By the Rivers of Ossetia

It was one of those headlines that you think must be a spoof. Or a hoax. (To be honest, I've always had difficulty remembering the difference, a bit like "imply" and "infer". But I'm digressing here).

Anyway. It was this that made me sit up and take notice:

"Georgia has drafted in 1970s disco icons Boney M in its battle to regain control over the tiny separatist region of South Ossetia.

I had visions of the oddly-coiffured Euro-disco combo taking up the RPGs and going toe-to-toe with separatist rebels. I could see "Ma Baker" being touted as the next Georgian anthem.

Who next, I wondered?

Would we see Shalimar being brought in to aid the peace talks on the Korean peninsular, moonwalking across the DMZ?

Is there a place for Billy Ray Cyrus in the Middle East Peace Process?

Closer to home, what can Chas and Dave do for disaffected Muslim youth in our inner cities?

Bono? Radiohead? Coldplay? Pah. Part-timers, the lot of you.

Careering out of control

"So," my boss asked me, "would you prefer to be a writer or a stand-up comedian?"

It's probably useful if I state at this point that this wasn't an official performance appraisal conversation. I was in the middle of my Thai fishcake, after all. But nevertheless I still gave the response some serious thought.

"I like the instant gratification that a comedian gets from an audience. That's very appealing. But on the other hand, writing is something you can do whilst sitting down with a nice cup of tea."

You can see why my school careers advisor despaired of me.

Happy Happy Joy

Ah, yes. Yesterday was one of those days when a lot happened. So I've split it up into two posts. Read the one before, if you haven't already, or else this will make no sense at all. Even less than normal, in fact.

After a few moments spent hyperventilating after the match, it was then on to Leamington. I like Leamington (or Royal Leamington Spa to give it the full name) very much. We stopped in a hotel called The Angel, and had a quick drink in a pub called The Sausage. There are probably not too many towns on the planet where you can say that.

Then to the reception in the evening. Fay is someone I worked with until she went off to work for another company several years ago. We did some great things in the team we were in - things I'm still proud of now. And although the team has now essentially split up, we still kept in touch.

Any evening when an attractive young woman calls out to you, "Wow, you're looking absolutely amazing!" has a lot of potential, in my book. However, Katie was at my side, and the person doing the shouting was the bride. So scratch that thought right away. (Plus, she told me she and her now-husband now read this. Erm. Hello.) She hadn't seen me for about 18 months, so I guess I must have been carrying a fair amount of extra avoirdupois back then. I mean, I'm domestic-animal size now, back then I must have been able to shift the planet out of orbit.

Fay has been waiting best part of ten years to get married. So she was excited. No, that's not the right word. Think "Monica-out-of-friends-getting-married-excited." Nope. That's not enough, either. Think "bouncing-around-like-Tigger-in-a-wedding-frock."

Oh, bugger it. Words won't do. Try this:

I should make a point here. In this photo, Fay is not standing in a hole. Neither are the two chaps particularly tall. She really is that size. We used to refer to her as the Bonsai.

In fact, there can't be very many weddings where stepladders are amongst the presents:

This came from one of us, her ex-colleagues. Nothing like a subtle sense of humour, is there?

It was a great evening. In fact, it was one of those you look back on and reflect, "Wasn't that a great evening?" There was a whole bunch of us there from the old team. We talked, we laughed, we danced, we drank. Fay and Dave were deliriously happy. And it was contagious.

Swing Low Sweet Chariot...again

Read the first sentence of my previous post. Then multiply by several hundred. I am, to use the current vernacular, seriously knackered. Although perhaps that should be "Cameroned".

It's not enough that Friday's Not a Stag Night involved low-grade chappy hedonism. Yesterday we were to travel to Leamington for a friend's wedding reception.

The original plan was that we would get up early enough to drive to Leamington - about an hour away - check into the hotel and find somewhere to watch England get heroically beaten by odds-on favourites Australia in the quarter-finals of the Rugby World Cup. Some light shopping (that was Katie's contribution) then onto the reception. Drinks, dancing, food. Carriages at 1.00am.

The actual plan was that I looked at my clock at about 11 in the morning and said "Sod it." We watched the rugby at home instead. And lo, a miracle came to pass.

I am not one to crow about sporting achievements. But I'd love to say hi to the Chief Exec of the Australian Rugby Football Union, John O'Neill - the man who expressed these following poetic views only last week:

Everyone hates England. It’s a statement of the bleeding obvious...this is all a byproduct of their born-to-rule mentality. It’s been there for a long time and nothing has changed.

