything, anywhere, the reality is we just cannot be bothered.

PS 720km down. 280km to go.

Bloody technology

It's 22:29 on a Saturday night and Match of The Day started 4mins ago. Since I am writing this post you probably realise that I am not watching it. Why? It is not that I have better things to do. In general, there aren't many anyhow. MoTD is one of life's more relaxed moments. So why then? They call it Virgin Media now, but deep inside it's still NTHell. Bloody set top box died on me. No worries. An engineer is on the way . . . . in 4 days!

The problem is we expect things to work. I did not even make a plan B. And, believe you me I am not alone in relying on technology. Take MBH. A few weeks ago she and the 2 bigger little ones went to watch Toy Story 3. I was with the 3rd little one and was picking them up after the movie. Like a trained terrier I waited in the car outside the Everyman. And waited. And waited. 40mins after their ETA I got a muffled call from MBH: "I can't talk. Come and pick us up. We're in Primrose Hill". So I did. As I pulled over next to them I lowered the passenger's window only for MBH to throw her shiny new iPhone into the car as if it were a ballistic missile shouting: "This f***ing piece of s***!!!!!!"

The kids' silence was deafening. A double of not-to-be-uttered words. Naturally, MFBD reacted first: "You can't say that. You deserve an 'onesh' (which is Hebrew for punishment for kids)! You are not allowed to eat salad for an entire month!". Now, any one who knows MBH knows MFBD was hitting her where it hurts. A month without salad for MBH is like 24 hours without oxygen for me.

Anyway, the reason for MBH losing it was the mobile dying on her. She had to find a phone booth and, as any Londoner knows, phone booths are for drugies. And pervs.

You see, we've become dependent on technology. We take it for granted and genuinely struggle when it does not work. Too dependent in my opinion. I often feel like giving it up for a while. Maybe spend a few weeks without mobiles, TV or Internet. And still, if I have to be honest, and I am not really happy about having to, I bet I will miss it all within a day or two.

PS 710km down. 290km to go.

A fragile country

Maybe it's the holiday season? Maybe the fact that, relatively, not that many people perished ("only" 1,500 so far)? Or, maybe, it's because it is a possibly-dangerous Muslim country? Whatever the reason, one of the most severe humanitarian crises in years is inflicting Pakistan and the UK and world media barely mention it.

Unusually harsh monsoons have caused the Indus to overflow and flood 1/4 of the country leaving 20m people homeless and destroying crops and killing the livestock that feed 185m Pakistanis. Diseases and starvation are threatening the lives of tens of thousands. And still, whilst the Secretary General of the UN declared this the greatest humanitarian disaster he's ever seen (and he's seen the 2004 tsunami and the Haiti earthquake), governments and individuals around the world are slow to react.

On the face of it one would think that richer nations will be especially driven to assist the Pakistani government and people. The country is a fragile, swinging like a pendulum between democracy and military rule. The Afghanistan war has fuelled the emergence of the Pakistani Taliban threatening to convert a secular nation into a theocracy. And, worse of all, Pakistan is a nuclear power with a rich and notorious past of driving nuclear proliferation from North Korea in the east to Libya in the west.

So why are most countries slow to react? I tend to believe the answer lies in the failures of such interventions in the past. Partly it's to do with corruption and lack of governance; the funds donated often find their way to the wrong hands. More significant, however, is that the richer countries have realised, finally, that they actually know very little about places like Pakistan. Countries like Iraq, Afghanistan or North Korea, we've learnt "thanks" to the NeoCons, is to foreign govenrnments like a Pandora's box; you really want to open it, but have no idea what you will find when you open it. More importantly, you have no idea how to undo the harm created by opening the box to start with. As a consequence, doing nothing feels safer than doing the right thing. In the meantime, 20m people are suffering.

PS 700km down. 300km to go.

It's back!

The Premier League is back. Finally. The World Cup was nice, but it happens too quickly. 4 weeks and it's over. The League stays with you the entire year. It's like a friend. And so far, so good. It's the second week and the goals keep on flying in. 3x 6:0 matches in one weekend. Newcastle, just promoted from the Championship, demolished Champions' League contenders Villa. Better still, Man U dropping points at the Cottage. Nothing really like it anywhere.

