Touch My Face!

2003-04-15T14:30:00.000Z

Stop Press!

Revised Time! My new and correct official time, according to the London Marathon website is now 4hrs 21 Mins and 58 seconds and I finished in 12'707th place out of roughly 40'000 which puts me comfortabley in the top half. You may swoon in awe, I shan't be embarassed.

What a day! It started at 6:00am (not the race, the day) which was so shittingly early it reminded me of my Army days.** This was necessary in order to fit in a proper breakfast and have time (three hours) to properly digest it before the start. There then followed one of the oddest journies of my life as I made my way into the half light and toward Greenwich park only to be joined by a steady trickle of nervous looking men and women clutching their official Marathon Kit-Bags. For an hour the deserted streets, buses and tubes of London were populated only by other runners and people who were so religious that they wanted to get to church early to make sure that they didn't miss a single second of God's munificence.

The start was a bit weird. Lots of people wandering around in bin bags (in order to keep warm). Other people wandering around in Rhino costumes, small houses made out of card-board, representations of Joan D'arc. I know what I did doesn't sit comfortabley with the word "sensible" but these people are mental. One man was dressed as the surviving section of Hadrians wall which, by coincidence, is exactly 26.2 miles long. This meant that he started crossing the finish line almost exactly when he stopped crossing the start line thus setting a new world record of 0hrs Omins and 0.000000000001 secs. I think Paula Radcliffe will have to go some to beat that. I don't care who her pace-makers are.

The actual start of the race took us all by suprise. There was meant to be a big gong or something but all we heard was "Oh, are we going?" "Well we seem to be moving" and then I was off. I ran half a mile and then stopped for a piss. I had to, I was desperate. I wasn't the only one, thousands of us were so concerned with starting off the race well-hydrated that we emerged into the cheering crowds desperately seeking a bush or back-alley (not choosy which). Once we got going it soon became apparent that it was hot, buggeringly so if you were about the business of marathon running. Luckily the oganisers had seen fit to provide huge showers like car washes (with out the big brush things, that would have been crazy) every few miles which were quite scandalously revivifying. In fact the organisers had provided everything we could have wished for from the moment one arrived at Greenwich to the moment one collected one's belongings. I overheard an american bloke describe it as the "best organised thing he'd ever seen" which gave me a burst of patriotic pride. Odd I know but it was a day of heightened emotions.

Ahhh the crowds, the crowds the crowds... from the dear simple cockney folk at the start (every pub had its resident "wit" with a microphone who would dispense priceles bons mots like "Gor Blimey, a Bloke with green hair! Look everybody, a bloke with green hair! Ere, give us a wave Bloke With The Green Hair") to their richer cousins in Docklands ("Who'd like Guacamole? Sun-Dried Tomato anyone?") there were bloody millions of them. At Tower Bridge they must have been ten deep all cheering like hell. I spent most of my time grinning like a fool (I know no other way to do it). When we entered Rotherithe tunnel there was a wall of noise, it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It gave me a massive boost (not a huge chocolate bar), the thought of stopping never crossed my mind, how can it with that increadible support (best investment I ever made, kept my rupture right in place all the way round)? They did say before hand that if you wrote your name on your shirt then people would shout it. Stupidly I wrote "Marksy" the moniker (no..Dave..where's Sue?...Who is Number One?) most of my friends assign to me. Not suprisingly I spent much of my time hearing shouts of "Come on Mark". Cunningly I combated this by running next to a guy with "Dave" written on his shirt for a while and took vicarious pleasure from that. I even took a thrill from the fact that one girl had "Nic's Mum" written on hers and from a distance it looked a bit like "niCe mUm".

Anyway, it all helped and I never really felt bad all the way round. Obviously I felt progressively more tired but then that's to be expected in this kind of thing. I saw my mates Kris, Mark and Bob at miles thirteen and twenty two and their chanting of rude slogans really spurred me on. Sadly I missed Al and Rosie at 23 but I did see Kate at 25 and felt similarly spurred (like matching cow-boy boots).

By the time I entered The Mall my head was exploding with Joy and relief, when my friends Chris and Angie spotted my about 200yrds from the line I started punching the air like a madman. I crossed the line in mid air, fisting like crazy and shouting "Yeeeeeeeeeesssssss!!!!!!!!" even louder than when Mickey O scored his second in the 2001 cup final. I then started to cry. Longer, louder and less inhibitedly than I have since I was a very small child. As you may have gathered of late, it meant rather a lot to me. When I got my medal I... no actually can't describe how that felt.

