Walking Right Into It (Second Half)

So here I am, feeling pretty smug because I did it! Not a big deal in the greater scheme of things I know, but to me it feels like a bit of a game changer. I learned a lot about walking football and a whole lot more about me.

I won’t pretend that I didn’t spend the last few minutes before setting off in trying to talk myself out of it because I did, but the arrival of ‘a workman’ with a ‘five minute job’ to complete Just as I was about to leave actually worked for me because I became anxious that I would be late and I hate being late, so as soon as he had finished, I jumped into the car and set off without another thought in my head other than arriving on time. I got out of the car and found myself striding across to the pitch, half way there before I realised what I was doing. There were already a lot of people warming up, changing, chatting and I walked in, said “Hi, I’m Colin. I’ve come to play,” and it was done. No way of turning back.

Let me deal first with some of my many misconceptions and fears. I was, by the time the two matches kicked off, one of probably thirty players. Every single one of the twenty nine others was welcoming, shook my hand, introduced themselves by name – which there is zero chance of me remembering – and took me in. A number of them told me, “Don’t be fooled by our age, none of us has lost our competitive spirit,” which cheered me greatly. In fact, looking around, I was certainly towards the upper end of the age range and, when the games started it was immediately apparent that many of my fears were misplaced. The first thing I noticed was that ‘walking football’ involves an awful lot of running about whenever you think that you might be able to get away with it and whilst tackling from behind is, indeed, frowned upon, tackling from the front is alive and well. I have a double-sized purple ankle to prove it.

After twenty-five minutes I was gasping for water, after fifty I was gasping for air and after seventy five I would have liked to have played for thirty more. The pitches are small and with seven or eight-a-side (depending in which game you find yourself) relatively crowded, so you are constantly on the move and – with a three-touch rule in place – looking to pass the ball as soon as you receive it. This is not my game – in as much as I ever had one – and remembering that I I must not pass ahead of my teammates as they cannot run but to their feet so that they can pass it as far away from me as possible is proving tricky. I can’t pretend that I wasn’t properly rusty: I’ve done little but kick-about with the grandkids for the last few years, but despite the fact that I realise I was in the main a liability, I wasn’t totally abject and everybody seemed happy to have me there so I am confident that within a couple of weeks I will be properly back in the swing: still crap, but as good as I can be. I was actually praised because I didn’t get penalised for running which, apparently, almost everybody does at first although, if I’m honest, I’m not sure how I feel about that. Damned by faint praise I think. It’s probably no surprise that ‘my side’ (orange bibs) lost badly. The other side, they told me, contained many of the best players. I think they were probably trying to make me feel better.

But here’s the thing, I will go back next week and if the chance arises I will go for that ‘social’ afterwards (I wasn’t quite that brave in week one.) Names and faces will come to me slowly and eventually I might even be able to put them together correctly. Because I was unsure whether there would be a ‘week two’ for me I was wearing a pair of crappy old trainers which everyone told me were not suitable for the artificial pitch. I think they were hoping that my out-of-practice ineptitude would be remedied by the correct footwear. Well I’m definitely prepared to give it a bash. I’ll buy a pair before I go back.

I was called over by the organiser at the end who reminded me that I was welcome to join them for a drink and a chat, but I declined. I will face that hurdle in the future. He then showed me the contents of the rucksack he had with him. It contained the most comprehensive First Aid kit I think I have ever seen including a defibrillator. “We’ve had it five years,” he said, “and haven’t had to use it yet. I’m pleased you didn’t need it.” I told him to catch up on the instructions and I’d see what I could do next week. He smiled, I’m not sure why. Could have been the joke, or it could have been indigestion, for which he almost certainly had the cure in his bag.

Anyway there you are, I went and I will go back. I learned that walking football is not a stroll in the park and that at least thirty other people in the village do not want it to be; I learned that I can do things alone and that, by and large, people don’t mind having me around, and I learned that retribution for a kick on the ankle is much easier to achieve with people of your own age, but almost impossible to justify.

Walking Right Into It (First Half)

I will begin by laying my cards on the table: I am not blessed with confidence: I am plagued by doubt and hounded by social ineptitude and yet I seldom do things alone. It is rare for me to even enter a pub or a restaurant on my own and I would never consider going to the cinema, a concert or any form of social gathering alone. I will do anything in company, I will go anywhere as long as somebody I know will be there with me, but meeting new people, unsupported, takes me further from my comfort zone than Velcro underwear. Now I don’t want you thinking that I am somehow conspiring to encourage you to believe that I am in some way pathetic, because that would imply that it might take some kind of effort to persuade you of it. Frankly I think that a certain portion of my psyche – could be ego, could be id, could be Maureen, I just don’t know – must have stopped developing in childhood. Whatever the cause, I have spent a lifetime wanting to do things that I almost inevitably never did.

