Beware the ides of June

Or so says Angela Rippon. And do you know? He wasn't kidding.

I'm afraid I'm guilty of hiding a tad too much this month.Following my little sprint out in Bexhill last month I'm afraid the old Olympic regime has dipped completely. I got a couple of days work at the chamois leather factory and that kept me busy. I then did a bit of work in Liverpool then Nottingham and finally Bridlington. As a result I had to put the training on the back bender for a couple of weeks.

The problem is that my body is that of an Olympian and as such any variance in my daily grind of Olympic gold medal training tends to throw my body. Mind you, you'd have a job throwing my body six inches at the moment - I have put a little bit too much of an emphasis on carbo loading. The result was a bit of a disaster when I went out for my first run in a fortnight on Sunday. We'd decided to do a low key race so that I wouldn't be bothered by well wishers, fans and women so we'd gone to New Eltham for the Eltham Park 5.

New Eltham? Well if that was New Eltham I'd hate to see Old Eltham. Anyway I set off on what seemed to be a pleasant rural park course - and then my legs just stopped. I'd got nothing inn them!! So, I registered my first DFF for some years. I tried to hide my disappointment and only decked a couple of cheeky marshals who asked me if I needed help. I'm an Olympic athlete for Gods sake - I don't need help.

Anyway not for the first time I really need to elbow down and get my fitness sorted for the summer. I'm only 16 weeks away from a return trip to Indialand and I've also got big races in France and Holland in the autumn as well. So the Half Share hit upon a great motivating idea to get me back on the straight and normal - she's only gone and entered us both in the North Downs Run this Sunday.

That's 30 Kilograms up and down the hills of North Kent.

Thanks a bunch pal.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Bonk!

I recovered from that hard and horrendous event in Great Baddow and returned to my finely tuned Olympic training plan this week. Ernie wanted some new pliers so we went in the Transit and whilst he was negotiating a deal at Hire-Us I went for what was for me a very hard 3 mile sprint along the harbour path in Rye.

So that was a decent workout. Then, on Wednesday I popped along to Bexhill for the first of their summer 5K races and decimated the field by finishing the sea front course in 31.33 - impressive mange tout?

True to form though, the weekend was bound to end on a low - and low it was come yesterday evening Ronettes. I popped along to the Tillingham Valley where some of the older people from Hastings were due to run in the Rockabilly 5 Mile Race.

Was it a good idea to go there - question number 1

What do you think - see below:


Was it a good idea to go there - question number 2

No it bally well wasn't. I got out of Ernie's van to start my warm-up, sign a few autographs etc. Turned to get my pumps out of the van and Ernie had only gone and opened the van doors. I then proceeded to stot my head on the door.

What happened next? Well, there was an awful lot of blood. And, my friends, I can tell you it hurt. It hurt then. And it still hurts now. I should have gone to the hospital for a stitch but they had no private facilities and I wasn't queuing with ordinary people. To make matters worse though, the Half Share reckoned I've now got percussion - and I might need to take a couple of days off till it gets better. So that's put paid to what was going to be a surprise trip over to Caravan County for the Dover Half Marathon tomorrow morning.

And before you ask - yes, I to want to know where the Olympic back-up medical team were as well.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Bad, bad Baddow.

A week is a long time in ... well its a long time isn't it?

And I really don't know where to start with my week.

I popped up to Great Baddow last Sunday to appear in their little 10 Mile event. I should have known when I woke up on Sunday and the sun was shining. It was very hot at 8 o'clock - so you have no idea how much hotter it had become by the start time of 11 o'clock!

Ronettes - I was flagging before I'd even started my anal crunch and pelvic squirt warm-up routine and by start time I was sweating more than an outed cabinet minister. As I set off, for the first time since I'd become an international athlete I knew that I was going to struggle. I had no energy. My renowned sprint start that has been known to leave Kenyans gasping in my wake wasn't there. Ronettes - I was barely recognisable as the Olympic idol you know and love. After 2 miles I had to take one of the most important decisions in my life. This, after all, is the chap that has done London, Paris, Amsterdam, Indialand and other places such as Reading. But ... Great Baddow had me beaten.

I dropped out of the race.

Let me just repeat that .... I dropped out of the race.

But as I trooped dejectedly back to the start, I thought to myself. Now what would Bobby Davro do in a situation like this? And you know what Ronettes? I don't know where I summoned the energy from but I made the decision that I wasn't going to be beaten by the course or the weather - I was bally well going to get round to the finish if it was the last thing I did.

At that point the rest of the field was long gone but I set off after them with some gusto - OK I lie - I set off after them with absolutely no gusto whatsoever. I couldn't wait till I crossed the line - which I did in over 2 hours.

Thank you Great Baddow.

Thanks a lot.

Keep on tapering

Ron

Great Scott - it's Great Baddow

More missionary work this morning.

I'm off to Essex to run in something called the Great Baddow 10.

I though Great Baddow was something you said when you dropped the sauce bottle on your foot - but we'll see.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Luxembuggered!!

Well it’s taken me nearly a bally week to recover from my International appearance in Luxembourg last weekend and, frankly Ronettes, I don't know where to start!

I was making an eagerly awaited appearance at the Night Run in Luxembourg - an event that I have graced with honour and achievement each year since the event was launched five years ago. And, you know, it does give make me kind of humble glow - knowing that the people in this little country live for this one weekend a year and an opportunity to see me. And before you get all dewy-eyed with emotion, just think that if it wasn't for my appearance all they'd have to do with their small lives would be to carry on counting their money, putting up more EU buildings and pretending they're not German.

Anyway, I'm pencilled in on the Nice Work trip once again. Little did I know though that Ernie had done a deal with them. In exchange for their sponsorship of my international appearances, he'd agreed that I'd do a bit of work for them over the weekend. (OK I'll fess up - there was a small to medium sized bar tab that was hanging around like a French smell).