No wonder then that the Premier League is the most successful league in the world. Not only is BSKYB paying more for the local right, it appears that the League has £475m international annual revenues. To put this in context, La Liga, aka the best league in the world, home to Barca and Real, at the second spot is making £132m.

So yes, there are more goals in the Premier League. And true, the smaller clubs stand more of a chance against the super-clubs - Real only lost points to Barca last year, Barca simply didn't. But is it worth x4 in football terms? My guess is, it has less to do with football and more with language: English. You see, even in football the picture doesn't say it all. The commentators have a major role to play. They are not there to explain the game. They give the game its tone and rhythm. So, in monetary terms, English is earning the Premier League about £343m per annum. Not bad. One way or another, I'm just glad it's back.

PS 695km down. 305km to go.

A question of identity

A while back I wrote about the multiple ways one identifies oneself; a father, a football fan, an employee etc. From the perspective of national identity I always saw myself as an Israeli living in the UK. Coming back from holiday in Israel I realised the concept of Israeli identity has evolved in the last few years.

The biggest change, in my opinion, is the gradually apparently-prevailing view that to be Jewish is a national rather than a religious concept; more like being French or Italian rather than Christian or Buddhist. Also national rather than a political definition, like being an Irish American or a Pakistani who is a British citizen. This allows a political definition of 'Israeli' which is inclusive of Israel's Arab citizens who are 20% of the population. Moreover, it makes the definition of Israel as a Jewish, Democratic country acceptable to more people. This way Israel is Jewish in the sense that it is the home of the nation of Jews, like France is the home of the French people.

Obviously, this topic is way more complex and I have very little, if anything, to add to the discussion in terms of the appropriateness of the definitions. The only thing I kept asking myself whilst running was: "how do I see myself?"

I am an Israeli - I grew up in Israel and it shaped much of who I am. There is an entire Israeli community in London which is distinct from the British Jewish community. Yet, I have very little in common with most Israelis living here and count just a couple as friends. Still, I am member of the Jewish people. I am Jewish in terms of religious definition, yet I am a secular Jew - I celebrate the Jewish holidays but am, at the same time, an atheist.

Confusing for you? Just imagine how much worse it is for me.

PS 685km down. 315km to go.

The party pooper

Part 5 - No one likes to be criticised. I know I don't. I take it as a personal offence. An affront. An assault on my integrity. What's worse, my reaction bears no correlation to the magnitude, scale or scope of the criticism. "There is a speck of fluff on your trousers" is as bad as "You are a bloody idiot". My first reaction is to get hurt. Badly. Let's call it the Can't Take Criticism Syndrome or CTCS.

Imagine my surprise when, on hols, I discovered new levels of CTCS previously not known to man. Or, at least, to anyone who has been away from Israel for a while. I am not even going to tell you about MOB who started signing his emails to me as 'Spoon' after I suggested he may be human in an earlier post. Or MLB who said: "I don't do offended. Don't know what it feels like". Yeah. Right.

You see, in the UK CTCS is a passive reaction. In Israel CTCS is active. Take my cousin-in-law H. She is the nicest person you'd ever meet. Gentle, sensitive and warm. She wouldn't hurt a fly. If she accidentally did she would give it a proper burial service and send white lilies to its family. And still, when I jokingly called her a party-pooper when she said she may be too tired to go out at midnight on a work day, she didn't really take my comment in the spirit it was intended. At this point I should mention that H, whilst glamorous and fun-loving, is not necessarily of the Keith Richards school-of-partying. Midnight on a work day is not necessarily her thing. Anyway, at a quarter to midnight she stomped authoritatively into our flat, slammed a bottle of fizzy on the coffee table, and said: "So you call me a party pooper!? I am staying 'til sunrise. You'll beg me to leave!"

So, for all of you planning on going to Israel, remember: if it's not a hagiography it must be an insult; and if you insult someone, expect a reaction. And as it is in Israel, often it would be slightly disproportionate.

PS August 13th 675km down. 325km to go.

How much is a year worth?

