e-bay gum.

Dear Blog,

      Many apologies. In my somniferous state this morning I forgot to tell you that I have put four items on e-bay with another dozen or so tonight, if I can keep awake long enough. => 3 old copies of ‘Runner’s World’ from the time were men were men and women told us what to do and we did it straight away without hesitation, repetition or deviation into doing another job without permission. Also put on is my second placer’s vet medal from a previous London Marathon when I came second to a Swede and third placer was a Dane. Great ... beaten by and turnip and scraped home infront of a dog. Enough is enough ... back to bed.

                                             Colin

The Big Sleep

Photograph:

No photograph but a T.V. clip – unfortunately I don’t know how to load a TV clip so you will have to use your imagination!

Photo no. 35mm:-  As I was finishing the European marathon in 4^th place with a lap of the track, why did the BBC commentator, David Coleman, tell the viewers that ‘...there must have been a good deal mud out on the course.’?

Blog,

Just a quick note, Blog, as I’m tired. Oh so tired. I cannot believe how knackered I’ve been since last Sunday when the clocks were altered. Losing an hour of sleep each night is no joke. It’s not fair. Ask Ken Clarke, he’ll agree with me. I cannot understand how Mr Cameroon’s Financial Advisor, Mr Hosbourne,  believes he will save the country’s financial deficit by taxing us all with an hours sleep every night of the week, 52 weeks of the year. If you work out the sums, say for 6 months, the figures are:- 1 hour per person per night times 7 (days) times 26 (weeks) times 52 million (working population in GB) must equivalent to about two light years. I reckon he has nicked 2 light years from the population of this country to help offset the Budget shortfall. No way fair. What’s he going to do with them? Sell them to Dark Vadar? The Jedi could use them to shed light on its religion. And does he know I’ve this marathon thing to do in 17 days time. I need the sleep. I can’t trudge successfully missing an hour’s kip each night. Something has to done, Blog. And what about the night shift workers. They are onto a good thing aren’t they. They are not feeling the pain of this economic squeeze. One hour less to work each night for the same pay. Is that fair?? Not on your Nelly. I think you and me, Blog, should take a note out of the Arab’s book, or copy the example of the rioters in 1752 when they were twisted out of eleven days when the Gregorian calendar replaced the Julian. They carried placards proclaiming ‘Give us our 11 days’. I think our banner should read ‘We want our 60 minutes back’ . We should organise a petition and a programme of civil unrest, a bit of organised disorder. A sit down protest in the roadway? For starters, how about having the first road block at 10am on Sunday April 17^th in Greenwich? Sounds sweet to me. With a bit of luck, by October, I reckon we can make him do a u-turn and restore the hour. Give the hour back to the workers, say I. Together we stand.  Trudgers of the world unite. Take to the roads together. Hit the walls. If Mr Cameroon’s mate is so concerned about ‘savings’, why doesn’t he cut the marathon distance from 26 miles and a bit to about 6 miles and a bit? He could rename it. He could call it a The Hosbourne 10k? Just think of the economies of saving water from unnecessary feed stations. He could save the world’s coral reefs because there would be no need for sponges. All those marshals could have the day off. The space blankets could be given back to NASA. The hot air used to inflate the air balloons near the start of the marathon could be sold to our MPs at a discount. But worst of all, losing this hour each day, means you have an hour less to give to Tiny Tim’s Children’s Centre and Newlife. (£1 per guess at my finishing time in the London Marathon and Mr Cameroon’s mate could win my medal, my t-shirt, etc.) Time is running out (should that be ‘Trudging out’??) for you to get your quids in. It is worth bearing in mind that every quid given to Tiny Tim’s Children’s Centre and Newlife. (£1 per guess at my finishing time in the London Marathon and Mr Hosbourne could win my medal, my t-shirt, etc.) means a quid less for Mr Cameroon’s mate to get his hands on!

Give, give, give, all you need to do, is give. Giving is all you need. Giving is all you need.

                         Sleepy byes, I’m off to the land of Blog, Colin.