Well I thought they'd want me to sink a few tubes in the hospitality tent so imagine my bemusement when I bowled up on Saturday morning to find that I was only driving the bally Transit!! We set off from Ashford at some unearthly hour with the motley-est of motley crew - the stench of stale alcohol and last night's kebabs very much filling the van. Upon arriving at the tunnel entrance ... guess what? They had only shut the flippin' thing down because ... oh I don't know there was a mouse in the tunnel or something.

Of course there being French stuff involved in the process it took three hours to get the tunnel opened and when our train did finally creak away from the platform it refused to go above half speed. The bottom line was that we arrived in France four hours late, with a four and a half journey ahead of us - and a race start time five hours ahead of us. That meant a hairy journey with no stops, a quick change into our Dunlop Green Flashes whilst driving and, dear Ronnettes, without a word of a lie we arrived on the start line with just THREE minutes to spare.

Of course we would have had a full five minutes to spare but for a minor flaw in my pre-race preparations. I'd only gone and left my bally pumps at home!! Now, as you can appreciate, us international athletes spend a great deal of time preparing ourselves for these kind of events - and we can't just go out and get another pair just like that. As luck would have it though we had a bloke from Sheffield on board - a carpet fitter he was. Well as they lined up to start, this chap was told he was being disqualified - apparently he'd been seen with anabolic stair rods. So that left a bloke with no race - and needing no shoes.

So, I forced him to let me use them ... and that makes my stunning 2 hrs 33.34 time (a full 4 minutes quicker than last year) all the more remarkable! There is, though, something of a confession I need to make.


The shoes were from Yorkshire.

Now just because I'm from Lancashire doesn’t mean I have nothing against stuff from Yorkshire, though I do admit that I prefer to have my chip in a sandwich than on my shoulder. But wearing Yorkshire shoes did make feel slightly uncomfortable. Apart from anything else, being from Yorkshire they were very tight, seemed desperate for it to rain and whinged and moaned the whole way round the course.

Anyway after my stunning run I then set about sticking a few tubes and a sausage down my neck before hitting this very small country. After getting back to the place that masqueraded as the group's hotel - when will these people realise that international athletes deserve a little comfort? - and hitting the sack for a few hours I was rudely awakened by the greasy foreign breakfast chef in his vest and clogs that a copper was sniffing round the Transit. Sure enough I scuttled downstairs to find some bloke who was the spit of the U Boat Commander in The Cruel Sea sniffing round the truck.

Apparently it wasn’t quite parked correctly and he was threatening to slap a 150 euro ticket on my windscreen. Well this is where my infamy really came to the fore. I explained who I was and in calm measured tones told him that I was an Olympic Athlete in town for their little marathon race and that I was on some kind of mission to spread love and happiness around the little country of Luxembourg. It was all going quite well until I asked him did Luxembourg have any athletes and he started barking some malarkey in a very strong (and I'm afraid it was back to The Cruel Sea again) and strangely reminiscent accent.

Obviously I then reacted in the correct way - talking very loud in pigeon Queen's English, demanded to know what his lot did in the war, reminded him of the result in 1966 etc etc And to be honest it seemed to do the trick and he strutted off muttering into his jackboots.

So, you see, if you just show these foreigners a little respect and resist the temptation to fall into the trap of stereotyping them, you'll usually come up smelling of dandelions.

Well I was up now wasn't I? So I decided to pop into town and sniff out a full English and that's when my day headed south ... because the next thing I know, its midnight and I'm staggering out of a bar at just a snifter before midnight with a few Luxembugger Best Mates that I'd found. They put me in a taxi for the ten minute cab ride back to the digs (a snip I thought at 80 quid) - and that was Luxembourg over for another year. I'm not sure exactly what happened during the day but I do recall seeing sausages and some sheep shearing - no I don't know either.



We stopped off for a sherb in a small town in France called Belgium and then it was back to the Channel Tunnel for the quick ride home and back to Blighty. Oh - I forgot to say. My passport had run out. In fact I'd forgotten to tell the other people in the Transit as well. You should have heard them whinge!! But, you know what? That's the difference between us Brits and those Johnny Foreigner Do-Gooders. All it took was a quick two minute chat with the chap on the desk and he would have let me through. OK, so I got it wrong by then tipping him with some folded stuff in a somewhat flamboyant manner. But even then it took just one set of rubber gloves and I was able to walk gingerly back to the Transit and I then stood all the way home.

I sometimes wonder why I bother.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Time to settle down now

I apologise for a couple of weeks silence but, for obvious reasons it was only fair that I kept my head down whilst there was an election in progress.

Us celebrities are not just roly models you know, we have a responsibility not to influence unduly the voting intentions of those who, perhaps (and I say this with a heavy heart) probably are not really in a position to know how to vote sensibly. It might be controversial to say it, but there is a school of thought that still casts doubt on our decision to give the vote to people like prisoners, those with mental disorders, women and students. But whatever the rights and wrongs of what my friend Nick Clogg says is a flawed voting system, we have to abide by the rules. So, that's why I decided to keep my head down and that's why you haven’t seen or heard from me for a couple of weeks. And likewise, you'll have noticed neither sight nor sound of the Krankies, Val Doonican, Moira Stewart or that bloke off the news.

As for the results of the election it all seems to have gone pear-shaped for Graham Brown and the fact that we now have a Bung Parliament is probably down to all those silly votes by those people referred to above - well I reckon they deserve what they got. Brown, to be honest, was never my cup of tea. He never once wrote to me with any form of congratulations or encouragement in my quest for Olympic immortality. And the only time I wrote to him to ask if I could buy some kind of gong for my services to the public he couldn’t even be bothered to reply.

So now we have a government that is full of public schoolboys - which should please our local MP Greg Barker who is himself well reared - though what he and his painter and decorator boyfriend get up to in their spare time is no business of ours. But I just hope that the present lot get their act together, grasp the moment, consider the opportunities - and get behind me (except that Barker chap, I don’t want him behind me.) The Half Share in the House did ask me whether the joining together of the Conservatory Party and the Glib Dems means they should now be called the Condem coalition - which I was pleased to hear because that's her first attempt at humour since 1998.

