Firstly I’d like to thank everyone for their positive responses, likes and shares of my debut blog. It can be nerve racking putting something you have written out for others to read but the feedback, messages and encouragement gave me a fantastic boost and was greatly appreciated.
In my latest week of redundancy I had my first experience of watching a cheerleading competition (my son was participating I didn’t just turn up), cooked some chicken wings (failed hangover cure) and attempted to stay up to watch Super Bowl 53 (LIII to any Romans amongst you). In fact I have embraced the American way of life to such an extent that at one point I seriously contemplated;
- Spraying myself bright orange.
- Growing an outrageous comb over.
- Replacing my garden fence with a giant wall to keep the neighbours out (they are originally from Cornwall but I did once see them in Chiquitos).
I have only been to the U.S twice and both visits were to Las Vegas which is a bit crazy even by their own very high standards. Breakfast under the Eiffel Tower (scaled down version – the tower that is, certainly not the breakfast) followed by a Picasso exhibition (failed attempt to look cultured), a gondola ride (indoors) and a Michael Bolton concert (How can we start over when the fighting never ends?) is not the most normal of holiday itineraries. A lot of people say that New York is a fantastic place to go for shopping and I’m sure it is. Unfortunately I don’t even enjoy shopping in my local High Street (the queues at ‘Greggs’ can be unbearable), so travelling across the world to do it in a place where you have to tip someone for opening a door has never really appealed.
As a recognised regular attendee of school events I have now reached the ‘nodding acknowledgement stage’ when I cross paths with the teachers. In my mind this is a clear sign of the mutual respect between us but in reality through their smiles they are more than likely thinking “I can’t believe he’s here AGAIN. Has he still not got a new job yet? “
This week it was cheerleading and you can imagine my disappointment to discover that not only have pom poms been phased out completely (Toni Basil wouldn’t be best pleased – Hey Mickey) but even the usual pre-routine self-promoting team chants have now fallen victim to political correctness. “2,4,6,8 who do we appreciate? ………. “All the other teams that are taking part, who are all equally talented in their own right and who we really hope perform to the best of their ability despite the clear competitive nature of the event.” (Catchy).
The lady in charge then briefed the audience telling us how she had recently attended a cheerleading festival including a number of teams from the U.S. “Instead of waiting until the end of the routine like we normally do” she informed us “they clap and cheer loudly in the middle whenever they see something good. So today I’d like to see you all act a bit more like an American.”
I thought it was only polite to try and follow her request as closely as possible so with twenty minutes to go before the opening performance;
- I ate half my own body weight in doughnuts.
- I filed a lawsuit against a fellow parent who had earlier accidentally trod on my toe.
- I quickly popped out to Tesco Metro to try and buy a gun.
Next on the list was the ‘Super Bowl’, an event hyped and advertised by Sky TV in its lengthy build up as ‘The Greatest Show on Earth.’ Having witnessed ‘The Cannon and Ball Show’ live at the Bournemouth Winter Gardens in the summer of 1984 I was immediately sceptical as to the validity of this claim (Rock on Tommy). As it turned out, my alcohol related exertions at a 40th birthday party I had attended the night before (possibly involving the Boney M mega mix) would ultimately prove detrimental to my viewing stamina. I saw the kick off, a snap, tackle and punt (maybe what you get from American Rice Krispies?) and then woke up disorientated at 3.30am to the image of a group of sweaty, burly men wearing shoulder pads and badly applied black eye make-up cuddling each other in a rain of ticker tape (Babestation has really gone downhill recently).
So far in my weeks of redundancy I have made great inroads towards my goal of developing the physique of a professional athlete. Unfortunately the sport in question has turned out to be darts. When you step onto your speaking weighing scales and it answers “one at a time please” (old ones are the best ones) you know it’s maybe time for you to do something about it. For a while my Fitbit had worked as a great source of personal motivation but I then began to call its accuracy into question when it congratulated me on reaching my ten thousand step daily target as I sat on the sofa opening a tube of Pringles.
