Himalayan 100 Mile Stage Race – Day 1. Manybhanjang to Sandakphu

This was it – the start of my grand adventure in a distant outpost of the Empire. The conundrum I faced was – OK I may be a legend in my own country but would my silky PR and diplomatic skills and athletic prowess be truly appreciated by a load of foreign people?

We would soon find out.

My altitude acclimatisation programme seemed to have worked OK – but to be on the safe side and to get a few extra feet I slept on the top bunk. And after swallowing my morning cocktail of drugs – Dimox for altitude, Malaria, Decongestion tablets, Imodium for the ... you know .... and Neurofen because of the damned dogs keeping me awake again, I stumbled out of bed at 4.45 for the 5 am bus which arrived bang on Himalayan Time at 5.30. After a box of breakfast stuff we then endured the 90 minute bus journey to Maneybhanjang, a small village on the border between Indialand and Nippall. The village is at 6,600 ft – which is a bit high. But this was nothing compared to our destination today – the mountaintop settlement of Sandakphu which is plonked a few feet short of 12,000 ft.
Maneybhanjang is a funny name for a town but the atmosphere ain't much of a barrel of laughs as, amongst the machine gun posts little men with funny hats did funny dances and tried to make music with an assortment of tin cans and whistles. It was here then as the assembled athletes gathered that the rest of the field got their first site of a living legend and Olympic Gold Medallist in waiting. I must admit I felt really proud as I demonstrated my anal crunch and pelvic squirt warm-up to the rest of the field – it was, if you like, a kind of mating dance. Or a Ron-ish Haka. Not that I wanted to mate with any of the other athletes (although the young filly from New Zealand would have made a fine catch) – but it was telling the rest of the field “I'm here. I might not be actually running against you. But I'm here.” My influence was certainly going to be felt. And there was, I swear, an audible gasp of relief as I told the rest of the field to go out and enjoy the event – no pressure because I wouldn't be competing against them. Captain Underpants looked particularly relieved.


As I made my way to the start line I had assumed that I would be called upon to start the race but when I got there they'd got some flippin local dignitaries to press the button – I have to say I was a bit miffed but I decided that I could rise above the snub. So I broke wind in front of the Race Director instead – I thought that would signify my displeasure in a way that he would understand.

The weather was hot with no clouds and temperatures in the low 70's as we waited for the off. The runners would be facing 24 miles today. The route climbed some 6,000 ft with the vast majority of the route a very steep uphill route along the made-up cobble road which serves as the border between the two countries.



The road was constructed for an Indian King, so he could reach Phalut, 56 kilometres away, to watch the sunrise over the four peaks of Mount Everest, Lhotse, Makalu and Kanchenjunga – four of the five highest mountains in the world.

Apparently once the road was finished, it was never used by the King – which I think is very mean of him. You get some idea of the terrain when you realise that it takes almost 7 hours to cover the route in a jeep.

This kiddie here decided to see how far I could walk before it got dark – and I set off full of enthusiasm and with a small entourage of well-wishers and some girls in tow. One girl called Joe was from Canadia but otherwise very nice. Another Brit girl called George became an instant Ronnette. I rued my luck at only being able to attract girls with boys names.

I quickly realised how difficult today was going to be when we were forced to stop – our lungs just couldn't take in enough oxygen and I was already peeling off my clothing – and I encouraged my new girl admirers to do the same. The old legs were painful and my muscles were burning with the effort. Then one of our companions looked at her GPS and confirmed we had indeed reached the 200 metre mark. But we soon got into the swing of things and after three hours we were relieved to see the distance marker ahead – 4 kilometres it said. Only another 30-odd to go!!



The route is pretty and showed some lovely views of Indialand and Nippall – it reminded me of Yeovil. We passed lots of men with machine guns and also passed through some remote villages and settlements – and in all of them the locals, and the children especially, came out of their little house-type things to welcome us and encourage us. One bizarre sighting was of a man selling fish by the side of the road - at 10,000 ft up a mountain with no villages for miles. He didn't seem to have done much business and I gave him a quick resume of my knowledge of “Business Locations That Are Not Very Good”.

The challenge not to enter Nippall was met and overcome and I wandered into the country with my new friend Joe. Slight technical hitch though as we stood on Nippallese ground and were then told that it was tradition that travellers need to marry each other in order to return. I looked at Joe. Joe looked at me. I suggested a compromise and just do the funny rude bits but leave the ceremonial stuff behind. Joe kneed me in the groin and left me writing in Nippallese agony.

So, back to Indialand we came.





And then, at 13K, it happened.

The life I had packed so much into in such a short space of time almost came to a swift and bloody end.

By the time we reached 13K we had been climbing/trekking/walking for some six hours and my entourage had dwindled to ... one. I was with Joe my new friend from Canadia and I had just finished telling her about some of my successes and conquests when I heard a loud rumbling noise from the undergrowth behind me. I stopped and listened as the noise got louder and louder. And the cause of the rumbling noise thing got nearer and nearer.

Suddenly there was a loud crash and about 30 yards away the shrubs and bushes parted – and out towards me thundered a large black animal. As it got closer I spotted two enormous tusks – the tusks of a Wild Boar. The beast was now heading straight for me. I immediately took charge of the situation and in a kind of military fashion I held up my hand and shouted “Stop. Wild Boar. Stop!!”. It might have sounded like “Ooooowwwwmmmmm” but I knew what I was trying to say. The beast was obviously deaf because it took not a blind bit of notice but it had been spooked sufficiently to change its course and thankfully it veered away from and carried on its charge.