Part 4 - The Americans, or at least one or two of them, say "time is money". Always doubted that. And still, if time is money, it raises the question: "exactly how much"? Is a minute worth a penny? A pound? A tenner? Never thought I'd find the answer. Until I met MOB a couple of weeks ago.

You see, MOB recently had his 20th wedding anniversary. When going for a gift for HBH he went for the obvious, yet-not-cliched option: rocks. Tower of London style rocks. It should be said HBH was delighted. Unreservedly. Until she met their snooty neighbour (SN):

SN: "Oh, nice earrings!"
HBH: "Ta"
SN: "What's the occasion?"
HBH: "20th wedding anniversary"
SN: "Oh" with an expression of compassion
HBH: "Why oh?" with raised eyebrows
SN: "Well, 20 years . . . that's at least 5 carats!"

So now you know it. A year of marriage is worth 1/4 a carat diamond, or in market prices £1,000 pounds. Having been married for 13 years I feel rich already.

PS August 11th 665kn down. 335km to go.

Public vs private enterprise?

Part 3 - Israel has a tradition of public-driven enterprise. A 20 year-old country with a population of 3m and GDP of Guilford decided to build world-class fighter-jets. And it did. Even before Israel the country was founded the leadership decided to build world class universities. And it did. All through public-led projects.

For many years private enterprise was frowned upon. The Kibbutz took this ideology to an extreme. Even children were considered a group activity. For those of you with their minds wondering off piste, I am not talking about the first steps in the process procreation. Rather, 9-months later. The moment babies were born they were taken from their parents to the children's quarters and taken care of by whoever was on shift at the time.

Like most extreme behaviours, it generated a major counteraction. About 30 years ago Israelis started taking care of Number 1. Themselves.

The positive side of this reaction was an emergence of entirely new industries, e.g. Hi Tech, Medical Devices, Solar Energy, and the privatisation of older ones, e.g. private security experts (aka mercenaries). This resulted in GDP per capita growing from stone-age to mid-EU levels. The negative side was that most people started neglecting the community and environment in which they lived. Nowhere is this more evident than in central Tel-Aviv.

You see, centre Tel-Aviv is an architecturally wondrous place with the largest concentration of Bauhaus buildings in the world. Property prices are as high as Hampstead and the properties are refurbished to palatial standards. From the inside that is. Staircases, communal areas and "gardens" are reminiscent of Mumbai slums. Anyone considering investing in regenerating the communal areas is considered a "frier", a sucker, someone who is being taken advantage of. Not many insults are considered more offensive by Israelis. As a result, Tel-Aviv is at the same time one of the most exciting cities and one of the most run down. Efforts by the authorities to force change have failed.

And still, I can feel a change. In our visit we saw many newly refurbished buildings where the developers invested a lot in the shared spaces. Surely, they do so since this drives up property values. The nice thing is, however, that once enough properties meet these standards, others must follow. And now that the tide has started turning, the local authority is driving regulation that will enforce the maintenance of the communal areas. Gradually I can imagine Tel-Aviv living up to its great potential. This time, through a compromise between private and public enterprise. And in Israel, any sort of compromise should be cherished.

PS August 8th: 655km down. 345km to go.

Dress code

Part 2 - So, as mentioned in Part 1, Israel is a place struggling with the weight of its own history. And yet, surprisingly, not all the thoughts occupying my (puny little) mind during my runs were as weighty. Some of them clearly not worthy of your precious time. For example, the acceptability or not of a specific item of clothing. Namely, the Hot Pants (HPs).

You see, I have never seen a person (and by person I mean a woman, I would not, naturally notice a man) wearing HPs in real life. Only in music videos. Obviously, Kylie's golden HPs. More often though, the hoes in hip-hop videos.

So imagine my surprise when I took the kids to the highbrow Tel-Aviv Museum and a photographer visitor, making genuine efforts to capture the displays from all (and I mean all) angles, was wearing a pair of HPs too small to fit over MLOs (My Little One) nappy.

Not necessarily the most obvious dress code in the UK. At the same time, I guess that when one is bearing the weight of history any additional weight, if only of a pair of trousers, is a bit too much.

