How am I supposed to run with this?

The "this" I refer to, of course, is the stuff hanging round my middle!

I now understand why other Olympic athletes spend their Christmases appearing on celebrity Who Wants to be a Millionaire, being interviewed by Bobby Davro or competing in Ready, Steady Cook. That's why I'm marking next Christmas down as a dead cert two weeks off.

Its impossible to do any serious Olympic training because I seem constantly to have either a glass of something or a chunk of meat in my hands. Being a popular athlete and something of a media celebrity I'm also in demand to attend parties, corporate functions and community events. Well I should be - and this is something that is beginning to rankle. To be honest, the only invite I've had is from the local Jehovaha's Witnesses to join them for a cup of coffee and a mince pie. I gave that one short shrift and instead concentrated on a spot of carbo laoding with my mate Ernie.

It culminated in a turkey-fest yesterday that's left me clinging on to the Andrews tin this morning and wondering just how my colleagues in the UK 2012 Olympic Elite athletes squad will be spending their Christmas. Because, as I sit here now, slightly flaky I admit, I'm actually waiting for the Half Share in the House to bring me my lycra - because this kiddie is not anticipating another day of consumption - I've got a Gold Medal to win!

Yep - you see your man here has that dedication, that drive and that determination that separates us Special Ones from ordinary people and Welsh men. And that's why, in a little under two hourse, I'll be popping along to Westfield for one of those piddling 10K's. Yep - that's right. I'll be pounding the streets again. And tomorrow I'll be down at Stallones my local gym for another hard session before packing up the Alegro for my journey into the unknown on Friday. In other words, the training just doesn't stop for us kiddies.

So, on Friday I'm going to a place called the North to take part in the Ribble Valley 10K in Lancashire. I don't venture up north too much because I like my car and would like to get it back in one piece. But I understand that as a media celebrity I'm 'ownded' by the whole country - not just the civilised parts. So, I'm going to try and ingratiate myself with those poor northern people by trying to identify with their hopes, their dreams and, of course, their peculiar dress sense.

Of course its not my first experience of the north, I once went to Northampton and I used to like Little and Large. But it did get me thinking about the north. And I've come up with these ten great reasons why everybody should try running in the north of England - at least one.

1. You can run with your dog.
2. You don't need fancy running shoes - wellies, brogues or boots are perfectly acceptable.
3. Pie stations on the course.
4. You can take the mick out of people from Yorkshire and know that everybody will love you even more.
5. You can get to call everybody 'Cocker'.
6. All the other runners are smiling even though its lashing down with rain and you're running up a hill.
7. You can turn up in a 1994 Ford Escort and people admire your car.
8. You know that the T shirts you get for finishing the race will always be big enough for you.
9. Running in a string race with braces on your shorts is considered acceptable.
10. Carbo loading Lancashire style is just wonderful - pies, peas and Eccles Clakes.

Anyway, you carry on lying on the couch, braeking wind and reaching for another can of Worthingtons - I've a Gold Medal to collect!

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Getting ready for the Big Off

So, whilst you lot are sitting back with a belly of sprouts, please spare a thought for us Olympic hopefuls. You see, one day just merges into another - the same gruelling routine day in, day out. But that's the sacrifice you have to make for athletic glory.

So, I'll be carbo loading right through to the New Year. I have to admit, I've done pretty well so far this month. I decided to put myself on a Guinness diet - because Guinness is good for you - and it's worked a treat. I've lost four days already!!

So, what does Christmas mean to an elite athlete? Well, this kiddie will be out with a mix of pumping the flesh and hard mileage over the next two weeks. Tomorrow I'll be at the Christmas Pudding Dash in a place called Battle. Highly appropriate if the bunch of has-beens and alcohol-fuelled drop outs that turned up last year decide to make a return. I'll be there doing a bit of PR to meet some of my Ronettes - and I'll probably be demo-ing my one fingered press-up, anal crunch and pelvic squirt routine. But I'm not running - it doesn't fit in with my schedule. Tomorrow is a double lunch day and a run just doesn't work.

On Boxing Day I'll be running in a local 10K near Hastings - no doubt dodging the needles and debris on my way round the course. Next Sunday I'll be going to a place called the North of England for the Ribble Valley 10K - and that will be it for what has been an interesting year for this kiddie.