That invite to the Diplomatic Corps is waiting, John.

Park Life it wasn't

It's getting to the point where I'm looking forwards to the working week so I can have a bit of a rest. Maybe it's an age thing.

Friday night found me at Hall Green Greyhound Stadium. It was brother no. 1's Not-A-Stag-Night. You will recall that I helped him move house earlier this year. And I'm sure you'll be delighted to learn that he's still not a member of the Witness Protection Programme.

Anyway. He gets married next month in Las Vegas at the Little Chapel of Something or Other. Unfortunately, much as we'd love to, this side of a lottery win we can't spring to join them there. This is by design, too. I suspect that neither he nor his fiancee want a big family wedding with all the trimmings. And as part of this, he was definitely Not Having a Stag Night on Friday. No sir.

So a whole bunch of blokes of a certain age went to the greyhound stadium, drank way too much Guinness and talked bollocks about betting on greyhounds. Apparently, there is something called an all-ways trio bet. To the initiated, it is the Holy Grail. It's like your own personal ATM. It worked for bro. no. 1 - £110 back for a £3 bet was a result. For me it was like the RSPCA - I was just giving money to sick animals all evening.

The evening ended with us all chez brother no.1, eating Chinese food, drinking whisky (actually, whiskey - it was Jamiesons, I think) talking about football and listening to suitably blokey music. I believe that the band Squeeze were put on this planet for this exact purpose.

Growing up square-eyed

Munching through my WheetyBangs this morning, I was getting my one shot of caffeine into my system whilst trying to focus on a story on the breakfast news.

The unforgettable Floella Benjamin was being interviewed, along with some other worthies, about the apparently parlous state of children's TV.

(And, by the way - a quick search on Wikipedia tells us the aforementioned Ms B was born in 1949. No. Fricken. Way.)

Anyway. Apparently, people are getting all steamed up about the fact that British kids these days see too much imported (mainly American) programmes and cartoons. There are fewer British programmes, by all accounts. And this could lead to all sorts of problems.

There was a golden age of programming in the seventies, goes the logic, where we all watched finely-crafted shows made in the UK that showcased homegrown talent and yet helped us to develop into younger adults, fully aware of our national identities.

I remember it well. In fact - I can recount from memory the opening lines of my favourite show. It made me the man I am today:

"Who is this Superhero?"

"Sarge?"

"No"

"Rosemary, the telephone operator?"

"No"

"Penry, the mild mannered janitor?"

"Could be..."

"Hong Kong Phooey, number one super guy."
"Hong Kong Phooey, quicker than the human eye."

"He's got style, a groovy style,
and a car that just won't stop."
"When the going gets rough, he's super tough,
with a Hong Kong Phooey chop."

Oh...

Thirteen weeks in

Cast your mind back, if you will, to the last weight update.

I weighed in at 16 stone 5 pounds - probably the lightest I've been since Madonna actually was Like a Virgin. A great achievement, but, it has to be said, it was before we went on holiday for a week.

In fact, three hours since that picture of my feet was taken, they were waiting in line at the Burger King at Cardiff Services for a smoked bacon and cheddar Angus.

It's a tradition. And I'm a creature of tradition. This is how Henry VIII got started, by all accounts.

And the rest of the week wasn't exactly something the nutritionists would be getting all warm and moist about, either. OK, there were some great walks amongst some fantastic scenery. But the in-between. Oh, the in-between.

182 calories in a pint of ale, apparently. I know, I thought calories in liquid wouldn't count.

Is this where my train comes off the rails?

Is this my Waterloo?

Is this where it all goes base-over-apex?

Thirteen weeks, three months, several hundred people wanting to know the results. No pressure, then.

So, with a certain degree of nerves, I stood on the Scales of Destiny this very morning.

And, lo:


I know. It's bloody marvellous. And, I have to say, completely unexpected. Never have I been so relieved to see some numbers. If it wasn't for the fact that my feet had just occupied that space, I'd have actually kissed the scales.

That's the equivalent weight to:

• Five two-litre bottles of Pepsi, or
  
• Eight full bottles of wine, or
  
• 22 pound-sized bags of sugar, funnily enough
  

And I don't have to carry it around with me any longer. That's the point - the "any longer" bit. I will be continuing and seeing where I end up. I even bought some 38-inch waist jeans the other day - I never thought that would happen.

But now I don't have to do this to a stopwatch. I can write here about things other than weekly weigh-ins. I can do this just for me.