Where have I bean?

Photograph Quiz:

Photo no. 11:- Some November mud and sand cryptically provided a marathon win on which island?

Sorry blog,

     I am so, so sorry. I have sinned. I am no longer worthy to be called a Trudger. I have broken the principle of a life time and I don’t know what to do about it. I have been trudging for thrice forty days in the wilderness of Warwickshire and I have been sorely tempted. And I have succumbed to the temptation. I confess. As a penance dear Lord Cerutty, if you will offer me forgiveness, I will run up and down a sand dune six times and live on nuts and bananas for a week. I have seen the errors of my ways and will not give way to the desires of the flesh again. My crime? I looked at one of those magazines. You know the type. Those glossy mags you see in the newsagents. Runners type Fitness World things. I haven’t seen so much quality tripe since I used to collect a pound from the butchers at the top end of Keighley market for my granny’s supper when on the way home from the ‘minors’ on a Saturday morning when I were a young lad. I could have said a load of cobblers but they were not on my way home. They tended to be near the posh shops.

If I’d have known running a marathon was so simple, I’d have subscribed yonks ago. For three quids, running a marathon - easypeasy. A bargain at half the price. No sooner had I finished my in depth perusal than I thought I must have some of this. Spread it around Baby, I thought. I persuaded my daughter to give me her bag of GoGoGoGo sport beans and I was off, clutching my precious paper bag in my hand, I was out of the door like Dan Robinson. I do feel with hind sight that a paper bag was not the best choice of receptacle to carry the beans in. Paper and sweat are not the best of bed fellows. However, there was no stopping me. Salivating all the way to Kenilworth Castle, along to Honiley, through to Berkswell, hardly able to control myself, waiting for my first ‘Go’.  Now don’t get me wrong, dear Blog. I am sure the man who made the beans had lots of degrees and lots of letters after his name. He has probably given lots of talks and things and showed lots slides. I bet his power point is a joy to behold. I am sure he must understand the deeper workings of the body. But one thing for sure, dear Watson, is that he didn’t have false teeth. And I can conclude my dear Doctor that he never gave a ‘Go Go’ to any athlete who was a little short in the molar department. Why? I had my first bean near the Common in Kenilworth. Chomp, chomp. It’s a good job I was trudging downhill at the time as my top set stuck fast to my bottom set and the ‘Go’ was going nowhere. Well and truly stuck tight like a trudger clutching his London Marathon entry form. When Darwin applied for his patent for the human body, he should have made the nostril somewhat bigger – no way can you get enough oxygen into your lungs when the mouth is not there to assist with breathing. In oxygen debt, I was forced to a halt. Luckily, I found a sharp piece of stick. I suspect it might have been oak or possibly ash? With a little prodding and poking , I was rather pleased that I managed to separate the dentures. I decided to carry them in my hand so I could have another ‘Go’ in another couple of miles and not suffer the same misfortune. Teeth in one hand, beans in the other. One thing for sure, dear Watson, is that the ‘GoGo’ manufacturer didn’t take his false teeth out when he was eating a ‘Go’. And I can conclude my dear Doctor that he never gave a ‘Go Go’ to any athlete who had just gums. Try sucking a ‘Go Go’ bean and trudging as I did a couple of miles further on. Yes. Arse over tit went I. As I was plummeting  earthwards, I had to make a decision. I had a set of dentures in one hand and a bag of beans in the other. To prevent a serious face flatten incident , I felt I had to let go of one or the other to use the one free hand to break my fall. Decision time was rapidly approaching, the earth was coming ever closer. The ground looked non too inviting. Two hundred quids worth of flashing smile or a couple of quids worth of beans?? No contest. I gritted my teeth and spilled the beans! The result was that I bit myself rather badly on the hand! My plate had sunk my teeth into my palm. I had bitten myself quite deeply. At least I had not bitten off more than I could chew. The ‘Go’s had gone. Scattered hither and thither. Now if Jack got a goose and a golden egg from planting a single bean, I reckon in a couple of week’s time, my garden will have enough geese to protect all the Vestal virgins in Coventry. And you can stick your chocolate Easter eggs. Faberge eat your heart out. There was rather a lot of blood from the bite, and it did rather hurt but, I must say I felt rather guilty that the paratroopers were called out to assist me; however the trip to A & E in the ambulance was rather pleasant. The flashing blue light was a little over the top, I thought at the time. With hind sight I think I was correct in my assessment of the use of the blue light.