So what have I been doing apart from oiling the wheels of government?

Well the weekend before last Ernie and I and the Half Share met up with the eldest Cash Drainer and did a kind of Exhibition race in Burkeshire. The Shinfield 10K was a pleasant enough experience and I posted an impressive time of 1 hr 5 mins. Just slightly outside my preferred Olympic pace but I had been out on the lash the night before so it wasn’t a bad time on a hangover. On Sunday just gone I made the mistake of doing the Sevenoaks Seven. I had forgotten what an unpleasant place it was. Rough tracks, dog poo and deer poo all over the place, people in various states of undress and an overwhelming stench of sweat. And that was on the bally High Street!! The race is a bit of a dog’s dinner of a race for me - too many hills. But, when faced with adversity I always think to myself "Now, what would Bobby Davro do?"

Well that was an inspired piece of psychology - because I only went and got another BP - my best time over the distance of 1 hr 21 minutes 14 seconds - about a minute and a half better than last year.

This weekend I'm off on my foreign travels when I visit Luxembourg again for the Night Run. Those Luxembuggers certainly know how to put on a show and I was looking forward to running my second marathon in three weeks. However, Ernie reckons that with the time spent in the Nice Work van I'll not be in a fit state to do the full 26.2 - so I'll be looking to win the Half Marathon instead.

I'll let you know how I get on. In the meantime I've got a sad duty to do today. I'm at the funeral of an old mate who died recently. He died of dyslexia - choked on his own Vimto.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

I scythed through the field like a spoon through butter

Well if you missed my interview with Steve Crumb on the BBC, it’s because it didn’t take place. God knows what has happened to decent chivalry and respect though. One of this country's greatest Olympians ignored. And Crumb wasn’t the only one to ignore me. I got off the train in London yesterday and hung around for ages waiting for Roland Branston to welcome me. Not a whiff of the chap.

So, I made my way to the start of the London Marathon feeling, if truth be known, a tad grumpy. I've had a strong feeling all week that the organisers seemed to be more interested in getting those Kenyans and Ethiopians on board than they were getting me to the start line. And that feeling turned to reality on Sunday morning when - and I know you'll be flabbergasted as well - I was denied access to the Elite Men's start pen.

And, Ronettes, if you can imagine the scene. There was I, peering through the 6 ft high fence at the hand-picked cluster of Johnny Foreigners masquerading as London Marathon winners-in-waiting. And, do you know, I swear I caught that Sammy Whostisname's eyes lock on to my gaze and his face turned to stare at the floor in embarrassment. Yes, even though he was dressed in a giraffe outfit, he was embarrassed too.

Anyway - enough of egos. How did my race go?

Well, I have to be pleased. I'd paced myself through the race and crossed the line at 3.50 which I thought wasn’t bad. Mind you, if truth be known I'd actually hoped to get there for half three - but ten to four was good enough. My time was a blistering 5 hours 53 minutes - a full 14 minutes quicker than my last marathon - but, oh dear Ronettes. Does it hurt.

Yes, it hurt yesterday and it bally well hurts today I can tell you. But I did it and that’s the main thing. So, what were the highlights of my magnificent victory?

Well there was plenty of anticipation as we lined up to prepare for the race. Unlike my fellow lightweights I popped into O’Neil’s in Blackheath for a last minute carbo loading bacon sarny - and that really set me up. Just stripped down to my orange Lycra ... and the bally heavens opened and drenched the lot of us. Got some funny responses from what were obviously first-time athletes who didn’t seem to understand that my offer to lubricate their wobbly bits with Vaseline was a perfectly reasonable thing to say on an athlete to athlete basis.

The race got underway and I stormed past my first Kenyan at just 400 yards - he was adjusting his Womble outfit and I took advantage of that to leave him for dust. Saw some pretty remarkable sites - Sally Gunnell dressed up as the back end of a bus was one early highlight. Felt a bit demoralised when a bloke carrying a fridge ran past me at 2 miles but I felt a whole lot better when somebody pointed out that the fridge was empty - well anybody could do that couldn’t they?

My race nearly came to a shuddering premature halt when a woman pushing a pram crossed the road in front of me – and then as I ran past her she rammed it on to my Achilles – now what was that about????

I was stalked throughout the first 10 miles by a flippin' partially sighted soldier who was dressed in full camouflage gear. I kept running past him only for him to come right up behind me poking me with his white stick thing. Now I have the utmost respect for people like that but his stick kept hurting the backs of my leg. But then something happened for which I have since reflected was probably not in the spirit of the race - and I apologise now. He came up on my inside for the last time at about 10 or 11 miles and for the umpteenth time I moved aside after being jabbed yet again by his stick. Just at that point, however there was a sharp left hand turn in the course - but your man carried straight on. And he was so determinedly walking straight that the marshals on the corner obviously thought he wanted to come off the course - so they removed the barrier to allow him through. The last I saw of him he was tip-tapping his way away from the course down some main road - presumably wondering why the field had thinned out. I know I should have done something about it but ….

Some blokes with one leg sprung past me at 4 miles followed a few minutes later by a huffing and puffing bloke with a rucksack with a load of spare legs sticking out of the top - what was that all about?

But the early parts of my race were OK. I had decided on a 5/1 walk-run strategy where I would run for 5 minutes and walk for 1 minute - to conserve my energy. At my pace I reckoned that would get me round in 5 hours 27 minutes - and I would have taken that. The plan worked well up until 13 miles when I felt my groin go - but I carried on regardless and at 17 miles I was doing OK and about five minutes ahead of my target time - but by then I was feeling tired and groin-sore. I decided to take a couple of minutes to recover and then set off again but I was soon feeling quite sore and although I struggled on to 20 miles - still about on-target - the wheels began to fall off as I hit the dreaded hedge.

All marathon runners will know the feeling when you do hit the hedge – your legs turn to jelly, you cant control your breathing, you have no energy and every muscle in your legs and arms starts to burn.