Straight towards my new friend Joe from Canadia.

I was now concerned for her welfare – and I didn't particularly fancy hoying an injured woman over my shoulder and carting her up a mountain – so I shouted a warning noise to her and, thankfully, she turned just in time for the Boar to thunder past her and missing her legs by nothing more than a few millimetres.

It was then that I discovered that adrenalin smells. Shaking like a leaf I don't mind telling you Ronnettes, I was petrified. This kiddie could just see the headlines “World Famous Olympic Champion Boared To Death In Himalayan Challenge Drama”. And “Brave Ron In Tragic Death After Saving Somebody Else Rather Than Himself First”.


Scared? You bet your sweet bippy as Pope John Paul used to say.

At 17K we had gone as far as the light would allow us and the rest of the journey was completed in a jeep. I made my mind up never ever to go in a jeep ever again. Three hours pressed with my face against a spare wheel, my legs at right angles to spare fuel cans, an overwhelming stench of diesel and the roughest bumpiest road you have ever seen.

So this was the lot of an Olympic Gold Medallist eh?


We finally arrived in Sandakphu at 6 o'clock in pitch black darkness and the temperature now somewhat south of freezing. After a bowl of soup and something that may have been food, I made it into my hut and stumbled into my sleeping bag at 7 o'clock. Fully clothed and trying desperately not to think of toilets I tried to sleep.

The Half Share had finished Day 1's 24 mile run in 9 hours 30 minutes and whilst I did comment that it wasn't very fast and, indeed was a personal worst for the distance - I did also say that I was proud of her achievements – and to prove it I gave her a cursory nod of the head and shook her hand. The route for the runners was identical to that of us trekkers – and so 85% of the day was spent walking with just the occasional break for a flat bit of road.

Her day had been tough with the only relief being when she was flashed at by a soldier – well I told her he'd probably saved me a job. Unfortunately she'd not been able to enjoy the scenery because she spent the entire day looking at the ground as she negotiated the potholes and cobbles. She stopped a number of times to pose for photographs with soldiers – and I reminded her again that perhaps next time she might focus more on running rather than flirting – and that maybe she wouldn't have posted such a slow time. Meanwhile Captain Underpants completed the course in 4 hours 11 minutes – a record for the stage. If you want my view its a stupid time. Fancy paying all that money and not taking your time.

I saw MOS a couple of times during the day but she was muttering about there being no Debenhams or BHS en route. Cheered up when she saw the man selling fish – at least she could buy something then. Her poor Personal Shopper Assistant went ahead of her to carry her high heels and blouses. I felt sorry for the poor man - all that way and he was nothing more than a Sherpa for MOS.


Our accommodation was a series of mountain huts. No electricity, no heating, other than a pile of wood burning in a tin can, no running water and a hole in the ground for ablutions. And this was to be my home for two nights. I made a mental note to make sure any future personal appearances contained certain minimum accommodation standards.

A restless night with me desperate not to let the effect of five days of eating curry spoil my sleeping bag and I tossed and turned in my sleeping bag until finally it was 4 am on Tuesday.

Tomorrow I'll tell you what happened on the gruelling Day 2 stage – and how a mix up in my drugs cocktail very nearly spoiled a perfect day.

Keep on tapering

Ron

Day 3 in Indialand – a nice cup of tea in Darjeeling?

Well our first night at altitude – Mirik is around 6000 ft – saw me have what can only be described as a rotten night's sleep. Couldn't sleep? No I bally couldn't. And do you know why?

Because of the canine flippin' symphony being played constantly from 9 pm right through to 4 in the morning. Dog's barking the whole night long – only stopping their blazin' racket when the damn sun came up.

So now you know why there are so many dogs sleeping in the roads all the way through Indialand – they're all knackered because they've been up barking all night.

Anyway we're up this morning at 4 o'clock to see the sunrise and get back on board our charabanc to take a trip to Darjeeling. The journey is around 25 miles – which means a 2 hour bus journey starting at 5 am!

To try and counter the effects of altitude we're given Dimox tablets. That's fine - other than they were just white tablets and very similar to all the other medication I would subsequently need – but nobody warned me of the side effects. Within an hour of taking my first tablet I started getting pins and needles in my arms and legs – and, bizarrely, in my chest too. The sensation was similar to somebody boiling my blood.. It affected other people in different ways – the Half Share complained of swollen lips – but that could have come from the gin – and the MOS complained of being light headed. So no side effects there then.

The 5 am bus leaves bang on time – well bang on Himalayan time and we pull out of the Lodge at 6.40. The journey is through some pretty countryside, including more tea plantations and we begin the long climb into the mountains. In the distance we can see the peaks of Indialand's highest mountains – the impressive Mount Kanchenjunga is over 28,000 ft and the third highest mountain in the world. That's higher than the South Downs.

The road to Darjeeling is the border between Indialand and another country called Nipall and throughout the journey we pass checkpoints, armed soldiers and other nice men with guns. Himalaya Charlie makes it abundantly clear that we are not to set foot on the Nipallese side of the border.

So that's laid down a challenge then.