I played football until my late fifties when I realised that I had to stop for the good of my health. Not because I was physically unable to compete, but because I was mentally unable to accept that I would be kicked by people who were less than half my age, against whom retribution would appear, at best, churlish. Through the long dark years of Covid, when we were all forced into prolonged periods of solitude, I took up running (chronicled in this blog in many ‘Running Man’ posts) for a couple of years until my hips, knees and ankles began to catch up on me. In truth it was always me versus running, and in the end running won.

I am aware that at my age I need to find some form of suitable (eg not gym-based, not entirely solitary, not guilt inducing, unlikely to kill me) exercise while I am still perambulate and Walking Football has been on my agenda for a while, but I have never quite made the jump for two reasons: one, I have no-one to go with and two, the people who tell me they do play always seem so very old, but I think in principal that if I can just find a way to slow myself down, I might enjoy it. My wife – ever keen to get me out of the house – looked up the village team, found that the minimum age criterion is actually fifty five, and arranged a trial for me today. The football session is, I am told, an hour and a quarter, followed by a ‘social session’ at the local sports and social club. If I don’t like it, I will have lost a couple of hours of my life. If they don’t like me (more likely: I am something of an acquired taste) I hope I will be able to recognise it and withdraw. If I do like it, and they can put up with me, it will open me up to trying other things: give me confidence to go it alone now and again. Mind you, there is, on a different weekday, a group for less able and older players and my main aim today is not to get relegated before I start. I’m not sure how I would react to that.

Setting aside the sheer terror of meeting new people I am, of course, worried that I will not be good enough. It’s been a while since I’ve played football competitively. Will I still have any touch, will I still see a pass, am I likely to find myself in an ambulance sucking oxygen in through a mask after fifteen minutes? More to the point, as the new boy, will they stick me in goal? I have no idea what talents I may have left, but I am pretty certain that goalkeeping is not among them. I am fit, but I am also 66 and it’s been a while since I’ve done anything even remotely strenuous that takes over an hour. But then I remind myself it is walking football, how strenuous can it be? I walk all the time. My step count is the healthiest thing about me. Physically I know I should have no problem, but I can’t help but wonder if I’m quite ready for walking pace yet. My normal walking pace is more of a scuttle and I get frustrated by fit, young people who insist on walking so very slowly in front of me, particularly when I can’t find my way past them. I just know that I will forget myself and run when I shouldn’t. I know that I might be a little bit more ‘robust’ than is necessarily desirable, but I also know that I will do all I can to ‘fit in’, because that is what I do. If I’m honest, I’m keen to find out if I can do it.

There is, I must admit, a distinct possibility that I will not even go, or if I do, that I will slope away before anyone has noticed that I am there. As things stand I am very determined to join in, but when I get there, things could definitely change. If I am faced with a large group of people who are very familiar with one another, but not with me, I could easily buckle. Having no perceptible talent of my own, I have always been very much a team player, but I am aware that I often struggle to take that one, vital first step of joining the team in the first place. I can only hope that this time I can walk right into it…

The Hops

A good beer is one of my favourite indulgences and, as I am in the very fortunate position of being able to afford a bottle or two now and again, one in which I fairly regularly partake. I enjoy, you understand, I savour. I do not guzzle. Mostly…

Back in the days of early wedlock, finances were much more constrained and I, in common with most of my contemporaries, regularly turned my hand to making my own wine and beer. (Should you be considering taking up this hobby, I can do little more than recommend my post of October 2019, Possible Hobby #3 – Home Brewing. If that doesn’t put you off, nothing will.) Beer making is something to which I have recently returned, not for financial reasons, but because I wanted to find out how well I could do it.

Well, truth be told, it turns out that I do it rather well. My beer is clear, bright and unexpectedly crisp. God knows how strong it is, but it goes down surprisingly well* and tastes better and better with each successive glassful.

I haven’t yet slipped back into wine making, although I am strangely partial to a slightly hazy, over-sweet, violet-hued, florally perfumed Pinot. Anything but Chardonnay. The truth is that wine-making requires far too much equipment. With beer I need a bucket and some bottles, easy, but with wine I’d need demijohns, airlocks, sufficient chemicals to stock a lab, corks… And everything has to be so clean. God forbid I should ever feel the need to put labels on anything. With my current output, if it’s in a brown pint bottle, it almost certainly is IPA. If it’s in a clear pint bottle and removes limescale from the taps, it is almost certainly cider (a new venture), but if I branched into wine I would feel obliged to label it with some kind of information: red or white; sweet or dry; explosive or emetic… It’s just too much work. Whilst I feel the pull of pouring out my own cru for guests: ‘Yes, I brewed it from all the dandelions growing on the field behind us. No, I didn’t know they’d sprayed it with paraquat. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Chin, chin…’ I do not feel the yen to sterilise everything I touch. By and large it isn’t necessary.