The last six miles took me an age to get through. My thighs were really burning and my right calf had stiffened up. The groin strain was making me limp - oh do stop sniggering - and both my knees had taken just about as much as they could. But at 20 miles and then 21 miles I reckoned that if I could just struggle through to run, say half a mile per mile, I could still have made the target time or thereabouts. But it wasn’t to be.

At 22 miles I had a blazing row with myself - and I tell you I damn near hit myself I was so annoyed. Whether it was the heat or whether my brain had just scrambled because of the intense effort I don’t know. But it had so turned to jelly that I just couldn’t calculate where my five minute runs and 1 minute walks started and finished. It is, of course quite easy - you run for five minutes and then walk for one minute - which means that every sixth minute should be the end of the walk - at 6, 12, 18, 24 etc minutes past the hour. Well my brain worked perfectly well for most of the afternoon - but like my legs it just it seemed to give up. I was stopping at 13 past the hour starting walking at 16 - and then I eventually had to stop and start to manually calculate what I should be doing. Am I supposed to be running now … or walking? I almost asked a woman in the crowd for some pencil and paper - and that, Ronettes, is what marathon running does for you.

The last four miles were pretty tough on your man here - but there was a kind of Eureka moment when it suddenly struck me that I had stumbled upon my problem. You see when I was running I was keeping up with those around me. But when I stopped to walk, all those walkers around me were walking past me. So, that I surmised, was my problem. It wasn’t that I can’t run fast - it’s that I walk too slowly!

24 miles came and I was not a happy hamster. I was barely walking and barely thinking straight. Humiliation complete when a bloke ran past me dragging a half-built brick wall.

At the 40K mark I should have been about 12 minutes from the finish line - but it took me damn near on half an hour to get there. Turning the corner into the Mall I summoned one last effort to run to the tape - and effort made slightly more difficult by having to avoid two apples, a donkey, a small giraffe and two Star Wars characters - I needed to have that finish line photo with real athletes in it - not half the cast from some bally pantomime.

And there you have it - the marathon from the perspective of an Olympic hero.

The Half Share had shot off from yard 1 and nipped round in 5 hours 20 and was waiting for me with a Guinness and a pie for dehydrating purposes after the race. And you know, sometimes you get no credit do you? Her mood darkened somewhat when Ernie picked me up in the Transit - now there was only room for me in the van and anyway there was a perfectly good taxi service from the train station to the Cucumber and Trumpet where I was being feted last night for my magnificent achievement. I gave her most of the money for the flippin’ taxi – so just what was the problem eh? But I was not going to let anything spoil my perfect day. After a couple of tubes with well wishers I retired to the bottom of the stairs to wait for morning – well there was no way I was going to climb the things!

And so, to today. How do I feel?

Sore that's how.

But at least I did the thing. And the race was good experience for my next big event which is not far away - I'm planning on running the marathon in Luxembourg next month and yesterday should, at least, help my preparations. In the meantime I'm going to take it easy this week - pop into a few local pubs to show off my medal etc. And then, on Sunday the relentless treadmill that is training for the 2012 Olympics gets switched on again when I travel to Reading to take part in the Shinfield 10K.

Keep on tapering

Ron

All set

Just been out in Ernie's van to check for Volcanic ash and all seems to be OK.

You know something - I can definitely see myself on the podium tomorrow.

For those of you unable to travel down to London to see me, the race is being televised on the BBC. And if that Steve Crumb bloke doesn't mention my name, I'll be having words at my post race press conference in the Scout and Vicar tomorrow evening. In any event though, you should be able to spot me - I'll be the bloke in a white vest.

I'll be reporting in on Monday after the race - so wish me luck Ronettes - and watch out you Kenyans!!

Keep on tapering

Ron

PS Anybody know where I can buy a podium?

A bone to pick

Look - I don't mind roughing it. I mean the Half Share comes from Essex so I know what hardship is all about. But when I am an elite athlete I expect to be treated with the hard-earned respect I like to think I've earned.

So, Mr Roland Branston. The next time you ask me to star in your London Marathon a few hints - or I wont use your flippin' pickle again.

1. I didn’t see Paul Radcliffe queuing with the ordinary people for their number - so why did I have to?

2. You apparently spent £150,000 flying in some foreign runners from Africa. So, was it too much to expect an Oyster card? Or a couple of quid petrol money for Ernie's van?



3. My number is 24,000 and something - so who Roland, is wearing Number 1 then?

4. My sponsor's gift pack appeared to be the same as everybody else's - packet of crisps made by some company nobody has ever heard of, a packet of seed stuff, a cereal bar that'll take me a fortnight to chew through, some girly spray stuff and an apple. Now seriously Mr Branston - is that what the Kenyans are having? Is that what you really consider a quality gift to an Olympic champion in the offing?

5.No red carpet for me. Well OK, there was a red carpet - in fact the whole bally place was covered in red carpet - but OTHER PEOPLE WERE WALKING ON IT MR BRANSTON!! That was supposed to be my red carpet.

6. No private dining facilities - I had to sit with an old bloke with wind problem and eat a plastic bowl of pasta and an apple. Hardly Hoot Cuisine eh Roland? Hardly Gordon Blue I would suggest?

7. I know you're a busy man - what with your record shop and pickle factory. But could you not have spared just a couple of minutes to say 'hello'? First of all I had the humiliating experience of queuing with ordinary people - and yes that did include women, Roland - and then when I got to the front of the queue guess what? You're right. Only two of the four people on the desk recognised me.

8. No free costume. I'm really miffed about this. I bet you gave all them Kenyans and Ethiopians a load of fancy dress stuff to wear - but all I got was a red rain mac.

9. My shoe manufacturers weren’t there. Oh yes, you have your fancy-dan-fancy-pants Adidoss and Asucks - but, come on - no Dunlop Green Flash? A big doo doo I'm afraid Roland.

So, all in all Ronettes I'm not best pleased with this London Marathon bloke at the moment.