Afterwards I got a nice goody bag with some rice, pasta, sauce, rice pudding, a bacofoil wrap thing for keeping warm (not a problem) an apple, a sports drink, a tracker bar, some glucose tablets, some water, a small packet of shredded wheat, a box of sugar, some marmite, an apple, a pot noodle (this is like a student's shopping trolley isn't it?) a finisher's T-shirt, two different types of deoderant, two different types of shower-gel, some shampoo, a pen, a book entitled "Marathon Training for Dummies" (which I must admit I thought was taking the piss somewhat until I realised that it was just the section on recovery) a copy of "Distance Runner" magazine (I'm in the club!) (not pregnant) and a bunch of offers for cheap pasta. I've eaten nothing but pasta for five weeks, I never want to see it again.

So that was it. All over. Five months of training, six weeks (cumulatively) of sobriety, and a lifetime's ambition all brought to a conclusion in four and a bit fantastic hours. Was it worth it? Yes. Would I recommend it to others? Unhesitatingly. Emile Zatopek (look him up you should know) once said "If you want to win something run a hundred metres. If you want to experience something run a marathon" (I don't quite know what he meant by the first bit did he think we're all potential 100mtrs champions? That's a touch generous in my view) Will I do it again? Ask me when I don't feel stiffer than my mate's dog "Andy" (which is dead).

Right then. End of Blog. For the reasons mentioned earlier its time to hang up my fingers. If you've been reading then I hope you've enjoyed it. If you haven't then there is no point in typing anything adressing you because you can't see it, nevertheless I've just done so.

I'm off to drink, eat-shit and stay up late.

Yours, His, Hers, Anyone's Frankly,
Dave.

**Editors Note: David has never been in the army, nor has he any wish to be. However he a) watched too many war films as a child and b) now has something wrong with his brain; consequently he is now convinced that he has fought in every conflict from the Greco-Trojan Wars to the present day unpleasantness in the Gulf.

2003-04-14T11:57:00.000Z

Well, I only went and bloody did it.

Four Hours and Twenty Five minutes. It went like a dream, I never really felt bad all the way round. I'm not saying the last 3 miles were pleasant but I was expecting to have "hit the wall" quite away before then.

I'll write a more extensive final entry when I've got the energy, there's so much to talk about but for now I'll simply say that it was the single most amazing experience of my life. On crossing the finish line I wept (not just the sores). I don't think I've ever been happier.

I've done it. I've actually done it.

2003-04-11T14:35:00.000Z

Better now. Much better. I've been a bit of a big girl's blouse all week. All I needed was someone who I trusted to know about this kind of stuff to tell me it was all going to be alright.

I went to collect my running number and kit-bag at the London Arena today. There was a huge exhibition and stalls from loads of sportswear companies and the like but there were also discussions between running "gurus" being relayed via big screens over the hall. The guy said, if you can get to Sixteen miles and feel OK you're going to get through it. It might hurt but you're going to do it.

That's exactly what I needed to hear. Sixteen miles? Peice of cake.

For the first time I feel confident and relaxed. Its a massive weight of my shoulders. You can't run marathon's with massive weights on your shoulders.

As I walked in they were playing the music that the BBC plays over its coverage (I think its Hyden but I'm almost certainly wrong) I swear the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. In all honesty I may even have developed a semi-erection.

As you may have gathered this means rather a lot to me for reasons that a psychiatrist would no doubt have a field day with. I've wanted to run the london marathon since I was kid. For as long as I can remember I've known with utter certainty that one day I'll attempt it. It probabley sounds stupid but crossing that finishing line will be a dream come true for me, like walking out at Lords to bat for England, scoring in front of the Spion Kop and winning the Perrier. I'm incredibly lucky very few people ever get a chance to fulfill their dreams. On sunday I'm going to do it.

This then is the last entry before the marathon. Thanks to those of you that have sponsored me and shown faith in me throughout. I hope reading my irritable and verbose missives has given you some pleasure, writing them has proved a valuable release to me. I'll do one more entry perhaps with my time and a picture with my medal (all being well) but beyond that I won't ply you with my words any more. I quite enjoy sounding off but I have to think of niCe mUm and our image. Its all very well people suspecting that I'm unhinged, it provides a nice contrast to Kris and gives us a enigmatic allure we wouldn't usually have (and always blow in interviews) but if I'm constantly making it obvious then it just becomes irritating. I'll save that for my friends, they're used to it.

Take care and watch out for me on the telly (I'm going to run round in circles until Steve Ryder interviews me).

Dave.

2003-04-10T16:00:00.000Z

I want this more than I've ever wanted anything.

I can and will do it.

2003-04-10T13:26:00.000Z

This is really, really unpleasant.

