De-Scruffed

Not much of a hangover, which is surprising. Obviously a night of dodgy lager doesn't do your head in as much as decent beer does. Double sex, then off to farm shop to stock the freezer up with meat.

Football. Derby are totally awful and back to their dull worst of last season. Last season though it was good enough to beat most of the teams in the Championship. One notable exception was Birmingham, so it's no great surprise that we again fail to beat them and lose 2-1. Unfortunately on paper this is the easiest game of our season. Doesn't bode well.

In the evening, L and I head off to Broadway to see the Flying Scotsman, a film about the cyclist Graeme Obree. We have some beers and a meal first. The meal is excellent value when taken with a film ticket and we even get cut price drinks, although I think this is more to do with bar staff error rather than any special offer. I have two very nice Elsie Mo’s.

Sporting films are not usually very good but the Flying Scotsman was very entertaining. Graeme Obree is the amateur cyclist who built his own bike, partly using washing machine parts (he has a very understanding wife) but not only could he build a decent bike but he was an excellent and drug-free athlete as well. He went on to win two world titles and twice hold the world one hour record despite being under-funded and seemingly having the cycling authorities against both his bike designs and his cycling methods. I think the film simplifies events a little, as cinema usually does, but it was still an excellent film. I hope Graeme, who never really made much money from his cycling, benefits from its release.



My only criticism would be that Jonny Lee Miller didn’t look totally convincing during some of the close-ups of Obree on the track. A fact confirmed by watching footage of the real Obree on YouTube but generally Jonny Lee Miller was superb as are Bill Boyd and Brian Cox. Now I'm very much looking forward to reading Obree’s book.



Another Elsie Mo in the bar and then we head to Scruffys for the traditional night cap of a Leffe Brune. Except that Scruffys isn’t there anymore. There’s a bar/restaurant where it used to stand and it’s even called Scruffys but scruffy it is not. It’s a well lit posh bar, with posh chairs, an open plan layout, wallpaper, no blackboards, no traffic cones and the like, and no Leffe Brune. Even the decent music has gone. We have a Leffe Blonde and sulk into it. All very depressing. We retreat to the Ropewalk where they have a Theakston’s guest ale on. Nothing special but at least the place has some dark corners for us to chat in, like Scruffys used to. RIP.