‘Cubicle number 3, Mr. Kirkham. Cubicle number 3.’ The nurse sounded a dead ringer for the Argos voice, announcing the arrival of an order at the collection counter. ‘Cubicle number 3’. The doctor arrived. ‘Nasty bite that Mr Kirkham. Big dog was it?’ ‘No’ ‘Some of these little mutts can be quite vicious can’t they?’ ‘It wasn’t a dog’ ‘Not a dog’ ‘No’ ‘What was it?’ ‘I bit myself’ ‘You bit yourself?’ ‘I bit myself’.   He moved a little further away. From the other side of the curtains, ‘I don’t think it is a physical problem you have Mr Kirkham, more a mental health problem. Are you under stress?’ I don’t believe it, Juju Lady’s mate works in the hospital. ‘We have a very good in house Psychopath if you feel it would help’ ‘No thanks, I see my own every Tuesday’.

The good news, Blog, is that I will have recovered enough by next week to try those jellies that seem so popular in the magazines. I use to like the jelly when we had a birthday party, didn’t you?

                                                               Sorry again, Colin

PS. I think we will have to be a little more circumspect with our correspondence, Blog. Just listen to the comedy programme on Radio 4. The man keeps using some of our more intimate details. I think you should tell him that our letters are copyright. He doesn’t even give us a credit! He could at least pay the going rate for material, then we could donate it to

 Tiny Tim’s Children’s Centre and Newlife. (£1 per guess at my finishing time in the London Marathon and he could win my medal, my t-shirt, etc.)

The history of athletics in Coventry and area.

Photograph Quiz:

Photo no. 10:-I won the men's race and my wife won the women's race. In which posh city?

Dear Bloggsieboy,

Good idea of yours to raise a few bob for Tiny Tims Children’s Centre and Newlife, BUT. But. But. BUT.

The cost of the hire of a room would negate any profits for the two children’s charities unless I charged a silly entrance fee. And after all is said and done, an illustrated talk about athletics is hardly likely to have a huge appeal??? I would have no problem talking about the early years of athletics in the Coventry area as the development of clubs etc., very much reflected the growth of the city. (Socially, educationally, politically, industrially, philanthropy, commercially etc.) The different periods of mass unemployment meant we lost our best runners. The necessity of having to use troops to control the unrest within the city had a plus effect for the Godiva Harriers club. The different vests. The disagreements amongst Godiva members lead to the formation of at least a dozen other clubs in the city. Coventry’s first world record holder club was buried in Salford. What about the three other Olympians in the club we don’t acknowledge or the other two second claim Olympic athletes? Coventry’s first track at Earlsdon and its importance in the weaving industry. The journalist who told porkies about the foundation of the club. Why some athletes were expelled. How the Lord Mayor got in to a fight. Why Peeping Tom meant the Godiva virtually folded having only one athlete!!!  Etc. Etc. Etc..The talk therefore would be no problem, but numbers of interested parties would be important. Cost of say, £3 to include coffee, biscuit and a free guess at my marathon time. But – the room? If dear Bloggsieboy you could sort that, we would have GO .

Any more ideas?? Remember ‘we need da money’ for the disabled kiddies.

                                                            Trudge

P.S. I suppose I should add that I have spent some time researching the history of Coventry Godiva Harriers. With very little archive material available, I have had to go back to primary sources and interviews of old member and their descendants - with some very surprising results!!!

Who's taking the Michael?

Photograph Quiz:

Photo no. 9

The bloke in the white leggings thinks he is going to beat me in the 2011 London Marathon.