With beer I rinse things through a bit. I put the bottles through the dishwasher – which my wife loves – fill them, crown cork them, leave them for a few weeks and Hey Presto, if they haven’t blown up, they are ready. If anyone comes across a dead fly I tell them it must just have landed in their glass: ‘At least it died happy ha ha!’ If anyone comes across a dead mouse things are not so easy…

Anyway, I pass on this information to you simply as a way of letting you know that I am about to open a bottle, so if I disappear from the blog for any time again, you will at least know why…

*I edited this sentence which originally (and, I would stress, completely innocently) said ‘…but it has a good head and goes down well’ in a bit of a rush when I realised that the original might leave you with the impression that I had received a blow to the head with a copy of 50 Shades of Grey. Nobody wants that…

No man is an island – although some of us are a little wet all round…

The Running Man on Thoughts of a Return (or Why You Can Never Take Too Long in Thinking Things Over)

After too many weeks of illness I am at last approaching normal health – my voice still sounds as though I have been gargling a combination of broken glass, maracas and dog whistles, but otherwise I can almost pass for well – my wife, however, a good week or so behind me in disease progression, remains quite unwell and so occupies a different bed in a different room – although she has yet to decide to leave the house. She is not sleeping. She reads, she watches TV, she thinks of all the things I haven’t done. I know this because I lie awake listening to her. She is the noisiest non-sleeper I have ever known. Each time I stumble out of bed, trip over something, turn on the light, walk into the door, flush the toilet, turn off the light, walk into the other side of the door, trip over whatever I failed to pick up when I crossed the landing the first time and huff my way back into bed, I can hear her coughing.

My own cough, save for the obligatory morning hack, is now a thing of the past. I am quite able to hold a conversation with anybody who is in the least bit interested in talking to me (so I don’t talk much). I have yet to return to running – to be honest, I have yet to return to any form of exercise that does not involve chocolate or twelve year old malt – but I have begun to consider it. Currently my mind is telling me that it is a good idea whilst my body is telling me to get a life. Gulping down enough oxygen to make the end of the street is all that is currently holding me back.

I am left pondering upon a single unknown: have I taken so long to recover because this particular virus is insidious, ever-changing and particularly obstinate, or is it because I am getting old? I scour the internet for evidence of the former. I find nothing but proof of the latter. My contemporaries are dying in their droves. If you are my age and famous, you might as well hand in your cards: you are going to be on the news really soon. I wonder if we are a particularly unfit generation. I eat well (I refuse to believe that chocolate is anything but healthy), I exercise and I follow all of the doctor’s advice (except the bit about alcohol). I am generally well (except for when I am ill) and I can still do most of what I want to do without stopping for oxygen. I have four grandchildren and I would like to see them grow, but I want to enjoy them, and me, for as long as I can. I refuse to wrap myself in cotton wool (knowing my luck, I would be allergic to it anyway).

We all know that for most people the last few years, months or weeks of life are less than ideal, so I figure I need to have some decent memories to cling on to. If they involve me making a complete prat of myself, well… that’s fine. It’s kind of what I think I’m here for.

My weight has risen just a little bit (in elephant terms) over this period of illness and inaction, but my blood pressure and my heart rate have stayed pretty constant, so I think a return to the running shoes may be imminent (if I can muster the energy to tackle the laces) and a first run of 2023 could be just around the corner (where, perhaps with any luck, somebody else might live). Exercise bike first I think, then actual bike before putting in the plodding joyless running miles around the village, wondering when it was, exactly, that I became this stupid – perhaps a return to Couch to 5k might be the way forward. I’ll give it plenty of thought.

It doesn’t pay to rush things at my age…

Should you wish to know where all this old age exercise nonesense started, you could do worse than look at this post from May 2020.

Nothing to Report

I have spent so long writing about what happens to me that I have quite forgotten the nub of my problem: nothing ever happens to me. I am not an adventurer or a socialite, I cannot report from the centre of the Amazonian Rainforest nor the shadow-lit back booth of a reality star lined nightclub. I do not move in the kind of circles that would allow me to report on the foibles of the great and the good. I walk about a bit, occasionally I trip. I don’t have much to say. If I start a post with ‘It rained this morning’ it is not the prelude to some fantastical recollection of a financially overloaded neighbour building himself an ark on his back lawn, it is merely a statement of fact. End of. I don’t know anybody who has been into space: most of my friends can just about manage the Co-op. If I made attempts to ‘drop names’ they would not hit the ground with much force.

