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.