I didn’t get treated like this in Hastings.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

Preparing for the big stage

Those of you who have been in my company will know that although I am a natural media star in the making, I'm modest with it. Its no coincidence though - it isn't just raw talent that you see when you observe how I can hold a crowd and captivate my fellow athletes and Ronettes. But, you know, I'll let you into a little secret - all is not what it seems. Because I do, in fact, spend many hours working on my image and public persona.

Some weekends I have been known to spend hour upon hour mixing with ordinary people - like women for instance - to cultivate my 'Man of the Common People' image.

And so it was that I was the major attraction on Sunday at the Brighton Marathon. And I have to say the City of Needles made a pretty good fist of it. (Though Ernie does say that Brighton and Fisting do go together quite well but I have no idea what he means).

So, I turned up to offer my support and my advice to the athletes - some 8,000 of whom had gathered to take part in the first event of its kind in the city.

In fact, I turned up at 7 o'flippin'clock in the morning - and although I knew the start wasn't till 9-ish I did at least reckon I could turn in a spot of full English to set me up for the day. Being Brighton, of course, there wasn't a chippy or a bacon sandwich to be seen. So I had to content myself with a Falafel and Watercress pie and a cup of some Johnny Foreigner tea.

And then I sat down at the Finish Line to wait for the runners to meet me.

Well, the first runners home were a bit sharpish and so I reckoned I could have been away and home in Ernie's van in time for a snifter at the Slug and Pellet.

Now I don't want you to be thinking that I'm a fair weather athlete with no time for my fellow runners - after all I've even been to Essex once for a race - but for goodness sake the last runner didn't bowl over the line for nine and a half hours!! That's right - for nine and a half hours I stood there on that line clapping and cheering. And I got roped into handing out Goody Bags - I was there for almost 12 hours!

Well let me tell you - this Sunday at the London Marathon I ain't waiting for nobody! I don't care whether the Kenyan in the Fred Flintstone suit or the Bakewell Tart or those strange blokes who run with a house have finished or not. I'm crossing that line and heading straight for the nearest boozer.

After all I'm a proper athlete - not a spectator.

I wasn't happy - I got flippin' sunstroke; my legs feel as though they'd run the bally race. And for what? A few brownie points on the old media checklist.

Anyway the London thing is only a couple of days away now. I've been busy carbo loading and sitting waiting for a telephone call from the media people at the London Marathon. Well waiting for them is like British Gas nookey - you stay in all day and nobody comes. So, I guess I'll just have to hold my own press conference on Saturday. I've heard that some of the overseas blokes have bottled out claiming something to do with volcanic ash stopping them from flying. Well that's just pumpkins - I've been to Hastings today and I had no problems getting there or back.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Wee wee my cherry

Hee haw hee haw hee haw!!

Yep - this kiddie can speak foreign if he wants too!

Just back from a trip to one of those foreign suburbs and a guest appearance at the Paris Marathon, near a place called France. Its an event I get invited to every year. Rather like that bloke tennis player - Billy Bob King? - who won the Wimbledon Cup and then goes back every year to milk the applause, I took part and damn nearly won the Paris Marathon a couple of years ago and its kind of on my itinerary every year now. To be fair they don’t actually formally invite me back - but I know they really want me there.



I travelled with the Nice Work crew in the back of their Dormobile and, between cans of Stones Bitter, kept my fellow athletes regaled with some fantastic tales from my glorious running career. One or two of them were so impressed they actually suggested that I stay in Paris rather than come back here - they reckoned I could really teach the Frenchies a thing or two about running! It wasn’t a bad trip but the flippin' price of food - almost a fiver for a half pint???? Only trouble I had was at a small bar close to Blackpool Tower. The waiter said I could have two wines for 10 Euros so I told him he had a body odour problem and I didn’t think much of his beer.

No sense of humour these foreigners eh?

But I had a fairly pleasant weekend. I went for a small run in and around the city. And I tell you what - they're such a tolerant lot. I had a bit of bother with my orange Lycra mankini running outfit which I thought I'd try out ahead of its official debut in Dartford next month. Well, was I popular!! Although starting to run on my own I soon had a whole posse of French runners following me - and what appeared to be half the Paris Police Athletic team also kindly ran with me back to the hotel - now how kind was that?

I must hold my hands up to slightly over celebrating though. I have absolutely no memory of the return trip whatsoever following my discovery of a strange drink. I asked the chap in the shop for a pasty – but he gave me a bottle of aniseed ball-tasting stuff. I had a couple of slurps and, well, that was it. The next thing I remember was waking up in a bus shelter in Dover.

I’m doing more celebrity stuff this weekend. Although my training is still in full swing (out with the Old People of Hastings again on Tuesday) I’ll be taking a break on Sunday morning to add a touch of glamour to the Brighton Marathon. I’ll be on hand at the finish to shake a few hands and pass on a few rehydration tips – so if you’re in Needle City on Sunday why not give me a wave?

Then, of course the week after I take centre stage again – this time for my appearance in this year’s London Marathon. As Dale Winton says – ‘You can't beat a bit of bully can you?’.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Easter Eggy thump

You cant beat Easter can you?

A bulk buy from Thorntons used to be the norm at Ron Towers but with the credit snatch still biting it was a trolley dash round Poundstretcher to stock up on Easter goodies. Then we were off to Lidl to get some tubes in - then a couple of carrier bags of take away fodder later it was off to the Barnacle and Bicycle for some decent Easter rehydration sessions. And, you know, that's why I like Easter. As long as the kids enjoy it then its job done eh?

I did a spot of training too as Good Friday approached with a session with the Old People of Hastings and then it was off to Caravan County to take part in the Folkestone 10. Its a race I enjoy because I can enjoy a spot of anonymity there. The locals by and large are used to celebrity. Well why wouldn't they? It is, after all, the birthplace of one of this country's finest classical actresses Hattie Jacques.

So I nipped along the 10 miler in an hour and 47 minutes-ish. Didn’t quite get on the podium - so I found out later - but there's nothing wrong with letting some ordinary people and those less fortunate then me (i.e. women) having a bit of the limelight eh?