I have a steady readership that just about troubles double figures and the nearest I have ever been to going viral is when my wife had a cold sore. I have never attempted to make money out of this thing – I fear, if I did, I might end up in negative equity. For all those bloggers who decide to ‘follow’ me in order to sell me the means to make my fortune out of blogging, I can only say that I really wouldn’t bother if I were you; this is exactly all this blog will ever be: an exploration of nothing in particular, the odd trip into wishful thinking and an occasional wander through the land of make-believe. All I can do is meander around anything that I think might amuse you and allow you to do the same for me. I won’t change what I do in order to make money because a) I have nothing to change it to and, b) nobody in their right mind would pay for it if I did. Anyone that actually reads this over an extended period will already know quite enough about me, thank you very much. In the case of yours truly, less is definitely more.

I run, but I am not a runner. I am not going to buy protein drinks, mega-vitamins or super-shoes. Try me on Mars Bars. I don’t need professional counselling or well-being advice. I need chocolate and wine and diversion. I do this thing simply because I want to. It’s what I do. I’d like to think that I occasionally raise a smile, but I seriously doubt that it is anything that anyone would ever pay for. (How would I charge: a pound a grin? Would I have to offer refunds to the straight of face?) If I could become rich through people laughing at me, then I think I might already be loaded. I would be very happy to ‘make $millions’ from this twaddle, but unless thousands of people suddenly decide that they want to learn about everything that never happens to me, it’s just not going to happen.

I will carry on telling you about the meagre salmagundi of my life, about the dustbin men, the gas fitters, my maladies and my hobbies; I will continue to bore you with my rose-tinted recollections and half-baked theories. I will implore you to educate me whenever bafflement with daily existence proves to be too much for me to process. In short, I will continue to report at some length on my vacuous self and you can choose whether you wish to read it or not – and all without charge.

One day, I’ll write a post about it…

The Autumn Gardener

As the days shorten and the mists of autumn bejewel, like a vajazzled pole dancer’s pubis, all of the webs that will keep your arachnophobic spouse out of the garden until well after the first frost, now is the time to batten down the garden hatches in preparation for Winter…

First step is to open the shed door which may well have swollen with the summer’s humidity or possibly remains nailed-up from last year. To open the lock you will probably require the spade, which is in the shed with most of the good half of its handle. If you are fortunate enough to have a garage, you may well find something in there with which to a) prise the door open, b) smash the window and c) stem the bleeding. Once inside the shed you will discover that everything non-metallic has been turned into organic mulch by mice, mould and insects. Do not be tempted to spread this on your garden: nobody wants a visit from the Environmental Health Department. Rescue all that you can and burn the rest with the tubers that you forgot to plant last year and the fence panels you forgot to repair after the last storm. Do not eat the mushrooms that are growing out of the Weed & Feed box.

Prepare the water-feature for winter either by carefully dismantling, draining and disconnecting from the electricity supply or, alternatively, by covering with a large cardboard box and pretending that the delivery man has dropped it.

Strip the greenhouse of all the plants that have spent the summer gently decomposing and squeeze in as much of the garden furniture as rust allows. Maximising space in the greenhouse invariably involves a small amount of breakage. Don’t worry. Black bin bags work just as well as glass and can be replaced with clear plastic bags, cardboard and gaffer tape in the summer after the previous year’s furniture has been removed and left out for the totters. Do not be concerned if the greenhouse door does not close at this stage: it can be held back with a brick or plant pot for now, and it will almost certainly be much easier after the first storm of winter has smashed all the glass out of it. Agricultural glass is inexpensive and can be bought, cut to measure to exactly the wrong size from most glass suppliers. Order plenty because whatever does not get broken on the journey home will get smashed by the titchy little springs that are supposed to keep it in the frame. Remember that, although blood is a good soil enricher, it is not a good idea to shed too much. Nobody wants a dizzy spell in a greenhouse – even if it is 90% plastic bag.

If the step ladder is easily accessible in the shed and the rungs have not yet been eaten away by whatever-it-is that has had the floor, now is a good time to clean out the house gutters. Most detritus can be removed by tying together a number of garden canes and sliding them along the gutter until they break. Do not worry if joints are dislodged and seals are removed, in my experience, modern guttering is not designed to be waterproof. Be careful when attempting to remove tennis balls – nobody knows how they get in there – because if they fall into the downpipe they will almost certainly cause a blockage that can only be cleared by wrenching the whole thing off the wall and throwing it behind the shed. Dead birds will eventually rot down. Cats may take longer.

Your house and garden should now be ready for winter and you will have just one more task to do in preparation for the dark months ahead. Sort your garden tools into three piles: 1. metal bits (easily identified by the presence of rust), 2. broken-off wooden bits (easily identified by the presence of woodworm and dry rot) and, 3. lethal electrical bits (easily identified by the presence of frayed cables and shattered blades), before loading them all into a wheelbarrow and dumping them into somebody else’s skip in the dead of night. If your wheelbarrow has developed a squeak this is a good sign, unless it does not have a wheel, in which case it is a bad sign and time to get your hips checked.