I'm terrified. I am. Honestly. I'm fucking scared. I can't think about anything other than the marathon for more than thirty seconds. I am utterly, sincerely neurotic about it. I can't shake these morbid fantasies about being one of those unfortunates pictured shaking and throwing up on the railings near the tower of London. The prospect of not finishing is too awful for words. I honestly don't know that I could live with myself or look anyone in the eye if that happened and I speak as someone who'se had reasons enough for shame in the past and got over them.

I really cannot cope with the thought of that. It fills my with a bowel shudderingly profound sense of Old-Testement style DREAD.

The months of training, the self esteem I've invested in this undertaking personally, the extremely touching faith that my friends and family have shown in me, not least the money I'm raising for a good cause, all that feels like it's at risk now. Now I know that these fears are largely unfounded, I know that I've probabley done enough to be OK. But the fact is my training has been afffected by injury and I'm worried... no worried isn't the word. I'm "worried" in the sense that Kennedy was "worried" when he was shown pictures of Soviet missiles in Cuba. What I wouldn't give for the marathon to be in a fortnight's time and not on sunday...

Thing is, all anyone wants to talk to me about now is the marathon, am I excited? What do I think my time will be? Where should they go to watch? Deep down I appreciate that but its just making me want to scream out loud. I wish they didn't know about it.

How did I get here? What the fuck am I doing?

I've done gigs in Stoke on Trent, I've lived in Camberwell, I've stared down the barrell of finanacial and mental oblivion feeling that I was powerless to do anything about it. I didn't think there was much left to be frightened of. I know its pathetic. I'm not being shot at or trying to massage someone's heart back to life. I've got a roof over my head, I'm in no danger of starving.

Nevertheless, I've never felt as scared as this before, ever.

Sorry about that, I feel a bit better now.

2003-04-10T10:08:00.000Z

Apparently there are 255 people in Britain with the same name as me. Weirdly enough I've actually met one of them, indeed sat in a (consequently) very confusing meeting with him. In fact I occaisionally, as our email addresses are but minutely different, get messages from his friends telling me that a) I've forgotten to pay my share of the lottery syndicate this week and b) asking if I want to play football on thursday night. Likewise he gets the odd message from Kris asking if he's "Spammed up the love-monkey and plebbed off a new draft of the porny-script" (which to the uninitiated is roughly translated as "have I written any gags for Sketches Etc/The Edinburgh Show/Jesters/Scraping The Barrell/The Four Minute Men etc. etc.). To confuse matters further I have started playing footy with my name sake's mates and ...well...you might notice that the next batch of niCe mUm publicity shots include a man in his early thirties with male pattern baldness (which I hasten to add is not me) (or Steve Bennet from Chortle)

Anyway, my flimsy justification for revealing all this is that I have worked out that given the adult population of britain is roughly 45 million people then 255 represents something like 0.1764 of one percent or that. Well, given that 32'000 people will be running the marathon, clearly 0.1764 of one percent of that is less than one person so I am almost certainly going to be the only David Marks there which makes me an anomaly (not one of those things that live in the sea).

Good.

That I am privvy to this kind of information is thanks to the very excellent Sharon a woman held in high esteem by all and one half of the phenomenom known as Comedy Lounge. Read it. We were in it once but mostly its really good.

If I were to choose three words to describe my life right now they would be "Pasta", "Rice" and "Potatoes". I'm so starched up its a wonder I can move rather than being held rigid like a Guardsman's collar.

2003-04-09T13:35:00.000Z

Um...yep. A bit nervy and irrational now. Bear with me.

2003-04-09T13:32:00.000Z

Fuck The Marathon.

Fuck Nepal.

Fuck Comedy.

Fuck You.

2003-04-07T10:34:00.000Z

Hello Mister and Missuses,

I'm not feeling ill any more but my knees are in a really bad state (Uzbekhistan...whAT aRe thEY doIng THerE!??). But seriously though, folks of world, I'm a wee bit worried about them and the impact they may have upon my marathon chances.

Anyway, we'll sweep those concerns under the carpet for now because today is the first monday of the month and that means it is what the Japanese call a "Happy Joy Sunshine Laughter and Irreverence Carnival" and what we know and love as a day for SKETCHES ETC. That in turn means that I'm:

A) As nervy as a foul.
B) Desperately trying to learn the words to a song we've now performed three times and have never yet got right.
C) Wondering how I'm going to construct a small gong out of what I can see around me (mainly paper, a computer, a coffee mug, a stapler and a lady called Janet).
D) Constantly mouthing the words "Its serious this time" and "I haven't lost it, I never had it" like some kind of divvy mantra.