PS As of August 5th, 645km down. 355km to go.

The weight of history

Part 1 - Just back from holiday in the Holy Land. For those of you who don't know me well, it is where I come from - Israel. As you will know, it is a small place rich in history and quarrel. Most of it centring on Jerusalem. More specifically, focused in less than 1/4 of a square mile of the Old City.

It is the place of the Jewish Temple and its single remaining wall. Where Jesus was crucified and resurrected and where Muhammad rose to the heavens to hear the word of God.

Less than 1/4 sq mile that is at the heart of the 3 monotheistic religions followed by, starting from the youngest, 1.5bn, 1.5bn and 15m people.

Not bad for such a small place? Very bad! For the people leaving there. On and off the place has been the focal point for wars for the last 2,000 years. In the last 70 years it is definitely 'on'. The weight of history and religious importance are weighing on the place and its inhabitants. If only it wasn't such a significant place.

You see, if every stone and every hill weren't so important they would not be worth so much fighting over. There is no way the Jewish state will give up on the only surviving wall of the Temple. Equally, how can the Muslim world give up on the oldest surviving Mosque?

Taking that into account it is surprising the Crusades are over. The Christian world seems to be comfortable with taking a tour bus to its holy sites rather than an armoured personnel carrier. How odd.

PS I did not relinquish my commitment to running whilst in Israel. Despite the heat and humidity I managed to stick to the usual mileage. In the next few days I will make up for the fact I didn't follow the runs with the promised blog-posts. On Aug 3rd, 635km down, 365km to go.

Patience, tolerance or even stoicism

It's been two whole months and I managed not to mention it. Not even once. Not that things have been going well, according to plan or even remotely within the agreed timelines. They weren't. Not that it merely impacts me. It impacts my entire family. In fact, it very much limits our ability to enjoy this glorious summer. And still, I have yet to mention it. Not even once. The refurbishment.

You see, two month ago works started on the house. New roof. New windows. Pointing. Bricks. The lot. The house is surrounded by scaffolds that are covered by a white net. People walking up and down peering through our windows at all hours of the day. Constant banging and inordinate amounts of dust and debris. Everywhere.

And still, I did not mention it. Not even once. Until today. No longer patient. All tolerance lost. Stoicism? No F***** Way.

PS 625km down. 375km to go.

Elementary my dear

I am a big fan of detective stories. Not stories really. More TV detectives. My favourite, naturally, is Morse. Like me, he's a grumpy old bugger. But also Jane Tennison, Fitz (Cracker), Adam Dalgliesh, Wallander, Philip Marlowe, Poirot, Colombo even Kojak. Yet, somehow, not Sherlock Holmes. All that deerstalker and pipe. The supposedly dark side implied by reference to cocaine. Works in the books but awfully outdated on TV. Until today that is.

Just saw the first instalment of 'Sherlock' on BBC1. As usual for the BBC it is a period piece. The only surprise is that the period is . . . . now. Mobile phones, CCTV, the lot. More Spooks than Conan Doyle. It runs at Bugatti Veyron pace and it is witty:

Someone: "You are a psychopath Holmes."
Holmes: "I am a highly-functional sociopath you idiot!"

Just hope it's gonna last. You see, it was the exposition, the unfolding of the context and introduction of the key characters that was the most exciting part of the episode. The actual mystery took not more than a third of the air-time. Now that we have the background, will the actual plot hold 90mins of TV? I do hope so.

BTW, no mention of the word "elementary".

PS 620km down. 380km to go.

Ban the ban

The French National Assembly's committee has recommended banning the wearing of the Niqab / Burqa / face-veil in public. The recommendation is likely to become law. Other European countries are also considering it. Europe is not alone. Syria banned it from schools and universities. It is banned in Turkey.

In Syria this is more an act of self-preservation by the ruling party. Allow the face-veil and you are down the slippery slope at the end of which the Muslim Brothers take over the country. The rationale in Turkey, as defined by the constitution, is that it is a secular country. The army is charged with making sure that stays that way. France is rather similar to Turkey in this sense. I believe religious symbols are banned in public buildings. Even crosses. Probably not in churches though. Anyway, that is the official reason.