So, after my race I retired to enjoy a rather subdued post race celebration with just a couple of Leffes to keep me company.

Mentally though I was as sharp as a zip because in the back of my mind, of course, I've got one of the pinnacles of an Olympians year coming up in a couple of weeks - the London Marathon. And with Paul Radcliffe having bottled out again and some of his Kenyan mates also chucking in the towel - well, lets just say 'who knows' eh? Could I win it? Well stranger things have happened. Just ask that woman in the Bovril adverts.

I'm getting a little bit of big race experience this weekend too with a trip to Paris for their laughable attempt at organising a marathon!!

If you're there - well, wee, give me a wave!

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Half and Half

Phew!

That's all I can say.

Phew!

Been a bit of a week and a half of it over the last two weeks. And its given me time to practice my new pre-Olympic strategy. I've decided that with all the modern technology now available it is likely that I'm being spied upon by my opponents in the Marathon in 2012.

Now, I've always proudly carried the 'Deceptively slow' label and so, I've decided to fool everybody and lull them into a false sense of security. You see I reckon it makes sense to pretend that I'm not actually as good as I really am. That way the opponents slow up - and then when it matters I can just leave them standing knowing full well that they will have taken their foot off the electric during their training.

I have used the strategy to good effect over the last two Sundays.

Last Sunday I ran with a lot of old people in the Hastings Half Marathon and just missed out on a podium place. My time of 2.28.58 was good enough to beat the dolphin and some blokes oulling some beer barrels so I have to be pleased with my performance.

Yesterday I popped along to Maidstone in Caravan County for something called the A20 Pathway 13/21 race. I opted for the 13 mile race and zipped round in a rather impressive 2 hours 35 minutes which was good enough to make most of the 21 mile competitors eat my exhaust fumes. Of course one or two were whinging that they'd covered more distance than I had, but as I've said many times before - whose fault is that?

And, in any event, isn't it first past the post that counts? You don't get Paul Radcliffe and those Kenyan men moaning that they should win because they ran a bit further in the New York marathon do you? So, until the day they award the winner's prize to a bloke who doesnt come first over the line, in my mind I beat those other people fair and square.

Right - has that little bone of contention been put to bed?

Its Easter this week and I'll be taking a couple of days R 'n' R with Ernie to sample a tube or two. I'm also going to Folkestone on Friday to win the Folkestone 10. Other than that it will be an easy week on the training front - my legs are a bit sore from three weeks on the bounce covering 13 miles.

So, in the words of Elaine Page "I'm having a blow".

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Poor me

I've woke up this morning and I'm in a bit of a state.

I've caught Kennel Cough off our dog Mandelson and under normal circumstances I think I'd have turned over in bed and waited for my fry-up to arrive. But its the Hastings Half Marathon this morning and I know that they have had a substantial boost in entries due to my appearance.

So, I cant let down all those people can I? Its times like this when Olympians come to the fore. So, its chest out, adopt my British Poodle Spirit and just try to think what Keith Chegwin would do if faced with the same problem.

I'll be there Ronettes, don't worry.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

That Belgium experience

I'm still seething about my aborted trip to Belgiumland last weekend to take part in the Ostend to Bruges 10 Mile Race.

You see, the deal was quite straightforward. As a celebrity Olympian the soaks at Nice Work asked to me to join them. Well I thought that's what they'd said but the old phone line was a bit crackly. I don't normally deal with the mucky side of my Olympic quest and I leave all discussions about sponsorship and endorsements to Ernie. But as Ernie was away on a Plumbers convention I took the call myself.

Well I'm sure the bloke asked me to come along to do a spot of coaching. Well that's right up my street I thought and I began looking forward to putting some of the old crocks masquerading as runners through their paces. Imagine my horror when I turn up at Ashford and the bloke chucks me a set of keys, points out where the indicators are and promptly jumps in the back and settles down with a brown ale and a Ginsters.

Coaching? I was driving the bally bus!!

Anyway through a mix of luck and good judgement I got the 1956 Bedford Tourer to a spot that looked vaguely like Belgium, parked the thing up and went straight for the chips and Leffe. We had a pleasant enough evening mixing with my friends and supporters over there. I think they particularly liked the new musical routine I've invented - I've put one of my pelvic squirt routines to music. It went OK - but I did get the feeling that not many of the Frenchies had heard of either Rolf Harris or The Court of King Caractacus - but never mind. And the table was old and nearly broken anyway!

Switch now dear Reader to the morning after the night before - and to where things started to tip the weekend downhill. I have to say that I was feeling on tip top form and after I'd got a couple of the runners to give us a push start I got the Bedford down to the start line, parked up and got stripped off ready for the race.

And then some clever clogs Charlie pointed out that there was a bally puncture on the bus!! Well, I wasn't too chuffed but I thought it would get us home - I mean there was six wheels on the flippin' bus and I reckoned four - one for each corner - plus one spare was quite enough thank you. But no - they started shouting Health and Safety stuff at me. The bottom line was that matey boy here had to pull the old Hi-Vis on over my lycra and wait for the flippin' RAC or whatever they're called in Belgiumland.

And as well as standing around waiting for the bloke to come out and fix it, I missed the race. All that way and all I had to show for it was a fading hangover and a foreign Hi-Vis.

A sore experience and believe me did I tear a strip off Ernie when I got back. Well fair's fair - I need him to sort out the commercial part of my sporting superstar career leaving me to free to focus on what I'm good at.

Winning medals for England.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Stumbling in the dark

So, your man here enjoyed a weekend of international sport in two of the country's leading centres of sporting excellence.

Reading and Lydd.

On Saturday I joined the eldest Cash Drainer Haille Minogue in a place called Reading which apparently is in a small place called Berks. And all I can say is .... well how appropriate. its full of Berks! Reading is the kind of place your Great Grandparents used to aspire to live in when they were tied to the local cotton mill. Its got lots of concrete, lots of students, lots of pubs and not a lot of character.