My wife then suggested that I join her in participating in one of the ‘HIT’ classes that she had subscribed to online ( I now realise this is aptly named, as the next day your body feels like this is what someone has been doing to it with an iron bar). As a student I had regularly woken up with Mr. Motivator after a heavy night out (on G.M.T.V) and therefore considered myself no stranger to what a spandex clad work out might entail.
As the anticipation grew for it to start, it was gently pointed out that my current attire (t-shirt, pants and slippers) could be wrongly interpreted that I wasn’t taking it 100% seriously. I immediately saw the error of my ways and made a quick change into a more suitable and respectful outfit (t-shirt, pants and trainers).
Basically the premise of this ‘class’ was an overly happy man (who made Jean Claude Van Damme look like Mr Muscle) bouncing around in a spray on vest as he tortured a group of deranged fitness freaks who wouldn’t know a carbohydrate if they were hit in the face with a jacket potato. My initial concerns over an apparent difference between the physical prowess of myself and those participating on screen were fully justified when I was burnt out (forced to take refuge on the pouffe) before the end of the 5 minute ‘gentle warm up’ section. My athletic incapability was then even further highlighted when my 7 year old son was drafted in to take my place and continued for the next 20 minutes with comparable ease.
Although it is hard to believe now (for both you and me), back in 2006 I had completed the London Marathon and at the time had enjoyed all the training involved. So last week I jumped at the chance to take up a friend of mine’s invitation to join him doing some road running (I have so far successfully avoided Wile E Coyote & his array of ACME purchased booby traps). This I thought could be a genuine opportunity to lose a few pounds in an enjoyable way whilst also allowing me to keep my final ace in the weight loss pack (Beverly Callard’s LBT Body Blaster – Rapid Results from the UK’s Favourite Landlady DVD) firmly up my sleeve in case of a future emergency.
I am not the fastest of runners (think less Mo Farah and more Mo from Eastenders) but slowly got back into it and ended up doing 4-5 mile distances three times in the week.
The after running recovery process can be vital and must be catered to each individual. My own scientifically tested sequence consists of;
- Stretching. (Slowly rotating ankles while sitting down with a cup of tea)
- A hot Radox bath. (Actually a quick squirt of Lynx Africa shower gel but probably has the same effect)
- Rest.( ‘Homes Under the Hammer’ & ‘60 Minute Makeover’ back to back double bill with a bacon sandwich and more tea)
This seemed to be having the desired effect until I foolishly decided to squat down to examine the bottom shelf of the fridge (ironically where both salad and chocolate are kept). At this point I felt a sensation in my legs that I can only imagine is not too dissimilar to that experienced by an escaped zoo animal shortly after its keeper hits them with a tranquiliser dart for the purposes of recapture. Stuck with my head in the fridge and my fingertips agonisingly centimetres short of reaching the top of the work surface, to an outsider it might have appeared that I’d decided to end it all but somehow got my kitchen appliances confused.
Resigned to toppling forward into a half-eaten tub of taste the difference coleslaw at any given moment, (can you drown in extra creamy mayonnaise?) I was only reprieved when a bottle of prosecco and a family size tub of Aldi’s ‘Valley Great Taste Spreadable’ (I can’t believe it’s not I can’t believe it’s not butter) provided sufficient leverage for a dramatic escape of Houdini-sized proportions.
So while my fitness is clearly an ongoing battle, developments with the first book took a promising turn this week. On contacting my local infant school, they have invited me for a meeting to organise a visit to read my story to Year 2 and talk to the children about story creation. Whilst I am no expert, the thought that sharing what I do know could inspire and encourage them with their story writing is very exciting to me. It was always my dream that children would get to listen to and hopefully enjoy the words I had written so I am extremely happy for there to be a chance of this happening even on a small scale.
Thanks for reading.
Baldyman 