These days are like one long Christmas Eve (without my Auntie being drunk on sherry and World's Strongest Man on the telly). We're not on stage for another eight and a half hours but I want it to happen NOW. However until that point I have to pretend its all not happening. I usually accomplish this by having a poo.

Of the five jokes that I've written and of which I am genuinely proud (out of a stack of scripts that could fill a good sized bath) four have occured to me whilst seated upon the bog. The fifth whilst dozing on a sofa in Norwich.

Anyway, I digest. What I'm saying is come to Sketches Etc. Its GOOD! The details are on the main nicemum sight.

2003-04-03T14:31:00.000Z

Oh dear. I'm feeling a little queer today. I didn't feel myself when I woke up, as I usually do. I do hope I'm not going down on something. If I feel ill during the marathon, on the course, I shall be forced to pull myself off. What would Steve Ryder make of that? My glands are RIGHT up!

I nearly drowned in the course of running yesterday...

No. I really haven't got it in me, there's no lead in my pencil (no there really isn't, I've got one of those propelling things and its empty. Its not a big deal as I don't need a pencil it's an affectation).

Ooooh. I'm going home to wrap myself in a blanket, watch old black and white films and drink lemsip. To be fair its what I do every night only this time I have an excuse.

2003-04-01T13:52:00.000Z

Firstly apologies for yesterday's little rant, it all got a little bit James Bachman back there. I shall attempt to keep my self -justifying diatribes restricted to their proper audience from now on.

I'm on the wagon. Its for the marathon. You should easily be able to spot me, I'll be the one riding a wagon. I know this smacks of cheating but running around is such hard work.

HA! Ha! Ha! That there was a very funny joke made up all be me then just there and it was very funny. Of course what I mean by "On the Wagon" is "Off the Booze". Why, when one dismounts the sauce on has to then climb atop a wagon I have little or no idea. Is "ending up in the gutter" the result of falling off of said wagon when it corners too quickly (if it helps I've envisaged an old fashioned brewers dray pulled by two fine shire horses with very low sides (the dray not the horses) that a man could easily fall off)? Either way I'm going to be staring at the stars (only not Lauren Laverne now, there has been an injuction).

The motivation for all this is enhanced performance come the big day. I don't want to suffer "brewers droop" on Tower Bridge. Gerrard Houllier said "putting alchohol in a top athelete is like putting diesel in a formula 1 car" and I believe everything he says apart from "Vladimir Smicer is a fantastic player" which is obviously bollocks.

I don't particularly like not drinking. As anyone who knows me will attest, I like a drink. I like "some drinks" even more. Every so often though it is interesting to give it up for a while. I didn't drink for the entirety of January this year and it was like getting the keys back to my life. Usually I'm content to be a moderately pushy navigator in the passenger seat but now and again its nice to drive. The best thing about this time is that its the first occaision for several years where I've found myself at the wheel of a superior vehicle. OK it's not pretty and the horn still doesn't work but it'll do far more miles to the gallon.

What?

And why am I waking up with a hangover every morning now I sober? This seems shittingly unfair. I blame that Lynne Faulds Wood, she pumps me full of Ouzo while I sleep.

Doctor: That's quite enough now Mr Marks.

Dave: But I'm talking to my finger friends.

Doctor: Now, Now Mr Marks we don't want to have to use Nigel Needle again do we?

Dave: Cabbages! Knickers! It hasn't got a beak!

Doctor: Nurse! The Screens!

Muffled sound of struggling.

It all goes quiet.

Credits.

End.

2003-03-31T10:40:00.000Z

I've just been accused of Homophobia. It's how I like to start most weeks, being subject to a baseless accusation of bigotry, it gets the swonnicles revolving. I also prefer to have that charge levelled at me by someone who reads the Sun and believes everything in it this deliciously enriches the irony. I am, I hasten to add, in no way peculiarly prejudiced against the homosexual (I mean that collectively, I'm aware there's more than one). I am equally disdainful of all people I don't know, who they choose to rub themselves up against for kicks is of no interest to me whatsoever. It is, like the rest of their grubby little lives, no concern of mine. That said though, if the polaroids were to be pushed under my door...

What I am guilty of, however, is the gross misuse of the word "Gay". I am far from alone in this, patrol any school playground in the land (and remember I won't judge you for that), and you'll find it being bandied around liberally as a synonym for "slightly crap". Like a lot of playground behaviour (the jealous protection of crisps, throwing wet tennis balls at girls) this has carried over into adult life. Indeed it has been enhanced and enlarged, listen in on a conversation between me and my friends and you'll hear the word used as noun, adjective, verb and all the combinations thereof. It means everything and at the same time nothing. Indeed the sentence "What gay is it, how gay is it and has it been made gay?" is a nightmare leading to weeks of clarification using ever more specific and arcane uses of "gay".