Darjeeling was an interesting place and it was full of those Gherkin people. They seemed really happy to see me and I made lots of new friends at the railway station when I dropped my wallet. I bought tea and curry for 26 whoopees – a bargain! We then boarded a steam train - oh how my fellow passengers enjoyed my steam train noises and impression of Casey Jones. I think I might have made some real friends on this trip already.

When we got off the train we visited a monastery - which was full of cheeky little monkeys - the zoo and the Himalayan Mountain Museum before stopping for a bite to eat. No curry today – we had a Chinese instead. Not sure that my comment “I could murder a Chinese” translated very well and my hosts don't speak to me much after that.

Our 3 pm return journey left bang on time at 4.15 and we began the long drive back to Mirik. The 25 miles fly past in no time in two and a half hours. Now, if the journey here was scary, it was nothing on the return – for which we had the added attraction of darkness and thick cloud cover to contend with.

We arrive home, grab a quick curry, take our Malaria, Dimox and other sundry pills and I'm tucked up in bed with a decent whisky by 8 o'clock.

Tomorrow I'm due to star in the start ceremony for the Himalaya 100 Mile Stage Race – and with a 4 am start I'll need my beauty sleep.

I'll be bringing you news of my first day in the event tomorrow – including news of a real-life near-death experience for your man here. No kidding Ronnettes – I was inches away from becoming a posthumous legend.

Tell you tomorrow.

Keep on tapering

Ron

Day 2 in Indialand – to the Himalayas, pronto please!

The old body clock wasn't in too good a shape this morning. More to the point, if you've ever had that morning after feeling following a couple of beers and an Indian after the pub – well I kind of had that, but instead of one Indian I'd now consumed about eight curries. And I felt like I had.

I seemed to be surrounded by an aura of pilau. Bhaji and tikka masala – so I felt great as we were propelled at some horrendous speed in a 1959 Ford Pop to the airport. The New Delhi Airport road is no place for the faint hearted at 6.30 in the morning – think North Circular at 78 rpm and you have an idea. To make things interesting, our driver was keen on demonstrating how to go around roundabouts the wrong way, how to T Bone an Ox and Cart and how to collect rickshaws on the bonnet of said Ford Pop. To be honest by the time I arrived at Indira Ghandi airport I was a quivering wreck – and so just to make sure the driver knew who was boss I decked him for giving me such an awful ride.

The MOS was complaining that the shops were still not open, the Half Share was sweating under the weight of all our luggage and even – wait for this – suggested that I carry some of my luggage! Err excuse me. Did Madonna carry Guy's luggage? Does Bobby Davro ever carry his own luggage? Err I don't think so Coco!! So I gave that suggestion short shrift and went to look for the VIP lounge.

They didn't seem to have my details at the VIP lounge so to avoid any further diplomatic incidents I decided to join the Half Share, the MOS and her Personal Shopper in the cafeteria for ordinary people and women. And guess what was for breakfast? Yep more spicy stuff, eggs and a curious drink – tea made in a cappuccino fashion. You would have thought that after all those years as part of the Empire they could have perfected the art of tea making eh?

After a quick visit to the shop to be ripped off for the last time for a week (200 whoopees for some flippin' chewing gum I ask you!!) we boarded the flight to Bagdogra. We arrived after a 2 hour flight and with the temperature nudging 30 degrees I was glad I was wearing my fleece. Bit of argy bargy with Himalaya Charlie when I found out I hadn't got a car but that I'd have to travel with the plebs on a bus. Me – on a bus!! I haven't been on a bus since I was in Class 5 at St Gabs Junior School in the 1960's – but I made sure I couldn't be seen and settled down for a bone breaking 2 hour journey up through the tea plantations towards the Lake Resort of Mirik.

I remember thinking that I was very impressed with this country – all the work in the fields was being done by women which I thought was a good idea. I'm not sure what time they finished work though – what happens about making dinner and cleaning duties I mused? But what a journey it was! We climbed high up into the mountains along switchback tracks and rough roads – this place was looking more difficult to find than Barns Green!!

Eventually we arrived in Mirik – which is in a place called Gherkinland. Apparently the local Gherkin people fight for the British army because there's no other work for the men – so its kind of like Scotland but not quite as wet.

Mirik was to be our base for the next couple days whilst we acclimatised to the altitude. I did try and insist that having spent three weeks in Fairlight, near Hastings I had no need for altitude training but this fell on deaf ears as well.

Our arrival in Mirik was slightly chaotic. No make that very chaotic. I met with Himalaya Charlie and was slightly disappointed to receive nothing more than a hand shake from him. After all I was here! I'd arrived! Ron was with him. He seemed more pre-occupied with people from other countries to spend all his time with me – and like, right Charlie – how many of them foreign people are Olympic medal hopes?

As well as me, the Half Share, the MOS, the MOS's Personal Shopper and about 20 other Brits, the assembled crowd of 63 participants was a motley crew. I think most of them were probably out of work by the look of them and most seem to have been ravaged by alcohol and good living (apart from a man from Scotland who was just plain white - all over). I made a mental note to try and make some contacts for future Olympic training locations. There were people from South Africa, New Zealand and the USA – so no shortage of bag carriers there. There were a couple of nice people from a place called Canadia which is a small place in the USA. The Europeans were well represented with a man called Captain Underpants from Austria prominent in more ways than one; plus a smattering of Italians, Spanish, Finns and Germans. All in all there was nobody there that I could see causing me any problems in the racing – if I was going to race – but the thing is ... could I manage them off the race track?

