I have spurned the opportunity to take part in the London Olympics. Not on purpose, but then again, yes, on purpose; though perhaps not by design but more through default. It has seemed forever that the slow red London bus that travelled embarrassingly to China from the UK with fat ol Boris, school swot Beckham and who the hell/what the hell was Jimmy Page doing there? We have, since that point, been inundated with programmes and initiatives, local authority projects and government drives to increase our awareness of cultural diversity, of nutrition and fitness, of opportunity and volunteerism and  the countless, countless, countless, countdowns to the start of the London games. To be frank I am sick to the back teeth of the whole thing.

Personally, and perhaps as a  result of the suffocating ‘joy’ that we should all be experiencing, the Tango taste of anticipation, I did not apply for Olympic venue tickets in either phase 1 or phase 2; I rejected tickets for the table tennis, and was unable to take advantage of the road-racing tickets available to me. I won’t be applying for any of the half-a-million remaining football tickets to watch Mickey Mouse FC take on Donald Duck United (half-baked ensembles of national football offering anyway  when the proper thing is just 4 weeks away in our own league structures). I didn’t attend the Olympic torch run in either Hove or Lewes, and I will be in Denmark when t he opening ceremony floods our TV like a second showing of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee – all wet and cheap like cheese and pineapple cocktail sticks. And to date TV coverage has striven to dent my small appetite too. Drug-cheating exposés, ‘what has the Olympics done for you’ type affairs, ‘100 Greatest Olympic Moments’  formats;  last night’s offering by that nob of Radio 5 (ok, that could be a number of people but this is the guy that does the 2 o’clock shift) and the ‘nearly man’ Colin Jackson was particularly galling.

But I have been touched a little. I did want to watch Bettsie bear his torch in Hove , I had to make a grown-up parental decision to not stand in  the rain with my 2 year old; I might yet be offered mountain-biking tickets in Essex, and I have taken two weeks off work to be home to watch bits of it – albeit that most of the time I will up the scaffolding outside my house with a paint brush in me mitt. Colin Murray has presented a compelling radio series whereby he tracks down every living British gold-medallist and last night I watched a programme about cyclist Vicky Pendleton that made me love sport all over again, care about its outcomes, and value the enormity of personal endeavour and commitment that these guys, if you take away the champagne and glitz, put in. I shall, now, buy some glue for my sofa on my way home tonight – apply some to the cushion, some to my arse, wrestle the  TV controls and almost certain 24/7 Kardashian crap that my wife watches to my end of the sofa – turn on, tune in, drop out and marvel at the Olympian effort that will make up the games. Even if it means enduring Sue Barker’s pinched smile for the duration. Come on!

I watched a small Scottish lad, voice-breaking (puberty methinks), crying, mumbling, in front of 18,000 tennis aficionados last weekend after capitulating (oh, what a foregone conclusion) to an ageing Swiss bloke. He had a lack of presence, stature, and composure befitting of a professional sportsperson but demonstrated good ol’ British standard human frailty. He then appeared in the audience of  Mock the Week laughing with his girlfriend which just goes to prove Andy Murray has a sense of humour too. I am expecting to see him on Ready Steady Cook next – the true metrosexual! Andy Murray appears to have entered the hearts of many. Following a sea-change of opinion, he has developed a 3-D persona. A bigger U-turn than anything Cameron’s cronies have pulled off in the last two years, and something Lewis Hamilton would give his right arm for. I have heard many people now refer to him, affectionately now, as Andrew. He absolutely filled the national newspapers both Saturday and Sunday and Monday too! He has moved from loathsome to lovesome; there was a bloke on the radio this morning saying that even  his dyed-in-the-wool,  stick-in-the-mud, 91year old mother had warmed to him. And, reality check, he lost, he came a very easy second, a pedestrian runner-up, he looked the real McCoy for only 25% of the game. What is the matter with us.