Now I know full well that, that is no valid excuse. I also know full well that whether I've shorn it of negative connotations in my own mind or not it still has the potential to cause embarrasment, misunderstanding and offence if used in the wrong social-context. The thing is I just don't care. I should, and indeed do, know better and that's why I do it. I'm afraid I lost my seriousness some time in the mid-nineties, the urge toward piety has no hold whatsoever any more. I simply cannot go and see a doctor without looking into their eyes and saying "I want you to make me a woman". I know this is a criminal act of time wasting and annoyance for hardworking NHS professionals but I can't help it, its an itch that has to be scratched. To my mind its safer to let these instincts have free reign and continually be "a bit of a twat" rather than bottle them up only to have them explode in a huge geyser of twatness thus ruining a lifetime of sober sensibility, like I don't know...embarking on misguided war or something.

We do ourselves no credit by pretending to care about things. Take Comic Relief for example, they raised 55 million quid and fair play to them, more power to their collective elbow, the money will do an awful lot of good. But that's about a pound each for everyone in Britain and it happens once every few years. Think about it, if everyone who could afford to (and I'm more than aware that many can't) gave a pound a week ie. the same amount of money as two broadsheet newspapers or roughly a third of a pint of lager, to the same causes we'd raise FIFTY TIMES that amount EVERY YEAR. Think of the difference that would make. Why don't we (and I include myself in this)? We don't care enough. We'd rather have the two newspapers or the third of the pint, though we'd love to pretend otherwise and every so often have a big televisual extravaganza to convince ourselves that, that's the case.

I think next to that misusing the word "Gay" is pretty small beer.

I know that has nothing to do with the marathon. I don't care.

2003-03-27T15:30:00.000Z

All this running takes its toll you know. I have the knees of a seventy year old man.

I'm selling them on ebay.

The only bidder so far is an eighty year old man who reckons that they'll take ten years off him (kneewise). What he doesn't know is that the knees in question belonged to Jimmy Saville who ran loads of marathons and conesquently they're knackered. That was my point about running taking its toll. Another way this happens is if your training runs take you across a toll-bridge. Mine does twice it costs me £2:50 each way which is really mounting up. Luckily I'm going to get very rich by selling Jimmy Saville's knees so it doesn't really matter.

Come to think of it my knees hurt a bit too. Small world. Not that small otherwise running around it wouldn't take nearly as long as it does. Not that I'm intending to run around the entire world you understand, that was Tears for Fears, besides I'd have to swim for large portions of the journey and swimming is for nancy-boys. That's not a pejorative comment in any way at all, its just that I'm not one and therefore have no business swimming. Do I look like Adrian Moorhouse? No. Do I look a tiny bit like Nick Gillingham...perhaps, we both have big noses and bad hair. I wonder if he's related to my friend Jim? I have no idea. I'll ask Jim, he's very good at knowing who his relatives are. I bet you could point to any memeber of the population of the world and Jim would be able to tell you whether or not he was related to them just like that (I just did something very quick with my hand).

Why didn't "Bros" just call themselves "Brothers"? That would have been far more sensible in my view. I'm not so sure that "ACDC" should call themselves "Alternating Current, Direct Current" but maybe "Adaptor" would work. Perhaps they could call themselves "The Adaptors" and re-invent themselves as a trendy new band from New York without having to change the twat-rock shite they churn out, just start recording through a shitty desk and call it lo-fi. It's worked for Billy Corgan after all. My own personal hope is that UB40 change their name to "New Deal Registration Form 112a"...and then all f**k off and never make another record again.

Oh God, I'm turning into Stuart Maconie. He couldn't run the marathon, he's a tubby little fella with troll legs more suited to Terry Gilliam films than real life.

2003-03-26T15:01:00.000Z

"Does it only do that when I pull it?" make of that question what you will. I can't tell you anything about it. Why was it asked? Of Whom? In what context? I don't know (I can, and indeed am keen to, guess) because it was part of a conversation that I ran past. That's the trouble with running past conversations rather than taking part in them, you only get snippets of information and that's what your brain has to feed on, analysing them over and over until the nth degree and speculating wildly as to their meaning.

Take the example above, that started out in my fevered imaginings as a fairly standard and all too predictable conversation around the penis ("...turn off the telly kids and gather round the penis, we're going to have a conversation.") and over the course of the three miles until I heard another morsal of diologue became part of a dramatic last gasp attempt to convince someone not to operate the lever that would blow the earth into tiny little pieces. As I said, fevered.