Should your shed door refuse to lock, nail it up securely once more. Do not worry if someone attempts to steal the contents of your shed, it will almost certainly be for a bet and not for profit.

You will be able to buy next-door’s stolen garden tools at a carboot sale in the Spring.

Running In, Please Pass

I have loved football all my life and I continued playing it until my late fifties at which point I started to become rather over-agitated when kicked by children, deciding that my subsequent reactions were not always beneficial for my blood pressure. I found being kicked by people of my own age so much more acceptable, but so few of them were still at it. And I don’t want you to think that I was totally averse to a bit of kicking myself, but when those you are kicking are younger than your own children, it all starts to feel a little odd. Frustration started to take hold and I considered it wise to heed the signs that it might be advisable to call it a day. We are not talking elite football here; there were no uniformed paramedics on stand-by. If I had suffered a heart attack, somebody would have had to nip round to the local Co-op on their pushbike to find out whether the community defibrillator had been nicked again. I fear that the black shroud would have been tightened around me long before the hands of the on-call doctor.

Anyway, I stopped playing and I should be able to say that I thought no more about it, but that would be simply untrue. I think about it all the time. Not going back of course. I am sixty three and even though I know that I am fit enough to do it, it is the reaction of the other players, potentially a quarter of my age, that I fear. The possibility of not being tackled, lest I should break, is not something I choose to consider. The possibility of not being substituted by the manager whilst having a mare, lest I should be terminally upset, is not something I would ponder. There is definitely no going back.

So I now need to contemplate ‘Walking Football’ and, it may be a sign of my softening brain, but there are times when it almost feels like a good idea. There are also times when I question the entire rationale of taking myself off to play a game with a bunch of old codgers who cannot run anymore. Me, an old codger who can run, sometimes for seconds at a time. Is it really appropriate? Could I play football without, at least, breaking into an amble? Would I be forced to chase the ball like Benny Hill chasing a scantily-clad nurse*? How fast is it possible to walk without breaking into a trot? Is there, perhaps, a maximum walking speed and, if so, how is it measured? It all sounds just a little too complicated to me. Maybe I need to look for some other form of low impact sport to replace those that propriety dictates I can no longer do. What about cricket with a foam ball and a rubber bat; tennis with no opponent, but with the ball on a length of string; perhaps touch rugby could be slowed down by tying boot laces together and wrapping the ball in Velcro. Maybe I should take up Crazy Golf, I’m sure the walk would do me good.

*If anybody below the age of fifty is reading this – although God knows why they would – they may need to Google Benny Hill and watch Youtube in order to understand what I am getting at. I wish it to be known that I cannot be held responsible for attitudes that were fifty years out of date before Mr Hill started employing them. Just saying…

The Running Man – The State of Play

However much of a surprise it is to you to find that I am still running, it is a bigger one to me. Like banging my head on a wall, I am sure that I will enjoy it when I stop, but none-the-less, I keep banging on. I still look like the World’s Worst Dressed every time I set out, in a collection of ‘gear’ that can only be described – at least with my limited vocabulary – as ‘motley’. I watch other runners as they trot by in their neon yellow vests, lycra shorts and trainers that cost more than my car: they do not sweat, they do not pant, they do not look as if somebody has just had a paint-stripper to their face. I do. In my slightly holey T-shirt, baggy shorts and trainers that I borrowed from my brother and never returned, I still look like I spend my time testing fan ovens from the inside. I want to feel better when I am running, but no matter how often I do it, I never do. I always think that I feel worse. I don’t of course. That would not be possible. But, and here is the crucial point, when I don’t run, I definitely do feel worse. Each time I take a break, I feel the pressing need to run again and every time I run again, I definitely feel much worse than I did before it. Each time I sit at home with a pint of beer, a vegan pastie and nine series of Still Game on iPlayer I feel great, but guilty. I’m not good with guilt. Each time I set out, guilt-free and bereft of all pastry I feel as though I should feel great, but I don’t. I feel great when I set off – sometimes for seconds. I feel great about running, but I feel terrible doing it.

I have recently returned to the jogging throng after recovering from a chest virus and a bad back – neither of which, I suspect, would have dragged me so far down ten years ago. Throw in a holiday and I missed running for six weeks in all. I put weight on much quicker than I could ever lose it. I would have drunk much more, but I got out of breath pulling the corks. And all the time I wasn’t running I was wishing that I was. And as soon as I was, I was wishing that I wasn’t. It has become habit. It’s a strange fact of life (well, mine at least) that I only ever really want to do something when there is a perfectly valid reason why I cannot. It is another strange quirk of existence that whenever I really don’t want to do something, I can never find a suitable impediment.