2008 is set to be a momentous year in the Ron calendar. We've been invited to run in lots of countries, including Norway, Italy, Belgium, Holland, Ireland, Luxembourg - and France. But top of the sheet will be a small event we're doing in November - the Himalayan 100. How about that for an exciting year?

Anyway, I'll no doubt be back to you before the Big Day on Tuesday - but if we don't meet, from your favourite Olympic kiddie to all you ordinary people out there 'Have a Happy Christmas'.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Dykes, Dog Poo and Mad Dutchmen - all in a days work for an Olympic hopeful.

I've stepped up my training this week. You see, the likes of Paula Wotsit and co. all relaxing by the pool or spending their hard-earned in Monte Carlo might be OK for them - but to this kiddie here, the Gold Medal in 2012 will only be in my mitts if I keep up the training. You have to have a strong work ethic. And because my summer of discontent has upped the old weight a tad, I reckoned a couple of weeks hard work now will soon have me back to running near-world class times again.

I'm currently in a place called France - and in a town that seems to be obsessed with running.

Its called Le 2K.

How cool is that?

Mind you I can run that distance in my sleep - but isn't it just typical of the French to aim low? The Greeks had a town called Marathon. And the French have a town called Le 2K. I think that says it all don't you?

I mean, just how unambitious can you get?? That's why the French are tosh when it comes to running and Olympic success and why the Greeks are ... well, drug cheats.

The other thing about France that makes running such an ordeal is the dog poo. This Le 2K place is right on the beach - its got a smart prom, some decent bars, good restaurants and fancy shopping. But try and go for a run along the prom and you spend the entire session dodging big dollops of dog poo. Perhaps that's why the French are so good at skiing - they have to slalom just to walk to work!!

Anyway, I managed a four mile run tonight and tomorrow morning its a 6 miler and then its back to Blighty in time for the Kent Christmas Cracker race on Sunday. I'm not running myself but will be there to start the race, sign a few autographs etc.

Of course, I'm still in catch up mode with you Ronettes - and there's an adventure or two I've still to tell you about. For instance, I didn't tell you about my little trip to Arnhem in a flat country called Holland - and yes, I did get into trouble over some comment about Dykes but that's for another day. I stayed there to take in a local race which, not to put too fine a point on it - is sheer lunacy.

The Bergrace By Nacht race is an event held in Wageningen, near Arnhem. The race is run from the top of one mountain to the peak of another. Great. But the peaks are no more than 40 ft! So, yes, it is a flat country!!

To make things interesting though, the race is held in darkness - with the top event, run over 11.6K, setting off at 10.30 pm. The runners have to negotiate their way along dark, country lanes with no street lighting - and the finish line is in a zoo. With a cheesy 70's disco in full swing as you cross the line.

And this barking mad event attracts over 3,000 runners.

From there we travelled on to Saint Hillaire Cotte in Northern France for another embarrassing shot at trying to get one over the French. Yours truly did manage to prise a trophy from the Frogs, but, apparently it was only given to me on account of my celebrity status. This kiddie doesn't do patronising. So, after politely but firmly telling the Mayor of Saint Hillaire what I felt about his gesture and where he could stick his trophy, I decided to do the decent thing.

I got trolloped at his expense.

In fact so begorrah-ed was I that I left my wallet, my door key, my Dunlop Green Flashes and my passport in his chuffing bar!! So, how was I to get back to Blighty?

I decided to front up and when I arrived back in Calais I made my way to HM's Immigration Numpties - and what a bunch of humourless toe rags they are too eh? I tried to explain who I was - I don't like using the 'Don't you know who I am' trick, but, hey, needs must. Anyway, they were having none of it.

So, I held my hands up. I said I'd got no passport, no money, nowhere to stay (I hammed that one up a bit for a bit of sympathy) - and, because I'd enjoyed a few Leffes, I ventured to say that I had no obvious means of support.

At that, the Numptie raised his eyebrows, gave me a smile - and before you could say Olympic Dream, he'd arranged for me to have a house, some money, new clothes for the kids, a whole heap of furniture and more Tesco food vouchers than you could shake a stick at!!

And all for turning up at the border with no passport or money!

So, all's well that ends well eh?

Keep on tapering.