It also affects how one judges people. The girl that uttered that phrase, whom I have since seen in the same area (this is not an admission of stalking, I'm stalking Lauren Lavern formerly of top girl-punks Kenickie, not this girl) who would previously have been filed away mentally as "pretty red-haired girl looks a bit like Samantha Bond" is now "crazy wanking girl wants to destroy the entire world" if she came near me I'd probabley try and take her head off with Karate (my aftershave).

This all reminds me of "Pluto" who was a man who lived in the village where I grew up. He was monikered thusly because of his bald head, the barren featureless appearance of which reminded one (or whoever so named him) of the planet of the same name. Coincidentally he had a brother called Neptune who, for three months of the year, was marginally further away. For example if Pluto went to Newark on his bike Neptune might go to Claypole. You get the idea. Pluto became something of a celebrity amongst the children of the area because, amongst other things, he pushed a dog around in a pram. There were lots of dark rumours about him having a shot-gun and bathing naked in the River Trent. No-one as far as I know actually witnessed either of these two things but the dog and the pram bit is definitely true, I saw it with my own eyes (and then someone elses just to be sure). Either way his behaviour, in our cruel childish minds, warranted following him about shouting "PluuuuuuuUUUUUUUtoooOOOOhhh!" (the older kids could hold the middle "U" sound for nigh on a minute and a half), "slap-head" and throwing stones at the poor fellow. I mention this because in all the time I lived in the fair village of Collingham I only ever heard Pluto say one thing, "I've got a bit of cheese in here".

Think about it.

2003-03-25T12:56:00.000Z

No. I really haven't got it in me today.

I'm beggining to feel a little queer...it might take all afternoon.

2003-03-25T09:35:00.000Z

I can't be arsed to write much today, I'm tired. I have after all been doing a lot of running. Last night I ran miles and miles. I reckon if you took all the miles I ran and put them end to end they'd stretch around the earth...or at least to Kent or somewhere.

One thing that did interest me though is that for the first time after a really long run, owing to a change of route, I didn't actually finish at my house. Instead I finished a short bus-ride away. This meant that instead of diving in the shower (the only way to enter folks! Especially if you have a low shower) immediately upon finishing I had time to cool down a bit. Consequently all the salt deposits from my sweat dried on my face making me look like the Singing Detective.

I thought you'd like to know.

Now, go and read the nicemum site. Its got new stuff on it, more reports from the front-line, a new episode of Tarquin and his Magic Winkle (episode eight), new "touching" biogs and a handy "fiction is stranger than truth" generator on the bottom of each page. Talking of bottoms, there is of course the first instalment of "Bathroom Tales" (Britain's number two column).

Many MANY thanks,
Marksy.

2003-03-24T11:03:00.000Z

Well good Monday to you on this morning,

I hope that you have passed a pleasant weekend and indeed anything else that required passing. Life is so much less tolerable with kidney stones, constipation and urinary blockages, take my advice and sort them out. When I need medical attention I go to my* doctor and she seems to have a remarkabley good idea of what to do. I think it might have been the six years of intensive training, or maybe she's naturally wise like an owl (has there ever been an actual recorded instance of Owl Wisdom? For example was it an owl who first suggested rubbing two dry sticks together to see if it might produce a benificial effect?) either way she's the business. Did you know that Prima-Ballerinas train for twelve years? This, I think, makes them twice as qualified as doctors. Indeed many doctors are actually failed ballerinas who dropped out half way through because of distended ankles and the like, ask your G.P. to pas-deux-deux and they'll look at you wistfully before sighing and saying "...that part of my life is a closed book. Just pop your clothes off and put them on the chair in the corner will you?". It also follows that certain ballerinas are over-achieving doctors, Darcie Bussell for example started life in Paediatrics...but then I suppose we all do, unless of course your were born at home. My mum is a Community Midwife and if you want a full run-down of birthing options I'm sure she'll be only too happy to oblige. That said I'm hardly going to publish her contact details on the web so I suppose that's a little academic, like Richard Starkey (not Ringo Starr).

Hang on, its all gone "Jazz" where was I going with this? Oh yeah...