So, after a fitful return to the regular routine, I am fully back on it. I run because I know that I will feel worse about not doing it than I do whilst doing it. It’s like voting. I know that I must either waste my vote by gifting it to somebody who has absolutely no prospect of success, or I use it to elect somebody who I know will disappoint me. I would like not to vote, but it might allow somebody of whom I do not approve (anybody vain enough to stand for election) to sneak into power. So I vote, in the certain knowledge that I will regret it before the envelope hits the bottom of the post box. I haven’t been to a polling station in years. I don’t like the false good-humour and the forced formality of it all. I particularly don’t like standing behind a partially drawn curtain, staring at an ill-printed scrap of destiny, desperate to do the right thing, but certain that it will be wrong.

I have had similar problems in returning to this little routine. Unusually, for me, I was laid as low in spirit as I was in health and I decided that I should pour such energy as I could muster into a long-form piece of tom foolery through which, for better or for worse, I breezed. I had four characters – all of them me – who I knew and understood. I had a plot (I am perhaps stretching things a little by using the word ‘plot’, but I knew what had to happen and, even though it was precious little, it did) and my characters just found their own way to the end. I enjoyed picking up threads. Each evening’s finish provided the following morning’s start and nothing more taxing than, ‘now, where was I?’ When my characters wandered off-piste, I didn’t have to worry about them. I just let the others take the strain whilst I waited for them to find their own way back. When it was done, I read it through. It made sense – at least to me it did – and it made me laugh (although I’m not certain that it is good form to admit that). It was one of those diversions where you discover a beautiful country church that you never knew existed, in the garden of a pub, that sells ice cream…

I have found my return to the short-form to be slightly more problematic. I want to do it, I love to do it, but somehow I have just not found the groove yet. I don’t want to keep on doing the same old thing, but then I remember that this little column is my life, and my life, pretty much, is the same old thing. It works only as long as I don’t over-think it. Someone else can do the thinking: somebody who is good at it. I should do what I am good at – and I will, just as soon as I find out what it is. Whatever it is, I’m pretty certain it will not involve too much in the way of cogitation and, if I’m honest, only a very limited amount of actual doing. It might involve thinking about doing – just as long as I don’t have to explain it to anybody else.

So anyway, there you have it, the current state of play as I ease myself back into routine – still running, still writing, still no idea why the Earth orbits the sun, why cake goes hard and biscuits go soft, why I am happy to think of myself as a running man, but most definitely not a runner. Why I fear I will forever be a man who writes, but never a writer…

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Diatribe to Dynamite)

DIATRIBE A bitter, sharply abusive denunciation, attack, or criticism. Known in subversive circles as ‘conversation’. There is little point in speaking about anyone at all except in derogatory terms. All subversives are bitter about something, be it the blatant oppression of the working classes by the ruling elite; the exploitation of minority groups in our supposedly egalitarian society, or the price of deodorised socks at the Co-op, and will waste no time in denouncing¹ any or all of them.

^{1. The most important thing to remember about the act of denunciation is that it does not encumber the denouncer with any responsibility, e.g. suggesting a solution to the problem. This is the job of politicians – who really should know better.}

DICTATOR (See Despot – above) Charlie Chaplin played The Great Dictator in a film, only to find that a Mr A Hitler subsequently plagiarised his creation and went on to achieve worldwide notoriety without having to eat liquorice boots. Many historians have considered how the impact of the Second World War might have been lessened had Mr Hitler been as funny as Mr Chaplin, but on closer examination of the latter’s films, most are forced to agree that he was.

DIM Rather stupid. It is impossible to underestimate the importance of dim people to your organisation. With proper persuasion, they will do all the things that you are far too scared to do. Also, when captured by the authorities, they will waste no time in admitting to anything at all, as long as the policeman offers to share his Smarties.

DIGESTIVE A medicine which aids digestion. More importantly, a biscuit. Should you ever find yourself in gainful employment, always strive to assume control of the staff tea fund. Once in this lofty position of power, replace the digestives with Rich Tea and watch the fun begin¹. Remember that, whatever is claimed to the contrary, the tea fund never did stretch to Custard Creams and always offer to reinstate the Digestives in return for an increase of the weekly subs. Be prepared to deny emphatically that the quality of the tea has fallen during your time in charge and also that the tea money has, in any way, contributed towards your new Rolex watch, whilst pointing out the importance of proper timekeeping in the delivery of the tea. Always keep a separate stash of Supermarket Own-Brand Rich Tea, which can be passed off as ‘low-sugar’ or ‘gluten-free’ as required and a small pack of Jammie Dodgers for the exclusive consumption of the person in charge of the photocopier and the recently divorced hottie in accounts.