There is this bloke, Bradley Wiggins – who last Sunday donned the Yellow jersey in the Tour De France, only the fifth Brit to do so, and has retained  it ever since too. In fact he has increased his lead over the rest of the field! Barely anything in the newspaper until mid-week when there was no other sporting competition to squeeze his achievement out. Now I don’t even like Bradley Wiggins particularly but in interviews, in his demeanour, in his approach to the whole ‘Kilburn lad achieving a life-times personal dream’ has been uber-professional. Basically his mantra is; it’s what I train for, it’s what I am good at,  and  we will take things day-by-day I haven’t won anything and I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. And yesterday we had a ‘one-two’ in the Tour for the first time in its 100 plus years history (Chris Froome – ‘come on down,  the price is right!’). Admittedly this year’s Tour may look less classy than  previous years – the tightening of drugs controls (anti-doping), arguably the impact of pending the Olympics and the chances of  Aussie Cadel Evans, current champion who is ‘as ancient as my uncle’ (an odd phrase that my Italian mate uses) winning a second tour could be mitigating factors. But still – it is an awesome and historic effort in terms of British sporting achievement.

When we looked at the tennis last week Jonny Marray’s wild card win, a ‘winner’, was marginalised by Murray’s lack-lustre projected potential. Like Marray, Murray too will go on to underwhelm and fizzle out in his next major tournament (probably at Flushing Meadows in the US Open). Wiggins, however, deserves our recognition,  our admiration, our applause, our praise – he really looks like the real deal! Buy your beers and book your afternoon sofa slot for the last leg and crowning moment this Sunday. After the debacle of the football, the tennis, and the over-hyped damp squib that the Olympics threatens to be, I think BINGO – we might just have a winner!

This week two tornado jets  went down, 5 climbers were lost in the Swiss alps and Andy Murray failed to make the finals (I am guessing here). In days of yore where Shackleton spent much of the First World War lost in Arctic tundra, chowing seal fat and dodging his military duties, or Capt. Oates was off wandering out for a jimmy riddle (it could’ve been a Number two – he is quoted to have said that he ‘may be sometime’), Edmund Hilary was making it to the top of Mt Everest piggy-backing one of countless Sherpas who no doubt just saw it as a post-Sunday lunch jaunt, and Fred Perry was a Wimbledon champion – let’s face it – heroes were ten-a-penny.

But nowadays, Beckham has an orange ‘past sell-by date’ SALE ticket on his butt (amidst the I love me’ tattoos). Past his best? He can’t even get in the Match Attacks 2^nd-eleven Olympics all-comers/no-hopers team. And Polar exploration is now all about how many toes Ranalph Fiennes can shed on a cold winters evening in Cleethorpes, or whether the Blue Peter girl can cycle to the South Pole on a uni-cycle powered only by her stupidity, or that annoying Northerner from ‘Take Me Out’ seeing how long it take for someone to lamp him for taunting starving, freezing ‘C’-listers well outside their pampered comfort zones in ‘71 Degrees North’.

There seems to be a tad of romance in the death of a pilot or a mountaineer because it harks back to an earlier era but sadly their hero-status is now posited in the ‘poundshop’ of recognition, their status tarnished by those who fail to truly ignite our imaginations. So at the moment I am opting for Mark Cavendish and my two year old son.

Cavendish – the  Manx Missile is an absolute machine of an athlete. He has hammered every road-racing cycling British record and currently stands 6^th in the all time Tour de France rankings for stage wins,  he secured his 21^st this week. He is the only sportsperson that really excites me with his ability to absolutely boss and whoop the arse of his nearest rivals. He surpasses the side-burned British wonder of the 1960/70s Barry Hoban, the second highest stage winning Brit  who managed a total of 8 over a 10 year period. Cavendish was the only Brit not to come home with a medal in the Olympic cycling team in Beijing (not exactly his fault) but he is the current Green Jersey holder for the Tour de France and World Sprint Champion. As a recognised threat he’ll get knocked of his bike in a sprint, loose half his body skin and his spleen on the cobbled streets, congratulate the  winner on Twitter and then get back on his bike and beat them all the next day. I am genuinely excited by his ability to rip the guts and hearts out of his opposition with precision timing and calculated exertion of explosive sprinting power to blitz his peers. He is feted on the continent but like AP McCoy here barely receives the recognition he deserves in the UK.

