The promise of Custard Creams

The best description of my running endeavours can be summed up by this metaphor that came to me while slotting in a 4 miler this morning before work:

(In the style of a yoga visualisation session – you might want to close the curtains and light a few incense sticks before you continue reading).

You’re aged somewhere between 5 and 12 and it’s the 1970’s or 1980’s and you’re at the beach – beach cold north atlantic, not beach turquoise water, golden sand and topless girls . You’ve been playing in the sea for what seems like ages – your fingers have gone all wrinkly and you have the undercarriage of someone half your age. At first, when you got to the beach, the wind was whipping up the sand and taking any warmth from the sun and the sea was the temperature that the russians would perform open heart surgery on you without a by-pass machine.  You were about as interested in the sea as a cat being dangled over a bucket of sudsy water.

After a while it was either be pestered and embarrassed by your parents in their 1950’s style swimming costumes or fuck off to the water. So you fucked off to the water and did your best impression of Kenneth Williams at the edge of the sea.

And before you know it you were digging moats and building castles and being covered in sea weed and throwing stones at dead jellyfish and catching crabs in the rock pools and smashing limpets off the rocks and watching their mustard yellow guts spill.

And then you were back with you mum and shivering slightly and being fed cheese sandwiches and a choice between boot-of-a-car-warm milk or diluted orange. All of which you were trying to eat with sandy hands.

As you sat there eating the sandwiches (with the promise of a custard cream for ‘afters’) there was always another kid on the beach.

This cunt had a frisbee and his dad drove a Ford Granada with power steering. He had an ice cream cone and a super-can of Coke.

You always looked at him and wished you were him, never realising that you were doing pretty well as it was.

In a while you’d go back to building more castles to keep the sea out  and burying each other in sand while he played frisbee with his shadow. No doubt, in his mind there was another kid with a dad who had a Ford Granada with power steering and a ‘spoiler’.

Metaphor ends.

For the hard of thinking:

Trip to the beach and playing in the sea – my relationship with running.

Having a cheese sandwich – my current running form (i.e. not much – having a break)

The Ford Granada kid – anybody who is better than me (at running).

Going back to playing on the beach after the custard cream – My zen like insight into the future.

So that’s the running bit – never mentioned my sore hips once.


The lack of running  -both frequency and duration is a bit of a blessing in disguise.  If you were my wife the term blessing is completely interchangeable with the term curse.

I have started to grow a moustache for Movember.

My brother (who currently looks like the gayest porn star you ever saw with his strawberry-blonde-village-people effort although I think he’s trying for a Chopper Read) claims I’m breaking the rules because I’m growing a beard. I didn’t know there were moustache growing rules but at any rate I’m thinking of going for a Lemmy moustache (anything else and you might think I was actually serious about it) so that requires some side-whiskers.

photographing yourself is not normal. I look 'less' mental in real life.

I started cleaning out my man shed.

This must be what they get people with mental breakdowns to do because it is soooo fucking therapeutic. You get to make all sorts of decisions about tins of paint, screws, extension leads, cans of WD-40 and 1980’s porn mags.

I’ve been screwing hooks into the walls of the shed like an over zealous Shaker making sure that everything hangs off the walls.

I even found this in the shed:

The bike, not the toll plaza

Which I took to work (in Dublin) on Sunday night.  It was -2C.That feels even colder after 270km at 140kph.

Still, the trip home on Monday was great.

Motorbikes are great and everyone should have one.  – I know that sounds a bit middle-aged but I have owned them for a long time and I’ve only ended up in an ambulance once.

The man shed is full of useless shit that proves the Schrödinger’s Cat paradox:  It is both utterly useless and useful at the same time.

I’d better finish off this custard cream and get back to the sand castles as the next post will either be about my future running plans or how to build a man shed.


5 responses to “The promise of Custard Creams

  1. A bit like Celtic tiger Ireland really… That metaphor! And sheds have to have hooks… I wish you luck hanging that bike on one though!!!!

  2. I now read your blog posts in that soft southern lilt you have. Liking the random yet alarming use of the C word. You are the blog master. Respect.

  3. Bloke at work has a yellow one. I’ve only ended up in an ambulance once too — a couple of skin grafts. I tell people the chunk out of my elbow was from a shark attack.

  4. Pingback: Diplomacy | The Beirut Taxi

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