Question:- By how much does he think he will beat me?

Question:- What number bus does he need to catch?

Question:- How will he avoid tripping the other runners with his Zimmer frame?

Answers to the three questions on the back of a cheque for £1 made out to either Tiny Tims Children’s Centre or Newlife.      Blog’s decision will be final.

Blog has just telephoned to say that he seems to think that the much younger sister of the bloke with the white leggings won a gold medal in Munich in 1972. Is this true?

medical help

Blog,

       I am so sorry I missed your telephone communication  yesterday, I was out trudging but I picked up your message on the answer machine when I eventually got back home. Yes, of course you are correct. There are four weeks left which is 28 days and not the 30 which I so foolishly said. You don’t realise what affect your message had on me. When I heard it, I immediately went into relapse. Two days closer. Stress started. I also had to apologise to Seb. Both of us having problems with time. And I didn’t have a happy pill. I only was given the one. I had no option but to rush up to the Health Centre and seek out my Juju Lady. Luckily she was still there. She was treating a man who just wanted to dance but he had two left feet. She was searching the National Data Base to find a match for him, someone with two right feet. She was having a little difficulty. Her patient was size 10 and the sizes available were at sixes and sevens.  She didn’t really want to mix and match. She slotted me in and gave me a whole box of happy pills so I’m happy. From distressed to de-stressed. No problarmo Pierre. Cool.

This morning, being Tuesday, meant it was appointment time with my Psychopath. I did a steady trudge to clear my mind before I went to see him. We always begin the session in the same way. He gets me to lie down on his couch, he starts to swing a watch on its chain back and forth, back and forth in front of my eyes and it slowly induces sleep. After about half a dozen swings he nods off. I have to lie there like a pillock for fifteen minutes until he wakes. Then he sits down at his desk and writes a few notes. Thank you Sigmund. Because he is taking part in that nice Mr Camaroon’s Health Service reform, where the Service is financed from the bottom up, Mr. Sigmund writes out a cheque for me for attending.  I put all his cheques into the

Tiny Tim’s Children’s Centre and Newlife

Charities fund*. I am contemplating booking in with his son Clement, in future. It is dead certain that there will be more action. Last week for example, Sigmund stayed awake long enough to bang on about the deep psychopathic implications of my having red and yellow as the dominant colour background to my messages to you. He said it was a good sign. The red meant coming to terms with my frustrations, controlling my anger. The yellow showed calming. A sign of my unburdening myself, unlocking my inner feelings at the fruitlessness of my trudging, a sign of my coming to terms with my stress, how 26 miles will soon seem like a stroll in the park. He did not seem to think it funny when I asked if he meant the Yorkshire Dales National Park. I though it quite amusing myself. I had to titter. He went on and on about the subliminal meanings.  I told him the red and yellow was my trudging club colours! He seemed a little nonplussed. He said we should delve deeper ... so  a few more session on the couch; a few more quids for my children’s charities courtesy of that nice Mr Cameroon.

Time for my second session of the day, trudging, not couching - differential downhill trudges me thinks.

                                                                  Colin at minus 27.

*We now have raised about £800 plus (details soon) Well done Blog and friends,  keep the £1 with or without predictions coming.                                                                                

medical help

Blog,

       I am so sorry I missed your telephone communication  yesterday, I was out trudging but I picked up your message on the answer machine when I eventually got back home. Yes, of course you are correct. There are four weeks left which is 28 days and not the 30 which I so foolishly said. You don’t realise what affect your message had on me. When I heard it, I immediately went into relapse. Two days closer. Stress started. I also had to apologise to Seb. Both of us having problems with time. And I didn’t have a happy pill. I only was given the one. I had no option but to rush up to the Health Centre and seek out my Juju Lady. Luckily she was still there. She was treating a man who just wanted to dance but he had two left feet. She was searching the National Data Base to find a match for him, someone with two right feet. She was having a little difficulty. Her patient was size 10 and the sizes available were at sixes and sevens.  She didn’t really want to mix and match. She slotted me in and gave me a whole box of happy pills so I’m happy. From distressed to de-stressed. No problarmo Pierre. Cool.