And still, I don't buy it. There are 5 million Muslims in France. Not all of them as well integrated into the French fabric of society as Zinadine Zidane. Let's not forget that as recently as 2002 Jean-Marie Le Pen came second in the Presidential elections. I believe there is at least a smidgen of perceived self preservation in l'Assemblee nationale's move. As they would say: a democracy needs to have the means to defend itself.

So why not here in the UK? Simple. Wearing whatever one wants is a basic human right. Now I agree that there is likely to be a minority of Muslim women in Britain who are forced by their families to hide their face behind the veil. Banning the veil is likely to help them [although it may back-fire; they would likely be completely forbidden to leave the house, which may be worse for them]. Still, it's not worth it. You see, I am afraid of a different slippery slope; the one where the authorities ban more and more things, further and further limiting our human rights. So I say: "ban the ban".

PS 610km down. 390km to go.

Do nothing

Two and a half years ago I passed out. My wife called an ambulance which took me to the A&E. The physicians went through the usual battery of tests. Everything was fine, so I was sent back home. The following day I went to the GP. In my mind the right thing to do was to do many more tests until the cause was identified. I was taken aback by the GP's reaction:

GP: "More tests? I really don't think it's necessary."
Me: "But I passed out!"
GP: "How old are you?"
Me: "38"
GP: "Is this the first time you passed out?"
Me: "Yes?!"
GP: "Well, you should be grateful."

His point was: these things happen and we have very limited understanding why. Unless I passed out again, the best thing would be to do nothing.

I was reminded of the above reading the paper today. Nassim Taleb, identified as a philosopher, wrote about our tendency to act when in many cases the best thing to do would be . . . . you got it right, nothing.

I am more of the 'Let's sleep on it' school of thought. If I am about to react in anger, anguish or fury I always try to wait until the next day and reconsider the situation once the blood has redistributed itself from my hot head to the rest of the body. It is an off shoot from the 'Do nothing' school: do nothing for a while, then decide whether or not to do something.

Anyway, the reason I am telling you all this is that I have a major bone to pick with Mr Taleb. You see, he jumps seamlessly from talking about 'doing nothing' versus 'doing something' to the talking about 'omission' versus 'commission'. Now, I agree that 'commission' is very close to 'doing something'. I completely disagree with the second part. Omission is 'not doing something specific' or even stopping to do it, not 'doing nothing'. Not the same.

Taking it to the topic Taleb is focusing on - the financial system - the 'omission' suggested by Taleb: deciding to avoid regulation altogether, is not the same as not changing the regulatory system. Indeed, one may not accept regulation as the 'natural' state of events, but it is the status quo. Changing the status quo is not 'do nothing'. So, my problem with Taleb's argument is in the realm of philosophy. In the realm of economics I just think he's plain wrong.

PS 600km down. 400km to go.

The dog and me

I was in the Heath with MGF S&A earlier today. An idyllic setting. The four adults having coffee on the bench, S&A's little one sleeping in the buggy and my three little angels running around with sandwiches in their hands.

Suddenly, I see a 2-feet tall grey, hairy dog running at full speed toward my kids. I was up on my feet, but was expecting him to run past them. To my surprise he jumped on my little one (who is 20 months old) and snatched the sandwich from her hand, which made her lose her balance and fall flat on her back side. Like a shot I ran to my kids shouting and waving the dog away. Once they were safe I looked for the dog's owner. He was walking nonchalantly up the path, not really noticing what just happened. As you would expect, I had a few kind words to say to the guy. To my surprise, rather than apologise he defended the dog: "he is a mere puppy" (did I say it was 2-feet tall?); "he'd never do anything aggressive" (apart from jump on my little one) and best of all "maybe he was hungry and wanted the food" (to which I replied: "you better well feed it then"). Anyway, as you'd imagine, I was less than pleased.

As the kind man made his way, I turned to MBH with a "did you see that?" expression. Naturally, I expected MBH to congratulate me for my swift and decisive action and share my fury with the dog-owner's reaction. As often happens with MBH, I was a bit surprised with her response (and after more than 15 years, the fact she often surprises me must be a good thing): "Are you crazy? Your reaction scared the kids. It was a lot worse than what the dog, or its owner, did."