Second hero – my two year old son. Broke his arm on Thursday pulling scooter stunts down concrete steps. Mucked up his face, broke his forearm. He smashed the temporary cast using his club-arm as a hammer and  removed his second and permanent cast by wrenching his damaged arm out of the sleeve. His third cast now extends almost to his shoulder ( a fetching blue) and he is practising rotating his arm to give himself optimum power and leverage. He hasn’t moaned or whimpered in pain once! Still continues to lift and shift weights that equate and sometimes  equal his bodyweight. I believe in years to come he will boldly take leaks outside in the depths of a winter wonderland without succumbing to the cold, that he will amble to the North and South Poles and be back in time for tea, and that he will saunter to the top of Everest dressed in only a Hawaiian skirt and a t-shirt. He will win Wimbledon in back-to-back seasons and won’t be seen begging to be on the Olympics ‘Escape to Victory’ reserve football list . Don’t think he is gonna pip Cavendish though!

Before the rounders event last Wednesday I flicked through my Topps Baseball cards – Joe DiMaggio, Babe Ruth, Mickey Mantle, Barry Bonds…I thought, I could get a couple of these signed – learn a thing or two….big hitters, sluggers, the art of fielding, home running…..but I was overly ambitious. Sussexsport, bless ‘em, can put on a good show but have yet to pulls rabbits from hats – and given that only one of the above is still alive – it was a mighty big expectation. Instead we had Rasta wannabes, Italian glory-seekers, and a German pin-badge wearing team who by virtue of association went on to win with typical ‘fatherland’ efficiency.

Each year this event is eagerly anticipated. Some teams are organised and, allegedly, practice (?????), others are there arrive by the virtue of a ‘smoke and mirrors’ allusion that a) their team is representative of their department, and b) that they even know all of the members in their team. For SRS/WP this was, to a certain extent, the case though it was an absolute pleasure to meet Martin from Life Sci – I had only met him as his official whistle blower and back-marker for this year’s Boundary Walk, to re-meet (glancingly, to be fair) the world renown blogger Fiona, and establish a level of banter with James from Admin – oh it felt like we were all from one ikkle village. Our team adopted a temporary Australian nationality for the duration, all Bruce’s and Sheila’s (except Brian who I think was undecided and was both – it might have been that dishwater Fosters he was drinking or me slighting his shorts) .

The sport was open, and friendly with an underbelly of competitive whereby polite jibes and  sledging, slow bowling, and ungentlemanly contesting over a blatant run-out (bloody was!) meant that Jenny and Luke had to be their customary, time-served, diplomatic ACAS conciliation officials – sublime to a tee. We won one, lost one, drew one, and were marginally disappointed by our performance, however, I recruited additional footie players to our Wednesday evening efforts up at the Astroturf so I felt I was a winner-winner chicken dinner (Dave you are welcome anytime, James, we look forward to seeing you!).

I bumped into a number of people on the Friday after who were complaining about the injuries they had picked up: UGGHHH? Most people I witnessed, and I include myself here, either had two or three goes at missing the ball three times, or threw the ball too low, high, wide, or not far enough! Perhaps that’s why Babe Ruth didn’t show – he knows it can be a tough sport. Not as tough as football though…Joe DiMaggio must be turning in his grave today.