This morning, being Tuesday, meant it was appointment time with my Psychopath. I did a steady trudge to clear my mind before I went to see him. We always begin the session in the same way. He gets me to lie down on his couch, he starts to swing a watch on its chain back and forth, back and forth in front of my eyes and it slowly induces sleep. After about half a dozen swings he nods off. I have to lie there like a pillock for fifteen minutes until he wakes. Then he sits down at his desk and writes a few notes. Thank you Sigmund. Because he is taking part in that nice Mr Camaroon’s Health Service reform, where the Service is financed from the bottom up, Mr. Sigmund writes out a cheque for me for attending.  I put all his cheques into the

Tiny Tim’s Children’s Centre and Newlife

Charities fund*. I am contemplating booking in with his son Clement, in future. It is dead certain that there will be more action. Last week for example, Sigmund stayed awake long enough to bang on about the deep psychopathic implications of my having red and yellow as the dominant colour background to my messages to you. He said it was a good sign. The red meant coming to terms with my frustrations, controlling my anger. The yellow showed calming. A sign of my unburdening myself, unlocking my inner feelings at the fruitlessness of my trudging, a sign of my coming to terms with my stress, how 26 miles will soon seem like a stroll in the park. He did not seem to think it funny when I asked if he meant the Yorkshire Dales National Park. I though it quite amusing myself. I had to titter. He went on and on about the subliminal meanings.  I told him the red and yellow was my trudging club colours! He seemed a little nonplussed. He said we should delve deeper ... so  a few more session on the couch; a few more quids for my children’s charities courtesy of that nice Mr Cameroon.

Time for my second session of the day, trudging, not couching - differential downhill trudges me thinks.

                                                                  Colin at minus 27.

*We now have raised about £800 plus (details soon) Well done Blog and friends,  keep the £1 with or without predictions coming.                                                                                

times they are a changing

Photographic Quiz:

Photo no. 8:- I didn't have to walk on water to win this marathon, but what is the name of the athlete in the picture who has kindly donated to the Newlife and Tiny Tim's Children Centre?

Dearest Blog,

                      ....and there is a month left. 30 days and the clock is ticking. (Eat your heart out Seb, mine’s working OK). I had to admit defeat at the end of the week with my illness and went to see the Juju Man, actually the Juju Woman. When she finally admitted defeat and said my symptoms fitted nothing in her magic potion bag, we went to the old standby, ‘Was I stressed?’ So I confessed. ‘Yes’ says I ‘I’ve this here thing in a month where I have to trudge half naked around the streets of London for about four hours freezing my balls off’ ‘Strange’ says she ‘What do you get for doing that? Gold, frankincense, myrrh?’ ‘No’ says I ‘Blistered feet and sleepless nights’ ‘Have a mother’s little helper’. ‘Ta’ No longer stressed. She didn’t say how much faster it would make me run, but she wanted to place a couple of bob on a sub 3:30:00 clocking.