Ron

A right old caper

Well, I had my first visit to the racing circuit for some considerable time today when I visited Caravan County for the Swanley Christmas Caper. Yep, whilst that bunch of lightweights, losers, drug cheats and a Welshman were busy enjoying hospitality from the BBC at their Sports Non-Personality of the Year Awards (yes - it does still rankle, OK?), your man here was busy pounding the streets of Kent, getting more miles under my belt. Because that's what you need to do if you're to bring home the Olympic bacon.

I was going to go with my mate Ernie, but a spot of local difficulty with the barmaid at the Carrot & Turnip on Friday night had left him otherwise indisposed. So, I decided to do a touch of community service and collected Granddad Stan the Bandana Man from the Rye Sunshine Home and set off with him.

I have no problem putting a little back into a community that gives me so much in terms of support and fan-worship but sometimes you do wonder. I can put up with the dribble and the frequent toilet stops but the incessant car noises and shrieks of delight every time we pass a lorry do get a bit tiresome.

Anyway, we turn up at Swanley and to be fair I think we found the only 45 minute window with a break in the horrible weather that hit the south east today. It gave me just about enough time to do a bit of flesh pumping and a wander round the race car park to shake hands with a few of those who'd turned out in such nasty weather to see me.

I had to curtail my pre-race programme of anal crunches and pelvic squirts though when Granddad Stan started to cause a bit of a kerfuffle. I'd made the mistake of telling him he could run the race - but that I'd have to enter him on the day. I know this particular road running term has got me into trouble before - particularly on some foreign trips - but Granddad Stan, I'd discovered, was doing his best to destroy the carefully constructed Ron 'brand'. He started telling anybody who would listen to him that the lycra clad 2012 Olympic Gold Medallist hopeful currently doing the one-fingered press-ups was a mate of his. Irritating yes, but fair enough.

Above: Granddad Stan the Bandana Man
But then he started pointing out that the display would need to be curtailed because "He's promised to enter me before the race". Well, for beggars sake, it just didn't go down too well - and I had visions of the Ron brand being destroyed in a flurry of gay sex innuendos. So, I carefully kneed Granddad Stan in the groin - and dragged him away to sort out our numbers for the race. That also irritated me because I had to pay to enter - and as I pointed out to the organisers, I thought it a bit rich inviting me to boost their entry and then rubbing my nose in it by taking ten quid off me.

I enjoyed the run though - came in bang on my target time of 42.47 for the 4.2 mile circuit - I would have done it quicker but I did stop to sign some girl's t-shirt on the way round.

I managed to drag Granddad Stan away from Swanley eventually. The Caper encourages fancy dress and he'd won a prize for the best use of a bandana and primary colours - I didn’t have the heart to tell the organisers that he always dressed that way. I got over his puzzlement at getting a trophy by telling him he'd won a prize for the 1st Vet of No Fixed Abode.

And the trophy came in handy on the way home as it reduced the number of toilet stops.

Then I went home and continued my seethe about my non-appearance on the BBC's farcical Sports Personality of the Year.

I ask you - it was given to a bloke from Wales. That's what's wrong with this country, you know. I've always said that the answer to this country's growing population crisis was very simple. Just ask one question on the Immigration paperwork - "Are you Welsh?” Answer affirmative and you're deported - preferably to France where the two cultures could sit in abject misery. moaning about whatever took their fancy for ever more.

And if you wanted to know the consequences of ignoring that advice then it was there for all to see on our television screens at 9 o’clock when the fighter bloke won the gong.

I really don't know what this country is coming to.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Still seething - but humble too

I'm still seething about my non appearance on the shortlist for the BBC Sports Personality of the Year Award and, in addition to firing off a letter to Jeremy Paxman, I've decided to send a similar letter to Jonathan Ross seeing as how thinks he's all high and flippin' mighty now.

But, do you know something. I'd no sooner popped the letter in an envelope and sent The Droog off to the GPO when I had this sudden rush of humility. I started thinking about how fortunate I am to have been chosen to take part in the Olympic Games - when most other people don't even get to watch the bally thing never mind take part. And think too of all those poor countries like Biafra, The Ivory Coast, Panama, New Zealand and Wales who will never get to taste the sweet smell of Olympic success.

And it got me thinking again about great it is to be an Olympic hopeful.