Felt a bit alone in the world that moment. I gallantly stand up to save my kids from a rabid dog and MBH sides with the dog. The Mother F****** dog!

PS 595km down. 405km to go.

Sunday mornings

I love Sunday mornings. That's my quality time with the kids. Admittedly, I love Saturday mornings even more - it's my turn for a lie-in you see. Anyway, having had the lie-in on Saturday, I am all ready for a morning with the little ones come Sunday. We have breakfast together. Play. Do a bit of wrestling with MBS (MFBD and MLD join in of course). Quality time.

And still, sometimes, it just doesn't work out that way. For some reason I find that everything that's cute and qirky about my little ones irritates me. Every sound is too loud, every utterance too repetative. I become the grumpiest of grumpy old men and ruin the morning for all of us. Hate it when it happens. Hate myself above all.

PS 585km down. 415km to go.

Destined to disappoint!

Last week I wrote about the upcoming World Cup Final betwixt Spain and Holland (MBH insistsed on ye olde English). My point was that whilst the Final is often a major disappointment, this time it will be different. Total Football meeting Tiki-Taka - the Spanish one-touch football in which the ball is darted from one player to the next pinball-like - can only be spectacular. "It will be 2:2 by the end of normal time, then Spain will win it in Extra time. I foresee 5 goals" I told my brother. Shows you how much I know.

Total Football? Total disgrace! Now, to clarify I love the Oranje (not a spelling mistake btw). They would rather lose the 1974 & 1978 finals than sacrifice their beautiful game. No longer. They had what football strategists would call a "pragmatic game plan"; a football pundit's terminology for "they are much better than us in football so we'll kick them as hard as we possibly can hoping they will rather go home to their mums than keep playing". Luckily, for them and the rest of the football-loving world, "they" - the Spanish team - didn't.

PS 575km down. 425km to go.

The UMCance

As most of you may have noticed, for the first time in a very long time, we have a real summer on our hands. It's been dry and hot for almost a month. Temperatures have been hanging around the 28c mark and the sky is azul blue. I have not put on anything more than a T-shirt since May and the kids are running around half naked throwing water-bombs at each other. This is Mediterranean summer at its best. Better, actually. The days are longer and at the end of every day I am back at home, in my own bed. More importantly, the kids are in their.

And the best thing about it is that it makes no sense of "going away for the summer". You see, most of my good friends (MGFs for those of you who don't know) living in London treat the city as a place for the day-to-day; work, school runs, supermarket, laundry. In summer they live a parallel life, going away for 6 weeks either back home or to a Mediterranean outpost. It's the British upper-middle-class version of the vacance; let's call it the UMC-ance.

The French you know, go away as a family for the month of August. The British upper-class go away for July & August. Mostly to Balmoral. The upper-middle-class man can afford the holiday but cannot afford to be seen as someone who can bunk off work for 6 whole weeks.

So, they take a week off to fly the family over to where they summer, go back to the office, fly over with Ryanair for two long weekends in the middle, and join the family for the last week and fly back together. This way, you manage to be on holiday for 6 weeks but out of the office for 2. The net-net of it is that the husband is alone in London for 3 weeks [which is not as appealing as it sounds - met MGF M last summer to watch Avatar, he bought a 6-scoop Ben & Jerry's to make up for the fact he hadn't eaten the last 3 days], and the wife is constantly cross for having to take care of the kids all alone in a foreign land. [Unless, of course you are MGF G&V who go home to Scandinavia all together for the whole summer and have the time of their lives. They are, however, the exception that proves the rule.]

Anyhow, with London being dry, sunny and warm for the whole of June and, so far, the first half of July, UMC-ancing makes absolutely no sense. You see, there is more to do in London than in most places. By staying here and going away all together for a glorious 2 week holiday on the beach you end up enjoying the best of all worlds. Or, at least [as I cannot afford the UMC-ance and only barely managed to scrape a two-week break on the beach] it is what I managed to convince myself of.

PS 570km down. 430km to go.