Our Haille went there on one of these exchange schemes - we got an ironing board and a new pelmet for the kitchen which the Half Share and I thought was quite good value. But apparently when she reaches an IQ of 50 we have to bring her home. I mean she's not blonde thick - but you wouldn't want her to breed.

So, I felt perfectly at home there. I was there as the Guest celebrity at a 5 mile race to help raise money for some dodgy student cause. I've never understood why students have felt the need to fundraise - I mean they do so well scrounging of us and the State anyway - so why not just cadge a bit more? In any event they probably stuff all the money they do raise on drugs, alcohol and strange magazines.

I tried to adapt to the local way of life - you know, the hung shoulders, the baseball cap back to front and the body with a six pack (mine's just missing the little plastic thing to hold it together). And then we started the race and I twaddled round the first of the two laps just to show a bit of willing before retiring to the bar and a welcome glass of Guinness.

On Sunday we went back to Caravan County to take a look at the Lydd Half Marathon. And if you haven't been to Lydd .... well its the kind of place people from Reading would go to on holiday. They'd certainly feel at home. The Lydd Half Marathon attracted a fair few athletes of varying degrees of ability - but none of them could hold a candle to an Olympian - so I didn't bother running the bally thing.

But ever conscious of the need to up my mileage and my competition - I haven't competed in a race since November - the Half Share and I have entered the Hastings Half Marathon on Sunday. Now Hastings ain't too bad - its a town that was built specifically for fat people to wear sporting clothing. Not to run in, you understand. Just to hang around outside MacDonald's smoking fags. In fact there are more tracksuits stood outside the local fast food outlets than in the chuffing Olympic Village.

But the event ain't too bad - but I am nervous about my stamina and if I'm going to make those Kenyanites eat my dust I needed to get some miles under my pumps. So we went to Hastings on Monday.

And ran home.

Now the theory was fine. A nice Spring day. The evenings getting lighter. Now that's all well and done but the Half Share obviously miscalculated because as we started the 13 mile run back to Ron Towers, the sun was already dipping over the fumes on the horizon. By Mile 3 it was dusk. And by Mile 6 .. pitch flippin' black.

So we ended up running along country lanes with no bally idea of which way the road went - and the whole 13 mile shebang took us 2 hours 45 minutes. It would have taken me a few minutes less but for having to extricate myself from a hedge. In a desperate attempt to escape the tyres a local hooligan farmer driving his tractor I tripped over a hedge root, fell face down in a ditch and crashed through a hawthorn hedge into a field.

Oh how the Half Share thought amusing.

Anyway I might pop out with the Old People of Hastings for a little jog tomorrow . then its down to Hastings on Sunday - I'll let you know how I get on. Podium chance? Mais Wee Senor!!

Keep on tapering.

Ron

I suppose you think that was some kind of joke eh?

So, off I set with a spring in my step, a whistle on my lips and a Leffe in my hand. Off to Belgiumland to do a spot of missionary work, a bit of Olympian gladhanding and do a spot of Leffe carbo loading.

Oh - and the little matter of the Ostend to Bruges 10 Mile Race.

Well thank you God!! Thank you, thank you, thank you.

More to come on my weekend in Bruges - plus exclusive photos of the man himself. But suffice to say, I'd no sooner said Ola to my Belgiumland friends than it was Hasta La Vista as the Krankies used to say. I'd just got stripped down to my orange lycra and Dunlop Green Flashes ... then some clever clog discovered our bus had a puncture!

And because I'd cadged a free ride with the old soaks from Nice Work it was left to your man here to sort it out.

So whilst the rest of them were flying down the canal from Zeebrugges, this kiddie was stood freezing his championchips off, stood like a prat in my yellow Hi-Vis waiting for the Belgiumlandish equivalent of the chuffing AA. And I missed the race.

Miffed?

You bet your sweet waffle I was.

Its no way to treat an Olympian. When I've calmed down I'll bring you more information on what was an interesting couple of days away.

So, nothing can go wrong this weekend can it? Well, after a 9 miler and a 4 miler yesterday I'm gearing up for a weekend of personal appearances. Tomorrow I'm in a place called Reading with a bunch of unwashed students taking part in the St Patrick's 5 Mile Scurry. I'm only there because a) the eldest cash drainer, Haille Minogue is taking part and wanted me to take her some soap and b) there's a smell of Guinness about the place. On Sunday I'm in a place called Lydd for their Half Marathon.

What a life eh?

More news soon.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

Water, water everywhere - and only beer to drink

Life as an Olympian can be a grind sometimes you know.

As Harry H Corbett who spent all his life with his hand up Sooty's jacksie was often heard to say "Life as an Olympian can be a grind sometimes you know".

It's now March and although my training has been going well, I've still not managed to put in a single competitive personal appearance. After the washout that was Dover, I mosied over to Wittersham - a kind of southern version of Skelmersdale - for something called the Isle of Oxney Hot Soup 5 Mile Dash. I wasn't running - I was the celebrity starter. Well you would certainly have thought you were on an island the amount of flippin' rain that came down. It was so stormy it was blowing Frenchmen across the channel. So I started the race by shouting 'Go' and beggared off to the pub. I know there's this kind of brotherhood thing about running and athletes - but I wasn't hanging around in that stuff I can tell you.

Despite the inclement weather though I have managed to keep the old training regime up to my usual high standards. I've been out with the Old People of Hastings a few times - it does cheer them up when I bowl up, you know. You see, I've always a little tale to tell, a nudge here, a whispered word of encouragement there. And I know it really does lift them to feel as though they are actually part of my Olympic journey. I've taught them my Anal Crunch and Pelvic Squirt regime though admittedly the ripped lycra episode was a little unseemly. But I could tell by the playful way they all keep flicking my ears that they have an awful ot of affection for me.

Bless their little cotton singlets.

So this weekend just gone, after upping my training to around 20 miles a week (yes, you heard me right Paul and Mr Gebrselassie (or whatever) you heard me right - that's 20 miles a week. Just think how you could do if you decided to put your little backs into it a bit more!).