After a briefing from Himalaya Charlie it was another dinner of curry and bits.

It is at this point in the trip that I'm afraid I have to raise the subject of .... personal facilities. Yes – toilets. Now, this kiddie is made of stern stuff I can tell you. But I also have certain standards and, well lets just say that I steadfastly refuse to poo in anything other than a proper toilet. Holes in the ground and other French-like toilet devices just don't appear on the Ron radar – so tonight I faced my first real test of staying power. But I was determined. I wasn't going in no hole in the ground.

However I didn't mind having a little wizzy wazzy in a hole. And so it was that I found myself standing near one such hole and next to a German man. Both of us were being quite adult about the task in hand ie staring straight ahead and whistling. Then I felt something on my arm. I looked down to see the biggest flippin flying cockroach-y type thing you've ever seen.

I was so shocked at what I saw I let out a yelp and snatched my arm upwards to rid myself of the creature. Unfortunately my hand was, at that time, performing an important function to ensure that my aim was true. And as I wrenched my arm upwards I succeeded in not only ridding myself of the bug – but in giving my German companion a decent soaking well.

How to make an impression eh?

Another bit of argy bargy tonight with Himalaya Charlie over the amount of tips required by his people – 60 dollars each I thought was a bit excessive and probably enough to arm a medium sized third world country. I mean how many whoopees do these people need?

Anyway, after dinner we were then bussed to our digs about 20 minutes away from Race HQ. It was about 8 o'clock by now so I got myself changed, left the Half Share to unpack, sprayed some Old Spice behind the knees and wandered down to find the bar. The place though was in darkness. One local lad was guarding the place and I asked him about where to find a snifter. Well I might just as well have asked him to split the ruddy atom. After some persuasion he eventually told me that the nearest beer was about an hour's drive away. So what, I asked him, was I supposed to do now? Its 8.15 on a Saturday night – where's the action?

But there was none. So there was nothing left but to go back to my room. I opened my goodie bag for something to do – usual stuff, number, pins and .... err bright orange necktie and woggle!! I put mine on and looked like an advert for ruddy Tango so I made a mental note to have a word with Himalaya Charlie about the dress codes he was trying to implement.

And at 8.30 I went to bed. On my holidays!

I felt 10 again.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Day 1 in Indialand – our arrival in New Delhi

Well our friends from Catarrh Airlines delivered us safe and sound in New Delhi. We just had the one more curry and a tube or two of Kingfisher prior to landing – but, at last, here was Ron. Reaching out to the far flung spots of the Empire.

And let me tell you I've been to some far flung spots – but this was the farthest flungest and spottiest I'd ever been to. All I can say is that if this was New Delhi, this kiddie wasn't too fashed about seeing Old Delhi. Even at 4 o'clock in the morning the place was like Romford Market on Dole Day – it was heaving!!

I knew things were looking south when I saw the car that had been sent to collect me. I say 'car' but blimey I've seen newer wrecks in a scrap yard. I met up with Himalaya Charlie to hand over the rest of the spondoolicks to guarantee our places on the race – lost the MOS about four times. She's a compulsive shopper and kept going AWOL looking for duty free bargains. All I got from her was “There's no W H Smith”, “Where's the Dixons?”

However, a car had been arranged to take us from the airport to our New Delhi base. With average hotel prices around $350US, I'd decided to take the accommodation side of things under my control – and I found us somewhere for forty quid a night. Well, I mean, a bed's just a bed isn't it? So we made our way through the traffic and arrived at my mate AJ's – he was going to put us up for the night until our flight to the Himalayas. We decided on a couple of hours kip before spending a day introducing myself to my new found fans, admirers and Ronnettes in Indialand.

After breakfast we took off with our own personal driver, of course, for a day looking around this New Delhi place. And what an eye opener it was. These Indians are crazy!! There were cows and camels all over the place – dogs, both dead and alive in the street – they'd obviously never heard of tarmac roads – and they certainly left a tad to be desired when it came to driving, eating and other matters of a more personal and hygienic nature. In short, after an hour of the bustle, noise, smells, animals, beggars, hawkers, scammers and fixers this kiddie was beginning to lose the old sense of humour. As well as half the planet there either trying to sell me something or lift my leg, the place was heaving with Australian people.

They seemed to be perfectly at home with the hygiene standards and the apparent tolerance of no footwear in public places – but they were also getting their rumps pasted by the Indians at cricket. Indeed, by about 6 o'clock in the evening the city was dominated by a strange hissing sound - which we later discovered to be the population of Indialand collectively wetting itself at the plight of the poor colonials.

However, on the positive side, we did see some pretty sites – we saw a big red fort and, just like on the John Wayne films it was being attacked by Indians. The cowboys were also there but rather than fighting the Indialand they were focused on trying to sell me Indian antiques. I told them I was already married but my attempt at humour fell on deaf ears.

But the strangest thing did happen at the Red Fort – I kept getting asked for my photograph. I had already decided that I was going to dress to impress – and my all red-number seemed to be popular amongst the Indian chaps. This was more like what I was expecting and I was just glad into bring a little ray of sunshine into their otherwise humble existence.