^{1. It is a universally acknowledged truth that absolutely nobody likes Rich Tea biscuits – with the possible exception of vicars’ wives, who do so solely on a cost basis, and Supermodels, for whom a single biscuit provides a)100% of their daily nutritional requirements. b) A convenient ashtray. c) A nice shiny surface from which to snort their actual daily nutritional requirements.}

DISMEMBER To sever limb from limb. Probably not the best course of action for the do-it-yourselfer. To be efficient at this you need a sharp knife and a strong stomach. It does make a dreadful mess in the bathroom and, unless you feel you really have to make a point, I recommend you dismember something with far less blood, gristle and sinew than the average human being. Try a chocolate digestive biscuit, a plastic duck or Donald Trump (please).

DISSENT To disagree with the methods, goals, etc., of a political party or government; take an opposing view. Does this make you a subversive? No, this makes you normal. Governments in general serve only one rational function, that of being the focus of dissent. It is perfectly logical to hold in contempt anyone who always knows what is best for you. Government is full of them¹. It is also full of people who know that what is good for you isn’t necessarily good for them.

^{1. Politics is the only profession for which being called a ‘sanctimonious prig’ is considered a good thing.}

DODGE To evade by sudden shift of place. What one does with all responsibility.

DOMESDAY Archaic word meaning ‘The day of Judgement’. Generally associated with the Domesday Book, an early census, ordered by William the Conqueror, who wanted to know exactly how much he could screw out of whom. Think combined Census and Tax Return with the implicit threat of disembowelment for non-payment.

DOOMSDAY The Day of Judgement. Your afternoon in Magistrates Court – £25 fine and bound over for two weeks. Also, excluded from all branches of McDonalds until April.

DOWNHILL Into a worse or inferior condition. The direction in which your life is heading. Generally, unless you are wearing skis, it is not considered ‘a good thing’ to reach the bottom first. Even in Downhill Skiing, one is expected to reach the nadir with some form and grace; not with one shoe missing, a fat lip and a tampon up one nostril. Also, remember that not even Franz Klammer was able to walk back up the mountain, no matter how quickly or elegantly he got down it. A couple of paper cupfuls of gluhwein down at the bottom end and you’re staying there baby.

DUEL A prearranged combat between two persons, fought with deadly weapons according to an accepted code of procedure, esp. to settle a private quarrel. Once an invitation to duel has been accepted, it is considered extremely bad form to hide behind one’s girlfriend pretending to be a non-English speaking Lithuanian with a dodgy leg. You will be considered a complete cad if you do not go ahead with the duel and die with honour. Duels are traditionally fought at dawn, with either swords or pistols. (If you are offered the choice of weapons, go for celery. Contempt is much easier to handle than fatal wounding.)

DUET A piece of music for two performers. What you thought you’d read when you accepted the invitation to a duel.

DUODENUM The first portion of the small intestine, from the stomach to the jejunum¹. The first indicator that you are actually properly scared.

^{1. The section of the small intestine between the duodenum and the ileum – and you think your job, stacking supermarket shelves, is grim.}

DYNAMITE High explosive. Much like next-door’s glue-sniffing son, this is never to be approached with an open flame. Much like next-door’s glue-sniffing son, dynamite can have a devastating effect on the neighbourhood. Unlike next-door’s glue-sniffing son, dynamite is very rarely sick on your rhododendrons.

ASSIGNMENT.

Place a soft-boiled egg up a politician’s exhaust (or that of his car).

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion Index is here

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (DDT to Devil)

DDT Hydrocarbon compound, an effective insecticide. Many of the people you will encounter in the pursuit of your subversive activities would benefit greatly from a spray down with this. Pay special attention to all warm, moist areas: The Amazonian Rain Forest, North West India, all regions generally covered by underwear.

DAMAGE To injure or impair. It is a legitimate course of action to cause damage to those who themselves cause damage on a much greater scale. There are those who would damage our communities, our countries, our planet and, were they to be given the opportunity, probably several others across the universe. Now is the time to rise up and damage their cause. It is impossible for even the seasoned subversive not to take sides. Sit on the fence and you will get your balls creosoted. Think of your children. If you don’t have children, think of somebody else’s children. If you don’t like children, think of yourself.

DANGER Exposure to injury; jeopardy; risk. Oh, dear me, no! No, no, no, no, no! Exposure to injury is to be avoided at all cost. Besides serving no useful purpose whatsoever, injury is in itself a foreign word to the subversive. It translates as ‘Pain’. Pain is exclusively reserved for the benefit of others. Pain is to be inflicted. Pain is most certainly not to be endured. Some people thrive on danger. To the brave, it is like a drug. To the subversive it is like a laxative. It is best never to get involved in anything that could, in anyway, be considered dangerous.

