Where have I bean?

Photograph Quiz:

Photo no. 11:- Some November mud and sand cryptically provided a marathon win on which island?

Sorry blog,

     I am so, so sorry. I have sinned. I am no longer worthy to be called a Trudger. I have broken the principle of a life time and I don’t know what to do about it. I have been trudging for thrice forty days in the wilderness of Warwickshire and I have been sorely tempted. And I have succumbed to the temptation. I confess. As a penance dear Lord Cerutty, if you will offer me forgiveness, I will run up and down a sand dune six times and live on nuts and bananas for a week. I have seen the errors of my ways and will not give way to the desires of the flesh again. My crime? I looked at one of those magazines. You know the type. Those glossy mags you see in the newsagents. Runners type Fitness World things. I haven’t seen so much quality tripe since I used to collect a pound from the butchers at the top end of Keighley market for my granny’s supper when on the way home from the ‘minors’ on a Saturday morning when I were a young lad. I could have said a load of cobblers but they were not on my way home. They tended to be near the posh shops.

If I’d have known running a marathon was so simple, I’d have subscribed yonks ago. For three quids, running a marathon - easypeasy. A bargain at half the price. No sooner had I finished my in depth perusal than I thought I must have some of this. Spread it around Baby, I thought. I persuaded my daughter to give me her bag of GoGoGoGo sport beans and I was off, clutching my precious paper bag in my hand, I was out of the door like Dan Robinson. I do feel with hind sight that a paper bag was not the best choice of receptacle to carry the beans in. Paper and sweat are not the best of bed fellows. However, there was no stopping me. Salivating all the way to Kenilworth Castle, along to Honiley, through to Berkswell, hardly able to control myself, waiting for my first ‘Go’.  Now don’t get me wrong, dear Blog. I am sure the man who made the beans had lots of degrees and lots of letters after his name. He has probably given lots of talks and things and showed lots slides. I bet his power point is a joy to behold. I am sure he must understand the deeper workings of the body. But one thing for sure, dear Watson, is that he didn’t have false teeth. And I can conclude my dear Doctor that he never gave a ‘Go Go’ to any athlete who was a little short in the molar department. Why? I had my first bean near the Common in Kenilworth. Chomp, chomp. It’s a good job I was trudging downhill at the time as my top set stuck fast to my bottom set and the ‘Go’ was going nowhere. Well and truly stuck tight like a trudger clutching his London Marathon entry form. When Darwin applied for his patent for the human body, he should have made the nostril somewhat bigger – no way can you get enough oxygen into your lungs when the mouth is not there to assist with breathing. In oxygen debt, I was forced to a halt. Luckily, I found a sharp piece of stick. I suspect it might have been oak or possibly ash? With a little prodding and poking , I was rather pleased that I managed to separate the dentures. I decided to carry them in my hand so I could have another ‘Go’ in another couple of miles and not suffer the same misfortune. Teeth in one hand, beans in the other. One thing for sure, dear Watson, is that the ‘GoGo’ manufacturer didn’t take his false teeth out when he was eating a ‘Go’. And I can conclude my dear Doctor that he never gave a ‘Go Go’ to any athlete who had just gums. Try sucking a ‘Go Go’ bean and trudging as I did a couple of miles further on. Yes. Arse over tit went I. As I was plummeting  earthwards, I had to make a decision. I had a set of dentures in one hand and a bag of beans in the other. To prevent a serious face flatten incident , I felt I had to let go of one or the other to use the one free hand to break my fall. Decision time was rapidly approaching, the earth was coming ever closer. The ground looked non too inviting. Two hundred quids worth of flashing smile or a couple of quids worth of beans?? No contest. I gritted my teeth and spilled the beans! The result was that I bit myself rather badly on the hand! My plate had sunk my teeth into my palm. I had bitten myself quite deeply. At least I had not bitten off more than I could chew. The ‘Go’s had gone. Scattered hither and thither. Now if Jack got a goose and a golden egg from planting a single bean, I reckon in a couple of week’s time, my garden will have enough geese to protect all the Vestal virgins in Coventry. And you can stick your chocolate Easter eggs. Faberge eat your heart out. There was rather a lot of blood from the bite, and it did rather hurt but, I must say I felt rather guilty that the paratroopers were called out to assist me; however the trip to A & E in the ambulance was rather pleasant. The flashing blue light was a little over the top, I thought at the time. With hind sight I think I was correct in my assessment of the use of the blue light.

‘Cubicle number 3, Mr. Kirkham. Cubicle number 3.’ The nurse sounded a dead ringer for the Argos voice, announcing the arrival of an order at the collection counter. ‘Cubicle number 3’. The doctor arrived. ‘Nasty bite that Mr Kirkham. Big dog was it?’ ‘No’ ‘Some of these little mutts can be quite vicious can’t they?’ ‘It wasn’t a dog’ ‘Not a dog’ ‘No’ ‘What was it?’ ‘I bit myself’ ‘You bit yourself?’ ‘I bit myself’.   He moved a little further away. From the other side of the curtains, ‘I don’t think it is a physical problem you have Mr Kirkham, more a mental health problem. Are you under stress?’ I don’t believe it, Juju Lady’s mate works in the hospital. ‘We have a very good in house Psychopath if you feel it would help’ ‘No thanks, I see my own every Tuesday’.

The good news, Blog, is that I will have recovered enough by next week to try those jellies that seem so popular in the magazines. I use to like the jelly when we had a birthday party, didn’t you?

                                                               Sorry again, Colin

PS. I think we will have to be a little more circumspect with our correspondence, Blog. Just listen to the comedy programme on Radio 4. The man keeps using some of our more intimate details. I think you should tell him that our letters are copyright. He doesn’t even give us a credit! He could at least pay the going rate for material, then we could donate it to

 Tiny Tim’s Children’s Centre and Newlife. (£1 per guess at my finishing time in the London Marathon and he could win my medal, my t-shirt, etc.)