Saturday was the Midland Road Relays.  In years gone by, the Area and National Road Relays always afforded me a hard relay race and the opportunity to ‘get a few miles of quality fartlek’ in. Yesterday at Sutton Park, ear wigging what some of the athletes had to say to each other was very disheartening. O.K. Bloggsie, I bet you have never done it? Don’t give me that. I used to love taking over in the lead – ‘here I am folks, catch me if you can’ – just as I used to love to lead in races and run away from the field if possible. Depressing listening on Saturday; comments about not wanting to take over in the lead, comments about the pressure of relays, comments about the pointlessness of running in an incomplete team, comments about the problem of fielding teams ...... Before I slit my wrists, I trudged out to the far end of the long leg. Time was when the further the relay race progressed, the more populous became the support on the way to and from the turn at the Streetly  gate. Having completed their stint, runners stacked in the miles while supporting their club mates on later legs. Yesterday, I was alone, alone, all all alone. Alone and at sea – well adrift! It was like waiting for Godot*, but I was the only other person to talk to.  So I said to myself, what a wonderful world it would be to see another trudger or two out there!! I reflected with myself (a nasty habit) on how the world has changed since the first National Road Relay was held at Sutton Park back in the dark ages when Margaret Thatcher was still flogging baked beans in Grantham. Coming to the Midlands from the North, I was used to running along the canal path of the Leeds - Liverpool canal, running across the fields on worn paths from stone stile to stone stile, at weekends passing a greeting to the hikers. In my first job in Coventry, I used to help out by assisting the P.E. teachers, taking the kids swimming. I used to go into the pool, while the qualified staff instructed from the side. I used to hold the learners while they practiced their strokes. Today I’d be regarded as some kind of weirdo, a perv, if I did that! At first, after the swimming session I tried to run back along the Coventry Canal form Nuneaton to where I lived in my caravan. I soon found the canal paths were totally unusable, if they actually existed, most having being eroded away. Trying to run home across country from work, was equally frustrating. Stiles had ceased to exist, farmers had blocked others. More than one farmer had warned me off his land by discharging his shot gun. (The police were impotent as it was my word against the farmer with no witnesses!!). We also used to have something called ‘pack runs’ (paCk runs not paRk runs Blogs) where the lads from the club used to gather on a Sunday morning, and we used to try and kill each other for the next couple of hours.  Must stop now ... more later, I want to catch the last post.

                                   Colin

*And he didn’t turn up yesterday.

Co-incidence

Photographic Quiz:

Photo no. 7

To win this marathon, I had to run a bridge too far. Which bridge did I cross?

Dear Blog,

Have just dropped my last missive to you in the box. It should have winged it’s way to you on Tuesday!!

I trudged up a path yesterday that I haven’t had the pleasure of a trudge for 43 years .. I will explain why next time. It seemed such a co-incidence that I should end up where I was. It reminded me of other co-incidences. My daughter’s London Marathon and mine arriving on the same day .. and at the same address as well. Strange what? Drivers pay thousands of pounds for a personalised number plate. I got mine purely by chance. What is the chance of that happening? Tens of thousands to one I suspect. Some co=incidence? What is my number you may ask. Well. You know everyone regards a ‘6’ on a number plate as the letter ‘G’. My number plate starts with BL60. So if you transpose the ‘O’ and the ‘6’ and the ‘6’ becomes a ‘G’ you end up with ‘BLOG’. Is that spooky or is that spooky?? And what is more, the three following letters are NVK which of course are my initials, Neville Vincent Kirkham. Scary!! Double spooky. Weird! Well it would have been my name, had not my cousin who is slightly older than me, being christened three weeks before my ceremony. Mum and Dad were not happy. Not happy at all. I thought that they were going to trade me in for a different model. Or perhaps a dog? Or, because it was war time, a few clothing coupons. They saw my potential. They kept me. But they had to think of another name ... hence I became known as Colin.

When I was young, I was Colin. Not Col but always Colin. Simple Colin. There were no other Colins around. Well besides Colin Cowdry and Colin Campbell, but they had standing. Kudos. Classy sorts. None of your working class hoi polloi were called Colin. And so I grew up. Still few Colins around. I was THE one. THEN, along came the TV programme, The Brittas Empire. The repulsive gym attendant was called ‘Colin’. Every crook and low life on film, TV and radio from that point in time became a Colin. The secretary of State in the US was so ashamed of the association with all these reject from society that he decided to call himself Colin, pronounced Co-Lynn. And who can blame him? Who wants to be tarred with that brush? Even Joan stuck n extra ‘L’ in her name. Last week I was trudging around the Coventry War Memorial Park and someone started shouting ‘Colin’, ‘Colin’. I skidded to a halt thinking someone was calling me to give me a £1 or two for the two children’s charities* for which I am attempting to trudge for 4 hours around the city streets of London. ‘Colin’, ‘Colin’. I saw no one I knew. The penny then dropped. An old lady was calling her DOG. HER DOG. Not even a pedigree but a scruffy, louse ridden four legged rat. Sorry Blog, I am going state side.