DEATH Extinction of life. Death is not a skeletal figure dressed in black, carrying a scythe¹. Death is an insurance salesman. Death is called Nigel. Death works at a call centre in Mumbai. He got your phone number from the HMRC website.

^{1. An agricultural hand-tool for mowing grass or reaping crops. How it became associated with Death, I am not certain. A scythe is used in the reaping of crops and Death is, of course, The Grim Reaper. I Googled ‘Grim Reaper’ and got a short piece about a heavy metal band from Droitwich. I also accidentally Googled ‘Grim Reeperbahn’, which I do not recommend as a course of action, and I would like to make it known, here and now, that I have never met the lady.}

DEBACLE A confused rout. Now here is a word I know all about. My whole life is confusion – at least I think it is, I’m not sure. A rout is any overwhelming defeat, which just goes to prove that my wife is completely correct when she describes my entire life as a debacle.

DEBATE Contention in words or arguments; discussion; controversy. To dispute; to deliberate. Forget it. Politicians do it all the time – and look at them. The gentle art of persuasion is best served with a baseball bat. Do not deliberate – it merely postpones the painful realisation that you haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. Debate requires at least two parties and has three rules:

Don’t get involved.
If you do get involved, always stand by an open door.
Write down very clearly the points you wish to make and, in an emergency, use the list to set fire to the other person’s trousers.

DEBAUCH To corrupt; to pervert; to riot; to revel. Excess in eating or drinking; lewdness. This sounds like so much fun, the government will almost certainly tax it in the next budget.

DEFEAT Frustration; overthrow; loss of battle. Try to avoid all possibility of defeat by never openly being drawn into battle. If you should become embroiled in a literary battle, use a pen-name and, if possible, somebody else’s typewriter or cut letters out of the newspaper. If you are drawn into a verbal battle, remember always to speak slowly and quietly. Very quietly if your opponent is bigger than yourself. Keep calm when stating your own arguments and listen carefully and patiently to those of your adversary before destroying them with your incisive wit and perception. It is also a good tactic to stand behind them and pull faces. Should you get drawn into a physical battle you have two basic choices: flight or fight. Of course, one of them is right and the other one is fight. If all possible escape routes are blocked, and a physical confrontation becomes inevitable, you must immediately adopt the correct stance. This is best known as the foetal position. Roll up in a ball, as tightly as you can, and whimper softly¹.

Never worry about losing face – it does not hurt as much as getting beaten up.

^{1. Foam at the mouth if at all possible: your opponent will a) believe that you are in need of medical attention and will not want to get involved in all the questions that are associated with a 999 call (the answers to which are all ‘I don’t know’) b) will not want to get sputum all over his brand new linen trousers and c) will have just the vaguest suspicion that you might have rabies and/or a trapped fish bone – the consequences of either being far more messy than they would want to risk.}

DESPERADO Desperate fellow; reckless ruffian. A media word for subversive. If you like the sound of this title, do not wash or change your underwear for a week.

DESPOT (See Dictator – below) A king or other ruler with absolute, unlimited power; autocrat; any tyrant or oppressor. Everything that you most revile. Everything that you’d most like to be. You could buy a dog, but remember that even the dimmest of canines might be inclined to answer back now and again – also it is not easy to remain imperious with dog crap on your slippers.

DEVASTATE To lay waste; render desolate. The effect that the dedicated subversive can have on an ‘All U Can Eat Oriental Buffet’ during its £4.95 Afternoon Special session. Also the effect that certain prawn dishes in the above may have on the hungry subversive after they have sat in lukewarm water for four and a half hours under a dodgy heat lamp. (You know that I meant the prawns and not the subversives.)

DEVIL (1) The supreme spirit of evil. I drank some of this on holiday in Bulgaria and spoke Swahili for three days afterwards.

DEVIL (2) An atrociously wicked, cruel, or ill-tempered person. You will meet a lot of these. Tell them that you have wandered into the Job Centre by mistake and, anyway, you can’t attend a job interview right now because you have a bunion.

DEVIL (3) A person who is very clever, energetic, reckless, or mischievous. Exactly the kind of person that you do not want in your band of desperadoes, but will almost certainly be first in the queue to join you. Allow them to become a member at your peril. Finding your shoes super-glued to the pub floor is all well and good the first time it happens, but can become seriously annoying, particularly when you are trying to evade the landlord.

DEVIL (4) (Cookery) a grill with Cayenne pepper. Something that you do with kidneys – although God knows why. As far as I am aware, kidneys serve only one purpose in the culinary world, e.g. something to pick out of steak and kidney pie.

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion Index is here