Found a great curry house in Connaught Place – and after a couple of bottles of Baron's and a Tikka Masala I was up for anything. One thing that did annoy this kiddie though. Now I'm not racist – I used to have a friend from Yorkshire – but I was a little put out when I found out that the cost of going to see old stuff in India is much more expensive for foreigners. So, for non foreigners, it was 10 whoopees to go in the Red Fort – but for foreigners it was 250 whoopees. Now I don't have a problem with that per se – after all why should we subsidise Johnny Foreigner? But I tell you what I had the devil of a job persuading the Indians that I wasn't a foreigner!! They tried to accuse me of being foreign – when it was perfectly obvious to me and anybody else that they were the foreigners! The cheek of it. So, to cut a long story short, we had a good hour and a half argy bargy over the issue but in the end the MOS was so desperate to buy an elephant from one of the shops that she paid the damned money.

The strange thing is that that it wasn't the only time I was called a foreigner on this trip – and by the end of it all I was getting a little hacked off with it. Anyway we did the sights and went back to AJ's for a kip. Course being Friday night we had to go out so we went to the New Delhi equivalent of the Dog and Duck – they called it the Crown Plaza. Apparently I embarrassed the Half Share and MOS by asking for the pool table – and I thought the game was inventified out there!

We had a couple of snifters there then moved on to somewhere called Pebble Road, where after another curry I made some attempt at a joke and called the place the Pebble Dash – not funny says MOS who was, by this time heavily laden with shopping. Her obsession with trying to find a bargain was already having a profound effect on the Indian economy.

After the curry and a nightcap, your man here was feeling a bit overtrained so I decided to take the lead in getting us back to AJ's. They have these strange little motorised things called Put Puts or Tup Tups – cheap as chips and the only way to travel at 50 mph on three wheels whilst blindfolded. Kind of like travelling in a Reliant Robin on cocaine! So on we climbed and asked us to take us back to AJ's.

Slight technical hitch was that we didn't have his address – so it did take us some hours travelling the streets of New Delhi until finally we found our bed. How we found the place God only knows – headlights seem to be optional. No street lights, potholes and traffic that seems to select the left or right hand side of the road by tossing a coin.

Anyway we finally ended up home and after a nightcap with my new friend AJ it was off to bed. It was only after leaving AJ that I realised he still hadn't asked my for my autograph and I made a mental note to rectify that in the morning.

Keep on tapering

Ron

Here we go, here we go, here we go ....

Well Ronnettes I expect you're dying to know how come I was the star of the toughest race in the world. As you know my Olympic Gold medal prospects were placed somewhat on hold due to my knee problem. A problem confirmed by Kango Fingers, my psychotherapist.

I did, however, manage to pop over to Amsterdam – in a place called Holland – to make a guest appearance in the Olympic Stadium during the Amsterdam Marathon. I have to say when I eventually managed to scale the fence and wave to the assembled crowd from the track I didn't get quite the reaction I'd been promised. However, the policemen were quite accommodating once I'd proved my athletic prowess with my one fingered press-up routine – it certainly got the crowd a little animated!! Funny people those Hollanders.

Anyway it got me used once again to mixing it with fans and admirers – and so it was I made the final decision to join Himalaya Charlie as a kind of guest celebrity for his little Himalaya 100 Mile Race. I made it clear to HC that I would not be running the thing – but I'd try and do a spot of walking along the route – and that I was happy to press the flesh with the Nippalese and Indians along the way.

Its been an eventful year in many ways. I've made personal appearances in many different countries – Belgium, Paris, Luxembourg, Wolverhampton and even up to Norway and the frozen north – but this was to be my first trip to a country of the Empire.

But first I had to cover a few domestic issues.

The eldest Cash Drainer has now flown the nest – she's not taking up any space in the house, but she's now become a kind of human direct debit. Money disappears each month and we're not quite sure what we get for it. But that still leaves the Droog and the Sod at home – so I gathered them round the table and gave them a few home truths

I explained that times are hard at the moment. There's a credit crunch, recession and financial issues dominate households and businesses. In short, times are hard. So, it left me with no alternative but to order a tightening of belts, major cuts in household expenditure, paring down to the bare essentials, need to shop at Lidl and Aldi etc etc. Oh – and by the way me and the Half Share are beggaring off to Indialand for a fortnight's hols.

Mind you there were a couple of side deals to the trip. I could only go to Indialand on three conditions. 1. I had to take the Half Share in the House 2. Her Much Older Sister (MOS) had to come with us and 3. I had to be on best behaviour. I had no problem taking MOS – an etxra pair of hands to carry my bags would always come in handy.

And so it was that we began preparations for the trip. I called Himalaya Charlie and outlined my requirements with respect to food, lodgings, profile, exposure etc and he seemed reasonably happy with things. Tween you and I, though, the Empire doesn't quite seem to be what it used to be. Would you believe that he started to tell me what he expected of me. Well this kiddie takes no cheek from anyone. So I put him right on a few things and told him in no uncertain terms that my appearance in his event would be on my terms not his.

I think that bit might have been lost in translation though – because he just didn't seem to understand. However I'd sort him out when I got there I thought. In the meantime I started practising on a new warm up routine to replace my now well-known pelvic squirts and anal crunch programme. So now - for anal crunch read Ron's Instant Credit Anal Crunch and for Pelvic Squirts read Ron's Financial Gains Pelvic Thrusts.

