What a week

Only 16 Months ago he was voted in as a Messiah on a wave of hope. Ever since he was continuously depicted, at best, as weak and feeble, at worst, as the Devil incarnate. In the last 12 months he suffered a level of abuse incomprehensible to anyone outside the US and unimaginable towards a white president. A level of abuse by right wing commentators that in any other country would have been considered enticement.

And still, he ploughed on. Not believing the dreams of the hopeful or fretting the nightmares of the paranoid. Steadily moving forward, in line with his clearly articulated vision (which, I am sure, Fox News would have referred to as "manifesto" - he is a Communist after all).

What is it that they say in the Guinness ads? Good things come to those who wait? Well, they did. Only this week. The healthcare bill, until recently considered doomed following a freak senatorial vote in Massachusetts, is now law. 32 millions Americans will now have healthcare insurance. That's half the UK! Now the cost may seem high at $100bn pa. Still, I bet you that if Obama took the following question to a referendum: "what would you rather spend $100bn pa on, healthcare or Iraq?" (which the US is spending) he'd win at least 75% of the votes.

Relationships with Russia, only recently heading towards WWIII, have now seen the largest reduction of nuclear weapons in 20 years. And, BTW, the Russians will be decommissioning double the number of nukes the US will. Not bad for a weak president.

What a week!

So, all that's left is: withdrawing from Iraq & Afghanistan, sustaining economic growth, finally closing down Guantanamo, reducing unemployment, Catch Osama Bin Laden, recovering the stimulus from the banks, disarming Iran & North Korea and tackling global warming. Not a lot then? You would have noticed that peace between Israel and the Palestinians is not on the list. I guess that's too much even for Obama.

BTW 265km down, 735km to go. Not gaining any "spares", yet not falling behind either.

We'll always have Paris

Those of you who've been reading this blog religiously may remember MBH's argument against holidaying in the UK. The short of it is: whatever the UK has to offer is more complicated than, not as exciting as and more expensive than . . . Paris.

This is indeed a faultless argument, assuming one actually goes on holiday. Now, I know many of you do. Some of you rather often indeed. For me [and this is a true "get your handkerchiefs out" moment] it's been a while. So, when MBH identified the perfect time to go on hols - half term that falls only 2 days after the end of my employer's year-end - there was no point to argue. We are off to Paris! And a great joy it is too.

Prepare, L'Epi Dupin. Beware, Pierre Herme. Despare Musee Rodin. We're coming.

Mid-life-crisis

So, it's the official beginning of spring - 21st March - and I am a quarter of the way there. After 250km I am starting to get the hang of it and, in a way, my 1,000km challenge [aka the Challenge] is defining 2010 for me. When I meet those of you who know about it, "how's the running going" is one of the first questions to come up. And whilst the stream of donations has dried up for now, I am confident of meeting my fund-raising targets.

Yet still, for some reason, I don't seem to feel a change. Objectively I am most likely fitter than I was. However, I do not consider myself as fit. Realistically, I probably managed to get a couple of people thinking of the plight of children who suffer from cruelty. Nonetheless, I don't feel like I made any difference.

All of which got me thinking about something MBB (My Big Brother) S said. You see S has, from a rather early age mind you, sustained an image of someone with the intellectual depths of an ocean yet the emotional depth of a spoon. Whilst not necessarily flattering (and by no means accurate on both ends) this image allows him to on the one hand ward off any question more personal than "would you fancy a cup of coffee" and, on the other give him the licence to analyse others.

So, how did MBB S analyse the Challenge? Well, S says it is both evidence of an increased feeling of Britishness on my side and the manifestation of a mid-life-crisis. Now I don't mind the first bit, but the latter? That's insulting. No, I don't mean I am too young for a mid-life-crisis but I do resent the thought that I cannot get myself a proper one! Leaving one's job and turning one's hand to water-colours; taking 3 months off to live in an ashram in India; buying a Porsche 911 are proper mid-life-crises. Going out for a run every now and then? Come on!

And still, something does feel right about S's analysis. Just as buying the 911 doesn't suddenly make one young and attractive [and only for the sake of some of my friends who have a 911 I will not mention what it does make one], the Challenge may be defining my year but I don't see it defining me. And, in a way, this is a rather comforting thought.

Mother's Day

Nearly got in trouble today.

MGF G called this morning and spoke to MBH.
"So," MBH asked, "what did you do for your lovely wife for Mother's Day?"
"Well," said G, "we got her breakfast in bed, I baked a cake, the kids sang a song . . . . . " and with every additional word I could see MBH's face sinking. You see, MBH was up at 8:00 (and Sunday is her day to have a bit of a rest), made her own breakfast and the children didn't even write a Mother Day's card.

Being the perceptive guy that he is, G identified the opportunity to help his good friend out and said, "BTW, I also got her a pair of earrings and booked tickets to the theatre tonight." What are friends for?

So, I didn't even wait til MBH got off the phone and made my way to the dog-house.

To my surprise, when MBH came over, she opened the dog-house door and asked me to come out. You see, having talked to S, G's better half, she realised G failed to mention a minor point: Mother's Day happened to fall this year on S's birthday!

So, thanks G and many many happy returns S.

J

PS 230km down, 770km to go.

The alpha-male is back?

Arsenal were playing last weekend and the star of the show was Theo Walcott. He scored the goal that gave Arsenal the lead and delivered a couple of crosses that on any other day would have been assists. And yet, it wasn't the quality of his football that won him praise but a reaction to an entirely fair tackle on him. Theo jumped up and, as aggressively as he could [which between you and me won't scare a fly], confronted the offender who was quite literally twice his size. Even Arsene Wenger extolled praise on his protégé: "Theo is not nice. He is polite!"