I couldn't wait to share them with you - so here are my 10 reasons why it feels great to be an Olympic hopeful:

1. The Half Share in the House has started running 10 miles a day. Fantastic. She's reached Edinburgh now.

2. I get to experience heavy breathing every day rather than twice a year and birthdays.

3. Running as an Olympian is free and cheaper than the gym. And people wave at you more!

4. If you go for a run first thing in the morning, by the time you've woke up, you've finished!

5. Gym exercises are stupid. If God had meant us to touch our toes, he'd have put five on each eyebrow.

6. You can invite a friend to accompany you on a 20 mile training run - then tell them you'll catch them up. Then turn round after a mile and go home for a bacon sandwich. Childish maybe - but funny. And OK its nothing to do with being an Olympian - and my mate Ernie can't run 20 miles anyway.

7. There are occasions during the year when your stomach covers your flabby thighs.

8. Run each day and you die healthier.

9. If you are going to do cross-country running, start with a small country.

10. Running helps memory retention

10. Running helps memory retention.

So, I'm off to Caravan County this Sunday to see all my fans in the Swanley area. I'll be going through my routine of anal crunches and pelvic squirts just prior to the start of the Swanley Christmas Caper - so, if you're anywhere near England, why not come along and touch my lycra?

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Not on your life!

Don't you just like it when a plan comes together.

Your man here went into the weekend full of optimism. I was up for a swift 10 mile dash along the seafront in the Thanet 10 Mile event. I usually enjoy my trips to Caravan County and my appearance there, I know, would have boosted the turnout, with a legion of Ronettes planning on bowling up to cheer me on.

But I didn't go.

I bottled out.

Why?

Because my friends it was cold. It was cold, it was wet - and it was blowing a chuffing gale. So I went for plan B and went down the Cabbage and Turnip for a couple of snifters. Yes, I know it was wimpish but you just can't mess around with an elite athlete's body. I know it was a shame because, as well as greeting my Ronettes, I desperately wanted to get back in to racing mode - but, my return will have to wait another week and for my visit to Swanley next Sunday.

However, you'll be pleased to know though that my training over the last two weeks has gone swimmingly well. I've managed to get 20 or so miles a week under my belt - albeit most of them have been down at Stallones, my local Muscle Emporium.

I've also spent a little time trying to develop my racing strategy for 2008. With only four years to go before the 2012 Olympics I really need to up the ante regarding my personal appearances and media profile. I was desperately disappointed not to have been nominated for the BBC Sports Personality of the Year and I'll be firing a letter off to Jeremy Paxman to make my feelings abundantly plain.

Anyway, bringing you up to speed with my activities over the Autumn, I made my annual trip to Amsterdam, which is a city in a place called Europe, in October for the Marathon. Although I had no intention of running the full distance, I had high hopes of a nippy time in the Half Marathon. But I got hit with a beggar of an injury and had to sit the event out.

Above: They 'P' in the streets in Holland! Standards have not improved in Europe.
What made it even more of a bind was that I went with the Nice Work chaps and they literally left me holding the bags! Yep, I was like some mum at a fairground, weighed down with kit bags, running gear and various valuables. That's fine - but I had to sit there for some six chuffing hours in that concrete Olympic Stadium of theirs! And guess what? Yes, it was flippin' cold again.

Above: Some of my Ronettes in the stadium in Amsterdam
Anyway I did manage to slope off for a bit of R 'n' R and strangely enough, I found myself in some dodgy bar down the red light area. I was quite happy enjoying my Leffe when in walked a bloke with a pet alligator under his arm.

He put the alligator up on the bar and announced to all and sundry "I will open this alligator's mouth and place my genitals inside. Then the beast will close his mouth for one minute. He will then open his mouth and I will remove my bits unscratched. In return for witnessing this spectacle, each of you can buy me a beer."

Well I, for one, was up for this spectacle - so I chucked my couple of euros on the bar. At which, the chap stood up on his bar stool, dropped his kex, and placed his privates in the alligator's open mouth.

Then the alligator closed his mouth.

After a minute, the man grabbed a beer bottle and whacked the alligator hard on the top of its head. The alligator opened his mouth and the man removed his genitals unscathed.

Well, was I impressed!!

The crowd cheered and the first of his free beers was handed to him.

The man emptied his glass, stood up again and made another offer. "I will pay anyone in the audience who is willing to give this a try 100 euros."

Not many takers I have to say, until, after a minute or so, a hand went up in the back of the bar. And this blonde woman timidly spoke up.

"I'll give it a try. But you have to promise not to hit me on the head with the beer bottle."

Keep on tapering

Ron