The Half Share also let slip a horrifying thought. Apparently we'd been married for 16 blissful years on October 28th. We've actually been married for 20 years - but only about 16 of them have been blissful. So, our trip to Indialand was to be a kind of thanksgiving-type celebration of - and for - me. I could relax – certainly no running for this kiddie, I'd leave all that malarkey for the Half Share. Plus, to be honest, my stature has increased somewhat anyway and I'm not really in any fit state to run. In fact, I've ballooned and I was told quite frankly that the prospect of me hurtling down a mountainside was something not to be contemplated.

So, we took delivery of our tickets – we were flying with Catarrh Airlines, which I was told was quite good but to be honest so long as it had a wheel in each corner and a trolley dolly with a few sherbets I was happy flying with anyone.

And so it was on Thursday October 30th at some God only knows what time, I packed my duffel coat, put on my best fleece and waited for my mate Ernie to turn up in his Bedford to take us to London Airport. Once we got there I took on board a dose of carbohydrates and plumped for the full English – I had a feeling it was going to be my last decent meal for a little while.

We boarded the Catarrh Airlines flight from London to a place called the Middle East – which I had always thought to be Brentwood. But this Middle East place was a place called Doh!! in Catarrh How cool is that – having a place named after something from the Simpsons?? The MOS did try and throw a spanner in the works by trying to tell me that because it was an Arab type plane there would be no beer – but fears were lifted within 10 minutes of taking off when a tube of Carlsberg arrived on my table.

This was the life!! Top marks Catarrh Airlines!! Things got better – no sooner had breakfast settled than within half an hour of taking off it was lunchtime! More to the point it was a curry! So it was Chicken Tikka Masala and Nan Bread and more Carlsberg for the next three or four hours. And that's the way my Thursday went – beer, curry, sleep, film, beer, curry etc etc.

I have to say, that the old temperature went up a notch when the film came on and displayed the 18 certificate – weh hey I thought! But for some reason on came a film called Ice Age and the only rude bits I saw were a mammoths bum and a hens boob. Anyway it passed the time and then I had another curry – it was only 2 o'clock and I was on my third meal!!

But then a strange thing happened.

Somebody pinched half my day.

I was just blowing the froth off another tube when I happened to look out of the window – just in time to see the sun going down. I looked at my watch – and, yes, it was 2 o'clock in the afternoon. Then I asked one of the Catarrhists what time it was and she said it was 7 o'clock So who had pinched my five hours then? “Oh its OK” said the Catarrhist “You'll get them back when you get home”. But that was no bally good – I wanted all my holiday hours when I was on my holidays – not when I'd finished.

We eventually landed in Doh!! which is the capital of Catarrh. Well, Ronnettes – take a tip from me. Don't go there. Not a beer to be had anywhere. So I sulked for three hours until our flight was called to New Delhi – and very soon we would be in Indialand.

Just time for a couple more beers .... and another curry.

As we approached New Delhi, I had a funny feeling in my stomach. Something that I felt I might have to get used to over the coming days.

Oh what a cruel life.

Tomorrow I'll tell you about our first day in Indialand – and what a day it was!! Can you wait?

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Piece of cake!

Ron just wants you all to know that he survived his attempt to win the greatest race on earth (next to the Ashford 10K).

The Himalayas might be big. They might be tough. But they are now truly humbled.

















I'll bring you my soon-to-be-a-best-seller report very soon.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Oh Dear

Well Week 3 of my training to win the Himalaya 100 Mile Race in Indialand passed by with just a couple of notable incidents - which, I have to say, pale into insignificance compared with Week 4.

But more of that later.

I travelled over to France the weekend before last to try and get some endurance training under my belt. Not strictly a running weekend, the three days were spent walking the 30 or so miles between Boulogne and Le 2K in Northern France. Now isn't that just typical of the French? Naming a seaside town after five laps of the track!! The route took us three days or so and was comfortably interspersed with a liberal quantity of wine bars, food shops and a rather tasty hotel to lay my head.

In a way it was a humbling experience for your man here. Not being in the company of fans, admirers and other runners I felt more able to relax - I wasn't having to hide from a legion of well wishers or feel as though I had to put on a show for my fellow travellers.

Indeed it was almost like what it used to be before I became a celebrity. In fact I thought I struck a somewhat anonymous figure amongst a group of, lets face it, ordinary people. People with dogs; people with jobs. (Hell fire two of them even lived in a council house!).

Mind you I got a tad bored with it. Its all right not being noticed on sight. But after a while enough is enough. And so, after a couple of hours when, intros completed, and not one of them had posed even a single question about my Olympic ambitions I decided to let them into my little world. And right after Dinner on the Friday I decided "right - I'll show 'em!" So I did my 3 minute one fingered press-up routine, finishing off with a 10 rep session of anal crunches and pelvic squirts. My how they laughed in the restaurant! The locals even entered into the spirit of things and began chanting what I can only imagine is a French colloquialism for 'Olympic Champion'. Homber Seal they chanted Homber Seal Homber Seal .

What a great bunch of foreigners they were.

Unfortunately the English lot I was with couldn't stay to the end of my routine which I thought was rather grumpy of them - but there you go, there's no accounting for taste. Anyway, one of the couples were from Wales. Nuff said.

So the Saturday I felt in good shape and covered 10 miles and then the day after I managed a quite impressive 17 miles. And after a night in the French equivalent of the Royal Oak I went to bed believing that the jaunt up Everest was all but in the bag.