Every Monday I come in to see Nathan eager that, like meeting a new awakening religion for the first time or finding some non-contaminative, non-harming cordial elixir that he will raise his golden index finger and declare ‘yes!’ Wisely or not I invest £10 a month via Nathan to seek the Holy Grail of happiness – namely financial security via the lottery. Now we, for ‘we’ are a syndicate, have had a few touches, a few glowing embers of the possibility that one day we could have the counsellor-seeking anxiety of not being able to conclude the age old dilemma of which wood finish should gleam from the cockpit of our ocean-going cabin cruiser, or consideration of which Jimmy Carr-like tax evasion project I can contact only to wave my wad at and say ‘Look mate, I am contributing – poke your off-shore loan scam.’ But ultimately the £121 we won was, and all fifteen members eventually agreed, cavalierly invested: we chucked it all away on the Euro millions rollover the following week. I sometimes ponder on who the lucky recipient is and this weekend I was lucky enough to discover the joint winners.

It was Jordan Henderson and Andy Carroll. Would you Adam and Eve it? They picked up that Charlie and the Choccie Factory Golden Ticket, the 100-1 winners ticket on a three-legged nag And how do I know – cos I watched them for the latter half of the Italy debacle on Sunday, that soul-destroying, demeaning showcase for the team from the home of ‘The Beautiful Game’ strolling about like they were on a day trip to Bluewater or Margate. ‘Eeee Jordan, feel the quality of these shirts, and to think they were sold out of repro’s in Morrisons.’ I have never witnessed two people so obviously out-of-place, somewhere where even they knew they shouldn’t be, like miscreants wandering round a Weight-watchers club with pockets full of chocolate. They would have looked more appropriate if they had sufficient honesty to get out their handbags and cameras, take pictures of Italian defenders as they graced past more like Royal swans rather than the bloated grain force-fed geese lashing out in their final macabre dance that they traditionally are. I am sure Henderson was laughing and writing postcards home as he had the audacity to kick out at the ball twice whilst the Italians held possession. Or that Andy Carroll skipped like a colt having dismounted his jockey in the starting stalls in his first outing at Epsom and has the freedom, then, to run around the racecourse as if it was his very own paddock. Definitely Carroll and Henderson won some sort of lottery or other this week.

The rest of us – we lost! In honesty, the Italians only had to play 9 men. They must feel the luckiest team in the Euros. If Henderson and Carroll had been real footballers they, too, would have been allowed to take penalties, to emulate their peers and take advantage of the opportunity to wallow in a nations ineptitude in a dead-ball scenario. As it was they set off to pick a cherry wood veneer for their pleasure craft and spent Monday cruising down the river; the rest of us just drown in misery.

I understand that a Mr. A. Murray and a small syndicate of Brits have won this week’s lottery – they are to be found on the edges of Wimbledon.

There are no easy games in the international arena….but I certainly underestimated the ability of my 12 year old son in our first, and long awaited badminton match. In fairness, he has been a challenge waiting to happen. At the age of eight he was more powerful and had command over me in the swimming pool; he swam like a fish, intimidated me with duckings, and hadn’t, like me, been subject to the instigator of a life-long 'fear of water'-inducing canoe accident as a small child. At the age of 11 he had started to become a regular feature at my Wednesday night football indulgence and had developed the audacity to nutmeg me; he could also hold his own at tennis. But badminton…I had played and been coached in club badminton for five years as a young person, have played with a reasonable regularity for the last 30 years (yes, I am old!) and he strolled up and was very good indeed. Tactical awareness, anticipation, court positioning, and as I talked  to him through the game he became cute to know when an attack and defence play was appropriate. I was proudly and pleasantly surprised.

Obviously I beat him but I didn’t beat him like a Dad, I beat him like a loving caring coach. Knocking him all round the court till the veins in his temples looked as though they would burst and make a mess of the varnished parquet flooring, till is strong stumpy legs flailed and failed to comfortably hold his bodyweight. Till his arms and legs literarily fell off.