What do I think about when I'm running? I promised an answer to that question and so I shall provide. Obviously a lot of the time is spent thinking things like "Ow!" and "my feet hurt" and "I wonder what my glycogen levels are like, should I take on some electrolytes?". But after a while these things do tend to fade into the background. The beauty of running is that after a while your body settles into a rythm and your mind is totally free to wonder. I think I once read somewhere that spies/undercover agents and the like are taught to, if they have plan their next moves quickly, give themselves some easy manual task to perform whilst thinking. Whether or not that is actually true or something I read in a novel it seems to make sense. Of course I'm not in imminent danger of being discovered by the East-German Stasi so my mental energies tend to be somewhat less focused. The things that do occupy my mind tend to fall in to four categories:

1) The contemplation of great "issues of the day", for example the War (capital "w" now I think). Hardly suprising that I should be thinking about that, as with any complicated set of circumstances the lack of moral absolutes makes any conclusions difficult to reach (especially past the fifteen mile mark) and therefore I often finish feeling that I know less about it than when I started. Of course I "know" exactly as much as before, if not marginally more, I'm just "certain" about less. This is healthy. "Certainty" is at the root of dogma, ideology and intolerance. No-one ever went to war because they thought something was a "grey area".

2) The deeply personal. Past relationships, money concerns, worrying rashes. You can guess. I'm not talking about those.

3) The observational/speculatory. For example:

1) Why do people row (as in scull)? I know running is not everyone's cup of tea but rowing is a lot harder physically, involves hanging around with a) Australasians and b) Ex Public-School Twats and all the while you're doing it some short-arsed git is sat in the back moaning at you through a megaphone. What's worse is that if you win something he/she gets a medal AS WELL. What is the point?

2) Why is it acceptable to walk around in T-shirts with "CCCP" on them? Between 1917 and 1991 the Soviet regime was responsible for the deaths or over FIFTY MILLION of its own citizens. That's roughly equivalent to the population of France. You can't pin it all on Stalin either ( greatest of all the fuckheads though he was Hitler had nothing on him). Lenin was responsible for the first "Terror Famine" in the mid twenties and even apart from the more famous pogroms etc of the pre-Kruschev era people were still being sent to Gulags and put in "mental hospitals" for political disidence right up until 1985. The entire regime is to blame. Why then have we decided that soviet iconography is kitsch and cool? If I was to walk down the street in a T-Shirt emblazoned with a large swastika I would be lucky to get ten yards before being accosted and they were responsible for only 6 million deaths (9 if you include The Allies war dead), roughly a tenth of the number. I don't care what people have on their t-shirts, you should wear what you want, I'm just taken aback by the double standard involved in our reaction to it. I guess I'm also saying be aware of what message you're giving out. Whether you want to make a statement or not if you do wear such a garment you are. It shouldn't be unwitting.

4) The euphoric. When one "runs through the wall" the brain releases an endorphine more powerful than Heroin in to the blood stream. OK, it can take a couple of hours of hard graft to get there but is it any wonder we do it?

Right, that's quite enough I think.

*I say "mine" I believe I share her.

2003-03-21T12:13:00.000Z

Pay attention.

Today, I am confident of asserting, is Friday. It may even be a good Friday but not of course the Good Friday as that is another Friday entirely. One year, due to a computer error at the Vatican, it fell on a Tuesday. Millions were mildly surprised. I happen to think that its not a particularly great Friday as yesterday ("Shitty Thursday" as I'm calling it) we went to war and my favourite bunch of millionaires contrived to lose to another bunch of (slightly less) well paid young men who play in the Scottish Premier League WHICH ME AND MY MATES COULD WIN AFTER PLAYING THE "LETS GET DRUNK AND SAW EACH OTHER'S LIMBS OFF GAME".

I have digressed. I draw attention to today's very particular "Friday-ness" for a reason as today, being Friday (have I made that clear?) most people will mark the occaission by drinking, dancing and possibley taking their clothes of and rubbing against each other in the way young people seem to these days.

I however will be going home sobre, putting on a track suit and running up and down the banks of the mighty River Thames until I feel a bit sick. Remaining sobre I will shower and go to bed and remain sobre there. I refuse to comment upon whether or not any rubbing will occur. If it does it will be entirely legitimate "self massage" in order to improve "blood flow to areas experiencing stifness"*.

Now I'm not telling you this to elicit sympathy, don't get that idea. I'm telling you this in order that you're quite clear about the fact that I AM BETTER THAN YOU.

May you all enjoy your sleep-walk into an early grave,
Love and hugs and love and hugs and kisses Dave xx

P.S. I love you all.

I really do.

Have a big Kiss XX

An another one XX

And a big hug and WHoAH there sailor! That consitutes an assault!

* Runners' World Feb 2002 pgs 48-51

2003-03-20T13:48:00.000Z

Third update in one day. Sorry I know I'm like a boy with a new ass but I had to share this.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world
/middle_east/2867593.stm

The picture of the "Iraqi President" is our friend Mr James Armit!