         Yours Co-Lynn.

P.S. Have you noticed that the former Secretary of State isn’t the only one at it. The country Kenya is now the country Kenya. The Himalayas are now the Himalayas. Boadicea from our school days is now Boadicea. Michelin is Michelin, Margarine is Margarine .... when will the whole thing stop? ‘You say Potato, I say potato. I say tomato, you say tomato.....’  but it isn’t really a joke anymore. Lets clean up all the Colins out there!

Ref * Tiny Tim’s Children’s Centre and Newlife. (£1 per guess at my finishing time in the London Marathon if you wish to win my medal, my t-shirt, etc. but just donate if you just wish to give)

I've got your number!

Time line:-  Tuesday March 15^th 11:52 GMT.  

Location:- The Kirkham residence.   

Assignment:- To receive Her Majesty’s mail.

DEEAR BLOG,

                      I  AM INCENCESED. Today my Virgin London Marathon number arrived, as did my daughter’s. Whilst she has only three digits on her race number, I have FIVE. Five!!! Five, I ask you. It’s not Euro millions we’re playing here. Five! I don’t need a vest to run in any more – just staple the numbers together and wrap it round my chest.  ... ‘here he comes now, it’s Colin Kirkham, over 65 veteran from that well known running club from the Midlands, the Twenty Six Thousand Three Hundred and Fifty Five Harriers and Athletic Club. Oooooooh, I do like his duckie vest.’

My daughter has three digits, which means she will be a taxi ride down the road from me when we set off. NOT FAIR. By the time I reach the start line, she’ll be having tea and cucumber sandwiches with the Queen; and you can bet she won’t save me one. In fact I bet she won’t even notice me go past from the Palace balcony. INJUSTICE. What makes matters worse is that I have been proper poorly. Missed five days of trudge. I cannot remember having such a span off trudging before – ever! So my 4 hour target may have to snitch a minute or two ...

And then when I started to shuffle again, I fell over. Which is quite pleasing because it is the first fall I’ve had since the week before Christmas, which in itself must be a p.b.. Over the last couple of decades, I reckon I fall / trip / tumble etc. about once per month. Why? Seen me trudge?? Yes? Exactly. So why ask!!! Touch wood, I usually end up only bruised, scratched, nettled, grazed; so why no serious injuries over the years? All due to the 1944 Education Act, dear Jeeves. I went to a tough NORTHERN BOY’S GRAMMAR SCHOOL. Hours and hours and hours and hours were spent in games lessons learning how to fall correctly, so avoiding injury in rugger matches – rugby of course, being the original reason the grammar schools were created. When you’ve fallen in mud, on frozen concrete ground, on the feather soft floorboards of the gymnasium floor a few thousand times, believe you me, you grow an inbuilt cushioning mechanism. If you can survive a rugby tackle, gouging is no problem, the odd fist is of no consequence, a boot in the goolies – hardly noticeable! So I fell. I picked myself up, dusted myself down and started all over again. All I have to do now is ignore the arthritis in my big toe, the painful  adductors in both legs, my upset stomach and the throbbing tooth that isn’t there, and trudge 26 miles and those bloody 385 yards. Just watch out you other twenty six thousand three hundred and fifty four. Watch out, Blog’s about.

          Nice one Colin.

Look after the pennies and the pounds will ....

Photograph Competition:

Photo no. 6

Christmas handicap  I am on the extreme right, but which of my team mates is a kidnapper and murderer?