I am hoping pretty much the same effort from England this weekend. Now they make every international match look challenging and I am sure they will do the same versus Italy; thank God we aint playing Spain, it will be nice when the Germans ultimately remove us from the tournament and give us a sweet release. I think the talentless ‘Thunderbird puppett look-a-like’ Scott Parker epitomises the struggle that we sometimes make of sport. Any body part, edge of racket, deflection, or lucky bobble, or failure of the implementaion of technology that aids our sporting progress – a progress bent on endeavour but little application. I am sure Parker played half of the Ukraine game concussed, the pundits applauded him for his stubbornness rather than lampooned his lack of craft. He looks and played like a second-rate actor from a Hollywood 'B' movie in someone else's clothes. He was the dope on the rope – ‘look at good old Scott Parker, he just doesn’t know when to lay down and die!’

 My boy came out second best to an older, more experienced, more powerful individual – but if I am honest…I played like Scott Parker, he played like Spain. As they say, there are no easy matches in international football……Hasta Luego!

Word up Bez – Beaten? He was sleighed Bez, he was sleighed – Slade! However, unfortunately this is not a mis-spelling or my dyslexia letting me down once again. I did beat Nathan but it was played with such an air of festivity, with such ‘parcel-opening’ happiness that it may as well have been Christmas. We skipped around the table-tennis table like kids over-dosed on yule-tide chocolate, lights twinkled in our eyes as if from the reflection from cheap tree tinsel, and we waited for Santa to come down the chimney, but it was only Nathan who moved as though he had eaten four spuds, a bag or sprouts, and one hunk of Xmas pud too much.

In a post-match interview ol’ paddle-hands had confessed he had only been only prepared to play me anyway because as a beginner he knew I had sporting endeavour (er, that I was uber-competitive). He is a broken man now, his special ‘trick’ serve was quickly countered, his friendly countenance was pleasant but didn’t fool me,  and although the acrid nature of his after-shave burned my eyes and made them water it did not distract me from the win I earned so well. He is gonna need some serious rebuilding, he's gonna need counselling!

Well, I have been putting off my continued blogging – it is almost as hard as doing the exercise stuff – well,  stuff like Hooping (God, my throat is still sore – it took me ages to realise that the activity was more than just shouting) – but here I am again, now with a post blogger’s runner-up status (Fiver is in the post Tony!). A massive well done to Fiona and James – and everyone of course – but I would have put my right leg on it being Fiona (don’t read anything into the fact that that leg is my burnt one) and it was fab to see some faces in relation to their blogs – even Anne-marie who has the pleasure of sitting next to me each day. Wish I had been able to stay longer at the lunch/award ceremony cos I kinda felt it would be nice to put a face to Lois too. And I missed a freebie lunch (Thanks Sussexsport again, again, again) though I did go to a meeting with coronation chicken sarnies – so not all bad!

Since the lapsing of our internal competition (and we still don’t know who bloody  won – got more chance, now, of discovering Lord Lucan’s whereabouts) I have been nature-trail blazing through the woods (and blinking rain) of the Boundary path. I am Loving it (subliminal sponsored message) and have started taking note of the wildlife I am clocking rather than scuffing the ground up with my size 9’s and throwing stones at ancient woodland (I would never do either of those – I would never sleep at night!). But it is fab – guaranteeing me at least 40 minutes fresh-air walking a day and something kinda therapeutic although, given the weather, likely to induce pneumonia! Seen foxes, squirrels, rabbits, woodpeckers (all still breathing, unlike my cycle run on Thursdays to Newhaven)– and they aint like those tame efforts you get near Sussex House or round about Fiveways – these are Bear Gryllls creatures – you would have to be dead cunning to catch em, they wouldn’t be suckered by half a bag of cold chips and some Tommie K.

And today – well footie tonight (and hopefully home in time to watch Germany vs Netherlands – be well pushing my luck with my wife here) and table tennis with Nathan ‘paddle-hands’ Catt  his lunchtime. Watch this space!