Thing is I can't help feeling that, given his highly developed sense of the absurd, he really might be parading around the war zone impersonating Saddam Hussein. Good luck to you sir!

2003-03-20T11:43:00.000Z

In the words of Roy Walker "OK, five seconds, in the middle, here we go". The "five seconds" and "in the middle" bit are something of a distraction in this context I know but the "here we go" is so startlingly relevant that it rather overshadows them in my view.

OK. A few ground rules. This is a marathon diary and as such is not intended to be a forum for my thoughts on anything else. You will not as a rule find revealing personal details here. I do not find the minutiae of my life, moods, sexual preferences, day-job, diet, hair-care etc. remotely interesting and so neither would (nor should) you. However that said I am, as you should be becoming increasingly aware, little able to restrict myself once I get going so I do reserve the right to go "off topic" as and when I choose; and lets face it a diary solely about putting one foot infront of the other would be pretty dry. So, that's why I want to talk about the war.

I do, but I'm not going to. I've thought better of it. If you want to know what I think then ask me but I don't think its fair to inflict my views without invitation. Just be warned that its going to "come off my chest" (like my Auntie Pauline's prosthetic breast - tragic story) at some point and if it happens to be here then I apologise for it in advance.

So the marathon then, the answers to a few questions:

Q: Why?

A: 1) To punish myself for being a bad person.
2)To raise money for this excellent cause a charity with whom I am involved in a volunteer type way because I want to meet girls and look sensitive I personally know the people running it and am convinced that every penny they raise is spent wisely and to good effect.

Q: What do you think about when you're running?
A: All kinds of shit. More of which I will inflict upon you in days to come.

Q: Do you get joggers' nipple?
A: No. Sore arse cheeks are more of a problem. Savlon is a runner's best friend, if only my fingers could talk what a story they would tell.

Q: Do you have a favourite foot?
A: I've always preferred my right in the past but my left is starting to come into its own (like my uncle Reg, he's a contortionist and a lonely man - again, tragic story).

Q: Do you use expensive trendy sports drinks.
A: Yes. They make me more attractive.

Q: Does Kant's "Critique of Pure Reason" represent an embodiment of western philosophy's impalement upon the urge to be didactic?
A: Yes.

Q: Name the greatest ever Liverpool line up.
A: Clemence, Hansen, Lawrenson, Neal, Nichol, Souness, Barnes, Gerrard, Beardsley, Owen, Dalglish.
That's all for now. Time for a lie down.

2003-03-20T10:05:00.000Z

Right, second post.

Ahh second post. Do you realise that if you're of my generation that your probabley the last to have any grasp on the concept of a "second post" and that explaining this to your confused children in years to come you will be met with the confused responce "but daddy/mummy the postman doesn't visit twice in one day! That's ridiculous and perhaps points to some kind of marital infidelity going on. Have you "gone funny" again? mummy/daddy! I think mummy/daddy has gone funny again, shall we send him to the "getting better place?".

Shit. I'm still drunk. More later when I'm sensible.

There must and shall be coffee, bacon sheathed in bread and the fruits of the anadin tree.

2003-03-17T17:25:00.000Z

Hello folks of world,

The management of niCe mUm has decided in it's infite wisdom (and in it's front room) that I should keep a weblog (or "Blog" as the kids are calling them) about my experiences in training for, and one would hope running, the London Marathon on April the 13th (which handily is when everyone else is running it too, so no chance of being lonely).

Now, some might say "since you've been training since before Christmas, why start now? Wouldn't it have been more interesting to keep a weblog from the beggining so we could see the very real human drama being played out over its entire tortuous course?". To those people I say "Yes. It would" but I am an artist and therefore do not have to account for my whims, or my finances or my sexual conduct. That might annoy "the system" (my bank manager and everyone that knows me) but they'll just have to get used to it.

So, what of the running? Well, with just over three weeks until the marathon I am up to approximately seventeen miles. This, as the keen-eyed and sports-brained amongst you will know, leaves me approximately eight miles, three hundred and sixty five yards short. Fear not however I am on course and my training schedule assures me that the requisite distance will be comfortabley accomplished in a time of roughly three hours and forty minutes. The voices in my mind assure me that I am going to die and that I will deserve it for being a bad person, this however has been going on for years and has nothing to do with the marathon at all.

Right, that's it for now. It was only going to be a short introductory post and its got all unweildy on me. Come back tommorow for a word about my chosen Charity and an insight into the "Loneliness of a Long Distance Runner". Yep, I'm reviewing the 1965 film starring Tom Courtney.