But, on the Monday morning, I awoke and my knee had done a Ratcliffe on me. It had decided to stop running. I could hardly get the thing off the bed. So the final stage of the walk was completed for me in the back of a Transit and then it was the long, lonely way home for me. I have to say a feeling of hopelessness came over me. I might be able to win a few marathons on one leg - but 100 miles?

It called for drastic action. On Wednesday last week, after giving the old leg a couple of days to get better, I went to see a man called a Sports Psycho. Apparently with his Kango fingers he'd sort my knee out a treat and, so he promised me over the phone, he'd soon have me back on the training ground and I'd be back on track with Himalaya Charlie.

Now three things annoyed me about this Psycho. It started when I went into his treatment room. And he acted as though he'd never heard of me! How rude is that! Well that got my goat up right away and I was forced to do a bit of an Eric Morecambe and warn him that if he and I were going to get along, he'd better start showing some flippin' respect. I'll give hime 'Ron Who?'.

Secondly, he said he was going to give me a little prick - and I pulled another flippin' muscle turning round pretty sharpish. Turned out he wanted to give me a puncture. And so he did. Have you tried having a puncture? He stuck these four ruddy long needles into my knee. And told me to relax!! Relax?? It was sodding painful!!

But the thing that really hacked off this kiddie was his diagnosis. He reckons I've done my cartilage in? Oh yeah? And tell me this Mr Clever Flipping Psycho Man - how could you possibly tell that when you never even looked in my ear??

The bottom line is I gave the Psycho bloke short shrift and instead toddled off to see my GP, Dr Crippen. Well ... what can I say? His diagnosis was swift and immediate. "You've got GOK" he said. Which apparently is medical jargon for God Only Knows.

He then insisted I'd just "banged my leg"! Hell fire these blokes study at medical school for half a lifetime. And the best they can come up with is "Sorry Ron, you've banged your leg".

The bottom line Ronnettes though is not good. I've hardly exercised for a month; I've not run for a month. I'm eight weeks away from leaving for the Himalayas - it just ain't going to happen is it?

So, I've come to what I think is a mature, professional, pragmatic decision.

I'm going to deck that Psycho.

This Sunday I was due to travel to Caravan County for the Kent Half Marathon - but there's just no way I'll make the distance. So it looks as though my Himalayan Dream is over before it even began. I'm still going over there - but it looks like the race is off and we'll just have to complete some of the distance by walking.

Say La Vee as they say in Poland.

I'm sick, I'm gutted. And its going to be a huge psychological and medical problem for me to deal with. What is lurking deep in the recesses of this razor sharp brain of mine is ... will I ever get back to Olympic Gold Medal winning form?

I'm going to have to sleep on that for now.

Talking of Olympics I was sad to see that my old mate Dave Collins has been rubber pumped from the job of my coach and jacket holder for the English national team. I hate to tell you I told you so and I hate to see myself proved right in such tragic circumstances. But I'll just pose one question.

Would he have been bulleted if he'd taken me to the Chinese Olympics in Peking?

Makes you think eh?

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Its called 'hitting the rails'

Week 2 of my new training regime to win the Himalaya 100 Mile Race in India in November. My eagerly anticpated visit to one of our few remaining pink bits on the map is bound to cause huge interest in that small outpost of the British Empire. I'll obviously be getting in touch with the race organiser (a nice chap called Charles) to make sure he has all the advanced promo stuff he needs for my visit. So far the chap seems a good egg and my entry together with that of the Half Share in the House is confirmed and my flights booked.

So how's training gone in week 2?

It hasn't.

You see what ordinary people don't understand is that the life of an Olympic champion isn't just about personal appearances, medal ceremonies, adulation and appearances on Jonathan Ross. Domestic chores - particularly those normally done by women - sometimes have to take priority. And so it was that I found myself in the middle of a muddy field in Stiletto City over the weekend.

With my eldest Cash Drainer Haille-Minogue currently in Peking for the Chinese Olympics I was handed the task of escorting middle Cash Drainer The Droog to some flippin' pop concert in Chelmsford at the weekend. Prior to going I'd done a decent gym session down at Stallones, ran a nippy 5 mile training run but nothing too strenous - so feeling pretty confident I took my pumps and shorts with me to Chelmsford for something called the V Festival.

And I only went and knacked my bloody knee!

Whilst dodging vomit, mud, obnoxious oiks high on some drugs and sheltering my ears from The Third Pooh From the Left or whatever the name of the ruddy band was, I fell against a metal bar - and that was it. I ended up limping back from the hell hole and I've been laid up ever since.

I now need physio and my knee needs a complete rest for a week - which for an Olympic Champion is darn near a lifetime. Fortunately I'm in France over the weekend doing a touch of long-distance walking to try and build up my stamina. With Himalaya Charlie warning me that this 100 Mile Race is a tad on the hilly side, I thought some dune walking along the coast in Northern France might do me some good.

Obviously though, whilst I've been injured I've had to do some serious couch sitting and I've had time to catch a few bits of the Chinese Olympics in Peking. And what a farce it is. The performance of Paul Radcliffe last Sunday in the marathon was nothing short of woeful and simply adds fuel to the argument for my inclusion in that event this year. Incidentally am I the only one to think that Radcliffe looks a touch feminine when he's running? Maybe a hair cut and different pair of shorts would help him.