The weather yesterday was absolutely pants – a period of inclement that put the Queen’s reign into perspective. I spent all day trying to find excuses not to cycle home, rationale to justify forking out £3.40 for a single to Newhaven (a bargain really) as opposed to being drenched by every charmless driver who veered too close to a puddle in their reality-insulated people carrier as they tried to text with their free (sic) arm along the A27 (they do it on purpose – either whoosh you with dirty rainwater – or make you cycle through standing water fearful of the pothole lying blind beneath the puddle’s surface).

Yet, despite my best excuses, I would have been cheating myself not to cycle home…I had forced my 5-a-day down (and I aint even in a competition now) and probably one too many of those nibbles that come in tubs from Marks n Sparks. I pondered over what to wear – wet gear, winter gear (how much really – it was freezing) knowing that it would all get wet anyway – but lo’ and behold – it was only bloody sunny all the way back. No road kill, no objectionable drivers, beautiful white fluffy cloud skies and swaying green fields of barley or sommat (I aint an agriculturally savvy bloke) and really rewarding.

And today, I left home extra early so I could do the boundary walk before the start of my day – and boy, that was rewarding too. The trees and their movement was immense, majestic even, in the wind – a power that I didn’t know whether to fear or be in awe of. The same could be said for the tens of  rabbits that  fled before me as I strode boldly (buffeted would be truer) not knowing whether I was to be held in awe or fear, and all the morning song birds chirping ‘you’ll have to speak up louder, I cant hear for the bloody wind!’. Half-an-hour of exercise which warmed me through and made me feel as though I had earnt my cuppa – and definitely the buttered muffin that Claire made for breakfast for us all.

I still feel like I have lost my engine in terms of physical output toward the activities I am doing – but the legacy of last month rumbles on – I have just booked table tennis with Nathan, I will seek to continue doing additional activity. Of course Bettsie ran up and down the three biggest peaks in the UK this weekend – 24 hour challenge (lightweight!) – snow at the top of Ben Nevis still. But while it’s not the autumnal weather that is holding me back…bit of sunshine would be nice!

Well, we may have finished the sporting-month but the party is certainly not over. Having said that I haven’t done any activity as such but I have felt more guilty about the lack of it and I have been more mindful of my 5-a-day. Fruit and veg have become the foundation and corner stone of my new temple of sobriety and clean living.

During the competitive element of last month the need to hit 5-a-day was worth team points. I didn’t have a mini-portable set of scales so never weighed out my 80 grams of vegetative matter, instead, I was stacking them in as and where and how. Handfuls of dried apricots and prunes, tins of pulses, steamed greens and fresh fruit. It was like I was ramming a Harvest Festival down inside me, ploughing a field and scattering, I was less able to produce a Captain’s Log, more like a loose passage of  random pieces (I am obviously referring to my blogging during this period – and not my ability to deal with roughage but take whatever meaning you want from this). I think I must have been hitting seven or eight a day and sometimes more.

Watching the Queen all bloody weekend though was enough to put anyone of their stride. I have been reduced to eating two-year old (my son and his peers) birthday food (cast-offs, actually) which included strawberries in aspic (yuk!), odds and ends of pork pie and sausages and cheese on sticks (no pineapple, mind), watered down fruit juices crying out for an ‘E’ number to be thrown in there – if only to add colour, and warm milk that had been sat out too long to consider re-offering it to my son’s tender-aged digestive abilities. I could feel my body revolting against this obvious nutritional abuse, I felt (emotionally) for the dear old Duke of E and his sceptic bladder.  He has to live through this type pomp and ceremony endlessly, buffet nibbles, the Queen’s crumb offerings or corgi-rejected matter (probably road-kill)– his bladder is probably shouting out for a good Cox’s Pippin. As it is I feel sluggish, lethargic, and 86, I feel 86! So tonight, it is back to the broccoli, the spring greens with all their slug detritus, and excited slime associated with the odd low-life form lothario that wandered into my organic box. I might also lay off the prunes.