A few weeks ago the Observer came out with a huge story: Gordon Brown was reprimanded by the head of the Civil Service after consistently bullying No. 10 staff. "That's it" I thought. "This is the last nail in Labour's coffin. Not even a shred of hope of winning the election". But no. Rather than condemn the bully, the question raised by political analysts was: "who would you rather have as Prime Minister, the bully or the bullied?" Naturally, they thought the answer would be the former. As if everyone would prefer the bully. As if these are the only two options. I'd rather have neither. Amazingly, within days, Labour's deficit in the polls virtually vanished.

So how does one explain this? The natural conclusion is: the animal in us has re-emerged. The alpha-male is back!

Or is it? Well, sort of. Would we condone Theo's behaviour if he wasn't the slight boy that he is? Is it a coincidence that the bullying Gordon was exposed right after he cried talking about his baby dying in his hands? Would we approve of Gordon Ramsey's aggression if he wasn't so passionate about his admittedly girly profession and would we warm to Tony Soprano if he didn't spill his guts out (metaphorically Tony, relax) to his therapist? I dare think not. It's not really the alpha-male that we want. We want the alpha-metro-sexual!

Something in the air

It's been a long cold winter. And everyone I know is desperate for warmer days. This weekend it feels like, finally, it's coming. The days are getting longer. The sun is shining. If only the puddles weren't covered with ice. And still, something is changing. It's people's body language. And nowhere more so than in the Heath. For the first time in a long time couples are walking holding hands.

People don't hold hands in winter. Mostly, they keep their hands in their pockets, shoulders hunched in. Young couple put their hands around each other, drawing their loved ones closer to enjoy their warmth. Parents hug their children who hide their faces in their parents' coats. Holding hands opens the body up to the elements, extends the extremities and lets the cold in. You don't hold hands in winter. It's a spring thing.

So, the first sign of spring is here, injecting a spring to my step and filling me with optimism.
Hope you feel the same.

J

PS 210km down. 790km to go.

Why are you doing it?

Haven't heard from MGF S for a while. Not since I announced my 1,000km challenge and started writing this blog. Admittedly, it's not as if we meet every day. You see, S lives in HK and, in all honesty, it is MGF D, her better half, who I speak with regularly. And yet, I did expect to hear from her. You see, S is one of the most generous people you'll ever meet, so I thought charity and all would strike a chord.

Anyway, I mentioned this to D earlier today and was met with deadly silence. You know, one of those uncomfortable moments when you know you stummbled on something you shouldn't have. It appears that the reason for the radio silence is that S does not appreciate blogging that much. In fact, she considers the fact that I am addressing the unknown masses and sharing with you all my inner-most secrets, an indication that I lost my marbles. You see S is one of the few people I've managed to deceive into believing I had marbles.

Now, the young boy in me was hurt. I always blame him for my less than mature behaviour. "Me losing my marbles? What's wrong with S! Is writing a blog too common for her?" However, as I was running today, I asked myself: "Why the hell are you doing it? Why AM I writing this blog?"

I know why I started, and there is no nice way of saying it: manipulation. Worse still, I was trying to manipulate the few people who've been kind enough to know me relatively well. You see, as I was asking people to empty their pockets for charity, I thought I would get more buy-in if I managed to establish an emotional attachment . If I got you hooked, I thought I would get you to fork out more. This blog was supposed to be the hook.

The reason I am carrying on is different. [And for all of you expecting remorse and an apology for the attempted manipulation, I am sorry to disappoint. I would do it all over again to raise £10,000 for the NSPCC. ] The reason is, I have found the joy of writing.

Until January 1st, I've never written anything more poetic than a cheque. I always wanted to but it never worked out. Being somewhat self conscious I had two concerns. First, what am I going to write? A novel? You gotta be kidding me. Poetry? Is there anything more pretentious? A letter? Pity the poor sod who's gonna have to read it. Which brings me to the second concern, who will I write to? The drawer? I don't have one. The newspaper? Come on! As if anyone who doesn't care for me would really want to read anything I write. This blog is giving me the perfect medium. I can pretend I have an audience (thank you, if you are out there) yet allow me to feel I am not imposing. It is open to whoever wants to read it but will never be read by anyone I wouldn't want them to.

So, for giving me the excuse for writing and the pretence that I am not alone out here, I thanks you all.

J

PS 200km down. 800km to go.

A first

The sun just came out. It was still cold. Very cold. The crowds started gathering. After 3 days of constant rain the mud was soft, smooth, slippery and deep. An improvised ring has been placed around the muddy patch.

Monique was standing in the blue corner wearing a leopard print bikini. Her skin was all goose-bumps. The tiny blonde hairs on her skin would have stood up in the cold if not for the full-body wax.

Suddenly, the cheering crowds are heard over the loud music. "We will, we will, rock you!" It was Pricilla, the reigning UK champion emerging from an improvised tent between the trees. Wearing a minimal florescent-pink outfit, she takes her spot on the red corner. She was taller than Monique and had an air of confidence about her.

Within a few seconds the bell rang and saw the young ladies pounce at each other. Their toned bodies interlocking for a brief moment before they give in to the mud. Slipping out of each others grip they try to grab whatever body part they can get their hands on. To the crowd's pleasure, their bikini tops loosen up in the process.

4 March 2010, the Heath, the 1st North London mud-wrestling championship


195km down. 805km to go.