But taking away the soft sitting down sports - the rowing boats, sailing boats, horse riding, and bicycling (what is that yobbo event with kids bicycles all about?) - we've not really brought home the bacon have we? The runners have done little, the wrestling chaps haven't been seen, the shooting guys and the bow and arrows team bottled it - in fact only the swimmers have a couple of medals to their name. And, you see in this kiddies mind, these are the proper Olympic sports. The real deal. Forget rounders - in fact, forget any game that needs a bat or a ball - and stick simply to those sports that would make those original Olympians from Italy proud. That means sticking to running, throwing, shooting things and fighting. And that should be it. Otherwise we might just as well include stone skimming, pie eating and bicycles with stabilisers in the flippin' competition.

And another thing. There's no place for kids in the modern Olympics. It's an adult competition. That means there should be no room for little boys in the Jumping In competition. Mind you it warmed the old cockles seeing his adult partner putting the little runt in his place. And no room either for girls throwing things or kicking things. Have you seen those girls playing football? They can't even kick the ball properly!! Just so girly with their 'kick the ball without bending the knee' actions. In fact, follow the Ron way of doing Olympics and you could have the whole thing wrapped up in a week too.

Anyway, its back to the serious stuff this weekend. I'll be making a public appearance at the Rye Summer Classic Series in Rye on Friday. I'm obviously the main VIP and I'm starting the 5K event. I'll also be signing a few autographs and generally meeting some of my loyal Ronnettes. If you're around, why not come along and see me do my anal crunch and pelvic squirt routine?

Hopefully though, by Monday, I'll be back in the old training regime with some better news to report.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Don't panic - I'm back!!!

Well I hasten to utter the words too loudly .... but ... yup. I'm back.

Yer old mucker has wiped the sleep from his eyes and emerged fresh faced and lily livered to face his legion of fans and Ronnettes. No more hiding under stones. No more dodging the media. No more looking away embarrassed when eye contact is made with an adoring fan.

For too long now this kiddie has been hiding his light under a bushel.

But now its fess time.

Where have I been? What have I been doing? Why have I kept quiet? What am I going to do now? And what of that highly publicised Olympic ambition?

Well I'll tell you.

I began the year on a bit of a low. Training wasn't going well. I only had to look at a menu and another 10 pounds in weight clamped itself, limpet-wise to my midriff. The Half Share in the House was giving me grief that I seemed to love my career as an Olympic Champion-in-Waiting more than I loved her. (Bit of a tricky one to defend that one entre nous). But, to be fair, this kiddie was still pulling in the crowds. Like a kind of modern day equivalent of a road running George Best, I continued attracting huge crowds wherever I went. (Mind you I also seemed to attract more than my fair share of nutters, liberal democrats and people from Yorkshire too, but that just goes with the territory I suppose).

But what really caused me to nip behind the bike shed for a few months was a result of some devastating news I received just around the New Year.

I wasn't going to Peking for the Chinese Olympics.

I know. I can sense that you share my disappointment. My shock. My despair.

Now I acknowledge that my Olympic ambitions might appear lofty to mere mortals but I firmly believe that the road I'm on will lead inexorably to Gold in 2012. As sure as retired 110 metre hurdlers are uphill gardeners. So, whilst I was pretty chilled about the Peking bash, twixt you and I, I did think it would have been good to have a bash at the Marathon. I know that I've probably got another six months training needed to bring me up to Olympic standard. But this glorious sport of ours is not just about winning gongs. Its about fellowship. About supporting your team mates. About flying that flag. So that's why I offered myself to the British team off to Peking as a kind of talisman. Just imagine the impact I would have on the team as a mentor to the likes of Paul Radcliffe and that bloke who jumps.

But it wasn't to be. I got blown out. The team bosses just refused to have me along. I know finances are tight – but come on you blazers!!

Anyway that's in the past now. My rejection though did leave some scars that have taken some time to heal And that's why I've kept myself quiet.

But as Peking got off the ground last weekend, I decided to let bygones be hasbeens.

Its time to pull on my Green Flash Dunlops and get back into the groove.

Ron is back.

Not that I've been entirely idle this year mind you. I've pottered around the fine city of Bruges for the Ostend to Bruges 10 Mile Race; I've been to Paris for the Marathon in April – did it in 5 hours 7 minutes (I think I finished 5th); I've been rfto Luxembourg for the Night Run and to the Arctic Circle for the Midnight Sun events in Tromso, Norway (food was eight and half quid a pint!!).

But the biggest is yet to come.

Because in November I'm off with the Half Share in the House to win the Himalaya 100 Mile Race.

How exciting is that?

And so it was that on Sunday, with around 105 kgs in added weight I took in my first proper training race. I travelled to a place called the North to take part in the Great Warford 10 Mile Race.

Now I don't mind missionary work - but let me tell you that is some distance to travel – but indicative of the sacrifices an elite athlete has to make. It took me some 6 hours to get there – although granted we did stop off in the Midlands to get used to funny accents.

I did OK. Went through my anal crunch routine for the locals then zipped through the race in what I thought was a rather nippy 1.52.33. Now, if you think that Paul Radcliffe is aiming to do the Peking Marathon in 2.20 – well, wow, I'm half an hour ahead of him!!

So that's race 1 under my belt – here's to the next ones.

Anyway I'll keep in touch with you once again. I promise no more sulks and no more unexplained absences.

Himalaya here I come!!

Keep on tapering.

Ron

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