Tiny Tim’s Children’s Centre and Newlife. (£1 per guess at my finishing time in the London Marathon if you wish to win my medal, my t-shirt, etc. but just donate if you just wish to give

Dearest Blog,

                   You call via the inter stellar satellite network linkup on Friday was a pleasant surprise. It was also very sweet of you to send me that ‘Get Well’ card. Most considerate. Just one tinsie winsie point. I have had an upset stomach and a chill, so was the ‘With Sympathy’ and the black border on the card not going a little over the top? I met some very nice people on Thursday, you should have come along with me; it was most humbling experience. ‘Kidz in the Middle’ at the Rioch Stadium saw all aspects of solutions offered to disabled children. It was heartening at the number of parents and kids who turned up at the ‘Newlife’ stand to say a personal ‘thank you’ to staff for their help and assistance. It certainly gives me a more generous view of the world we live in than the one so often portrayed in the news media.

I didn’t realise at £1 per go what hard work it was collecting. I have published the first 100 or so guesses, which must have raise £200 +. Some people gave more than £1 and only wanted one guess, some gave but were no bothered about the medal etc.. The interesting sub 2 hour clocking, when told that the particular time was impossible, retorted that that was the predicted time at which I would drop out!!! So we now have a sub competition by default ... the finishing time also doubles up as the time at which I trudge to a road side halt! Thanks friends.

I have not used names, just initials ... if anyone wants to alter ... get in touch.

Initial Guess Address? R.P. 01:50:59 L.S. 03:56:00 R.P. 02:01:00 N.B. 03:56:30 E.K. 02:01:00 H.P. 03:57:02 C.O. 02:29:59 H.S. 03:57:33 J.H. 02:43:00 J.L. 03:57:35 C.O. 02:45:10 B.L. 03:57:36 E.K. 02:59:02 T.W. 03:58:00 R.P. 03:00:00 J.S. 03:58:00 C.O. 03:10:40 A.T. 03:58:20 E.K. 03:11:20 D.R. 03:58:22 D.S. 03:12:00 A.W. 03:58:25 E.K. 03:16:01 B.H. 03:58:58 J.B. 03:20:00 A.I. 03:59:00 J.M. 03:20:00 J.G. 03:59:05 C.M. 03:24:00 C.B. 03:59:10 J.T. 03:25:01 M.K. 04:00:00 R.P. 03:30:00 E.K. 04:00:10 G.R. 03:30:20 J.M. 04:01:13 C.M. 03:30:30 B.W. 04:01:20 L.C. 03:34:30 G.H. 04:01:28 R.B. 03:38:00 C.P. 04:01:30 D.P. 03:38:20 D.C. 04:02:00 S.S. 03:38:38 H.L.? 04:02:00 L.W. 03:40:00 J.F. 04:03:16 E.S. 03:40:00 J.P. 04:04:01 J.S. 03:40:01 H.S. 04:05:00 M.C. 03:42:20 C.T. 04:05:20 J.F. 03:42:24 P.F. 04:09:00 D.M. 03:43:10 R.P. 04:10:00 S.K. 03:45:00 R.B. 04:10:09 R.S. 03:45:00 A.B. 04:12:20 H.F. 03:47:00 A.C. 04:13:00 A.B. 03:47:02 M.C. 04:13:00 J.D 03:47:39 A.S. 04:20:30 J.R. 03:48:00 J.O. 04:24:00 G.G. 03:48:17 J.P. 04:25:01 E.F. 03:48:37 J.O. 04:25:10 S.C. 03:49:08 N.N. 04:26:02 A.E. 03:49:52 E.W. 04:27:45 C.F. 03:50:00 D.C. 04:30:00 J.G. 03:50:00 J.M. 04:30:33 T.H. 03:50:10 A.S. 04:32:00 N.S. 03:51:19 S.J. 04:33:11 K.G. 03:51:21 E.B. 04:35:15 J.B. 03:52:03 J.O. 04:38:04 C.K. 03:52:06 L.W. 04:45:00 I.B. 03:52:40 * J.O. 04:45:03 K.B. 03:54:00 N.K. 04:54:00 S.T. 03:54:16 J.H. 05:00:00 C.P. 03:55:25 J.P. 05:01:01 M.M. 03:56:00 J.O. 05:10:00 J.P. 05:39:00 J.P. 06:13:25 M.C. 06:55:00  Colin