Anyway, after another 20 miles plus week I decided to go up to Boris's Folly for a half marathon, dodging needles and MacDonald's boxes in Roding Valley. However my mate Ernie called his mate Alan who works at the council and basically he told me not to even bother going out of the door on Sunday. It was going to be torrential.

And so it was.

And so I did.

I stayed in. Instead I did a 10 mile jaunt from Hythe to Folkestone and return on Saturday morning to get me some practice for this coming weekend's first International appearance of the season in Belgium.

Yup I'm going back to the land of my spiritual fathers and Leffemongers. I'm off to Bruges for the annual Ostend to Bruges 10 Mile Race. I'm nipping off with the gin fuelled caravan organised by Nice Work. Its about my sixth time of appearing here and the Belgiumites always put on a good show for us - and I try to reciprocate by ganging up with them and the Dutch to stuff the wind up any Frenchies who happen to be running.

It's a 10 Mile Race and I'm feeling pretty confident of making the top 5 finishers. I reckon if I can dip under 1 hour 50 mins I'll be on the podium.

To help me prepare for my big weekend I shoved away half a dozen Leffe last night and, just to be on the safe side, two waffles.

I just know I'm going to be smokin'!!!

Tomorrow its a training run with the Old People of Hastings then I'll do a spot of carbo-Loading at Stavros's kebab wagon on the way home.

I can't wait.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Dover bottles out!!

Just when I had primed myself, what happens? Dover only goes and wimps out of the challenge!

That's right the pesky blighters have cancelled tomorrow morning's Half Marathon because of the snow. I'd really set myself and psyched myself up for my first stab at the distance for some considerable time - but it's not to be. So, in the words of that bloke who reads the news on the telly - "You'll just have to find something else matey".

Instead of running the half marathon I'm having a Leffe beer instead and just contemplating what might have happened if it hadn't been for the weather. In fact it got me thinking about weather and the kind of weather I like.

Although this kiddie does appreciate the sun on his back - I do sometimes find the sun to be a bit like a nosey neighbour. It bursts into your day - whether you like it or not. I mean you can't decline the sun if you don't want it can you? It's just there! It gets in your eyes, it gets on your skin. In fact it just gets everywhere.

Not like drizzle.

If the sun is the Home Counties of the weather world - the soft southern meteorological softie, if you like, then drizzle is your northern equivalent. Drizzle isn't intrusive. It doesnt ask for permission to drizzle. It doesnt announce itself with a geat fanfare like thunder or lightning does. It just gets on with what it wants to do - and does so without fuss or theatre.

Drizzle - for northern blokes who cant be fashed with worrying about weather.

Anyway, I'm rambling. I did do a little 4 miler this morning - and talking of weather it was perishing cold, I can tell you. Tomorrow me and the Half Share are walking round Britain. A little 14 mile walk/run from Dungeness to Hythe will do me the world of good in my Olympic preparation programme.

Talking of which, us Olympians are not at all impressed with those blokes going down a hill on sledges and tea trays and calling it an Olympic Games. As my mate Ernie often says "If God had meant us to ski he'd have made our feet a yard long".

I mean if they just want to jump on the bandwagon and have something called a Winter Olympics - what next? A Spring Olympics with bulb planting, lawn mowing and frisbee chucking?

Do me a favour.

Anyway, I've a Leffe to get on with here.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Out of sight, out of mind? No chance.

Just a short note to tell you that I'm still here - and let me tell you, this kiddie is smoking!!

I've had a head-down attitude over the last four weeks putting in some miles. I bumped into some old people in Hastings and they've kindly let me use them as pace-laggers for my training runs. They're a kindly bunch, if you excuse the smell of stale beer and woodbines, but if I've helped them just half as much as they've helped me ... then they will have helped me twice as much as I've helped them.

Which I think is fair.

I've not done any racing since the start of the year - it doesn't do an Olympian much good to over-race, although I did make a couple of personal cameo-like appearances at a couple of races in Caravan County. I popped over to the Dartford 10 to see what was occurring and then on Sunday I signed a few autographs at the Ashford & District 10K where my old muckers Nice Work were trying to make a fist out of organising the race.

But my weekly sessions with the old people in Hastings has helped - none of that sea-front-shuffling-for-jessies stuff - I've been running up and down hills. As Amanda Holden would say "Yeah - hills".

I've been trying to build up my stamina and my mileage to get ready for that London Marathon thing in April. At the moment I'm a touch above my fighting weight - well more than a touch entre noo - but class is permanent and I'm confident I'll be in the top three come podium time. Can't wait to lock noses with my old mucker Paul Radcliffe again - that's if he can keep his iffy toilet habits in check that is!

Big day for me this Sunday though with my first half marathon for almost a year. I'm down Caravan County again doing a bit of tarmac dodging in the Dover Half Marathon. The Half Share is threatening to come along too - but if there's a breath of wind she'll no doubt want to stay sat in front of the box with her curlers, knitting and a box of Newberry Fruits if I know her. The step up in distance is a big one for me - I'm not expecting graet things either and if I finish in the top ten I'll be happy.

A week later and I'm the celebrity starter at another CC event - the Isle of Oxney Hot Soup 5 Mile Hot Soup Dash - well at least I'll get a bowl of soup out of it!! Then its up to London for a first time race in the capital since that fiend Livingstone got bounced out of the Great Unfinished City. If I can dodge the needles and dog pooh I'll be hoping I can win the Roding Valley Half Marathon - and then a week later its over to my spiritual home - Belgiumland.

We're there for the Ostend to Bruges 10 Mile Race - again with that bunch of gin-soaked has-beens from Nice Work (Christ, they're getting some mentions today!!). Its an event that I get invited to every year - its always flippin' parky, but there's always a nice beer awaiting!

As it happens I paid a flying vsisit to Belgiumland last week to see the fine burghers of Veurne. A sprightly place with more varieties of beer than there are people. Had such a good time I can't remmber a flippin' thing about it - apart from, that is, some beer called Guillotine.

Give me strength I muttered to the barman - and he did.

12% worth!!

Keep on tapering.

Ron